No Show of Remorse (16 page)

“Uh-huh.”

“What'd they want?”

“They know you're the one got him moved, and they figured we were working together somehow. They called you my friend.”

“What'd you tell 'em?”

“I denied everything, especially the ‘friend' part. I'm very convincing when I'm telling the truth.”

“What's their interest in … in the patient?”

“I don't think they have any. It's me they wanted to see.” I waited, but he didn't press for an explanation. “So,” I said, “you'll be moving him somewhere else?”

“Move him where, for chrissake? I mean, we're not talking here about paying off some neighborhood quack to patch up a bullet hole and keep his mouth shut. Recovering from major fucking surgery like he had means you need a real hospital. At least for a week or so.” He paused and I imagined him lighting up a new smoke. “Christ, it's always the same. You spend a goddamn fortune and you still don't have the control you want.”

“So anyone who flashes a badge can walk into his room?”

“Not anymore. Not unless they got a warrant, or unless you or I agree. We got that straight with Tyne. The loony little son of a bitch is no good to me dead. My people will still be around, and hospital security will be right there, too.” He paused. “I'll get him moved again as soon as Tyne says okay. Trust me.”

“That's asking a lot,” I said, and hung up.

*   *   *

T
RUST WOULD NEVER BE A WISE REACTION
to anything Breaker Hanafan said, terminal illness or not. Still, I knew he'd be anxious to move Yogi as soon as he could. Inverness Clinic was a legitimate hospital and he'd get good care there, and be relatively safe from whoever had beaten him up. But Breaker would want him more secluded, more easily available, to make sure I lived up to our so-called done deal.

Time was short, and I'd have to get busy and show I was taking a run at getting Breaker's former grandson-in-law shut up in the slammer. One possibility was to press forward with my reinstatement petition and force Jimmy Coletta to testify about what happened the night he was shot. He'd tell the truth—I was convinced of that—which might put Kilgallon away and make Breaker happy. It would probably help identify the bastard who'd kicked the shit out of Yogi's kidney, too; and I wanted to know that, even if Yogi couldn't care less.

Except I didn't
want
to force Jimmy to testify. I really felt he was a changed man—something I hadn't seen that often—and I couldn't come up with any good reason why the new Jimmy should go down, just because the old Jimmy deserved it. I certainly wasn't about to destroy the man, and the work he was doing now, just to make Breaker Hanafan happy. I wanted to keep Breaker's hands off Yogi, sure, but I had no more interest in bowing to that son of a bitch than I had in bowing to the Supreme Court of Illinois.

It was a dilemma with no apparent solution, and I had nothing to do but slog ahead and figure it out as I went along.

CHAPTER

25

F
OUR COPS HAD DROPPED
in on Lonnie Bright the night my client Marlon Shades was out in the alley loading dope and the shooting began. One of them—Jimmy Coletta's brother, Sal—had been carried away in a body bag. Two others, Richard Kilgallon and Jimmy, I'd recently spoken to. That left one more. His name was Arthur Frankel, and on my way home from Inverness Clinic I'd go through Highwood, and there was just a bit of a chance I'd find him there.

Frankel had resigned from the police department exactly a year to the day after he'd gotten his medal from the mayor for “outstanding courage and devotion to public safety” in connection with the Lonnie Bright shooting. He'd suffered a through-and-through to the thigh, which wouldn't have been so bad if the slug hadn't nicked the femoral artery. He could have bled to death on the scene, but stayed conscious and kept pressure on the wound until the paramedics got there. With a graft from one of his veins to repair the artery, he came out nearly as good as new.

When he left the department he went into the restaurant business with his cousin. The cousin had been a lawyer, but—at about the same time Frankel was being honored—the cousin had admitted to taking fifty thousand dollars from the trust account of a brain-damaged client. He'd agreed to a voluntary disbarment, paid the money back, avoided indictment by an eyelash, and gone to work tending bar in a place down the street from Wrigley Field.

