City of the Sun (23 page)

They drove over to the Hawthorne area, the environs going seedy as they neared their destination. It looked like some blight was killing the trees along Lynhurst. They drifted slowly down Kel-logg, which was lined by houses that were trying hard to maintain their dignity. Most were white or gray, recently painted, but with thin coats of cheap paint. Then they saw number 96. It was painted a sickly green color and appeared to be abandoned. The paint had given up and was peeling off in long curls, and the weather had been getting at the wood underneath. The lawn wasn’t tended. If it’d been summer, the grass would have grown over a foot high since its last cutting. As it was, it was weedy and brown. There was a drooping narrow porch leading to a pitted front door. Behr pulled over to the curb and put the car in park. They observed the house for any signs of life, of which there were none.

“At what point do we involve the cops?” Paul wondered out loud.

“At some point. But I need to get into this house first, and the police will prevent that from happening.”

“We’re going in then?”

“I am.”

Behr leaned over and reached across Paul, opening the glove compartment. He fished around in it for a moment, under registration and insurance papers, before he found what he was looking for: two small pieces of black-painted metal, one twisted like a drill bit, the other L-shaped like an Allen wrench but flat at the end.

Behr got out, looking up and down the street for any neighbors. No one was around. Paul stepped out of the car as well and followed as Behr walked up the few steps and onto the porch. He pounded on the front door, then put his ear against it. Both of them listened.

“Nothing,” he said, walking down the steps and around the side of the house. They peered in the windows and saw darkened rooms, mostly devoid of furniture or anything else. There was a side door with a corroded brass knob. Behr tried it, and though it turned a bit in its casing, it was locked. They continued on and reached the windows of what would have been a back bedroom. They were unable to see inside, as the windows were painted black.

After a full orbit around the outside, Behr led them back to the locked side door. He took a knee and produced the two pieces of metal he’d taken from the glove compartment. He slid the one that looked like a drill bit into the keyhole on the knob. He jiggled it around for a moment and then inserted the Allen wrench–looking piece next to it. For the next five minutes Behr’s hands worked as if he was conducting a miniature concert. He seemed to make progress. The knob rattled a bit but didn’t yield.

“I can only get one pin and there are two others,” Behr said, removing the tools and standing up.

“Lock’s too strong?”

“Lock’s a piece of shit. This small tension tool and pry bar won’t get it done, though. The pins are too far apart along the shear line for it.”

“What next?”

“Cough.”

It was mostly symbolic, but Paul hacked loudly as Behr put a shoulder into the door. The jamb exploded in a geyser of rotted wood chips, and they were in.

The house was silent and near empty. The door they’d broken through led into the kitchen. Aging appliances in a shade of green rested on cracking linoleum that was curling up in the corners. They checked the refrigerator, which was turned off and devoid of provisions. It emitted the faint smell of ancient dairy products. The oven was empty and hadn’t been cooked in for quite a while.

They stepped into the living room. A plastic milk crate was the only furniture. There were marks in the crusty shag carpeting that showed where couches and chairs had once rested. The walls were pocked with holes of various sizes and shapes. There was nothing to look at in the room and they moved on quickly, a sense of anticipation rising in them. The house had no basement, just a dead-end crawl space they peered into, and they moved down a short hallway.

When they reached the end, they found two bedrooms separated by a bathroom. One bedroom was carpeted, an old shaggy brown, and had roller shades on the windows. The room and its closets were empty. The other bedroom was empty as well. It was uncarpeted. Other details were difficult to make out because of the darkness caused by the black-painted windows that they’d noticed from the outside. They moved close to the windows and found deep screw holes along the win-dowpanes. Behr ran his fingers over them, wondering exactly what they signified. Paul moved his foot along the floor, sliding crumpled fast-food wrappers from various chains down the baseboard. They turned around, surveying the area, inspecting the empty closets, then moved on to the bathroom.

The bathroom was both filthy and empty save for one item. On the stained tile floor in front of the toilet was a copy of the
Star
, folded back to the sports section. It was sodden from a slow leak at the base of the toilet. Behr knelt down and looked at it, the newsprint bloated and spreading due to the water. He picked it up gingerly, the pages heavy with water, and checked the date.

“October twenty-fourth?” Paul said aloud. Behr nodded his head, then carefully rested the paper on the toilet lid and folded it to the front page to check for a subscriber address. But the upper-right-hand corner of the page had been torn away.

