White Collar Girl (8 page)

As I was about to close the file, something did jump out at me. Just a minor mention, not more than three column inches long. It stated that Ahern had wanted to run for the state senate but that Daley had backed another candidate, Paul Douglas. That right there could have been enough, but it seemed thin. I got the feeling there was something else about Ahern that I wasn't finding here. And I was still questioning why he had come to me of all people.

A million ethical questions raced through my head, everything I'd learned at Medill about fairness, anonymity, confirming a source's motivation. I closed the folder and leaned back in my chair, making the joints squeak. I knew I was right to question Ahern's motives, but I also had to recognize an opportunity when it was standing right in front of me.

I packed up all the clips and carried them home with me, along with the day's papers tucked under my arm. Yes, I was desperate to get off society news, but was this the way to do it? I felt like Faust about to make a pact with the devil.

•   •   •

A
fter a night of fitful sleep, I awoke just as conflicted as I'd been the day before. I stumbled to the bathroom, squinting to avoid the burst of light from the overhead fixture. My vision took a moment to adjust, and once I could see, I looked in the mirror and brought my hands to my face, my fingers pulling on the skin beneath my eye sockets. I looked like a basset hound. What happened to jumping out of bed before the alarm went off? Was I already beaten down? All I knew was that I was dreading the day ahead, filled with recipes for the Mary Meade column and a write-up about a Tony Curtis sighting for They Were There
.

I splashed water on my face, and as I reached for the towel, I caught ahold of myself. What was the matter with me? Those pieces were supposed to be a stepping-stone, not the be-all and end-all. I was Hank and CeeCee Walsh's daughter. Eliot Walsh's sister. I'd made a promise to my brother and to myself. What was I waiting for?

At that moment I knew what I had to do.

I hurried back to my room. Sitting on the side of the bed, I rolled on my stockings and fastened them to my garters before
slipping into the same dress I'd worn two days before. I hardly even bothered to do my hair, not that it mattered much since my cut was already growing out, losing its shape. With a slice of toast in hand, I said a quick good-bye to my parents and headed down to the paper.

As soon as I got into the city room, I telephoned Ahern. The back of my neck grew clammy as I dialed and held my breath waiting for him to come on the line.

“Let's talk,” I said. “I'm ready.”

We met two hours later at an out-of-the-way diner west of the Loop. He was waiting for me at a booth way in the back. The place was quiet. We were there between the breakfast and lunch crowds.

“Tell me one thing,” I said right off the bat. “How did you feel about Daley backing Paul Douglas for state senate instead of you?”

He smiled and began absentmindedly stacking sugar cubes on the table, one on top of the other. It was as if he were building an igloo, or maybe a skyscraper. “I see you did your homework. Not many people remember that I wanted to run for office.”

“Well?” I waited while he carefully set another sugar cube in place.

“Let's just say I wasn't happy about it. But I'm a loyal servant of the city. I only want what's best for Chicago.”

I tried not to roll my eyes.

“Anything else you need to know?”

“I'm still wondering why you came to me. I know you have your reasons. I just don't know what they are.”

“Maybe I didn't want someone as jaded as a Walter Harris or a Marty Sinclair.”

“Maybe so.” I didn't believe a word of that and pursed my lips to keep from saying more. No point in pressing for an answer he clearly wasn't ready to give. “All right then, let's cut to the chase—what have you got for me?”

He rubbed the excess sugar granules off his fingertips and pulled a document from his breast pocket, creased in a trifold. “Why don't you take a look at this and tell me what you see?”

I unfolded the document and began to read. “City council meeting agenda?” I glanced up at him. “This is public record. There's no scoop here.”

“Keep going.”

My eyes scanned down the list of proposed ordinances and new appointments all put forth by Alderman Frank O'Connor, the city council chairman. Nothing stood out to me. I looked up again and shrugged.

“Stop when you get to the fourth item under Miscellaneous Number 25
.
”

I read silently to myself:
Miscellaneous Item Number 25 (4). Orders authorizing the payment of hospitalization and medical expenses of police officers injured in the line of duty
. “So? They risk their lives every day. The city should pay for their medical needs.”

“I wholeheartedly agree.”

I looked at him. I didn't get it. “Am I missing something here?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, you are.” He reached into his other pocket and produced an envelope. “Here's a report with a list of the officers' names, their injuries, their doctors and the amount of their claims.”

I opened the report and glanced at the list of about seventy-five names, neatly typed in uniform columns.

“Now, I don't know about you,” said Ahern, “but I think there's something mighty suspicious about all this.”

I looked at the list again. The first thing that struck me was that several of the officers were from one district. “Looks like a lot of the injuries happened in the 35th District.”

