The Chicago Way (24 page)

“You interest me, Elaine.”

She laughed and laid one hand across her cheek. The move looked flat and phony. I couldn’t tell if she was nervous or just high.

“I’m flattered.”

“What are you doing out here?” I said.

“What does anyone do in this part of town at four in the morning?”

“You’re working?”

The phony look coalesced into one of pure sexuality.

“Some call it work, Mr. Kelly. I call it therapy.”

She rested her arms on the car door and leaned forward, her head tipping toward mine, her scent close behind. I kept my hands on the wheel and my eyes above sea level.

“Really?” I said.

“Really. Anyway, I do have a dark alley here and not a soul to share it with.”

Now I leaned forward and inhaled. She smelled sweet, almost ripe. I wasn’t sure if she lowered her eyelids, but I detected a trace of a smile, a hint of triumph as our lips touched. She slid her lower lip under mine just as I moved for the purse hanging loose in her hand. The fun was over. Probably a good thing.

“What the hell, Kelly.”

I had her bag open. A pack of cigarettes, lipstick, a few dollars, and no condoms.

“Working, huh? Bullshit.”

I dumped the contents onto my front seat. At the bottom was a gun, black and heavy. Probably the same gun Elaine had pointed my way the first time I met her.

“Give me that fucking purse.”

“Get in the car, Elaine.”

She tapped her toe against the pavement for the better part of ten seconds, then found her way to the passenger seat.

“Such a hard-ass, Kelly. Jesus.”

Elaine pushed her stuff back into the bag. Then she reached up, pulled down the visor, and began to play with her lipstick in the mirror.

“So you want to tell me what the hell you’re doing down here?”

“Take me for a drink, and I’ll tell you the whole, sad story.”

“No thanks.”

She sighed, shrugged, and moistened her lips with her tongue.

“What is there to say? I’m pushing thirty but I still look good. So I like to get dressed up and hang out down here. Do it once or twice a month.”

Elaine licked her lips one more time, flipped the visor back, and adjusted what I guessed was some sort of exploding bra.

“It’s an escape, role-play, turn-on. Call it whatever you want. But sometimes I do it. Not do it like a pro. I mean, I’m not a fucking hooker, if that’s what you’re asking.”

I kept my eyes on the road and let her talk.

“Really though, Kelly. What’s the big deal? Twenty-five dollars for a mouth, ten for a hand. Shit goes on in every single bar in the city. Buy me dinner or just give me the money up front. Same fucking difference.”

“Lot of difference.”

“You think so?”

“Down here the mouth might belong to a thirteen-year-old, and the date might be looking to rip your throat out,” I said. “But you know all about that. Is that what you’re trying to do? You want to get back there?”

I didn’t expect a response and didn’t get any. Instead she propped her feet up on my dashboard and sulked, but only for a bit.

“You’re cute when you get mad, Kelly.”

I ignored her.

“Have you found out who attacked me?”

“Working on it.”

I didn’t want to tell her about the DNA match between her shirt and the Grime file. Or about the possible connection to Pollard. Not yet anyway. I wasn’t sure why, but there it was.

“Is that what you were out on now?” she said. “My case?”

“Listen, Elaine. Your evidence file was destroyed a couple of years back. Whatever I find probably doesn’t matter. The DA would never touch it.”

“You just don’t get it, do you?”

“I don’t get hardly anything when it comes to you, Elaine. So why don’t you tell me about it.”

She looked out an empty window and into herself. I can’t say exactly what she saw. Loss. Regret. Unrealized anger. Maybe all three.

“At the end of the day,” she said, “nothing gets undone, does it? I mean whatever happened, happened. No district attorney, no court is gonna change that. So really, I just want to know. A name, a face. Someone, I guess, to hate. Is that so wrong? Most people probably think it’s pretty sick.”

I didn’t say anything, just let it go. She seemed good with that. After a while she lit up another cigarette, rolled down the window, and blew smoke out of it. I broke the silence and got back to business.

“You have any paperwork from the assault?”

“What sort of paperwork?”