HE HAD PLANS TO MEET
Susan Durant for the first time, and it took a nearly physical effort for Behr to put aside the case and focus on the evening. He and Paul had agreed to meet early the next morning, to go and take a look at Riggi’s house. That moment seemed a long way off and he felt pulled in two directions. While he drove over to pick Susan up, he tried to concentrate on the social occasion at hand. He had long ago learned to relegate his hopes to a modest place when getting together with a female whom he’d never before met. It had become a necessity after many blind dates and acquaintances made over the phone that hadn’t panned out. He’d gone too many times for dinner or a drink with a woman with whom he’d had good phone rapport, hoping for a looker or at least someone who stirred him, only to find someone he couldn’t even get started with. It was a superficial way to view things, he couldn’t deny it. He suspected that the essence he’d encountered over the telephone was the important thing, but he wasn’t much for faking it when it came to romance. It was a two-way street anyhow. He’d clocked enough disappointment coming back across the table at him over the years.

Susan’s voice was bright and animated when he called from downstairs to say he’d arrived. Still, the best he’d allowed himself to anticipate was someone who gave good phone but was on the edge of pretty or just plain. When she came through her building’s door, moving fast, her hair a yellow slash against her black coat, he saw she was well beyond that. She was tall, nearly six feet, with swept-back blond hair and pure white teeth. She was broad, a few important degrees from big, though. One of his first thoughts was that she was too young for him. He got out to greet her.

“Susan.”

“ ‘Lo, Frank.” Her grip was firm and her hand was soft, as he knew they would be. Standing closer, he saw the faint laugh lines at the corners of her eyes. The age gap wasn’t as wide as he’d thought. She was in her midthirties, but with great energy, and he was heartened.

She shimmied out of her coat and threw it down on the front seat. She wore a black boatneck dress that gave him a moment to appreciate her smooth, powerful swimmer’s shoulders before she slid into the car. He closed the door behind her and they drove toward Donohue’s.

Wenck put the Gran Torino in gear and followed the Olds about a dozen car lengths back.

“Keep back about ten cars,” Gilley said unnecessarily.

“I know,” Wenck responded as they entered into the light flow of traffic on North Cooper Road, where it was easy to stay with him, but there were still enough cars with which to blend. They were just another pair of headlights. The investigator would never see them coming. They’d finally got their audition. They’d heard several rumors over the past year about what working for Riggi could yield; mainly money, plenty of money. And support. A constant flow of employment, from a boss who was in a position to supply jobs, proper tools, and even lawyers in the event they were needed. Wenck and Gilley had been fairly somber in their agreement not to fuck up this chance. They crossed through Knolton Heights with no sign they’d been made.

“Date,” Gilley had said when they’d pulled over down the block from where the detective had stopped and they’d witnessed the pickup.

“First date,” Wenck advanced. The stiff, formal way the man had gotten out of his car and the handshake greeting were what tipped him off. The shamus had done well for himself. “All he’s probably wondering is if he’s gonna get some slit.”

“Guy’s got no idea he’s ending up in the hospital tonight,” Gilley said aloud, allowing himself one half-snort of laughter.

“Hospital at best,” Wenck said, pulling out once again. They’d agreed to play it loose as to whether they would take him going to or from his destination or on the way home, depending on the best place for the move. Riggi had warned them to be careful, that the investigator had put a hurting on some of his other men. “Brought down enough big boys to know how to do it,” Wenck had said, though he planned to heed the advice nonetheless. The investigator turned and pulled into a lot behind a brick building on Belmont. Wenck nosed the Torino just past the opening of the alley to take a look. A stark bulb shone above a green door and was the only light in the area. It was ideal.

“It’s a shame she’s gonna have to be part of it,” Wenck mused aloud of the woman. Gilley ventured a nod. They readied their arms and set to wait for Behr to come out.

Riggi valet-parked at the Westin on South Capitol and headed into the steakhouse’s bar, where he planned to wait while it happened. It was best for him to be seen in a public place, to make purchases with a credit card, to perhaps be photographed by security cameras. It was preferable to meeting an associate, letting it all rest on him or her if questions started being asked, just to see that person squeezed into recanting the alibi. He sat at a cocktail table in the middle of the room and didn’t even attempt to signal a waitress. He had nothing but time. He’d considered his options and decided on Wenck and Gilley and an extremely bad beating for Behr. The kind of beating that would distract and discourage and require major recovery time. He was willing for the detective to die but couldn’t risk having him shot. Most detectives were ex-cops and there’d be too much suspicion and outrage over a shooting, not to mention the fact he was sure to have notes on his recent interviews that could name Riggi. No, a beating could look like something else, a street crime or a fight gone wrong, and would be harder to follow up.

