High Chicago (22 page)

T
he top of the Birkshire Millennium Skyline was not my favourite place in Chicago. Then again, neither was Millennium Park, Daley Plaza, Avi’s den or my bathroom at the Hilton, so the competition wasn’t that stiff.

It was colder and windier than it had been the previous night. The first of November in Chicago: batten down the hatches. Jenn had her hands thrust deep in the pockets of a navy peacoat. Avi looked like he was sweating and shivering at the same time. I had a sudden flashback of him at Har Milah: always sweaty, even at four in the morning when we started work to get in our hours before the hot sun came up. Beads forming on his forehead, running down around his eyes, his shirt darkening as sweat ran down his chest and back, his hands damp whenever we shook, even if he’d already wiped them on the back of his pants. I hoped his palms didn’t get so clammy now that he dropped his recorder like a bar of soap. Like us, it wouldn’t survive a fall from this height.

“You know what you’re going to do?” Jenn asked me.

“I have an idea.”

“That’s it?”

The walkie-talkie crackled and Ryan’s voice said, “They’re here.” So I didn’t have to answer.

We looked down and saw headlights sweeping the street far below us, pulling to the curb outside the gate. I got out my field glasses and saw Birk get out of the passenger side. He looked at the dark trailer then nodded at Curry, who got out of the car and locked it with a fob. So it was just the two of them. Birk waited for Curry to roll the gate open—always leaving the heavy lifting to someone else—and close it behind them. They were walking toward the elevator when Ryan slipped out of the darkness and trained his Glock on them. Ryan spoke, then Curry and Birk both took off their jackets and let them fall to the ground. Curry took his gun out of its holster and handed it to Ryan butt first. Ryan gestured with the gun and Curry pulled up his pant legs one at a time. Nothing there. Ryan said something and Curry leaned against the trailer as though he were about to be frisked. Then the gun moved to Birk and he too pulled up his pant legs, showing pale legs above black socks.

When Ryan was satisfied, he pointed toward the elevator with his gun hand. Birk bent down to pick up his jacket but Ryan levelled the gun at him and shook his head. Birk gestured in complaint; Ryan’s foot lashed out and caught him in the chest, sending him sprawling into the dirt. Curry held out his hand and helped Birk to his feet and then the three of them headed to the elevator, two in shirt sleeves, only one gesturing in complaint.

Ryan’s voice came over the walkie-talkie: “How’d this turd ever make a billion? Over.”

“Bring him up and we’ll ask.”

When the hoist arrived at ground level, Ryan made them get in first. He pointed downward with the gun, making them sit, then got in and started the car on its long, slow ascent. Watching the descending counterweight reminded me of my forced climb down. My hands clenched involuntarily, and painfully, at the memory, but I reminded myself that Birk had a lot more to answer for than that.

“Where do you want me?” Avi asked.

“What’s the range on your recorder?”

“Normally very good. It has a zoom mike for meetings. But with this wind …”

“I don’t want them to see you yet. Just stay in the shadow of the centre block for now.”

“Here okay?” He was moving to his right when he stepped on a sheet of plywood that had been placed over a gap in the flooring. It sagged under his weight. “Whoa!” he cried, jumping back onto the firmer corrugated surface. “Did you see that? That almost broke under me.”

“Relax, Avi,” I said. “I’m sure workmen step on it all the time. It just gives a little.”

“I don’t—”

“Just pick a spot and stay still, okay? You’ll be fine. You ready?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m ready.”

The elevator doors opened and Ryan backed out. Birk and Curry were both sitting on the floor of the car, hands behind their heads. Ryan pointed the gun at them and said, “Up.”

They got up.

“Out,” he said, pointing behind him with a little bow, palm up, as though welcoming them to Giulio’s.

S
imon Birk stared long and hard at me, then at Jenn and back at me. Curry gave me the merest glance. If he was surprised that I was still alive, he didn’t show it. He took in Jenn’s presence, then turned his attention back to Dante Ryan, the man he needed to watch, eyes on his gun hand, looking for an opening, a move to make.

