“You talked to some folks,” I said.
“This case hasn’t left my sight. No one knows about it except Ringles, myself, and the print lab.”
“How about Diane Lindsay? Red hair. Shows up on TV every now and then.”
The flesh around Masters’ eyes furrowed with a smile that never reached his lips. Whoever Diane’s source was, it wasn’t this guy.
“And then there’s Elaine Remington,” I said. “Blond hair. Purple scar running from throat to navel.”
Masters flinched at that one. Now I could see him putting things together. And he was doing it pretty quick.
“She headed right over to see you?”
I nodded.
“She was inside your house when we showed up?”
“Down the hall,” I said.
“Do yourself a favor and explain how she fits.”
I shrugged.
“She was assaulted a long time ago,” I said. “Gibbons was helping to track the guy.”
“Was he getting anywhere?”
“Why don’t you go ask him?”
I thought Masters might call in Bubbles for an encore. He didn’t.
“We still got the print.”
“You do.”
“More than enough to charge you.”
“You have my gun,” I said. “Run it against the slug that killed Gibbons.”
“We will, Kelly. As soon as we dig it out of your friend. But you know what, it’s a funny thing about bullets. They can be used in one piece just as easily as another. Some of us might figure you killed Gibbons and then dumped the murder weapon. Problem is, you forgot to use gloves when you loaded the clip. Could you be that stupid, Kelly? I say, ‘Why not?’ ”
“I want a lawyer,” I said.
“Fine by me.”
Masters reached for the phone.
“We’re sending you downtown. DA wants to talk to you. Meantime, I’ll make sure Bubbles finds you an extra-friendly bunkmate.”
CHAPTER 8
The holding cell downtown was a rectangle pit about twenty feet by ten. It had a bench running down one wall, ending with a hole in the floor that I believed was once a toilet. There were seven other men in the cell. Three of them were cuffed to iron rings bolted into the wall. I took that as a bad sign and gave them some room. The other four spread out across the length of the cell. On my left, a white guy with an iron eagle tattooed on his forehead picked green paint off the wall and ate it. On my right, a black guy in Diana Ross drag explained to no one in particular why eating paint was a bad thing. Then he took out a tube of lipstick and began to reapply. I was thinking about asking for a single cell when three-hundred-plus pounds of correctional officer walked into my life.
“Kelly, come with me.”
The guard’s badge identified him as Albert Nyack. I preferred to think of him as Al. He opened the cage and led me down a hallway to a small windowless room. A room where cops asked questions and, one way or another, usually got answers. Al undid my cuffs and told me to sit down.
“O’Leary wants to see you.”
O’Leary was Gerald O’Leary, a former cop and the reason I no longer carried a shield. For the last quarter century, O’Leary played the part of Cook County district attorney. The consummate Chicago pol, O’Leary could usually be found in one of two places: either in front of the camera for the ten o’clock news or with his head stuck halfway up the ass of the man who ruled all he could see. The honorable mayor of Chicago, John J. Wilson.
“Wait here,” Al warned and plodded away, twirling a set of keys in his left paw.
Half a cigarette later, O’Leary walked in. I hadn’t seen him in person since the day I signed my agreement. He didn’t look any different, mid-sixties with a full white mane, straight teeth, clear eyes, and the kind of large square head and empty smile that were perfect for television. He loved looking you straight on and shaking your hand. A couple of years back he began holding your forearm while he shook. It was an old Bill Clinton trick, put to good use in the mirrored hallways of Chicago politics.
“Michael Kelly. Been a while. Let’s take you upstairs and have a little chat.”
In a matter of moments I was cuffed again, out, and walking with my newest and bestest buddy. We took an elevator up, a carpeted hallway down, and into a conference room. I said nothing. O’Leary hummed a tune I couldn’t quite make out. We sat down. An officer undid my shackles. O’Leary read a file and continued to hum.
“ ‘War Pigs’ by Black Sabbath, right?”
The district attorney looked up at me.
“What’s that, Michael?”
“You’re humming ‘War Pigs’ by Black Sabbath. Ozzy Osbourne. Am I right?”
O’Leary smiled. He also stopped humming.
“We have a problem here.”
“Do we?”
“I knew John Gibbons. Good officer. Good man.”
O’Leary’s voice had taken on the somber, heavy cadence he used at only the best sorts of press conferences.
“I appreciate the intonation,” I said. “I really do. I mean, that sort of intonation takes a lot of effort. It’s an art, really. Something you typically save for Irish funerals and executions. Am I wrong?”
The DA just kept on keeping on.
“Michael. We have a former officer murdered and another up to his neck in it. Not a happy day for anyone.”
I shifted in my chair. It was padded and more comfortable than the plastic one at Town Hall. Still, I would have preferred the white room and Masters across the table. A kick in the head aside, the waters here felt deeper, the current swift, with a big fish in the water.
“I already asked for a lawyer once,” I said. “You want to talk charges, let’s at least make it official.”
“I was hoping we could avoid that.”
“You were?”
“Yes. I don’t believe this print to be a legitimate piece of evidence.”
“You mean it might not be an admissible piece of evidence, don’t you, Counselor?”
O’Leary gave one of those nods I always expected from Charles Dickens and the Old Bailey.
“Bear with me, Michael. If it’s a frame, and I’m not saying it is, the question is, why?”
Two years ago, the man across the table had planted a bag of cocaine in my car, charged me with possession, and dropped the case only when I agreed to leave the force. Now we were old friends, discussing yet another frame with my picture inside. I proceeded with all due caution.
“If it’s a frame, it’s a pretty poor one. Even you can see that. In fact, especially you, Mr. District Attorney. As to the why, I intend to find out.”
O’Leary smiled and gave me the dead eye. I could see a bit of hunger at the corners of his mouth, and the cold chill of yesterday crawled up my back. Then it was gone, replaced by an even more depressing prospect called tomorrow.
“For the moment we’ll hold off on any formal charges,” he said.
“Until a bigger headline comes along?”
The district attorney shrugged. As if he had done all he could and some people just couldn’t be helped.
