Penance: A Chicago Thriller (7 page)

 

CHAPTER 10 – RIVER FOREST, ILLINOIS

 

Present Day

 

Rusty Lynch lived in one of the big old stone houses set back off Oak Park Avenue just as you drove north into River Forest, place probably going for seven or eight hundred grand. Uncle Rusty paid cash for the joint the month after he got back into town from doing his eleven-month hitch at the Club Fed up in Wisconsin, same Club Fed where Dan Rostenkowski worked on his short game after getting caught with his pinkies in the House Post Office cookie jar. In fact, Uncle Rusty and Rostenkowski had been in together for the bulk of Rusty’s jolt. Rusty’d been in on some kickback beef the Feds cooked up when he wouldn’t play ball on one of their stings. He’d fallen on his sword for the Hurleys in the sure and certain faith that they’d have his back when he got out. Lynch wasn’t even sure Rusty liked the River Forest house. Rusty’d always been a city guy, the type that started breaking out in hives he didn’t smell some diesel fumes every ten minutes. Now he’s living on a half-acre of oaks pretending to be a feudal lord? Lynch figured the house was more like a fuck you at the Feds who sent Rusty up. The top Fed prosecutor who tried to flip Rusty was one of his neighbors now.

Lynch parked in Rusty’s brick circle drive at the end of a line of six cars, the Grand Marquis the princes of the city drove or were driven in. Couple of the cars had drivers lounging in the front seats, listening to the radios. A stretch Mercedes at the end of the line. The driver was a retired cop Lynch knew, guy named Lewis, standing next to the car smoking, guy who’d done his twenty, then gone private. Personal security, that kind of shit. Lynch pulled out a Camel and joined him.

“Hey, Lewis. Riding shotgun for somebody?”

“Hey, Lynch. Howya doin? Yeah. Funny you turning up. Got a call from Eddie Marslovak. Thing with his mother got him freaked a little, I guess, maybe thinking somebody’s coming after him. He’s gotta nice ride, anyway.”

Lynch looked up and down the Mercedes. “Got a bar and everything?”

“Bar, TV, couple a cell phones, some kind of hookup so his computer’s on line. Like driving a space shuttle. Hey, you’re workin’ his mom’s case, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You out here to see him?”

Lynch shook his head. “Wanted to talk to Rusty real quick. Guess Uncle Rusty’s still got the juice, huh?”

Lewis dropped his butt to the bricks and ground it under the toe of his wingtip. “What I hear around the Hall, more juice than ever. Taking the fall on that Fed beef, good career move, far as I can see. Got him out of the county board seat. Doesn’t have to play sleight of hand to get paid no more.”

“Well, not me, Lewis. Still on the city’s clock.” Lynch flicked half a Camel into the pine bark mulch along the side of the drive and headed for the door.

 

Rusty Lynch was what Lynch’s old man would have been given another thirty years. Big, hair gone pure white, fine cross-hatch of busted veins over the nose and cheeks, still that sparkle in the eyes that was menace and merriment both at once. Rusty Lynch broke into a broad grin when he opened the door.

“Johnny. Fuck me, it is good to see you, boy. Get your ass inside, say hello to the fellas.”

“Rusty,” Lynch said, stepping into the slate-floored hall. “You’re looking good.”

“I’m lookin’ like a fat old drunk whose clothes all have enough Xs in them to go into the dirty book business and don’t I know it.” The old man threw a playful jab into Lynch’s gut. “But you’re keepin’ fit, Johnny, and you always favored your mother anyway. Good on you.”

Rusty ushered Lynch into the living room, a long rectangle with a barrel-vaulted ceiling. All the furniture was wood or brown leather. Marslovak and Burke, Hurley’s chief of staff, Lynch knew. They sat to the right.

“Some of you boys know my nephew, John Lynch, him being one of Chicago’s finest. And, Johnny, I know you know some of the boys. Eddie I know you just met, though not the best circumstances, and you and Dick Burke go back a bit anyway.”

Lynch nodded at Marslovak and Burke. Burke gave a short wave.

