The Green Line (19 page)

“I just ran into Ali Rashid’s attorney. The one I had found him. We were at the courthouse. Anyway, he said Ali had brought him some security tapes from his store. He offered to give them to me and they just arrived.”

“Okay?”

“Officer Reilly is on tape, coming in for coffee and finding drugs, and arresting this kid.”

“Okay.”

“I recognize the kid! He’s been to my house. Three times now. I don’t know who he is or what he wants. He always comes when I’m not home. He yells my name. It’s weird. He tried to get my neighbor to let him in, saying he was my cousin. I saw him yesterday as I was walking home and I yelled out to him, but he ran off.”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“I didn’t think of it. I mean, it never occurred to me that he could have something to do with Ali. I didn’t know what to think. I just thought it was some punk.”

“Where are you now?”

“I’m at the firm.”

“I want to see those tapes.”

“Can you get here now? I’ve got a monitor and player set up in the conference room. I’m on the fiftieth floor.” She had requested the room and equipment to go over video depositions all afternoon. “It’s private.”

“I’m not exactly dressed to come to your firm right now. I’m in my ’hood wear.”

Abby enjoyed the reference. She could picture it. It was quite a transformation even though it was just a matter of wearing clothes that fit and losing the jewelry.

“Just take off that giant medallion. No one will really see you anyway if you come to this floor. There’s no main reception. The conference room is right off the elevator banks. You’ll see me.”

“Okay. I’m on my way.”

MARCUS
and Abby watched the footage: It was the same kid. Arrested twice and he was on the tape moments before drugs were found at the coffee station.

“So if this kid planted drugs at Ali’s store, why would he come to your house? How would he know about you?”

“I don’t know. What if he comes back?”

“You call the cops. I’d say call me, but a local cop could get to you much faster.”

“Have you found anything out?”

“Only that the bartender of Reggie’s thinks he’s being framed. The kids in the neighborhood say he’s not a drug dealer. Apparently police officers came in weeks before that night, harassing him and the patrons, allegedly finding drugs. He’s now up on two separate charges. He assumes he’s screwed. He might be right.”

Abby sat with her notepad and pen, sketching her thoughts as they talked. “So we’ve got three people dead. All bodies found by Reilly. Both crime scenes allegedly connected to drug trafficking. Both properties seized.”

“And in both cases, there’s reason to doubt that there was actual drug trafficking going on.”

“What if this is about property?” Abby asked. “I mean, both places have been seized, both the result of drugs that could have been planted there.”

“But what’s the motivation? The department might make some money when the properties are sold, but how does that help a cop on the street?”

“Real estate forfeiture brings in a lot of money. According to the law, sixty-five percent of the profit from the property sale goes directly back to the agency that conducted the investigation. Don’t you think that creates an incentive to make them happen? I’m not saying the department would suggest planting evidence, but if there are incentives to the officers—even Christmas bonuses, perhaps? People have committed crimes for less.”

“I don’t know. I’ll discuss it with Duvane and see what he can find out. Seems pretty unlikely.”

“Well, maybe we should see if Reilly’s made any other arrests that resulted in real estate seizures in the last year. And maybe we should find out what’s happened to those buildings.”

“You’re going to keep helping me, aren’t you?”

Abby smiled. “And why not?”

“Abby, I’m concerned about this kid showing up at your place. I want to figure out who that is.”

“Me too.” He had only seemed like an irritation. “But if he was involved in Ali’s arrest, and Ali ended up dead,…” The thought was hard to finish. “I wonder if there are any more tapes at the store. Maybe there’s a tape from the day of the murder!”

Marcus retrieved the tape from the machine. “I’m going to take this, okay?”

Abby stood, excited by the thought. “Absolutely. Hey, why don’t you go to Quick Mart right now? It’s probably still as it was. It was just last week that I went to the auction, so the new owners don’t close until Friday.”

