A Picture of Guilt (16 page)

“They won’t confirm it, but I overheard the firemen talking about burn patterns and accelerant.”

“Have you been back over?”

“The hall’s totally gone. So is the Avid. Hank’s editing room is in bad shape, too, and the tape library is ruined.” He sighed. “And then there’s my window.”

“Oh, God. I’m so sorry, Mac.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been meaning to reorganize. But the camera gear is okay. And the other editing room is okay. Once we clean up the smoke damage, we’ll be back in business.”

Always the optimist. “No ideas who did it?”

“Not that they’re telling me.”

I cleared my throat. “Mac…” I stopped. Rachel was standing at the kitchen door. “I’ll call you later.”

I sat her down and told her an abbreviated version of what had happened. She blanched, then jumped up and threw her arms around me. “I want to stay home from school. With you.”

“I love you too, sweetie.” I hugged her close. “But you can’t get out of it that easily.”

Somehow I forgot to call my father.

Village Detective Dan O’Malley showed up around nine. With shaggy red hair and freckled skin, he looks almost like a kid, except for his moustache and his height. He’s at least six four, and he fills any room he enters. But I’d dealt with him before, and we’d achieved a grudging respect for each other—an accomplishment, considering my attitude toward law enforcement and his toward nosy women. I poured coffee, aware that he was looking me over. I imagined him opening with “A fine kettle of fish we’re in now, Ollie.”

He sipped his coffee. “How you feeling this morning?” His voice was surprisingly soft for a man of his bulk.

“Like a slab of ribs at an all-you-can-eat barbecue.”

“You seem to have a talent for attracting trouble.”

“I guess you could look at it that way.”

“Why? How do
you
look at it?”

“The same way I did last night when your officers questioned me. I think it has something to do with Johnnie Santoro.”

“The man whose trial you testified at.”

I nodded. “His lawyer was killed a few days ago.”

“So I hear.”

I leaned against the counter. I was certain that the fire was linked to Santoro, Mary Jo, and Calumet Park. First Rhonda Disapio dies in an “accident.” Then Brashares in a robbery gone bad. Now someone was trying to turn me into a crispy critter.

The problem was I couldn’t prove it. I couldn’t provide
any
evidence. And with nothing to back up my suspicions, the cops last night didn’t take me seriously. But, then, why should they? I’d been put in my place at the trial. Hammered by a rising star in state law enforcement.

As if reading my mind, O’Malley looked over. “If there’s something you want to tell me, now would be a good time.”

I hesitated, then ran him through the events since the trial, including what I’d learned from Rhonda and Sweeney. “Bottom line: I think Santoro was working a deal, and Mary Jo was his mule or his courier or something.”

“Drugs?”

I nodded. “It fell apart, they panicked, and Mary Jo was killed.”

“They?”

“Before she died, Rhonda Disapio told me two guys showed up at the boat launch at Calumet Park. She said they killed Mary Jo.”

“Why didn’t she say that at trial?”

“She was scared. They tried to come after her, after they got Mary Jo, but she got away. She didn’t want to take any chances.”

“I don’t know.” O’Malley shook his head. “Sounds weak.”

“Not if they were mixed up with the Mob.”

“Who?”

“The guys at Calumet Park. Santoro, too. He might even have ended up taking the fall for them.”

O’Malley brushed a finger across his mustache. “You have any proof?”

“It depends on your definition.” I told him that Santoro was a longshoreman but wasn’t well liked. And that he’d told Sweeney before the murder that he was onto something big.

“Like I said, do you have any proof?”

“Well, Rhonda Disapio did die in that ‘accident.’”

“After she told you about the men at Calumet Park.”

“And a few days later, Brashares was killed.”

“And you think it’s all connected.”

“Brashares could have known the men who killed Mary Jo. Maybe they pressured him to make sure Santoro took the fall. But maybe he had second thoughts. Maybe he threatened to blow it wide open and they had to shut him up.”

“Got it all figured out, huh?”

“Just coming up with possibilities.”