I'd learned all this from Barney Green—who wouldn't have told me his sources if I'd asked. He even knew that when Frankel and his cousin bought their first restaurant they came up with a pretty big down payment. That kept their monthly nut small enough so they could meet their other expenses and still make a bit of a profit.

Two years later they were incorporated and owned two trendy restaurants on the near north side. Then one night the cousin rode his jet ski full throttle into a concrete breakwater a quarter-mile out from the North Avenue Beach. Whether it was the alcohol or the coke—the autopsy showed plenty of both—that tipped the scales and got him out there on the lake in his street clothes at three in the morning on the Fourth of July, didn't make a whole lot of difference. Either way, he left Frankel sole owner of the business.

Now there were four restaurants: three in the city and one that just opened in Highwood, a town with about five thousand residents and, from all appearances, a restaurant for every five of them.

*   *   *

I
GOT THERE ABOUT
twelve-thirty. The place was called
Le Chantier,
which probably had something to do with its country French motif. I didn't really expect to find Frankel, but I elbowed my way through the crowd gathered in the waiting area inside the front door and stepped past the hostess station.

A wide archway opened into the main dining room. Maybe the food was supposed to be French, but just then they were serving a Sunday brunch buffet and the place smelled pretty much like Denny's to me. Way more expensive, though. Crowded, too; and noisy, with chattering women in chic outfits and carefully casual hairdos, and confident-looking men in sport coats and slacks. The hostess collared me right away and I talked her into getting the manager for me.

His name was Edward Alberto, and he walked me away from the dining room and into the bar, where the only customer was a man sitting alone nursing a bottle of MGD and watching a ball game on a TV with the sound turned way down. The two bartenders were busy, though, making Screwdrivers and Bloody Marys for the waitstaff to carry out to tables. Alberto was nice enough—a fortyish, dark-haired guy in black pants and a sort of blousy white shirt—but he'd never heard of any Arthur Frankel, and wondered in a New Jersey accent whether there was some reason why I expected the gentleman to be dining there just then. “If it's an emergency,” he said, “we could page—”

“No need.” I showed him my PI license. “He's … uh … a witness to an automobile accident. He owns this restaurant.” Alberto looked surprised, but didn't say anything. “And since the place is new, I thought he might be hanging around, making sure you and your people had your act together.”

He frowned. “The staff here is hand-picked by me, and well-qualified. We…” He let it go, apparently realizing I wasn't being critical. “As far as I know,” he said, “
Le Chantier
is owned by AF Enter—”

“See?” I spread my hands, palms up. “AF. Arthur Frankel. Simple.”

He nodded. “I suppose AF could be someone named Arthur Frankel,” he said, “but I've certainly never met him. I was hired by a couple of people who called themselves ‘corporate staff.' So, you—”

“Would Mr. Alberto come to the front, please?” A pleasant female voice came over the intercom. “Mr. Alberto to the front?”

“Sorry,” he said. “Probably someone claiming they made a reservation … which they didn't, of course.”

He turned and headed toward the restaurant's entrance and, figuring I might as well go home, I started after him.

“Hey, buddy.” The call came from behind me.

I thought it was one of the bartenders, and turned around.

The guy sitting at the bar raised his bottle. “I'm buying,” he said. He stayed seated, but I guessed him to be about five-nine; overweight, maybe one-ninety-five. He had light brown hair—and not much of it—combed straight back over the top of his head.

“Thanks, but … it's a little early for me.” Not exactly true, but I wanted to get home and catch the Lady as soon as she showed up.

“Don't wanna waste a trip, do you, pal? Thought you wanted to see the owner.”

“Yeah, but…” And then I read the look on his face. I walked his way, nodding back over my shoulder. “That guy's good,” I said. “The manager, I mean, he really—”

“That's 'cause he was telling the truth.” He kept his voice low. “Why would I ever wanna talk to the guy who runs my restaurant?”

CHAPTER

26

H
E NODDED TOWARD THE STOOL
beside him, and I sat down.

“I'm Art Frankel, all right,” he said, “but how the hell would I pick out a good restaurant manager?” he said. “Maybe I know a
little
more than Ditka and M. J. and those other guys that just sell their names to places.” He smiled a little. “But mostly I leave the hands-on stuff to the experts.”

