Текст книги "Penance"
Автор книги: Dan O'Shea
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Dan o’Shea
PENANCE
For my father, Dr Thomas A. O’Shea, who raised me in a house lousy with books.
I wish you’d been around to see this one, Dad.
Cast of Characters
The cops (and friends)
1971
Declan Lynch – Chicago police detective
Robert Riordan – Head of the Red Squad
Present Day
John Lynch – Chicago police detective, son of Declan Lynch, nephew of Rusty Lynch
Shlomo Bernstein – Chicago police detective
Harold Starshak – Chicago police captain, Lynch and Bernstein’s CO
Darius Cunningham – Chicago police SWAT sharpshooter
Brian McCord – Medical examiner
Liz Johnson – Chicago Tribune reporter
The Politicians
1971
David Hurley, Sr – Mayor of Chicago
David Hurley, Jr– Hurley’s son, Cook County DA, candidate for US Senate
Brendan Riley – Hurley’s right hand man
Hastings Clarke – David Hurley’s chief of staff and campaign manager
Rusty Lynch – Chicago city councilman, Declan Lynch’s brother
Present Day
David Hurley III – Mayor of Chicago
Hastings Clarke – Politician
Rusty Lynch – Retired politician, John Lynch’s uncle
Paddy Wang – Power broker
Tommy Riordan – Chicago political hack, son of Robert Riordan
The Spooks
1971
Zeke Fisher – US intelligence operative
Present Day
Ishmael Fisher – InterGov operative
Colonel Tech Weaver – Head of InterGov, a US black ops group
Ferguson – InterGov operative
Chen – InterGov operative
CHAPTER 1 – CHICAGO
The pain was bad. Helen Marslovak had not taken her painkillers at lunch, not with confession today. If she took her pills, she’d be groggy. Confession was important now. She needed her head clear for that. But now the pain was bad.
She shivered inside her coat as she stepped out the side door of Sacred Heart and stopped to evaluate the stairs. They were dry, at least, but it was cold. (She was always cold now, the cold maybe the worst thing about the cancer, worse sometimes than even the pain.) The cold seemed to make the railing slippery – or maybe it was just her hands, she wasn’t sure.
And then there was a hole in time. She had just picked up her right foot to take the first step and had a firm grasp on the railing and now she was on her back, head facing down, her legs pointing up the stairs. She felt the bite of the wind as her coat and her skirt rode up her legs. Not ladylike, she thought. And she must have wet herself because something warm and wet was running up her back. Something was wrong, her legs wouldn’t move. But she was tired, and even colder, and she thought she would just lie here for a moment before she tried to pull herself up. Maybe someone would come along to…
Nearly half a mile away, Ishmael Leviticus Fisher slid a long green duffle into the back of a rusted Ford 150 and closed the lid on the truck cap. As he pulled away, heading for the expressway, his strong, slender fingers ran over the worn wooden beads of his rosary with practiced precision. The Sorrowful Mysteries.
Detective John Lynch tried to remember the last time he’d been to Sacred Heart. The church was just west of Narragansett, a mile or so south of Belmont. Not quite in Coptown proper – that northwest corner of the city near Niles and Park Ridge that was full of cop families, fireman families. Close enough, though. Streets and Sanitation guys probably. CTA guys.
He’d been down to Sacred Heart during his marriage for sure. He remembered fighting in the car with Katie heading to one of the weddings on the Slavic side of her family. There was a mess of them in Sacred Heart. Summertime, back in 86. Neither of them bothering with being civil anymore, both of them knowing the marital jig was pretty well up, just trying to get their licks in before the bell. It was August that year when the drunk kid in the Trans Am made the whole divorce thing moot, picking off Katie’s Civic on the Kennedy at 2.00am one Saturday morning. Lynch was working third shift, Wentworth. Never did find out where she’d been, what she was coming home from.
Sacred Heart was long with a steep slate roof, brown brick, running east to west. Main door faced west, a glassed-in vestibule with a side door faced south. Rose window over the vestibule, four tall stained glass windows down the side.
