A Bad Night's Sleep (18 page)

I pulled the curtains, stripped off my pants and shirt, turned off the light, and climbed into bed. The unfamiliar darkness and smells surrounded me. The bedside clock said the time was 10:28. I flipped the lamp back on and fished my cell phone out of my jeans. Corrine had told me she would come to me if I needed her. Did I need her? I dialed her home number. It rang four times and her machine picked up. I listened to her voice asking me to leave a message but hung up before the recording signal. I dialed her cell phone. It rang six times and put me through to voice mail. I hung up again.

I turned off the lamp and stretched out in the strange bed. I spun David Russo’s ring on my finger. Where would Corrine be at this time of night? That kind of thinking would get me nowhere, so I thought about Lucinda, then Mom, and then Jason. Jason had told me that he wanted to go home. I thought about that. My house was his home. I was his home. That made me glad, and I wondered if that was a good thing. Good or bad didn’t matter, I decided—it just made me glad. I realized I wanted to go home too.

TWENTY-TWO

I WOKE EARLY. THE
bedside clock said 5:34. The sun wouldn’t come up for another hour.

I showered and shaved, then stepped out into the morning cold and darkness and dropped the room key at the front desk. A box at the corner sold copies of the
Chicago Tribune
. I dropped in my quarters and looked at the paper under a streetlight. It had a photo of me at the bottom of the front page. The photo was old, taken around the time the police department fired me after I crashed my cruiser. I looked drunk in the photo. No surprise. I had more hair then, less of it gray. I had a cut on my chin. You would still recognize me.

At the corner a block and a half away, the lights were on in a diner. I walked to it and went inside. A TV played near the ceiling. The air was warm and smelled like bacon grease. The griddle was out in the open, and the griddle man—a dark-haired kid in white pants, white T-shirt, and white apron—welcomed me with a big smile as I sat at the counter. Maybe he hadn’t read the paper.

He said he cooked the best hash browns in the city, so I told him to give me some with a couple of scrambled eggs, toast, and sausage. A woman came in wearing a short blue skirt, scuffed red high heels, a leather jacket, and dirty blond hair that needed a brush. She sat two stools away from me and eyed me like I might be business, then told the griddle man she wanted coffee. He didn’t offer her hash browns but poured her a cup and slid a container of sugar across the counter to her. She used four packs.

Breakfast did me good. The hooker watched me eat. So did the griddle man.

“How’re the hash browns?” he said.

“Best in the city.”

He nodded his appreciation. “My secret recipe,” he said.

The hooker frowned. “He uses boric acid. Also kills roaches.”

He grabbed a dirty dishtowel and threw it at her. “Get the fuck out of my restaurant.”

She rolled her eyes like she’d heard that before. “Give me more coffee.”

He did.

The six
A.M.
news came on and an anchorwoman with dark hair and dark eyes said that a tanker truck full of petroleum had flipped on the Southside and was burning. She cut away to a reporter standing at the crash site. The camera showed huge flames rising from the truck into the dark sky. Firemen stood at a distance, aiming hoses at the edges of the fire, controlling the burn, not fighting it. You could just about feel waves of heat coming off the TV.

The griddle man looked at the screen and shook his head. “Like hell itself is burning.”

The hooker shrugged.

The on-site reporter finished his story and cut back to the anchorwoman. She shook her head like she felt the heat too, then said, “Meanwhile, police continue their search for—”

I gulped another bite of toast, took a ten-dollar bill from my wallet, and tossed it on the counter. I scurried for the door as a picture of me popped onto the screen. The griddle man watched me like I’d turned into a strange, dangerous animal. The hooker didn’t seem to notice me go.

*   *   *

AT 6:45, THE STREETS
near my office were busy with delivery trucks unloading boxes of office supplies, loaves of bread, and cases of canned soft drinks. I pulled my car to the curb and watched. Classes at the secretarial school started at 8:00. Roselle Turner usually showed up to open the doors around 7:00. I pulled out the
Tribune
and waited.

The front-page article said the police had issued a warrant for my arrest and were keeping an eye on the places I was known to frequent. It said I might have left the city and so the police had issued a multistate alert too. It described the theft at the processing plant and the witness account of me there. It said I was likely armed and should be considered dangerous.

