The Shoulders of Giants (21 page)

“Shame. I was kind of hoping he’d stopped.” I said.

“Other possibility is that he’s been picked up for something else, like indecent exposure or something, and is currently in a lock up somewhere trying to make bail.”

“So it could be worth running the print again in case he’s been processed since you last checked?”

“Could be. Hey, you ran off yesterday before I got a chance to ask. Why did you want to know which victims had alcohol in their systems? Is there a connection?”

“Not necessarily. It’s just that Richard West’s boss at Leitz...”

“Connors?” Scott interrupted.

“Yes, Connors. When I spoke to him, he said West was teetotal and that he left the bar at five, heading home. I talked to the bartender at Circle and he said West was drinking vodka and orange with a blonde until they closed.”

“Little lie, big lie. What’s Connors covering up? Maybe we should go talk to him again.”

“One more thing”, I said. “Susan Peterson was abducted on the Friday night and the car containing her body didn’t show up until Monday. Any theories where she was kept all that time? Or why?”

“Odin says the insulin probably wouldn’t have killed her straight away, but sent her into a coma instead. Without treatment she might last a day or so, then die. It’s why he says she was injected Friday night but didn’t die till Sunday morning. Maybe the killer didn’t dump her straight away because he was worried she might be revived and be able to testify.”

“So he kept her somewhere, alive, for a day, and then kept her body for another day, maybe in a stolen car, before dumping it? Sounds too risky for this guy.”

“Maybe he has a place nobody goes. Maybe he just left the car in his garage and hoped for the best.. When I catch him I’ll be sure to add it to my list of questions. Do you feel like going to the Corner Pocket again tonight? Our last attempt at a relaxing evening was kind of cut short.”

“I can’t.” I hesitated. “I have a date.”

“Yeah?” He sounded pleased for me. It didn’t last. “Wait, no. With Abby Dexter?”

“Yup.”

“The lesbian?”

“The extremely attractive attorney, who happens to like me.”

“Where are you taking her?”

“Spiaggia.”

“Nice. Expensive. Unethical.”

“Scott, she’s not involved in the case.” I said, ignoring for the moment my worries about the newspaper article. Scott didn’t need to know a little thing like that.

“And, of course, you’re speaking totally objectively about this.”

“I know what I’m talking about.” I said, defiantly.

“Sure you do,” said Scott. “Sure you do.”

Chapter 32

I pulled into Abby’s road at a quarter after seven and sat in the car across the street from her house. I had had trouble deciding what to do with my guns. The jacket I was wearing hung very well, and the cut would have been ruined had I worn my shoulder holster, so I had to make a choice between safety and style. At around half past six I’d considered buying an ankle holster on the way, but neither a Glock 17 nor a S&W 500 would fit in an ankle holster, so it would have meant buying a whole other gun, and I didn’t have time for that. In the end I just went with my Sundance A25 in its concealment holster on my right hip.

I had the Glock in the glove box of my car. Not strictly legal, but I wanted to feel it was available if I needed it. The next decision was to have the top up or down on the Saab. It was a warm night for late September in Chicago, and the sky was almost clear, so I left it down.

After one last look in the mirror, I got out of the car and crossed the street. I felt like a teenager. My legs were unsteady and I was glad when I made it across the street and up the small stoop. I knocked the brass door knocker onto its plate. Almost immediately, the door opened and Abby was standing before me.

“Wow,” I said. “I mean ‘Hi’”

She was wearing a stunning little black dress, with spaghetti thin shoulder straps. It stopped just above her knees, and looked tailor made. The material seemed to flow and shimmer like liquid.

“That’s okay, ‘Wow’ was good too.” she said, smiling. I liked the way it felt when she smiled.

She came out onto the stoop and closed the door behind her. She didn’t have a jacket. She might be cold later. Never mind, I could lend her mine. There’s something nice about a woman wearing a man’s jacket. It says the man cares more about her comfort than his, and it says that the woman trusts him to see she is protected from the elements. She could have brought a jacket, but she knows I will make sure she is alright, I thought. I thought all of this before we reached the car. I opened the passenger side door for her, and she slid elegantly in.