“If he dies, he dies,” Riggi had said when Wenck asked how far they should take it.

Wenck and Gilley. Gilley was tall and rangy, a skate punk who’d grown too old for half-pipes and rail grinding. He could’ve been an electrician or a plumber, made a regular life for himself, if only he could stand people. He’d punched out enough foremen, with his big hands and longdistance right, that Riggi started hearing about him around the real estate office. He looked a little further into the stories and learned that Gilley ran with a guy, Wenck, who’d been arrested a dozen times on assault, stolen property, and extortion beefs. Wenck had served three stretches in prison ranging from thirty days in lockup to eighteen months in the state facility. He was as wide as he was tall, with a thick, smashed-down brow and a low forehead, and could only have been what he was — a piece of grease for hire. It would have been the same for him no matter what era he’d lived in. If he had been around in 1800s New York, he would’ve been a perfect Plug Ugly. When Riggi asked himself if he had the right men for the job, he could only conclude that he did.

Paul sat in his car down the street from the fine house, aware that he was in exactly the wrong place. A few lights shone in various parts of the home, but he had been there for forty-five minutes and hadn’t seen any movement or other signs of life. He was beginning to think the lights were on to create an impression but that no one was there. He felt his heart thudding; he thought he could even hear it. He and Behr had left the abandoned rental house after deciding that there was nothing else, besides that newspaper, to be gleaned from the place. They’d done their best to smooth out the broken jamb and pull the door shut behind them. Behr drove Paul back to his car, and as he had something else to do that night, they’d agreed to go and look at Riggi’s residence the next day. Less than an hour later Paul found himself sitting at Riggi’s, wondering if he had the stomach to do what he intended.

He had seen the list of addresses several times over the course of the last few days and Riggi’s street and number were burned into his brain. He’d pointed his car toward his own home in earnest after leaving Behr, had even reached the outskirts of his neighborhood, before succumbing to the raw urge that wouldn’t allow him to let it go for the night. Riggi was living well, that much was clear. The house was a whitewashed brick job, a modified Georgian with a great room squared in by large leaded windows. If the addition was a bit out of the style of the rest of the house, the place certainly looked rich and comfortable. Well-kept grass and some boxwoods surrounded it. Up and down the block lights were on in other expensive houses. There was the occasional figure passing by a window, a garage door opening and a car pulling in or out. Paul assumed there must be signs beyond that, a process or method by which a trained individual could tell if a house was occupied. But Behr wasn’t with him. He was alone. He decided on his own method: He’d wait two full hours and if there were no signs of movement, he would do it.

Rooster hung from the horizontal crossbar that stretched across the top of his cell door jacking out pull-ups. He was on his fifth set of fifteen, his forearms pressed against the vertical bars, but something was wrong. He hadn’t been able to conjure a song, not even a guitar riff, in his head all day. He thought back and realized it was before he’d been roughed up when he’d last heard music in his mind. Danzig’s “Ashes.” Then he’d been knocked around and he’d lost the music. He squeezed out his last rep, feeling the blood flow into his lats. He smacked his hands together after lowering himself to the floor, trying to summon energy, then hit the ground on his back and began his last set of one hundred sit-ups. In the past day he’d gotten to a thousand. There was no telling how long he’d be inside and he’d set his mind to staying hard. It was the only choice. If he let the mind go, the body would follow, and he’d be chum the second he was dropped into general population. He was meeting with his court-appointed attorney the next morning to prepare for his arraignment. In the meantime he was being kept in special holding. It wasn’t bad so far: no roommate; two hours optional in the television room, which he skipped to work out in his cell; fifteen-minute private shower at the end of the night before lights out. The food was rough — salty, fatty, carbed up. That was the biggest problem he’d faced in the short term. He didn’t hold much hope for Mr. Free Lawyer, either. Those guys tended to be pretty bottom of the barrel, and he found himself considering whether he should call Riggi for a hook or not. If the private investigator–fuck had shown up on Riggi’s doorstep, it’d be a suicide call. If not, it’d be what was referred to as a lifeline. He finished his set, his abdomen seizing and burning with the effort, and decided he’d wait and see what the public defender guy had to offer tomorrow before he’d make the call. He slid his feet into shower sandals, got his soap, razor, and towel, and shuffled down toward the shower room.