Lynch had been to his share of cop funerals, starting with his father’s when he was ten. The cluster of uniforms on the steps at the side door of the church brought that back as he nosed the brown Crown Victoria into a handicapped spot at the end of the walk. Same weather as then, low March sky with all the gray charm of a wet basement floor. He remembered arriving at the church the morning of his father’s funeral, awkward in the new suit, his mom and sister in black, all the uniforms milling around. And then the honor guard forming up, the Emerald Society in front with the bagpipes, six guys in their dress blues taking the coffin from the hearse, Lynch still not quite believing that it was his dad in there, that he was never coming back. Sitting through the service, watching his mom stiffen as the mayor got up to give the eulogy, turning Declan Lynch into an icon Lynch had never known, feeling something new in the air, like watching a religion being born.
No funeral today, but there was still a body. Lynch shrugged into his leather car coat and climbed out of the Crown Vic. Twinge in the knee, the one that had turned him from a third-round draft choice in Green Bay into a cop. Still six feet one inch, one hundred and ninety-five pounds. Hell, ten pounds under his playing weight.
Sergeant Kowalski was shooing the uniforms away from the steps. Lynch liked to get a fresh read on the stiff before everybody started downloading the whats and whens on him. Liked a minute alone to form his own impressions. Kowalski knew to give him his space. Lynch squatted down next to the body.
The woman was sprawled face-up on the stairs, her head on the bottom stair. Flat, moon-shaped face – Polish, Lynch bet. She looked surprised. Not the first time Lynch had seen that. Lynch had heard a lot about stiffs looking peaceful, but most of them he’d seen looked like they were in pain. The lucky ones looked surprised.
A lot of blood had run down under her head, some catching in the white-gray hair, some pooling on the walk. Entrance wound was center chest, right next to one of the buttons on the coat. No blood there. Lynch knew that the human body was a big, tough, blood-filled balloon. More blood in there than most people think. Five or six quarts – ten pounds or better. When you blow a hole in somebody, the blood comes out and keeps coming out until it clots or the heart stops. No blood on the chest meant the heart had stopped right off, nothing pumped out the front. Looking at the wound, Lynch bet the round had gone right through the heart, at least caught a piece of it.
The blood under the body was just a leak, a combination of the location of the exit wound and gravity. No smearing around the shoulders or the head. She hadn’t thrashed around at all, which people do when they get shot, seeing as how it hurts likes hell, which Lynch knew from experience. She’d been dead when she hit the cement. One smudge just on the edge of the pool of blood, then a footprint on the first step, slight footprint on the third, maybe a smudge on the fifth. Woman’s shoe, right foot, slight heel.
Hair was neat, clothes were clean but not new. They looked big on her, like she had lost weight. Nails trimmed, no polish. Minimal makeup. Old shoes with new heels. Dress had ridden up past her knees. Thick stockings, plain slip. Plain wedding ring. Expensive watch, though. Piaget with diamonds around the face. Smudge of something shiny on her forehead, oil probably. Last rites, Lynch bet.
Lynch looked up at Kowalski. “She looks like shit, Sarge.”
“Getting shot will do that for you,” Kowalski said.
“Beyond that, though. Skin seems loose. Color’s bad. Face looks shrunken.”
Lynch stood up.
“All right, Sarge, what else you got?”
“Here’s what I know. Deceased is Helen Marslovak, seventy-eight, lives four doors down, other side of the street. Looks like a single gunshot to the chest. The priest – he’s up in the church – says she finished confession between 3.00 and 3.05 because he starts at 3.00 and she is always the first customer. He figures she probably said a rosary after, which put her out the door about 3.15. An Agnes Weber – she’s inside with the father – came screaming into the church at, the father is guessing, 3.22, because he looked at his watch as soon as she calmed down enough to tell him that the victim was splattered on the stairs, and then it was 3.24. Including the priest, three people were in the church at the time of the shooting. Nobody heard a thing. Also, looking at the body, this ain’t no contact wound, and judging from the spray – you’ll see we got some bits of this and that up top of the stairs – you’re looking at a round with some velocity. My guess is a rifle, but we’ll let the pocket-protector types work that out. One thing you’re not going to like. The father has handled the body, did the last-rites drill before we got here.”