Birk said, “Where’s Charlaine?”

“She won’t be joining us,” I said.

“I told you she was unsuitable,” Birk said to Curry, like she was a maid who had put away foggy stemware.

“Do it yourself next time,” Curry said.

“And you are Ms. Raudsepp, am I right?” Birk said. He held out his hand. She never moved or took her eyes off his. He slowly dropped the hand that had shaken a hundred thousand other hands, a hand that had rarely if ever been rejected.

Jenn said, “You’re even shorter than you look on TV.”

I handed Jenn one of the walkie-talkies and the keys to the trailer. “Go back to ground level,” I said. “Keep an eye on Henry and call us if anyone shows up.”

Ryan said, “Tell Henry if he makes trouble, I’ll come down and hold his nose till he dies.”

She got into the elevator and pulled the door shut and the car began to slide down.

Curry said, “Where’s the third man?”

“What third man?” I said. There was no way he could see Avi from where he was.

“Your friend the lawyer. The one who looks like he’s about to piss himself.”

“You know the fellow,” Birk cut in. “The one you had dinner with Thursday.” Letting me know he knew more than he was supposed to. “Why don’t you come out, Mr. Stern? For a lawyer, I have to say, you’re not giving Geller very good advice.”

Avi stepped forward, his eyes down, carefully avoiding the plywood patching he’d stepped on before.

Birk said, “Now we know everyone but your gunman.”

“You really want to know me?” Ryan said.

“This is no party,” I said to Birk.

“What then?” He was rubbing his arms to stay warm in the harsh wind.

“We’re going to hear your confession.”

“Really? And what am I confessing to?”

“Murder, attempted murder and fraud.”

“Or what? You’ll behead me while screaming in Arabic?”

“You had three people killed that I know of. You tried to kill me three times, you and your people, and you fucking well watched while someone beat your wife into a coma, just so you could steal your own artwork and cash in on the insurance.”

“Pure fantasy,” he replied. “All of it. That’s all anyone will say.”

I turned to Curry. His odd waxy face was expressionless in the dim light. “If he goes down,” I said, “you’re going down even harder. Are you willing to do all the time for his crimes?”

“You’re a civilian,” he said. “You have zero authority here. I don’t have to say a word to you.”

Ryan stepped forward and raked Curry across the face
with the barrel of his Glock. Blood spurted from a gash in Curry’s cheek as he stumbled backward against the elevator doors, his features twisted into a snarl. A line of blood snaked down the hollow under the cut cheek. With his hairless dome and protruding ears, he looked like a vampire after a messy feast. “You may not have to say anything,” Ryan said softly. “But you might
want
to.”

Curry told Ryan to fuck off. I wondered if he had a death wish, or was simply hoping to catch Ryan off guard and make a play for his gun. Ryan looked like he was going to open the other cheek when Avi turned off the recorder and called, “Jonah, whoa. You can’t do it this way. What value is a statement if you beat it out of him?”

“Listen to your mouthpiece,” Birk said.

“He’s here to listen,” I said, “not advise. But he’s right. There’s another way to do this.”

“Like what?” Ryan asked.

“Play a game.”

“What kind of game?”

“Simon knows. Don’t you?”

Birk was hugging himself tighter against the cold. “I don’t—”

“Pirates,” I said.

Birk said, “No.”

“Why not? You invented it. You made the rules.”

“Geller, you can’t—”

“Turn around,” I said.

He didn’t move. I grabbed Birk by the shoulders. Marched him to the edge of the metal floor, where it met the same twenty-foot-long, twelve-inch-wide beam he’d made me walk the night before.

“You should have worn runners,” I said, looking down at his highly polished loafers. “I don’t know what kind of grip you’re going to get with those.”

“You’re crazy,” he said. “I’m not—”

“I’m giving you the same choice you gave me. Walk or get shot.”

“If you kill me,” he said, “you’ll have every cop in the city after you.”

“Led by Tom Barnett,” I said. “He couldn’t solve your robbery, what makes you think he’ll catch your killer?”

