I looked at the map again. Clark was a couple of streets over and the 1400 block was maybe mile and a half north of where I was standing. There was no hawk-eyed librarian watching this time, so I tore the map out, stuffed it in my pocket, and nodded farewell to the two hookers. They didn't even blink.
Up on the street, the early summer air was crisp and the sky a clear, high blue. I walked north on Michigan Avenue crossing over the Chicago River to where the trendy stores were: Saks, Tiffany's, Gucci, FAO Schwarz, Bloomies, even Nieman Marcus. So much for the “city of big shoulders” and the “hog butcher of the world.” If it wasn't for the lake and the Tribune Building, this could be Rodeo Drive or 5th Avenue. I turned west on Division, walked over to Clark, and swung north again. There was a wall of tall, trendy apartment buildings along the lakefront, but 1412 Clark wasn't one of them. Older and shorter, it had six floors of brick and glass, and being several blocks back from the lake made all the difference.
As nonchalantly as I could, I walked to the entrance. The outside door wasn't locked. I stepped into the tiny vestibule and quickly scanned the names on the mailboxes. There were twenty-four apartments, four per floor. S. A. Kasmarek's name was on 3-B. I tried the doorknob but the inner door wouldn't open. I peered into the first-floor hallway and saw apartment 1A was on the left and 1B next to it on the front. Satisfied, I went back out and walked back up the street. There was a small deli at the corner with a pay phone. I ordered a cup of coffee and a thick, gooey Danish and dialed Doug's direct line in the office in Boston. It was 7:45 AM here, which meant it was 8:45 there. Sharon answered.
“Hey, Sharon, it's Pete, is ...”
“Jesus Christ, Petey! Where you been? Hang on a sec, I'll put him on.”
It only took a minute before I heard, “Three people dead, including a sheriff, for Chris’ sake! They said...”
“Who said?”
“The godamned FBI, Pete! They called me in the middle of the night.”
“Doug, that's all bullshit. I didn't kill anybody, I didn't hurt anybody, and I doubt the people who called you were FBI.”
“Okay, okay, but where the hell are you?”
“On the road, on my way to Atlanta,” I quickly ad-libbed. “But they probably have your phone tapped, so I don't want to say too much.”
“Atlanta? My phone tapped? What did you get yourself into, man?”
“I can explain everything. I just need some time.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Yeah, there is. Do you know any good criminal lawyers in Boston? I mean a
“I'll find one.”
“Good. I'll call you tonight, but you be careful.”
“Me? You're telling me to be careful?”
“Yeah, and get some good techies to check the phones for bugs. Your house too, and be careful. These people are dangerous.”
I hung up and stood there thinking. If Tinkerton had already contacted Doug, he'd already moved to shut off Boston. If he had, tossing in Atlanta was probably a good ruse. It might buy me some time, but if he truly did have unlimited resources and had already sent men to Chicago, then he was putting on a full-court press and I was in real trouble. I pulled out the page from the train station phone book. Time to try S. A. Kasmarek. On the sixth ring, I got an answer.
“Hi, is this Sandy Kasmarek?” I asked in a bubbly and friendly voice.
“Yeah, wuzzit?” I heard a thick, sleepy female voice at the other end of the line.
“My name's Talbott, Pete Talbott, and I need to talk to you.”
“Yeah? 'Bout what?”
“About your former husband, Edward J. Kasmarek. It's very important.”
Dead silence. “’Portant? 'Bout Eddie, huh? Lez see, it's what? Not even 8:00 in the goddamn morning? I was out on a shoot all night, got in bed about 3:00, and you got the balls to call me up and tell me you gotta talk to me about that dip shit Eddie?”
“Look, I'm really sorry, but ...”
Click. She hung up. I gave her a few minutes to calm down before I dialed her number again.
“Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“Bad time?”
“I know...”
“You don't know squat.”
“I can imagine how difficult it is for you.”
“Difficult? Difficult!”
“I mean for you to talk about.”
“Eddie? Difficult? That bastard is dead: D-E-A-D dead and buried, and the only thing I regret is that I didn't get a chance to pound a stake in his heart before they stuck his sorry ass in the ground.”
“A real love muffin, huh?”
“Love muffin? It was bad enough I caught him in the sack with my best friend Annie. When I caught him with my own sister, I could a killed ‘em both right then and there. When I caught him with Raoul, the waiter from the Happy Pancake in Old Town, well, that was it... But why the hell am I telling you all this? Who are you?”
“Talbott. Peter Talbott. And we really do need to talk.”
“I don't think so.”
“What if I told you I owed him money?”
“Then I'd
This time, I didn't wait as long to call back.
“Mrs. Kasmarek, you are absolutely right,” I confessed. “I was lying to get my foot in the door so I could see you.”
“Why?”
“Because your life may be in danger. Mine already is, and if I'm right, they'll be coming after you next. So don't hang up on me again. Please.”
“Why?”
“Because I'm out of quarters.”
“No, dumb-ass. Why would somebody be after me?”
“When did Eddie die? His funeral? What was the date?”
“I don't know, I wasn't there. Last year. It was hot out. Maybe August?”
“Nope. They buried him in Columbus, Ohio, in February. And they buried me there two days ago.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Five minutes. I can explain the whole thing. You name the place.”
More silence. “I gotta be nuts to even talk to you.”
“Anywhere. On Michigan Avenue, the Hancock Building…”
“All right. In front of the Water Tower. The park on the west side in a half hour. But what do you look like?”
“Me? I'm about 5' 8” and 200 pounds. I'm wearing a dark blue pinstriped suit, glasses, and a red striped tie. What about you?”
“Look for a tall, leggy blond in a pale-green business suit, carrying a brown leather attache case. You can't miss me. But remember, I have a black belt and I'll have a .38 in my jacket pocket, so don't mess with me.”
I walked back toward her building and found a spot up the street in a doorway where I could hide and watch her building. At 8:15, her curtains moved and I saw a haunting, pale-white face with large, dark eyes look out. She had short, black hair, styled fashionably “messy” with sprigs and clumps sticking out in every direction. Her only concessions to color were a big slash of cherry bomb red lipstick, a wide, bright-red watchband, and bright red nail polish. From the window, she glanced up and down the street, searching for someone or something, then she let the curtains drop back into place and she was gone.