“Saw the oil.”
“Also, the Weber woman tracked through the blood.”
Lynch nodded. “Just the one shot?”
“Looks like. Got all those windows in the vestibule back there, no holes in those. There’s a wooden chest sort of thing back by the wall. They probably put bulletins and such out after mass. Round looks to have hit there.”
“So one shot center chest, likely a rifle. Purse?”
“Yeah. It was on its side, top step. Not even open. Six bucks and change in the wallet. Driver’s license, Social Security card, no plastic. Hanky, keys, rosary. Bout it.”
“And she’s still got the watch. That looks like a couple of grand anyway.”
“Looks like.”
“All right. Thanks, Sarge,” said Lynch.
Lynch nodded to the crime scene guy, letting him know he could start on the body. “OK I go through here on the right?” Lynch asked.
“Yeah, detective. Close to the wall, OK? Got some shit up here.”
Lynch remembered Sacred Heart as looking old school. Dark wood pews in straight rows facing east, broad middle aisle, ornate altar tucked in an alcove on the east wall, racks of votive candles, big statues. Looked like a church, anyway.
Or had. As he pushed through the double doors, he saw white drywall, burnt-orange carpeting and seat cushions, blonde wood pews in a huge, space-wasting semicircle facing the long north wall, the altar on a half-oval riser sticking out of the wall into the pews and something that looked like a life-sized Peter Frampton in a bathrobe hanging from the ceiling on a Plexiglas cross.
“Jesus,” muttered Lynch.
“Well, it is supposed to be,” said a voice to his left. Lynch turned to find a beefy priest in an old-fashioned button-up cassock. Mid-fifties, Lynch guessed. Gone a little to fat, but judging from the chest and shoulders, some weight work in the guy’s past, and not in the distant past.
“Detective Lynch,” Lynch said, offering his hand.
The priest took it. “Father Mike Hughes. I’m the pastor. Actually, I’m the whole staff at the moment. Well, for quite a few moments, now. Young men today just don’t seem to grasp the allure of the collar.”
“Probably need a video game. Priest for PlayStation. Kicking the devil’s ass for him.”
“I’ll suggest that to the cardinal.”
Lynch and the priest sat at the end of one of the pews.
“Comfy, with the cushion and all,” said Lynch.
The priest smiled. “The church was remodeled in the late Eighties. While the liturgical remedies of Vatican II were long overdue, some of the resulting architectural excesses have been less than fortunate.”
“Ms Marslovak like it much?” said Lynch.
“No, I doubt that she did. But you wouldn’t hear it from Helen. The woman would never breathe a word against the church.”
“Know her well?”
“I’ve been here twelve years. She’s been at mass every morning, and I do mean every morning. First in for confession every Friday at 3.00pm sharp. Past president of the St Anne’s unit. Tends the garden. Cooks me a roast first Sunday of every month, God bless her soul.”
“So no reason you can think of for someone to kill her?”
“No, none.”
Lynch sat for a moment. “Look, Father, you were the last person to talk to her. Anything in that conversation that might shed some light here?”
“You mean in her confession?” The priest turned toward Lynch. “Irish boy in a town like this, you’ve got to be Catholic, right?”
“I don’t know how often you’ve got to get your card renewed. It’s been a while.”
“Baptized, though?”
“Oh yeah. St Lucia’s, 1961.”
“Once you’re dipped, you’re ours for life. And you know the rules. If it’s said in confession, it stays there. That secret doesn’t just go to her grave, it goes to mine.”
“I figured,” said Lynch. “Just taking a shot. She have family in the parish?”
“Her husband died three years ago. ALS. Long time going. She’s got a son, but he lives up on the north shore. Lake Forest, I think. Eddie Marslovak? MarCorp?”
Lynch nodded. “That’s where I’ve heard the name. They close?”
