The Chicago Way (26 page)

“Yeah. Remember what I said. Keep a lid on this until I come in.”

“Have you heard anything from me yet?”

“No.”

“All right then. Get the fuck moving on whatever it is you do.”

Masters hung up just as Bennett Davis approached, hand extended.

“Michael. Thanks for meeting me on such short notice.”

I shook Bennett’s hand. He sat down beside me.

“How are you doing?” he said.

“Fine, Bennett. How about you?”

“Been better, Michael. Been better. The Nicole thing.”

“Doesn’t really go away, does it?”

Bennett shrugged as the weight of so much grief settled about his shoulders.

“Not really. There is something, however, I need to talk to you about.”

“I’m listening,” I said.

“We’ve known each other a long time, right?”

I nodded.

“Here’s the thing. I think I might have a problem.”

“What kind of problem?” I said.

“Vince Rodriguez worked a homicide two nights ago. A man named Daniel Pollard. Shot twice in the chest. Ballistics came back this morning. The gun they used was the same one that killed Gibbons. A nine.”

I took a beat and then responded.

“And you want what from me?”

Bennett rubbed his chin and ran his tongue over his lower lip, like he was thirsty but not sure for what.

“I know you’re working that case, Michael. I think you might know where I could find the gun.”

“You think so?”

“Whoever killed this guy Pollard also killed Gibbons. We can prove that now.”

“I know all about your case, Bennett. In fact, I was there when Rodriguez found Daniel Pollard’s body.”

Bennett Davis peeled back his lips and pushed out a smile. If I hadn’t known it already, I did now. My friend was dirty. The only question left for me: Was he also dangerous?

“Maybe we should go back downtown and get on the record,” Bennett suggested.

“Maybe. But hear me out first.”

I pulled a plastic bag from my pocket. Inside it was the cigar butt I had taken from under Pollard’s recliner.

“You see this? It’s a Macanudo.”

I gestured to the row of cigars stacked inside the assistant DA’s overcoat.

“Your brand, Bennett. Yesterday I took a piece of this down to Gentech. Ever hear of them?”

Bennett shook his head.

“I hadn’t either. Rachel Swenson recommended them. A private DNA lab out of Joliet. Can work fast if they have to. They isolated saliva and are certain they can get a DNA profile. Takes three days to get back preliminary results. I’m guessing it comes back to you.”

Bennett Davis got up to go. I kept talking.

“Go on, Bennett. But you’re going to hear the rest. Either here or in a press conference.”

He stopped.

“Pollard was your mistake,” I said. “The first and biggest one you ever made.”

Davis sat down again, pulled out one of his cigars, and rolled it between his fingers. Otherwise, he just listened.

“You didn’t appear in any of the press because you were just too green. But you worked the Grime case. Donovan remembers you.”

I pulled out the photo of Grime’s prosecution team.

“That’s you in the background. How old were you? Twenty-six?”

“Twenty-five.”

“Fucking prodigy. None of us ever knew.”

“I hated that goddamn photo,” Davis said. “Only one taken of all of us, you know.”

“You cut the deal with Pollard. I had to plow through five boxes’ worth of paperwork, but I found it. You gave Pollard the immunity deal for his testimony.”

“He was key to the case,” Davis said. “Closest thing we had to an eyewitness.”

“What you didn’t realize was, your eyewitness was actually Grime’s accomplice.”

Davis looked up and opened his mouth but I kept going.

“Don’t bother, Bennett. Not here, anyway. The cigar will put you inside Pollard’s house. But there’s more.”

I pulled out a sheaf of papers.

“These are records from the Department of Corrections.”

I put them on the bench, but Davis ignored them.

“Probably didn’t seem like a lot, but the visits add up over the years. Twenty-three separate contacts with Grime on death row. Haven’t talked to him yet. Once we do, he’ll give you up.”

Bennett Davis smiled. A grin of the damned.

“When did Grime first blackmail you?” I said.

Davis struck a match. Let the sulphur burn off and then drew the flame up into his cigar. The smoke came out thick, smooth, and cool, casting a veil, if only for a moment, between us. Then the smoke was gone and Bennett Davis came clean.