Marcus was putting on his coat. “Just slow down a minute, Abby. I don’t know about breaking into the Quick Mart. I have to be pretty careful about not getting myself arrested. Let me talk to Duvane. Maybe he can get an officer in there to check the machine.”

Abby thought about this for a second. “You don’t have to break in. Go to the back door. There’s this loose brick. It’s just about a foot above the door handle. Pull the brick out and you might find a key. I know it seems dumb, but when Ali drove me home, he put the key there for his friend. It was pretty inconspicuous. Maybe they always left keys there for each other.”

Marcus was still thinking.

“Please, it’s worth a try. Now go!” She was pushing him out of the room. He laughed at her forcefulness. It made her smile too.

In only a week, she felt connected to him. It felt good to have someone to talk to again.

· · ·

MARCUS
left Abby and jumped on the Green Line. He pulled his gold medallion out of his pocket and like the touch of a magic wand, blended in perfectly again. He got off at the Pulaski stop and found the Quick Mart on the corner at the bottom of the stairs. Brown paper now covered the windows of the store so he couldn’t see in, though the sign remained. He walked around to the alley, found the back door, and saw the loose brick. He pulled it out and sure enough, found a key.

Once inside, Marcus quickly surveyed the space. Just as Abby had said, the shelves were still full of food and convenience store items, though all of the refrigerators along the back wall were empty and turned off. He went to the front by the cash register. A tape machine and a monitor were on the shelf just below the counter. But the machine was empty. He began searching the cabinets and boxes in the area for any tapes.

Bell chimes rattled and startled him. He looked up and saw the shadow of someone just outside the front door. Someone had obviously tried the door. Marcus froze and watched. He could hear someone outside. It was a woman’s voice. She was on the phone. He reached over the counter to the window by the door and pulled back the brown paper. He could see long hair and part of a big fluffy white coat.

“Yeah, it’s locked. Don’t worry.” It wasn’t hard to hear her. They were only about two feet apart, and the glass couldn’t have been too thick because Marcus could feel the cold air as he leaned toward it. “I put up the sign. Okay, will do.” The woman closed the phone and headed toward the street. Abby had said a young woman at the auction bought the building. This must be her, though it sounded like she was working for someone.

She got into a red Porsche that was pulled up front. He grabbed a pen by the register and noted the license plate on his palm as she drove off.

He pulled out his cell, called Duvane, and left a message. “It’s Henton. I need someone to run this Illinois plate for me: C V R 1 9 0. Could you ask your assistant to do that and fax me the registration at my place? Thanks. I’ll keep you posted.”

· · ·

TRIP
left Mike at the courthouse and called Jason from his car. The Walters lawsuit Mike mentioned sounded a little too familiar. Jason answered on the third ring.

“Hey Jason, it’s T. Listen, I’ve got a present for ya. Where are you?”

“I’m at home.”

“Why?” Jason always worked the day shift on Mondays.

“Because I’ve been put on leave.”

“What happened?” He feared he already knew.

“Remember those little house calls we made back in November?”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

“That woman at the Gardens.”

“Seventh floor?”

“That’s the one. She got a lawyer. She’s suing the department and named me, Darrel, and Joe. We’ve all been put on leave. Of course, the city’s fighting back hard, but she’s not rolling over. Shit is hittin’ the fan.”

“Shit.”

“You’re tellin’ me. You’re one lucky fuck too. I guess no one has figured out who you were. You’re described in the complaint, but never named.”

“You gonna name me?”

“T, come on. You know us better than that. All three of us are denying ever going there. Our lawyer is pulling up her background, calling her delusional, drug-addicted, whatever. We can’t name you or we’d admit to being there. You’re fine.”

Trip took a deep sigh. He’d been pushing it. Two years off the force. No problems. He was finally getting everything he’d wanted. He couldn’t take any more chances. This was all getting too close. “Dude, I’m really sorry. Hey, who’s the lawyer for the woman?”

