Random Victim Page 8

  “Now let me give you some real advice,” Murphy said. “Southside Irish to Southside Irish. Don’t make no waves. Just ride it out till we see how this election comes out.”

  Ryan’s brow furrowed.

  Murphy snorted. “Just remember you’re dealing with fucking judges and lawyers here, my boy. So if the brass don’t want to smell any stink, don’t go stirring things up in the shitter.”

  “Lemme guess,” Ryan said, reaching for a cigarette. “That’s gotta be another one of Murphy’s Law’s, right?”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Box

  Joe Smith had gotten downtown a little past eleven, and since then had searched up and down the massive Daley Center for anybody who’d known or worked under Judge Walker. Deputies, clerks, secretaries, even a few of her fellow judges had consented to talk to him, but none of them had provided anything that Smith felt could even remotely be considered a lead. Not that I’d know what a lead was, he readily admitted to himself. At the end of over four hours of interviews, he knew nothing more than what he had already gleaned from the case file: that Miriam Walker had been, in life, a rather attractive, intelligent, pleasant, and strong-willed woman. But each person punctuated his or her statement with the same question: Did they have any new ideas about who killed her?

  Frustrated, Smith went to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee. He thought of calling home to check on Helena, but decided against it. He had to make some kind of sense of his notebook. He had things scribbled everywhere. Plus she would have beeped him if anything had happened. And she could always call her mother if she needed someone to stay with her at the hospital until he arrived. Smith looked up at the ceiling and blew out a long breath through pursed lips.

  Why did all this have to be happening at once? he wondered.

  “Excuse me,” a voice said from behind him.

  Smith looked up and saw a short white-haired deputy in a starched white shirt standing over him. The man appeared to be in his early sixties, and had a courtroom captain patch on his left sleeve.

  “You the officer who’s been asking about Judge Walker?” the deputy asked.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, still in the habit of automatic politeness from his patrol work.

  “I’m Scotty,” the older man said, extending his hand. “I was in charge of her courtroom before. I’ve since been promoted.” Scotty pulled a chair out and sat across from Smith.

  “Right. I was meaning to talk to you. People said you was the man to see,” Smith lied. But what the hell, he figured. A little flattery never hurt. “Can you remember any particular cases that might have caused someone to hold a grudge against her?”

  Scotty shook his head. “That’s what I couldn’t figure out. Most of the stuff she presided over was small potatoes. All civil hearings, small claims court…Nothing really to cause any waves.”

  Smith scribbled down more information as he asked the same standard questions that Ryan had told him to ask: How well did you know her? Had she been having trouble with anyone? Did she seem upset or distressed before her disappearance? To Smith’s surprise, Scotty said that the judge had never seemed happier.

  “Like she’d come into fresh clover,” he said.

  “How was she getting along at home? She ever talk about that?”

  “Like I said, she never seemed happier.”

  Smith sighed. This was turning out to be more of the same. A wasted trip. He swished the last bit of his coffee around in the cup before he drank it.

  Scotty was watching him, as if waiting.

  “I was wondering how come they switched investigators?” he asked finally.

  “New blood, I suppose,” Smith said.

  “I gotta tell you, I didn’t think much of those other fel-las,” Scotty said, scratching his ear. “They came by, asked a few questions, made a big show about acting real interested, then they never even come by for the box after I called them.”

  “The box?”

  “Yeah. I called them and said I’d found the box of stuff that we’d collected from her chambers. I was holding it for her husband, but he never came by for it, either. And that damn Murphy told me on the phone that he was definitely coming back, but he never did.”

  “You still got it?”

  “Yeah, down in evidence storage,” Scotty said. “Finish your coffee and we’ll go find Big Fred to dig it up for you.”

  Locating Big Fred proved almost as difficult as finding a parking space on a downtown street. Finally, after Scotty had called him on the maintenance frequency for the third time, Big Fred answered.