“I’m big in this town! You have no idea how big. I bring billions into the economy. I have friends who are judges, U.S. attorneys. You can’t treat me like some common criminal.”

“I’m not. I’m treating you like—what was it you called me?—a pissant. A shit stain on the sidewalk? That’s what I’m treating you like.”

“Francis!” Birk said.

“Yeah?” Curry drawled.

“Fucking do something.”

Curry looked at Ryan, who had a gun trained on him. “I’d say my options are limited.”

I looked around the site and picked up a fallen bolt, hefted it in my hand. “Look on the bright side,” I said to Birk. “The farther out you walk, the harder it’s going to be for me to hit you with this.”

“You wouldn’t.”

I held up my hand so he could see the welt between my knuckles. “That’s one hit,” I said. I pushed up the sleeve of my leather jacket to bare my forearm. “That’s another. It hurts too much to get my jacket off so I won’t show you the one on my shoulder. That was a hummer. How many do you think you can take before you lose your grip and fall?”

“We can come to some kind of agreement,” Birk gasped. He was shivering. Whether from cold or fear, I didn’t care. It looked good on him. “I know we can. I negotiate every day.”

“There’s nothing to negotiate.”

“I can compensate you—”

“I’m not the one who needs compensation.”

“Then these supposed victims of yours. Their families.”

“Which victims?”

“The ones you mentioned. The ones you think I killed.”

“The ones you ordered killed.”

“No!”

“Walk,” I said.

“Please!”

“One foot, then the other.”

I cocked my throwing arm. He inched out onto the beam.

“My advice?” I said. “Don’t look down.”

“Jesus Christ, you’re making a mistake.”

“Keep going.”

“I can pay you, Geller. Millions! Tens of millions.”

“It wouldn’t be enough. Everything you have wouldn’t be enough.”

“You can’t do this.”

“I’m already doing it,” I said.

“Francis did it!” he said. “All of it.”

“Shut your mouth,” Curry said.

“Let’s hear it,” I said to Birk. I looked at Avi. He turned his recorder on and pointed it at Birk. “Loud and clear.”

Birk started in off the beam but I stopped him. “Not yet,” I said. “Let’s hear it all first.”

“All right! Rob Cantor called me,” Birk said. “He told me his engineer was making noise about the land. About having to have it all cleaned again. I told him we couldn’t. The hole was already dug. The caissons were already sunk. Starting over would have ruined everything.”

“Ruined you, you mean.”

“It’s a precarious business we’re in. And I was overstretched, I admit it. Too many buildings going up and too many things going wrong. Acts of God, acts of war, sabotage, unions—one disaster after another. I couldn’t handle one more,
so I told Francis to take care of it. I never told him to kill the man. I just thought he’d …”

“He’d what?”

“Make it go away somehow. Bribe him. Threaten him. Then Francis went to Toronto and came back and all he told me was it was fixed. I swear I didn’t know Glenn was dead until it was already done.”

“And Will Sterling?”

“Who?”

“The student who discovered the Aroclor on the property.”

“Same thing,” Birk panted. “It was Francis who shot him.”

“On your orders.”

“Not explicitly,” he insisted. “I didn’t say kill the boy. I didn’t say shoot him. I just said we had a problem, that’s all.”

“And you had no idea how Francis eliminates problems.”

“None!”

Curry laughed harshly and spat out the words “You lying piece of shit.” His white shirt was spattered with blood but unlike Birk, he showed no sign of being cold. Maybe he was just colder inside. “He knew everything. Every step of the way.”

“No,” Birk said. “I was blind to it. Wilfully, perhaps, but I never knew the details, I swear.”

“What about Maya Cantor?” I asked.

“What about her? She killed herself.”

“No,” I said. “She didn’t. And anyone who says she did is pissing on her grave.”

“I swear I had nothing to do with that. Maybe Francis did, ask him, but not me.”

“She called your office the day she died.”

“If she did, I never spoke to her. No one gets through to me if I don’t know them. Even people I know don’t get through.”

