Random Victim Page 5

  “Yeah, I hear you.”

  Leal glanced at his watch. It was almost four. It’s been a day of surprises, he thought. Might as well go for the gold myself.

  “Look, Ryan—”

  “Call me Tom, Francis.”

  “Okay, Tom,” Leal said, standing up. “And it’s Francisco, or Frank. I got to make a call. Be back in a minute.”

  Ryan nodded his head toward the drinks on the bar. “Okay. I’ll hold your place for you.”

  Leal grabbed some of the change off the bar and headed toward the pay phones by the washrooms. A bleary-eyed guy stumbled out of the men’s room as Leal brushed by him in the narrow hallway. He searched his notebook list of phone numbers, deposited the coins, and dialed. After several transfers she finally came on the line.

  “ASA Devain.”

  “Ms. Devain, it’s Sergeant Frank Leal. I was at the grand jury with you this morning.”

  After a pause, she said, “Right. What can I do for you, Sergeant?”

  “Well, I know this may seem kind of abrupt, but I remembered that you said you were getting transferred…” He felt the awkward silence as he searched for the right words. “And I didn’t know how to get a hold of you after today.” More silence. “So I was just wondering if you’d like to maybe go out for a drink or dinner or something.”

  After another pause, her voice came back to him. “Well, I don’t know. I’m kind of beat tonight…”

  “Oh, okay. Where did you say you were getting transferred?”

  “Felony Review. And I don’t have my new voice mail number yet,” she said. “So where did you end up? Back in uniform?”

  “No, actually I kind of lucked out. I got assigned to a special task force. We’ll be working the Walker case. You familiar with it?”

  “Yeah, sure. I knew her slightly.” She paused again, then said, “Why don’t I give you my home number. Maybe we can make it another time.” Leal scribbled the number down in his notebook as she repeated it for him. “But like I said, I’ll be on call a lot, and I’m not sure what my hours are going to be.”

  “Okay.”

  “So give me a call sometime and maybe we can set something up. And congratulations on your new assignment.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “If you’re up tonight check out the news. We had a televised press conference today. Maybe you’ll see us.”

  “Great. I’ll have to try to remember to look for it. I’ve got to go, so maybe I’ll talk to you again sometime.” Her voice sounded less than enthusiastic.

  That went real well, Leal thought, chastising himself for dropping the ball as he hung up the phone. He went into the washroom, urinated, and returned to the bar.

  “What’s the matter? You look like somebody just killed your dog,” Ryan said.

  “Yeah, I kind of struck out with a babe I met this morning at the Criminal Courts building.”

  “Oh? Anybody I’d know?”

  This asshole seems to know everybody, Leal thought.

  “A state’s attorney. She prepped me for the grand jury.”

  “Not Sharon Divine?” Ryan asked, his upper lip curling into a salacious grin.

  “I think it’s Devain.”

  “Yeah, but I say Divine. She is a good-looking woman. But, listen, Frankie, you’d better be careful messing around with a chick like that. You don’t know how much mileage she’s got on her. Might have AIDS or something. If she had as many pricks sticking out of her as she’s had stuck in her, she’d probably look like a porcupine.”

  Leal was finding himself growing very tired of Ryan and his stupid comments. Figuring that he’d gotten just about everything he needed from this meeting, he tossed a few bucks on the bar for a tip.

  “I got to get going,” he said.

  “Aww, come on, Frankie. Stick around, at least till the rush hour is over. I’ll buy the next round if you want.”

  Leal shook his head and stood up.

  “No thanks,” he said. “And the name’s Frank.”

  Leal left the bar feeling a bit more light-headed than two beers called for; then he realized that he hadn’t eaten all day. He pulled into the first fast food place he came to, a Burger King, and got a Whopper, fries, and a large coffee. Ryan had been right about the rush hour, so Leal ate slowly and watched the cars passing before him under the darkening canopy of the late summer sky.

