Dirty Fire (25 page)

I tried to sound patient. It was, I sensed, an effort I would soon abandon.

“You want I should page him?” the police dispatcher asked, as if he had been asked to explain quantum physics. “Yo, I’ll give it a shot. Wait one,” he said.

I waited, listening to the slight crackle of static over the radio patch.

“They tell me he’s in the building, but I can’t track down where,” the dispatcher said when he finally came back online. “But I know he’s hot to talk with you. He wasn’t happy about you deciding not to leave a number, neither.”

Beside me, Chaz looked as if he was fighting down an urge to laugh out loud.

“Must be nice,” the dispatcher continued, taking my silence as an invitation to converse. “Seems like everybody decided to take some time off today. First you go ten-seven, out of service, then Chaz Trombetta calls in sick after lunch. And Nederlander’s been among the missing all morning. Is there, like, a holiday somebody forgot to tell the rest of us about?”

I grunted. “When Gil checks in, tell him I’ll be back in an hour.”

I imagined I could hear the dispatcher scribbling it down, probably inaccurately.

“Okay, if you say so. Any explanation I should give him?”

I pondered for a moment.

“Personal emergency. Whatever it is can wait for me to get there.”

As it turned out, I could not have been more mistaken.

• • •

“I can take it through midnight,” Chaz Trombetta told me. “Later, if you need me to. Hell, it’s just babysitting, you know?”

The dashboard clock said it was quarter to two—ten hours to midnight, and a long watch by any standards. Trombetta was ready, even eager, to rack up the penance he was so certain that he deserved.

I must have looked doubtful because Chaz underscored the offer.

“Hey, I’m serious—just gotta call Junie if it goes late.” He thought for a second, then grinned. “And I think I better call her now, tell her not to let on to anybody that I’m not sick in bed at home. I can imagine what she’ll do if somebody from the shop calls and tells her I checked out with stomach flu. She’ll think maybe I’m stepping out on her.”

We were sitting in Trombetta’s car—his personal auto, not the city-issued unmarked vehicle assigned to him. When we had confirmed the threat to Kay, Chaz had wasted little time.

He immediately called in sick—his act, complete with graphic descriptions of the stomach cramps he was experiencing, was Oscar-caliber. From his trunk he withdrew the tools that equipped his auto for the mission, tools selected on the basis of years spent waiting and watching from parked cars.

He pulled out a pair of binoculars, the kind with the extra-wide aperture that made low-light surveillance easier. I noted the paper sack that I presumed was filled with candy bars and chewing gum, good for frequent jolts of high-energy fructose. There was also an oversized vacuum bottle of coffee, and the empty coffee can—complete with tight-fitting plastic lid—to be used as necessity required.

“It shouldn’t go that long tonight,” I said. “Gil’s been working late hours, but he’s usually home by eleven thirty or so. I’m more worried about tomorrow, and every day after that until this thing is over.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “We’re staffed a bit thin for this kind of bullshit.”

“I tried Santori again. His line still is there’s no real threat involved. Says as long as Kay didn’t want to take it any further, there’s no need to tip Nederlander about how much we know.” I shook my head in frustration. “Herndon wants to help, but he’s locked into some kind of stakeout, himself. I’d call somebody at County, except then it’s certain to get back to Gil. Hell, Chaz—I should just
tell
him. If he decides to bail, that’s his right.”

“Sure,” Chaz said. “‘Course, that kinda leaves a few other people hanging their bare tushes in the breeze. You, whenever the tax boys get the urge. Me. Maybe I’ll get an adjoining cell, since I’ve copped to every kind of crooked-cop shit there is.”

“They won’t use that against you—”

“Right,” Chaz said with sarcasm. “You think Santori is gonna feel charitable after we’ve fucked up his big investigation—for the
second
time? Grow up, J.D. We do that, he’s going to come down with a convenient case of amnesia. He’ll forget any promises and stick it to whoever he can.”

“There’s no—”

“He’d do it, just to keep his own career from going down the toilet. Oh, yeah—no matter what else, Nederlander will walk. You can forget about bringing down the lowlives who killed the Levinsteins and that insurance girl. Do you get it, J.D.? Stack all that against the fact you feel guilty about wanting to keep the investigation rolling.”