“You're getting warmer.”

The second thing I noticed were the staggering dollar amounts—$825, $900, $1,150, $2,165—all being paid to one doctor: Dr. Stuart Zucker. My pulse began racing because I knew. I knew I was onto something. They don't teach you this in journalism school. It can't be taught, but there's a feeling you get in your gut—pure instinct. “This is major insurance fraud we're talking about, isn't it?”

“You didn't hear me say that, did you?” Ahern gave me a thin, rigid smile. “Oh, and Miss Walsh, I'm not trying to tell you how to do your job, but you may want to take down some of that information, because I'm not about to leave that list with you.”

Heat crawled up my neck and cheeks as I reached inside my bag and pulled out a pad of paper and a pen, scratching down names and dollar amounts as quickly as I could.

“I'm sure you know what to do from here,” he said.

I continued to write, and when I set my pen down, he plucked the list from my hand and folded it up, tucking it back in his pocket as if it had never existed.

“Trust me, Walsh. This is a house divided.” He picked up his knife and sliced it through the igloo, sending the sugar cubes crashing down.

I reached for a cigarette, struck a match and watched it burn between my fingers.

“You think you can do something with this, Walsh?”

I gave him a nod and lit my cigarette, the flame still flickering in my grip.

•   •   •

T
he first thing I did after I left Ahern was talk to Mr. Ellsworth. I found him at the horseshoe, slashing someone's copy with his red pen. “Yes?” he said, striking out an entire paragraph. He didn't bother to look up.

“I just spoke to someone about a possible insurance-fraud case,” I said. “It involves the Chicago City Council and the police department.”

“Where are you getting this from?”

“I have a contact. A source inside City Hall.”

He looked at me as if this were all so amusing. “Okay, fine. Let Peter, or better yet, let Walter know—give him the information on your source. We'll have him follow up on it.”

There was no way I was just going to hand over this lead to Walter. Or Peter. So I kept my mouth shut, and the next morning I paid a visit to the District 35 Police Station on Superior Street. I wanted to see if Commander Graves could explain why so many of his officers had been injured. It was midmorning and the station was quiet. I was one of three people there; the other two were seated on folding chairs before a table covered with newspapers and magazines. I smelled burnt coffee coming from a little pot on a hot plate off to the side.

While I waited to speak with Commander Graves, I smoked a cigarette and studied the beat map pinned to the bulletin board. District 35 was sandwiched in between Lake Michigan and the Chicago River and encompassed the Gold Coast and a section of downtown called Streeterville—not exactly the roughest neighborhoods in the city. They had a sign that read
35TH
D
ISTRICT
M
OST
W
ANT
ED
on their bulletin board. There were two photographs: one of an elderly man wanted for indecent exposure and one of a teenage boy wanted for a purse snatching outside Bonwit Teller on Michigan Avenue.

It was nearly an hour before Commander Graves emerged from the long hallway and was willing to talk to me. His office was at the end, cramped and windowless. He kept his cap parked on the edge of his desk next to an ashtray that needed emptying. A portrait of Mayor Daley was mounted on the wall behind him.

“So I understand you're with the
Chicago Tribune
. What happened to Peter? He's the one who always calls on me.”

His reaction didn't surprise me. Peter was a crime reporter. I was a nobody. And a woman. “Peter isn't working on this story. I am,” I said with as much authority as I could muster. “I wanted to ask you a few questions about the number of officers in your district that have been injured on the job.”

“What is it you'd like to know?” He leaned forward on his desk and laced his meaty fingers together.

“There appears to be a disproportionate number of injuries from District 35 as opposed to the other districts—even districts with a higher crime rate—and I—”

“I don't know what you mean by
disproportionate
.” He cut me off. “My officers put their lives on the line every day. There's bound to be injuries.”

“Yes, I agree. But I'm wondering if you could verify that the following officers have been injured?” He didn't object, so I showed him the names that I had jotted down during my meeting with Ahern.

He looked at the list, twisted up his mouth and slid the paper back across the desk toward me. “Yes, I recall they were all injured.” His face relaxed, went expressionless. He cleared his throat and pushed himself back in his chair. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to work.”

I walked away that morning with nothing and returned to the paper with more questions than answers. While Mrs. Angelo and Mr. Pearson were in a meeting, I went to the morgue and pulled anything I could find on robberies, shoot-outs, anything in the District 35 neighborhoods that mentioned those police officers. And when I was done with that, I called Dr. Zucker's office.

“I'm afraid Dr. Zucker's in with a patient at the moment.” When I said I was with the
Tribune
, his nurse sighed into the
telephone and covered the receiver, muttering to someone in the background. “I'll have him call you back when he's free.”

