Trigger City (14 page)

“Iraq?”

“Fourth tour. It's a bad war.”

“It's a war,” I said. “Wars are bad.”

He shook his head. “Afghanistan is a right war. Iraq is a wrong war. Makes a difference.”

“I'm not much into politics,” I said.

“Yeah. You think it's about oil?”

“Maybe.”

“I think it's about oil.” Detective Oliva was a man carrying a heavy load. He said, “The guy who came after you…”

“Yeah?”

“Whatever you're working on…got anything to do with this?” He gestured to the book again.

“No.”

Oliva looked disappointed. “All right. I'll see you later.” He turned to go.

“Detective.”

“Yeah?”

“Hope your brother gets home safe.”

“Me, too.”

I
t was past 8:00 when I pulled out
of the garage and onto Walton. My gun was back on my hip and the police had released me without charge. That was the good news.

The bad news was everything else.

I turned my phone on and called Vince on speed-dial.

He answered with “Shit, you okay?”

“Yeah, why?”

“You're all over the fuckin' radio, is why. I left you four messages. They say you tossed some guy off a sixth-floor balcony.”

“Call you back.” I pulled to the curb and turned on the radio.

“…identity of the assailant is still unknown. More details after the break.”
I lowered the volume as some guy started barking about how much better my life would be if I covered my house with vinyl siding from Amazing Siding. Even if I had a house, I didn't see how vinyl siding could help me right now.

My phone rang. It was Terry.

I said hello and Terry said, “Hey, you okay?”

“Yeah, I'm all right, thanks. Call you back in five.” I hung up.

The phone rang again.

“Yeah.”

“Ray Dudgeon?”

“Yes.”

“Hi Ray, it's Judy Bobalik, Channel 2 News…”

“Oh Christ.”

“Sorry. I know it's been a long day but you're the lead at ten.”

“Lucky me.”

“Hey, I'm just doing my job. We're shooting a stand-up in front of 900 North. Can you drop by and give us an on-camera?” The radio finished selling me stuff and the news came back on.

“Judy, I'm sorry, I gotta go.” I hung up.

“Our top story at this hour—Death on the Mag Mile. Nine Hundred North Michigan Avenue was the scene of a dramatic foot chase this afternoon, ending in the death of a man the police are still trying to identify.”
A disinterested cop voice came on, reading a statement.
“Just before one o'clock this afternoon, local private detective Ray Dudgeon was assaulted by a man with a knife in the parking garage of 900 North Michigan Avenue. He fled into the shopping mall and the assailant followed, chasing Mr. Dudgeon up the escalators and causing minor injuries to two bystanders. The assailant caught Mr. Dudgeon on Level 6 of the atrium. Mr. Dudgeon knocked him over the guardrail and he was killed on impact with the floor. For now, the deceased is a John Doe. We are working to establish his identity. Thank you, that's all I have at this time
.”

A reporter barked a question about the extent of my injury.
“Mr. Dudgeon sustained a cut to his left arm requiring stitches. He was treated at the scene and released.”
Another question, about the motive for the attack.
“Still under investigation. That's all I have at this time. Now if you'll excuse me….”

My phone rang again and I flicked the radio off. The call display said it was coming from Isaac Richmond. The guy who got me into this mess. I let it go to voice mail.

After a minute, I checked my voice mail. Eighteen messages. The four from Vince, plus three from Terry. One from Sasha Klukoff, re
porting that he'd found a potential buyer for my Shelby. And Special Agent Holborn left a message saying that he couldn't be reached after six, but to call him tomorrow before noon. The next eight messages were from reporters, all looking for a quote about the day's top local story. WGN was leading its nine o'clock broadcast with it and it was the lead for all the ten o'clocks, too. The local papers and radio stations also wanted in on the act.

Throw a guy off a balcony, and the whole world wants to talk to you.

The last message was from Isaac Richmond, who implored me to call back ASAP. Yeah, right. I'd call him tomorrow if I felt like it.

I deleted the messages, thinking
There's no way Jill won't learn of this.

After Vince told me about the engagement ring, I'd had the crazy idea to show up at her door with protestations of love and proposals of marriage. My ring wouldn't be any match for Dr. Glassman's, but the tears in Jill's eyes when I last saw her told me that her love for me wasn't dead. On life support perhaps, but not dead.