The priest shrugged. “She loved him, but she didn’t approve of him. A couple of divorces, professed agnostic. He’d visit, I know, and they talked. But close? I don’t know.”
“How about after the husband died. Any gentlemen friends?”
The priest chuckled. “If you knew Helen, detective, you would know how funny that is. No.”
“Other friends?”
“Helen was something of an institution, volunteered at the school, helped with everything, really. Gave free piano lessons. Taught CCD for thirty-some years.”
“You’re not giving me much to work with here. Listen, Father, looking at her, she didn't look well. Was she sick, do you know?”
The priest paused for a moment. “I hear some things in confidence but not necessarily in confession. Yes. Helen was very sick. Cancer. She was dying. She didn’t want anyone to know, not even her son. She said it was her cross, and she was pleased to bear it. There are elements of this that we discussed in confession that I cannot share with you. But she did talk to me about funeral arrangements. So that she was ill, was dying, that I can tell you.”
“This stuff you can’t tell me, anything in that?”
“Detective, I cannot divulge or even hint at what is said within the seal of confession.”
Lynch looked at the priest, but the priest was looking away.
Agnes Weber was just this side of shock. Probably close to Marslovak’s age. She was holding a pair of long black gloves, absentmindedly wringing them.
“Mrs Weber? I'm Detective Lynch. Can I talk to you for just a minute here? Then we can get you home.”
She nodded slightly, not looking up, still wringing the gloves. “This is so horrible, so horrible.”
“It is, Mrs Weber, and I am very sorry. You knew Mrs Marslovak?”
“Helen? Everybody knew Helen. She was... she was... just so decent to everybody. I lived across from her, just across and one house up. I’ve known Helen for thirty-five years.”
“She sounds like a wonderful woman. The father was telling me.”
“I can’t understand this.” Sounding puzzled, and a little angry suddenly.
“Mrs Weber, how did you get to the church today?”
“Oh, I walked. I always walk. I don’t like to drive anymore. It’s not far.”
“About a block?”
“Yes. I was surprised when I didn’t see Helen. I usually see her walking back when I’m headed up for confession. She’s always there right at three, but there is a show I like that ends then, so I’m a little later.”
“Did you hear anything when you were walking?”
“You mean like a shot? Would I have been out when Helen was... Oh my God, oh my God.”
“Yes, ma’am. You were probably on your way to the church when Helen was shot. Did you hear or see anything unusual? Loud noises, cars driving away quickly, anything at all?”
The old woman paused for a moment, her face squeezed with concentration. “No. No. Nothing at all.”
“Did you see anyone else while you were out?”
“No. Nobody. I’m sorry, but no.”
“That’s all right, Mrs Weber. I don't need anything else right now. I can get one of the officers to drive you to your house or to walk back with you if you like.”
She looked up for the first time. She was crying. “I stepped in her blood, you know. Did the other policeman tell you? I didn’t mean to.”
“Yes, ma’am. Don’t worry about that. That’s OK.”
“I’m going to have to throw out these shoes, don’t you think? I can’t wear these anymore. I have to throw them out.”
As Lynch walked out of the church, a guy Lynch knew from the ME’s office was just getting ready to bag the remains.
“Hey, McCord,” said Lynch. “How’re your Sox lookin’ this year?”
“The stiff here will make the playoffs before they do, Lynch. Gimme a second – we gotta talk.”
“What’s up?”
“The shooter was up, at least a couple of stories up. The entrance wound was here,” McCord said, tapping Lynch on the chest. “Haven’t chopped her up yet, but it’s looking like he got at least a part of the heart. Exit wound is down a few inches – blew her spinal cord right out. Bullet’s lodged in that wood thing back by the wall. We got spray from the exit wound up top of the stairs, so we know she was standing up there when she got hit. The bullet’s down better than a foot from where it left her back. OK, the round drilled through her sternum, then through a vertebrae, so maybe we got some Oswald magic bullet shit going on, but I’d bet my ass on a downward trajectory. Get her into the shop and take a look at the sternum – we got beveling, then I'll know.”
