The Advocate - 02 - The Advocate's Betrayal (20 page)

He woke just before his alarm went off at four-thirty the next morning. He quickly dressed and drove back to the mansion where he had last seen Luke. JP parked far enough down the street to not be conspicuous. Within fifteen minutes, Luke drove out of the driveway and towards him. JP crouched down in his seat below the window. As soon as the car had passed he sat up, made a u-turn, and followed Luke’s car. About ten minutes later, Luke pulled into a parking lot in front of a fitness gym, took a gym bag out of the trunk, and went inside.

JP waited outside, parked so he wouldn’t miss him when he came out of the building. An hour and a half later, Luke emerged looking clean and shiny, his head wet. JP surmised he had taken a shower after his long workout. He thought Luke worked awfully hard at looking good. He deserved that body. JP knew he couldn’t keep up that pace. He worked out from time to time but never with the same dedication Luke seemed to put into it. JP would work out for a few months, and then he’d get bored or something else would seem more important and steal his time. He just wasn’t motivated, and although he had a decent body for his age, he didn’t have the desire to work any harder to keep it in shape. He walked a lot and played basketball in the neighborhood, but even the basketball seemed to be getting more difficult. His aches and pains were greater and took longer to go away. His knees would ache after he played for an hour or so. He was getting old. Too old, he thought, for Sabre anyway. And she had a decent enough young buck chasing after her, unless he was in Chicago on some shenanigan, in which case he didn’t deserve her.

Luke pulled out of the parking lot, drove a couple of blocks, and turned into a drive-through coffee shop. JP drove past him and into a gas station on the corner, positioning his car so he could still keep an on eye on Luke and drive any direction. When Luke pulled out JP edged his way into the traffic, keeping enough cars between them to avoid any suspicion. A few blocks later Luke stopped near a Wells Fargo bank, walked up to the ATM, and made a withdrawal. He dropped the cash in his jacket pocket and returned to his car.

From there JP followed him back to the mansion, dropping back as they approached. JP pulled off the street before Luke reached the gate. He saw him turn and disappear into the vast estate. JP drove around until he found a spot near a little neighborhood park where he could be less conspicuous but still see if anyone left or entered the estate. JP remained there for nearly two hours before he saw any activity. A dark green jaguar with two men inside it drove past his parked car. He watched it turn toward the wrought iron gate. About fifteen minutes later, a black Rolls Royce with a chauffeur did the same. The tinted windows were too dark to see if anyone sat in the back seat. Two black Cadillacs followed closely behind. Each Cadillac had a male driver and a male passenger in the front seat, and one of them had passengers in the backseat. Three more expensive, black cars later, the procession stopped.

Frustrated and bored, JP waited another two hours before he decided he had better start to work. After all, Sabre wasn’t paying him to tail her boyfriend. JP heard tires screeching just as he reached to turn on the ignition. He looked up and saw a Cadillac speed past him. Then the Rolls Royce drove out of the gate at a speed of about fifty miles per hour. By the time it passed JP, he estimated the speed at eighty-five or ninety miles per hour. He couldn’t see who was in it. Another black Cadillac whizzed past and he tried to catch a glimpse of the passengers, but they were moving too fast. The car Luke drove that morning was mixed among the others. He thought he saw Luke at the wheel, but he couldn’t be certain. JP counted nine cars, all breaking the speed limit and turning off on different streets, scattering throughout the neighborhood. He tried to watch which way Luke went. Although he was anxious to pull out, he didn’t want to be seen, and it would’ve been dangerous until all the cars had passed. After the last car, JP peeled out and headed in the direction he thought Luke had taken. He followed the taillights until he got close enough to realize it wasn’t Luke or any of the cars he had seen leave the mansion.

Giving up the chase, JP drove toward his hotel, stopping to pick up a hamburger at a Sonic he had passed earlier in the day. When he reached the hotel, he sat down to eat his dinner. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he started to eat.

When he finished, he picked up his cell phone and opened it to call Sabre. He closed it. What would he tell her? That he’d wasted a day chasing her boyfriend who was supposedly in Dallas?  All he really knew was he was staying in a fancy house in Chicago. He rubbed his hand through his hair, walked to his cooler and took out a bottle of beer, twisted the top off, and sat down in front of the television. He finished his beer and rose to get another. After a few swallows he muted the television, picked up his phone, and pushed the button on speed dial for Sabre. He took a drink of beer while it rang.

