Dirty Fire (13 page)

Erlich reached for a tissue, then stopped, his hand in mid-air.

“The missing Mr. El? How nice of you to ask. As a matter of fact, we did. A few weeks later, a couple of kids found ol’ Ravanza under a piece of dirty cardboard in a vacant building. He was smelling up the neighborhood about a block from where he used to live.”

“Natural death?”

“Natural as hell, given what got done to him,” Erlich retorted. “Best the pathologist could tell, what with the rat bites and everything else, somebody used a big-ass framing hammer on just about every joint in his body. Then they cut his throat right under the jawline and pulled his tongue through the slit.”

Erlich put one hand on his brightly patterned tie and held it against his Adam’s apple. “They used to call it a ‘Colombian necktie’ before everybody started doing it.”

“So the tip you got was completely wrong,” Gil mused. “That seems funny, your source being so specific on where to look and all.”

“Like I said, it was a tip the Feds passed along to us from one of their snitches. They didn’t tell us who.” Erlich shrugged carelessly. “If they don’t offer, it’s not considered polite to ask. You know—it’s like a gift horse. You don’t look in its mouth.”

“Sure,” the firefighter agreed. “Even gift horses can bite if you get too close.”

Erlich raised his eyebrows. “Meaning?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing really,” Cieloczki said. “I’m pretty charitable of nature too. It just crossed my mind that if I wasn’t, I might start to think somebody maybe wanted to jerk the chain on that police chief—you know, just do something to let him know something bad could happen if he didn’t want to get, as you said, more efficient. I might even wonder if maybe you guys were used to send somebody a message. Crazy idea, huh?”

Erlich laughed as if the firefighter had made a joke. “Nice talkin’ to you, Chief,” he said, turning back to reach for a folder on his desk.

As Gil left, he did not look back. If he had, he would have seen Erlich watching him leave, a thoughtful look on his face. For the moment, fleeting as it was, the stick of chewing gum in his hand was forgotten.

Instead, Erlich looked like a man who had just had a sudden, and troubling, revelation.

“Well, that didn’t take long,” Terry Posson said. Her voice was that of a woman who expected little satisfaction and had not been surprised when none arrived.

Two dozen feet away from us, Sonny Sonnenberg was shaking the hand of a prosperous-looking man who was carrying an expensive leather briefcase. It was the kind of case purposefully made thin to signal that the owner had subordinates to carry the heavyweight loads.

Sonnenberg had proven himself a prophet of note: a judge had taken only a few minutes’ deliberation before vacating the material witness order, and even less time to rule invalid the litany of charges Posson had convinced an assistant state’s attorney to file.

“Assault on a public official,” the judge had said with only a hint of amusement in his otherwise impartial tone, “does not include two scraped fingers on a fire marhal—an
acting
fire marshal—who tackles a citizen on a public street. In the absence of a signed complaint from the alleged victim in this domestic assault—has Ms. Butenkova filed a formal complaint, counselor? No? In that event, I am dismissing all charges against Mr. Sonnenberg. He is ordered released. Immediately.”

At that moment, Sonny had turned toward the courtroom gallery where Terry and I sat; in his look was everything he had not said during the long ride from Chicago the evening before. After Sonnenberg’s release into our custody, we had driven back to Lake Tower, electing to avoid the expressway. As we wound our way back to town along the scenic route, Terry had been careful to observe the posted speed limits and numerous traffic signals. As a result, we had arrived at the Lake Tower Municipal Center’s lockup well after seven o’clock, too late for the lawyer Sonny called to arrange for bail.

Surrendering his belt, shoelaces and personal effects had not noticeably improved Sonnenberg’s attitude.

“Have a nice night,” I told him as he was led back to the cages.

“Up yours,” he replied without looking back. It was the first thing he had said to either of us since we left the station in Chicago; it was also the last.

Today, his attorney had done what little talking was required. And now, standing on the steps outside the courthouse in the sunlight of an April morning, we watched him leave in a cab and head south toward the city.

We walked across the street to the Lake Tower Municipal Center.

“He knows it’s not over,” I replied to Posson.

I worked at the fresh gauze I had wrapped around my “injuries” this morning, replacing the hospital dressings with what I had hoped, unsuccessfully, was a convincing bulkiness. Now I tossed the handful of bandage into a sidewalk container. “But right now, we still don’t have the juice we need to make it serious. Even for a material witness warrant.”

“We
have
stuff,” she argued. “Damn it, we tied Sonnenberg to Levinstein’s business. Four years—that’s how long this guy’s had an account with ‘em. Levinstein’s brother says they found receipts for building supplies—roofing felt, fixtures, light construction stuff. So it’s mainly cash-and-carry shit. So what? That’s a documented link, for God’s sake!”