“Where are we going?” she asked, when I sat next to her and started the engine.

I wanted to say ‘It’s a surprise,’ but I was excited, and for some reason it came out as ‘Spiaggia.’ She said nothing, but her smile broadened, her dimples deepened, and I relaxed and began to enjoy myself. As we drove I couldn’t help myself looking over at her, stealing glances when I could. She caught me a couple of times.

“Your eye looks better,” she said, as we crossed the south branch of the Chicago River.

“Sorry?”

“Your eye. It was swollen before. It looks almost healed now.” She was right. The cavalcade of colors had stopped, and you could barely tell I’d been wounded now. “What did you do to it?”

“Actually, someone else did it.”

“Were you fighting for truth and justice?”

I nodded. “And the American Way.” I added.

As we drove north up Michigan Avenue, alongside Grant Park, I breathed in deeply. I was struck by a wonderful concoction of smells - the clean air coming off Lake Michigan, the smell of Downtown Chicago, and Abby’s delicate perfume. It was an olfactory Kodak moment.

Our table was ready as soon as we walked in. We sat in a high backed booth on the lower level, away from the huge bank of windows, but still with a fantastic view of the lake and Oak Street Beach. On the upper level the pianist played softly on his baby grand while we marveled at the menus.

Despite the formal surroundings, Abby seemed relaxed and completely at home.

“So, what really happened to your eye?” she asked.

“I was warned off a case I wasn’t even working on.”

“How did that happen?”

“Just unlucky, I guess.” I said, and left it at that. I didn’t tell her I’d probably taken down a hefty section of the Irish Mob last night. I didn’t want to brag.

The waiter appeared, and we ordered the chef’s tasting menu, an eight course selection of traditional Italian dishes with a modern twist. Abby chose the wine, and we started with buffalo mozzarella ‘in two ways’ - with porcini mushrooms and with marinated San Marzano tomatoes. It was amazing.

“How did you get into it?” Abby asked.

“Get into what?”

“P.I. work.”

It was something I’d always wanted to do,” I answered, “the only thing, really. Well, when I was young I wanted to be a stuntman, but then I found out you have to be fit, and jump off tall buildings. I’m not keen on heights.”

“So what made you want to be a private detective? Did you think about joining the police?”

“My uncle was on the job, but I think he had less influence on me than James Garner.”

“James Garner?”

“Yeah, Jim Rockford. I grew up watching
The Rockford Files, Magnum P.I., Vega$
. Bogart films like
The Maltese Falcon
, and
The Big Sleep
, led me to books by Hammett and Chandler. Most of my formative years were spent in front of the TV or with my head in a book. I was realistic about it, though. I didn’t think my life was going to be like some hard-boiled airport detective novel, but I was always good at solving problems, thinking laterally and logically, and it seemed like something I would enjoy.”

“And are you?” she said.

“Enjoying it?”

“Yes.”

I smiled. “Very much.” I said.

The waiter brought the next course, and for a short while, I just sat and watched Abby eat. She stabbed a cheese filled gnocchi, which may well be the best thing I have ever tasted, and added a little pesto to her fork. Her every movement was graceful and economical, always smooth, and never unnecessary. She took a sip of her wine, met my eyes, and smiled. The fabulous aroma from my plate was filling my senses as I looked over at her. I was enjoying myself. Very much.

“How about you?” I said.

“How about me what?”

“What brought you to law?”

“I always wanted to be Veronica Hamel from
Hill Street Blues
.”

I wasn’t sure if she was being serious or not, but she couldn’t keep a straight face for long, and then I knew. I am, after all, a trained detective.

“You’re teasing me.” I said, laughing with her.

“Sorry. The real reason is that my father was an attorney. A very successful one.”

“And you admired him?”

“I spent most of my life trying to do something that would please him. No matter how hard I worked at school, it was never enough. I played sports, but he never came to see me play. He was always too busy. I guess I thought he would finally be proud of me if I became an attorney.”

“Did it work? Is he proud of you?”

