No Show of Remorse (13 page)

The clerk in front of me stood up. “Mrs. Horton, you aren't supposed to come—”

“Y'all
know
that ain't right. My baby been—”

“Please, Mrs. Horton,” the clerk said. By then she was on our side of the counter and had one arm wrapped gently around the woman's shoulders. “Your baby will be fine. We have to take the more urgent cases first.”

“Well, I…” The woman started to cry. “I know that, but…”

A security guard had arrived by then and walked the woman back out into the waiting area, and the clerk hurried back to her station. She sat down and looked up at me as though she couldn't quite remember what I was there for.

“I was saying I'm a close friend of the patient.” I nodded to the computer monitor to remind her who I was talking about. “I'd just like to find out how he's doing.”

“Oh, yes,” she said. She looked up at the monitor, frowned, then adjusted it and tilted the screen downward. “I'm very sorry,” she said, “but at the request of the patient's next of kin, no information is available.”

It was a wash. She didn't ask why a close friend didn't know the patient's name; and I didn't ask how his next of kin got him transferred out without giving his name.

“Can I talk to his doctor?”

“Of course you can, sir,” she said, brightening a bit. “You'll just need a signed authorization from the patient … or a court order.”

I was fresh out of both, so I moved on.

*   *   *

T
HE BUILDING AT
H
ARRISON
and Kedzie looked to be 1970s vintage, brown brick and tinted glass, with the Eleventh District police station on the first floor and Area Four Headquarters on the second. I went upstairs and found Area Four as friendly and hospitable as any other police station I've ever been in—which is to say I'd prefer a trauma center any day.

There were cops everywhere, dozens of them, coming in and going out. Mostly in plainclothes; joking, calling to each other in loud voices. A few were women, but even so a visitor—this visitor, anyway—felt as though he'd invaded the clubhouse of a close-knit, all-male fraternity. I had the feeling any moment a couple of wet, naked guys would dash through, whooping and whirling around, snapping towels at each other's asses.

I had to admit, though, that there was work going on. It was Saturday morning, and there seemed to have been some sort of gang “altercation” the night before. Bored-looking cops kept going past, bringing in handcuffed men—most of them young, all of them black—pulling or pushing them across the tile floor and disappearing down one hallway or another. Most of the prisoners had angry, sullen looks on their faces; a few screamed obscenities to which no one paid the slightest attention.

Lieutenant Theodosian wasn't in. “Medical leave,” the desk man said. “Hasn't been here for months.” He consulted first a list on a clipboard, and then a large calendar taped to the counter in front of him. “Doesn't say when he'll be back.”

“But—”

The phone rang and he picked it up, listened a moment, and told whoever it was that they'd have to come in and talk to a detective in person. He hung up and turned away.

“Hey!” I said.

He turned back. “You still here? I thought I—”

“You did. But I just talked to Theodosian, about a case. Yesterday morning, about seven o'clock.”

“Not yesterday morning. Not here.”

“No, not here. At Eleventh and State. You know, because of the remodeling. I thought it was a homicide, but turns out it was a battery.”

“Remodeling?” He leaned forward and peered at me. “What case? What's the victim's name?”

“I don't know. I just—”

“You got any ID, pal?”

“Driver's license.” I dug it out and gave it to him. Cooperation's my middle name.

He took my license and studied it, then handed it back. “You oughta leave now, Mr. Foley,” he said, “unless you got helpful information about a case … or proof someone here asked you to come in.”

I was fresh out of both of those, too, so again I moved on.

*   *   *

A
CCORDING TO THE
ID
TAG
clipped to her shirt, the name of the receptionist who'd given me the choice of a
Sun-Times
or a
Playgirl
while I'd waited for Theodosian the previous morning had been Angelica Ruiz.

I drove back to Eleventh and State. The same fat cop with the same fat .357 Magnum was guarding the entrance. “Remember me, officer?” I asked. “Yesterday morning?”

He stared. “Yep.”

“I was in a bad mood,” I said. “Gave you a peace sign.”