“Hospital admissions form, police reports, anything.”

“Nothing. I woke up in the hospital.”

“Police never came to visit you?”

“Nobody.”

“Didn’t that seem strange to you?”

“I was half-alive when they released me. Just wanted to get home. Back to Sedan. Didn’t really care about the rest.”

“Not back then.”

“Nope. Just wanted to go home and hide.”

Elaine took a deep drag, flicked her butt out the window, and rolled it up.

“I guess your feelings changed,” I said.

“Apparently. Take a left here.”

I took the turn. Ten minutes later we pulled in front of a late-night bar on Diversey called the Bel-Air Lounge. Sixty years ago it was a hot spot, a place where Humphrey Bogart would go to get lost, get drunk, and get laid. Now it was a place where a man with a bad hair-weave played Billy Joel on the piano all night. Divorced men and women snuggled around, throwing money in the jar just like the song said, getting drunk late, thinking about all the things they never had and pretended they missed. Eventually the bar would close. The lights would go out and they would melt away, sometimes together for a coupling, quick and ugly, then, inevitably, each to his or her own.

“It’s not that bad,” Elaine said. “The guy will stay open as long as I want. Sound good?”

She was on again, a live current, jittery, dangerous, exciting.

“No thanks,” I said.

“What’s the matter, Kelly. You don’t like?”

She moved across the front seat, closer now, and tilted her head up at me.

“Or maybe you’re screwing the redhead?”

“You know you’re fucked.”

She laughed.

“You are screwing the redhead. Wow.”

She moved away again and picked up her purse.

“All right, Kelly. That’s interesting. Thanks for the talk. It really settled me. I’ll see you around.”

Elaine Remington got out of the car, walked across the empty divide of Diversey Avenue, and into the lounge. An old man at the bar gave her a leer you can only get away with at five a.m. in Chicago. She cozied right up and ordered a drink. The old-timer slid his stool a bit closer as I slid the car into drive and headed home, to my long lost and mercifully empty bed.

S o what did you find?”

It was Diane. It was just past ten in the morning. It was entirely too early to be talking about Daniel Pollard.

“He likes to go dumpster diving,” I said.

“Come again?”

“That’s what he did. Cruised a stroll in Cal City for a while, then hit the dumpsters. Pulled up a bunch of garbage and stuck it in the backseat of his car.”

Silence at the other end of the line. Understandable. Finally, she spoke.

“And then what?”

“Back to the stroll for a little more girl watching. In bed before sunrise.”

“Weird.”

“Yeah. Want to hear another weird thing? One of the women he was ogling turned out to be my client.”

“Client as in Elaine Remington?”

“I pulled her off a curb. Claims she likes to go down there every now and then. Plays dress-up.”

More silence. Longer this time. A lot longer.

“Is that what she told you?” Diane said.

“Yeah. I’m going to put a call in to Rachel Swenson today. See if I can set up some time with one of her counselors.”

“You think Elaine will go for that?”

“I think she’s dangerous. At least to herself.”

“Maybe finding the person who raped her will help.”

“Not sure that’s going to do it. But we can try.”

“What are you thinking?”

“Covert DNA,” I said.

“From Pollard?”

“I think it answers all our questions. I’m going to call Rodriguez today and set it up. You want the exclusive?”

“You know it.”

“Rodriguez will have to sign off. Swing by my office. Two o’clock this afternoon.”

I got off the phone and made the same arrangements with Rodriguez. Then I made a pot of coffee and pulled out Elaine’s street file. I got a piece of paper and began to make some notes. At my elbow was Reynolds’ working file on the Carol Gleason shooting. I read through it for about an hour, laid it beside the street file, and thought for a while. Then I picked up the phone and dialed.

“Masters.”

“It’s Kelly.”

A weary sigh.

“What do you want?”

“Nice to talk to you again, Detective. Listen, I need a favor.”

“Of course you do.”

“You remember the old file on Tony Salvucci?”

“The cop shooting? I’m sure it’s around.”

“I need to see a copy.”

