Michael Harvey - The Chicago Way

I didn’t say anything, just let it go. She seemed good with that. After a while she lit up another cigarette, rolled down the window, and blew smoke out of it. I broke the silence and got back to business.

“You have any paperwork from the assault?”

“What sort of paperwork?”

“Hospital admissions form, police reports, anything.”

“Nothing. I woke up in the hospital.”

“Police never came to visit you?”

“Nobody.”

“Didn’t that seem strange to you?”

“I was half-alive when they released me. Just wanted to get home. Back to Sedan. Didn’t really care about the rest.”

“Not back then.”

“Nope. Just wanted to go home and hide.”

Elaine took a deep drag, flicked her butt out the window, and rolled it up.

“I guess your feelings changed,” I said.

“Apparently. Take a left here.”

I took the turn. Ten minutes later we pulled in front of a late-night bar on Diversey called the Bel-Air Lounge. Sixty years ago it was a hot spot, a place where Humphrey Bogart would go to get lost, get drunk, and get laid. Now it was a place where a man with a bad hair-weave played Billy Joel on the piano all night. Divorced men and women snuggled around, throwing money in the jar just like the song said, getting drunk late, thinking about all the things they never had and pretended they missed. Eventually the bar would close. The lights would go out and they would melt away, sometimes together for a coupling, quick and ugly, then, inevitably, each to his or her own.

“It’s not that bad,” Elaine said. “The guy will stay open as long as I want. Sound good?”

She was on again, a live current, jittery, dangerous, exciting.

“No thanks,” I said.

“What’s the matter, Kelly. You don’t like?”

She moved across the front seat, closer now, and tilted her head up at me.

“Or maybe you’re screwing the redhead?”

“You know you’re fucked.”

She laughed.

“You are screwing the redhead. Wow.”

She moved away again and picked up her purse.

“All right, Kelly. That’s interesting. Thanks for the talk. It really settled me. I’ll see you around.”

Elaine Remington got out of the car, walked across the empty divide of Diversey Avenue, and into the lounge. An old man at the bar gave her a leer you can only get away with at five a.m. in Chicago. She cozied right up and ordered a drink. The old-timer slid his stool a bit closer as I slid the car into drive and headed home, to my long lost and mercifully empty bed.

So what did you find?”

It was Diane. It was just past ten in the morning. It was entirely too early to be talking about Daniel Pollard.

“He likes to go dumpster diving,” I said.

“Come again?”

“That’s what he did. Cruised a stroll in Cal City for a while, then hit the dumpsters. Pulled up a bunch of garbage and stuck it in the backseat of his car.”

Silence at the other end of the line. Understandable. Finally, she spoke.

“And then what?”

“Back to the stroll for a little more girl watching. In bed before sunrise.”

“Weird.”

“Yeah. Want to hear another weird thing? One of the women he was ogling turned out to be my client.”

“Client as in Elaine Remington?”

“I pulled her off a curb. Claims she likes to go down there every now and then. Plays dress-up.”

More silence. Longer this time. A lot longer.

“Is that what she told you?” Diane said.

“Yeah. I’m going to put a call in to Rachel Swenson today. See if I can set up some time with one of her counselors.”

“You think Elaine will go for that?”

“I think she’s dangerous. At least to herself.”

“Maybe finding the person who raped her will help.”

“Not sure that’s going to do it. But we can try.”

“What are you thinking?”

“Covert DNA,” I said.

“From Pollard?”

“I think it answers all our questions. I’m going to call Rodriguez today and set it up. You want the exclusive?”

“You know it.”

“Rodriguez will have to sign off. Swing by my office. Two o’clock this afternoon.”

I got off the phone and made the same arrangements with Rodriguez. Then I made a pot of coffee and pulled out Elaine’s street file. I got a piece of paper and began to make some notes. At my elbow was Reynolds’ working file on the Carol Gleason shooting. I read through it for about an hour, laid it beside the street file, and thought for a while. Then I picked up the phone and dialed.

“Masters.”

“It’s Kelly.”

A weary sigh.

“What do you want?”

“Nice to talk to you again, Detective. Listen, I need a favor.”

“Of course you do.”

“You remember the old file on Tony Salvucci?”

“The cop shooting? I’m sure it’s around.”

“I need to see a copy.”

“Told you I can’t do it.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re not a cop. Because I don’t know what you’re up to. Because there’s nothing in it for me. Pick a reason, Kelly.”

I felt the conversation about to end and switched tactics.

“How about this. I swing by there with some information. You run with it. If anything pans out, I step away. You take the credit.”

“And if I don’t like it?”

“You walk away. This conversation never happened.”

“What are we talking about?”

“Long shot, but potentially? A career changer.”

There was a pause. I could feel the veteran cop calculating the risk. He didn’t like it, but I knew he would bite. Too much upside not to.

“Be here in thirty minutes. Ask for me, and don’t talk to anyone else.”

“Sure.”

“See you then.”

Masters hung up. I looked through my notes on Gleason, placed a call to Phoenix, and talked to Detective Reynolds for about ten minutes. Then I put the phone down and picked up the photo of Grime’s prosecution team. I had circled a face in the back. The image was blurred with time, but still very much there. I dropped the picture back on my desk and headed out to see Masters.

That afternoon Diane arrived at my office first. We sat without saying much. Rodriguez showed up five minutes later. Diane’s presence wasn’t a surprise. Still, the detective wasn’t happy.

“Before we get started,” he said, “let’s talk about some ground rules. For the press part of this.”

I had not broached the subject with Diane. Figured Rodriguez would set the boundaries here. Diane apparently felt the same way.

“What are your concerns, Detective?” she said.

Rodriguez looked at me, then back at Diane.

“Before we begin, everything here is off the record. You all right with that?”

Diane nodded. Rodriguez walked off, looked out my window, and exhaled. Soft and sad. When he spoke, it was with his back turned to both of us.

“I loved Nicole. You know that?”

I wasn’t sure which one of us he was talking to but Diane answered.

“Yes, Detective. Actually, so did I.”

“Love being a detective, too,” Rodriguez said. “Only thing I ever wanted to do.”

He moved back into the room and sat down in a chair, head down, knees almost touching Diane’s.

“You think Daniel Pollard killed Nicole,” she said. “So do I. DNA, however, won’t make the case against him, will it?”

I sat down in the third chair and leaned into the conversation.

“If he matches on Elaine’s rape, then we got him as an accomplice on Grime,” I said. “And won’t that be a fucking zoo. We also more than likely get him on some current assaults. But probably not for Nicole. No DNA there.”