“I remember.”

“Sorry about that.”

“Didn't bother me. I don't give a shit people wanna be assholes.” So it wasn't clout that got him this soft assignment after all, it was tolerance and people skills.

“I was on my way up, yesterday, to see an investigator named Theodosian.”

“If you said that I don't remember it. Anyway, what's the deal? Who cares?”

“Just making talk,” I said. “Gotta go up again and see Ms. Ruiz. See if I left my … my keys up there.”

“Ruiz worked in Internal Affairs, but she ain't up there. That floor's empty as of today. They'll be hauling out the furniture today and tomorrow. Ruiz coulda gone with IAD, or she coulda been transferred anywhere. One of the districts. Who knows? You'd be damn lucky to find her … or your keys.”

Luck was one more thing I was fresh out of, so I went home.

*   *   *

A
BOUT NOON
I
CALLED
Breaker Hanafan's number, but got an answering machine. “Call me,” I said. “I want to visit the patient. Until then,” I added, “no deal. Period.”

I hung up and called Renata. It was Saturday, but she was in her office. I told her I was going ahead with the petition. “I want a hearing as soon as possible.”

“No way,” she said.

“Why not? All they have to do is complete my deposition. What else is there to do?”

“They've identified six or seven people they're going to call as witnesses—mostly cops and relatives of the one who was killed that night. They want to show the effect of your continuing refusal to help identify the guilty parties.”

“So,” I said, “let them call their witnesses.”

“But we have to depose them first, see what they're going to say.”

“We
know
what they're going to say. They'll say they're still suffering and it's my fault that they can't get ‘closure.' I don't want deps, just a hearing.”

“I can't even think about it right now. I have a huge drug conspiracy trial starting in a few days. I simply won't be able to get to your case for at least a month. Maybe longer.”

“Fine. Then I'll represent myself.”

“That would be consistent,” she said. “All along you've been acting like a fool.”

And Renata hadn't even been in last night's dream.

CHAPTER

20

I
SPENT
S
ATURDAY AFTERNOON
trying to think up a plan of action, keeping busy while I thought, though, to make sure the day wasn't a total loss.

So I worked out for a couple of hours, reminded by the shots I'd taken to the side of the head Wednesday night to pay special attention to my neck and shoulder muscles. After that I set out for a run along Sheridan Road. My route took me through the Northwestern campus, where students by the thousands had fled their dorms for the warm sunshine. The crowded sidewalks and jogging paths irritated me; or maybe all those chattering young persons in shorts and T-shirts made me feel a little lonely, or at loose ends or something. Whatever. I cut the run short.

Back at the coach house, I called the Lady to invite myself over for supper that evening, but she wasn't in. So after a shower I settled down to work out the chords for some more Cole Parter tunes from a book the Lady had given me for Christmas. That carried me through until time to head back to the piano at Miz Becky's. It was a busy night there, mostly the usual neighborhood crowd.

All in all, things went fairly well. No one showed up to ambush me or threaten me. But no plan showed up, either.

*   *   *

I
T WAS PAST MIDNIGHT
when I got home. I wasn't happy to see the gate unlocked and standing open, but then I spotted someone pacing the crushed stone drive. Layla. She had a cell phone in her hand, and I was certain she had a partner watching out the attic window, where the shade was still up. By the time I'd parked up by the coach house, Layla had closed and locked the gate and was headed for the Lady's house. She was talking on the phone, and didn't even look my way as she went by. The Lady was taking this security stuff pretty seriously—and I was glad she was.

“Excuse me,” I called. “Layla?”

She stopped and turned around. She wore a pants outfit like the coveralls the guys wear at Caesar Scallopino's body shop, except hers was sort of shiny purple in the darkness—and she filled it out differently. “Yes?” she said.

“Nice night, isn't it?” The first conversation I'd taken a stab at that day since Renata told me I wasn't very bright.

“Uh-huh.” She slipped the phone into a little holster on her hip. “I guess so.”

