Windy City Blues (19 page)

The Area B district station was a textbook description of bleak in an otherwise eccentric neighborhood of restored bungalows and rehabbed frame houses. I sat on a wood bench outside the detectives’ room and admired framed photos of the smiling mayor and glowering police chief. Against the wall were two vending machines: one for soda, another for yummy sandwiches wrapped in plastic. A bulletin board announced various K-9 and Mounted Units fund-raising events and encouraged participation in the Area B Memorial Ten-Kilometer Run. There was also a congratulatory letter from the assistant superintendent for Area B’s participation in the West Side Greek Parade.

Kalijero stuck his head out the door and motioned for me to enter. The room was filled with 1960s steel desks and a smattering of detectives talking on the phone or dealing with paperwork. I followed Kalijero to his desk, where he directed me to a metal folding chair.

“You want a career investigating murders, right?”

“Talk to me like I’m a grown-up, Jimmy.”

“I’m just saying, if this is what you want. You ever see a body after it’s been in water awhile?” Kalijero opened the center drawer and slid to me a photo of a woman’s bloated, wrinkled corpse.

“Awesome. Thanks for this.” I looked at it closely, as if an obvious clue could be found on the face of a gray-skinned cadaver. “You want to tell me who she is?”

“We think she’s Russian. Maybe a prostitute.”

Kalijero’s words caromed sharply off my chest. I could tell he was studying my reaction. “Anything else?” I said.

“That piece of metal with the king? Found in her pocket.”

Almost involuntarily, I took a lungful of air and let it out while remembering my first conversation with Tamar, when she told me about Jack’s Russian girlfriend, Lada Soboroff.

“She matched the description of a missing persons report. The scorpion tattoo on her left shoulder should clinch it. I’m meeting her sister, Marta Soboroff, at the morgue to identify the body.”

I flashed back three days to the lobby of my office and the woman with the exotic good looks speaking in a Slavic accent. King David IV was shouting the obvious conclusion. But what did Jack Gelashvili’s falling in love with a prostitute have to do with Jack Gelashvili’s murder? I kept Jack’s connection to myself but asked if I could join the identifica
tion.

“You can watch from a distance. I don’t want you talking to the sister until I’m through with her. Got it?”

A twenty-four percent obesity rate, heat waves, gang warfare, New Year’s die-offs. Those were just some of the factors contributing to a backlog of bodies that occasionally forced the Office of the Cook County Medical Examiner to double up on trays. Fortunately, late October was still the off season.

Kalijero’s decades of investigating murders gave me instant credibility as I moved through the building with only a “visitor” card clipped to a belt loop. Once inside the medical examiner’s office, we walked toward an autopsy table where a sheeted body lay. Kalijero ordered me to stay back about ten feet and keep quiet. A few minutes later, a doctor entered, along with a victim’s advocate and the sister I recognized as the woman I’d seen at my office. Our eyes met for a moment when she passed.

The doctor asked the sister if she was ready. The woman clutched her escort’s arm with one hand and held a handkerchief to her mouth with the other. I heard the zipping sound and then saw the woman’s legs buckle. Anticipating the reaction, the advocate quickly positioned herself to catch the sister under the arms and guide her to the floor where she sobbed for several minutes before being helped back to her feet and led to a grieving area.

Kalijero whispered something to the doctor and then motioned for me to follow him out of the room. Neither of us spoke until we had exited the building.

“Thirty-five years and it still gets to me.”

“What can they say about the death?”

“Signs of torture with fire or acid. No water in her lungs. They’re thinking her body was dumped in the river three or four weeks ago. The cool weather helped preserve her.”

“What can you tell me about the sister?”

“All I know is that her name is Marta Soboroff. That ornament thing with the king? Worth any money? I mean, why would she steal a worthless piece of metal from a client? Or is it some custom over there to give whores gifts?”

“When can I talk to the sister?”

“Go home, Landau. I need to spend some time with her first.”

