Start Shooting (11 page)

Jason eyes Buff and his tone. It’s obvious Buff wants time to talk with Jason before OPS does; Buff will know what I said, and this way, Jason will too before he goes on the record. Heads will roll for this gunfight and Buff’s trying to keep them from being ours.

The OPS investigator does not appear comfortable or confident. He says to Buff, “We better talk, before you and your team head uptown.”

Buff nods, gives me the same cover-your-ass look Ruben just did, then walks off with the OPS investigator.

Jason watches them avoid the headlights of more unmarked cars arriving. Halfway to the perimeter, Buff and the OPS investigator stop in the oscillating shadows, the investigator talking, Buff listening. Jason steps to me. “Cap rabid dogs and we gotta worry?”

I scan the death scene: haphazard cars, bodies, and weapons, now surrounded by methodical meticulous police reaction. It’s a surreal moment—the sharp roar of the street, followed by the blanket silence of the system—surreal, but in most big American cities it happens once a day. A clearly shaken Jewboy steps around the broken glass, blood, and brass casings, but stays inside yellow crime-scene tape being strung.

“That was bad.” Jewboy exhales long and slow, then chins toward Buff and the OPS investigator. As those two talk, they stare at a parked black Ford SUV that usually means FBI. Two men in dark suits stand either side of the SUV’s headlights, both talking on cell phones.

“I fucking knew it.” Jason turns his back to the SUV. “Lopez was undercover. She and Hahn are after us … and we got one of ’em killed.”

Jewboy nods, unusually somber, head bouncing from Jason to me. “But why be after us? We didn’t do anything. Did we?”

Everybody’s waiting for me to say something … like I have the answer.

The Area 4 Detective Division is a big building at Harrison and Kedzie. Buff has us all here, sans Jason who’s at Mercy Hospital till
they remove the glass from his face and arms. In these situations, Buff operates in full father mode. We’re his charges, like his grunts were in Vietnam. If bullets are in the air, be they foreign or friendly, Buff leads from the front.

And that’s a good thing, ’cause if Officer Lopez was a fed—and it appears she was—then an assistant U.S. attorney and other FBI specialists will be added to the normal rounds of post-shooting interrogations. Not debriefings:
interrogations
. Unfortunately, it has to be that way; when a public servant kills a citizen
or three
—even murderers armed with machine guns—the system has to satisfy itself that you acted properly. Properly is defined by hard-and-fast rules of engagement that are then interpreted subjectively. And you don’t get to whine, because you knew all that when you took the job.

Two gangsters were killed with cars; I shot another who, as of ten minutes ago, is still alive; and Officer Hahn shot a fourth one who isn’t. Officer Lopez is dead and anyone who’s been the police more than an hour knows this incident was a setup, an execution. The fact that Sheila Lopez probably was a
federal
undercover officer points the finger at the police who organized the buy. As of this moment, we—make that Gang Team 1269—haven’t been told what case Officer Lopez was working for the FBI but it stands to reason that it was against our TAC and gang crimes unit. There is the possibility she was working a case on the Latin Kings and hadn’t involved us because a) we can’t be trusted, and b) how would we know “b” if we can’t be trusted?

Our new commander—who organized the buy and should be under the lights with the rest of us—is seated next to an ASA (assistant state’s attorney—“the DA” in TV shows) and the OPS investigator who conducted the crime-scene interview with me. The fact that our commander isn’t under the lights means either she did her interview previously or she put the mission together with the full knowledge of the ASA. And that is not required policy for a street-level, stand-alone dope buy.

Our commander asks me to explain what happened.

I do.

When I’m done reliving the gunfight a fourth time, she mentions, a fourth time, and on the record, that my brother Ruben is one of the
Homicide detectives investigating the murder of Officer Lopez. The first two times she mentioned Ruben, I agreed. For the last two I have remained silent.

She asks, “Did you speak with your brother tonight, prior to the shooting on Ashland?”

“Yes.”

“When and where.”