  I wonder if she was just brushing me off? he mused, thinking about his telephone conversation. But, hey, she did give me her home number. And she’d taken off her jacket this morning. What was that other than an invitation for me to check her out?

  Then he realized that the beer must be fueling his logic as the memory of the stuffiness of the small State’s Attorney’s office came floating back to him. Hell, he’d felt uncomfortable in his sports coat this morning, too. But still, he wasn’t ready to accept defeat in this matter just yet.

  I’ll call her tomorrow sometime, he thought.

  The coffee had grown cold under the neglect of his ruminations. He went for a free refill, and thought about his new assignment with assholes Ryan and Brice leading the charge. Certainly Sean must have had something to do with me getting selected, Leal thought. But Brice must have agreed to it somehow. So was Ryan’s setup theory right? Was the plan to toss two inexperienced cops, one apparently functional alcoholic, and one hot-tempered asshole who told off a judge, into the fray in case O’Hara needed some quick scapegoats? Maybe that was why Brice had disregarded the seniority factor and put Ryan in charge…I had my reservations about that guy Leal, he could almost hear Brice’s raspy voice saying.

  But there was a flip side: first of all, he hadn’t been switched back to uniform. And second, if they did a thorough job and maybe got some good leads, they could come out looking professional even if O’Hara didn’t win. And last, if they somehow got lucky, and managed to solve this one, they’d be able to write their own tickets, no matter who won the goddamn election.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A Call in the Night

  The phone rang just as Martin Walker had finished snorting a line. The rush made him feel so much more capable and on top of things, especially when he had mundane tasks to do, like cutting and bagging the rest of the stuff he’d gotten from Nuke. He had to step on it heavily, to make up for the exceedingly larger cuts he was taking for his personal use each time. But no matter. The morons at the firm probably wouldn’t know the difference if he slipped them granulated sugar. Just so he had enough for his special “guests” when he needed it. The loud ringing continued, breaking his trend of thought.

  Dammit, who could be calling him? he wondered as he stared at the tray with the mannitol, coke, spatula, and envelopes in front of him. Gently, he pushed the tray back and got up. The main supply of his stash would be safe enough in his secret hiding place, he thought, then laughed as if the phone had eyes. Things were so much simpler when you were just a little bit smarter than everybody else. And right now he felt a lot smarter.

  “Hello,” he said, picking up the phone as he fumbled with his caller ID box. He saw the number was blocked. “Hello,” Walker repeated.

  “Marty, old buddy, how are you?”

  It was Connors. Walker’s brow furrowed slightly. He hated to be called Marty.

  “Richard? What do you want?”

  There was a pause on the line, then Connors’ voice came back.

  “You watch the news lately?”

  “What?”

  “Television,” Connors said. “The fucking news. Did you watch it today?”

  Walker sighed heavily into the receiver, demonstrating his irritation. “I generally wait till ten,” he said. “Why? Look, is this really necessary, because I’m right in the middle of something.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Richard, I’m getting tired of this game.”

  “Just answer my fucking question,” Connors repeated.

  “Yes, I’m by myself. Now what is it?”

  “All right, listen up. Yo
u’re probably going to see the new task force they created to look into Miriam’s death on the news tonight.”

  Martin Walker felt a momentary chill, as though someone had just touched an ice cube to his balls. But he knew the cocaine was making him react more than he should.

  “So, is that something I should be concerned about?” he asked.

  “Just relax,” Connors’ voice said. “I’ve got everything under control, just like always. We’ve got nothing to worry about as long as nobody panics. You’ll probably be getting some visitors eventually, though.”

  Connors’ tone did little to reassure Martin, who suddenly felt the high turning sour.

  “Who? Nuke and his stooges?”

  “No,” Connors said, the irritation obvious in his tone. “The police. The new investigators. If they come to see you, just stick to the story. Nothing has changed, only a few faces, that’s all.”

  “So you’re saying that I shouldn’t have to worry about some dumb cops?” Martin asked, his voice raising a few octaves at the end of the sentence.

  “Just stick to the story,” Connors repeated.