“What’s up, JP?”

“Hi. I hope I’m not disturbing you and Luke.”

“Luke’s in Dallas, remember?”

“That’s right; I forgot. I was just checking in, but don’t have anything to report. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

He hung up feeling awkward and uncomfortable, and wondered again why Luke was lying to Sabre.

23

The next morning, JP checked his email for a response to a computer whiz friend of his who worked for the government. The friend was checking birth records for the town of Bristol, Wisconsin. JP had pegged Betty for around fifty-eight, though her identification said sixty-three. He had his friend search the birth records for any child born five years before or after her estimated birth date. After all, how many could there be in a town that had a population of eight hundred fifty-seven.

The email was there, indicating a pretty busy time for births in the small town. The population boomed as all the men came home from the war. He checked both males and females, since he wasn’t sure if he was looking for information on John or Betty. He had discovered thirty-two births during that ten-year span. Three of them were stillborn and two more died within the first year, leaving twenty-eight to investigate. He eliminated two more who died in Vietnam and eight others who died of cancer or heart disease. JP knew those were risky because, after all, John had died twice already, but he had to start somewhere. His list consisted of ten females and eight males. He obtained addresses for some who still lived in the immediate area and hoped to get some information from them. If someone lived in the town Betty’s entire life, they would likely know if she’d been there at one point.

JP hand wrote the names on another piece of paper with the words KLONDIKE CORNER, WISCONSIN written across the top. To the right he wrote May third, nineteen fifty-two. Then he tore off the fifty-two, wrinkled the paper into a ball, opened it back up, poured a little coffee on it, and then flattened it out again. He walked outside, picked up some dirt, and rubbed it across the paper. Then he folded it in eighths, opened it up, and refolded it over and over for the next hour while he drank coffee and watched the morning news.

Armed with his list he started his trek to Brighton. He had only one stop to make along the way: a local Chicago library. Walking in, he surveyed the librarians until he found the oldest person working there. She was a thin, gray-haired woman in her seventies, fresh from the beauty salon and wearing a color-coordinated suit-dress. 

“You look lovely today,” JP said as he stepped up to the counter where she was sorting some books.

“Thank you. I’m giving a speech later today to the Historical Society. I don’t know if they want me to speak because I have access to the information here in the library or just ‘cuz I’m so darn old. They probably think I saw everything first hand.” If she was joking, she didn’t smile at her own joke.

“But I’m sure you still know a great deal, regardless,” JP suggested.

“Truth is, I do remember a lot of stuff, and what I didn’t see, my poppi told me. I loved to sit and listen to his stories. We’d sit out on the porch in the early evening and watch folks pass by. He’d tell me stories about everyone he knew. He could talk for hours. Not sure anyone else ever listened to them. But I did. Don’t know if they were all true for sure, but some of it I’ve been able to verify and most of the time he was right on. I’m thinking I might write a book someday…when I retire, perhaps.” She picked up a couple of books and placed them on a cart. “Sorry, I do go on. I guess it comes naturally from my poppi. So, what can I do for you, young man?”

“I think you’re just the person I need to see. I passed a house, a mansion really, this morning. It was huge and had a block wall around it with a big, wrought-iron gate like a castle. Looked like acres of land surrounding it. I was wondering if there’s a story behind it.”

“You must be talking about the ‘Chateau Dumas,’ or ‘Paceco Villa’ as it is now called. That’s the only place in Chicago that fits that description.” She set more books on the cart.

JP stepped up closer. “May I help you with those, ma’am?”

“No, I’m fine. I only need to move a few.” She checked another book and placed it on the cart. “The Chateau Dumas has an interesting history. A love story, really.” She sighed. “The building of the mansion commenced in early 1900. It was completed about 1920, I think…no, 1919…or was it eighteen? I better look it up. No, I remember. It was 1919. That’s right. Built by a wealthy Frenchman named Adrian Dumas. He shipped and railed every bit of wood and glass from Europe to build that house. I hear it has more stained glass than the Vatican. He brought in the best mahogany and cherry wood. There are twenty-four bedrooms in the main house and eight guest houses on the property. The guest houses are larger than any home I’ve ever owned. Monsieur Dumas wanted to build the perfect house for his young bride, and I believe he did.” She stopped and looked up at JP for a second. “But even the rich can’t stop fate.”