“And now you think the Mob’s behind this alleged arson. That there’s some kind of conspiracy—I don’t know—to silence you.”

“It is possible, isn’t it?”

“But why? Why would they be coming after you?”

I bit my lip. “Because I figured it out?” I said.

He shook his head. “Ellie, how would they know? It’s not like you’ve been broadcasting it on the news.”

He had a point.

“Tell me,” he said. “What evidence can you provide that would help me find out?”

I didn’t answer.

He tapped a finger on his cup. “Aside from this Santoro business, is there anyone else you can think of—besides the Mafia—who’d want to do you harm?”

I wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Not at the moment.”

“I see.”

The most I could get out of him was a promise to call the detectives assigned to Brashares’ murder.

A young investigator from the fire department showed up after O’Malley left. He ran through what I gathered was a required checklist. He asked where I’d been when the fire first appeared; what I saw, heard, and smelled. He asked about the color of the smoke and flames, and whether I heard an explosion. He pulled out a sketch of the studio’s floor plan and asked me to retrace my steps from the time we finished the dubs until I crawled through the window. He left a few minutes later, a satisfied look on his face.

I’m glad someone was satisfied. I felt like I’d spent a hundred dollars at the grocery store and come home with nothing.

***

When Rachel and I got back from school that afternoon, Fouad was tramping across the lawn, waving a leaf blower. He turned it off when he saw us.

“I heard about the fire on the radio.” He looked worried.

“News travels fast.” I skirted the piles of leaves he’d collected.

“You are not hurt?”

I shook my head.

“That is good.” His eyes fastened on something behind me.

I turned to see Rachel with a worried expression of her own. “Aren’t you coming in, Mom?” She pulled on the straps of her backpack.

“I want to talk to Fouad for a minute. You could start practicing the piano.”

“You’ll just be a minute, right?”

“You bet.” I brushed a curl off her forehead. “You can watch me through the window.” She nodded and went inside.

“What is going on, Ellie?”

I turned around. “I think someone is trying to kill me.”

Fouad moved here from Syria over thirty years ago, knowing his appearance, accent, and customs would always mark him as an outsider. That he would never be treated with the back-slapping heartiness white America reserves for itself. Yet this outsider had risked his life for me. There weren’t many people I trusted more.

His eyes narrowed. “Who?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything—except that it began with Santoro.”

I took him through the chronology. When I finished, he took the leaf blower off his shoulder. He doesn’t dwell on it, but Fouad knows about the dark, evil underbelly of human nature.

“Why do you think it’s the Mafia?”

“Because whoever is behind this doesn’t want something exposed, and they’re using a lot of resources to make sure it isn’t. I don’t know many other organizations with that kind of clout.”

We walked back to his pickup where he put down the leaf blower. “But why are they after you?”

“I—I’m not entirely sure. I did meet with Rhonda Disapio before she died. She was the one who told me about the two men. She thought she was being followed. Maybe they saw us together.”

He pulled out a rake from the truck. “But this has been the only incident directed against you? Since the trial?”

I thought about the SUV I’d seen when Susan and I took a walk. You couldn’t really call that an “incident.” I wasn’t even sure it was significant. “There was nothing,” I said, “until Brashares died.”

“And he died—they broke into his office and attacked him.”

“Tossed the place and cleaned out his safe.”

Fouad was quiet as he raked the separate mounds of leaves together into one large pile. Then he looked up. “Perhaps there was something in his office that connected them to you.”

“In his office?” I kicked a few leaves and watched them swirl in the air before settling. I hardly knew Brashares. I’d only been in his office once. In fact, since the trial, we’d only talked once or twice. Most of our communication was on answering machines. Playing phone tag.

The phone.

I looked up.

“What?” Fouad asked.

“I left a message on Brashares’ machine.”

Fouad’s jaw tightened.

“I said something about Santoro and the men at Calumet Park. I hugged my chest. “Do you think that’s it? I mean, if they were following Rhonda, they already suspected I knew something. And then, when they heard the message…”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that the people who broke into Brashares’ office might have listened to the messages on his answering machine. And heard the one where I mentioned the ‘men at Calumet Park.’ That could be the link.” The temperature was in the fifties, but my palms were sweaty. “Oh God. Me and my big mouth.”

