Nelson’s eyes brightened. “You can do that?”
“I just did. I need you to check out East Bank. See what you can dig up.”
“Aside from pecs and testosterone?”
“Let me know what you find. Meanwhile, we’ll check out Simon’s offices.”
“You got it.”
Matt watched her pull away from the curb. Competent. That’s what he’d picked up about Carrie Nelson. She was competent.
Chapter Nineteen
Before heading over to RDM, Matt stopped in at Louis Simon’s office on Shermer. A young receptionist with red-rimmed eyes walked Matt past four treatment rooms to a small office in back. Matt searched the desk and found Simon’s black book in a drawer. Thumbing through it, he saw that most of the entries bore initials followed by numbers. He pocketed the book.
In the drawer he also found a recent Visa statement that included charges from Irv’s, a men’s store, and a florist on Dundee Road. He also found a bill from the East Bank Club. Three items, in the thirty to forty dollar range, came from the club’s restaurant. More than one person ate lunch.
Looking through the rest of the desk, he retrieved a small zippered bag that contained aftershave, a toothbrush, and mouthwash. The man apparently followed the Boy Scout motto. But there were no stray papers. Or photographs.
His next stop was RDM in Mount Prospect. The trash company was headquartered off Wolf Road in a squat building with black letters stenciled on a glass door. Inside was a large room with fluorescent lights and linoleum tiles. A green Formica counter separated him from three women sifting through paperwork and listening to easy rock. Matt identified himself to a young brunette. She snapped off the radio and disappeared down a hall.
A minute later the woman returned and waved him through the gate at the counter. He followed her down a hall paneled in wood veneer to a room with a large desk at one end and a circular table and chairs at the other. Fake wood mini-blinds deepened the gloom. He got the impression RDM was a family-owned business that had expanded beyond its comfort level.
A short sinewy man rose from behind the desk. “Sam Ferraro, CEO of RDM.” The man, probably in his late thirties, had thick lips and small eyes, and his hair was styled. A gold watch gleamed under the cuff of his suit.
A second man at the table also stood up. Well into his sixties, he was stocky and rough-hewn, with shaggy gunmetal hair on the backs of his hands as well as his head. Dressed in casual gabardine slacks and a golf shirt, he looked like he used to haul garbage.
“Frank Ferraro.” He gestured to an empty chair. Matt sat down opposite the father. The son joined them.
“We are horrified and baffled by what’s happened, Detective,” the son began. “Anything we can do, we will.”
The son had the look of clean fingernails and a college degree. Matt wondered if he’d ever been behind the wheel of his own trucks. He turned to the elder Ferraro. “Do you have any enemies that you know of?”
“You think someone’s targeting us?”
“What do you think? Both homicides occurred on property belonging to RDM.”
The man shook his head. “I run a clean operation, sir. Have for thirty-five years. We’ve never had any problems.”
“You started the company?”
Ferraro nodded. “I hauled for the city of Chicago. Like my father before me. Local 456. But we always knew we could do as well as the city. So, when the suburbs started looking for contractors, we made the move.”
“Why here?”
“I knew people here, and they gave me a break. One thing led to another, and we grew. Now we haul all over the northern and western suburbs.” Pride rolled across his face. “I turned it over to Sammy two years ago.”
“Who did you know up here?”
“My cousins moved up here in the fifties—they run the Italian Gardens on Waukegan Road.”
Matt knew the place, an Italian restaurant with a fountain in the front, red checked tablecloths, and the tang of garlic in the air. It was one of Georgia’s favorites.
“I wanna tell you something, Detective.” Frank Ferraro leaned forward, his craggy eyebrows drawing together. “You should know there’s no funny business in our family. We’re hard-working, honest Americans.”
Some people felt compelled to tell you they weren’t mob. The question was whether you believed them. Especially since the sanitation business was controlled by organized crime. Matt leaned back. The man might not be mobbed up, but he could be paying a “tax” to someone who was. Still, that wasn’t necessarily relevant. If RDM had problems with the mob, it wouldn’t have been Romano and Simon who popped up on their property.
“I understand, Mr. Ferraro,” Matt said. “But I’d like to talk to your people anyway. See if anyone has a grudge.”
“We’ll make anyone available whenever you want. We want to get to the bottom of this too.”
