Dante's Dilemma (36 page)

“You have to admit you're the dogged type. And anyone can see that there's no love lost between the two of us. How much you want to bet that report will mysteriously show up in your mailbox one day?” Di Marco gave a cynical little laugh. “That's the only thing that upsets me—how you thought I was behind it.”

“The rumors, Tony,” Hallie pointed out. “The rumors.”

“I'm not talking about the police scribbles. I'm talking about how Michelle mishandled the cut-and-paste job. It's Evidence 101 that an expert can't openly call somebody a liar.
If
I had wanted Stephens's report to come out a different way—and I'll deny I ever felt that way—I never would have been so stupid. Or so crude.”

It was after 10 p.m. when we pulled up at our destination, a bungalow in West Rogers Park. Tony sent one of the detectives to watch the back door while we proceeded up the front walk and rang.

The young man who answered—presumably Michelle's husband—was in the middle of telling us she wasn't home when Di Marco cut him off.

“Five to ten,” he said.

“Excuse me?” the young man stuttered.

“That's the penalty in Illinois for helping a fugitive evade justice. Now be a nice little boy and step aside.”

Just as we were about to enter, the second detective dragged Michelle Rogers from the back of the house, crying and screaming, “It wasn't me! It was her! It was her! She made me!”

Di Marco said, “That's being a doll, Michelle. Keep singing like that at the station house, and I'll do what I can to get you into one of the more luxurious correctional facilities.” Then to the detectives: “Get the girls and boys with the baggies down here and go over every inch of her car before you impound it. And bring the hubby in too, in case he's stupid enough to try and provide an alibi. It's late, but I'm afraid I'm going to need you there for a while too,” he said to Hallie and me. “To give statements.”

“That's all right,” I said. “Because there's something you're going to do for us in return.”

Several days later, the news flash came on the television just as I was leaving for work. In what WGN was calling a “shocking setback” for Republicans hoping to reclaim the governor's mansion, State's Attorney Linda O'Malley was expected to announce her resignation at a press conference later that morning. Though the reason was yet unknown, several prominent party members pointed to an at-risk pregnancy and O'Malley's agonizing decision to put her family first. Other, more credible sources claimed it was related to the fact that a different suspect was now under arrest for the slaying of University of Chicago professor Gunther Westlake, along with rumors that an unnamed lawyer in the State's Attorney's office had confessed to the contract killing of the expert witness originally hired to evaluate Rachel Lazarus.

In a side note to the unfolding scandal, a spokesperson for the University of Chicago reported that the school was opening an investigation into a PhD candidate who had allegedly stolen one of Westlake's unpublished papers and submitted it in place of his dissertation. The theft was discovered when the student's odd behavior aroused the suspicions of Erik Blum, the head of the Sociology Department, who was said to be “dismayed by the culture of laxity” among today's graduate students, even while acknowledging that a “breakdown in oversight” may have contributed to the young man's problems.

Ambling into the office coffee room an hour later, I discovered a minor celebration underway.

“Woot, woot, here he is!” Josh exclaimed, taking my arm and ushering me to a table where a number of my colleagues were gathered. Several of them came over to offer their congratulations and pound me on the back. I assumed they were talking about Rachel's release, which Di Marco had informed me would take place as soon as his appointment as acting State's Attorney was made official. Though Rachel would still have to answer for the mutilation of Westlake's corpse, the misdemeanor carried only a minimal sentence that could be taken care of by time served.

“Thanks, guys,” I said. “But you didn't need to throw me a party. And it's way too early to open a bottle of champagne.”

“
Au contraire
,” Josh said, handing me a glass of the bubbly stuff. “Who wants to tell him?”

“I will,” Alison said, audibly beaming.

I had no clue what was going on. “Did I forget it was my anniversary?”

“Better than an anniversary,” she said.

“Oh yeah? Has Jonathan announced where he's sending me next? If it's Siberia, I can just walk outside.”

“Not Siberia. But you're getting warm.”

“What are you talking about?” I demanded.

“Switzerland, home of the Appenzell Institute, what some consider the finest psychiatric hospital in the world.”

“Great. I'm being committed.”

Alison said, “Don't be such a goof. I'm not talking about you. I'm talking about Jonathan. Guess who an international search committee has tagged to become the Appenzell Institute's next director? He's moving the whole family to Lausanne next month.”

“How did you—?”

“Engineer it? I got wind of the opening, and a number of us took the opportunity to submit Jonathan's résumé to the search committee, along with our heartfelt letters of recommendation. But it was Sep's connections that really cinched the deal. He was hopping mad when he heard how Jonathan treated you.
He couldn't be here this morning, but he wanted us to tell you that he's also put your name in as a possible replacement.”

I couldn't have been more stunned. “Me?”

“But only, to quote Sep, ‘if he promises to work on his interpersonal skills.'”

“So we're stuck with you,” Josh said.

“And couldn't be happier about it,” Alison added.

I didn't have the stomach to argue with them.