Fouad tried to comfort me. “The Koran says, ‘Allah does not impose upon any soul a duty but to the extent of its ability.’ You were only doing what you thought you should.”

“Even so, it backfired.” I chewed on a finger. “Fouad, what do I do? The police don’t believe any of this.”

“Then you must convince them.”

The plink of piano chords floated through the window. “How? I don’t have any evidence.”

He smiled. “You will find it; I am certain of that.”

I wasn’t quite sure how to take that, but coming from Fouad, it had to be a compliment. He bundled the leaves into a canvas tarp, tied the ends, and carried it to the back of his truck.

I followed him. “Oh. I almost forgot. I met someone from your part of the world the other day.”

He looked over.

“A new client of David’s. A Saudi oil sheik. He says he’s related to the royal family.”

“What’s his name?”

“Abdul Al Hamarani. He’s trying to buy a plant from Great Lakes Oil.”

“There are thousands of royals in Saudi Arabia,” he said. I must have looked crestfallen because he added, “I have a friend from Riyadh. I’ll ask about him when I see him at prayers.”

I went into the kitchen to think about dinner.

Rachel called from the living room, “Next week is the end of Science Club, you know.”

“Already?” Where had the time gone?

“Well, the first session. They’re having Parents’ Day on Friday. Are you coming?”

I missed a lot when Rachel was young. Swimming lessons. Soccer games. Her violin recital. I remember thinking they couldn’t possibly be as important as my work. After the divorce, my priorities changed. Now I try not to miss anything.

I went into the living room. “Of course I’m coming. Why? What’s up?”

“It’s a surprise.” She grinned. “But you’ll like it.”

I swatted her on her rear end. “Tease.”

***

O’Malley got back to me that night. “I called down to Area Three and talked to the dicks handling Brashares’ case.”

“And?”

“They’re sticking with the program.”

“A botched robbery?”

“They say he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Convenient, isn’t it?”

“Ellie.” O’Malley cleared his throat. “I know you had problems last summer. But lightning doesn’t strike twice. Unless you can give me something, there’s nothing I can do. Christ, I wouldn’t know where to start anyway. Your story covers almost every friggin’ police jurisdiction in Cook County.”

“It’s not a story.”

“Well, it isn’t a case.” He paused. “Look, you know how it works. Give me something I can work with. Otherwise, all I got is a suspicious fire. Which could have been set by anyone.”

I thought about the message I’d left on Brashares’ machine. That wasn’t evidence, either. At best, it was conjecture. But it was obvious O’Malley wasn’t eager to take me on.

I kept my mouth shut.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-THREE

I’d always considered our village a quiet place where nothing much happens, until I discovered some history no one talks about much. Apparently, there used to be a bar behind the train station. It was a popular watering hole, especially on Fridays, when the owner took it upon himself to cash his customers’ paychecks. Except for one Friday morning around three, when four masked men robbed the place at gunpoint and escaped with fifty thousand dollars. The community was shocked. Shocked. What sort of people would keep that much cash on the premises? It came out later that the owner was running a “finance and loan” business on the side.

The bar is now gone, but the owner’s family isn’t. Specifically, Joey DePalma, aka the Surgeon, and his brothers. They were part of the old Grand Avenue crew but moved to the suburbs in the Sixties. His brothers didn’t stay; their bodies were found in a Wisconsin field a couple of years later. DePalma made a precipitous retirement after that.

I once asked O’Malley why they called him the Surgeon. He said DePalma was known for his skill with a knife. But that was a long time ago, he added. DePalma led a quiet life now, enjoying his grandchildren and garden. And the careful scrutiny of village cops.

The next morning found me driving down a residential street a mile from my house. Some of the homes, products of remodeling, were upscale two-story structures, but most were modest splits and ranches. Midway down the block was a brown brick ranch with a cedar shake roof and a well-tended lawn. I was surprised how well the house blended in; I’d expected something showier.