“Fuck it, Kelly. You’re just too goddamn good. No, I take that back. You’re not good. Just lucky. Sure, Grime contacted me. It was a year after he was convicted. Had one hell of a time with it. Taunted me. Told me I was a stupid punk. Gave immunity to a serial killer. ‘How would that play in Peoria?’ Grime would always say, and laugh like a motherfucker. Pollard was his protйgй. His surrogate animal on the street. And there was nothing I could do about it.”

“When was the first time?”

“Remington was first. At least the first that I knew of.”

“And you fixed it?”

Davis looked past me and nodded.

“Damn straight I fixed it. Shut up everyone who needed to be shut up. Some of them I bought. The rest I just bluffed.”

“Like Gibbons?”

“He knew nothing. After that it became easier. Most of the victims were hookers. At least at first. Not exactly high-priority stuff. Later on, as long as Pollard used a condom, didn’t leave any DNA behind, I was safe.”

I thought about Nicole and her cold files. I thought about how much she cared for her friend Bennett. I found myself hoping she never knew the truth about him, even as the knife slid across her throat.

“The years go by,” Davis continued. “Just becomes part of your life. Of course I’d heard rumors about the street file on Remington. Maybe there was some lost evidence out there. Some DNA. If so, it was the thing that could link Pollard to Grime.”

“And you to Pollard.”

“Eventually, yeah. After I talked to you at the lockup, I figured Gibbons was looking for the street file. Or might have already found it.”

I thought about Gibbons’ landlady looking to make a buck. One hundred thousand volts, busting open her heart at the seams.

“So you sent Pollard to see the landlady,” I said.

“Again, beyond my control. Pollard was simply supposed to see if she had the file and grab it.”

“And that brings us to Nicole,” I said. “You talked to her at the Drake. She told you about Elaine Remington’s shirt.”

“I couldn’t let her get a look at that evidence.”

“I know, Bennett. At first I thought you might have sent Pollard, but then I thought again. There was no other key card used that night, which meant Nicole herself let the killer into the lab. Had to be someone she knew. Had to be someone she trusted. Had to be you, Bennett.”

A well-manicured woman came close by walking her bichon frise. She gave us both a proper Gold Coast smile and moved past. Davis dropped the cigar between his legs.

“It could have been different with us,” he said. “But that was her decision. Long time ago. This thing here. I had no choice. None at all.”

Davis looked up and spread his hands.

“To be honest, if I thought I could get away with it, I’d do it again. Not easy to live with, but hell, there it is.”

I counted to ten and kept my hand away from the gun at my hip. Maybe that was what Bennett wanted. Law and order’s express lane. He wasn’t going to get it. Not from me. Not today.

“You know what I wonder about?” I said. “The endgame. Where would it have ended? How would you ever get out?”

My former friend just shrugged.

“Grime gets executed.”

“And then?”

“And then Daniel Pollard disappears and the problem goes away.”

“Maybe call in a guy like Joey Palermo for that?”

“You know about that, too. Interesting.”

Bennett Davis smiled. The last one I ever saw.

“So what happens now?” he said.

“Walk with me,” I said.

The two of us got up and walked.

“You have another cigar?”

Davis cut one for me and I lit up.

“You remember The Godfather Part Two, final scene?” I said.

“Yeah.”

“Michael sends Tom Hagen to see Frankie Pentangeli in the pen.”

“Yeah, Michael. I remember.”

“Frankie asks Tom the same question. Tom tells Frankie what the Romans did when their plot against the emperor failed.”

“They went into a hot bath and opened up their veins.”

“That’s exactly what they did, Bennett. Now, your family is never going to get taken care of and I don’t think you deserve a hot bath. But an Italian friend of mine did give me a bit of advice I’ll pass along.”

Then I told Davis about Vinnie DeLuca and his cannolis and about eating a bullet in a bathroom stall.

“DNA comes back in three days, Bennett. Then the state takes over. And whoever else decides they need you dead.”