“Nathan Walters.”

So Abigail Donovan was working with Nathan Walters. Who is this fucking bitch, Abigail Donovan, and why does she keep getting in my business? “Listen, I just wanted to give you your cut.”

“Fed Ex me a check. Cashier’s check.”

“Will do. Tell Darrel and Joe I’ll do the same for them. And listen, I hope this goes away. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Sure.”

That settled it. “All good things must come to an end,” Trip said out loud. Now he just needed to be sure no one could take him down. He felt pretty good about everything that had gone on during the last few months. And most of his deals were years old by now, too far to trace back or worry about. This lawsuit was little too close for comfort, but it looked like he was clear. But if Leon or any of those fucks from Reggie’s fingered him with Jason, Darrel and Joe, that would be a problem. He couldn’t just sit and wait to find out. He’d get rid of the loose ends and move on.

· · ·

ABBY
went home at five that night, anxious to escape the office and feel the warmth of a fire at home. Her mind had wandered all day from the work in front of her to Ali, the kid on the tape, and now Isabel Ramirez.

She sat in her overstuffed chair by the fire, with her hot chocolate in hand, and reviewed Ramirez’s testimony about the events that lead to the suit.

On November 6, 2003, at about 3:30 p.m., I was grabbed by four men as I was leaving my building. They was all wearing bullet proof vests. They did not identify themselves as officers, but I knew they was. An unmarked car, blue Ford, was parked twenty feet in front of us. They was armed. One grabbed me forcefully by the arm, put a gun to my head and took my keys. [Ms. Ramirez later identified this man as Officer Jason O’Brien.] They lead me back into the building, demanding that I take them to my apartment. Once inside, they started yelling about wanting to find drugs. I had no drugs and didn’t know why they was picking on me. They threw things around the apartment, looking for drugs. They tossed my framed picture of Jesus Christ across the room and shattered the glass. They called me names. I was crying and begged them to go. Another officer [who Ms. Ramirez later identified as Officer Joe Mackenzie], pulled me into a bedroom, told me to open my clothes and show him the drugs. I cried and pleaded for mercy as I opened my blouse and pants. The officer pushed me aside afterward. They all continued to search through the apartment. They kept calling me names—nigger, bitch, whore—and threatened to come back and shoot me if they found out I was hiding anything. A couple a my neighbors heard the commotion and so they came over to check on me. The officers pulled them into the room with guns drawn, threw them to the ground and told them not to move. After about ten more minutes, the officers had trashed my house and were ready to give up. One of them [Ms. Ramirez later identified as Officer Darrel Miller] told those boys on the floor to beat each other up or they’d do it for them. I just cried and cried. The boys looked up at them like they was crazy. But one of the officers kicked at them in the back, like they was animals in a show. The boys began to punch each other. The officers clapped and cheered. I reported them to OPS [Office of Professional Standards]. I found out who three of the four officers was. The fourth was white with blond hair. The other officers called him “T.” The OPS didn’t help me none. Those cops returned two weeks later and did more of the same. I have not slept through the night since it happened.

Abby wiped her tears, thinking of the woman she had met this morning. She closed the document and picked up the phone. Nate’s phone went to voice mail.

“Nate, it’s Abby. I just read through the papers you gave me. I’m in.”

EIGHTEEN

THE
week flew by. There had been no sign of the boy all week and work had consumed Abby’s every thought. It was a welcome break from her latest stresses. She spent several fourteen-hour days at the office and, by Friday, she felt some sense of relief, calm, and exhaustion. There was more to do, always, but work had taken enough of her energy this week. She had caught up on her major cases and so she lay in her bed and tried to relish the peace of the moment. Her stomach had been in knots for weeks now. Months, really. She started thinking about the last time she had fun. It had been at least six months. Other than Sarah’s wedding, she hadn’t even really gone out socially since the break-up. She missed laughing.