I nodded. “It’s a start,” I said. “But we need to establish more of a direct link between the two of them.”

I thought for a moment.

“Let’s take a look at building permits. It might be interesting to see if Sonnenberg did any work for Stanley and Kathleen. Even better, get Building and Inspections to pull anything with Sonnenberg’s name on it—he could’ve been casing the Levinstein house from a job next door. Maybe down the street, whatever. Let’s at least try to put him in the neighborhood—maybe Levinstein saw him doing some work down the street, hired him off the books for a little night work. While you’re at it, ask Levinstein’s brother to fax over all the records they have. I’ll go through it, name by name. Maybe there’s a third-party invoice, a delivery address—
something
to cross-check against the permit list.”

We walked on for a few steps in silence.

“It just doesn’t fit that he would take off like he did,” I said.

“It’s been bothering me, too,” Posson admitted. “Guy goes through a window, he’s anxious about something. And I didn’t exactly get the feeling that we were all that much of a concern to him. I keep remembering when I was putting the cuffs on him, when he was laying in the street sucking air. It’s like, when he knew I had a badge, he got relaxed.”

“Okay. So?”

“So how about we take what he said at face value?” Terry said. “He hears Sozcka talking in Russian, hears his name mentioned, takes off. That tells me he’s worried about being found by somebody who’s Russian. Make sense to you?”

I nodded slowly. “It adds an whole new element to all this—maybe. Or hell, maybe not. A guy like Sonnenberg, even he probably can’t remember all the reasons somebody might have for wanting to take him off.”

Terry pondered for a moment.

“Tell you what,” she said. “How about we try talking to the woman? Call it a follow-up, see how she’s doing after being slugged. Maybe one of us can get her to open up a little, talk to us about the jerk.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I said. “Why don’t I try first? I’ll see if Soczka wants to go along, maybe show the uniform. One way or the other, maybe it’ll just be good to keep up the pressure on Sonnenberg.” I grunted in irritation. “Lot of maybes in this case.”

“Here’s another one,” she said. “Maybe I need to know a little more about a few things. Like, who’s this Lichtman guy you threw at him? If he’s locked up in Joliet, how does he figure in any of it?”

I walked a few steps without replying. When I spoke, it was with a studied nonchalance.

“Lichtman’s a source,” I told her. “Even in Stateville, he’s connected. He thinks he owes me, so he gave up some information that linked Sonnenberg to a planned theft in Lake Tower. Word was it involved artwork, high-priced stuff. Then Lichtman heard it all went sour, people got killed and everything got torched to cover up the mess. I brought it to Cieloczki, and he let me in.”

“Why not take it to Nederlander?” Posson asked.

I laughed, and even I could hear the bitterness that gave it a saw-toothed edge.

“In case you haven’t noticed, Bob Nederlander and I don’t exactly exchange Christmas cards,” I said. “Besides, he had…
his
people already working the case.” I pretended to ignore the face Posson pulled.

“More to the point, I needed a job. I haven’t had one—not a steady job, anyway—since I left the force. I have legal bills that I still owe on, big time. I’ve got the Internal Revenue Service putting the screws on me and my wife—excuse me, make that my former wife—because they got a tip that I’ve been stashing dirty money. The odds are good your boss is behind that, too. It’s the kind of thing he’d do just to enjoy the show.”

Posson looked at me in a manner both dubious and wary.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” she said, “but you sound like a whacko paranoid head case.”

I stared at her for a moment, then threw back my head and laughed. It felt as genuine as it was unanticipated. After a few beats, Posson started to smile herself, then joined my laughter.

“Ever consider taking up grief counseling?” I grinned. “You’d clear your caseload in a week—though the suicide rate might go right off the chart.”

We walked on a few more steps when I twisted my head to look at her.

“You want to know where I was headed? I was drinking myself to sleep and waking up with the night sweats after a couple of hours. I’d stare at the ceiling until dawn, wondering if there was a reason, even a bad one, to get out of bed. Then I hear there’s this convict who wants to see me.”

I paused.

“Maybe he’s full of cow flop, maybe not. But he seemed to have some solid information on the Levinstein murders. So I took what I got from Sam Lichtman to Gil Cieloczki, and he went to Evans. And that’s where we are today.”

“Still drinking?”

I shrugged. “Some. Maybe not as much.”

We entered the Municipal Center, and the uniformed old man at the reception podium glowered at us like we were trespassing. We walked down the hallway to the wing occupied by the Department of Public Safety. The departments of police and fire squared off against each other, separated these days by more than a hallway.