Lynch turned and looked across the street. First block, parking lot. Beyond that, a park. Beyond that, a neighborhood of single-story bungalows.
“Shot came from over there, right?”
McCord nodded.
“I don’t see anything that goes up a couple of stories.”
McCord shrugged. “Hey, I just do the science, Lynch. You get to make sense of it.”
Back in the car, heading east on Belmont toward the Kennedy, Lynch called in.
“Lynch,” answered Captain Starshak. “Please tell me this church shooting is a ground ball. I’ve already got a call from the deputy chief on it. Nobody likes this one.”
“Line drive into the corner, Captain. This sucker’s gonna rattle around some. Deceased’s name is Helen Marslovak. Sound familiar?”
“Eddie Marslovak? Mayor’s asshole buddy? Governor’s asshole buddy? President’s asshole buddy for all I know?”
“His mother. Gets worse. Single gunshot wound, center chest. Looks like a rifle. Witness on the street at the time didn’t see or hear anything. Victim’s still wearing a watch worth a couple grand. Nobody even opened her purse. This isn’t some junkie getting up a bankroll.”
“Son of a bitch. Press there yet?”
“Couple of TV trucks in the parking lot as I was leaving. They don’t have the name yet. Better tell the public affairs pukes to gird up their loins, though.”
“You call Marslovak?”
“Heading there now. I want my eyes on him when he hears.”
Slight pause on the other end. “You saying you like him for this? Something pointing at him?”
“Captain, I don’t have shit right now. What I hear from the priest and a neighbor, this lady’s up for a Nobel Prize. Eddie Marslovak’s the only family left, and he is one of the richest guys in the city. Gotta at least give him a sniff.”
“Yeah. Well, step easy, OK? Last thing we need is him down our shorts.”
“Sweetness and light, Captain. Hey, can you lean on the lab for me? The sooner we get ballistics back the better.”
“Yeah, will do.”
CHAPTER 2 – CHICAGO
Eddie Marslovak had a big office. A black leather sofa and love seat sat to the right of the door in front of a bookcase full of expensive looking arty shit. Six-seat conference table off to the left in front of a wall of vanity shots – Marslovak with the mayor, Marslovak with Clinton, a cover of Business Week with his picture on it. There was still plenty of room in the back right corner for a granite-topped desk big enough to land planes on.
Marslovak looked like he needed the room. He had Gordon Gecko’s haircut and Jabba the Hutt’s body. Behind him, most of the Loop and all of Lake Michigan spread out burnished in the low, slanting gold as the late afternoon sun suddenly broke through the clouds. The view looked like one of the temptations of Christ. Except Christ said no; Marslovak, Lynch was betting, said yes.
Marslovak had the phone tucked against his shoulder and barely looked up when Lynch came in.
“You Lynch?”
Lynch nodded. Marslovak waved the back of his hand at one of his guest chairs, then continued on the phone, banging away at a keyboard while a series of charts flashed across three monitors arrayed along the right side of his desk.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said, cutting off whoever was talking to him. “They had their chance to get on board early, now they know they’re fighting for scraps. Suddenly they want the deal they could have had two weeks ago. Fuck ’em. They get asset value – $22.3 million. Otherwise, they can try to hang on after I get another deal in town. Yes or no by the end of the day, counselor.”
Lynch could hear a raised voice on the other end of the line.
“I got a four thousand dollar watch, course I know what time it is. It’s 4.30. Day doesn’t end for another seven and a half hours. Find your clients, get me an answer. I don’t hear by midnight, then I’m done. That’s how these rollups go. They misplayed their hand, now they’re sitting at a table they can’t afford. Sorry about that.” He hung up the phone and turned to Lynch in a single motion, his eyes completely focused, like the conversation he just ended hadn’t happened.
Hard to tell with him sitting down, but Lynch bet Marslovak went two-fifty at least, probably more. Some of it fat, but not all of it. Just a big son of a bitch. Meaty face; mean, close-set eyes; hands like rump roasts. He could buy all the French blue shirts with white collars that he wanted, he was still going to look like the neighborhood, like he should be wearing a butcher’s apron.