  “The beauty of that is it’s practically true,” Martin said, trying unsuccessfully to sound more confident than he was feeling. It was the coke. That damn Connors had called at precisely the wrong time to take the edge off. Now he’d be going through the wringer instead of riding high.

  “You’re not coming apart on me now, are you?” Martin heard Connors ask.

  “I’m fine,” he said quickly. “I’m fine.”

  “Don’t try to change anything.”

  “I know. I won’t.”

  After another pause, Connors asked, “So how’s everything else?”

  Walker knew that this was a veiled code used to inquire about his investments.

  “You’re set to have a very profitable quarter,” Martin said. “I’m ready for some more deposits.”

  “Okay, great.” Connors said. “And, Marty, don’t start sweating over this new task force thing, okay? My source tells me that we’ve got nothing to worry about. It’s all smoke and mirrors.”

  “All right, Richard. Good night.” He hung up the phone and began exploring his ambivalence about Con-nors, and how their symbiotic relationship had developed.

  Strangely enough, they’d met in high school. Not that they were friends back then, or anything. No, far from it. Martin had been the bespectacled, nerdy, smart kid, in charge of all the scholastic things, and Connors the school troublemaker. The only passion they shared at the time was the chess club. And Martin had been astounded at Con-nors’ proclivity for the game. He seemed to always be thinking one or two moves ahead. But Connors dropped out of the club late junior year shortly after turning sixteen and getting his driver’s license. He bragged to a select few that he was helping his brother run drugs up from Florida on the weekends in a beat-up old van. Then, news spread the next fall that during the summer the pair had been stopped and arrested somewhere downstate. Connors’ older brother got stuck with the brunt of the charges due to Connors still being a juvenile. He was absent for most of the term, but somehow managed to graduate, the line Most Likely to Deal printed under his yearbook photo.

  The next time Martin happened to see him was at their ten-year reunion, where Connors, looking flashy and tan, pulled up in a silver Corvette with a girl who looked like a movie star on his arm. He explained his dark complexion as the result of some “Florida investments,” and handed out tips to the waiters and bartenders that left little doubt in Martin’s mind what that meant.

  At their fifteen-year reunion, Connors literally bumped into Martin at the bar after making another equally splashy entrance. A short-tempered glance immediately softened when Connors looked at Martin’s nametag.

  “Marty, old buddy,” he’d said. “Still playing chess?”

  Martin replied that he hadn’t much time for that now, as a CEO for a large savings and loan. Connors’ eyebrows raised.

  “Really?” he said. “We’ll have to get together for a drink sometime.” And they’d exchanged cards. That was the beginning of it. Martin began assisting him in “flying under the radar” to launder the very large sums that Connors made from his “business dealings” ever since. In return, he supplied Martin with a retainer fee, as well as the other perks when he found out more about him. The man had contacts everywhere, and for Martin, whose burgeoning aberrant appetites had begun to reassert themselves as his relationship with Miriam began to fail, these contacts were heaven-sent. These perks most recently had included a cut rate on an unlimited supply of cocaine, ecstasy, or virtually any other drug Walker had a yen for trying out as well as fodder for his “other sexual tastes.”

  But most of all, Martin owed Connors for so deftly solving the “Miriam problem.” His wife had walked in on him during one of his special sessions with young Raul. The bitch. Why hadn’t she stayed out that night like she’d said? He knew she’d been fucking someone on the side. But after the cat was out of the bag, Martin had little choice but to go to Connors for help. Exposure in some messy divorce case would have meant a disaster for both of them. Especially if Miriam had hired someone to check into his financial dealings a little too closely.

  Connors had told him that Nuke would handle it. “Just go to your meeting for your fraternity reunion dinner, and it’ll get done. Then all you have to do is report her missing in the morning.”

