“You didn’t work with me last time, Michael. Look what happened. This time, you might want to think about it. Have a good day.”
O’Leary exited stage left. A moment later, the door opened again. My only friend in the Cook County DA’s office floated through, wrapped in a cloud of smoke. In his left hand, Bennett Davis carried a cigar that smelled good enough to eat.
“I thought you couldn’t smoke those things in government buildings,” I said.
The assistant DA sat down in the chair his boss had just vacated, crossed his legs, glanced at the Macanudo, and gave me his most patronizing look.
“Wrong. You can’t smoke them in government buildings. I, on the other hand, constitute another matter entirely.”
Bennett Davis was a different kind of guy. Short and round, balding since he was twelve, and perpetually in love with women he could never have, Bennett went to the DA’s office right out of Northwestern and never looked back. He was O’Leary’s major hitter, taking all the big cases out of Chicago and rarely coming up short. My friend could go private any time he wanted, jump into a mid-six figures salary with any Chicago firm. Instead he made $65K a year and bachelored it in an $1,000-a-month flat in Lincoln Square. All for the rush of deciding, as Bennett once put it, who goes to jail and who walks. Like I said, a different kind of guy.
“So, Kelly, what the hell are we doing here?”
“Ask your boss,” I said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Bennett had been kept out of the loop when O’Leary decided to go after me. To this day, the assistant DA carried a measure of guilt he didn’t deserve.
“Nothing,” I said. “It’s just that I know who I’ve killed and, as luck would have it, John Gibbons doesn’t happen to be among that number.”
Bennett dropped his cigar into a cut-glass ashtray he had brought with him. Then he tapped his index finger lightly against the conference table. I noticed a brown leather watch on his right wrist. A cheap Timex. Bennett caught my glance, shot his cuffs, and the Timex disappeared.
“How did you know Gibbons?” Bennett said.
“My partner on the force a while back. He showed up yesterday, out of the blue. Asked for some help on an old case. Never got any further than that.”
“Gibbons testified at a couple of my trials,” Bennett said. “Good cop. The evidence is shit, Michael. Print could be any one of a thousand guys.”
“No kidding.”
Bennett shrugged, picked up his cold cigar, examined, then relit it.
“O’Leary is just feeling his oats. Looking to make a splash. You know how it is.”
The assistant DA smiled, the one they teach you in law school just before they explain the concept of treble damages.
“Here’s my advice. Lay low for a couple of weeks. Let the office get you off its radar. Maybe we make an arrest, this whole thing goes away. Capisce?”
I understood and told my friend as much. Bennett Davis headed for the door, stopped halfway, turned, and pointed at me.
“By the way, how is she?”
I was waiting for it.
“Nicole is fine.”
“Tell her I said hello.”
“You tell her yourself,” I said.
“That’s not how it works. She ask for me?”
“No, Bennett, she doesn’t ask for you. At least when I see her, which is, on average, once a year.”
Bennett frowned a bit at that.
“You see her once a year and she doesn’t ask for me?”
“No.”
“I better give her a call.”
“Do that, Bennett. But don’t hope too hard.”
“No?”
“No. She’s not your type.”
“You’re probably right.”
Bennett Davis shook his head from side to side, as if to get that fact in its proper place. Then he continued.
“They’re probably going to want a statement before we let you go.”
I shrugged.
“You should have an attorney for that, Michael.”
I gave him the number of a guy. Davis went to give him a call. After one lawyer, the day is ruined anyway.
CHAPTER 9
I lied to Bennett. I see Nicole more like once a month. Usually it’s for coffee at a local shop on Broadway called Intelligentsia. For my money it’s the best joe in the city.
I got there at a little after six that evening. Typical Intelligentsia crowd. Up front, a couple of old men drinking large coffees, doing the neighborhood gossip with Gemma, a pink-haired barista and queen of the double-shot macchiato. In the back, a table of DePaul students huddled for warmth around major skim lattes and tapped away on their PowerBooks. In between, a smattering of NPR types, downing double shots of espresso and talking aloud to anyone who would listen about how much they hated George W. Bush.
At a counter along the front window was a stunning sort of woman. She had skin the color of cocoa brushed with crimson, fine-boned cheeks, and delicate, strong lines for nose, mouth, and chin. Her subtle smile took you in, filled you up, and left you contented, at peace with yourself and still thirsting for more. Her name was Nicole Andrews. She was lead DNA analyst for the Illinois state crime lab and my best friend.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said.
Nicole was drinking a large cappuccino and leafing through The New York Times. She drew her finger down the side of a page and spoke without looking up.
“How long have we known each other, Michael?”
The answer to that was simple. A lifetime. I grew up in a hard sort of Irish way. On the city’s West Side. My mother drank tea, ironed a lot of clothes, and tried to stay out of the way. My father worked three jobs and dragged home $8,500 a year, kicking and screaming. He drank enough to hover between black silence and pure rage. The former was bad, but it was the latter that kept you up at night.
My brother, Phillip, and I slept on a pullout couch in the living room. Phillip was a year older, ten years tougher, and a world wiser. At sixteen, he was caught breaking into a McDonald’s. Actually, the cops found him stuck in a venting duct on the roof. A cook heard the screams after he fired up the grill and started making Egg McMuffins. Once Phillip got inside the joint, he stuck a guy with a knife and drew down ten more years. I never saw him a lot after that. Mostly because he hung himself with his bedsheet. They cut him down from the bars of his cell on April 23, 1989.
I didn’t have any sisters, didn’t need any. I had Nicole. I met her when I was nine. She was seven. It was a hot, heavy afternoon. Late August in the city. We were playing football in the street when she made the mistake of walking by. There was an older kid there named Maxie. He was big and round, Polish and plenty tough. He’d blow his heart out with a speedball on his sixteenth birthday. I didn’t cry. Don’t know anyone who did.
Maxie hooked Nicole by the back of the shirt. Just for fun. Kicked her to the ground. As Nicole got up, he caught her flush, a hard, flat hand across the face. I remember the sound of her head bouncing off a chunk of pavement. Nicole didn’t cry, didn’t run. Just picked herself up again, tried to get away. Maxie screwed himself close,