“Levee Grill for dinner. Eight o’clock.”

“Two and a half hours before the shooting?”

Nod.

“If your nod indicates an answer in the affirmative, please say so.”

“Yes.”

The ASA takes over. “Did you and Detective Ruben Vargas discuss the Latin Kings mission?”

“No.”

“Did you discuss officers Hahn and Lopez as possible federal agents?”

“No.”

My new commander leans in, extends a finger toward my face, and—

Commotion behind her produces three more professionals led by a six-foot woman wearing a perfectly pressed suit in the middle of the night. The hair tightens on my arms. Jo Ann Merica introduces herself as the U.S. attorney for the Northern District of Illinois and sits down uninvited. Seeing her here and
in person
at pushing midnight is so out of line I have to rub my eyes and remember to breathe.

On TV you cowboy-up and tell the G to stick it; in real life you don’t. They have all the money and all the time required to ruin you, guilty or not. And they will, if they think ruining you serves some higher federal goal. Or if it helps run for governor. Jo Ann Merica studies me like the motionless, ghetto pit bulls do when you’re about to step into their yard. She’s famous for putting cops and politicians in prison, and for “thirty-two-degree eyes that don’t blink when children die.”

The ASA shows me a copy of this morning’s
Herald
. “Is this what you and your brother discussed? And if so, what was the substance of that discussion?”

“The Olympics is a bit off my beat.”

The ASA frowns, flips the
Herald
over, and points to the exposé teaser.

I silently count to five before answering. “Help me here. I’m not named in the Dupree lawsuit. And why does libel in the
Herald
on an unrelated case that happened when I was
thirteen years old
matter tonight?”

“Answer the question please.”

“I will, after you explain why it matters.”

“You shot a man tonight; we want to know why.”

“Because he had a machine gun and he’d just murdered one of my fellow officers.”

“Please answer the question.”

“I forgot, what is it?”

“What information do you have on the Coleen Brennan murder?”

“Coleen Brennan was my friend when other people wouldn’t be. Whatever we were is none of your fucking business.”

“That’s your answer?”

“If that’s your question.”

Uninvited, the U.S. attorney for the Northern District of Illinois, one of the most powerful federal officials outside Washington, D.C., takes over. “Did you ask Officer Lopez if she was a federal agent?”

Neither the ASA nor my new commander challenge Ms. Merica’s right to take over, so I turn to her and answer, “No.”

“Did any member of your gang team ask Officer Lopez if she was a federal agent?”

“Don’t know.”

“That’s your answer? On the record?”

“Yeah.” Bit of adrenaline.

“Have you discussed Officer Lopez with Chicago Police Department officers Anderson, Cowin, and Mesrow?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you discuss the possibility that she was a federal agent?”

“Don’t remember.”

“You’re certain you don’t remember?”

“I don’t remember if I remember.”

A meticulously dressed subordinate supplies Jo Ann Merica with papers and points mid-page. “Officer Mesrow remembers. Does that help?”

“No. Sorry.”

The subordinate’s finger points Ms. Merica to another section. She reads it, then says, “You told the OPS: ‘No way they light up the Toyota if they know we’re cops. But they knew something, expected some kind of car-bomb, big move, and they knew it was that exact car.’ Is that what you said?”

“Something like that.”

“How would the Latin Kings know?”

“Somebody tipped them. And no, I don’t know who. I was told by my sergeant who was told by our commander”—I nod across the table at my commander, intent on saving her career—“to perform the buy at a specific time and in a specific manner. That’s what I did; that’s what we all did, including Officer Lopez.” I cut to the ASA. “And I was not notified of this mission until
after
I left my brother and Mr. Barlow. And no, I did not speak to either man again until I saw Ruben at the crime scene.”

The U.S. attorney taps her pen. No one speaks, not the ASA, my commander, or the OPS investigator. The U.S. attorney continues. “Did you and your brother discuss the red Toyota at the Levee Grill?”

“I already said, no.”