Matt flipped through his notes. “Have you ever heard of a company called Prairie State Environmental Services?”
The son frowned. “They’re downstate, aren’t they? They haul toxic waste.”
“You know them?”
“Only by reputation.” He gazed at Matt. “Do you know anything about this business, Detective?”
“Not really.”
“There are your general firms, like us, that do the majority of the work. And then there are, what I guess they call in other fields, boutique firms that specialize in specific jobs. Prairie State is one of them. They take on jobs that are considered tough by normal standards. Big jobs, like Love Canal. Remember, Pop, when we were talking about starting a subsidiary to do that?”
The father spread his hands. “I couldn’t see it. We’re not that kind of company.”
“Dad thought we were cutting edge when we built the methane conversion plant.”
“You were the first in the state to do that, weren’t you?”
“We were.” Son Ferraro’s spine straightened. “But you’ve always got to think ahead in this business. Toxic waste is complicated. The regulations are strict, and with all the Superfund legislation, the liability situation is nuts. We can be sued just trying to clean up a site. Without polluting anything. Jesus, just to get the golf course up was a battle.”
“Do you still have any ownership interest in the course?”
“Not any more,” the son said. “We pick and choose our opportunities. We don’t want to be spread too thin.”
The elder Ferraro cut in. “Why are you asking about Prairie State?”
“Their name has come up. But you don’t have any kind of relationship with them?”
“None at all.”
***
“O God, full of mercy, who dwells on high, grant proper rest on the wings of
The Divine Presence...”
The rabbi was just starting a final blessing over the dead when Matt arrived at the funeral. Slipping a
kipah
on his head, he entered the back of the synagogue.
Nelson and Brewster had stationed themselves at the back of the sanctuary to observe the crowd, which, at over two hundred, was huge for a weekday afternoon. Scanning the pews, Matt spotted Stuart Feldman among the mourners. What was Feldman’s connection to Simon? Matt craned his neck to see if Ricki was with him. She wasn’t.
He was shocked at how much Feldman had aged. His face, once round and hearty, was gaunt, and there were circles under his eyes. The designer suits that used to cover him like a second skin hung in folds.
The service ended, and the mourners slowly worked their way through a receiving line. He and Brewster headed out to the unmarked. A television van was parked next to it, and the crew was unloading their gear. A young blonde was using the side-view mirror to fix her make-up. As the two Detectives drew near, she turned to them and smiled brightly.
“Detective Singer? Amy Ferguson, WMAQ. Is it true these two murders are connected and that RDM is in the middle of it?”
“I’m sorry. I have nothing to say.”
She shifted towards Brewster, who cut his eyes from the reporter to Matt with a look of panic on his face. Matt shook his head, and Brewster tucked his head down like a bull about to charge. Ferguson sidestepped around him and headed across the parking lot.
Matt grinned at his partner. “You learn fast.”
Brewster nodded.
“You pick up anything inside?”
“Nope. Just crowd control. What about RDM?”
“The owner kept telling me he wasn’t mobbed up.”
“You believe him?”
“Probably. But we’ll canvas their people anyway. Can you get a team together tomorrow?”
“You got it.”
The door to the synagogue opened, and Stuart Feldman emerged with Charlene Simon, his arm around her shoulder. Helping the widow into a limo, he waited until the car pulled away. He was about to turn away when Amy Ferguson approached him, microphone in hand. As the camera began to roll, he spoke earnestly into the mike. It occurred to Matt that Stuart Feldman liked wealthy, powerful women.
***
Matt pored over Simon’s autopsy report. The ME’s observation about blue skin had been prescient: Simon’s cause of death was pulmonary edema, which led to hypoxemia. In layman’s terms, his lungs had filled up with fluid, drowning and cutting off his oxygen supply. Though tissue cultures confirmed that fluids had seeped into his lungs because of a pulmonary irritant, the ME couldn’t identify what the irritant was.
As Matt read on, he grew uneasy. The cool temperature in the pit had slowed things down. Still, the rigor and blood composition confirmed the vic died before he went into the pit. Like Romano. But the ME couldn’t rule out an accidental emission or airborne toxin, so Simon’s manner of death could not conclusively be ruled a homicide. Again like Romano. The only thing the ME could say was that based on the corpse, whatever Simon inhaled probably took between thirty-six and forty-eight hours to kill him, unusually quick for most infectious agents.
