Maxwell Street Blues (29 page)

Authors: Marc Krulewitch

Tags: #Mystery

BOOK: Maxwell Street Blues

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“Landau, you hit?” Kalijero said. Apparently, I had not been aware of my own groaning.

“No, it’s just my sore ribs and burned hand,” I said, getting to my feet. Kalijero called for medical then we both walked over to Voss. He lay on his left side in obvious pain, having been shot in the right hip. I examined his upper body but saw no wound. I looked at Kalijero. “You missed? From ten feet?”

Still staring at Voss, he said, “I only fired once.”

“What? You let that bastard shoot at me twice?”

Kalijero looked at me. “He squeezed off another shot as he fell! He might as well have shot at the moon! And stop complaining. You’re welcome, you ungrateful prick.”

“
I’m
ungrateful? You just saw all your problems go up in flames with Snooky’s book. You should be on your knees licking the mud off my shoes.”

Kalijero looked at the steel drum then back at me. I assumed a variety of sentiments ran through his brain, relief being the dominant emotion. Although I didn’t really expect Kalijero to offer me an open display of gratitude, I got the feeling his sudden loss for words said a lot.

Kalijero allowed me to observe the department’s technology specialist downloading the audio file. Voss’s raspy, high-pitched voice came across to everyone’s satisfaction. Even
Hauser cracked a smile. Along with state and federal charges of distribution and trafficking of methamphetamine, state prosecutors included a first-degree murder charge. Contrary to their reputation for invoking a code of silence, the police quickly furnished all essential documents and in-house records related to Voss’s conduct in the Internal Affairs Division, including recently discovered complaints filed by both officers and citizens. When the investigation moved beyond meth into the day-to-day operations of O’Hare’s Tailspin, nonexistent evidence of money trails persuaded prosecutors to delay filing charges against other police personnel rumored to be involved in prostitution, pimping, and pandering—although the early retirements of the deputy chief and superintendent of police did not go unnoticed.

Witnesses at Officer Voss’s highly publicized trial included meth addicts, strippers, prostitutes, aldermen, state legislators, and Lisa Audrey Moreau—wearing a navy blazer over a white blouse, knee-length khaki skirt, and tan oxford shoes. To the delight of reporters and the dismay of the judge, Lisa employed powerful dramatization recalling her experiences with Voss, deftly intertwining her personal life with testimony regarding Voss’s obsession with acquiring Snooky’s accounting journal. Lisa also acknowledged what she called her “casual participation” in Voss’s attempt to frame Tate as a meth dealer by supplying Voss with her ex-stepfather’s business cards and having some of her meth-addicted clients call Tate’s phone. Lisa demonstrated her storytelling abilities, skillfully describing her fear of Voss while adeptly illustrating her resentment of Tate as the man who cast her out of the house for being a troubled child, the man who was a rotten husband to her mother. Under questioning on the stand, Lisa also reluctantly cleared her stepfather of suggestions he behaved inappropriately with children, stating she had started the rumor purely in an attempt to ruin Tate’s reputation. She tearfully admitted she had used her half sister, Audrey Prenevost, to spread the scurrilous charge, instilling false memories into her consciousness.

Although Voss spent three months immobilized in a cast, he could be thankful for Kalijero’s bullet missing any main arteries and for the Illinois governor’s moratorium on the death penalty. While Lisa became a public curiosity, Voss received a life sentence.

* * *

I visited Frownie shortly after Voss’s arrest. When I reminded him that I had purposely left him out of the loop, he reminded me that he was determined to die before I did. I pretended not to notice his voice choking up or the tear he blinked away. He was really
asking that I give up investigating murders. Once again I left his house saying only that I couldn’t be sure where my career was headed. I think he understood.

My father, too, had been kept in the dark about the final showdown. I assumed Frownie told him all the details, though, because when I called him he at first acted somewhat indifferent, as if I was telling him about a plot to a movie I had just seen. It didn’t take long before Dad struggled to finish sentences as emotion cracked his stoic façade and plunged him into a passionate lecture on why I needed to find another profession, or at least give up murder investigations. I made no promises, and didn’t remind him that he had started up this business by hiring me.