I had the Ruger holstered on my side. But dangerous? I figured I was mostly dangerous to myself.

The article continued on page eight. It retold the events at Southshore Village and gave the highlights of my record as a cop and private investigator. According to the reporter, I was a good guy who’d gone bad. Nothing I didn’t know already. I tossed the paper onto the passenger seat.

At 6:56 Roselle Turner walked past my car. I waited five minutes, then dialed 411, asked for the number to the secretarial school, and dialed again. She picked up, breathless, like she’d run for the phone.

“Hi, Roselle,” I said. “It’s Joe Kozmarski.”

“Jesus! What do
you
want?” So much for flirting.

“A favor. Will you look in the hall and tell me if anyone’s near my office door?”

“You mean like a policeman?”

I sighed. “Yes.”

“I don’t need to look in the hall. There’s one at your door and another at the elevators. Both in uniforms. Your door is open. I think more of them are inside, taking your office apart by the sound of it.”

That quieted me.

She got polite but with a sarcastic edge, as if I’d let her down personally. “Would you like me to let them know you’re looking for them?”

“I would like you to—” I started.

“Yes?”

“Forget it. Thanks, Roselle.”

She hung up.

The police had blocked off my house. They’d visited Mom. They were searching my office. Where could I go? Corrine hadn’t answered her phone last night. Maybe the police had visited her too. Maybe they’d told her that if she helped me or took me in, she’d become an accessory after the fact. Or maybe no one had visited her. Maybe she’d decided on her own to cut me off.

Lucinda might still be safe. The police knew about my connections with her and would have talked with her, but she knew how to shake them if they were watching her and she could help me hide if I needed her to. Sooner or later, I figured, I would need that—maybe tonight if I needed a place to sleep and didn’t want to show myself to the eyes of another motel owner. But not yet.

I started my car and drove north through the Loop, up Michigan Avenue, and along the lakefront to The Spa Club. Some guys like sex at night. Some guys like it in the morning. Some like it all day long. I figured the club would be open.

The valet took my car, and the elevator gave me a ride to the top floor. I carried the vinyl bag of cash and coins that Rafael had delivered to my office. Stuffed into my inside jacket pocket were phony bank receipts that Bill Gubman had given me, showing that Johnson had skimmed profits from his crew.

In the blue-lighted lounge, three men—two in suits and ties, one in exercise clothes—sat at tables eating breakfast. They’d probably told their wives they had early morning meetings and had come to the club to start their day right. The hostess who’d been working when Monroe, Raj, and Finley had brought me to the club the first time was on duty again. She recognized me and offered me a table.

I shook my head. “Is Bob Monroe around?”

Her look told me I could relax, take off my shoes, slip off my underwear, stay awhile. “He just came in.” She put a hand on my elbow and guided me to a table. “Sit down and I’ll see if he’s available.”

I sat and waited.

Tina, the Russian girl Raj had offered me, came in wearing a little black outfit. She looked like she’d been working all night. She still looked good. She saw me and gave me a big smile like we were old friends. “Good morning!” she said brightly.

“’Morning,” I said.

She came to my table. “What can I do for you?” she said.

“I already ate.”

She laughed. I’d misunderstood her offer. “If you want, we could go into the back,” she said.

Bob Monroe came into the room from a door behind the hostess desk. When Tina saw him heading for my table, she said, “Maybe later?”

“Right,” I said.

Monroe smiled and raised his eyebrows like he approved. “’Morning,” he said. “You want to talk?”

We went back through the door he’d come from. There were two offices—Johnson’s on the right, Monroe’s on the left—and a third room, with a conference table, at the end of the hall. Johnson was sitting at a desk in his office, talking on the phone, his chair swiveled away from the door. We went into Monroe’s office.

“You know there’s a warrant out for you?” Monroe said. “We thought someone might have picked you up by now. Johnson thought you’d already be trading information about us in return for empty promises.”

I dropped the vinyl bag onto the desk and sat. “I’m still free,” I said, “and I don’t trade information. You should know that by now.”