And now this.
Maybe I should call her now, before she hears about it on the news…

I called Vince instead.

“You hear it?” said Vince.

“I heard it. How's it going there?”

“Fine. The Chinese babe peeks out at me through her curtains every hour or so. Nobody else around. Just regular activity. I've patrolled the surrounding blocks a few times, at random intervals like you showed me. I'm the only one out here. No bad guys yet.”

“All right. How long are you good for?”

“I can go 'til morning, easy,” said Vince.

“You sure?”

“No problem. I stocked up for an all-nighter just in case.”

“Okay, if anything happens or if you start falling asleep, call my cell. Otherwise, I'll be there to relieve you in the morning.”

I hung up and called Terry and he asked me again if I was all right. I reassured him that I was fine.

“I take it this was related to the Joan Richmond thing,” said Terry.

Only a fool ever tells a reporter anything off the record but when that reporter is your best friend, the term actually means what it says. Between Terry and me, it is a blood oath.

“Think so,” I said. “But I have no actual knowledge. And I suspect he was working for someone other than Hawk River, but that's also speculation.”

“Based on?”

“I don't know, call it a hunch. You know anything about a CPD captain named Samberch?”

“Samberch…One of the good guys, from what I hear.”

“That was my impression, too. How about a Detective Oliva?”

“Never heard the name,” said Terry. “Want me to ask around?”

“That's okay, I was just asking.” I cranked open the window and lit a cigarette. “Got any news for me?”

“Actually, yeah. An update on the committee hearings. You remember Bill Combes, worked city council when you were at the
Chronicle
?”

“I remember Bill. Nice guy. Parrothead. Scuba diver.”

“That's him. He covers the Hill for Reuters now. Anyway he's got a source. An aide to some congressman on the OGR committee. Says the hearings are in free fall. Everybody's playing it cool but it's starting to look like Joan Richmond was the star witness. They don't have much else, and they're beginning to look a little foolish.”

“I assume Hawk River's lawyers are now yelling
partisan witch hunt
.”

“We're still at
fishing expedition
. But if the committee doesn't produce something resembling a smoking gun pretty soon…”

“I've got diddly,” I said. There was no reason to bring up Malibu Man. All he told us was that Hawk River was nervous. And we already knew that.

Terry cleared his throat and said, “Listen…you know I gotta ask you for a quote about today…”

“Sure.” I tried to think of something. Whatever I said next would run in the next morning's
Chronicle,
and would no doubt be read by
the dead guy's employers. It was an opportunity to send a message. I auditioned various statements in my head but none seemed right. And the more I thought about it, the angrier I became.

“Ray?”

“Hold on, I'm thinking.”

What do you say to the men who just sent an assassin into your life?
I'll be a good boy, please don't send another
? How about,
Eat shit and die, motherfuckers
? Somehow neither seemed appropriate.

“Got your pen?”

“Shoot.”

“I have some advice for the people responsible for today's attempt on my life. Next time, send someone who can fly.”

After a few seconds of silence, Terry said, “Have you completely lost your mind?”

“Well, not completely,” I said.

“I can't print that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don't feel like being responsible for your untimely demise, you idiot.”

I stubbed my half-smoked cigarette out in the car's little ashtray. “I got lucky today, Terry. Only reason I'm still breathing. If I hadn't had a steaming coffee in my hand…the guy was way better than me—I never would've gotten to my gun in time.”

“And how does rubbing their noses in it improve your chances next time?”

“It probably doesn't. But it tells them that I'm more angry than afraid.” I could picture the meeting: the decision maker who sent the assassin being grilled by his superiors. If they started questioning previous assumptions…if they paused to rethink strategy…it just might help me.

Or maybe I was rationalizing.

“Are you more angry than afraid?” said Terry.

“Not by a long shot,” I said.

M
ausoleums and gravestones appeared
and disappeared as the beam of my headlights swept the grounds of Mount Pleasant Cemetery. I parked next to the small stone building that served as the head groundskeeper's residence and rang the doorbell.

Gravedigger Peace opened the door and shook my hand. He greeted me with his familiar crooked smile, but the smile looked a little forced and his face looked gaunt. He wore a baggy T-shirt with
CHICAGO GREEN
—a fast-rising local band—silk-screened on the chest.

