Final Stroke (25 page)

Because of the edit on the tape, Jan wasn’t sure if the interview had ended there or not, but by the look on Max’s face she figured it had.

The interview with Max was near the end of the Chicago seg
ment, and the conclusion showed a video clip that encapsulated every
thing she had read about while on the computer search system earlier. The clip showed Max on a motor yacht cruising out of Burnham Har
bor. He sat at the stern in the sun with several younger men gathered about him. The Chicago skyline was behind Max and it was obvious the shot had been taken through a telephoto lens. It appeared Max was lecturing, driving his right fist into his left palm for emphasis. The voiceover during the clip asked, “Are these young men recruits for tomorrow’s Chicago mob?” What made the clip important to Jan was that she recognized one of the men as Dino, a much younger Dino, but definitely the one Steve pointed out at the funeral. And now she recalled the way Steve said, “Dino, Rickie’s son,” and how this had reminded him of a past incident involving Rickie Justice, Dino’s fa
ther, who had changed his name from Deveno back when she first met Steve.

After giving the video back to Bonnie and thanking her, Jan re
turned to the computer and looked up Dino Justice and Rickie Jus
tice. She found nothing under those names, but when she looked up Deveno, she not only found the article about the produce market scam in which Steve had been mentioned, but she also found another refer
ence to Rickie Deveno.

This article, written in 1992, concerned a huge drug bust that
took place in 1980. Deveno was mentioned as one of several mobsters who disappeared or dropped out of organized crime in the Chicago area in the years following the drug bust. The article implied that per haps some of those who disappeared were in reality living on tropical islands. The article said that during the drug bust in 1980 on Chica go’s south side, cocaine and heroin having a street value of 280 million dollars had been confiscated. Drawing on other evidence, the writer of the article showed the drugs were in transit and were most likely just about to be turned over to a buyer or buyers when the raid took place. The writer wondered what had happened to the money that must have been gathered for such a huge deal.

Suddenly, as Jan sat at the reference room computer rereading the article, she thought of something Steve had told her several years ear
lier. He had been on a case involving the missing wife of a cop he once worked with. At one point, when evidence seemed to point to foul play, and when the cop insisted he knew nothing about a certain piece of evidence, Steve had mentioned the 1980 drug bust and told Jan about a theory that had made the rounds.

According to Steve, several Chicago Police detectives had been murdered or had so-called “accidents” during the eighties. What many insiders wondered was whether the money gathered for the drug deal had actually been there at the scene when the bust came down. And if it had been there, who had provided it and how had it disappeared? The theory that had made the rounds was that the money came from the east coast organization and a group consisting of cops and hoods had agreed to hold the money back, lie low, and split it later. The under-the-table agreement was that the deal to lie low and keep quiet would go sour and Chicago mob figures would end up with most of the cash, leaving the crooked cops with the rest. The internal turmoil had supposedly resulted in an increase in the number of deaths among
Chicago detectives.

Pure speculation, Steve had admitted at the time, but the thing that came to her now, the really important thing Steve had said, was that the rise in deaths among Chicago detectives seemed to have last
ed only a few years. Perhaps, he’d said, this was due to a general in
crease in violence against authorities in the eighties. Or, he speculated, perhaps it really did have something to do with the 1980 drug bust. Maybe the money was there, then a few years later, it just wasn’t there anymore. Or maybe those who had an interest in the money were gone, one way or another, and it ended up in the hands of someone who outlasted the others.

Jan read the article about the 1980 drug bust again. The writer of the article speculated that at the time, in order to purchase drugs with a street value of 280 million, one could assume that at least 140 million would have been needed. Then the writer speculated about what this 140 million would be worth today, twelve years later in 1992 when the article was written. At a conservative six percent per year, the money would have grown to almost 282 million, or over a quarter billion dollars in 1992!

On a whim, Jan searched for organized crime involvement in health care and was surprised to find an entry. It was a short article about a health care brokerage, supposedly having mob connections in New York, that put pressure on companies to accept deals with certain insurance firms and not with others. One sidelight of the operation was that, in brokering deals, mob figures and their families and friends were sometimes illegally put on the insurance rolls of companies that got their coverage through the brokerage.

Jan got up from the computer and went for a walk to the drink ing fountain. After a long drink, she returned to the reference room, but instead of sitting back down at the computer, she sat at one of the
tables and buried her head in her hands.