Matt checked with the State Police and the Illinois EPA. No highway accidents or train derailments over the past few days involved any emissions. Nor had any industrial or agricultural accidents been reported in the area. He taped a shot of Simon next to the photo of Romano above his desk.
***
“The problem is there’s a limit to what the ME can do,” he said at the Task Force briefing that afternoon. “They get fifteen to twenty bodies a day. They’re not in a position to work with us long-term. They want to get rid of ‘em.”
“So where do we turn?” Carrie Nelson asked.
“The crime lab’s promised a full workup but they need to know what to test for,” Matt said.
“They can’t do it themselves?”
Matt shook his head. “It’s like trying to find a needle in a haystack. They want us to narrow it down.” He turned to Doyle. “I’d like to call the FBI. Also the military.”
“Why in hell do you want to do that?” Doyle said.
“Maybe they were testing some kind of nerve gas in the area.”
Doyle sucked on his pipe.
“I know it’s a long shot, but we’ve got to cover all the possibilities. And the Bureau might be able to steer us in a new direction.”
Doyle was silent for so long Matt thought he hadn’t heard him. Finally, he took the pipe out of his mouth. “I don’t think so.” He scanned the Detectives’ faces. “Let’s everybody slow down, okay? We’re dealing with two average citizens here. The
ME can’t even confirm homicides. Yes, we have a suspicious situation, which is why we’re here, but nerve gas? Secret military activities? “He flipped up his palms. “Get real.”
“But sir, we need—”
“I’ll tell you what we need,” Doyle said. “We need to be careful. We don’t need to broadcast the fact we need help.”
“But the Bureau’s resources are beyond anything we have.”
“Singer, the links between your vics are weak at best. Yes, they both died because of some unknown pathogen, and yes, they were both moved to an RDM facility. But the cause of death for each is different, and we got nothing to suggest the two of them knew each other or shared anything in common. You call in the Bureau, they’ll take over and show us up as incompetent rubes. Just hold off.”
Matt stiffened. First Doyle wanted him to finish fast; now he wanted him to slow down. His jaw clenched. The most he was able to get out of him was permission to research undetectable poisons. But with hundreds of thousands of possibilities, he didn’t hold out much hope. Matt had to face the fact that there could be two motives, two poisons, two murderers.
Chapter Twenty
“Detective Stone, this is Ricki Feldman.”
Stone automatically checked his watch Thursday morning. Barely seven thirty. Lucky he was pulling the early shift. “Good morning. What can I do for you?”
“I’m at the site. Could you come over here now?”
He heard the distress in her voice. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”
The morning had dawned with the sun a golden smudge amid swirls of pearl colored clouds, but now the sky was leaden, and a chilly wind scraped leaves across the sidewalk. He pulled up to the site in less than two minutes. The RV was now surrounded by cranes, backhoes, earthmovers, and on the edge of the field next to Waukegan Road, an industrial-sized dumpster. What was this, he wondered? The village hadn’t approved construction yet.
Ricki met him at his car. “Detective Stone.” Dressed in a Burberry trench coat and dark glasses, she didn’t look like the cocky kid in a baseball hat, or the powerful executive from the hearings. Her face was drawn, and she looked scared.
He waved a hand toward the heavy equipment. “I’m confused. Did you get the go-ahead to start construction?”
“Not yet. But we volunteered to clear the land. It needs to be leveled, regardless of what happens.”
Stone zipped his jacket. Clearing the land would earn brownie points when it was time to vote on construction. “How philanthropic.”
She shot him a look, then turned around. “Follow me.”
As they approached the RV, Ricki pointed to the door. Something lay on the top step, blocking the entrance. Stone moved closer. It was a dog with black and brown fur. Mostly Lab, he thought. Not more than eight or ten months. A puppy. Glancing around, he spied a stick on the ground a few feet away. He picked it up and gently prodded the animal. No movement. It was dead.
He took in a breath. “When did you find him?”
“About twenty minutes ago.”
Stone peered at the creature. He didn’t see any collar or tags.