  “What’s your twenty?” Scotty demanded, his knuckles whitening around the radio. “I’ve been calling you for fifteen minutes.”

  “Sorry, Captain,” the voice said. “I was in the washroom.”

  “Well, get down to evidence storage on the double,” Scotty said. He led Smith over to some elevators and they rode down to the basement. Big Fred, an immense man clad in a navy-blue uniform, slowly shuffled forward and grinned, his light-brown hair sticking out from under his cap.

  Scotty glanced at his watch, his other arm cocked on his hip.

  “Sorry I took so long, Captain,” Big Fred said. “I got diarrhea real bad.” He rubbed his palm over his expansive stomach. “Might have to call off tomorrow if it don’t get no better.”

  “Never mind your bowel problems,” Scotty said. “We need that box of Judge Walker’s personal effects that was logged in here.”

  “Oh yeah?” Big Fred turned to Smith. “You working that case now?”

  Smith nodded.

  “Yeah, them other guys never came back for that stuff, did they?” Big Fred pulled a cluttered ring of keys out of his pants pocket and opened a solid metal door set against a wall of thick steel mesh. Beyond the mesh were row after row of shelving with boxes piled high on each level. They stepped into a small anteroom on the other side of the door and Big Fred went to a desk that was covered with papers, magazines, coffee cups, pop cans, and numerous other items. He deftly plucked a black bound ledger book from the heap and paged through it, running his thick fingers down each column.

  “I distinctly remember telling you to hold it for the investigators,” Scotty said.

  “Yeah, Captain,” Big Fred said. “I know I got it in here somewheres.” He paused. “Here it is.”

  “What did I tell you?” Scotty said in a triumphant tone. Then to Big Fred, “Go pull it for Detective Smith here. He’ll be taking it with him. And make sure he signs the log for it.” As Big Fred ambled off, the smaller man turned to Smith and extended his hand. “I sure hope this helps in some way. I’d like to see whoever killed her caught.”

  Smith shook Scotty’s hand and thanked him profusely for his help.

  When Scotty had gone, Big Fred came back carrying a cardboard box about three feet long, sealed with duct tape and written on with black Magic Marker. He set the box heavily on his desk and patted his pockets.

  Smith began to hand his pen to Big Fred, but the other man shook his head, extracting a packet of cigars with the plastic tips. He held out the package to Smith, who declined.

  Big Fred shrugged, peeled off the cellophane wrapper, and began fishing around in his pockets once again. Smith wished he’d brought a lighter, but spied a book of matches among the sea of papers on the desktop. He pointed to them and Big Fred smiled, the cigar dangling from the middle of his lips.

  “Thanks, I been looking all over for them,” he said, striking one and holding the flame to the end of the cigar. After a few seconds of copious puffing, he shook out the match and exhaled a plume of gray smoke. “So you think this’ll help catch who done her?”

  “Don’t know right now,” Smith said.

  “Yeah, I figured it might be important. Them other guys seemed real interested on the phone, then they never came back. The captain was calling and bugging them, I guess.” Big Fred tapped the page. “Just sign right here and it’s all yours.”

  Smith scribbled his name, coll
ected the evidence sheet, and hoisted the box onto his shoulder. It was heavier than it looked.

  “Want me to get you a cart or something?” Big Fred asked.

  “No thanks, I can handle it,” Smith said. But by the time he’d waited for the elevator he’d switched shoulders two times and had the beginning of a crick in his back. He could also feel himself perspiring through the underarms of his shirt.

  I sure hope this damn thing amounts to something after all this, he thought.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Random Victim

  They spent the next day tracing down and assembling all the loose ends that Murphy and Roberts had glossed over: the insurance angle, Miriam Walker’s lack of a will, the bank records preceding her death, the make and model of the trunk she’d been found in, interviews with all the friends and associates that had been listed, her final appearance at the Women Against Domestic Violence meeting…But as they sat in the office with the fading midafternoon sunlight streaming through the sole window, a sense of lassitude settled over them. Nothing had been appreciably accomplished by any of their efforts. Ryan had thumbtacked a set of the crime-scene photos on the bulletin board. He tapped a pen against his teeth.