“Told you I can’t do it.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re not a cop. Because I don’t know what you’re up to. Because there’s nothing in it for me. Pick a reason, Kelly.”

I felt the conversation about to end and switched tactics.

“How about this. I swing by there with some information. You run with it. If anything pans out, I step away. You take the credit.”

“And if I don’t like it?”

“You walk away. This conversation never happened.”

“What are we talking about?”

“Long shot, but potentially? A career changer.”

There was a pause. I could feel the veteran cop calculating the risk. He didn’t like it, but I knew he would bite. Too much upside not to.

“Be here in thirty minutes. Ask for me, and don’t talk to anyone else.”

“Sure.”

“See you then.”

Masters hung up. I looked through my notes on Gleason, placed a call to Phoenix, and talked to Detective Reynolds for about ten minutes. Then I put the phone down and picked up the photo of Grime’s prosecution team. I had circled a face in the back. The image was blurred with time, but still very much there. I dropped the picture back on my desk and headed out to see Masters.

T hat afternoon Diane arrived at my office first. We sat without saying much. Rodriguez showed up five minutes later. Diane’s presence wasn’t a surprise. Still, the detective wasn’t happy.

“Before we get started,” he said, “let’s talk about some ground rules. For the press part of this.”

I had not broached the subject with Diane. Figured Rodriguez would set the boundaries here. Diane apparently felt the same way.

“What are your concerns, Detective?” she said.

Rodriguez looked at me, then back at Diane.

“Before we begin, everything here is off the record. You all right with that?”

Diane nodded. Rodriguez walked off, looked out my window, and exhaled. Soft and sad. When he spoke, it was with his back turned to both of us.

“I loved Nicole. You know that?”

I wasn’t sure which one of us he was talking to but Diane answered.

“Yes, Detective. Actually, so did I.”

“Love being a detective, too,” Rodriguez said. “Only thing I ever wanted to do.”

He moved back into the room and sat down in a chair, head down, knees almost touching Diane’s.

“You think Daniel Pollard killed Nicole,” she said. “So do I. DNA, however, won’t make the case against him, will it?”

I sat down in the third chair and leaned into the conversation.

“If he matches on Elaine’s rape, then we got him as an accomplice on Grime,” I said. “And won’t that be a fucking zoo. We also more than likely get him on some current assaults. But probably not for Nicole. No DNA there.”

Diane kept her eyes focused on Rodriguez.

“And it won’t be a death case,” she said. “No matter what.”

Rodriguez shook his head from side to side. Just once.

“Probably not.”

“So if you find him,” Diane said, “you want to kill him.”

The detective looked up. Slowly, inevitably.

“If the DNA comes back a match to Pollard, I roll on the arrest. Alone. Whatever happens, happens.”

Diane reached out and touched his knee.

“Can you live with it?”

Rodriguez nodded.

“Fair enough,” she said. “If that’s how it happens, no one will ever be the wiser. At least not from me. Story is big enough as it is. He was killed resisting arrest. Now, how do you plan on getting his

T hink this guy knows he’s being followed?” Rodriguez said.

It was just past eight o’clock at night. We were in my car, cruising north on Western Avenue. Pollard had just left a Capt’n Nemo’s, where he’d consumed a roast beef sub, chips, and a diet iced tea. At the end of the meal he’d smoked a cigarette and watched the traffic move by. Then he’d picked up the used butt, his sandwich wrappings, and the empty iced-tea bottle. Had taken the whole thing back to his scratched-up green Pontiac and dumped it into the backseat.

“I think he’s cautious,” I said.

“He’s our guy.”

The detective was getting antsy. We had been tracking Pollard for four days. Each was pretty much the same. A ten-minute drive to work at a local car wash. Lunch at the McDonald’s. Once again, Pollard would pick up all his trash and head back to work. At night he would leave his house just after eight. Then it was a careful dinner, followed by a slow cruise down one of the city’s prostitution strolls. Pollard would stop and watch but never buy anything. I was waiting for another dumpster dive. If nothing else, it would break the routine.