“Not to me.” Pause. “I understand former First Ward alderman Toddy Pete Steffen was at your table.”

Uh-oh. Either the Levee Grill is under federal surveillance or Ruben and I are being tailed. “Mr. Steffen said hello. To Ruben’s lawyer.”

The U.S. attorney nods. “And the two Japanese men from Furukawa Industries?”

Staring at Jo Anne Merica, it hits me that she hasn’t asked about the Duprees’
federal
lawsuit that might make her governor. Her only focus,
at midnight
, is me, Ruben, and federal undercover agents. And now Toddy Pete and Furukawa—

“The gentlemen from Furukawa—did you or your brother speak with them?”

Blink. “Why would we?” My commander and the ASA stare bullets at me. I cut back to the U.S. attorney. “One of you three wanna tell me what’s going on?”

Small smile; unlimited budget, thirty-two-degree eyes. “I wonder how the Vargas brothers—street cops from the Four Corners—can
afford James W. Barlow as their attorney. And why they’re in the same restaurant with Toddy Pete Steffen and Dr. Hitoshi Ota, CEO of Furukawa Industries, Chicago’s Olympic benefactor. It looks like a meeting, smells like a meeting, maybe it
is
a meeting.”

Barlow I understand; the rest I’m clueless. “Wanna repeat that in English? ’Cause this
street cop
doesn’t know
what the fuck you’re talking about.
”

The U.S. attorney leans forward. “I think you do.”

My new commander waits until she’s certain the U.S. attorney isn’t continuing, then says, “You’re given two days with pay, pending the review of tonight’s shooting. And, per previous notification, you are to report to the Internal Affairs Division Monday morning at 0800 regarding the Coleen Brennan accusations. You may appear with or without an attorney.”

My hands unfold damp. There should be FBI specialists in here if Hahn and Lopez are FBI, and there aren’t any. That black SUV and its two guys belonged to somebody.

Jo Ann Merica says, “Do not leave Chicago without prior notification to my office. You’re excused.”

SATURDAY

The alley behind my apartment radiates fight-or-flee. One hand squeezes a cocked murder weapon, the other squeezes the steering wheel. Heat prickles my neck. Through bit teeth I repeat, “I am not a victim.” I am Arleen the Bold, clutch down, in gear, engine running. And have been for twenty-eight minutes. July sun glares my VW’s windshield.
Fight-or-flee
. Robbie Steffen is here, has to be. Robbie has to kill me. I was on Lawrence Avenue, and a player—the state’s attorney can charge me with murder. The U.S. attorney can charge me under RICO. Robbie knows I’ll get some kind of immunity on the murder charge to bury a crooked cop. I release the steering wheel, keep the cocked .38 in my other hand, and call my landline again.

No answer. The window curtains don’t move. But Robbie
has
to be here.

Robbie couldn’t find me last night because I slept in my car and moved every two hours. Now if I can just survive a fast trip up my back stairs … Run up, pack the Blanche clothes for my audition—the ones I wore that got me this far—grab my hair and makeup case, I’ll hide out at Julie’s till audition time. By then, something will have worked out. It’s my turn.

I squeeze the .38 and glance at the
Streetcar
pages. Fight-or-flee?

Arleen the Victim or Arleen the Bold? My hand reaches for the
Streetcar
pages,
my
pages. Pick. Choose. I cut the ignition, pop the door, and bolt. At the stairs, I leap two at a time, key the door, jump
inside, close it, and listen … to the city outside, me breathing, nothing else.

Don’t be here, Robbie …

I slow-walk out of the kitchen into the hall, three steps, then four. My apartment wasn’t electric dangerous before—Noise. Was that a creak? The front door? Forget the clothes—no have to have the clothes—Don’t be here, Robbie. Don’t make me shoot you.

“Arleen?” Front door, ten feet away.

I freeze. Someone knocks—knuckles or a gun barrel. “Arleen? We gotta talk. Your neighbor called me, said you were home.”