The bartender came over and rattled off the names of a dozen beers and I ordered a Berghoff.

“So,” he said, “I'm the owner, and so far no one here knows me, and I like it that way.”

“My lips are sealed,” I said.

“And you know what else?” he went on. “I haven't witnessed an automobile accident in over five years.” He waited while the barman came back and set down my beer, then added, “So, you wanna show
me
that ID?” That last came out with a whole new tone of voice—pure, one-hundred-percent cop. Somewhere along the way, the smile had disappeared, too.

I'd been lied to so often in the past few days I was gun shy, but right then I recognized him as Frankel for sure, even if he looked a little different than when I'd seen him collect his medal four and a half years earlier. I handed him my PI license and he stared down at it for a long time.

“Remember me?” I finally said.

He looked up. “I recognize the name. I don't think we ever met.” He handed the card back. “Guy lets a cop killer walk, I don't have much interest in meeting him. Except … in a dark alley, maybe.”

“Lucky for me we're in a classy place like this, then.”

“If you say so.” And that's when—if he'd had as little interest in me as he claimed—he should have sent me on my way. But instead, he asked, “So what is it you want? Am I s'posed to tell you how much I admire a man who keeps his word?”

“I'd like to know what happened that night at Lonnie Bright's house.”

“Read the police reports.”

“I have, over and over. I still wonder what happened.” He didn't answer, so I went ahead. “The reports say Sal Coletta and his partner, Richard Kilgallon, saw Lonnie in front of his house arguing with an unknown male. Lonnie was waving a gun around. Then you and Jimmie Coletta happen along. When Lonnie and the other guy see two unmarked squad cars, the other guy splits and Lonnie runs inside. Sal Coletta and Kilgallon follow him in. You wait by their car on foot to call for backup if it's needed, while Jimmie drives around to the alley to cover the back of the house.” I paused. “That's how the reports say it all started. I pretty much have the story memorized.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And so far it's total bullshit, on its face.” He leaned toward me, but I raised my hand to keep him quiet. “That doesn't bother me. A little bullshit when you're out hassling a known drug dealer? All in the public interest.” I drank some of the Berghoff, while Frankel lit up a Lucky Strike. “Except, according to the report, things took a bad turn. All of a sudden you hear shooting from inside and you call for help and then run inside because your buddies are in there and they're in trouble. It's a two-flat and you run up the stairs and the lights all go out and there's lots of screaming and shooting, and the next thing you know you're sitting on the hallway floor upstairs, squeezing your thigh to try to keep your blood inside your body. It takes a little while, but help arrives, and pretty soon the paramedics. In the darkness and confusion, you say, you never even saw who shot you, and you don't recall firing several rounds yourself.”

“They said I probably squeezed the trigger involuntarily when I was hit.”

“Right. That happens sometimes. Anyway, you and Jimmie are taken away and the dicks and technicians are left to go over the scene, and they find bodies and blood everywhere, and slugs embedded in bone and flesh and plaster—most of them too flattened out to be tied to any particular gun. Kilgallon tells them he was behind Sal Coletta when they went in, and the two of them had ordered Lonnie to stop, but when they get upstairs he suddenly turns on them and opens fire. And there's another man up there, too. He's hidden in shadows, but he has a weapon. And Lonnie's girlfriend has a gun, too, and … Well, by the time it's over there was a lot of shooting and if the specifics are confusing and unclear the dicks don't find that surprising. The man in the shadows was gone and Kilgallon, the only one on the scene still standing, was in a pretty bad mental state.”

“You wouldn't understand that if you've never been through it.”

“But everyone
did
find it understandable,” I said. “The assistant state's attorney on Felony Review that night went over everything and signed off on it. And the police department found its officers' use of lethal force justified.” I sipped a little more of my beer. “Funny, though. Everyone knows Lonnie's a dealer, but all they find is a burner and a tiny bit of crack. Otherwise, no drugs. And no money.”