Gravedigger led me inside and I sat on the couch in the living area while he went to the fridge and pulled out a couple of beer bottles. There was an open bottle of bourbon on the coffee table in front of me and a half-filled rocks glass next to the bottle.

He got another glass from a cupboard, sat across from me, put the glass on the table, and handed me one of the beers. I poured some bourbon into the empty glass but didn't pick it up. Drank some beer instead.

I looked him over. We'd gotten together a few times during the summer but I hadn't seen him since July. I guessed he'd lost maybe
ten pounds. He had never carried extra weight, was always muscular and compact, and had always seemed taller than he was. But with the added weight loss, he looked small. Still strong, but underfed. And he looked older.

He still hadn't said anything, and small talk would be an insult. I said, “You're looking thin, Gravedigger. No dishes in the drying rack, no cooking smells.” I nodded at the bourbon bottle. “So I'm guessing that you've been drinking your dinner recently.” Nothing in my tone but the concern of an old friend.

“You don't miss much,” said Gravedigger. “If I ever need a detective, you got the job.”

Gravedigger's eyes glistened and they were red around the rims. He wasn't slurring drunk but just drunk enough, and staying that way for a while, the way a drinker sometimes does.
Maintenance drinking
is what I call it when I do it, which isn't as often as it once was but probably still more often than it should be.

“What's going on?” I said.

“Shit. Heavy shit.”

Gravedigger and I had known each other since we were in diapers. As children, we lived on the same block, went to the same schools, got into trouble together and usually got out of it together. I watched as Gravedigger's father became increasingly abusive until he finally broke Gravedigger's arm and left the family for good. And Gravedigger watched as my young and overwhelmed single mother spiraled into depression until she finally killed herself. So we'd each seen behind the other's mask more times than we could count. The closest thing I'd ever had to psychotherapy was the occasional drunken all-nighter with Gravedigger, talking about our
heavy shit.
And I had no doubt that he would say the same.

So I wouldn't be searching Joan Richmond's place tonight.

I said, “You've got me 'til morning.”

“Thing is, I'm not sure I want to talk about it,” said Gravedigger. He winced, corrected himself, “Scratch that. I'm not sure I
can
talk about it. Not while you're so damn sober.”

I understood. I drank the bourbon in my glass and chased it with a swig of beer, then refilled the glass.

“So talk. I'll drink with you.” I watched Gravedigger's eyes retreat to somewhere far away. We drank in silence for a minute.

“Had a visit,” said Gravedigger. “Had a visit from Mark Tindall.”

Mark Tindall was Gravedigger's original name. It was his name back in the sandbox and it was his name when he dropped out of high school. It was his name when he became a mercenary and went to Africa, when he served time in a Nigerian prison, and when he returned to Chicago badly broken and struggled to put himself back together. But then he found the job at the cemetery and in that job he found a place where he could live with himself. He quickly rose to the rank of head groundskeeper and, in a surprising move, legally changed his name to Gravedigger Peace. He would never again answer to the name Mark Tindall.

Gravedigger got two fresh bottles of beer from the fridge, sat back down, and said, “You know, I thought I'd killed that guy. Thought I'd gotten rid of him for good.” His voice carried a strong note of futility. “Then you look in the mirror one day, and there the motherfucker is, staring back at you.”

This was bad. This was worse than bad.

“What exactly did you do, Gravedigger?”

Normally Gravedigger only smiled with the left side of his mouth. This smile was even, and it looked cruel. “Look at you,” he said,
“Mr. Detective.”

“Jesus, you know enough of my skeletons to know I'm not judging you, I'm worried. Tell me what happened.”

He went to the closet and put on a jean jacket lined with fake sheepskin, grabbed a battery-powered lantern. “Come with me,” he said. “Bring the bottle.”

We left the house and walked to a grave about ten yards from Gravedigger's front door. We sat on the grass. He put the lantern on the ground, near the new headstone. Not much information on it. The name Walter Jackson and the years of his birth and death. Walter Jackson died at forty-seven.