Was she looking too hard? What did health care brokers in New York have to do with anything? And, for that matter, so what if Max Lamberti flaunted the fact he was in the mob? Steve had often said, when one
wants
to find something, it’s much easier to discover evi
dence pointing in that direction. Was she finding connections sim
ply because she wanted to find them? Did the fact that Gianetti was murdered in 1986 and the apparent fact that killings of Chicago Police detectives dropped off around the same time have anything to do with one another? Did Steve’s statement back then that maybe the money was in one guy’s hands mean more than she had thought at the time? Or was all of this just a convenient way to get Steve back into the work he loved, and therefore back to the man he’d been?

Prior to his stroke, Steve had involved her more and more in his cases. She enjoyed this involvement because it was part of him, be
cause she loved him. And now here he was with a stroke. But the stroke—the aftermath of it—was part of him and she’d just have to love that too!

Perhaps it was okay to speculate, to make a few waves, as Steve would say. And if Steve were here now, if he were the one sitting in the library, what would he do? What would he think? Before his stroke she often came to the library with him. It was one of his favorite places. He always said that here he could speculate to his heart’s content.

If Steve were here now he’d probably say something he once said when referring to another case he was on, a case involving the disap pearance of a large sum of money. Nowhere near 140 million, but she recalled that a couple hundred thousand had disappeared from a savings account on which parents had put the names of their chil dren. When the parents died suddenly and the account was found to be empty, two of the children hired Steve to see if he could find
the money. While working on this case, Steve had told Jan, “When big bucks are in question, people change. They’re like blindfolded kids with baseball bats in their hands all trying to see who can hit … what’s that paper mache thing with candy and goodies they hang from the ceiling?”

“
Pinata
,” she had answered.

“I couldn’t think of the word,” he’d said. “It’s like blindfolded kids trying to hit the
pinata
.”

Steve was right, nothing like a library to help a person speculate, and nothing like a pile of money to further that speculation. Here, with her head in her hands on a library table, a son and a nephew and a few cohorts could easily have gotten together and determined that an old lady, who is perhaps sitting on the
pinata,
should go ahead and die, since she’s close to death anyhow. But Steve had also reminded her many times that, although it was easy to speculate in a library, one had to constantly remind oneself there are separate sections for fact and fiction.

Of course, sometimes it didn’t hurt to use speculation to make waves. That had also been one of Steve’s tenets. She’d already made some waves telling Phil Hogan about the fingerprints on the glass that didn’t exist. So, where else could she make waves? She didn’t know where Tony Gianetti Junior or Max Lamberti lived; she knew their ad
dresses weren’t in the phone book or on the Web because she’d looked. Of course there was one place that should have an address. She’d been there just the other day, and today she wouldn’t look out of place if she went there because this morning she’d chosen to wear dark blue slacks and a blouse and a dark blue raincoat instead of the jeans she might have worn.

It was still raining when she left the library. After throwing her purse and notebook onto the passenger seat and folding the umbrella
inside before it blew away, she was about to slam the door when she noticed that the car parked two spots away was running. Ordinarily she wouldn’t have noticed this, but the car was a BMW with squat fat tires mounted so they stuck out beyond the fenders. This wouldn’t have mattered so much except she was certain the car had arrived at the library when she arrived. She’d seen it behind her while waiting for a car to pull out of a space. And now, since there was an empty space between her car and the BMW, she could see that the driver wore a baseball cap and was short and had a flat-nosed face.

CHAPTER

FIFTEE
N

Despite heavy rain Jan could see him behind her. The
wide stance of the BMW with its fat tires sticking out the sides was a giveaway. On the Stevenson Expressway, the BMW’s tires flung rain
water up into the air creating rooster tails at the sides of the car.

Was it possible she had already stumbled onto something? Was the case going too fast? She recalled Steve once saying that the gath
ering of evidence can draw you in, or worse, can sweep ahead of you and cast you aside. You need to be careful, he’d warned, that you don’t become part of the circumstances of the case before you even know what’s going on. Had she pursued this avenue of investigation partially because she simply didn’t like the looks of a guy who held her hand a bit too long at yesterday’s funeral? Steve had also said it was best to maintain control at the start of an investigation. Was she in control now?

What if Marjorie really did have an accident, and what if the flat-nosed guy in the BMW behind her was on staff at Saint Mel’s and felt he was responsible for the accident? Perhaps that’s why he was
following her, to make sure she didn’t get him in trouble. And here she is chasing down hoods and racketeers because they deserve to be guilty of something, don’t they? But there was still the drug money. Was it really a connection? Or had she simply been waiting in the wings for an excuse to regress into a condition the stroke victim family counselor had warned her about weeks ago?