She nodded, her face showing uncertainty, perhaps, even fear. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves. Bending down, he felt around the dog’s belly. It seemed bloated. He picked up the dog’s legs. Stiff, but not broken. Lifting its head, he checked for wounds or cuts around its face. He didn’t see any, and there was no blood. He did notice specks of green and brown around the mouth, however, and thrust his face closer to sniff. Vomit. He checked the other end of the dog and saw bits of excrement matted in its tail.
“What do you think?” Ricki asked.
He straightened up. “I’m no animal expert. Rat poison maybe?”
“That’s it?”
“Like I said, I don’t know.” He looked around. Bits of metal glittered in the dirt. A few rusted barrels lay at the edge of the field. “Maybe it ate a metal can, something like that.”
“But—I mean—knowing the situation, do you think this could be related?”
The wind gusted, and three or four leaves danced in its current. Stone thought back to the dog shit. “Not necessarily. It isn’t that uncommon.”
“Are you saying a dead dog on a construction site is a normal everyday event?”
“A stray that accidentally dies while foraging for food? It happens.”
“But—”
“I know it’s not what you want to hear, but I have to go with the most logical explanation.”
“So what are you going to do?”
He stripped off his gloves and pulled out his cell. “Get someone to pick up the dog.”
“That’s all?”
“Ms. Feldman, is something else going on?”
“I—I think I’m being watched.” She fingered a button on her coat. “I’m not sure. When I’m driving, I keep thinking someone’s following me, but when I check the rear view mirror, no one’s there. Then a few nights ago, I heard someone going through our garbage. I sent Walter out to check—he’s our houseman, but no one was there.”
“I thought you lived downtown.”
“I’ve been staying up in Lake Forest with my father. More convenient with this.” She waved a hand.
“Did you report it to the Lake Forest police?”
She shook her head. “Walter said it was probably raccoons. But now…” Her voice trailed off.
Stone started to pace. “Call the police when you get back to your father’s.”
“But I want you to handle it.”
“It’s not my jurisdiction.”
She folded her arms. “Surely, you can make an exception. You know us.”
“It doesn’t work that way.”
“Are you saying I’ll have to go over your head?”
Stone tugged on his ear. There were always people who assumed the rules didn’t apply to them. “What does your father say?”
“I haven’t told him. He doesn’t need the stress.”
Feldman must be sicker than he thought. “I can’t tell you what to do, Ms. Feldman, but the odds are it’s just a prank.”
She took off her sunglasses, her gaze processing him as if calculating whether he was a friend or foe. “You call this—this harassment a prank? Come on, Detective. We both know this CEASE group is responsible. I want them stopped.”
Stone considered it. Chances were some kid was crying his eyes out because his puppy had run away. But the daughter of Stuart Feldman expected him to launch an investigation. He was about to say something sarcastic when a sudden image of Deanna came over him. What if she’d found a dead animal on her doorstep? What would he do?
He took a breath then went back to his car. He came back with his Polaroid and shot a few pictures of the dog. “I’ll have it taken over to a vet.”
As he waited for a squad car to pick up the dog, workmen in plaid shirts, jeans, and work boots started to arrive. A knot of them gathered near the RV, shooting curious looks at the dog and Stone. A moment later the clamor and whine of motors and machinery cut through the air.
“This has never happened to me before, Detective. I don’t like it. I’m wondering whether I should get some protection for my father and me.”
“By all means. If it makes you feel more comfortable.”
“Would you?”
For a dead dog? Stone bit back a reply. “It’s your decision.”
“Tell me something, where would I find such a person?”
“A private security service is a good start.”
“Don’t police officers sometimes moonlight as bodyguards?”
“Some do.”
“What about your friend— what was his name?” Her fingernail traced a line down her neck, leaving a faint chalky track on her skin. “Matt Singer?”
Stone felt his eyes narrow. “He’s pretty busy these days.”
“Of course. It was just a thought.”
***
The combination of scents at the North Shore Animal Hospital—zoo overlaid with perfume—was just this side of tolerable, Stone thought an hour later. A woman with a giant poodle brushed by him. Both dog and woman had curly grey hair. The poodle paused to sniff Stone’s pants. Stone was about to pet the animal when a door on the other side of the room opened. A man clutching a wire carrying case emerged, followed by an attractive blonde with a sunny smile. Somewhere in her thirties, she wore a white lab coat with animal shapes painted on.
