Michael Harvey - The Chicago Way

“You’ll have to sign all of these before we can let you view any tape shot by Channel 6.”

“You mean Channel 6 Action News,” I said.

She smiled. I signed.

“There you go. Channel 6 Action News wants to sue me, they get into that long line heading down the Action News corridor.”

I pointed toward the hall. Diane just looked at me.

“Now, Mr. Kelly, how do you know Mr. Gibbons?”

“You mean how did I know Mr. Gibbons? I mean he’s dead, right?”

Diane confirmed with the slightest of nods. John Gibbons was now officially dead.

“He was my partner a while back. On the force.”

“Any idea what he was doing down by the pier?”

“None.”

“He had your card in his pocket.”

“He was a friend.”

“He was shot with a nine-millimeter semiautomatic.” Diane looked across the desk at my piece. I shrugged.

“You’re a private investigator now,” she said.

I gave her a nod. This was getting boring.

“Let me see if I can speed this up for you, Diane. No, we were not working together. And yes, Diane, I might be lying. If we were working together on something, I sure as hell wouldn’t tell you. Not without getting something in return. Now are you going to roll that tape or do I get to take it home with me?”

“Why do you want the video?” she said.

“The cops tipped you to me, right?”

Now it was her turn to demur.

“Either they think I’m good for the murder,” I said, “which is insane, and therefore probably what you suspect. Or they want to know what Gibbons was working on and they think I might know.”

“What was he working on?”

I studied a piece of green cubicle just above Diane’s head and to the left.

“Look, Kelly,” she said. “You’re right. The cops did tip me. They do want to talk to you.”

The slightest of pauses, and then she continued.

“Now, why would that be?”

I shrugged.

“Here’s the deal,” I said. “I get anything I think you can use, I’ll let you know. If I can, I’ll do it before I go to the cops. But it’s a two-way street. You screw me and…”

I shrugged again.

“Just don’t screw me.”

“Deal.” Diane stuck out her hand. I held it longer than I wanted.

“Now, how about the tape,” I said.

She pulled a VHS cassette off the desk.

“This is a dub of the footage we shot tonight. You can take it home. With one additional condition.”

“And what might that be?” I said.

“That you take me with you.”

Approximately three and a half minutes later, we were in a cab, heading south on Michigan Avenue.

So you’re thinking you’re going to turn the page and find me in flagrante delicto with Red. Right? Wrong. Diane was just joking. Some strange brand of anchorwoman humor, no doubt.

She did, however, buy me a drink. In Chicago, at a few minutes before five in the morning, the choices are limited but endlessly interesting. We went to the Inkwell, a local hangout for news types, tucked into the shadow of the Michigan Avenue bridge.

“So, Mr. Kelly.” Diane drank her whiskey neat with a water chaser. I had a Lite beer from Miller. I figured we were both putting on airs.

“So, Ms. Lindsay.”

“Here’s to your friend.”

“Associate,” I said and cracked my tooth on a peanut shell that felt like it was filled with cement. When I opened it, petrified peanuts turned to dust and fell to the floor.

“I hadn’t seen John Gibbons in four years before yesterday afternoon.”

“That’s how he got your card?” Diane said.

“He wanted some help on a case. A woman was assaulted. Long time ago.”

I motioned to the bartender. He was asleep, so I threw a peanut at him. It nearly knocked him into the beer cooler. He came out with another Lite.

“And less than ten hours later, Gibbons winds up shot,” Diane said. “Shot as in dead.”

“The worst kind,” I said.

Diane drained her glass. A fresh one appeared at her elbow.

“You know what we call that in the news business, Mr. Kelly?”

“A coincidence?”

“No, Mr. Kelly. In the news business, that’s a story.”

“I don’t know much about news stories. But I do know a little bit about murder. Gibbons wasn’t the type to go into anything blind. He could handle himself and knew it.”

My little speech gave Diane pause.

“Your friend was shot at a range of one to two feet,” she said and passed over a copy of the initial police report. “He wasn’t carrying a gun and there were no signs of a struggle.”

I glanced through the report and laid it down by my elbow.

“That’s interesting, Ms. Lindsay. But let me ask you a question. How much do you make for a living?”

The anchorwoman shot her glass back to the bar and got up to go. I stopped her in an easy sort of way.

“Now don’t go off getting offended. Let’s say it’s a half million.”

She started to get up again.

“Okay, okay. Let’s say it’s a million. Why does someone who gets paid a million dollars go to her TV station in the middle of the night to cover a story about a retired Chicago cop who gets stiffed?”

Diane smiled. Maybe a little too quick for her own good. Then she turned back to the bartender. I shrugged, walked to a window, and looked out. It was the gray just before morning. Buildings blurred and crowded close together. Wisps of fog slid across the surface of the Chicago River, running fast and steady from the locks and Lake Michigan beyond.

Diane sidled close and offered a fresh drink. This time it was whiskey, like hers. She laid her forehead against the window. The last whispers of night pushed gently against the glass. We stayed that way and watched for a while, until the first cold fingers of dawn brushed the top of the Wrigley Building, moved down the white lady, and pretended to warm the city below.

“What’s your deal, Kelly?”

“Huh?”

She turned and gave me a look only single women over thirty can manage.

“You’re what, thirty-two, thirty-three?”

I took a sip of whiskey and nodded. I was really thirty-five, but what the hell.

“Ever been married?”

I shook my head.

“Engaged?”

Another shake.

“Afraid?”

I shrugged.

She shrugged.

“With these kinds of conversation skills, you should be.”

“I love it when you’re charming,” I said.

“What do you know about the TV business in Chicago?”

“I turn on the TV and there it is.”

“Chicago’s the third-largest market in the country,” she said. “Far and away, the biggest snake pit. I’m in the last year of my contract with a news director who likes blondes and bodies. I have neither.”

I was about to disagree but thought better.

“I need a big story or six months from now I’m shooting consumer pieces in Flint, Michigan. After five years in Chicago, Flint doesn’t work for me. In fact, Flint never worked for me. Bottom line, I just don’t have a lot of time here, Kelly. Then again, if the police are any indication, neither do you.”

At least she smiled when she said it.

THE SKY WAS TINGED a smoky sort of pink as we exited the Inkwell. I held the door open for a couple of cops I knew, out-of-uniform guys. They ducked their heads when they saw Diane, but she didn’t seem to notice. She was quiet. Maybe she was thinking about the murder. Maybe she was thinking about going to bed with me. Maybe she was just drunk.

“Tell you what,” she said. “Why don’t you read through the police report and look at the tapes. Then we can touch base.”

A taxi pulled to the curb. She stepped into the back and rolled down the window.