Sometimes, the counselor had said, a family member tries too hard. She thinks she is helping the loved one when in reality she is simply becoming active and agitated in order to get away from the situation and, therefore, from him. Sometimes running errands and speaking with staff can indicate a natural need to escape. The coun
selor said it was normal to have these feelings, but to accept them and to deal with them. Had she failed? Was she off on a wild goose chase because, like a child, she thought when she returned Steve would be all better?

Damn bitch, she should forget about all this. She should have either stayed with Steve or been honest with him and gone off for the long weekend with Lydia. But what about the guy behind her? Was he really the guy she’d seen shadowboxing last night in the parking lot? Now that she’d exited the expressway and made several turns it was obvious he was following her. Although she felt strangely guilty, somewhat frightened, and angry at the same time, she continued driv
ing a zigzag route across the west side of the city. At one point she thought another car was following her, a car driven by a Hispanic woman. Could this be the same Hispanic woman she’d seen earlier that morning giving the finger to another driver?

Crazy. Now she
was
getting paranoid. First it’s the guy in the BMW, next it’s a Hispanic woman she saw once at a stoplight. How could she possibly recognize a driver she’d seen hours earlier in her rearview mirror through rain-streaked car windows? Finally, after a
few more blocks of zigzagging, it appeared no one was following her.

When she arrived at the funeral home, Jan could tell by the nu
merous cars in the parking lot there was a funeral this morning. Ar
riving cars were being lined up nose to tail the way they had been lined up when she and Steve came here to Marjorie’s funeral. The only dif
ference was that it had been clear and sunny and calm, and today it was stormy. Although she did not see any squad cars at the moment, she knew there would be one or two later during the procession to the cemetery. If she stuck around and joined the funeral after doing what she’d come here to do, she’d be able to get the attention of a cop if the flat-nosed bastard was still following.

And so, she got in line, watched as a funeral home worker hanging onto a battle-weary umbrella came toward her car, opened the window slightly to accept the funeral sticker, applied the sticker to the inside of her windshield as instructed, then got out and ran inside as if she knew the deceased. On the way in from her car a gust of wind turned her umbrella inside out, but she managed to pull it back into shape as she ran for the canopied entrance. Once inside the vestibule shaking out her umbrella, she wondered if she had made a terrible mistake.

The funeral service had not yet begun and at least a hundred mourners stood crowded together in the lobby, with more inside the chapel. She might as well have worn jeans, or perhaps a bikini, be
cause everyone in the lobby, and apparently, as word spread, everyone inside the chapel except the corpse, was aware she’d arrived. Not that any of the mourners knew her. All they knew was that a white woman with a soaked rat’s nest of sandy brown hair had arrived and all of them were black.

Steve would have loved this. And when she told him about it, he’d probably have a good laugh. There were a few smiles, especially from a group of older women stationed near the door. One of the women
nodded to her in greeting.

When she glanced back outside, she saw that her car was al
ready hemmed in, two cars having been parked behind her by the funeral home worker, a white man—how tricky—in his fifties. If she worked at the funeral home—something she considered faking— she certainly would not have parked in line with the mourners. The group of older women near the entrance, who had a clear view out the window when she arrived, obviously noticed where she had parked. She tried to see if the BMW, with its wide-set wheels, was in the park
ing lot, but more black people were running toward the entrance and this blocked her view.

All right, idiot white lady, she told herself. Deal with it. These are people who’ve just lost someone, the way you almost lost Steve.

And so she returned nods and smiles politely, was about to drift off to the side of the lobby toward the restrooms and the offices—her original destination—when it became obvious by the aisle made for her and the subtle turning of bodies toward the chapel, and the fact the group who came in behind her was waiting, that she was expected to go inside and pay her respects.

The deceased was a man. About sixty or so. Appropriately, the mortician had fashioned a coy smile on the man’s face. She stood be
fore the casket a few seconds, then turned and said she was sorry to the few people standing near the front, nodded yes when asked if she worked with Ralph, then headed quickly for the back of the room where another white mourner stood.

And now Steve would have more laughs. This guy, the only other Caucasian in the place besides her and one of the two funeral directors who had started arranging the service, apparently thought this coinci dence was an excuse to put the make on her. His name was Dutch, he said. He was at least as old as the deceased and said he’d worked in the
sewer for the Chicago Sanitary District with Ralph for twenty-five years and that he was glad to meet her and wondered if she would mind if he sat with her at the luncheon. But the service saved her from answering.

