Cold City Streets (17 page)

The Greyhound station symbolized a gray concrete relic of a different era, before cheap cars and cheap flights and cheap credit, when students and other poor folk relied on trains, or buses, or goodwill. It had a series of ticket windows, most of which were closed and unmanned, and an automated ticket machine that probably got more use than the few staff ever did.

A fast-food restaurant and a small smoke shop offered meager amenities, along with a waiting area made up of orange molded-plastic chairs. Four people sat apart from one another, killing time while waiting for their ride out of town or to the south side depot. Soon, the whole thing would be torn down, replaced by a new arena. Few would mourn its passing.

A janitor swept up dust and dirt on the public concourse, an elderly Arabic man, thin and well-muscled.

“Excuse me,” Cobi interupted.

The janitor nodded towards him and smiled. “Yes, boss?”

Cobi cringed a little inside. “You see a guy on the payphones here about a half hour ago, I’m guessing a big black guy, maybe with a basketball jersey on or something like that? Kind of a hip hop looking dude?”

“Hip hop?” The janitor looked confused.

“You know, dressed like a rapper. Like a gangsta.”

The janitor smiled and tilted his head back in a knowing smile. “Ah! Gangsta Rapper! Like Snoop Doggy Dog.”

Cobi cringed inwardly again. “Sure, something like that.”

The janitor shrugged. “I see many people, all day many people.”

“I ain’t going to get you in trouble.”

“You police?”

“No.”

“I don’t know,” the man said, smiling and shrugging again. “Maybe.”

Cobi took out his wallet and took out a twenty. “I don’t make much, you know. You see this guy or not?”

The old man looked around to see if anyone was watching before snapping the twenty up. “Sure, there was guy. Big guy, with black leather jacket and white shirt under, like you say.”

“Basketball jersey? You remember what team?”

The old man seemed taken aback. “Team? I don’t know what this teams is… I don’t know. White with number on it, blue I think.”

“Anything else about him? Anything strike you?”

He shook his head no. “Not so good. He had a …” he muttered several words in Arabic until he knew what he wanted to say in English, “… a scarf like on his head, black.”

“Like, tied up? With a knot in the back?”

The old man nodded.

“Anything else about him? Any tattoos or jewelry?”

“He had something on his finger, some tattoo.”

“You see what it was or what it said.”

“Too far away. That is all I know, boss, I swear.”

“Please try; think back to what it looked like…”

The old man squinted and tried, but it wasn’t coming. “I think…maybe…I think maybe letters? I did not see. I swear, boss.”

“Okay,” Jessie said as she climbed into Cobi’s old BMW outside the office. “What has you so excited? I dropped off Mrs. Sidney and when I got back, my mother said you’d been calling.”

“I couldn’t find your cell number on my phone. Anyhow, your mother mentioned that call I got?”

“Yeah, some sort of threat?”

“Guy struck me as trying to put on airs, you know? Like a wannabe gangster. We reversed the phone number and that took me down to the Greyhound station. Janitor says my caller was a big guy, intimidating type.”

“Okay.”

“You remember the description that guy gave me on Paul Sidney’s street of what he heard? Mr. Martin?”

“Yeah,” she said as he pointed the car towards west Jasper Avenue. “Something about a low thumping noise.”

He pulled the car over abruptly. “Get out for a second and close the door, but just let it rest closed. Don’t pull it all the way.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Just … humor me.”

She did as he asked, avoiding a slush puddle. “Okay, now what?” She said to the closed passenger window, gesturing with her hands as if it would somehow make her easier to hear.

Cobi turned his stereo way up, so that she could hear it through the door, a dull thump of big bass speakers. Then he leaned across the passenger seat and pushed the door open just enough for the thump to emanate for a few seconds before closing it again.

She got back into the car as he lowered the volume. “So someone was blaring urban music or dance, opened the door for a second…”

“Dumped the body…”

“And then closed the door,” she said, finishing the thought for him.

“Add it all up: a gangster-style shooting, gun dropped behind, body dropped off, the threatening phone call. This was a gang hit, Jessie, or a dealer at best.”

“You sound pretty certain…”

“You don’t grow up south of Six Mile and not know the signs.”