“He had a heart attack the Christmas before I passed the bar exam. Died on Christmas morning. He never got to see me in court.”

“I’m sorry.” I said.

“Don’t be. I like my life, I’m good at what I do, and I enjoy it.”

I nodded approvingly.

“He would have been proud of you, you know.” I said, taking a mouthful of risotto.

“Yes,” she agreed, “he would.”

We worked our way through the remaining courses gradually, talking about everything from religion to our favorite movies. Wood roasted beef with lentils and cotechino sausage gave way to an incredible trio of cheeses with white figs and hazelnuts. Dessert was a beautifully light lemon marmelatta layered with crisp pastry and vanilla cream.

“So, how’s your first case going?” Abby asked.

“Lousy. I’m running out of people to talk to.”

“Are the police getting anywhere? The media hype seems to have died down a little.”

Scott’s voice was back in my head, making me paranoid. ‘What’s with all the questions? Are these questions anyone might ask, or is she fishing for information? Ask her about Grant Foster. How can you be sure otherwise?’

“I think that’s because there have been no murders since Thursday night. What the cops do have is enough forensic evidence to convict, when we do catch him.”

“Or her.”

“What?” I asked, not sure if I’d heard correctly.

“There’s nothing to say it can’t be a woman.”

“A female serial killer? I don’t think so.”

“What about Aileen Wuornos?” she said, and sat back in the booth, as if she’d won.

“Aileen Wuornos was an isolated case. America’s first and only female serial killer. Besides, she killed a specific type of person. Men who went to hookers.”

“Well, that’s because she was a hooker. Men who went to hookers were the people she came into contact with.”

“She killed seven men over a number of years, using the same weapon each time. This case is so far removed from that one.”

“Surely the one thing Wuornos taught the police was not to rule anything out. Just when you think you have a formula for crime, someone comes along who doesn’t conform.”

“Point taken.” I conceded. “The thing is, a couple of the victims were sexually assaulted.”

“Any semen found?” She spoke quite loudly. I think one of the couples sitting across from us at the window turned to look.

“Yes, actually.”

“Still doesn’t rule it out. That could have been planted.”

“It’s a bit of a stretch.”

“But it’s possible.”

I gave up and smiled. “You’re good at your job, aren’t you?” I said.

“Damn good.”

At the end of the meal, Abby ordered coffee. I didn’t.

“I don’t drink coffee.” I explained.

“You did the other day in my office,” she smiled.

I think I blushed. “You noticed that, huh?”

“I notice everything. Like now, for instance. There’s something you want to say to me, but you’re holding back. What is it?”

Wow. She was good.

“Okay. I wasn’t going to bring it up, but since you ask… It turns out you did some work for one of the victims a while ago and I was wondering if you could remember anything about him.”

“I did? Who?”

“Grant Foster.”

“The name doesn’t sound familiar. When are we talking about?”

“1997. It was a DUI case.”

She shook her head and smiled.

“Jake, I worked over 400 cases a month when I was a P.D. You’re going to have to give me something else to go on.”

“He was a model for Levi Jeans, and you got him off. He was one of the first people prosecuted after the state limit went down to .08. His was .09.”

“I remember,” she said. “He actually had an attorney, but he fired her in court. I think he was hoping to get a continuance, but the judge, Judge Van Allen I think, appointed me to represent him and gave me an hour to get up to speed.”

“And you got an acquittal?”

“They had a shaky case. The portable Breathalyzer test, which is inadmissible in court, showed impairment, but there was a delay before he got re-tested at the police station – there’d been a major incident that night as I recall – and he was given a sandwich before they tested his breath again.”

“A Budweiser sandwich?”

“Peanut butter and jelly I think,” she said, smiling. “The point is, the Breathalyzer test is non-specific for ethanol. Some people show an elevated reading after eating white bread. I simply introduced the evidence and the judge ruled.”

“You remember this much about all the 400 cases a month you argued?”

“I’m not great with names, but I remember legal details. It’s the training. Plus, it was a big win for me. I was fairly new at the time and most P.D.s just pled out their DUIs because there was this culture of believing they were usually unwinnable. Still is to some extent.”