Kalijero made a move back to the entrance. I said, “She better not disappear in some kind of witness protection bullshit.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“A dead Russian prostitute. Imagine all the possible roads where that could lead.”

Rubber weather-stripping on the bottom of the door pushed an envelope full of coupons across the floor. I breathed in the stuffy air, glanced fondly at the yellow legal pad on my desk, and sat down to see what had become of my murder investigation.

Frownie had always warned me about making things more complicated than they really were. Never lose sight of the simple facts. Nothing about Jack’s relationship with a Russian prostitute changed the fact that Konigson, the ruler of a vast media empire, called Palmer, the city editor for the
Republic,
and ordered him to spike the story about Jack’s murder. The distance between Konigson, Jack, and the prostitute was just more yellow space.

I left a message on Elaine Reilly’s voice mail. Ten minutes later, she called back.

“Sorry, hon,” Elaine said, “I was on another call. Tell me, did you catch Calvo with his pants down?”

“Yes, and Detective Calvo asked me to thank you for helping ensure his comfortable retirement. And I thank you as well.”

“Glad to help. So what’s up?”

“Are you aware of any Russian prostitution rings?”

Elaine hesitated. “Hey, you know, I’m gonna be in your neighborhood in an hour or so. Why don’t we meet for lunch?” Her voice had always been light and playful, so the sudden awkwardness was impossible to ignore.

Upon entering Murphy’s Red Hots on Belmont, a cloud of mustard, onions, sweet pickle relish, and smoky charbroiled beef engulfed me. Instantly, I was like a kid in the 1970s, sitting in the sanctuary of the left field bleachers of Wrigley Field, when tickets were barely a buck and never sold in advance of the day’s game. Elaine’s waving arm brought me back to the reality of corporate Jumbotron blasphemy.

“This is the best place to have a conversation like this,” Elaine said loudly over the crowd noise, a hot dog with the works in front of her. “A little spyware in your cell phone and the Fourteenth Amendment is obliterated.” She took a bite of her hot dog, careful to protect her blouse from falling condiments.

“A Russian prostitute was fished out of the river,” I said. “Suddenly, she’s central to my original murder investigation. Any thoughts?”

Elaine chewed a bit, then said, “My first thought is to recommend you find a new career. But you’re not going to hear me, so I’ll tell you that, as far as I’m concerned, any illegal activity operated by Russians is something to run from. If this dead girl was part of a Russian prostitution ring, you can be sure it functions without mercy and with lethal efficiency. There’s no saying no to these guys. If you do, your replacement will be earning money before your body is found—assuming it’s ever found.”

“Aren’t you afraid they’ll try to push you out?”

Elaine shook her head while wiping her mouth. “It’s a different market. My girls cater to the guys who can afford to blow a hundred bucks a couple of times a month. The Russkies minister to very wealthy clients. The kind that can drop a grand for a few hours of fun as if they were just buying one of these hot dogs. I’m running a business where the girls are going to make good money and don’t have to worry about a psycho pimp. The Russkies run a slave factory.”

“I was told this prostitute wore designer clothes and drove a Mercedes.”

More chewing while nodding her head. “Sure she did; they all do. None of them owns the cars or clothing, but they sure look good in them. And when the girls are all used up, they go back home wearing the same rags they arrived in.”

“Someone who knew the dead woman told me she was going back to Russia until some immigration issues could be solved.”

Elaine laughed. “There are no immigration issues with the kind of money these outfits have at their disposal. Money makes those kinds of problems disappear real fast.”

“If you had to come up with the most probable scenario for this woman’s murder, what would it be?”

Elaine considered the question. “She angered a client. But not your average multi-millionair
e—someone who had enough power and influence to require the outfit to keep him happy. It’s a simple business plan: the customer is always right.”

“Just so rich men can have sex with pretty women.”