“What happened?”

“Shortly after the house was completed, his wife and child died in a fire while visiting a friend. Monsieur Dumas was a mess. He started drinking and cursing the Almighty. He stopped tending to his business, and then the Great Depression raped him of his fortune. He died in 1949, homeless and penniless. The house was purchased in the thirties by a man named Lucia Marangelli, and it has remained in his family ever since. If you check the property records, you’ll see the surname was changed to Marang somewhere along the line. It’s now owned by Marcus Paceco. He would be Lucia’s grandson, I believe. When Marcus’ mother married Mr. Paceco, they changed the name of the mansion to Paceco Villa.”

“Wow, that’s quite a story. Thank you for that bit of history.”

“You’re quite welcome. Where are you from anyway, lad?”

JP smiled. He couldn’t remember being called a lad since Granny O’Rourke died. “San Diego, ma’am.”

“That’s a lovely place, or so I’ve heard. I’ve read a lot about it. The temperature there is about the best you can get in these United States, most temperate anyway. Pretty mild compared with this windy city.” She snickered. “I don’t know why I’m telling you that. You ought to know. You’re the one who lives there. Hmph…there I go, rattling on. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“No, thank you, ma’am. You’ve been very gracious.”

The old woman leaned in toward JP, looked to her left and then to her right, and whispered, “Rumor has it the Pacecos are in the mob.” Then she stood up tall again, wrinkled her nose, and said, “But how could anyone on the outside know that for sure?”

24

“You look like hell,” Bob said as Sabre walked into juvenile court. “Your face is real pale. Are you all right?”

Sabre picked up her files from the metal detector. “Thanks. I feel like hell. Don’t get too close to me. I’ve been fighting a bug of some sort. It’s been nearly a week now, and I can’t seem to kick it.”

“Maybe you ought to see a doctor.”

“Nah, I’ll be fine. I usually feel better once I vomit in the morning.” They walked together toward Department Four.

Bob looked at Sabre with a wrinkled brow. “So, you only feel bad in the morning?”

Sabre stopped. “Don’t look at me like that.” She lowered her voice. “I’m not pregnant.”

“Okay.”

They went into Department Four and informed the bailiff they were ready for their cases.

Sabre tried to concentrate, but Bob’s reaction to her throwing up kept coming back into her mind. Maybe she was pregnant. She hadn’t even thought of that. But they’d been so careful and always used protection. She decided she’d stop and pick up a test on the way home.

When she finally finished her court calendar it was nearly 12:30 p.m. She waited in the lobby for Bob.

“Hi, Sobs. Are you feeling better?” Bob asked as he walked up.

“Yeah. I feel much better.”

“Lunch?”

“I don’t have time. We have the Kemp hearing this afternoon and I’m meeting with the CASA worker a little ahead of time.” She nodded her head toward the front door. “It looks like you don’t have time, either. There’s your buddy, Mr. Kemp.”

Mr. Kemp, pacing and snorting outside the courthouse, threw down his cigarette and approached Bob as he walked out. “Who the hell is this CASA person who’s brainwashing my kids?”

Bob spoke in a soft voice. “Calm down, Mr. Kemp. Come over here and sit down. We’ll talk.” He led his client over to a concrete bench. Kemp took out a pack of cigarettes, removed one from the pack, started to put them back in his pocket, and then stopped and offered one to Bob. “No, thanks. I quit.” Bob sighed. He still wanted to smoke, wanted the taste, the sensation. “CASA stands for Court Appointed Special Advocate. Among other things, her job is to interview everyone, determine the child’s feelings, and report back to the court with recommendations of services. It would really help to have her on our side. So, what’s the problem?”

“Her name is Weinstein. She’s a Jew!” Kemp stood up, flailing his arms in the air, his voice loud enough for everyone to hear. “The social worker is a damn nigger and the CASA worker is a kike! How am I, a white American, supposed to get justice?”