He glanced at the Cieloczki house, half hidden by the parkway trees.

“From what I hear, Gil Cieloczki is an okay guy,” Chaz said. “He’d
want
to do the right thing. Let him. His wife knows it, J.D. She made the decision not to put him in a position where he’d feel he had to bail. Don’t
you
put him there, either.”

“Yeah,” I said, but my voice carried no conviction.

Chaz’s words were spoken low and tight.

“I’m talking from experience here,” he said. “A guy thinks he’s protecting his family, he’ll do whatever he’s got to do. Even if he knows it’s not the right choice. Then it eats him up inside, every damn hour for the rest of his life. And maybe he never gets a second chance to try to make it right.”

He raised his head and locked eyes with me.

“Look,” he said, “let’s us just handle it for a couple of days, okay? See how it plays out then, right? Posson should be out of the hospital by the end of the week. Maybe she can take a coupla days’ sick leave, log a little stakeout experience off the clock. That is, if you trust her now.”

“I think she’s with us, solid,” I replied. “Yeah. I’m sure of it. Too bad we can’t use Mel, with his shoulder and all.”

Chaz shook his head. “Bird hears what we’re doing, he’ll raise hell if you
don’t
bring him in. Hate to admit it, but I kinda like the little prick.”

My mind had already moved away from the long-term logistics of bird-dogging Kay Cieloczki and back to the immediate problems it entailed.

“Well, for God’s sake stay out of sight,” I cautioned. “You don’t want any of Nederlander’s people spotting you out here.” I took a deep breath, blew it out. “And that goes for Cieloczki, too. If he makes you as some kind of watcher, the whole game could go up for grabs.”

My former partner looked at me from under his impressive eyebrows. “Uh-huh,” he said. “You ever know anybody to spot me on a stakeout? Ever?”

He flapped his hand in an exaggerated, effeminate gesture.

“You run along now, dearie,” he said. “I’ll keep an eye on the fire chief’s wife. I need anything, I’ll be in touch.”

• • •

At that moment, as I would find out much too late, sixty miles to the south Orval Kellogg was hanging up the telephone at the attendant’s station outside Intensive Care.

“They’re still tryin’ to find your guy,” he said, his eyes not meeting those of the man leaning against the wall nearby. “Suppose to be back in an hour, their dispatcher says.”

The guard glanced into the ward through the half-closed curtain that did not quite surround Sam Lichtman’s bed twenty paces away. A form moved under the light blanket, but with only a feeble effort. “Too much longer, he’ll save hisself a drive out here.”

“Well—nobody should die alone,” Ron Santori said, but he did not sound as if he believed his own words or cared to conceal the fact.

Kellogg did not miss the flat, careless tone of the federal agent’s comment. He studied Santori’s face without appearing to.

Huh—kinda cold even for a Fed,
the correctional officer thought.
‘Specially after all the time them two’ve spent rubbin’ stubs together in a locked room.

He made a mental note to check the visitor’s log—not the official register, which special visitors like Santori never signed anyway. Kellogg kept his own, unofficial visitor’s book, in pencil. You could never tell when knowing the various comings and goings
—all of ‘em,
he thought grimly
—
might turn out handy.

Over the past year, Ron Santori had spent many long hours with Lichtman. Sometimes the convict’s lawyer had been present, but usually not—particularly in the past six months or so. Then this Davey guy had become a semi-regular visitor, and Santori’s own visits even increased in frequency—but not once, Kellogg had observed, had the two ever visited Lichtman at the same time.

Orval Kellogg did not know the subject of Santori’s conversations with Sam Lichtman. Lichtman and Santori seemed to have a lot of secrets between the two of them. Kellogg did not like secrets, particularly when they involved one of his prisoners. Still, FBI business was FBI business, and he had his own headaches to keep himself busy.

See all the reasons to keep your fuckin’ nose outta it?
he told himself sternly.

But he did resent Santori’s casual arrogance. He resented the way Santori had warned Kellogg against mentioning his visits, specifically and categorically, to Davey. And he particularly resented that the FBI agent had not bothered to conceal the unspoken threat behind the words.