“Sex is just one aspect of the business model. The Russkies have also got their hooks in fraud, money laundering, drug trafficking, murder for hire, extortion—it’s all part of a big crime partnership.”

Her words had a sobering effect. I longed for the days when it was only corporate and municipal corruption I had to consider.

“If you don’t mind,” Elaine said, “where in the world are you going with this?”

The concern in her eyes struck me. “The dead prostitute was also the girlfriend of the murder victim I’m investigat
ing.”

Elaine closed her eyes and rested her forehead on the heels of both hands. “Jules, these girls don’t have boyfriends.”

“Well, he wasn’t paying for her company. Would they kill her for giving it away?”

“That doesn’t make sense if she’s a good earner. At most, rough her up a bit.”

“Would they kill the boyfriend?”

“Hard to believe that would be necessary. They could just as easily scare the hell out of him.”

“The woman disappeared about five weeks ago. Boyfriend murdered two to three weeks later. She didn’t drown. Burn marks all over.”

“They tortured out anything incriminating she may have said to the boyfriend, dumped her body, then killed the boyfriend.”

“That’s what I’m thinking.”

Neither of us spoke until Elaine said, “Well, can you find a common denominator with the dead girl, the dead boyfriend, and a rich and powerful corporate executive?”

Walking back to the office, I thought of Palmer’s focus on finding a financial motive for Jack’s murder. It now seemed likely the murder had more to do with sex than money—if the two could be separated. Perhaps a man’s reputation was on the line. The thought of blackmail caused panic among the powerful. Blackmail: the great equalizer of the classes.

Beethoven’s Fifth broke in.

“She wants to talk to you,” Kalijero said. “Marta Soboroff. She won’t talk to me, but she’ll talk to you.”

“Really?”

“Really. Why do you think that is, Landau?”

“Have her come to my office—and I don’t like your tone, Kalijero.”

“You got something to tell me? You got some history with this Russian doll? How does she even know you?”

“Relax, she doesn’t know me and I don’t know her.” Technically, that was true.

“Now, listen to me, Landau. I’m working this murder case, so whatever she says you better tell me. Got it? She may need police protection.”

“I’ll tell you everything that’s relevant to the dead woman. Now calm down, for chrissake. Remember you already got one foot in the grave—I mean retirement.”

Small creaks from the stairway preceded Marta Soboroff’s arrival until she appeared in my doorway looking beautiful in a jean jacket over a charcoal gray wrap dress, black stockings, black ankle boots, and a small black leather bag over her shoulder. Light brown hair framed blue eyes.

“Please come in,” I said. She sat in the club chair and draped one leg over the other. I took a box of Kleenex out of my file drawer and placed it in front of her. I assumed her eyes were bloodshot from crying.

“I talk to you about my Lada.”

“You were here three days ago.”

She plucked out a few tissues and wiped her nose. “Yes, but I ran away. I not run anymore.”

“Detective Kalijero said you wouldn’t talk to him. Why?”

“I not trust police. Not anywhere.”

“Why would you trust me?”

“You are investigating Gelashvili murder, yes?”

I nodded. “Jack was in love with Lada. Was he murdered because of the relationship?”

Soboroff’s lower lip began to quiver as she struggled to keep it together. “Let me first tell my story and sister’s story. You will listen?”

“Of course.”

“I am ten years older than Lada. I was promised job as waitress or barmaid in America. They say they pay my way and I make good money so I can pay them back and start new life. When I arrive, they take passport and force me to be prostitute to pay debts. If I try to escape or find help, they say they harm my family.” Marta Soboroff grabbed a few more tissues and dabbed her eyes.

I leaned forward over my desk and said, “You’re done with that world. Please tell me it’s behind you.”

“Yes, I was lucky. We were guarded always except with customer. One day I went to customer who was educated young man. His friends sent him to lose virginity. He recognized my accent. He wanted to know why I did this. I told him my story. He left still virgin. He said he had contacts. Then someone paid my debt for freedom.”