“Tony Lazzara’s the mayor’s new money man. Rod Fell’s our rising star in congress, up there in Rostenkowski’s old seat, and, God help me, these other fine boys are riding herd on him, out from the masters at the DNC, but I can’t keep their names straight. Anyway, just wanted to show you off. Is it private business you’ve got?”

“Just a couple minutes is all I need, Rusty. I can come back.”

“Oh, no need of that, Johnny. These sharp fellas can carry on without me for a bit.” Rusty draped an arm over Lynch’s shoulder and turned him toward his study.

 

Rusty dropped the hint of brogue and the stage Irish act as soon as he and Lynch got into his office and shut the door. Being in touch with the auld sod was always good practice in Chicago, but Rusty had been born on the west side, just like Lynch.

“Interesting crowd,” Lynch said.

“I swear, Johnny, I work harder at this off-the-books wise-man shit than I ever did when I drew a paycheck.”

“Still drawing a check, from what I hear.”

“Well, I’m doin’ all right. I’ve always told you, Johnny, we look after one another in this town. You never did want to hear it, though.”

“Just not my game.”

“How’s your mother? Got down a couple weeks back, she was still hanging on.”

“Gotta be soon, I figure. Not like there’s much left they can cut off.”

“Tough thing. You’ve been good to her Johnny.”

“She was good to me.”

Rusty nodded, made a toasting motion with his glass. “So what brings you out? Not that you aren’t welcome.”

Lynch pulled the Wrigley shot he’d taken from the Marslovak house out of the envelope and handed it to Rusty.

“What do you make of this?”

Rusty looked at the photo for a minute. “Santo and Kessinger. What you put that at Johnny? Give that about a nine on a scale of ten, wouldn’t you? And for old EJ Marslovak. Bet his boy would love to have this.”

“EJ?”

“Edward Jacob. Never did get the whole line score on him. Crew foreman at Streets and San, know that much. Supervised a lot of the work when himself ripped up the old Taylor street neighborhood to put in that UIC campus starting back in the mid-Sixties. Got himself noticed somewhere along the line, round about ’70, I think. Anyway, word came down from on high. I gave him some precinct work, some ward work, bounced him around the north side for a while, tried to work him in with the Polack crowd on Milwaukee Avenue, but he just never made the grade. Pretty clear the big guy owed him one, and the big guy was pretty insistent on squaring his debts. Not so clear what he owed him for.”

“So he was a player?”

Rusty shook his head. “Big guy wanted him to be a player, but EJ didn’t have the appetite for it. God, I remember him at the Connemara Ball, this has got to be maybe 1971. He’s got on some green tux he picked up at some rental shop. His wife, she’s got some silly getup on. You never saw two souls lookin’ more lost. Himself comes up, asks Helen to dance, trying to make her at home. Look on her face the whole time, you’d think Satan was trying to butt fuck her. They were out the door by 9 o’clock. Speaking of which, you goin’ this year?”

“The Connemara? I don’t know, Rusty.”

“You should make an appearance, Johnny. People miss you. Your old man, he was well loved, and there’s them that would like to make a gesture to his boy. You’re leaving a lot on the table, son. You got a whole inheritance waitin’ on you. You know I can lay it out for you any time you like.”

“Thanks, Rusty. I know you told the old man you’d look out for me. I’m making my way, though.”

“Don’t get touchy on me now. Nobody’s saying you can’t pull your own wagon. Just wondering does it have to be uphill both ways all the time with you. You’re owed, Johnny. Nothing more than that.”

“Those debts seem to go both ways, Rusty.”

Rusty gave a little snort. “That they do, my boy. That they do.”

 

Back in the car, Lynch picked up his phone, checked his messages, hoping Liz had called back. Nothing. Little feeling in his gut. Might as well be back in high school. She’d been in circulation better than a year, had a couple of drinks, maybe it was just a thing. Nothing saying a woman couldn’t just be looking for a little touch.

“Jesus,” he said to himself, pulling his sunglasses off the visor. “Might as well go home and watch Oprah.”