I gave her my number, and rather than waiting on a call that I knew probably wouldn't be returned, I focused on the files I'd pulled from the morgue. They were filled with articles about vehicle thefts, aggravated assaults, armed robberies and larceny, but there were no reported injuries involving any of the officers on Ahern's list. There was, however, one document that was particularly helpful: the Chicago Municipal Code

According to sections 3-8-190 and 3-8-200 of the document, the city council finance committee, chaired by Sean McCarty, was in charge of appropriating moneys for treatment, rehabilitation, even the hospitalization of officers injured while on duty. Furthermore, it was up to Sean McCarty to provide a report on the costs of this care and the specifics of each officer's condition. I realized that was the document that Ahern had shown me. The municipal code also stated that before any moneys could be released, the Chicago Police Department's chief physician, Dr. Edgar MacAleese, had to verify McCarty's reports and confirm that the medical treatments and costs were appropriate given their doctors' diagnoses.

It was complicated. There were a lot of parties involved, but at least I now understood who the main players were and how the city handled reimbursements for medical treatment when they were footing the bill.

I was blurry-eyed from reading through everything. I needed a break, but I also had to finish up a piece I was doing for White Collar Girl on Gloria Harper, the secretary to the president of Morton Salt. I had eight column inches devoted to Miss Harper answering Sterling Morton Jr.'s phone, making his lunch and dinner reservations, reminding him of important anniversaries and
birthdays. I'd met her only once, during our interview, but I felt sorry for her.

Mrs. Angelo was still in her meeting when I finished my story, so I went back to the police reports and the city council municipal code. I stared at the pages, hoping something new would leap out at me. It didn't.

That night I hardly slept. It was like I had a bee buzzing inside my brain. It circled over and over again, coming back to the same spot. Something wasn't right. Ahern knew it and he was making a believer out of me, too. But first I had to figure out what it was and then I'd have to prove it.

•   •   •

T
he next morning I telephoned Zucker's office again, and when the doctor still wouldn't take my call, I went down to his office in the Pittsfield Building at 55 E. Washington Street.

The thirty-eight-story building was ornate, a combination of gothic and art deco with a gold-coffered ceiling and giant spangling chandeliers. It looked more like a dance hall than an office building. I was in a daze as I checked the building directory, anticipating what I was going to say to Dr. Zucker. I knew better now than to tell him I was from the
Tribune
. That approach had gotten me nowhere. I was running all this through my head when one of the cleaning women in a blue uniform started mopping the floor near me, swishing the thick gray strings over the marble. “You mind stepping aside?” She shook her head as I moved toward the elevators, clearly annoyed with me as she went back to her mopping.

I rode up to the seventeenth floor and entered a modest-looking office with a few plants here and there and various diplomas on the wall. A plastic runner stretched from the doorway to the waiting room comprised of three upholstered chairs. Dr. Zucker's receptionist was an older woman, in her mid-forties, early
fifties. She had brown teased-up hair and a big, toothy smile. The nameplate on her desk read M
RS.
C
ARSON
. She was the woman I'd talked to over the phone the day before. She greeted me, and I felt a twinge of unease when I introduced myself as Gloria—the first name that popped into my head. I was no saint. I'd told my share of little white lies and not so little lies, but this was the first time I could recall ever looking into someone's eyes and blatantly deceiving them.

“And how can I help you, Gloria?” Her smile seemed so genuine. It made this moment all the more difficult for me.

“I have an appointment with the doctor,” I said.

“Well, let's see now . . .” Mrs. Carson consulted the scheduling book, her lacquered nail tracing the columns. “Gloria, what's your last name?”

“Smith.” Again I went with the first name that popped into my head.

“Well, let's see now.” Mrs. Carson furrowed her brow. “I'm not seeing you in the book here. Are you sure your appointment is for today? With Dr. Zucker?”

The telephone rang, and I waited while she took the call, looking all around the office, thinking how I was going to play this.

“Yes . . . Uh-huh . . .” Mrs. Carson jotted something down on a pad of paper. “Let me just check our files for you. Would you mind if I put you on hold?” She pushed a button on the phone and turned back to me. “I'm sorry, Miss Smith. This will just be another minute.”

“Take your time. I'll wait.”

While thinking of a way to get some information out of her, I watched Mrs. Carson turn to the wooden file cabinet behind her desk. Five drawers, the top one packed with manila folders, presumably filled with patient information. It struck me that everything I needed was probably inside that cabinet. It was right
there, just three feet away, but I had no idea how I was going to get to it.

