Random Victim Read online

  MICHAEL A. BLACK

  RANDOM VICTIM

  To Len Jellema, one of the finest men I’ve ever known.

  THE UNSOLVABLE CASE

  “You know anything about this case?” Ryan asked, taking one more drag before stubbing out his cigarette.

  “Not much. Lady judge disappeared about six months ago. Discovered her body in a pond recently, stuffed in some kind of trunk. Never found her car anywhere. Shay made the incident into a campaign issue, saying it pointed to O’Hara’s incompetence.”

  “You got it,” Ryan said. “This case is colder than Chicago in January. No way we’ll solve it. Ain’t gonna happen.” He hunched forward, so close that Leal could smell the booze on the other man’s conspiratorial whisper. “But that’s just it. They expect us to fall on our faces on this one. We’re getting set up to get hung out to dry, Leal.…”

  Contents

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Dedication

  The Unsolvable Case

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Acknowledgments

  Praise

  Other Leisure Books By Michael A. Black

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  Meeting at a Rest Stop

  Waves of heat rose from the tapering ribbon of expressway, and Martin Walker could hear the distant rumble of motorcycles. They appeared gradually on the horizon as three incremental dots shimmering in the midday sun. It had to be them. He studied the sight momentarily before forcing himself out of the air-conditioned comfort of his Mercedes-Benz. It was insufferably hot, even for early September. He flipped the alarm button on his remote and walked across the expanse of asphalt toward the solid-looking brick building housing the rest stop toilet facilities so graciously provided by the Illinois Department of Transportation. He could already feel himself starting to sweat.

  As he got to the big metal door, scratched and painted with a myriad of graffiti, the stench caused his nostrils to flare. Where the hell do all our tax dollars go to that they can’t at least keep these goddamn things cleaned? he thought. But the unmuffled roar of the three Harleys was growing steadily louder, and as Walker grabbed the metal handle and stepped inside he knew that the unpleasant smell wasn’t really what was causing his anxiety.

  Several urinals lined the far wall opposite a row of toilet stalls and twin sinks. It was even hotter in here than it was outside, and Walker continued to sweat profusely. So profusely he could feel the wetness of his collar and hoped it wouldn’t seep through his shirt and into the jacket lining of his gray suit. Taking up a position at the urinal nearest the sink, he leaned on the rectangular metal privacy screen, making his best effort at nonchalance. The sound of the motorcycles outside ceased. Walker waited and moments later the door swung open, making a resounding thump as it hit the solid stone of the brick wall.

  Nuke strode in, clad in his usual dirty blue jeans, sleeveless Levi’s jacket, and engineer boots. Walker’s nod was ignored and Nuke walked over to the far end of the enclosed stalls. One by one he kicked open each door, the metal making a sharp clinking sound that hurt Walker’s ears, but he knew better than to say anything. Nuke’s dark hair hung in a mangy, unkempt fashion, and reflective sunglasses masked his eyes. The huge, winged Harley Davidson emblem seemed stretched across the back of the jacket, pulled taut by the oversized muscles. After he’d checked the last stall, the big man turned and went to the urinal closest to Walker.

  “How’s it going?” Walker asked, trying to coax the slight tremor out of his voice. The other man ignored the greeting, but lowered the sunglasses on his nose.

  “What the fuck you starin’ at, Marty?” he said as he began to urinate.

  Walker bristled at the use of the nickname he hated. But he knew Nuke loved to bait him, and dealing with this big cretin had become a necessary evil. Pursing his lips, he looked away.

  Nuke shifted a wad of tobacco to the front of his mouth, just inside his lower lip. His head turned with the quickness of a large jungle cat, and a loping stream of spit shot out, landing on the floor next to Walker’s shoe.

  “Hey,” Walker said. “Cut it out, would you?” Stepping back from the sinks, he reached inside the pocket of his suit coat and removed an envelope. He quickly laid it on the top of the metallic surface. “There it is.”

  Nuke finished urinating, gave Walker a sly sideways glance, and grabbed the envelope with his left hand. At the same time a huge buck knife suddenly appeared in his right. With a flick of his wrist he popped the blade open. Walker recoiled automatically. Nuke smirked and used the finely honed blade to slice through the paper seal. Walker felt the shiver travel down his spine, wishing Nuke would put the damn thing away. Knives disturbed him. Nuke disturbed him. He watched as the big man slipped the bills out and counted them. Satisfied, he rolled them into his pants pocket and slowly unbuttoned the Levi’s jacket, providing Walker a glimpse of the sculptured muscularity of massive pectorals and upper abdomen along with the black rubber handle of a chrome pistol.

  Nuke withdrew a plastic baggie of white powder and set it on the sink. Walker could see the bag was still wet with sweat. Damn, he hated to touch it, but what choice did he have? Every time Walker protested to Connors about dealing with this unsavory character, the other man would only laugh and make some facetious comment about how much Nuke liked Walker.

  “Relax, Marty,” Connors would say. “Nuke’s spent enough time in the joint to be one of your kind of guys.”

  My kind of guys, Walker thought. Shit.

  “Wanna taste it?” Nuke asked.

