“Someone wants you to think it was the Warlords,” I said.
“I know they didn’t do it,” Ice said. “Wouldn’t make any sense. We’re at peace right now. Chico and I ain’t friends, but we have an understanding.”
The driver pulled up slowly to the front of my building. I could see the lobby filling up with other residents returning home from a productive day of work. I wanted to join them and retreat to the quiet of my apartment.
“I don’t want your money, Ice,” I said. “I want to find Chopper’s killer for my own reasons.”
“Which are?”
“First, I think whoever killed Chopper might have something to do with Tinsley’s disappearance.”
“You worried about that little rich bitch,” Ice said. “I’m worried about my flesh and blood.”
“Our interests don’t conflict,” I said.
Ice seemed satisfied for the moment.
“Second, I liked your nephew. We talked only that one time in my office, but he was genuine. And he definitely had a future. The kid knew Shakespeare. I want the person who did this as much as you do.”
“I’ll be checking in,” Ice said.
“And I’ll be detecting.” I grabbed the bag of groceries and opened the door. “My sirloin roast tip awaits.”
21
CHOPPER MCNAIR HAD LIVED IN a luxury doorman building on South Michigan Avenue and Seventeenth Street. The glass-and-chrome facade rose prominently above a cluster of low buildings and quiet storefronts. Light from the gleaming marble foyer bounced through the doors as I approached. A short older man with a horseshoe rim of hair and an ill-fitting black suit sat behind a cherrywood desk outfitted with several monitors and an elaborate intercom system. He had been reading the Sun-Times as I walked across the lobby.
“Hey, Joseph,” I said, reading his name tag. “I was hoping you could give me a few minutes.”
“Are you here to see someone?”
“Not really. I just had a few questions.”
He took off his reading glasses and shoved them in his vest pocket as he stood. “The management office is closed,” he said. “They open nine sharp tomorrow morning.”
“I was hoping I could talk to you,” I said.
Joseph shrugged. “Sure,” he said. “Whatchya got?”
“I’m here about Chopper McNair,” I said. “Did you know him?”
“What’s your name, son?” he said.
“Ashe Cayne.”
“Ashe, I’ve been here since this building was put up fifteen years ago and worked the building that was here before that. I know all of my residents. That’s my job. Why are you asking about Chopper?”
“I’m a private investigator,” I said. “I’m trying to understand what happened to him.”
“Don’t make no sense to me,” Joseph said. “He was a good kid. Smart kid. He didn’t cause no trouble. Very mannerly every time I saw him.”
“Did he have guests visit him?”
Joseph shrugged. “Not many. A girl here and there, but for the most part, he kept to himself. He was a young man, so he was social, but he didn’t carry on like some of the others who live here—coming in all hours of the night, three sheets to the wind, can barely get on the elevator.”
“So, nothing unusual or suspicious?”
“Not that I can think of. He pretty much kept to himself and didn’t bother nobody. He loved the Bulls. We talked all the time about the games and the players. One year he gave me a pair of tickets for Christmas. Two seats behind the bench. Nicest gift anyone ever gave me here. I just can’t believe the kid is gone. Who would do something like that?”
“That’s what I’m trying to piece together.”
The revolving door swung open and two young women, dressed as if they had been out partying, walked through the foyer. They spoke to Joseph, who then called them both by their names and bid them a good night.
“Something happened a while ago that was unusual,” Joseph said. “It might not have been anything, but I remember it caught my attention.”
“How long ago?”
“At least six months or so. Sometime over the winter.”
“What happened?”
“I’m not really sure exactly what the problem was, but there was a problem. Chopper came down in the elevator one night, but instead of coming out through the front here, he went out the back of the elevator and left through the back door that leads to the alley and loading dock. I looked down at the camera, and there was a dark car parked out back. It was around ten o’clock or so, about an hour after I had started my shift. The back door of the car opened, and a white man got out.”
“Do you remember what he looked like?”
“Rich. Really rich. He was wearing a long coat with a silk-looking scarf, and he had a suit underneath. Pinstripes. I remember, because the stripes were so wide. Chopper walked up to him, and they started talking. It seemed okay at first, but a couple of minutes in, the man started pointing at Chopper; then Chopper started moving his hands around like he was upset. He turned away from the man, walked a little, then came back and they started again. The man pointed at Chopper again, then got back in the car, and it pulled away.”
“You catch the make of the car?”
“Black Rolls-Royce SUV.”
“How are you so sure?”
“Because one of the partners who owns this building just got one. But it’s white.”
“You still have the surveillance video from that night stored somewhere?”
“Unfortunately not. After three months, the machine records over the old video. It’s been at least six months since this happened, probably longer.”
“Had you ever seen Chopper with this man before?”
“Never.”
“Do you remember his face?”
“Not so much. Wasn’t easy to see it on the monitor the way he was standing.”
I took out my phone and pulled up a photo of Tinsley and her father at some black-tie function. I handed the phone to Joseph.
“That’s Chopper’s girlfriend,” he said right