And so, when Santori walked down the long corridor—the only unlocked men’s room was on the other side of the security grate—Orval Kellogg waited until he was out of sight. Then the corrections officer, cursing himself silently, walked into the ward and pushed aside the curtain at Sam Lichtman’s bed.

Two eyes, sunken and narrowed with pain, blinked death back a step or two and stared at him.

“Santori’s takin’ a piss down the hall,” Kellogg said. “They cain’t find Davey. So if you got anything you want me to pass ‘long, now’s your last chance.”

• • •

“And you couldn’t find her?” Father Frank Bomorito asked, sipping at the coffee he had insisted on making for us. We were in the kitchen of the parish rectory; the priest had exchanged his Roman collar for a knitted Polo shirt that had seen better days.

“Ellen’s office says she’s taking a few days’ personal leave,” I said. “She called them yesterday morning, about an hour before she telephoned me from
Hermosita’s
. I checked out our house before I came here—
her
house, I mean. Yesterday’s mail was still in the box, and there was nobody inside.”

Father Frank raised his eyebrows. “You went in?”

“I still have a key.”

He thought for a moment, looking as if he had something to say.

“No sign that anything was wrong,” I continued. “No overturned tables or smashed lamps, nothing dramatic like that. I couldn’t tell if any of her clothes were missing from her closet. It looked as if all her cosmetics were still in the bathroom.”

“You’re saying that you don’t think she’s in any danger.”

“This isn’t the first time she’s decided to take an impromptu vacation, Father.”

“I know that. But the situation is a little…
unusual
right now.”

“Coercion only works when the threatened person knows about it,” I said, not meeting his eyes. “If somebody wanted to use Ellen to leverage me, they’d have to tell me that they have her.”

“Cut the crap, Davey. You’re worried.”

“She said she thought somebody was following her, but she didn’t act like a woman being stalked. At the time, I thought it was just Ellen being Ellen. Yeah, I’d feel better now if I knew where she was.”

“Why did she call you from that restaurant? Why wasn’t she waiting there for you?”

“I don’t know, Father,” I said, suddenly angry. “Ellen plays games. Maybe she just wanted to see if I’d come. For all I know, she was at another restaurant across the street, watching poor dumb me stand there like a mope. Then she took off for a few days R & R without a second thought.”

He sipped at his coffee and regarded me with serious eyes.

“How about this one: why did
you
go, Davey?”

“I guess it’s our pattern,” I said. “Or my pattern, at least. When we were married, I walked out a half-dozen times; she threw me out at least as many. Each time, I thought it was over and that I was—‘free’ isn’t quite the right word. Cured, maybe.”

I shrugged. “But there always came a night when I’d find myself standing outside her door, like a cat scratching to be let back in. I guess some things never change. ”

He nodded, and there was sympathy in the gesture.

“There’s a term for the kind of pattern you’re describing, Davey. They’re called ‘toxic relationships,’ and they’re usually destructive to both parties.”

“I know,” I replied. “That doesn’t make it any easier to stop.”

“As a Catholic priest, I counsel people to make their marriage work, whatever it takes,” Father Frank said. “I might advise you to try a lot harder—to make your
divorce
work. Don’t tell the Pope.”

I checked my watch and stood. “Thanks for the advice, Father. And for the coffee.”

“You didn’t touch the coffee.”

“I don’t know if I can take the advice, either,” I said.

• • •

It was almost four thirty when I walked into the office. Through the opened door, I saw Gil look up as I entered. He met me midway across the room. From the expression on the firefighter’s face, my first thought was that Gil had somehow found out that I had concealed from him the videotape threat to Kay.

“Where the
hell
have you been?” he demanded with uncharacteristic heat.

I took a chance.

“Personal business, Gil,” I said, not meeting Cieloczki’s eyes. “I needed some time. I’m sorry.”

He studied my face for a moment.

“You know better,” he said. “It doesn’t happen again.”

His voice was flat, stating a fact. I nodded.

“Stateville called more than two hours ago,” Gil said. “They said that Lichtman’s condition was crashing, and he was asking to talk to you.”

“Jesus,” I breathed. “I’ll get down there now, talk to him.”

“The conversation will be a trifle one-sided,” Gil said, and his voice was still angry. “They just called again. Sam Lichtman died thirty-four minutes ago.”