No Show of Remorse (22 page)

In the center of the envelope I'd printed the words “The Honorable Maura Flanagan,” and below that “Personal & Confidential.” I'd stapled my business card up in the return address corner, with a note written on the front of the card: “We'll do lunch. Today. Vincent's, Beaubien Court.”

It had been eleven-fifteen when Stefanie met me in the reception area and took me to my little cubicle and left me there. It was twelve-ten when she knocked and opened the door. “Find everything you need?” she asked.

“I don't know,” I said. “I think—”

She closed the door and I was alone again. What she'd just told me was that the meeting of the Illinois Blue Ribbon Committee on Revised Ethical Rules for Attorneys, with Maura Flanagan present for the supreme court, would be taking a break soon, and that Stefanie knew this because the catered lunches had just arrived.

I slipped the large envelope down the front of my pants, then went to the door and opened it. Sure enough, in the hall just a few feet to my right, were two metal carts. One held the food—two platters of sandwiches, another piled with fruit and cheeses fanned out in display, and a fourth full of cookies and what looked like brownies—all held down tight under clear plastic wrap. The other cart was loaded with cans of soft drinks, an ice bucket, and two large carafes for hot beverages. Beyond the carts two women in white aprons were standing and chatting softly.

I nodded to the caterers and turned to my left, where the hall deadended at a closed door. Behind that door was the Blue Ribbon Committee. The last time they met they'd adjourned about noon, according to Stefanie, but had lunch brought in so they could get back to work quickly. There'd be fifteen or twenty of them, she'd said, all very important people, top guns in the legal community from around the state. “Gosh,” I'd said.

And I said the same thing again when the meeting room door opened and the caterers started toward their carts. “Gosh,” I said, moving quickly, “those look heavy. Let me help.”

Before they could object I was pushing the cart full of food down the hallway with one hand, and pulling the drink cart behind me with the other. At the same time people were trickling out of the meeting room, headed for a cigarette or a rest room before lunch. They looked pretty ordinary for very important people, especially when they flattened themselves against the wall to avoid being hit by a fast-moving, apparently out-of-control food cart.

Up ahead, just inside the door, was a cluster of top guns who'd thoughtlessly chosen that inconvenient spot to stop and chat. “Comin' through!” I called. “Comin' through!” I made it very clear I wasn't going to stop, and they scattered.

I'd worked up a bit of speed by then, and as I entered the room I faked a little stumble over the threshhold—there was no threshhold—and pushed the cart even faster, toward the floor-to-ceiling windows opposite the door. “Oops, sorry!” I called, and then had to swerve, of course, to avoid the windows. The front cart caught the corner of the long conference table full of papers and started to tip, sending the platters of food sliding. The cart itself stayed upright, though—despite my best efforts—and only one platter of sandwiches actually crashed to the floor. The drink cart didn't tip over, either, but the carafes teetered dangerously when the cart banged into my hip. I reached out toward one of them, but somehow couldn't steady it and—darn!—it went crashing to its side, sending hot coffee cascading over the side of the cart and onto the conference table, where it spread out and streamed down to the floor.

“Gimme a hand here!” I called. When the sandwiches hit the floor, the taut plastic wrap must have split open and what looked like sliced turkey and maybe tuna salad and mayonnaise and God-knows-what were all over the carpet, with steaming coffee soaking through the whole mess.

There was a lot of talk and confusion, with the catering ladies fussing and yelling for towels—and blaming
me,
of all people—and a whole blue ribbon committee of take-charge people crowding around, snatching coffee-sodden documents from the table and mostly getting in each other's way.

I pulled the envelope from my pants and headed toward the far end of the long table. A man and a woman stood near another door at that end of the room, both of them staring at me. I recognized Maura Flanagan from a photograph, and had a feeling the man was Clark Woolford.

“Justice Flanagan?” I said, and when she nodded I handed her the envelope. I leaned in close to her. “Ask for Mister Remorseful,” I whispered, and then went out the nearby door.