He nodded and sat at the desk. “I do know it. Johnson’s harder to convince.” He eyed the vinyl bag. “What’s that?”

I shrugged. “First weekly payment from Rafael.”

His eyes lighted up. “You’re kidding. That knucklehead said he wouldn’t pay. What did you do?”

“Nothing,” I said. “He walked into my office and offered me the money.”

“Yeah, right.” He laughed. “Whatever you did, I’m impressed.” He leaned so he could see out his door and across the hall. “Hey, Earl, you’ve got to see this.”

After a moment, Johnson stepped into the office. If he was surprised to see me, he didn’t show it.

Monroe gestured at the vinyl bag. “Look what the cat dragged in.” He grinned like he’d scored a point against Johnson. “He got it from Rafael.”

Johnson glanced at me, then picked up the bag. He unzipped it and poured the bills and change onto the desk. The bills were crumpled, a lot of tens and fives and ones. The coins included nickels and pennies. “What the hell is that?” he said.

“First weekly payment,” I said. “A few days early.”

Johnson shook his head. “Tell him next time you want it in twenties and fifties. You’re not collecting milk money.”

He left the office, went into his own, and closed the door behind him.

Monroe still grinned. “Some guys are hard to please.”

I reached and closed his door, then pulled out the pile of phony receipts and put them on the desk next to the money.

He stared at my eyes. “What’s that?” he said.

“Take a look.”

As he read the receipts, his face angered. “You’re full of surprises this morning. Where’d you get these?”

“I was looking into you guys long before the night at Southshore.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

I said, “I was following Johnson and saw what he was up to. I saw him going into the banks. If you want bank records as a cop, you go to a judge. If I want them, I go to a friend.”

He looked at the receipts and shook his head, disgusted. Then he picked up his phone, pushed a button, and a moment later said, “Is Raj here? Send him in.”

Sweat broke between my shoulders. If Raj told Monroe that he saw me with Bill Gubman, my game would be over.

A minute later, Raj tapped on the office door and stepped inside. He was wearing a jacket like he’d just come in from the cold. He looked like he hadn’t slept. His face fell when he saw me. He turned to Monroe. “Cindi said you wanted to see me.”

Monroe tossed the receipts onto the desk and Raj picked them up. Raj looked at them like he was trying to figure out what he was seeing, trying to make sense of it. Then he said to Monroe, “Where did you get these?”

Monroe nodded at me, grim faced. “Joe did some private work. What do you make of them?”

Raj looked at me long, without expression, and I figured this was it—he would tell Monroe that he’d seen me with Bill, they would call Johnson into the office, and then someone would get hurt or worse. I figured that someone would be me. The Ruger rested against my side and I wondered if I had enough energy to reach for it when the moment came.

Raj turned to Monroe. “That fucking Johnson!” he said.

Monroe nodded.

I almost laughed. I looked at Raj, hoping he would give me a glance, a gesture, that told me we were in this together.

He kept his eyes on Monroe. “What now?”

Monroe thought. “It’s an opportunity,” he said.

Raj thought so too and nodded.

“I’ll call a meeting for tonight,” Monroe said. “Let’s make sure everyone’s there.” He turned to me. “It’s an opportunity for you too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said. “We’re going to make some changes around here.”

I shook my head. “I’ve known Johnson since he started at the department. He’s tough—you don’t want to underestimate him.”

Monroe waved that away. “I’ve seen what he can do and I know who he is. But you know what? He shits out of the same hole I do. And right now”—Monroe allowed himself a little smile—“he’s deep in it.”

I shrugged. “Can I have the receipts?”

“No,” he said and held his hand toward Raj, who gave them to him. Monroe folded them and stuck them into a pocket. “Right now we need them.”

Raj and I left the office together and walked into the lounge. It was empty. The men had finished their breakfasts. The hostess was gone from her desk, probably in a back room with one of the men.

I stopped Raj. “Why are you helping me? Why didn’t you tell Monroe?”

“Tell him what?”

“I know you saw me yesterday.”

He glanced at the empty lounge. “This whole thing is about to come down, isn’t it?”

I nodded, said, “Maybe.”