“Did you ever see this kid again or find out who paid?”

“Later, I suspected. I got job in laundry. Boring, hard work but happy to have it. People come and go. I don’t pay attention. Then guy comes in—big scary bald man. Looks like cartoon person. He starts talking Russian. He’s Georgian. He asks if I want to work at bakery. At first, I think not so great because of baker hours. He asks how much I make at laundry and says he give me that times five.”

Marta Soboroff appeared suddenly restless and, like all who visited my office, succumbed to the allure of the room’s only window. As she took in the view, I admired her beautiful figure.

“Did you ever consider modeling?”

Marta Soboroff turned to me and smiled for the first time. “Yes, I am model,” she said and walked back to the chair. “I start working at front counter in bakery. Giorgi Geladze is the man who hire me. The same man who came into the laundry. I think it’s just more good luck. Everyone call him Gigi. The work is easy compared to laundry or those working in prep room. The others are from all over Georgia. After few months, he calls me into office. He ask me to help him with charity that find work for new immigrants. I think this is good because others in bakery are also immigrants. Everybody love Gigi.”

I said, “All the immigrants were women from Russia. When they arrived, your job was to assure them everything was fine.”

Marta Soboroff rested her forehead on her hand and nodded. “Yes, why not? I didn’t know yet the real reason. I didn’t know Gigi part of those that enslaved me. Then I have more luck. A man come to the bakery. He is photographer. He gives me card. He ask if I want to model clothes. He takes my picture in beautiful dresses. He show pictures to woman at agency. I sign papers and not go back to bakery.”

“So now you’re a professional model. What magazines are you in?”

“Mostly department store catalogues and runway shows.”

I expected more but saw her remote expression and instantly knew to shut up and wait.

“Yes, I am professional model. I make good money. Lada’s living in Russia, in small town. No jobs. No future. I send her money to come here. She have no passport, no visa. She wait, wait, wait for documents. Very depressed. I afraid she do something bad to herself. I decide to ask Gigi—”

Her face crumbled into sobs, and I was reminded of my first visit with Tamar when she broke down describing the farewell to her aunt and cousin at the airport. Despite the beautiful, distraught woman in front of me, the memory of Tamar and her outrage during our last meeting hit me hard. And with confirmation that her uncle Gigi was, in fact, trafficking in sexual slavery, the truth twisted my guts.

“Yes, I did,” Marta Soboroff continued. “I bring money to Gigi and ask his help to bring Lada here. Gigi was angry I left bakery. But he says he will help me but it costs five times more than what I bring him. A month later I come back with money. Gigi promises Lada come and work at bakery, just like I did. He kisses me on the forehead, says he’s forgiven me.”

Marta Soboroff stopped talking and stared at me. I said, “Gigi lied. He brought Lada over and kept her as a slave.” She nodded and managed to control her emotions.

“How did you finally find out the truth?”

“I keep asking where she is. Gigi swear he doesn’t know where she is. He says to bring more money so he can get information. I come again with more money and beg to see Lada. That night man puts razor near my face. Says not to call police or no more modeling. A week later Gigi happy, say they found her. He writes address on paper.”

“Where did you find her?”

“I wait at fancy building. I see her walking with guard. She have fur coat, jewels. I run to her. Lada pretend not to know me. I try grabbing her arm and guard push me away. I yell, ‘Lada, Lada, Lada. Look to me, Lada!’ I not get her face out of mind. I keep seeing my sister walking in the building—”

Marta Soboroff stared silently into the front of my desk. I studied her face, tried to imagine her life reflected in those blue eyes. “Is it possible she didn’t want to talk to you? Maybe she was too ashamed?”

A minute passed before Marta Soboroff said, “I never believe that. Money, jewels, Mercedes cars. That not worth it for being prostitute. Not to Lada.”

“She’s traumatize
d—shocked, confused. It’s not Lada, your sister. They stole the real Lada from you.”

