Dan O'Shea - Penance

“Yeah. We got an anonymous disturbance call. Somebody said he’d heard some shouting, saw three black guys jump in a red Dodge, tear ass off. Call came in at 12.17.”

“Thirty minutes, forty five minutes tops, between time of death and you guys coming through the door. Hard to see a murder-suicide, then somebody finding the bodies, and then somebody staging this whole mess in a half hour.”

“So your call is what?”

“I go to court, all I can say is that the evidence points to both of them being hacked to death with an ax, time of death around midnight.”

“And that’s what’s in the report?”

The ME smiled. “We’ve got the report. Of course, sometimes I get a report done, and then I get some other results in, so I file an addendum. It just so happens that I didn’t get the results on the semen, blood typing, and what have you in on time for the main report, so that’s in this addendum.” He pushed a manila envelope across the table to Lynch. “There should be a copy of that with the official report, too, of course. It would be unlike me to forget to file one. But it has been a long night.”

“Leaving the ball in my court?”

“You decide it’s gotta come out, I’ll back you up. You decide one thing’s got nothing to do with the other, I see no reason to have young Hurley’s reputation destroyed.”

Lynch thought about it. “Fucking Stefanski. What I’ve heard, he always did have trouble keeping it zipped.”

“ De mortuis nihil nisi bonum ,” said Anthony.

“Been a long time since my altar boy days, doc.”

“Say nothing but good of the dead.”

Present Day

Rusty Lynch lived in one of the big old stone houses set back off Oak Park Avenue just as you drove north into River Forest, place probably going for seven or eight hundred grand. Uncle Rusty paid cash for the joint the month after he got back into town from doing his eleven-month hitch at the Club Fed up in Wisconsin, same Club Fed where Dan Rostenkowski worked on his short game after getting caught with his pinkies in the House Post Office cookie jar. In fact, Uncle Rusty and Rostenkowski had been in together for the bulk of Rusty’s jolt. Rusty’d been in on some kickback beef the Feds cooked up when he wouldn’t play ball on one of their stings. He’d fallen on his sword for the Hurleys in the sure and certain faith that they’d have his back when he got out. Lynch wasn’t even sure Rusty liked the River Forest house. Rusty’d always been a city guy, the type that started breaking out in hives he didn’t smell some diesel fumes every ten minutes. Now he’s living on a half-acre of oaks pretending to be a feudal lord? Lynch figured the house was more like a fuck you at the Feds who sent Rusty up. The top Fed prosecutor who tried to flip Rusty was one of his neighbors now.

Lynch parked in Rusty’s brick circle drive at the end of a line of six cars, the Grand Marquis the princes of the city drove or were driven in. Couple of the cars had drivers lounging in the front seats, listening to the radios. A stretch Mercedes at the end of the line. The driver was a retired cop Lynch knew, guy named Lewis, standing next to the car smoking, guy who’d done his twenty, then gone private. Personal security, that kind of shit. Lynch pulled out a Camel and joined him.

“Hey, Lewis. Riding shotgun for somebody?”

“Hey, Lynch. Howya doin? Yeah. Funny you turning up. Got a call from Eddie Marslovak. Thing with his mother got him freaked a little, I guess, maybe thinking somebody’s coming after him. He’s gotta nice ride, anyway.”

Lynch looked up and down the Mercedes. “Got a bar and everything?”

“Bar, TV, couple a cell phones, some kind of hookup so his computer’s on line. Like driving a space shuttle. Hey, you’re workin’ his mom’s case, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You out here to see him?”

Lynch shook his head. “Wanted to talk to Rusty real quick. Guess Uncle Rusty’s still got the juice, huh?”

Lewis dropped his butt to the bricks and ground it under the toe of his wingtip. “What I hear around the Hall, more juice than ever. Taking the fall on that Fed beef, good career move, far as I can see. Got him out of the county board seat. Doesn’t have to play sleight of hand to get paid no more.”

“Well, not me, Lewis. Still on the city’s clock.” Lynch flicked half a Camel into the pine bark mulch along the side of the drive and headed for the door.

Rusty Lynch was what Lynch’s old man would have been given another thirty years. Big, hair gone pure white, fine cross-hatch of busted veins over the nose and cheeks, still that sparkle in the eyes that was menace and merriment both at once. Rusty Lynch broke into a broad grin when he opened the door.

“Johnny. Fuck me, it is good to see you, boy. Get your ass inside, say hello to the fellas.”

“Rusty,” Lynch said, stepping into the slate-floored hall. “You’re looking good.”

“I’m lookin’ like a fat old drunk whose clothes all have enough Xs in them to go into the dirty book business and don’t I know it.” The old man threw a playful jab into Lynch’s gut. “But you’re keepin’ fit, Johnny, and you always favored your mother anyway. Good on you.”

Rusty ushered Lynch into the living room, a long rectangle with a barrel-vaulted ceiling. All the furniture was wood or brown leather. Marslovak and Burke, Hurley’s chief of staff, Lynch knew. They sat to the right.

“Some of you boys know my nephew, John Lynch, him being one of Chicago’s finest. And, Johnny, I know you know some of the boys. Eddie I know you just met, though not the best circumstances, and you and Dick Burke go back a bit anyway.”

Lynch nodded at Marslovak and Burke. Burke gave a short wave.

“Tony Lazzara’s the mayor’s new money man. Rod Fell’s our rising star in congress, up there in Rostenkowski’s old seat, and, God help me, these other fine boys are riding herd on him, out from the masters at the DNC, but I can’t keep their names straight. Anyway, just wanted to show you off. Is it private business you’ve got?”

“Just a couple minutes is all I need, Rusty. I can come back.”

“Oh, no need of that, Johnny. These sharp fellas can carry on without me for a bit.” Rusty draped an arm over Lynch’s shoulder and turned him toward his study.

Rusty dropped the hint of brogue and the stage Irish act as soon as he and Lynch got into his office and shut the door. Being in touch with the auld sod was always good practice in Chicago, but Rusty had been born on the west side, just like Lynch.

“Interesting crowd,” Lynch said.

“I swear, Johnny, I work harder at this off-the-books wise-man shit than I ever did when I drew a paycheck.”

“Still drawing a check, from what I hear.”

“Well, I’m doin’ all right. I’ve always told you, Johnny, we look after one another in this town. You never did want to hear it, though.”

“Just not my game.”

“How’s your mother? Got down a couple weeks back, she was still hanging on.”

“Gotta be soon, I figure. Not like there’s much left they can cut off.”

“Tough thing. You’ve been good to her Johnny.”

“She was good to me.”

Rusty nodded, made a toasting motion with his glass. “So what brings you out? Not that you aren’t welcome.”

Lynch pulled the Wrigley shot he’d taken from the Marslovak house out of the envelope and handed it to Rusty.

“What do you make of this?”

Rusty looked at the photo for a minute. “Santo and Kessinger. What you put that at Johnny? Give that about a nine on a scale of ten, wouldn’t you? And for old EJ Marslovak. Bet his boy would love to have this.”