  “Well,” Ryan said, “the boss wants to see us for an update. Anybody got any brainstorms before we go face the music?”

  “It seems strange that she was a lawyer and had no will,” Hart said.

  “Actually, she was a judge,” Ryan said. “Next comment.”

  Leal saw Hart blush. “Or somebody took it,” he said, standing and walking over to the photos. “Maybe we should take another look at the original scene.”

  “Be my guest, Sherlock,” Ryan said.

  Leal studied the photos for several seconds more.

  “I’ve been thinking about this,” he said. “Look at the distance from the road to the location of the trunk in the water. It’s got to be what, at least fifteen feet or so?” He saw the other three looking intently at the photos, too. “A trunk that size with a woman’s body in it would have to weigh, what? Close to a buck and a half? That indicates a two-man job.”

  “Yeah, nobody could’ve thrown the fucking thing that far,” Ryan said. “Not even Hart.”

  Hart looked at him and smirked. “With you inside, I might be tempted to try,” she shot back.

  Leal raised his eyebrows appreciably. Good, he thought. She’s starting to stand up for herself. He remembered the pleasure that he got from watching a new recruit or partner gain in confidence and experience. In this case, he had both. The team seemed like it was coming together a little, too. They were all starting to work together for the same goals, with the same purpose. But it still gnawed at him that Ryan moved with all the speed of a tree sloth. He seemed to lack the fire in his belly to get everybody moving. Maybe it’s time for me to exert some command authority, he thought.

  “So, Joe,” Leal said. “Anything from the rest of the judges yesterday?”

  Smith pressed his lips into a frown and shook his head.

  “Nobody seems to know much, or if they do, they ain’t saying,” he said, flipping open his notebook. “They all said she was smart, competent, and quiet. Stuck to herself…Seemed happy right before she disappeared…Nothing else significant.”

  “I noticed something in that box you brought back,” Hart said.

  “Yeah, me, too,” Smith said. “It gave me one hell of a sore back.”

  He laughed to break the tension, but nobody else did.

  Leal found himself admiring the way Hart’s pants stretched tautly over her hips and butt as she bent over the box and sorted through it. He blinked twice and rubbed his temples, reminding himself that it was never a good idea to think those kinds of thoughts about your female partner. It could lead to problems. As he brought his hand down he saw Ryan grinning and licking his lips. He stared at Hart’s back, then glanced at Leal and winked.

  Leal was frowning just as Hart stood and turned around. She obviously caught his disapproving look and blushed again.

  “What you got, Olivia?” Leal asked. Dammit, he thought. She’s gonna think I meant that for her.

  “This book,” she said, setting a dark blue hardbound book on the desk.

  “Ap-hro-deet Rising,” Ryan said. “What the hell’s this have to do with anything?”

  “It’s pronounced Aphrodite,” Hart said. “Read the inside. The title page is signed by the author.”

  Ryan sighed heavily and paged through the book with sharp, quick movements. The inscription was handwritten in blue ink, just below the artfully scripted letters of the ti-tle: To Aphrodite,Yours Always, Simon.

  “Okaaaay,” Ryan said slowly. “I usually slept through English lit class. Want to bring me up to speed?”

  “Simon Ellias is the author. That sounds pretty personal, doesn’t it?” Hart said. “And Aphrodite is the Greek goddess of love.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard all about Greek love,” Ryan said. “But this ain’t even personalized to her.”

  “Which could mean he didn’t want to make it too obvious since she was married,” Hart said.

  “I don’t know,” Ryan said. “It seems like you’re stretching it.”

  “Well, there had to be some reason why she kept this book in her chambers, doesn’t there?” she said. “And look in the acknowledgment section. He thanks the Lunge Hill Corporation for their ‘gracious assistance.’ According to the bank records Miriam Walker was a principal stockholder in that company, wasn’t she?”

