Windy City Blues (5 page)

Palmer stared at the tabletop while drumming his fingers. “So what am I doing here?” he said, still looking into the table. After a minute he said, “I’d like to offer my expertise, to see if I can find a financial angle to the murder. My understanding is that money almost always plays a role in such crimes. This information could be my contribution to not allowing a man’s death to be callously consigned to the status of a footnote. Nobody should have that much power. Who’s to say it won’t happen to me or you?”

The following morning I pondered the lowering angle of mid-October’s sun, along with the gradual decline of relative humidity—in particular, how this overture heralded the best time to be in the Midwest. Chicago’s well-deserved reputation for crappy weather sometimes eclipsed our memories of the delightful days that visited each autumn. This morning began as one of those days. Outside my window, the ash trees had just begun their metamorphosis, and something about the way the breeze spoke through their leaves inexplicably evoked nameless but pleasant feelings of peace. Then the phone rang.

“To some, a neighborhood is as significant as an entire world. There is no difference.”

It took a few moments, but I recognized the unmistakable inflection as belonging to Izzy. “What do you mean?”

“Something local may be globally momentous. I’m ready for an update on your progress.”

“It’s been what? Two days? And I don’t remember progress reports as part of our agreement.”

What I imagined as Izzy’s version of shouting came next. “You think I’d give a stranger five thousand bucks and then wait for my phone to ring? You think I give five grand to any Tom, Dick, or Harry who calls himself a private investigator?”

That I could be so effectively humbled by Izzy’s tongue-lashing only intensified my curiosity about how such a bizarre personality could have developed in any life form.

Izzy insisted we meet at my office. When I arrived, he was already waiting on the landing in the same cross-armed posture he had presented upon our first meeting. I had a feeling he’d called me from there. Without a word, I unlocked the door and took a seat behind my desk. Izzy sat in the guest chair.

“I apologize for my tone,” Izzy said. “It is not my nature to speak in such a manner. But sometimes nature is mutinous.” Izzy sighed, stood up, walked to the window, stared out over the madness as he had done on his first visit. “A hundred years ago, who would’ve imagined an entire universe would exist solely to control where one could park an automobile?”

I waited for more and then said, “All morning I thought only of hearing your contemplations on parking.”

“How one with your shallowness could have solved a purse-snatching, much less a murder, I find remarkable. Many billions are spent on and earned from parking. Laws are written stipulating how long an automobile may stay in one place before that law is broken. When the first car was created, did this idea come to mind? You don’t know in advance where things will lead, Landau. I walk into your office and you assume a barrier should exist between client and professional. Yet I am the one who gave you the money on which all depends. Either you include me in whatever details I desire or our agreement ends and you will forfeit the funds I have given you—on a prorated basis, of course.”

I wondered if my parents ever imagined that their son would complete thirty-five years of life, become a private investigator, but still allow himself to be emasculated by a scrawny apparition of a man.

“Palmer is a disillusioned newspaper editor who also has many years of executive experience in the corporate media.” I filled him in. “He’s going through a career-life identity crisis. He has offered his expertise in the finance world. That is, if money played a role in Gelashvili’s murder, he will seek out the evidence.”

Izzy walked back to the guest chair and sat. “Within minutes you again disappoint me. At the very least you should know this investigation implicates corporate media masters and others that their tentacles reach.”

“Or it could be simple and straightfo
rward. We don’t know anything yet.”

“Did you know Dagestan means ‘land of mountains’?”

It dawned on me that I should expect all conversations with this guy to be filled with seemingly pointless questions that he would employ as part of a larger riddle. “Why would I know that?”

“A small country with big mountains. Do you not see the symbolism in a perceived contradict
ion?”

I wanted to say,
What symbolism and perceived by whom?
but then it dawned on me. “The Boston bombers. They were from Dagestan.”

For the first time I saw Izzy smile and thought I caught a glimpse of his real self—youthful, unburdened, optimistic. “Maybe I misjudged you,” he said, and then his face morphed back to that dour façade of an old man. “What’s next?”

I wanted more of an explanation to the Dagestan-mountain thing, but I was learning. “Next is my first interview with the murder victim’s family,” I told him.

I paced the sidewalk in front of Gelashvili’s building, trying to prepare myself for the agonies of bereavement. Frownie’s voice echoed the importance of staying emotionally disconnected. I would tell him “detached” was a better word, and he would tell me to use any goddamn word I wanted as long as I stayed “fucking disconnected.”

A bit of red on a sugar maple diverted my thoughts. Gelashvili lived in one of those lush neighborhoods that never came to mind when one thought of Chicago. Only ten miles from the downtown delirium, parts of Budlong Woods looked classically suburban with tidy frame cottages behind perfect squares of grass. Other areas reeked of urban bungalow paradise surrounded by carefully sculptured hedges and multicolored flower beds. Gelashvili lived between these worlds in a red brick four-story apartment building.