It was a different hallway, but it led back to the same reception area where Stefanie had met me an hour earlier. I stopped at the desk. “Tell Ms. Randle I had to leave. It's those people,” I said, nodding back behind me. “They're making such a racket I couldn't concentrate.”

*   *   *

V
INCENT'S WAS ON
B
EAUBIEN
C
OURT
, directly across from the building lobby, so Maura Flanagan—assuming she showed up—could get back to her meeting quickly if she wanted to. It was the sort of downtown restaurant where the drinks—outrageously expensive—were large and strong enough to give you a buzz while you convinced yourself that “just one” at lunch couldn't hurt. The place was quiet, dimly lit, and far enough from city hall and the courthouse that people could be pretty sure the U.S. Attorney hadn't taped a microphone to the underside of their table. In their fearless struggle to save the world from crooked politicians, judges, and lawyers, even the Feds couldn't bug every table in every restaurant in the Loop. Could they?

A thin, sleek-looking guy in a black suit, with blond hair pulled into a ponytail, led me to a secluded nook and a table for two. I told him I was “Mr. Remorseful” and my companion would be along shortly. His complete lack of reaction made me wonder what kind of place I was in. I ordered coffee and a bowl of minestrone, which arrived almost at once, and then waited fifteen very long minutes before Flanagan showed up.

She'd have looked like an ordinary middle-aged woman in an expensive blue business suit—maybe silk—and a white blouse open at the neck, but there was an air of authority about her—or was it arrogance?—that kept “ordinary” out of the picture. Her hair showed just enough gray around the edges to convince you the black was natural. The manila envelope stuck up from a leather handbag slung over her shoulder. I could see it had been torn open.

The blond ponytail was escorting her over and when they got close I looked up, but didn't stand, didn't greet her at all. He held the chair for her and she sat down, smiling and telling me how happy she was to see me. I drank my coffee and stared at her. The waiter was already standing there, and she ordered a Diet Sprite with lime, and chicken salad. He turned to me and I told him the minestrone had been delicious and all I needed was more coffee.

When the waiter left there was a long silence and finally she said. “You really
are
crazy.”

“No,” I said, “really, the minestrone isn't bad at all, and I hate to eat a large meal in the middle of the—”

“You listen to me, Mr. Foley. You've got a petition pending before the court. I could have you charged with attempting to tamper with a judicial proceeding.”

“Gee whiz,” I said, “and we were getting along so well.”

She shook her head. “My time is valuable,” she said. “If you have a point, get to it. Why did you ask me here?”

“I didn't ask you. Read my note again. I
required
you to be here.”

“What do you want?”

“I see you opened the envelope.”

“Yes. Those are confidential documents. What is it you want?”

“Confidential?” I said. “Notices of IRS liens, subpoenas, releases of the liens? All public records. One just has to know where to look.” And, once I'd told them the sort of thing I was hoping for, Barney's paralegals had known.

The waiter was back with her Sprite and chicken salad, and a refill of my coffee. When he was gone again, she said, “Tell me what you want, or I'm going back to my meeting at once.”

“Feel free,” I said, waving my hand in a dismissive gesture. “I got the important half already.”

She didn't go anywhere. “I don't understand,” she said, and for the first time there was a note of unease in her voice. “Important half of what?”

“I think you
do
understand.” I leaned forward. “You see, Maura,” getting personal, watching her flinch a little when I did, “I've verified what I thought, that those back taxes and interest and penalties you and your ex-husband owed, and the fact that you were able to pay them all off, at just the time you did … that that's a worry to you. And that I, in particular, know about it, that's an even bigger worry.” I leaned back in my chair and watched her.

She sipped at her Sprite while she thought. “Look,” she finally said, “you can't—”

“Wait,” I said, interrupting to keep her off balance. “Time is short. You need to get back to your meeting. The worry's the first half. The second half is … what are you willing to do about the worry?”