  Walker shook his head.

  “No, I…I trust you,” he said, trying his best not to let his voice waver again. He knew that Nuke had probably diluted the shipment at least twice before today, but there was nothing he could do about it.

  Nuke sent another stream of dark spit into the sink next to the baggie just as Walker began reaching for it. Walker stopped and looked at him, and Nuke raised the sunglasses from his eyes and winked. Then he moved with an easy stride toward the door. Walker stared after him and grabbed the baggie, wishing he had some paper towels to dry it off. But the stupid place had one of those electronic dryers. Good for the environment, the small metal tag on top said. What the hell do I care about how many trees it takes to make a goddamn towel, Walker thought as he pocketed the baggie. Fumbling with his keys, he went to the door in time to hear the percussive roaring of the motorcycles start up again. After a few intermittent bursts the sound grew progressively fainter.

  Walker stepped outside in time to see Nuke and his two stooges zooming toward the northbound lanes of the expressway. Walking briskly,
he went to his car, preferring to make a quick departure himself. It was then that he noticed it: a big smear of brown spit dribbling down the side window of the Mercedes and onto the chrome strip.

  Damn that bastard Nuke, thought Walker, wishing like hell that he didn’t have to put up with him. But he really knew better. After he’d arranged for them to take care of the “Miriam problem,” what choice did he have?

  He was in too deep now. And there was no turning back.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Twenty-sixth and California Avenue

  Sharon Devain picked him out immediately from the description her supervisor, Steve Megally, had given her earlier that morning: half-Mexican/half-Irish, tall, rangy build, dark hair, mustache. It was customary for the state’s attorneys to be randomly matched with the police officers coming in to testify before the Cook County grand jury at Twenty-sixth and California Avenue, but Sharon had been given specific orders to locate Sergeant Francisco Leal and prep him for his testimony.

  “Lead him through it quickly, and make sure he doesn’t blow up at anybody,” Megally had told her. “I don’t want any more problems.”

  The “problems” to which Megally had referred to were an allusion to Leal’s previous testimony at the Sixth District criminal courts building in Markham during a combination bond and preliminary hearing. The incident, which had occurred three months ago, had become known as “The Dark Gable Incident.” Leal, who had been recovering from a gunshot wound, testified at the warrant arrest bond hearing of Marcus LeRigg, suspected drug dealer. After reading the complaint and hearing LeRigg’s prior arrest record (seventeen arrests but only one conviction for possession dating back five years), Judge Edward Charles Gable issued LeRigg a fifty thousand dollar I-Bond, which meant no money had to be posted and LeRigg was free on his signature until trial.

  LeRigg smiled mockingly as the pronouncement was made and scratched his nostril, looking directly at Leal. Leal complained to the state’s attorney in a harsh whisper, and Judge Gable, seeing this, instructed Leal to repeat what he’d said for everyone’s benefit. Leal, who later stated that he did not want to commit perjury, said that he understood now why the judge was often called “Dark Gable.”

  “And why is that?” Judge Gable asked.

  “Because your head’s so far up your ass it’d take a tractor to pull it out,” Leal answered, the anger rising in his voice. “I’ll bet it is dark up there.”

  After surveying the stunned silence of the courtroom, the judge held Leal in contempt and ordered him taken into immediate custody. The situation went from bad to worse as Leal, who was being escorted away by the deputies, commended the judge for freeing a drug dealer and locking up the police officer who had arrested him. “Can I at least have an I-Bond, Your Honor?” Leal yelled seconds before the door slammed shut.

  The state’s attorney requested to see Judge Gable in chambers and quickly apologized, claiming that Leal was still overwrought from being shot and the recent death of his partner. The wound, the state’s attorney explained, was causing Leal to cough up blood in the downstairs lockup. The judge said he would reconsider if Leal apologized, but hizzoner did recommend an immediate psychological evaluation for the errant cop.

  “To think that man is walking around with a gun is…troubling,” the judge said.

  The police psychologist subsequently noted that Leal was indeed suffering from delayed stress syndrome brought about by the recent traumas, both physical and emotional, and recommended a period of rest and relaxation while Leal recovered his full health. It was then decided that he would be granted a month’s leave from duty, in addition to the two months medical leave for which he was already scheduled. He would also receive a letter of reprimand and a five-day suspension without pay for his improper conduct at the felony bond hearing. The entire incident, naturally, would go in his personnel file. At the end of the three months, Leal’s present duty assignment, as an undercover drug enforcement agent with the Metropolitan Enforcement Group (MEG), would be reevaluated.

  But now, instead of risking the volatile officer at a preliminary hearing, where LeRigg’s high-priced lawyer might press the right buttons to create another incident, Leal was subpoenaed to testify before the grand jury. It would just be him, a state’s attorney, and twenty-three civic-minded citizens who were on jury duty.

  “Are you Sergeant Leal?” she asked tentatively.

  He nodded.

  “I’m Sharon Devain, with the State’s Attorney’s office.” She extended her hand. “Let’s sit over here and I’ll prep you.”