“I mean, just feel that breeze off the lake,” I said.

She looked around as though the idea of feeling cool night breeze were new to her. “Yeah,” she said. “It's cold.” The conversation was really picking up.

“Hear that?” I pointed off to the east, beyond the Lady's house. “Those are waves on the lake, lapping up onto the shore.”

“Right,” she said. “I have to go now.” She turned and started up the drive.

“Hold on a minute,” I called. She stopped and faced me again. “Would you ask the Lady to call me? I mean, if she's still up.”

“I'd ask her, but she ain't … I mean, she
isn't
home.”

“Oh?” Surprising. The Lady's big on operas and concerts and the like, but was generally home by this time. “Well, whenever she gets home. I don't care how late it is. Tell her it's very important.”

“Um, sure,” she said. “Soon as I see her.” She smiled and walked away. Not much of a smile, but the best I'd seen in forty-eight hours or so. Things were looking up.

*   *   *

T
HERE WAS ONE MESSAGE
on my answering machine. “About visiting your friend,” Breaker said, “call me. And use your cell phone.”

I punched out his number and he answered right away. “I don't have a cell phone,” I said. “I'm calling from my kitchen.”

“Shit. Don't you know your line might be—”

“So might yours,” I said. “This one, at least, I've checked out as well as I can. Besides, I'm not doing anything illegal. Are you?”

“Fuck you. Maybe you don't care who knows where your friend's at.”

“You said he'd be in a protected place.” I paused. “All I need from you is assurance that I won't have trouble getting past the protection.”

“That's taken care of. But you don't want me to tell you where he's at,” he said, “not on the phone.”

“You don't have to tell me,” I said. “I already know.” I explained how, with the trauma unit clerk busy with a tearful mother, I'd swiveled the monitor and read where Yogi was going. “It's right there in his chart. Anybody could get at it.”

“Some strings I can pull, but I ain't no miracle worker. Fuckin' chart's confidential. Even the cops ain't supposed to see it, not without a subpoena or some goddamn thing, and I'd be notified.” He paused, then exhaled loudly, as though blowing into the phone. He must have gone back to smoking as well as alcohol. “So you got to it,” he said. “Congratulations. That's why I got you workin' for me.”

“I'm not working for you.”

“Whatever,” he said. “Anyway, if they find him they ain't gonna get to him.”

“But I will?”

“I said you'd be there tomorrow at … well, I guess it's today. Sunday, anyway, at ten. You can make your own arrangements if you go again. Now I gotta—”

“Listen up, Breaker. I got something to say.”

“What?”

“Anything happens to Yogi—from you, I mean—and I'll be coming after you. You know that.”

“Yeah? Well, I guess you forgot. I got worse than you coming.” He hung up.

CHAPTER

21

B
Y NINE O'CLOCK
Sunday morning I'd eaten breakfast and was headed out to visit Yogi. First, though, I went over and twisted the old-fashioned key-turn doorbell in the center of the Lady's front door. I waited several minutes and finally the door opened. It was Layla, in a baggy sweatshirt and faded jeans. She had her hair wrapped up in a towel. She looked great.

“Well?” I said.

“Well what?”

“Is she home? She didn't call me.”

“I guess you mean the Lady,” she said.

“No, dammit, the Queen of—” I stopped, shaking my head at my own behavior. “I'm just … worried about her. She was to call me no matter how late it was. You said you'd tell her.”

“I said I'd tell her as soon as I see her. And I will.”

“What?”

“If you need her, she'll be home this afternoon, some time around three.”

“I don't
need
her, for God's sake.” I sounded angry, and didn't want to. “I just want to know she's okay.”

“And now you know.” She waggled her fingers at me. “Bye-bye, now.” She closed the door.

I turned and went to the Cavalier, but before I got in I glanced up and saw movement at the attic window. One of Layla's partners, with a phone to her ear, was looking down at me. I waggled my fingers and mouthed “Bye-bye, now,” then got into the car and slammed the door, hard.