“So the question is ‘why?’ ” she said, as he pulled the car back out onto the street. “I have a hard time seeing Featherstone mixed up with guys like that. Unless maybe he had a drug problem no one knew about?”

Cobi shook his head. “Players like Featherstone, they don’t go out and score themselves. They have enterprising dealers who come to their offices, their homes. If he made a guy like that angry, the guy would just come over to wherever they normally met and shoot him. Why drop him off in the northeast of the city? That’s like a statement, like ‘Don’t come around our hood,’ or something.”

“So maybe someone hired a pro, or a semi-pro, at least,” Jessie suggested.

“You thinking Kennedy? Maybe he wanted the company to himself. And the wife, too.”

“No, that’s not it. It’s a public company; they’re the biggest shareholders for sure, but they’re both incredibly rich already, worth more than a hundred million.”

Cobi made an exasperated “huh” noise.

“What?” Jessie said.

“Back home, everyone has this saying. They always say ‘Don’t hate the player…’ ”

“‘Hate the game,’ ” Jess finished. “Sure. Modern urban philosophy. Take what you can.”

“I always hated that expression,” Cobi said. “And I was the player at one point. You know why?”

“I figure you’re going to tell me.”

“It’s because it’s the coward’s way through life. That’s what my old man used to tell me. Without the players, there is no game. I figure when it’s a guy like Kennedy, running scams like Au-rex? Man, I hate the player and the game, all right?”

“We should go talk to him again. Right now.”

“And ask him what?”

“Not ask, tell,” Jess said. “We tell him that if he’s telling the truth and he didn’t have Brian Featherstone killed, then he’d better watch his back, because someone did. That’ll make him nervous and put us in his good books with respect to getting some help finding out who’s actually behind this.”

“And if it’s him?”

“Over a woman? A guy like that? I don’t think so,” Jess said. “But even if you’re right, at worst he knows we’re closing in on what really happened. And that will force his hand.”

“Long as it’s not holding another gun,” Cobi said, “I’m good with that.”

Peter Kennedy’s secretary had been effective at holding Cobi up on his previous attempt to talk to the local mogul. So Jessie suggested another route.

Cobi stared up at the legislature building from its side parking lot. It was like several he’d seen in the States, a giant tiled dome on top, pillars out front, a concrete monument to political process that suggested something more, something better. “So we’re just going to stand here?” he said.

“Sort of. We’re going to stroll over to the side of the building and stand there.”

“Why?”

“Because that parking spot right next to the side door is where Kennedy’s limo picks him up every day, usually right around five o’clock, when the house is in session.”

“That’s smart. Are we supposed to be over there?”

“Probably not. But there’s a guard in that booth reading a newspaper and he hasn’t bothered to even move. So how were we to know?”

Fifteen minutes passed, and aside from some passers-by, no one paid attention to either of them. Kennedy’s limo pulled up and the driver eyed them warily.

Five more minutes passed.

The door opened and Kennedy walked out with another man, shorter, older and stockier, both of them in dark grey business suits.

“And by Thursday, they should be ready to…” Kennedy stopped speaking when he saw them. “Mr. Tate. I presume this must be Ms. Harper. Tom, if I could have a moment…?”

“Of course, Peter,” the other man said. He went back inside on his own, looking unhappy.

“Now, I should mention that I can’t stay and talk, I have an appointment. But if the two of you would like to call …”

“We know you’re sleeping with Deidre Featherstone,” Cobi said, hoping a blunt statement would get a reaction.

Kennedy’s mouth dropped open slightly. “I’m not going to dignify that with a response, and I’m certainly not going to talk to the two of you about my personal life.”

“You want to end up like your partner, you will talk to us,” Cobi said. “Because we know things you don’t. But if you’d like, we can just walk on out of here…”

“No…Look, perhaps we should talk,” Kennedy said. “We’ll use my car.” He gestured towards the limo, where the driver waited by the driver’s side door, hands in front of him. He took the cue and moved around to the rear passenger door, opening it.

Kennedy ordered the driver to use the back road from the Legislature grounds to River Valley Road, a less busy route. “Now, Mr. Tate, perhaps you can enlighten me with respect to Brian. Because it seems you know more than I do.”

