A Time for Secrets (24 page)

“No, no, I don’t mind. What are we going to be talking about, again?”

“Something that happened—” I started, but Christian gave me a look that said it was his interview, and I was to shut up. The look surprised me. I didn’t know he had that much spine.

“We’re going to talk about some of your old friends,” Christian said. “You had a lot of friends, didn’t you?”

“I did. Yes.”

“Do you remember Bill Maker?”

“Space Ranger saves the day,” he said quickly. It was the catch phrase that began Maker’s show.

“Yes, that’s right,” Christian said, though I didn’t think he was old enough to remember the show. “Do you remember what happened to Bill Maker?”

“He died.”

“Yes. What do you remember about the night he died?”

“We were having some kind of party at…the Den? No, the Lair, that’s what it was called. We were having a party and then the police came in. They were yelling and pushing everyone around. They brought us outside and they were pushing us into the…wagon…”

“The pushed you into a paddy wagon?” I interrupted, earning a glare from Christian.

“They tried to, but there wasn’t enough room. We had to go in the prowl car…with them.”

“Can you describe the officers?” Christian asked gently.

“It’s been such a long time,” he sighed. “I do remember one of them was called Tom. His partner kept saying, ‘Hit him, Tom. Hit him.’”

“What did Tom look like?”

“Irish. Real Irish. Red-haired.”

“And did Tom ever use the other officer’s name?”

“Not his first name. No. He called him Straub.”

“Officer Martin Straub. He died in seventy-eight,” I whispered to Christian.

“So, Tom and Officer Straub, you saw them kill Bill Maker?” Christian asked.

“There wasn’t anything we could do. What could we do? They had guns. They were the police for God’s sake. There was no one to turn to. No one to help.”

“Of course not,” Christian said before he asked again. “You saw them kill Bill Maker.”

“Yes,” Lewis said in a whisper. “Yes, I did.”

Then he looked around the room as though he was unfamiliar with it and asked, “Where’s my Drew? Is my Drew coming?”

Christian clicked the recorder off, stood up, and thanked Lewis for talking to us. Lewis looked at us, confused for a moment, then he grabbed Christian’s wrist and said, “I was pretty once, just like you. Enjoy it. Savor it. It slips away so quickly.” I suppose it wasn’t bad advice, but it seemed to me that Christian was enjoying being pretty just fine.

We drove down to the
Daily Herald
, and I let Christian off in front and went to find a parking spot. A few blocks away I found a meter and filled it with nickels and dimes. I had two hours.

This time I walked into the building without a prop. I knew where I was going, though, so I simply walked with confidence to the elevator and no one stopped me. When I got to the fourth floor I stepped off the elevator and was surprised to find the floor bustling and full of people. All the CRTs seemed to be in use, and I saw Christian across the room leaning up against a desk waiting. In one hand he had a manila folder holding the story he’d typed up at my apartment that morning and a Xeroxed copy of the journal and the police report.

“What’s going on?” I asked when I got to him.

“Mary’s gonna let us have her station in about half an hour. When she’s finished with her feature about Wisconsin cheese.” I glanced over at a woman of about my age who looked like she could use a shower and a Carson, Pirie, Scott charge card. Christian opened his file and glanced at the pages inside. Then, in a grim voice, he said, “I have to make a phone call.”

“You need to call our other witness, Aaron Carlton.”

“Him too,” he said. On the empty desk he was leaning against there was a beige phone. He slid it over to himself.

“So who are you calling?”

“Thomas Finnegan. I have to ask if he’d like to comment on the story.”

“Is that a good idea?” I asked. “It sort of tips him off.”

“It won’t be a good story if I don’t do it.”

Christian flipped open his notebook and dialed a number he had written there. I wondered when he’d dug that up.

“Yes, Alderman Finnegan please,” he said when the phone was answered. Obviously, he was asked who he was, because he said, “This is Christian Baylor with the
Daily Herald
.”

He waited a moment.

“No, I’m not interested in talking to the Alderman’s press secretary. I need to speak to the Alderman.”