Lynch took Harlem back down toward the Eisenhower, then cut east onto Jackson cruising the west side back toward the Loop, heading toward the United Center. His Crown Vic wasn’t a marked unit, but it was marked enough for this neighborhood. Lynch watched the look outs on some of the hot corners scurrying ahead, letting the street dealers know five-0 was on the block. Lynch rode with the window cranked down a couple turns, taking in the sights and sounds, just showing the flag a little, letting his chat with Rusty percolate.

Lynch wasn’t sure he was worried about Eddie Marslovak being out at the house. Eddie moved a lot of money around town, both on the books and through back channels, so he and Rusty, they’d be dipping their sticks in the same hole often enough. The rest of it – Burke, this Lazzara guy, Pretty Boy Fell – that pointed to some official deal, not something related to the shooting. Interesting that Eddie wanted some security, though. Lynch would think about that.

Lynch was more curious about Rusty’s quick spiel on Marslovak. Usually, Rusty was slow, patching things together, stopping to think about this guy or that guy, rummaging around the fifty years of hardball politics that cluttered up his head. So his rehearsed version of the EJ Marslovak story had Lynch wondering. Either Rusty’d been thinking about Marslovak himself – which was natural, given Helen’s murder – or somebody had tipped him off that Lynch might be asking.

Just as Lynch swung north onto the Kennedy, his phone rang.

“Lynch.”

“Hey, John Lynch.” Liz. Son of a bitch. “Thanks for calling this morning. It meant something. Saved me thinking all day. You know, was it just the booze or something.”

Lynch paused, wondering how far to go with this. Fuck it. Just roll with it. “Wasn’t just the booze, Johnson.”

“Not very macho and cop-like, Lynch. You OK?”

“Fine. Thinking about trading in my nine, maybe getting a nice .22. One of those little chrome plated automatics? Mother-of-pearl handle? Later maybe get my legs waxed.”

“Now you’re sounding better. You scared me there for a second. Nice to know that you managed to squeeze in a thought about me, though.”

“A couple, yeah.”

“Nice thoughts?”

“Well, not PG nice, but nice.”

That chuckle. Already falling for that chuckle. “Still want to take me to dinner?”

“Yeah.”

“Like a real date? I go home and change and you pick me up and everything?”

“Yeah, like that.”

“You going to open the doors for me, help me with my coat?”

“Don’t need a coat. It’s nice out.”

“Help me pull up my zipper then?”

“Help you pull it down, even.”

“So a full-service date?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

That chuckle again. “Pick me up at 7.00, John Lynch. And bring me flowers.”

 

CHAPTER 11 – CHICAGO

 

Lynch went straight to Starshak’s office. Starshak was wearing what he always wore – a solid navy blue suit, white shirt, simple tie, half a pound of crap in his hair keeping everything locked in place.

Starshak’s office was always neat. He didn’t like shit out. Desk, low filing cabinet along the right wall, tall cabinet back in the corner. On the low cabinet he had a line of framed photos – his wife, the two daughters, one family shot that had the dog in it, big Collie, the kind with the darker hair. A fern hung in front of the window on the left. Thing was huge, and Starshak was always futzing with it, picking off dead leaves, spraying it with the squirt bottle he kept in his desk. On top of the tall filing cabinet, Starshak had a glass case. Starshak made model airplanes. In fact, he was some kind of hot-shot modeler, even had some plaques on the wall near the cabinet. Every month or so he’d rotate a new plane into the case. Lynch had been out to his house a couple of times, holiday things Starshak’s wife would put on for the squad. Whole basement was walled with display cases holding Starshak’s planes.

Lynch was pretty sure the plane in the case was new.

“New plane, boss?”

Starshak looked up. “Yeah. German. FW200 Condor. Scourge of the Atlantic. Long range recon mostly. Tracked conveys and called in the Wolf Packs.”

Lynch nodded.

“So how’d it go with the SWAT guy? He any help?”

“You’re gonna love this. He says the guy took the shot from the old Olfson factory. Fourth floor, east end. Told crime scene, they got the mobile lab down there, they’re checking it out. Looks right, though.”

“That’s like what, halfway to the Loop?”

“Half a mile, give or take.”

“This just gets better and better.”

