“I thought it was odd that Gerrigan wasn’t the one who showed up in my office,” I said. “His wife came alone.”
“I hear he’s a tough one to read,” Burke said. “He’s like most of these gazillionaires. Sees the world only on his terms. Spends most of his time making money, but not a lot of time at those fancy charity balls downtown. His wife’s the one who gets their name cut into a lot of buildings.”
“He have any enemies?” I asked.
“Occupational hazard of being rich,” Burke said. “You can’t make that kind of money without making some enemies along the way.”
“Anyone in particular?”
“Not sure right now. We’re looking at some guys from the Spire mess.”
“He’s involved in that?”
“Up to his neck.”
“Which side of the deal?”
“Right now, the winning side. He sued and got the deed snatched from the Irish company. So, the property is his. The developers are mad as hell. They’ve sunk over fifty million into the project.”
The Spire building was the brainchild of a Spanish architect and a Chicago developer. It had been designed as a supertall skyscraper with 116 stories, including a hotel and private residences. However, soon after construction, the developer faced financial difficulties and couldn’t survive the mounting debt. He lost control of the project and was forced to sign it over to the project’s biggest creditor, Gerrigan Real Estate Corp.—GREC.
“The Spire project is buried in a blizzard of lawsuits,” Burke said.
I took a long sip of root beer. It felt heavy and icy against the back of my throat. “I need help on a Tariq ‘Chopper’ McNair.”
“Who the hell is he?” Burke said.
“The daughter’s boyfriend.” Although I hadn’t gotten much more than his name from Tinsley’s friend Hunter.
Burke tightened his eyes. “Randolph Gerrigan’s daughter was dating someone with the name of Tariq McNair?” A hint of a smile cracked the corners of his mouth.
“Love is blind,” I sighed.
“For some it might be,” Burke said, “but the hell if it is for people like the Gerrigans. They were probably one of the original families that came over on the goddamn Mayflower. I can’t imagine their family planning included little Tariq Jr. running around the old North Shore mansion.”
“I’m not sure yet if the family knew about the relationship,” I said.
“So, you want to talk to this Tariq and get his version of events?” Burke said, dusting off the last of his barbecue chips. He folded his napkin as delicately as a man his size could and wiped the corners of his mouth. “And you want me to see if we have anything on him.”
“Your detecting mind is nothing short of extraordinary,” I said.
“Fucking wiseass,” Burke said, getting up from the table and lumbering out of the restaurant. Niceties had never been his strong suit.
4
TRYING TO LOWER MY golf handicap was not the only reason I had been reluctant to take on the Gerrigan case. I pulled my van up to the intersection of North and Ashland Avenues, where Wicker Park meets Bucktown to the north. Directly across the street sat a hodgepodge collection of storefronts, from an herbal salon to a karaoke bar called Louie’s Pub. I focused on a squat, nondescript building with a yoga studio called Greatly Gracious on the bottom floor. Mark Stanton lived on the second floor in a small one-bedroom that faced the street. His curtains were drawn. Several potted plants rested on the rickety fire escape adjacent to his middle window.
I had a photograph of him sitting on my dashboard: his mug shot from ten years ago. He’d been forty-five at the time, tall and very handsome. Faint speckles of gray had just begun to streak his strong black hair; his olive complexion had no trace of wrinkles. He wore his clerical collar and a long-sleeve black shirt. It was all in his look—smug and confident and beyond reproach. He was the anointed one. His eyes were unable to hide the darkness in his soul. Five men had accused him of molesting them when they were teens, but they were the only ones willing to go on record. Conservative estimates put his body count well into the dozens.
Without forcing him to admit his guilt, the church had suspended him at first; then, when the media glare grew too bright, they’d defrocked him. He was ordered never to wear the collar again or participate in administering religious services. He was told to take down his website, through which he conducted a digital ministry. It had been ten years, and the website was still up. The men who had accused Stanton of inappropriately seducing and touching them had been told by the District Attorney’s Office that the statute of limitations had run out, and there was no possibility of filing criminal charges. So the accusers’ attorneys had brought a civil case that the church quietly settled just weeks after its filing. Two hundred and fifty thousand per man with no admission of guilt by the church or Stanton.
It was a total miscarriage of justice. Stanton had been accused of pedophilia years before even meeting these boys. The church knew all about it but either largely ignored the complaints or tried to keep them away from the public. They paid for psychiatric therapy for one victim and gave the family of another boy in Dallas $10,000 after they signed a settlement agreement that forbade them from ever disclosing its details. When