After I changed the subject to Dad’s health, the conversation reverted back to the father I had been more accustomed to, one who insisted his prostate cancer was nothing more than a nuisance, that he felt fine despite how crappy he looked, and that I should stop worrying about him and think about getting some money in the bank. Later that day we met for lunch at a joint that served his favorite Vienna hot dogs and had recently introduced a veggie burger. I asked Dad about some of the old
Tribune
articles describing Great-Granddad’s exploits, then listened to him reminisce about how smart Great-Granddad was and how well Great-Granddad worked the system. Somehow, the nostalgia took on a broader scope with Dad reminding me that movies only cost a dime in those days, and that for a nickel you could get an extra helping of chocolate sauce on your ice cream. Before saying goodbye, I suggested we have lunch again next week and Dad agreed.

* * *

“This does not look like the birthplace of Chicago blues” may have been the last thought of accountant Charles “Snooky” Snook before someone fired two bullets into his head and dumped his body on a pile of debris at the intersection of Maxwell and Halsted. Why Maxwell Street had been chosen as the location where the successful CPA and “hoodlum’s bookkeeper” would meet his violent end would not become immediately clear …”

Ellis Knight had his story.
The Partisan
ran a special edition devoted to a tale of murder, politics, and big-city corruption told through the eyes of the characters who played out the drama. The article was a sensation, the subject of radio talk shows, and briefly the attention of the national media. Knight’s follow-up article, detailing Lisa Moreau’s journey through the criminal justice system, received only moderate attention.
With the help of a sympathetic public and pressure from unnamed politicians, she was handed a suspended sentence and three years’ probation.

A third article by Knight chronicling the lack of prosecution of any politician, administrator, or construction magnate—went largely unnoticed.

Gazing at Lake Michigan, Susie and I sat on the steps of the stone amphitheater at Diversey Harbor, eating pita pocket sandwiches. “You barely winced,” Susie said.

“What do you mean?”

“When you sat down. Hasn’t it been about three months since you hurt your ribs?”

She was right. It had also been three months since she suggested I contemplate whether I wanted her to know me better. We had spoken often during those three months, mostly about the trial, but we hadn’t met on a date—until that afternoon.

I said, “You haven’t asked why it took so long for me to ask you out.”

Susie took a bite of her sandwich and chewed awhile on my statement before saying, “I could’ve asked you out, too.”

I thought she was kidding, but as she continued chewing and keeping her gaze over the lake, I remembered we lived in the twenty-first century. “Well,” I said, “how long did you expect me to wait for your call?”

Susie gave me a wry look and we both laughed. “Seriously, Jules, I’m not some naïve waif who assumed an impromptu kiss the night before you left for L.A. meant our relationship was destined to be something more than friendship.”

“Impromptu? How do you know I hadn’t spent all day planning out a strategy for that kiss?” We both laughed again, this time louder.

We ate in silence awhile, then I said, “You really helped me, yet you’ve asked very few questions—about the investigation.” Susie nodded but said nothing. “No longer curious?”

“Well, maybe you’ll tell me one day, if you want,” she said. “But for now, why don’t we keep it simple and just focus on getting to know each other? Start with your people. Tell me where you came from.”

I wasn’t sure if I had ever received such a request. Susie wasn’t asking what I
wanted from life or what I hoped to be one day, but where I came from. So I started telling the story of the Landaus. She listened, asked questions. A bunch of times, we laughed our heads off. The hour passed quickly, then she had to get back to her shop. We said goodbye. Only later that evening, while Punim and I relaxed on the recliner, did I realize how wonderfully comfortable it had felt just sitting on those concrete steps, talking to Susie, letting her get to know me.

About the Author

Marc Krulewitch grew up in the Chicago suburbs, although his crime novels take place in the Windy City, where he was born and where his family has lived for generations.
Maxwell Street Blues
is the first in what he hopes to be a long and enduring detective series. His great-grandfather once shared a headline with Al Capone.