A female voice responded over the apartment building intercom. “Yes?”

“My name is Jules Landau. I’ve been hired to investigate Jack Gelashvili’s death. May I have a few minutes of your time?”

The extended silence approached the threshold of re-ringing or walking away. Then, “Just a moment.”

I held the doorknob anticipating a weak buzzing from the latching mechanism, but instead watched a petite woman with shoulder-length jet black hair descend the hallway stairs in white corduroy slacks and a yellow scoop-neck T-shirt. The word “lovely” came to mind.

She opened the door enough to reveal a beautiful face with a hint of Asiatic influence. Late twenties at most, I thought. I gave her my investigator’s ID, my driver’s license, and a business card. The door fell against her toe as she studied them. She looked again at the credentials and then back to me. Then she pushed open the door and handed back all the documents. I returned the business card to her and asked that she keep it. Her brown eyes momentarily held mine, and then she slid the card into a front pocket. I saw, perhaps, the smallest of smiles.

“My name is Tamar Gelashvili,” she said as we climbed the stairs. “I live with my aunt who was Bagrat’s—I mean, Jack’s—mot
her.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

Tamar didn’t respond. When we reached the third-floor landing she said, “My aunt speaks very little English. And her despair is indescriba
ble.”

The third-floor apartment reminded me of a basement dwelling that had only a couple of window wells for light. As my eyes adjusted, I noticed heavy curtains covering a large picture window and candles burning throughout the room. Each candle appeared strategically located near a black-and-white photograph or a medieval icon depicting an ancient Christian saint. In the background, several haunting voices chanted quietly in an unrecognizable language. Tamar approached me carrying two folding chairs. She handed me one.

“Come,” she whispered.

I followed a few steps and jumped when I realized I had completely missed the living, breathing figure in a rocking chair nearby. An old woman faced a man’s portrait on a corner shelf above a candle. Tamar put her chair to the side of her aunt. I sat on the other side with a partial view of the woman’s veiled head and her right arm.
Whistler’s Mother
came to mind.

Tamar leaned forward, whispered to her aunt, then turned to me and said, “How can we help you?”

“Is your aunt comfortable with my presence here?”

“I doubt she’s aware of your presence.”

“What language were you speaking?”

“Georgian. We’re from Georgia, a small country—”

“On the Black Sea near Russia, Turkey, Armenia.”

The candlelight reflected off her teeth when she smiled. “I apologize for assuming.”

“For assuming all Americans are ignorant morons? That can’t be helped. Jack’s given name was Bagrat? How long had Bagrat been living in Chicago?”

“When my cousin realized his name in English sounded in translation like a bag of rats, he changed it. That was five years ago, when he arrived with my aunt.”

I laughed. “Why did he leave Georgia?”

“It was becoming unsafe for him. He was a Moscow-trained scientist. He had always worked with Russians and had many Russian friends. But he lived in a region that wanted to be independent of Georgia. Russia supports this independence, but the Georgian government does not. Jack was not political. He didn’t care one way or another. But there were those who wouldn’t accept the idea of being neutral. You had to take a side.”

“Five years ago Bagrat arrived with his mother in the U.S. Did they know anyone besides you?”

“Nobody. And he hadn’t seen me since I came here as a child—although we always kept in touch. He and my aunt took care of me when my parents were killed by a bomb in the marketplace. I was only two. He was a big brother and a father to me. But there was a civil war raging and they both wanted me safe. When I was seven, they somehow arranged an adoption through a refugee organization. I was raised by a Georgian couple whose parents had fled the Stalinist takeover and settled in Chicago. I still remember saying goodbye at the airport…” Tamar’s face crumbled as a wave of grief swept over her. She quietly sobbed into her hands. I wanted to believe my desire to comfort her would have been just as strong had she not been beautiful and intelligent.

As quickly as the anguish flooded in, so it also subsided. Tamar wiped her eyes and laughed. “I’m sorry. I thought I had regained my control. At least I didn’t start tearing my hair or scratching my face like the west Georgians.”

“Please don’t apologize. If you don’t mind me asking, how was your life with your adopted parents?”

“They were wonderful parents, already about sixty when I arrived. No children of their own. They’ve long since retired to Florida. It was a great comfort for them to know Deida, Jack, and I were together again. They are in poor health and I see no reason to tell them the horrible news.”

“How did Bagrat the scientist become Jack the parking officer?”

“His specialty had something to do with chemicals and heat and metals and things I couldn’t even imagine. Although he had permanent resident status, finding a job in his field seemed impossible, especially considering the language barrier. And he wasn’t a young man anymore. The Georgian community was always helpful to immigrants. The super of this building is Georgian. He helped us get our apartment. But Jack didn’t want to work construction or drive a taxi. His attitude alienated a lot of people. They thought he acted superior and arrogant. Over time, he realized he needed to lower his expectations and just focus on making a living.”

“How did he end up working for the cops?”