“All right, detective,” said Marslovak. “My receptionist tells me it’s important, but so is most of the other shit I got to do. Get to it, OK?”
“It’s about your mother, Mr Marslovak,” said Lynch.
Marslovak froze. “What about my mother?”
“She’s dead. She was murdered this afternoon.”
The mean went out of Marslovak’s eyes, all the meaty slabs drooping, his face going from looking fifty to looking seventy all at once. “What do you... Murdered? Why?”
“I’m sorry, Mr Marslovak. I know this must be a shock.”
Marslovak slumped forward, his face in his hands, almost down to the desktop. His voice was muffled, coming through his palms. “Ah, Jesus, it was the watch, wasn’t it? Finally get her to wear one nice thing, and some punk snuffs her over a goddamn watch.”
“Mr Marslovak, it doesn’t appear to have been a robbery. She was still wearing her watch and still had her purse when we–”
Marslovak bolted upright. “You don’t mean raped? Seventy-eight year-old woman?”
“No, nothing like that.”
Marslovak’s brows knit up. “Where was she?”
“Coming out of the church. She was shot on the stairs.”
“Sure, of course.” Marslovak sounding a little pissed off. Marslovak got up. Taller than Lynch had thought, six three, probably more like two hundred and ninety. Marslovak walked over to a tall cabinet next to his pictures, grabbing a heavy highball glass and a bottle of something dark – bourbon, scotch, Lynch couldn’t see the label. Poured a couple of inches, slugged them down, poured some more – half a glass – then dropped into one of the leather chairs surrounding a low glass table, clanking the glass down hard. He just sat for a while, blank.
“You gonna sit down? What’s your name again?”
“John Lynch.”
“Fuck,” Marslovak said. “Just... fuck. Sit down, Lynch, for Christ's sake. And call me Eddie. Everybody calls me Eddie. Cunt with the gossip column who keeps blowing up my marriages calls me Eddie.”
Lynch took the chair across from Marslovak.
“What else you need?” Marslovak asked.
“You and your mom close? She say anything that might help? Anybody she have a problem with?”
“God, Lynch, I don’t know. Define close. I loved her, her and the old man. They were the perfect parents. It’s just, I’m basically an asshole, OK? I’m not nice. I didn’t learn it at home, don’t really know where I did. And both of them with the religion shit. I don’t buy it. Never have. And couldn’t keep my damn mouth shut about it either. But problems? Her only problem was me.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning she says we’re here on Earth to get to heaven, and here’s her only son, sucking on Mammon’s left tit like God’s own Shop-Vac. Meaning she’s been to mass everyday of her life, taught Sunday school to a couple thousand kids, and the fruit of her womb is a money-grabbing apostate who’s taken every one of the seven deadly sins out on the dance floor for a whirl. Most of them more than once. Most of them I got on speed dial. Meaning that. Know what that’s like, Lynch? Spend your whole life building all this and none of it means shit? I was a disappointment, OK? And I guess I’m not going to change any of that now.”
“Gotta be rough.”
“How the fuck would you know?”
“Yeah. Listen, how was her health, she doing OK?” Lynch giving Marslovak a chance to lie.
“Like I’d know. Talked to her a couple times a week. She’s sounded a little tired, I guess. But she’s pushing eighty and still trying to play Mother Teresa to the whole northwest side, so she should be tired. I haven’t seen her in person since Christmas Eve. I told you I was an asshole, right? I mean, I should stop by and shit, but that usually doesn’t go real well. Also, I’m trying to stave off divorce number three, and I got the usual couple hundred balls up in the air here.” Marslovak slumped forward, elbows on his knees, head down. “So she’s dead. That’s it. Died thinking I’m going to hell. And in her mind, that pretty much makes her a failure. Wouldn’t have killed me, you know, just turn up at church once in a while, go through the fucking motions. Wouldn’t have killed me.”