“Fair enough,” Davis said.

“More than you deserve.”

Davis sat back down on a bench.

“Going to sit here awhile and think.”

“Good-bye, Bennett.”

I began to walk away. Twenty yards later Davis’ voice plucked at my shoulder.

“One more thing, Michael.”

I stopped but didn’t turn.

“You never answered my question about the nine millimeter,” he said. “Same gun used on Gibbons and Pollard. One thing I know for sure. It wasn’t me.”

I began walking again. Bennett Davis didn’t deserve an answer. Of all the things he told me, however, the last rang truest of all.

M y plane landed in Tulsa at a little after seven o’clock in the morning. I had turned my cell off for the flight and powered it on as I drove across the Kansas state line.

The DNA on Daniel Pollard had been a rush job but worth it. A full match to Elaine Remington’s rape, the Grime unknowns, and the tears left on Miriam Hope’s bedsheets. Diane would break the story sometime tomorrow. There would be a press conference after that. Then it would go national, and it would be crazy. For a minute I thought about Bennett Davis. He’d either eat a bullet or be in cuffs by tomorrow night. I was rooting for the former. My cell phone buzzed. It was Rodriguez.

“Hey.”

“You getting there?” he said.

“I think so.”

“You sure we don’t want to call in any help on this?”

“I got it. You worry about Davis.”

“Speaking of which, we got the rest of the CODIS run back on Pollard.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “Nothing.”

“How did you know?”

“Bennett told me Pollard took Grime’s advice, started using a condom years ago.”

“How many do you think he did?”

“Lots,” I said.

“Just rape?” Rodriguez said.

I thought about Miriam Hope, talking to Daniel Pollard, trying to save her life, trying to buy a few more decades of loneliness.

“He knifed the old man in the apartment,” I said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if there were more.”

“Yeah, the cold squad is going through its old homicides. See if they can find any more links.”

“Has anyone talked to Grime yet?”

“Not yet. We’ll pay him a visit this week.”

“Okay. I should be back in Chicago tonight.”

“No chances on this, Kelly. You want me to move here, you call.”

I flipped my phone shut and passed a sign that read SEDAN, KANSAS, 22 MILES. I pulled over and took out the street file. Elaine’s hospital admittance form had a name for next of kin but no address. My client herself had provided the town the night I picked her up in Cal City. Not a lot, but enough to give it a try.

I pulled in to Sedan a half hour later. It wasn’t much of a town, a mile’s worth of boarded-up storefronts and a load of dust. At the end of the strip was a five-story hotel that took up an entire block. It was boarded up, too. I cruised right through, didn’t see a soul.

Down the road a bit, I pulled up behind a couple of cowboy hats. They were sitting in a pickup, waiting for the light to change. Problem was, there was no light. Just two country roads, intersecting in a field of mud. I got out of my car and walked forward.

“Looks nicer in the summer. When it’s full of corn.”

The driver spoke without turning his head. I realized their pickup was actually stopped, turned off. No key in the ignition.

“You guys just hang out here?” I said.

The passenger leaned across and grinned. He had the blackened remnants of teeth at either end of his smile and a carbuncle on his nose worthy of its own reality show. In one hand, he held a Starbucks mug. In the other, a pretty good-looking Danish.

“Coffee right here. Most mornings. You’re welcome to join us.”

I wondered just where the Sedan Starbucks might be located. I had a different agenda, however, and stuck to it. The locals knew exactly where I needed to go.

Five minutes later I pulled down a dirt road and stopped in front of a farmhouse that creaked in the wind. A barn stood off to one side. A few chickens scratched out the morning in between.

I slammed the car door shut. A horse whinnied. Whoever was inside heard me because a curtain twitched and then the front door opened. The man inside was on the shaded side of fifty-five. His face was long, lean, and tough. The eyes were brown, color of the fields he had spent a lifetime working. The man took me in at a glance and moved a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other.

“Help you, sir?”

He spoke without suspicion but with authority. He didn’t know me and didn’t expect any trouble. If it came, though, he had no problem with that, either.