“The super, Ivan, had been a math professor back home. He and Jack became good friends. Ivan was also good friends with the owner of the Kutaisi Georgian Bakery, where I work—and where lots of cops hang out.”

“I’d like to interview Ivan. Can you introduce me?”

“I would, but he has since immigrated to Canada. Vancouver, I think.”

“Too bad. So Ivan had a connection with the police that he used to help Jack?”

“Pretty much. I didn’t talk to the police too often, but Ivan had gotten to be friends with several of them. When he found out Jack needed a job, he asked his police friends for help. Next thing we knew, Jack was writing parking tickets.”

Although I had never been there, the bakery Tamar mentioned was one of those institutions that defined neighborhoods. Devon and California streets meant,
near the Georgian bakery
. “Did he know how unpopular this job was with the public?”

“I believe so. But by then, he didn’t see any choice.”

“The article in the
Republic
said his apartment had been ransacked. Obviously you were not home, but what about your aunt?”

“When the police arrived, she was lying on her bed just staring at the ceiling. By the time I got here, she knew something bad had happened to Jack. I had to confirm her worst fears.”

“What did they take?”

“As far as I can tell, nothing. But they were definitely looking for something.”

A shrill cackle from the rocking chair startled me. Tamar whispered something in her ear. I barely perceived a kind of guttural mumbling from the aunt, but Tamar responded with more whispering and the two conferred in this manner until Tamar kissed the old woman on the head and turned back to me.

“My aunt needed to remind me that Jack was a scientist and how proud the whole village was to have him as a son. Then she said Jack was now with Apostle Andrew.” Tamar pointed to one of the icons on the walls. “My aunt asked what I thought Jack and Andrew talked about.” Tamar’s eyes narrowed just slightly, but enough to darken her appearance. “I hope they talk about cutting out his heart and roasting it on a skewer—whoever did this to Jack. Sorry, what were you saying?”

Wow. She had a dark side. “Parking officers regularly find themselves in hostile situations. How did Jack handle himself? Do you know if he made real enemies?”

Tamar thought for a moment and then shook her head. “Actually, it seemed like he made a lot of friends. His coworkers teased him for being too lenient, but a lot of people appreciated his approach. I mean, he wrote plenty of tickets, but he didn’t mind giving people breaks. He said he was amazed at how grateful people were when he voided someone’s ticket.”

“Did he have a social life? Girlfriends?”

Tamar hesitated. “He didn’t show much interest in dating until he came home one day and told us about meeting Lada. He was writing a ticket to her car when she approached him. They started talking, and he found out she was Russian. They started dating. After a few months, he acted like a boy in love.” Tamar started laughing. “We found out later that Jack’s coworker Rich actually set it all up. Russian, Georgian, it was all the same to Rich.”

“So Rich and Jack were pretty good friends?”

Tamar considered my question. “At first, I thought maybe they would be. But Jack couldn’t figure Rich out. Nice one day, doesn’t talk to you the next. I don’t think he’s very healthy. If you want to talk to Rich, he usually works this neighborhood. You can probably find him.”

“Do you know Lada’s last name?”

Tamar had to think. “Sobor-something,” she said. “I’m not sure. Rich should know.”

“What did you think of Lada?”

“She was only a few years older than me, which was strange. But she was very sweet and very pretty. Jack was a healthy man, after all, so I would never begrudge him a little happiness. The more I got to know her, the more I liked her. She even helped take care of my aunt. But there was a lot of mystery around her. She drove a fancy Mercedes, wore beautiful clothes. We never knew where her money came from.”

“What did Jack say about her money?”

“He dismissed our questions with ‘It doesn’t matter’ or ‘What’s the difference?’ So I let it go. If Jack was happy, I was happy for him.”

“And?”

Tamar sighed. “Out of the blue, Lada called him and said she was having immigration problems and needed to go back to Russia for a while. She promised to keep in touch and said she was confident her connections would get everything resolved. Jack never heard from her again. He became very depressed, although he tried to hide it.”

“When was this?”

“About a month ago.”

“How about enemies in Georgia? Is it possible he was killed to settle an old score? Is there a Georgian mafia in the United States?”

Tamar frowned. “Mr. Landau, I appreciate your interest in finding my cousin’s killer, but I’m quite confident his murder has no connection to vendettas, ritual sacrifices, or any other conspiracies dominating the current cinema. He was a scientist by training, but he also knew he had to leave that life behind and accept the status of an average working American.”

A blush of shame crawled up my back and over my shoulders. I thanked a nameless entity for the dim light.

“I could blame Hollywood for my shallowness, but that would be too easy.”

“Blaming is easy. But movie plots often have a basis in reality. Who can take the blame for Georgians being one of many tragic peoples from the Caucasus?”

“How about the public? Could there have been a citizen whose parking ticket was the final insult from a miserable life, and your cousin just happened to be the recipient of this misplaced anger?”