“Someone picked that girl up and threw her off her balcony.”

“Why?”

Why. Why had someone killed Maya? The simplest of
questions. And not one I’d expected him to ask. He seemed genuinely in the dark about it.

“She was helping Will Sterling. Looking for evidence that her father was covering up the Aroclor.”

“Then ask her father. Ask Francis.”

Curry said, “Don’t look at me. I wasn’t in Toronto when she died.”

“It doesn’t mean you didn’t contract it out.”

“A double negative,” he smirked. “That shit won’t get you far.”

“Should I hit him some more?” Ryan asked. “It gives his face character.”

“Save it for now. What about the robbery?” I asked Birk.

“What about it?”

“Take five steps out.”

“I can’t!”

“Do it!”

“Why?”

I yelled, “Because I said so,” and flung the bolt at him. He ducked and lost his footing and almost fell off the beam. He grabbed it with both hands and stayed in a squatting position. “Five steps,” I said. “Or the next one drills you in the head.”

He shuffled back five steps on his hands and knees. Avi was looking at me like I was crazy. Luckily for me, he was a lawyer, not a shrink, so I didn’t have to pay it much mind.

“The robbery,” I said.

“What about it?”

I looked around for a bolt. Ryan found one first. As soon as he picked it up, Birk said quickly, “All right! The robbery!”

“It was a fraud, from beginning to end.”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“Louder.”

“Yes!”

“You planned it.”

“Yes.”

“You, not Francis.”

“Yes.”

“You circumvented your own security system and let Francis in?”

“Yes.”

“And Chuck Belkin too.”

Birk’s eyes widened, as if he’d just seen a ghost. I glanced at Curry. He had taken note too. Birk said, “How do you know about Belkin?”

“For the record,” I said, pitching my voice toward Avi and his recorder, “Chuck Belkin was found shot to death a few weeks after the robbery.”

“So many people get shot in Chicago,” Curry said. “It’s hard to keep track of them all.”

I ignored him. “So you let Francis and Belkin in the house and they took out all the artwork you subsequently reported stolen?”

“Yes,” Birk said.

“Then what? You sold it privately?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “Not for full value, of course. But there are always people who will buy art even if they can’t display it publicly. They want to own it for the sake of owning it.”

“Then you defrauded Great Midwestern Life for the full value.”

“Yes.” He glanced over at Avi, at the recorder glinting in the moonlight. “No one is going to admit this as evidence, you know. Surely your lawyer friend told you that.”

“He tried,” I said. “I didn’t listen.”

“You should have.”

“You want to go back another five steps?”

“No!”

“Then forget the law and keep talking. Tell me about the beating. That was planned too?”

“Yes. They were supposed to rough us up, to make the robbery more convincing,” Birk said. “They got carried away. Especially Belkin. He wouldn’t stop hitting Joyce.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. He went a little crazy.”

“And you couldn’t stop him?”

“No.”

“And Francis couldn’t?”

“No! I don’t—I was already unconscious.”

Until then, I believed, he’d been telling the truth. But all my instincts now told me he was lying. It was as if a surge of emotion had welled up inside him, and he was using every ounce of his will to suppress it. But the pitch of his voice had changed, and his body had tensed. In the dim light cast by nearby buildings, I could see his eyes flutter slowly before they blinked.

I held out my hand and asked Ryan for the bolt.

“What are you doing?” Birk shouted.

“You lied,” I said.

“No,” Birk cried, cowering as he gripped the beam with his hands and his knees. “Why would I—”

“You’re lying!”

“Francis did it!” Birk said. “He beat her.”

“Bullshit!” Curry said.

“I only said it was Belkin because he’s already dead, but it was Francis.”

“Why would he do that? Unless you ordered him to.”

“No! I loved my wife.” Birk was clutching the beam he was on like it was a bucking bull he was about to ride.

“Yeah,” Curry laughed. “True love. You can see it on the tape.”

“What tape?” I asked.

“The one of him beating her head in.”