“Listen, Eddie, I know you’ve got things to take care of. Anything else you can think of I should know? She have any money, anything like that? Something somebody might have been after?”
“With what the market’s done to real estate, if you figure the house, what’s left of the old man’s annuity, insurance, whole estate will go $300,000 to $350,000 tops.”
“Decent chunk,” said Lynch.
“Matter of perspective, I suppose. With the market jumping around like Richard Simmons on Dexedrine, my net worth’s moved more than that while we’ve been talking.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“And that net worth is?”
“Neighborhood of $2.3 billion. Give or take.”
“Nice neighborhood.”
“Until you meet the neighbors, yeah. Anyway, the three hundred grand or whatever – it’s all going to the church. My lawyer did the will.”
“That bother you, with your religious sentiments and all?”
“Nah. Church will do nice things with it. Feed the hungry, clothe the naked. Long as they don’t go clothing any of my favorite porn stars, what do I care? What am I gonna do with it?”
“Could there be some connection to your work? Somebody you pissed off coming back at you?”
“I pissed off pretty much everyone I ever met, Lynch. Some sick fuck got a hard-on for me and shoots my mom? Possible, I guess. Hard to figure. Why not just shoot me?”
“Like you said, some sick fuck. They take some funny angles sometimes. Anybody come to mind?”
“I’m the sickest fuck I know, Lynch. Wasn’t me.”
Lynch pulled out his card and left it on the table. “If you think of anything that might help, give me a call. I’m sorry, Eddie.”
As Lynch headed to the door, Marslovak sat in his chair staring down into his nearly empty glass. “All your life you’ve got a mother, then you don’t,” Marslovak said, his voice flat. “It’s like God dying. Like there’s nobody left to please.”
Lynch turned to see Marslovak finish what was in his glass, then set it down on the table. “Get the fuck out, would you please, detective? And close the door behind you.”
Lynch drove to the station, started the file, called around to crime scene and the lab. Nothing new yet, but Lynch was feeling juiced. This wasn’t another drive-by where they’d haul in one sullen kid or another, it not making much difference whether they had the right one, because whatever kid they hung it on would have been happy to pop whoever had been popped for whatever dumb-ass reason one of the punks would eventually cop to. It wasn’t another obsessive ex who’d beat the one-time love of his life to death and left enough physical evidence behind for ten trials. That’s how Lynch spent most of his time. Piecework. Spending each day wading through a cesspool of human shit.
It was almost 9.00pm when Lynch got back to his place. He had the top floor on a four-story he’d bought after Katie died. Used the insurance money, leveraged himself to the nipples. Picked the right neighborhood, though – Near North just before it got going. Got a great price because the place was falling apart. But the Lynch family knew tools. Best memories from his childhood were working with the old man. Plaster, plumbing, wiring, whatever. Took Lynch ten years and most of his spare time, but now the place was perfect. Retired cop leased the first floor –bar and sandwich joint, McGinty’s – two units on two, two units on three, Lynch on top. Cash flow better than his salary, the building worth better than a million, even after the crash.
Lynch had opened up his floor, exposed the brick on the exterior walls, sanded and finished the wide plank floors. He kept a weight set and a treadmill in the back. Lynch did a couple sets each of benches, military presses, curls, squats. Did a quick twenty minutes on the treadmill. Maintenance. It had been a long day, and it was going to be a longer one tomorrow. Lynch figured he’d read for a while and turn in. Just after 10.00 the phone rang.
“Lynch.”
“Hey, John. Elizabeth Johnson at the Tribune. How are you?”
“I was fine. How’d you get this number?”
“I’m a reporter, John. I’ve got sources.”
“Yeah, well, I’m a cop, Johnson, I’ve got a gun. Look, it’s late. What do you want?”
“What can you tell me about the Marslovak shooting?”
“Come on, Johnson. You know we got actual PR guys paid to do this shit. They even got badges and guns and hats, so you can quote them as sergeant this or lieutenant that, just like they were real cops. So call the public affairs pukes, will you?”