Whoever was on the other end must have continued to object because, Christian said, “I’m writing a story that connects Alderman Finnegan to three murders. Either I talk to him or I write that he refused to comment. Up to you.”

We waited. We’d captured the interest of a few of the writers around us. They waited with us.

“Alderman Finnegan, this is Christian Baylor with the
Daily Herald
. We’re putting together a story that begins with the unsolved murder of Bill Maker in 1959. We have information that he was picked up in a bar raid but never made it to the police station. You’ve been identified as one of the officers in the police car when Bill Maker was last seen. Would you like to make a comment for our story?”

He waited. A bit later he said, “I can’t print obscenities, sir. Would you like to rephrase that?” He took the phone away from his ear and put it back in the cradle. “He hung up. I’ll take that as a no comment.”

Opening the folder, he flipped through the pages of the story until he found a spot he liked. There, in pencil, he added the sentence, “Alderman Finnegan has declined to comment for this story.”

Then he called Aaron Carlton and was told he could quote him saying he saw Bill Maker get into the patrol car with the two officers. Then we waited.

Finally, Mary was done and Christian hopped onto her CRT and began to type the story in. Fortunately, he was a touch typist and about fifteen minutes later he had the story typed in. He hit a couple of keys that I didn’t really understand and said, “I’m printing you out a copy.” Then he walked over to a large printing device sitting against the wall. For a minute or two it clattered away, printing up the story. When it seemed to be finished, Christian pulled a long piece of paper out of the machine, folded it, and brought it over to me.

“You should probably go. I’ve got people to talk to. They may want some changes. I’ve got work to do.”

I nodded. “Thank you.”

“No, thank you. It’s a great story. I think you just started my career.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

It was just after one by the time I left the
Daily Herald
, so I walked back to my car, picked the ticket I’d gotten for going five minutes over my allotted time off my windshield, then drove up to my office. I found a parking spot on Buckingham, splitting the difference between my apartment and my office, walked down to Belmont, and picked up a gyro and a large root beer.

As I chomped down my lunch, I tried to think of something constructive to do, rather than just sitting there gloating about the shit storm I’d just brought down on Thomas Finnegan. I was pretty sure that since the whole thing was going to be in the
Daily Herald
that the CPD would be forced to pick up the case.

Yes, there was the stumbling block of the CPD having already solved two of the murders. They weren’t going to be happy about admitting they were wrong. For about the hundredth time, I wished I gotten the plate number on the cop who cruised by me after I was shot at. That would have been a lovely gift for whoever pulled the case.

I called Harker a couple times, since I knew his mother wasn’t there. I asked what he’d eaten and didn’t get a satisfactory answer either time. I moved on to one of the other recommendations the doctor had made, “Did you get any exercise?”

“I think I got enough exercise last night,” he said in a deliberately sexy hum.

“I don’t think that’s what the doctor had in mind.”

I knocked off early and went to the video store, rented
Lawrence of Arabia
. I heard once that he was gay, but after the first couple hours of movie I couldn’t say whether that was the case. Yeah, he didn’t get married, and there wasn’t what you’d called a love interest. But Peter O’Toole seemed more attracted to the sand than Omar Sharif. But then maybe that
was
just me.

Before the movie was over, Christian called. He was drinking champagne at The Closet and wanted to know if we’d like to come down. It was the last thing in the world I wanted to do, so I said we’d love to but we were in for the night.

“You don’t know what you’re missing.”

I was thirty-four years old. I had a pretty good idea what I was missing. I handed the phone to Harker.

The next morning, I woke about five and went to my front door to grab the
Daily Herald
. I was expect
ing
Christian’s story to be on the front page, but it wasn’t. I flipped through the front section of the paper and didn’t find it. It didn’t make much sense for it to be in any other part of the paper, but I looked anyway. The story was nowhere to be found.

By nine o’clock, Christian was sitting in our kitchen. He’d brought a bag of Dunkin’ Donuts, presumably as an apology. I like
d
their chocolate donuts, but there
we
re things in life they c
ould
n’t make up for. This was one of them. Christian had already made a couple of early morning phone calls and had been told that there were problems with the story, and it wouldn’t be running.

“You didn’t ask what the problems were?”