“They should be fine,” she said to the man. “Give them this twice a day. Don’t worry. They’ll love the taste.” She handed him a metallic tube.
The man bent his head and peered inside the mesh covering of the cage. “You hear that girls? Dr. Fox says everything is going to be okie-dokie, you sweet things.” A high-pitched yowl that sounded more like a miserable baby than a cat was the response. “Thank you so much, doctor. What would my babies do without you?” The man made his way out, crooning to his cats.
Stone stood. “Did I hear right? Dr. Fox?”
The woman held up a warning hand. “Don’t. I’ve heard them all.” Her eyes crinkled in the corners.
Stone smiled back. “Detective John Stone, Northview police.”
She slowly gave him the once-over. He could tell she liked what she saw. Until she got to his left hand. His wedding band glittered in the light.
“Story of my life.” She sighed. “Oh well, it’s not the first time.” She looked up. “You’re here about the puppy.”
He nodded. She looked around. Two children had come in with their mother and a Border Collie. All four were eyeing the vet suspiciously.
“Come with me.” She led him into a small examining room. A waist high table covered with the same upholstered material as the waiting room jutted out from a counter cluttered with tubes, bottles, and cotton balls. She closed the door and leaned over the table. Her lab coat was open, revealing a low cut blue sweater. Stone appreciated the view.
“We did a necropsy during lunch,” she said. “Poor little buddy. He didn’t have a chance.”
“A necropsy?”
“That’s what we call an autopsy.”
“Thanks. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”
“You must have your reasons.” She shrugged. “Looks like it was parvovirus.” She explained it was a common infection, which produces the same symptoms she’d seen in the puppy.
“You’re sure?”
“I’m not a forensic vet, but I looked pretty closely at the ingesta. If a dog eats rat poison, you get a distinctive green color in the stomach. Hard to miss. I also looked for coins or other metal, which can trigger vomiting and bloody diarrhea. There was nothing there.” She straightened. “But he did have pale gums, sunken eyes, and some fluid draining out of the eyes. And he was stiff, poor guy.”
“Rigor.”
“Right. He’d been dead at least eight to twelve hours. I took some samples for a biopsy and toxicological screens. If you want, I’ll send them in and let you know what comes back.”
“That would be terrific. What will they test for?”
“The normal things we see in dogs. But, as I said, I’m comfortable with the diagnosis. All puppies are supposed to be vaccinated for parvo, but if he was a stray, there’s a good chance he wasn’t. They get it from other infected animals. And dogs under six months are most susceptible.” She moved to the door.
Stone fell in behind her. “Thanks, Dr. Fox. I’ll see that you’re compensated for your time and work.”
She turned to face him. “It’s Sharon,” she said, eyeing his ring. “And, well—if your situation ever changes...”
“The wedding was four days ago.”
She laughed. “Lousy timing.”
He headed back to the station feeling a bounce in his step. Back in the office, he called Cecil Vaughan, ASAC for the Chicago’s FBI office. Stone knew him from a prior case.
Vaughan picked up on the second ring. “Hey, Stone. Long time and all that. What’s up?”
“Do you guys have anything on Stuart Feldman? Anybody causing him any trouble?”
“Feldman, the developer? Why?”
Stone explained.
“Getting dogged everywhere he turns, is he?” He chuckled.
Stone groaned.
“Tell you what. I’ll check our white collar squads.”
“Thanks.”
There was a momentary pause. Then, “I hear your former partner’s having a rough time.”
“Singer? He’s got a mess on his hands. Why? You guys interested?”
“Possibly. What do you hear?”
Vaughan’s indifference was a tip-off; the agent was holding out. Then again, the Feebs wanted you to think that even if they weren’t.
“You’re in a better position than me.”
The agent laughed. “You’re probably right. Hey. I’ll have someone get back to you on Feldman. Adios, amigo.”
Stone hung up and pulled out the list he’d made the night of the hearings. Gerald Krieger. Ann Heller. Barbara Michaelson. Florence Armstrong, the CEASE activist who’d raised her fist at the hearing. The owlish commissioner, Christine Renfrow.
Stone didn’t consider them much of a threat. From what he could tell, CEASE was mostly bluster. Still.