  It had all worked according to plan. The alibi, the disappearance, the body’s discovery, it was like some bad dream remembered in a fog. And the best part of it was that he was in the clear. There was no way they could connect him to anything. Or so he hoped, as he began to gather up the rest of his stuff and resealed the baggie. He placed it all in the hollow section of the bronze statue of a satyr playing the flute. Satisfied it was packed solidly inside the base, he twisted the upper part of the figure back in place, inspecting it as always to assure himself that no one would be able to surmise what treasures it held. It’s the perfect hiding place for an intellectual giant like myself, he thought. So why should I be concerned about a visit from some stupid cops? Especially with Richard having someone on the inside.

  Martin looked at his reflection in the mirror above the statue and tried to smile confidently. But it looked weak and he knew it. Glancing downward, he caught a glimpse of the satyr. The lecherous goat-man stood in silent vigilance, his cold, metallic eyes seeming to twinkle with mischief as Martin looked on.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Morass

  Leal set the empty Styrofoam cup down on the counter and slowly crushed it in his fist. He’d tried to go over the file the previous night after he’d gotten home, but the beers and the way the unexpected events had played themselves out sapped all his powers of concentration. Despite repeated attempts to make sense of things, he found himself dozing as he sat at his desk. So he’d gone to bed, deciding to get up early and take another shot at it. Now, after several cups of strong Dunkin’ Donuts coffee, he’d gone through it and found himself agreeing with Ryan. The trail was cold. The case wasn’t just complicated and confusing, it was a morass.

  Leal knew that the peak time for solving any homicide was in the first twenty-four to forty-eight hours after the crime. In some cases it might be extended to a week or so, but after that the solvability factors all dropped signifi-cantly: evidence perished, witnesses disappeared, recollections grew hazy. He reviewed the facts from the original case reports, trying to set the sequence straight in his mind.

  Miriam Walker had left her board of directors meeting at the Women Against Domestic Violence coalition at six thirty. She’d gone to a restaurant in south suburban Justice, and paid with her American Express card. From there, she’d effectively disappeared until her badly decomposed body was found in a pond adjacent to some Forest Preserve woods. The summer drought had caused a recession in the waterline, and two young boys looking for frogs had discovered a large trunk in the water. They attempted to pull it out, but the weight and
terrible smell stopped them. The father of one of the boys had stuffed body bags during the Gulf War. When he went back with them to the pond, he knew the smell.

  An entire alphabet soup of police agencies was called, and the case was initially assigned to the Forest Preserve police. Their detectives dutifully processed the scene, photographing and retrieving the trunk. The preliminary autopsy by the medical examiner revealed that it was the body of a Caucasian female between the ages of thirty and fifty. The corpse’s dental records and fingerprints were cross-checked with the reported missing persons in that category, and the dental records provided the matchup. Miriam Walker had been found.

  The Forest Preserve police, barely able to conceal their glee, immediately turned over the case to the sheriff’s department, since it was the primary agency investigating the original disappearance. The Walker case quickly turned into what was known in the vernacular of homicide investigations as “a heater.” The preliminary investigators had gone through all the standard motions: speaking with the husband (a prominent corporate attorney and CEO for a savings and loan), and questioning the rest of the victim’s family, friends, business associates, and colleagues. No one could shed much light on any possible reasons for her death. Although a few friends mentioned that her marriage had been less than blissful of late, they also mentioned she had seemed quite happy recently and was totally devoted to her work both as a judge and an advocate against domestic violence. Martin Walker vehemently denied that he and his wife had been anything but totally happy, and embraced the role of the grieving widower, and promised to donate a hefty portion of her life insurance payment to the Coalition of Women Against Domestic Violence.

  Leal flipped the file closed and looked up to see the young waitress standing over him with the glass coffee pot.

  “Guess you need another cup, huh, mister?” she said. He looked down at the crushed white fragments protruding from his fist and shook his head. Standing, Leal left her a tip and went out to his car. It was eight thirty, but he was just a few blocks away. Ryan had said nine and that still gave him plenty of time. When he got to their temporary office in room 110, he saw Ryan sitting at one of the desks, carefully sipping a large cup of steaming black coffee. He looked up and flashed a weak grin.