“Of course I did. They said I didn’t have my facts straight.”

“Why didn’t they say that yesterday?”

“I asked that. I didn’t exactly get an answer.”

“So, why can’t you just fix the story and have it run tomorrow.”

“Stop it, Nick,” Harker interjected. “You know what’s going on. Leave the kid alone.”

I looked at Harker and said, “Finnegan killed the story. That’s what you think, isn’t it?”

He nodded.

“How could he do that?” Christian asked naively.

“The same way he keeps the police from investigating. The same way he got two people killed and almost got Nick arrested. Influence.”

“So what do we do?” he asked.

“I think we’re done,” Harker said.

I wasn’t sure he meant that. He watched me, though, to see if I’d accept it. I wasn’t going to.

“I’ll think of something,” I said.

“What we need is someone with more influence than Finnegan,” Harker said.

I ran through a mental Rolodex and a moment later stood up. “Okay, let’s go.”

“Where are we going?” Christian asked.

“You’ll see.”

Christian stood up. Harker remained seated. He looked tired, drained even.

“It’s just a cab ride,” I said.

“It’s all right. You’ll explain it all to me later. Go.”

§ § § §

Sugar Pilson lived in a three-story Victorian brownstone sandwiched between two high rises mere inches from Lake Shore Drive. We arrived on her doorstep right before noon. A tepid breeze came in from the lake offering some hope that the heat might break. Sugar opened the stately glass and wrought iron front door herself.

Her lips twisted into a smile
.
“I’d say ‘look what the cat dragged in,’ but I don’t have a cat.”

“Sugar, I need your help.”

“‘I need your help.’ Those would be the four most expensive words in the English language. How much do you need, darling?”

“I don’t need money.”

“How curious. Money is the only kind of help I’m ever asked for.”

With a raised eyebrow, she invited us in. She was dressed in an elegant white dress that resembled a trench coat, and she’d accented it with large, and likely real, gold jewelry. Obviously, she’d been on her way out the door.

“I’m sorry if you were going somewhere,” I said, just to be polite.

“Don’t be, I’m sure you just saved me five thousand dollars and a case of indigestion. You’d think if people were going to ask you for money they’d serve something edible. They never do.”

She led us into a perfectly decorated living room and sat down on one sofa while we sat across her on its twin.

“Now. What can I do for you?”

“I need you to introduce me to Sam McCorkle.”

“Really? Can’t you find your own dates?”

“I’m hoping he can get me in to see the mayor.”

“The mayor?” Christian exclaimed.

“Sure, why not?” I asked.

“Well, I—”

“I can get you in to see the mayor,” Sugar interrupted. “If you’d like a photo with her honor it’s a two hundred and fifty dollar donation. Did you both want a picture?”

“I’ll need more time with her than that.”

“Then I guess you do need Sam,” she admitted. “This has something to do with Alderman Finnegan, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it does.”

“You’ve got the goods on him, haven’t you?” she said in a melodramatic way.

“Yes, I do.”

She gave me a big smile. “Sam will want to meet you.” She got off the sofa and went over to a side table with a telephone. The phone was beige and had a line of clear plastic buttons at the bottom. Sugar had more than one line. She dialed a number from memory and waited.

“Yes, I have Angus Pilson on the line for Mr. McCorkle.” It looked as though she was being told he was busy because she shook her head and continued, “Actually, it’s very important. Please let him know Mr. Pilson is waiting.” She looked at me and asked, “Do you like my little joke?”

Angus Pilson was Sugar’s ex. “It’s quite brazen.”

“I know. I love it—Sam? You need to come over right away. Well, darling, I’m not sure I should talk about this on the telephone, but friends of mine have some information they’d like to share with you. You won’t be sorry.”

She listened for a moment then clicked over to another line. As she did, she looked at us and said, “He thinks I’m going to answer the door naked. I hope he’s not too disappointed.”

After dialing just a single number, she said into the phone, “Gretchen, I’ve decided not to go out, and I have guests. Could you put out some sandwich fixings in the dining room? Thank you, dear.” She had an intercom system set up in her home. I should have guessed.