I knew the name. Gravedigger told me about him during some of our drunken all-nighters after he came back from Nigeria. Walter Jackson had been Mark Tindall's commanding officer in the mercenary outfit in Africa. He was a black man from Georgia, had been with Special Forces, left the military and became a soldier for hire. He'd saved Gravedigger's life.

“He was killed in Ramadi,” said Gravedigger. “It was on the news.”

I remembered the story now. Five civilian contractors slaughtered and their bodies burned in the street. I remembered the video of young Iraqi men dancing around the fire, chanting their fury and waving machine guns around.

I said, “I saw it. The name didn't hit me at the time. I didn't make the connection. I would've called.”

“I know you would.” He reached out for the bottle and I gave it to him. He poured a little bourbon on the grave and made a toasting gesture at the headstone, then took a swig from the bottle and handed it to me and I drank some, too. He said, “Sarge put it in his will, to be buried here, by me. And that's an honor. But it fucked with my head something fierce. And Mark Tindall showed up.”

I knew I didn't want to hear the answer but I had to ask again. “What did Mark Tindall do?”

His eyes welled up. “Something bad. Something really fuckin' bad.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Yeah. I am sorry, too.” His hand shook slightly as he held it out for the bottle.

“Did the other guy deserve it?”

“Other guys. There were two of them. No, they didn't deserve it…not really.”

“But maybe a little bit,” I said. Grasping at straws.

“Shit, nobody deserves what happened to those guys. They deserved a good beating. I overreacted. I mean,
they
attacked
me
…”

“So it was self-defense,” I said.

“Yeah. No. Hell, I could've incapacitated these guys with
both
hands tied behind my back and a cast on one leg. But Mark Tindall wanted blood. And he got it.”

“Still, they
initiated
the violence, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, you can't start a fight and then expect it to end on your terms. We're a long way from the schoolyard where you can start shit and then call
Uncle
when it doesn't go your way.” I reached for the bottle, took another swig. “From where I sit, he who initiates violence waives the right to his life, because he didn't respect his intended victim's right to live.”

“That's very nice in a philosophy classroom,” snapped Gravedigger, “but I'm not talking about their fuckin'
rights,
man.”

“Okay, you're right. I'm sorry, I was just looking for a way to make it better.”

“This isn't something you can
make better
.” Gravedigger blew out a long breath and went far away again, to a place he wished he'd never been. We were quiet for a while.

Time to reevaluate. Gravedigger's a mess—there's no way he can help with Amy Zhang's protection. And the last thing he needs is to toss ideas around about how to deal with your little mercenary problem…

“You smoking these days?” Gravedigger's voice brought me back.

I pulled the pack from my pocket and shook out a cigarette for myself and tossed him the pack. Lit mine, tossed him the Zippo. He took a deep drag, held the smoke in his chest for a few seconds, and blew it at the night sky.

After a minute he said, “Remember when you said that sometimes a good man does bad things?”

I remembered. It was just after Gravedigger returned from Africa and I was trying to help him find a way to forgive himself.

“It was ten years ago,” I said. “I was younger then.”

“Thing is, a good man can do one bad thing. Anybody can fuck up. Once. But just once.”

“People have been known to make more than one mistake in a lifetime,” I said.

“This ain't stealing pencils from the office supply cabinet or putting a dent in someone's car and not leaving a note. And you don't take the moral temperature of a man by his intentions. Intentions are bullshit. You are what you do, not what you intend.” He dragged on the cigarette. “Mark Tindall was not a good man, you know? He'd done far too much. He was not redeemable. There was no way to live with that. All I could do was kill the guy.”

Amy told me that Steven Zhang had killed the man he was—annihilated himself, she said—and become someone else. And then he'd really killed someone. Gravedigger had done the same thing, but then he'd stopped killing. He said, “I just had to start over as someone new.”

“Some people believe that we start over every day,” I said, “and our actions determine who we are on that day only. That we don't carry our accomplishments forward. Or our failures. Every new day brings the same opportunity and imposes the same responsibility. You dig?”

“Yeah, I've read all those books. But we both know it's more complicated than that.” He stubbed his cigarette out in the grass. “I'm working on it.”

“Let's head in,” I said, “it's getting a little cold out here.” I stood and grabbed the lantern. It was time to get some distance from Walter Jackson's grave.