Dan O'Shea - Penance

Lynch looked at Heaton. Blond, six-two, eyes like a Stolichnaya bottle that had been in the freezer for a while. Navy chalk-stripe suit, extremely white shirt, red tie. Even his skin looked clean and pressed.

“You don’t need a lawyer, Eddie,” said Lynch.

“Such reassurances are always so comforting coming from legal authorities whose personal whims decide whether and to what extent the considerable resources of our government will inject themselves into a citizen’s life, detective,” said Heaton. “I will be present today and at any subsequent meetings. Clear?”

“Clear and remarkably articulate, counsel,” said Lynch.

“Thank you,” said Heaton with a cold smile.

“So?” said Marslovak.

“When we talked the other day, you said you couldn’t think of anybody off hand that might have a thing for you,” Lynch said.

“Didn’t say I couldn’t think of anybody,” said Marslovak. “Said I couldn’t think of anybody in particular.”

“Not even the anybody attached to the waste hauling rollup in New York?” Bernstein asked.

“Checking me out, Lynch? Waste hauling,” said Marslovak. “Few too many guys named Luigi. Few too few dollars in some of the pension plans when you work the books. Somebody’d blown my fat ass away during that a couple of years ago, I’d say you might have your boys. But wait till two years after the deal’s done, then blow away my mom on the stairs of the church? Make sense to you, Lynch?”

“It could,” said Lynch, “if there’s something you’re not telling us.”

“I think this interview is close to over, detective,” said Heaton. “My client is being fully cooperative, and now you are questioning his veracity. I warn you, I had better not start seeing hints in the paper about mob ties to MarCorp. Mr Marslovak’s enrichment resulting from the ensuing civil actions would strain your imagination.”

“So let’s talk about Andes Capital instead,” said Bernstein.

“Why?” said Marslovak.

“They’ve contributed capital to your last six deals,” said Bernstein. “Thirteen deals overall.”

“So what?” said Marslovak

“Feds are sniffing around them about money laundering,” said Lynch.

Heaton stepped between Bernstein and Marslovak.

“First of all, that’s immaterial,” said Heaton. “Since you’ve only heard they are being investigated for laundering money, I will assume they have not been convicted of, much less charged with, laundering money. Therefore, MarCorp has no reason, not legally and not even ethically, to consider that possibility. Second, it is not the responsibility of MarCorp, again, either legally or ethically, to investigate or enforce the laws regarding money laundering. We comply fully with all applicable reporting requirements. That is all we are required to do. Third, I can assure you that Andes’ various investments, which, if memory serves, are generally between $250,000 and $750,000, were made through appropriately documented channels. No one named Pedro showed up here with a suitcase full of twenties, detective.”

“So you’re saying that the money laundering charge against Andes may or may not be bullshit, but, in any event, it’s got nothing to do with you,” said Lynch.

“To paraphrase incompletely and less than wholly accurately, yes,” said Heaton.

“OK, look. Nobody’s saying Eddie did anything. This looks like a professional hit. That generally means money and criminal contacts. Eddie’s got one, some of the people he’s done business with have both.”

Heaton shrugged. “Detective, I assure you, if Mr Marslovak had an idea, you’d know. If he gets an idea, you will know. Now, are we through?”

Lynch nodded. “A pleasure, counsel. You know, you sure do talk pretty. You got any tips for me, anything I can do to raise my level of discourse?”

“A rose smells as sweet no matter the name, detective. And a buffoon sounds as coarse.”

“What do you think, Slo-mo,” said Lynch, looking at the lawyer. “Am I the rose or the buffoon?”

“I thought you were the ice cream man,” said Bernstein.

Lynch moved the Crown Victoria through the North Michigan Avenue traffic around Marslovak’s office like a blunt instrument. Bernstein was trying to time sips on his coffee with Lynch’s lane changes.

“How’d you like Eddie’s lawyer?” Lynch asked.

“Have to call my parents, see if they’re still looking to breed their Rottweiler. Pretty sure the vet said it can’t screw any lawyers, though. Not without a condom.”

“Yeah. So what’s your read on Eddie? Anything?”

“Definitely have to say he didn’t hire anyone to pop his mom. Seems too, I don’t know, volatile to set this up. Could see that lawyer doing it.”

“Get the sense he was holding anything back on the waste hauling thing or those Andes guys?”

“Got the sense the next time he holds something back will be the first.”

“Yeah,” Lynch answered. “Man, I wish I knew what she said in that confessional.”

“You Catholics and your secrets.”

“Careful, Slo-mo. Don’t make me bring the Cabalists into this.”

Back in the office, Lynch and Bernstein ran down what they got from Marslovak, which was nothing.

“Not nothing,” Starshak said. “You did manage to piss him off. I got a call from the deputy chief, who got a call from the chief, who got a call from the mayor. Eddie telling them you all but accused him of being a mob guy and a drug dealer.”

“That’s bullshit,” said Lynch.

“Course it is,” said Starshak. “Still like to keep it off our shoes, though.”

“I got nothing left to rattle his cage about, so I guess we’re OK there,” Lynch said. “What’s with the lab? Still ain’t got ballistics.”

“Called while you were out,” Starshak said. “Guy wants you to stop down.”

A lab tech named Pfundstein met Lynch by the elevators. Pfundstein looked about thirteen, wearing glasses that probably weighed as much as he did.

“I’m sorry to take so long with the results, detective, but I’ve been having some trouble with this one.”

“Slug went through her sternum and her spine and dug into a piece of oak,” Lynch said. “Figured it was pretty fucked up.”

“Oh, it is. Fucked up, I mean.” Pfundstein pushing his glasses up his nose. “If you were hoping to be able to match this to a weapon, forget it. I’ve got the metallurgy for you, and it’s not your garden variety stuff, so that might help a little.”

“So what was the trouble?”

“Even as messed up as the slug is, it should still have marks, right? I mean it’s like fingerprints. Lots of times you get partials. Maybe not enough for a match, but at least you get something. This slug? Nothing. Can’t tell you the number of grooves. Can’t tell you left twist, right twist. Nothing.”

“So what? Smooth-bore weapon of some kind?”

“At that range? Hard to see it. I’m thinking maybe it was saboted.”

“What’s that?”

“Take a bullet. You coat it with something like cellulose, some kind of resin maybe. Coating picks up the spin from the rifling, so your slug stays accurate, but the coating burns off, both in the barrel and in flight. Only way I can think we get a slug with no marks at all.”

“Sounds a little James Bond. This happen much?”

CHAPTER 22 — CHICAGO

Jose Villanueva drove up to Sacred Heart. The church had one of those Saturday evening masses where you could get the thing out of the way, sleep in Sunday. Or be ready for the Bears game, whatever. Anyway, the chink bitch wanted the job done tonight. Villanueva figured he’d do the mass, get a look at the layout. Grab a bulletin, too. Make sure that nothing was going on in the church later, that he didn’t break in in the middle of an all-night novena or something.