Marta Soboroff looked at me. “I went to see Gigi. He says he’s sorry but he can’t control what happens. He says gangsters decide. I one day sit crying at table. A man ask what was wrong. He speaks Russian. Very kind man. Very smart. I tell him I’m looking for my sister. I tell him I think Gigi know where Lada live. That man was Jack Gelashvili.”

“Jack helped you find Lada?”

“He gave to Lada my phone number.”

“Jack called Lada? How did Jack get Lada’s phone number?”

“I don’t know. Then Lada call. She say she is okay and not to worry. She tell me life not so terrible. She have car and clothes and food. In Russia she have nothing. I start crying and she tell me to stop. Lada hang up—” Marta Soboroff dabbed her eyes.

“Did you talk to her again?”

“Yes. We have short conversations. She always say she fine and not to worry. One day she call and say she have boyfriend. A Georgian man. She sound very excited. I tell her if the boss find out they will hurt her. She doesn’t listen. She tell me plan to leave with boyfriend. Last time we talk she say rich man help with money so Lada can leave. She talking crazy. She say rich man will help; he care very much for Lada. I never talk again to my sister.”

“You told her about the young guy who helped you?”

“Lada know nothing about my time as prostitute.”

She seemed to be holding back. I said, “A rich man she worked for fell in love with Lada?”

Marta Soboroff remained frozen in the chair, staring above my head. Then she cleared her throat and said, “At first, I do not believe it can happen.” She sat up, opened her black bag. “Then Lada send me these envelopes. It’s her proof of rich man helping her.”

She dropped a pile of letter-sized envelopes on my desk. No return addresses. All letters printed out on white linen stationery. A quick perusal revealed the repeated desires to “take care” of Lada, “protect my sweetest one,” and “free my little bird from her cage.” Each letter was signed in blue ink, “Your Prince” or “The King’s Son.”

“Any idea who this prince or king’s son is?” She shook her head. “Who knows you have these letters?”

She reflected a moment. “I don’t know.”

“Jack’s killers searched his apartment for something specific. If it was these letters, your life might be in danger.”

If my words threw a scare into Marta Soboroff, she didn’t show it. “My apartment was also searched. I always keep the letters with me.” She held up her black bag.

“I assume you did not report this to the police.”

Marta Soboroff frowned. “Why would I tell gangsters what they know already?”

“I know this sounds crazy, but there are police who are not criminals and would protect you.”

She rummaged through her bag and produced what looked like a .45-caliber handgun. “I make my own protections.” She put the gun away, stood, and wrote her phone number on one of the envelopes. “I give to you the letters and my number. Find killer, Mr. Landau. Please.”

The letters would account for the ransacking of Jack’s and my residences, although smashing my furniture to bits was an insult of pure spite. I leaned back in my chair and rested my feet on the desk. A muted excitement buzzed in my stomach. From persuasive but circumstantial evidence, the focus of my investigation had narrowed significantly. I called Elaine to gauge her reaction.

“Oh, hell, yes,” Elaine said. “Happens all the time. Millionaire gets to late middle age and suddenly wants to be ‘daddy-lover’ to the little girl he wants to protect—al
though he wants to keep screwing her as well. It’s a twisted, sick scenario, and at the first sign one of my girls starts getting that treatment, goodbye client. I don’t care how much money they have.”

On my next phone call, Robertson pretended he didn’t remember me. “Listen, Mr. Parking Supervisor, I got another dead body connected to Jack’s murder, and I’m starting to think you might be hiding something behind your charming personality.”

“Easy, Mr. Detective. What can I do for you?”

“I have to locate Jones. You’re gonna tell me where he is.”

“I don’t know—”

“I got a police detective helping me. Ask around about Detective Kalijero. Accessory after the fact, Mr. Supervisor. That’s serious time.”

“Take it easy! I haven’t seen him today. You know as well as I do he takes orders from above.”

“You got my number. You find out something, you call me.”