“This is starting to sound like blackmail.”

“See?” I said. “You
do
understand.” I realized Flanagan could have been wired, even if the table wasn't, but that seemed a slim possibility. “Actually, though, it's not your traditional blackmail.”

“Really.”

“Your traditional blackmailer demands something, in exchange for his promise to keep quiet.”

“And I suppose you're not demanding anything?”

“Oh, I'm demanding something, all right,” I said. “But I'm not promising to keep quiet.”

CHAPTER

36

A
FEW MINUTES LATER
Maura Flanagan was gone, and the waiter hustled over at once. “I'm surprised,” he said, picking up her nearly untouched plate. “Most people really like our chicken salad.”

“She was late for a meeting,” I said. “She's a very important person.”

I'd told Flanagan I knew that six or seven years ago her ex-husband had been the subject of a tax fraud investigation. The taxes had to do with his construction business, and she was listed as vice-president and secretary of the company and had cosigned all the tax returns. I said I knew her ex had made a bundle, mostly on public works projects, but had turned out to be a compulsive gambler who couldn't stop to save his life—or hers.

I told her I knew the investigation dragged on and on and she became a target, too. The IRS was talking a couple of million dollars and, even though the fraud case was shaky and the couple had no money, the government had way too many auditor-hours invested to drop the case. Criminal charges were on the way. So, guilty or not, she'd been facing enormous legal fees to defend herself, and the result would almost certainly be some sort of guilty plea. That meant the loss of her law license and a very promising career, and maybe even some time at the women's prison in Lexington, Kentucky.

Some of it I made up, of course, but obviously I was close enough, because she kept on listening. It didn't take me long to get to the punch line: “Then you suddenly came up with almost two hundred thousand dollars. Not what the IRS was looking for, but enough so they could save face. So you settled up with them and got them off your back.” I paused, then added, “That was right after the Lonnie Bright shooting.”

If something showed up in her face just then, it was gone as quickly as it came, and she didn't say a word.

So I gave her my demand. “I want to know who gave you the money to close out that O.P.S. investigation so quickly. If you tell me, I can't promise to keep it to myself. I can only promise I'll try to keep your part out of the public eye. I'll do my best. That's the deal.”

“You'll try? You'll do your best?” She took a sip of her water, then shook her head from side to side, slowly. “That's it?”

“It's the only deal you've got,” I said. “Otherwise, I keep pushing until I get what I want anyway, and I don't have to worry about keeping you out of it. So…”

I let my voice trail off, and that's when she'd leaned forward a little and smiled. Anyone looking on would have thought she was especially pleased with me. But her voice was taut with anger and something that might have been hatred blazed in her eyes. What she said was, “Your story is absolutely untrue, Mr. Foley. All of it.” She took her purse from the floor beside her and stood up.

“You have my card,” I said, pointing at the envelope sticking up from her purse. “Call any time. But call by noon tomorrow.”

“You'll be goddamn lucky, you son of a bitch,” she said, still managing to hold the smile in place, “to keep your sad sorry ass out of jail that long.” Not exactly the language you'd expect from a supreme court justice, no. But I could understand. She was a little upset.

Besides, she was, as her campaign posters had once so boldly proclaimed: “One tough broad.”

*   *   *

I
LEFT
V
INCENT'S
and took the el to Diversey and walked west to where I'd parked that morning, in the lot of a Wonder Bread thrift store. I went inside and bought a package of day-old sweet rolls and took them out to the car. I was driving a two-tone—blue over rust—1990 Buick Electra that Barney Green had gotten for me from God knows where. It had Arkansas plates and Barney said it belonged to a shirt-tail relative of his. And maybe it did.

It wasn't that the Cavalier had blown up. I'd had it checked out the day before and when they said it was clean I'd driven it home and parked it in one of the bays under the coach house. At its age it could use the rest. And driving a different car gave me the illusion I could hide.