  “Yeah,” Leal said. “Her father was some bigwig with them. Left her a lot of stock in it.”

  Ryan squinted and took out his cigarette pack.

  “I think Olivia’s got a good point,” Leal said. “Let’s go talk to this author guy.”

  “Okay, go get ’em, tiger,” Ryan said, lighting a cigarette and drawing deeply on it. He paged to the back inside flap of the book and stared at the picture of Simon Ellias, then shook his head theatrically. “Nothing to look at, is he? But who knows, maybe they were doing the nasty. Says here he lives in Willow Springs, which is close enough to check on, I guess.”

  “That could go toward motive if the husband’s involved,” Leal said.

  “Yeah,” Ryan said, blowing some smoke through his nostrils, “but we don’t even want to think about going there unless we got more than just a book of love poems by some asshole who may or may not have been jocking her.”

  “Come on, Tom,” Leal said. “It’s something we got to check out.”

  Ryan’s cheeks hollowed as he drew on the cigarette more copiously this time. When he spoke his words came out amid a cloud of smoke. “Let’s run it by the boss first. Like I said, he wants to talk to all of us today for a progress report.”

  Brice’s sports jacket had been hung over the back of his chair, and the sleeves of his white shirt had been rolled up over his muscular forearms.

  When they came into the office he stood up and moved around the desk with an anxious step, first slapping Ryan on the back and then extending his hand toward Leal.

  Taken somewhat aback, Leal reciprocated and got snared in Brice’s patented “sissy shake,” his big hand powerfully grinding the tips of Leal’s trapped fingers together. Brice gripped Smith’s palm in similar fashion, but Hart was seemingly spared.

  Maybe he’s afraid her grip will be stronger than his, Leal thought to himself, shaking his fingers.

  Brice walked back behind his desk and opened a metal box next to the framed photograph of his wife and kids with dated-looking clothes and hairstyles. He removed a thick cigar from the box and bit off the end, leaning back and spitting into the waste can.

  “Hope nobody minds,” Brice said as he flicked the lighter and held it to the end of the cigar. “Thank God this no smoking thing doesn’t apply to private offices.”

  Leal noticed the cords in Hart’s neck tighten visibly. Suck it up, kid, he silently urged her.

  Brice blew out a cloud of smoke and coughed several times.

 
; “So how’s the investigation going?” he asked.

  Ryan took out his own cigarettes and held up the pack.

  “Boss, may I?”

  Brice sat back and nodded, the cigar jutted at a sharp angle from the corner of his mouth.

  “We’ve been going over the background of the victim,” Ryan said, withdrawing his own cigarette after taking a quick puff. “Getting to know her, so to speak.”

  “What’s that mean, Ryan?” Brice said. “She’s dead. How the hell can you get to know her?”

  “We were exploring possible motives,” Leal said.

  “Motives?” Brice said.

  “Right,” said Leal. He sensed the growing hostility in Brice’s tone and sought to lighten it. At this stage of the game animosity would be counterproductive. He grinned. “After all, she didn’t die of the flu.”

  But Brice didn’t laugh or even smile. He removed the cigar from his mouth and said, “I’m well aware of that.”

  “So basically,” Ryan cut in, “we were trying to establish her habits, who her friends were, her enemies…So we could try and develop a better understanding of what might have happened.”

  Brice wrinkled his nose, as if he were smelling a foul odor.

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “Didn’t you people read the case file on this? Murphy and Roberts went over all that already. They pretty much established that Miriam Walker was a random victim.” He looked at each of them and drew deeply on the cigar, causing the ash to redden. Leal glanced over at Hart. Between the lieutenant’s pungent cigar, and Ryan’s smoldering cigarette, she looked about ready to puke.

  “I gotta say, I expected more from this group,” Brice said. “But it seems that instead of hitting the ground running, you’re just going over old ground.”