“Gave me some good stuff, though. Kind of a profile. Been lots of traffic in the old Olfson place, too – lot of garbage, lot of tagging. Based on the graffiti, looks like some offshoot of the Vice Lords hangs out in there. Gave the gang crimes guys a call, see if they can get me any names. Be somebody to talk to anyway. Took a better look around old lady Marslovak’s house, too. Found this.” Lynch handed Starshak the Wrigley shot.

“So Marslovak’s old man had some clout?”

“Talked to my uncle about it. He says Hurley the First owed the guy for something and tried to square it by wiring him in, but it didn’t take. Something about the whole thing seems off. Also, Rusty had some conclave going on out there – Eddie Marslovak, Burke from the mayor’s office, that new finance guy, Lazzara, Pretty Boy Fell, couple of DNC guys. And Marslovak’s got Pete Lewis riding shotgun for him now.”

“So where do you want to go with this? I mean, you start rattling those cages, we both better get our Kevlar shorts on cause somebody’s gonna try to rip our nuts off.”

“I know. Don’t even know if there’s anything there. But what am I supposed to do, not look?”

“Nobody’s saying don’t look. Just look careful.”

Lynch nodded. “Slo-mo around?”

Shlomo Bernstein was a new detective in the district. Came from a rich family on the North Shore, decided he wanted to be a cop when he was six. Parents humored him. When he wanted to go to the academy out of college –
summa cum laude
from Princeton – his dad made him a deal. Do graduate school. Keep your options open. If you still want to be a cop, fine. So Shlomo took second in the MBA class at the U of C in about ten months and went straight to the academy. Made detective in record time. Probably be commissioner in another six, seven weeks.

Starshak called out into the room. “Slo-mo, my office.”

Bernstein was about five-six, needed his boots and winter coat to go to one hundred and fifty. Good looking guy, though. Very sharp dresser, like some junior-sized male model.

Bernstein walked in the office and looked at the plane in the case.

“Condor, right? Focke-Wulf 200?”

Starshak smiled. “Yeah. Just finished it.”

“You went with the Arctic markings. What, the Murmansk run?”

Starshak laughed. “Bernstein, why don’t you get your ass on
Jeopardy
, make a couple million? Say, what’s on your plate right now? You got time to help Lynch with this Marslovak thing?”

Bernstein’s eyes lit up like a fourteen year-old finding his dad’s
Playboy
stash. “Hell, yes. What do you need?”

“Couple of things,” Lynch said. “First, looks like our guy took the shot from better than seven hundred yards. Can’t be too many guys around can put a hole through somebody’s heart from that distance. Get me some background, see what you can find.”

“Like Wimbledon Cup winners, that sort of thing?”

“This ain’t tennis,” said Starshak.

“Wimbledon Cup is the national thousand-yard shooting championship,” said Bernstein.

“Jesus, Slo-mo,” said Lynch. “You got a long gun at home? I gotta put you in the mix for this?”

Slo-mo shrugged. “Just read it somewhere.”

Lynch shook his head. “OK, the other thing. Unlimber that underpaid MBA brain of yours. Take a look at MarCorp, last few years. See if something jumps out at you, somebody that might want to come back at Eddie Marslovak. Somebody that would know where to find this kind of talent.”

“OK. Am I gonna get in the field on this at all, or are you gonna keep my ass parked behind the computer all day?”

“Who knows, Slo-mo. Find me something nice, and I might take you out for ice cream later.”

“Yeah, yeah. Gonna get calluses on my ass. Could have done that at Merrill Lynch for another couple hundred grand a year. All right. I’ll see what I can get. Then I’ll go home, dust my gun.”

“Tell you what, Slo-mo. You get me something nice, and, after ice cream, how about we go roust some bad-ass homies, tune em up a little, maybe cap some nines on their asses?”

Slo-mo smiled. “Double dip, Lynch, with sprinkles. Then we go roust some goyim.”

 

Back at his desk, Lynch found a stack of messages. Mess of reporters. Two messages from crime scene, one from McCord, all three marked urgent. He called McCord’s cell.

“What do you got?” Lynch asked.