After she finished her call, she examined the scheduling book again and clucked her tongue. “Now, you're sure your appointment was for today? With Dr. Zucker? When did you set it up?”

“Oh, dear, maybe it's not with Dr. Zucker. . . .” I went into a scatterbrained act, looking frantically inside my handbag before I launched into a string of apologies. “I'm so sorry. I don't know how I could have been so confused. . . .”

I thanked Mrs. Carson for her time and went back to the city room, where I began working on my assignment for that day, a story about a kitten rescue. The only reason I'd gotten that story was because one of the Neighborhood News reporters was out sick and they needed someone to cover it. I should have been more grateful that they'd given it to me at all—even if out of desperation on their part—but I was too preoccupied with the insurance fraud. After I turned in the rescued-kitten story to the copy desk, I went down to City Hall to see the finance committee chair and the chairman of the city council. Sean McCarty was conveniently unavailable, but Frank O'Connor was willing to meet with me.

In addition to being the council chairman, Frank O'Connor was the 42nd Ward alderman, overseeing the Gold Coast, the Loop, Streeterville and River North. The first thing he did was ask why he was talking to me and not Walter. Just as I'd explained to Commander Graves yesterday, I told him I was covering this story. Not Walter.

He smiled, offered me coffee, tea, a glass of water, a dish of pralines. I thanked him and got to the point. “At a recent city council meeting you had an agenda item about medical reimbursement for policemen injured in the line of duty.”

“That's routine procedure. The sort of thing that goes through the council for approval.”

“And were all the medical expenses approved?”

“I assume they were.” He pressed the pads of his fingertips together before bouncing them off one another. “I couldn't say for certain. That sort of thing gets approved by the finance committee, so I'd have to go back and check.”

“And would it be Sean McCarty who approves payment?”

“Yes. That would fall under the finance chair's discretion. Of course, that's after he's reviewed each case.”

“And would that be after Dr. Edgar MacAleese reviews the report from the physician who treated the injured officer?”

“Well, I see you've already been looking into this.” He smiled and made a notation on his calendar that I sensed had nothing to do with our conversation.

“Were you aware that the majority of injuries filed came from District 35?”

“I'm sorry, Miss—Miss . . .”

“Walsh. Jordan Walsh.”

“I'm sorry, Miss Walsh, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to cut this short.”

“I just have a few more questions.”

“Oh, and I do wish I could stay and answer them.” He smiled again, even wider, with the teeth of a Doberman. “I have an appointment that I'm running late for, but I'd be happy to speak with you again. You just call my secretary. And tell Walter he owes me a drink.” He laughed as he held his office door open.

Moments later I found myself standing outside on the sidewalk wondering what just happened to me. I'd never been more abruptly or politely dismissed in all my life. I glanced at my watch. I still had some time before I needed to get back to the
paper, so from there I went down to police headquarters at 11th and State. The building had thirteen floors, an unlucky number. Danny Finn worked on the sixth floor.

“Well, well, well,” he said when he looked up from his desk. “To what do I owe this nice surprise?”

Ever since we'd met at the D'Arco wedding, I'd been keeping in touch with him. Every few weeks or so I'd drop by and grab a drink with him, see if he had some scoop for me. So far he hadn't offered me anything other than invitations for dinner.

That afternoon we went down the street to a bar on Plymouth Court. Danny smoothed his hands down the front of his uniform and placed his hat on the edge of the table. I reached for it and put it on my head.

“How do I look? Think I could cut it as a police officer?”

He smiled. “You'd definitely be the best-looking one on the force.”

I smiled back and removed his hat, setting it back on the edge of the table. I took a sip from my drink and I told him what I was up to.

“And here I thought you came to see me because you missed me.”

“Oh, but it goes without saying that I missed you,” I said teasingly. “But c'mon, tell me if you know
anything
about this.”

“Wish I could help you.” He picked at his beer label. “One of these days I'm bound to have something for you. Something big.” He winked and took a pull from his beer.

Over the next few days I met with one of McCarty's aides and with Dr. MacAleese. The aide was polite but guarded and shed no new light on the documents produced by the finance committee, and all Dr. MacAleese did was confirm that McCarty's reports were accurate.

I tried to focus on my regular assignments from Mrs. Angelo, but each time I took a break, my mind went back to the
insurance fraud, going over and over the facts. It was like a tangled chain I was trying to work through.

One morning at breakfast I asked my father for advice. “What did you used to do when you were investigating something and you hit a dead end?” I immediately regretted my choice of words, but he didn't seem to notice.

Without looking up from his newspaper, he said, “Depends on the story.” He reached for a slice of toast, his eyes still on his paper.