I asked Hallie to give me a lift home that night, using the weather as an excuse. Though the days had lengthened considerably and signs of spring were everywhere—Top Cat's launching himself at the windows to get at the birds outside being just one example—it was still too early to call it a winter.

The drive was just long enough for me to get some questions out of the way.

“So Michelle claims she was paid to run down Brad?”

“That's her story. Says she was promised a promotion in exchange for making ‘something happen' to your friend that could be later pinned on Di Marco. The means was left up to her. She admits she lured Brad out to the bar that night on a pretext similar to the one she gave you: that she had suspicions about Di Marco and was concerned about Brad's safety. When they were done, she followed him home from the bar and waited to hit the accelerator until he was crossing a street with no one around. Not exactly a foolproof plan, but the only way she could think of to make the death look like an accident. And if Brad did survive, he could testify about what she told him.”

“So the part about the affair was just something she made up.”

“Uh-huh. She was worried Wayne could identify the two of them if the police came around, asking questions. She figured he'd be scared enough about taking a bribe that he'd keep his mouth shut.”

At least I had one good piece of news to deliver to Inga Duckworth.

“What about O'Malley? Will she be tried for the murder?”

“According to my sources, the only question is where. Right now, as you'd expect, O'Malley's attorneys are promising a fight—nothing on tape, the word of an admitted felon against hers, and so forth. If the case is tried in state court, they'll fight like hell to keep the federal corruption charges out of it. But the US Attorney is pushing to charge O'Malley with conspiracy, and this may be the one time Di Marco will willingly step aside. I hear he's already planning a run to make his acting position permanent in the special election.”

“And Brad's original report—did Michelle say where it was now?”

Hallie chuckled. “Just as Di Marco predicted. On its way to you in the US Mail. The FBI put an intercept on it, but I was asked to tell you to call if it arrived on your doorstep.”

This time when Hallie dropped me off, I asked her if she'd like to come in and see the place. It was early enough in the evening that the invitation wouldn't be misconstrued, and I wanted her to see how I was changing for the better: no longer so in thrall to my demons that I chose to forgo all creature comforts. I gave her directions to the alley and the ground-floor garage I didn't need and hopped out ahead to open the door.

I took her around the first floor, the room I'd once planned on turning into a home theater—if I couldn't see anything more than the glow of a television screen, I could make up for it with surround sound—the spacious laundry, and the yards of storage space, still filled with the movers' boxes that would now go unopened. I showed her my bicycles and my stationary trainer and took her upstairs to where Top Cat rushed up to greet us. I showed her the Jetson-like kitchen and the gas fireplace and the little office den where I had sweated out the details of my Lazarus testimony. Playing the host, feeling an owner's pride, recognizing for the first time that these four walls—and the city outside them—had become my home, made me regret all the more what I had to do.

It was while we were touring the third floor that Hallie grew suspicious.

“Is this the room where Louis will be staying when he comes to visit you?”

“That
was
the plan.”

“Was?”

The time had come to fill her in on what was happening. So I took Hallie through my last meeting with Annie, the written demand from her lawyers, and my intention to seek shared custody in court.

“The ironic part is that I've always hated my name. And now I'll be fighting just so that he can keep it,” I said, as I was finishing up my story.

“But it isn't just about the name, is it?”

“No,” I admitted. “It's much more than that.”

“What does your lawyer think about your chances?”

“She's not being Debbie Downer, but even a paralegal would know the odds are against me. I walked away from him at birth. And that's before we even get to
this
.” I waved a hand in front of my eyes.

“That's not a reason to deny you custody,” Hallie said quickly and heatedly.

“You can say that because you were brought up to believe it. How many family-court judges will feel the same way? And to be honest, I'm not all that confident myself. I manage OK on my own, but how will I do with a little child? I know blind people can be good parents, but I'm still so new—to both games. I'm worried about losing him in a crowd, of getting lost somewhere when I'm supposed to be picking him up from school, of his friends not wanting to play at our house. Maybe it's unfair of me to even want it.”

“Don't ever think that. He needs you. And you'll have other people to help you—your friends.” She didn't need to say the words.
And me.

We'd come to the nub of the problem and I shook my head. “If by some miracle I win, I can't stay in Chicago. I'll have to move back to Greenwich.” I looked straight at her. “It will improve my chances if I do it before the court gets around to deciding.”

And that would be the end of us. Hallie had a well-established career here. A large and loving family. I could never ask her to move halfway across the country to take a chance on a shithead like me.

Hallie was quiet while my words sank in.

“I've been putting off making a decision, but now that this business with Rachel is over, it's time to face reality. So I won't be holding on to this place for much longer.” I tried to sound lighthearted. “It's a shame. I was just starting to find my way around.”

“How long . . . ?”

“As soon as I can find another job. My lawyer cautioned me about being unemployed when we go to hearing. Another strike against me. But I still have a connection or two back on the East Coast. Maybe they'll be willing to overlook . . . well, things. If I'm lucky, I can be on my way in a month.”