A minister began prayers and she knew that soon the two funeral directors would take over and have everyone file past the casket, then out into the lobby and to their cars. She seized the moment, during which all heads were bowed, sliding along the back wall, being care
ful not to knock over flower arrangements. Once out in the lobby, she headed in the direction of the restrooms. But at the last second, with a glance back to make sure those at the double doors were not watching, she ducked to the side and turned the knob on the door labeled
Office
.

The office was windowless and dark. She found the wall switch and turned on the light as soon as she closed the door behind her. It did not take long to find what she was looking for. Three large four-drawer filing cabinets were arranged alphabetically and she located a file marked Gianetti in the bottom drawer of the first cabinet. The address for Tony Gianetti Junior was on a copy of a statement. She took her notebook out of her purse, copied down the address, noticed that the casket alone was seventy-five thousand, and put the file back. Then, as she was about to open the door to leave, the knob turned from the outside and the door opened in on her.

It was the guy from outside who had been parking cars. She flat tened herself against the wall behind the door, but he had not opened the door fully and now closed it quietly behind him, leaving her ex posed. His back was to her as he rummaged on a shelf on the far wall. When he turned she prepared to be caught. She’d say she wanted to arrange a funeral, make something up about her father, pull out her handkerchief. But he did not see her because his eyes were closed as he put a pint of whiskey to his lips and took a deep swallow. After this he turned back to the shelf, replaced the bottle to its hiding spot, wiped
his mouth with the back of his hand, sprayed his mouth with mouth spray he took from his inside pocket, shut off the light before opening the door, and left the office.

After sneaking out of the office she spent quite a while in the la
dies’ room. To her astonishment, while sitting in a stall, she overheard two young women not only mention her, but also the flat-nosed man who’d followed her.

“Uncle Ralph’s widow lady shure-nuff has some thinkin’ to do.”

“Why’s that, girl?’

“Not, ‘Why’s that, girl?’ ‘cause I’m talkin’ about the white bitch went up front like she owned the place, that’s all.”

“She didn’t come in like she owned the place. Everyone who visits goes up front. How old you think she is?”

“I don’t know, like they say, it’s hard to tell the ages of white folks.”

“Mama said she probably worked down at the District in the office.”

“That’s my point exactly. What’s Uncle Ralph doin’ spendin’ time in the office when he’s supposed to be either out in the truck or down in the sewer? What I’m sayin’ is maybe Uncle Ralph had a certain part of him that was a mite younger than the rest of him.”

Both young women laughed at this, then continued.

“Did you see that Puerto Rican or whatever he was?”

“Yeah, a lightweight like my old boyfriend Daniel, except it looked like this guy went down for the count.”

“Well, he sure looked nervous, especially when Derrick and Sean gave him the eyeball.”

“So that’s why he run out and took off in his pimpmobile Beamer. You asked Derrick and Sean to protect your honor ‘cause he was sayin’ he come to look for his favorite lady by the name of Tiffany.”

Laughter, then scuffling sounds, then a purse hit the floor and was retrieved, then more laughter until the door opened and an older
woman mumbled something and the two said, “Yes, ma’am,” and left the ladies’ room.

The door to the ladies’ room opened and closed several more times, but there were no more conversations. As she waited, she could hear the muted sounds of voices in the lobby. When it sounded like most of the mourners had gone outside, she left the ladies’ room, walked quickly through the lobby and to her car, not bothering with the um
brella. On her way between cars, a window came down and Ralph’s white coworker said, “Don’t forget. See you at lunch.”

While driving in the funeral procession south along Harlem Av
enue, she saw the BMW in her side mirror. It came up fast in the left lane passing the procession until it neared her car, then it slowed. But the procession went through red lights and, even though the BMW made it through one light, there was a squad car straddling the next intersection and the BMW was forced to stop while the procession continued on its way. She ducked out of the funeral procession shortly after this, cut over two blocks and headed back north. As she drove she wondered how long Ralph’s white coworker would search for her at the luncheon. But most of all she wondered where she would sleep tonight, because she knew she would not go back to the apartment.

Tamara. Perhaps she’d visit Tamara, tell her about her day and admit she’d made a fool of herself. But first she had one more stop.

On the Tri-state Tollway, heading north in the rain, she reached over with her right hand and pulled the funeral sticker off the inside of her windshield. She tried balling it up and throwing it on the floor but the sticky side was out and she couldn’t let go of it. The sensation of her fingers held in place by the balled-up sticker reminded her of Steve, how his right hand had been weakened by the stroke. Finally she managed to attach the sticker to the carpeting on the side of the transmission hump.