“I'm looking into a possible fraud case.”

“Uh-huh.” For the first time he set the paper aside.

I sat up straighter, wide open and eager to receive his wisdom.

“CeeCee,” he said, “where's the jam? There's no jam on the table.” He reached for his paper again and began reading. “Another burglary on the North Side . . .”

I couldn't hide my disappointment. Yes, I had sincerely wanted his help. But I had also hoped he'd be interested in what I was working on. Once again I was on my own to figure this out.

My gut told me I needed to back up and try a different angle. So when I arrived at the city room, I reviewed the list of names I'd copied down from Ahern and took a chance. Starting with the first name, I went through the telephone book and called the officers' homes. Aside from a housekeeper who didn't speak English, a party line and a couple busy signals, all I got were brush-offs, a few hang-ups. It was clear to me that no one was interested in talking to a reporter. Going legit wasn't working, so I called upon the help of my new alias, Gloria Smith. It was awkward and I fumbled on the first few calls, so aware that my coworkers, who probably weren't paying any attention, could hear my every word.

Eventually I got an Officer Geck on the line.

“This is Gloria Smith from Illinois Mutual Insurance?” I paused, holding my breath.

“Yes.”

“I just wanted to review your claim from your recent visit to Dr. Zucker.”

“Dr. Zucker?” He paused for such a long time I almost thought he'd hung up. “I don't know any Dr. Zucker.”

A ping of light shot through my head and I nearly gasped. “Is this Officer Ralph Geck?”

“Yes, that's me. Who did you say you're with?”

Shit! Who was I with?
I consulted my notepad. “Illinois Mutual Insurance.”

“Yeah, well, I don't know any Dr. Zucker.”

I'd been nervously doodling on my notepad, and now I wrote out
Geck doesn't know Zucker.
I underlined it three times and put a question mark. He could have been lying. “So you didn't have an appointment with Dr. Zucker last October?”

“Not me. You must have the wrong person.”

I kept my hand on the receiver after we'd hung up. My fingers were shaking. My entire body was pulsating. I was sure that everyone could see it. It was like I had an electrical current running through my veins. Now I knew beyond a doubt that I was really onto something.

I made a few more calls posing as Gloria from Illinois Mutual Insurance, expecting to find another Officer Geck. But I was back to hang-ups, wrong numbers and brick walls. I dialed the next number, and just as I was about to hang up, a woman answered.

“Messner residence.”

“Is this Mrs. Messner?”

“Yes. Who's calling?”

“Gloria. Gloria Smith.” I was amazed at how much easier it was to say that now. “May I speak with Officer Messner?”

“He's not home right now. . . .” There were children screeching in the background, and she seemed distracted.

“I'm calling from Illinois Mutual Insurance and
—
”

“The insurance company?” She hushed the children and cleared her throat. “Is there something
I
can help you with?”

I gave her the same preamble I'd used with everyone else Gloria had spoken to and followed it up with, “I understand your husband, Officer Messner, is a patient of Dr. Zucker's.”

“Well, he was. But he hasn't seen Dr. Zucker in at least a good year or so.”

“And was that for his ruptured disc?”

“Ruptured disc? No, no. He had an upper respiratory infection. You remember when that bad flu was going around? He was in bed for more than a week. . . .”

I'd been doodling on my notepad again and pressed so hard, the lead tip on my pencil broke off. A rush of heat shot through my body. “Was your husband ever injured in the line of duty?” I asked.

“Thank heavens, no. But don't think I don't say a prayer each time he walks out that door.”

The air was trapped in my chest. “Mrs. Messner, has your husband ever been treated for a ruptured disc?” I cradled the phone between my ear and shoulder, reaching for another pencil and writing so fast I nearly tore the paper in half.

“No, like I said, it was just that upper respiratory infection. Turned out to be bronchitis.”

“And was Dr. Zucker his regular physician?”

“No, no. Dr. Louie is our family doctor. But my husband didn't want him to come to the house and I couldn't get him to go see Dr. Louie. My husband hates going to the doctor, but he was so sick—like I said, he was in bed for more than a week—they finally made him go. They were the ones who sent him to Dr. Zucker.”

They? Who's they?
Another flash of heat coursed through my body. “Do you remember who referred your husband to Dr. Zucker?”

“I believe it was his boss down at the station.”

“Commander . . .”

“That's it. Yes, it was Commander Graves.”

I continued to shake long after I hung up the phone. I felt like I'd guzzled a gallon of coffee. Everything inside me was alert, wide-awake, buzzing. I looked over my notes again and knew I couldn't work the rest of this from my desk. I had to get closer, as close as I could to the heart of this story.