  She led him over to a pair of chairs behind the counter and went through the sequence of questions she was going to ask him. She noticed that his expression never seemed to change, even though she smiled frequently at him, just trying to be pleasant. God, he looks so grim, she thought. Enough to scare the hell right out of those poor pissy jerks sitting in the next room. I hope to hell he holds it together.

  “We should be pretty much set. I read the reports this morning,” she said, gathering up the file and giving him one more high voltage smile to try and relax him. His eyes seemed to soften slightly, she noticed. But she also noticed that his gaze moved up and down her body with a surreptitious sweep, lingering slightly on her breasts.

  Looks like his libido’s fully recovered anyway, she thought.

  Leal took time out from his brooding to assess her as she sat in front of him. He estimated her to be in her late twenties. The mane of blond hair cascaded down around her shoulders in soft waves, but was probably lightened a little, judging from her eyebrows. Her skin had a pale creaminess to it that told him she didn’t spend too much time at the beach. Or in the tanning booth at the health club. But her figure looked pretty good. Softly feminine rather than angular. He wondered what she’d look like without the lightweight brown women’s suit coat and matching skirt. The dainty gold serpentine chain bounced lightly on the front of her white blouse when she turned her head, explaining the questions that she’d be asking him in front of the grand jury. He wondered about the blouse, too, and what she’d look like without that.

  She crossed her legs and he glanced at her knee as it protruded through the slit in her skirt.

  “Like I said, it seems pretty clear cut,” she said, pausing to take off her jacket and drape it on the back of a nearby chair. To Leal’s delight her blouse was sleeveless and showed him a glimpse of her soft shoulder and smooth underarms.

  “Everything’s clear cut when you’re testifying before the grand jury,” he said, cracking a smile for the first time.

  Sharon smiled back. He noticed a slight tobacco stain on her front teeth, but it was still an attractive smile. Too many cigarettes, too much coffee. Not enough time to relax in the sunshine. Sounded like him a few months back.

  “Why don’t you go wait in the anteroom and I’ll call you when it’s your time,” she said. She hiked up her skirt in back as she turned to retrieve her jacket.

  Leal went through the doorway and took a seat in one of the sturdily built oak chairs. They had armrests and the deep rich polished look that reminded him of the kind in his uncle’s dining room when he was a kid. The floor was carpeted in a dark tan, but failed to hide the dirt from the shoes of all the police who came there to testify. The room itself was small, but filled with variations of the same theme: Chicago coppers in blue, suburban cops in darker blue, plainclothes policemen in polyester sport coats. Leal’s own sports jacket was light brown. He owned better ones, but it wasn’t smart going to court looking like you just stepped out of Gentlemen’s Quarterly. Especially if you worked undercover narcotics. Sean O’Herlieghy had told him that when Leal was just a rookie and Sean had been breaking him in.

  “It’s too easy to plant seeds of doubt in a juror’s mind if you come in looking like a million bucks,” he had told him. “Then the sons of bitches start thinking that you look too damn good to be an honest copper.”

  Leal had internalized virtually everything Sean had told him,
considering it a lesson from the master. O’Herlieghy had gone up the ladder and was now a captain. And Leal had received orders to report in to see him as soon as he was finished at the grand jury. He wondered what Sean would say about “The Dark Gable Incident.” Leal figured he already knew the answer to that one. It was one meeting that he was not looking forward to.

  The brown, leather-padded door to his left opened and Sharon Devain stepped partially in and glanced at him.

  “Sergeant Leal,” she said, giving him an encouraging little wink as he got up.

  The grand jury room had three enormous windows against the rear wall that displayed the expanse of blue sky over the factory landscape to the east. The rest of the room seemed unnaturally dark by comparison. Three consecutively elevated rows of theaterlike chairs were set behind curving wooden tables, the fronts of which were skirted to the carpeted floor. The twenty-three people sequestered for the grand jury for this month sat in various sections of the arena, some in clusters, others off by themselves. Leal went to the wooden booth and sat in the chair. The clerk, a middle-aged black woman, approached him and said with rote precision, “Do you swear by the ever-living God that what you’re about to say is the whole truth and nothing but?”

  He replied in the affirmative.

  “Officer, state your name and duty assignment,” Sharon Devain said.

  “Sergeant Francisco Leal, Cook County sheriff’s police. My current assignment is with the Metropolitan Enforcement Group.”

  “That’s also known as MEG?” Sharon said. “And what is your primary function in this unit?”

  Keep it simple, he thought. “We buy illegal drugs in an undercover capacity.”

  “And in May of this year did you have occasion to be working on an investigation concerning the purchase of illegal drugs from one Marcus LeRigg?”

  “Yes.”

  “Please, tell us, Sergeant Leal, in your own words how this investigation came about.”

  Leal began a cautious explanation of the tenuous process of buying drugs undercover: the arrest that leads to an informant, the informant who leads to a supplier, the controlled buys, building a relationship with the supplier, the arrest of the supplier, and then beginning the process all over again, trying to catch a bigger fish the next time. It was like working your way up the food chain. LeRigg exemplified a major step upward for his team of undercover agents, and maybe, although he didn’t say it, that was why they got a little careless.