“Jonathon DiMarco.”
“Right.” I confirmed. “And here’s an interview with Jonathon DiMarco, attacking Jeffery Stone’s good name in the media after he also had a client who walked from what should have been a slam dunk rape case that went south because of unreliable DNA evidence just before he also shot himself. This is a clear pattern.”
“You’re not the only Google hot-shot around here, Jack,” Casey matched me with her intensity as she pulled up a document of interest. “So, it would seem that Anthony Waltz is… you guessed it—also a member of the lawyer All-Stars who have a long history of getting scumbags off. Earlier this year, he had a case with a woman accused of child neglect who watched while her boyfriend abused her young daughter. She took a conditional plea and then a new witness seemed to magically appear from nowhere, placing her across town at the time of the incidents. And who do you think probably wouldn’t send Waltz a Facebook Friend Request even if he was alive? Jonathon DiMarco. Looks like the man had some downright hateful stuff to say about him in the news, even after his death. Here’s a quote, ‘Scum of the earth, hands so dirty he’d never get them clean, waste of Chicago air.’ You know, DiMarco’s name keeps popping up. Maybe I was onto something and I’m smarter than I look?”
“Now, let’s not go making too many crazy allegations. There’s no evidence to confirm yet that you’re actually smart.” I smiled. “However, we’ve just found both the starting point for this case, and maybe our first potential suspect. Grab your stuff. We’re off to play hero.”
I stood up, grabbing my leather jacket off the back of the chair, and my Smith and Wesson from my top desk drawer.
It was time for action.
Chapter 4
We drove into the exclusive suburb of Highland Park, passing the turn-off to the famous home of basketball legend Michael Jordan, with my truck rumbling loud enough to turn the heads of those walking their dogs through the neighborhood streets.
Twenty-five miles north of the Chicago Loop, Highland Park was nestled along the beautiful edges of Lake Michigan, in the heart of the North Shore. Off the Interstate 94, the suburb had an abundance of established trees overhanging wide sidewalks, manicured green spaces, and roads smooth enough to slide on. Rows of neat, large homes that housed grandchildren on the weekends, and seemed to promise fresh lemonade and tire swings in the backyard, blurred into each other as the long streets stretched out.
“Is this the place?” I asked as I pulled up in front of two large iron-clad gates.
“This is it, but why even have massive gates if you’re just going to leave them open?” Casey frowned as we turned into the long driveway to Jonathon DiMarco’s house.
The gravel crunched under the tires as my truck hummed further up the drive. The home was tucked off the main street, nestled next to a wooded enclave. When I came to the end of the long driveway, I parked next to a new Range Rover, spotless and clean.
Casey and I stepped out of the truck, gazing up at the large house in front of us. It was perfect enough to be featured in a real estate magazine. Not a thing looked out of place on the two-story mansion. Just one block from the lake, the architecturally designed home sat on a sweeping acre of grassy lawns, with extensive views of the ravine nearby. The entrance was stately, and elegant, with two large pillars framing an impressive door.
“How does a former police captain afford this?” Casey whispered. “I’m guessing it has five bedrooms, maybe six, and the same number of bathrooms.”
“Investments. Struck it rich because he invested in a property development firm. It was his nephew’s business, and DiMarco put up the initial investment. The business exploded and DiMarco sold his share for millions. Rumor is that a lot of the approvals were due to bribes,” I said, walking around the truck and joining Casey who was already climbing the front steps. “No one has ever been able to prove anything, but it was all too coincidental. City officials changed their tune overnight on some residential developments.”
“How does a person even get away with that sort of thing?”
“It’s just like the old saying—It’s not what you know, it’s who you can bribe.” I walked up the five steps to the front entrance and pressed a buzzer. It wasn’t long before the intercom came crackling to life.
“Appointment time and business?” a woman’s voice asked.
“We’d like to talk to Mr. DiMarco,” I called back.
I cracked my neck as I awaited a reply. Casey looked back out at the garden as the late afternoon sun started to dip behind the tall trees. The lawn looked like it was taken from the fairways of Augusta and the rows of flowers made it look like they’d borrowed one of the green-keepers as well. There were lines of blossoming flowers of different colors in perfect arrangement and a pathway of bushes that were neatly trimmed within an inch of their lives.
“I’m sorry, Mr. DiMarco is tied up.” The voice didn’t sound in the least bit sorry, and I exhaled loudly. “Please contact Mr. DiMarco’s office during business hours to arrange a meeting.”
“There’s been a death and we believe Jonathon DiMarco would very much like to take the time to speak with