As we each split off to our own side, Terry Posson stopped and spoke.

“I just want to say you showed me something yesterday, when you ran down Sonnenberg,” she said, almost as if she had to force the words past her lips. “It wasn’t exactly by-the-book procedure, and I don’t know how smart it was, either. But you did okay.”

I was more pleased than I should have been, a discovery that startled me as much as the embarrassment I realized we both felt.

“You coming on to me, Posson?” I asked, to cover the moment.

“In your dreams,” she snorted and went into the offices of the Lake Tower Police without looking back.

• • •

Had I followed Terry Posson into her office a few minutes later, I would have seen her tapping a finger on the desk in obvious agitation.

Around her, the din and semi-organized chaos of the squad room rose and fell unnoticed by the policewoman. On her face was the look of someone who had just touched a glass of milk to her lips before realizing it had spoiled.

Her eyes flickered around the room. Finally, she picked up the telephone on the desk and dialed one of the four-digit numbers assigned to the private-line extensions that were not listed in the Municipal Center directory.

She heard the line ring once.

“Nederlander,” a familiar voice growled, and Terry Posson began to speak.

In a darkened van parked three blocks away, a recording device blinked into life and began to whir softly.

A clerk walked past and dropped several heavy folders into my in-box, like coals to Newcastle. Before me, on every available surface, buff-colored file folders already were stacked in uneven piles. Some of them were the case files I had compiled personally; others were the results of the multitudes who had, at one time or another, touched the investigation.

After the initial meeting with Nederlander when Gil had assumed command of the investigation, we had moved quickly to secure all the materials that Terry and Mel had held. Leaving them in a police department that was at best hostile seemed, the way the investigation was moving, highly inadvisable.

We had organized the materials into manageable sections, and I had laboriously keyed a master index into Gil’s computer. The electronic index was protected by a password system; for the reams of paper files, Gil had commandeered a safe in which all files were locked when we were out of the office.

I reached for the topmost of the folders. It was one of the thicker ones, and I recognized the contents immediately. It was the thick fanfold printout of permits Terry had requested from the Building and Inspections Department.

• • •

“Gil, I’ve been looking at a list of building permits for work Sonnenberg did in Lake Tower,” I said. “Our friend Sonny was a busy man.”

“Any new links Sonnenberg between Levinstein?” Gil asked.

“Not quite,” I answered. “It doesn’t appear Sonny did any contracting work for Levinstein. But there is something interesting. Eight months ago, the Lake Tower building department issued a permit to him for roofing renovation at 2759 Terrace Pointe. That’s less than two blocks from the Levinstein place. According to the city directory, the house is owned by one ‘M. Travers.’”

He frowned, thinking.

“That sounds familiar,” he said, finally.

“Yeah,” I replied. “It ought to. You’ve probably been in the Nathan Travers Public Library or driven past Clarence Travers Junior High School. Nathan was one of the few guys who
made
money in the ‘29 crash. Clarence was his son—
and
a two-term Lake Tower mayor back in the ‘80s.”

“Old money,” Gil observed.

“Among the oldest in Lake Tower,” I said. “I imagine there is a genteel layer of dust on it, down in the family’s subterranean vaults.”

“Who’s ‘M. Travers?” Gil asked. “Anything there for us?”

“Ms. Marita Travers,” I said, “is Nathan’s granddaughter. Father died in 1989, the mother four years ago. Cancer—lung and ovarian, respectively. I walked across the hall and ran Ms. Travers through the police department computer. She had a steady string of tickets—moving violations as well as parking—and an impressive list of misdemeanor arrests. Then, nothing. There’s been no new entries for the past three years.”

“That’s interesting, isn’t it?” Gil asked.

“Interesting, yes,” I said. “Relevant—well, I’m not so sure. Maybe she finally decided to grow up. Disorderly conduct, carrying open containers of booze, one public indecency complaint—basically, the kind of kid stuff you’d expect from somebody with a chip on her shoulder. The cases were all dismissed—not even a probation among ‘em—which leads me to believe she has more than enough money to hire good legal representation.”

“At least we’ve placed Sonnenberg in the right neighborhood,” Gil said. “Are you feeling up to a visit to Terrace Pointe?”

“I believe our Ms. Travers might be worth an interview,” I agreed. “It’d be nice to find out that she referred our late pal Sonny to our late pal Stanley. It would be even nicer if she happened to see something suspicious. Like Sonny—or anybody else—carrying paintings down the street.”

“While wearing a mask, “ Gil deadpanned, “and carrying a bag labeled ‘loot.’ We could use a break like that. But I won’t hold my breath.”