“We think he was killed by a professional, which means someone was pretty damn angry at the man. He was definitely killed and moved. The best of many reasons for it that we can find so far is Au-rex.”

Kennedy chose his words carefully, fingers arched, lips pursed as he tried to appear circumspect. “While I certainly feel very sorry for those poor souls who lost their life savings…”

Cobi pushed down an urge to punch him in the mouth.

“The facts are what they are,” Kennedy said. “We took a substantial loss…”

“An income tax write-down, somehow?” Jess guessed.

“And we are in no way responsible for people who chose to follow the advice of a rogue geologist. We are victims here.”

“Uh huh. That’s not what we heard,” Cobi said. “We heard you got out early, helped some of your friends get out early, too. Only way that happens is if you and Featherstone knew before you told everyone else that the stock was toxic.”

“And I’ll strenuously deny any such slanderous rumor in court,” Kennedy stated. “I didn’t get to where I am in life by rolling over and taking a beating, Mr. Tate.”

“Of course, if we do get this investigation reopened and my client gets off the hook, Mr. Kennedy, I’m sure you’re going to have to explain this all to the police,” Jessie said. “Then there’s the matter of the victim’s wife.”

“I’m not sure what you’re implying.”

“I’m implying that my investigator has you staying over at the victim’s city apartment multiple times on multiple nights with Deidre Featherstone. Now, you can tell a jury that you were teaching her how to finger-paint, for all I care,” Jess said. “But we both know exactly what conclusion it’ll draw.”

“Why?” Kennedy said. “Why would you raise this if you don’t think I was responsible for Brian’s death? Just to give the jury another suspect to consider? That seems a little heartless, Ms. Harper.”

“Mr. Kennedy, if I believed for one second that you really gave a sweet damn about all of those families you ruined, all of those livelihoods you snuffed out, I wouldn’t even consider it. But frankly, if you ended up going down for this, I don’t think too many people would cry for too long.”

“What do you want, Ms. Harper? Let’s get down to it. What will it take for you to not ruin my relationship with Deidre?”

“I just want the truth, Mr. Kennedy,” Jessie said. “That’s all this is really about.”

He took a deep breath then keyed the intercom. “John, take us up Groat and then back along one-oh-two and down to Jasper, so that we can drop our friends off downtown.” He released the button. “The truth is that Brian was cheating on her, for many years, with many different women. When she found out, she was angry and wanted revenge, but she didn’t want to give up the perks of being his wife. So she slept with me.”

“And you just went along with this?” Cobi said. “Like a dog?”

Kennedy eyed him stonily, ignoring the dripping contempt; he turned his attention back to Jessie. “It’s only been about six months, and it’s not a serious thing for either of us. It’s just harmless fun, at this point.”

At this point, maybe. But what about before Brian Featherstone died? Was everyone okay with things then, or did this precipitate his death?
Kennedy showed a distinct lack of empathy, Jessie thought. “And what would have happened if he’d have found out, Mr. Kennedy? Maybe he did. Maybe he got angry, and threatened you somehow. Maybe you went out and hired a solution to several problems.”

“Over some adultery?” He scoffed at the notion. “What era do you think we live in, Ms. Harper? Nobody cares who’s sleeping with whom anymore. Rich, famous people have sex tapes on the internet and there are entire reality shows based around infidelity. You think I’d kill him over that?”

“No,” she said. “But maybe he’d blackmail you over it. And then you’d have him killed.”

He smiled. “Oh please, spare me! For every ounce of bad ink he could generate about me, I have ten about him. He knew that. Now, Ms. Harper, I’ve told you the truth. Are you still going to attempt to implicate me?” He keyed the intercom. “John, pull over up here, please.”

“We’ll have to wait and see,” Jessie said. “So far, Mr. Kennedy, you don’t come across as particularly likeable.”

“Which doesn’t, of course, make me a murderer.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“What about you, Mr. Tate? Does the knowledge of my marital indiscretions satisfy your curiosity?”

“Mr. Kennedy,” Cobi said as he opened the door a crack and prepared to get out, “I’m not even remotely curious about you. I know exactly what you are. And if you ever cheated my family like you did all those others, I’d track you down and deal with you myself.”