Authors: William Bernhardt
“I’ll check it out.”
“Loving?”
“Aw, hell. You’re gonna give me the bar, aren’t you?”
“You got it.”
“Ben always gives me the bars. I thought you’d be more enlightened.”
“Sorry to disappoint. But there’s a reason why we give you these assignments. You excel at them.”
“Flatterer.”
“I want you to become a regular at Remote Control. That’s the singles bar near campus where Tony Barovick worked. He was leaving there when he was attacked. It’s apparently a frequent hangout for the local college coeds, and kids slumming from the University of Chicago—like members of Johnny’s fraternity. Sniff around and see if you can learn anything useful.”
“For you, dear, anythin’.”
“Remember, Johnny says they left Tony—alive—in a vacant lot not far from the bar. That means someone else carried the body to the fraternity house.”
“But—wouldn’t the coroner—”
“If so, there’s a good chance there was a witness to the move. Find me that witness, Loving.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“I’ll handle the pretrial motions and trial prep, obviously.”
Mrs. Christensen looked up tentatively. “And Mr. Kincaid?”
“Will not be involved in this case.”
“I see.”
“But I can guarantee you we’ll do everything there is to do, ma’am.”
“Oh, of course. I didn’t mean to—” Polite to a fault, Christina thought. “I have great confidence in you.”
“We appreciate it. I’m afraid bail is an impossibility—Kevin already tried and lost—but I can arrange some visitation. If you want to see your son before the trial.”
“Yes, I’d like that.” She wiped her eyes dry. “May I say something more?”
“Of course.”
“I know what you all must be thinking. About my son. I know it looks bad. The reports in the newspapers have been gruesome. And even though you’ve agreed to represent Johnny, you must be thinking . . . well, it certainly looks as if he’s . . . a horrible person. A beast. But he
isn’t
.” She said the word with such emphasis it stung Christina’s tear ducts. “I’ve known him since he was little, and I know that he has a good heart.”
The four staffers at the table looked at one another, but remained silent.
“I don’t know what happened at college, but the little boy I knew could never have changed so much. He was insecure, and subject to peer pressure. I could conceive of him watching and maybe not helping—but murder? It’s not possible.” She clenched her fist tightly. “It is simply not possible.”
She fell back, emotionally exhausted. “Please help him.”
“We’ll do everything we can, ma’am. Everything possible. I guarantee it.”
And Christina meant every word she said. But she couldn’t help wondering if this wasn’t a case in which everything simply wouldn’t be enough.
9
“All right, Morelli, much as it pains you, it’s time for a spot of pleasure. Pull your head out.”
He didn’t.
Sergeant Baxter entered his cubicle and dropped a lightweight cardboard box on the edge of his desk, in one of the few uncluttered corners. “I’m serious, partner. You can’t avoid this. The time has come for a respite revered by law enforcement officers everywhere.”
His neck craned upward, if only slightly. “And that would be? . . .”
She beamed. “Doughnut break.”
His eyes returned to his desk. “That is so cliché . . .”
“I’ve got Krispy Kremes.”
Mike dropped his pencil. “Well, why didn’t you say so?”
“I got an assortment. Try the cherry cream.”
“Aww, Baxter. You know I don’t like the cream-filled stuff.”
“You do not like them, so you say, but try them, try them, and you may.”
“Excuse me?”
“Try them and you may, I say!”
The corner of his lip turned upward. “Been to the library, have we?”
Her eyes darkened. “I guess you thought that was pretty funny, huh? Suggesting that I might be able to handle the poetry of Theodore Geisel. Alias Dr. Seuss.”
Now Mike craned his neck. “It was . . . just the first thing that popped into my head.”
“Uh-huh. And you weren’t suggesting that I was . . . what’s the word I’m looking for? Stupid?”
“Not at all. I love Dr. Seuss.”
“So did I. When I was two.”
“It was just a joke.”
“At my expense.”
“Not at all. I was just—”
“You were saying I was an uneducated boor.”
“No, no . . .”
“Or maybe you were just sulking, because I told you to lay off with the romance.”
“Huh?”
“I know how barren your love life is. Small wonder you’re always making moony eyes at me and breathing hard whenever our toes accidentally touch.”
“What in—”
“I’m not saying you’re not a handsome-looking dude. Decent, anyway. But we can’t be partners if there’s even a whiff of romance in the air. It was no reason for you to run off at the mouth and insult me.”
Mike found himself breathing hard, but it wasn’t because of any whiffs of romance. “Baxter, I was not insulting you. I have a lot of respect for you. Promise.” He paused. “Especially when you bring me Krispy Kremes.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Really?”
“Absolutely.”
“And you don’t mind the no-romance rule.”
“Not remotely. I’m relieved, actually.”
“Well, that’s a little more acceptance than was strictly necessary.”
“I’m just saying—”
“Good.” She pointed to the box on the desk. “The glazed doughnuts are under the cherry ones.”
Mike’s eyes brightened. “Yeah?” He dug deep and grabbed one. “Wanna split it?”
She shook her head. “I will not eat them in a box. I will not eat them with a fox . . .”
Ben had told Christina about this unique experience, but she rarely thought it was necessary that she experience it for herself. As with the jailhouse jaunts, when in the course of their cases this visit became necessary, Ben always did it. Once or twice she’d tagged along, but that was okay, because she just kept her eyes closed and pretended she was in Maui. Ben did all the work. And she was happy to let him.
She pushed open the glass-paned door lettered
COOK COUNTY MEDICAL EXAMINER
. My God, they never covered this in law school.
As soon as she stepped inside, Amber Wilson, the coroner, dropped everything—knives, sawtooth blades, and dismembered arm—and greeted her. “Kevin Mahoney phoned and told me you were coming.”
Christina forced a smile. “Dr. Wilson, would you be terribly offended if I didn’t shake your hand? I don’t mean to be rude. But . . . I know where it’s been.”
“I understand entirely.” Christina was having a hard time adjusting to the idea of this woman as a coroner. A coroner should be gray-haired and remote and perhaps slightly whacked. Amber Wilson was young and outgoing. She didn’t fit the mold at all. Except it looked as if she might be slightly whacked.
“What can I do you for?”
“Can I ask you about Tony Barovick?”
She nodded, returning to the main operating theater. “I thought that might be it. Let me tell you, Christina—your guy’s alibi is hopeless. Not even tenable. From a medical standpoint, it’s really a boring case.”
Wilson dug through a file cabinet until she came up with one marked
BAROVICK
. “So what’s your question?”
Christina considered how best to phrase it. “The thing is my client insists that he and his buddy did not kill the kid. Just roughed him up.”
“They broke both legs.”
“Would that necessarily be fatal?”
“No, but common sense tells me—”
“Right, right. The point is when they left him, at around 9:30, my client says he wasn’t dead. And he wasn’t in the fraternity house, either. He says they left him in a vacant lot, so crippled he couldn’t possibly move. Meaning someone else came along, killed him, and moved him. Or vice versa.”
Wilson shook her head. “Sorry, Christina. But I can positively guarantee that didn’t happen.”
“How can you be sure?”
She flipped through the pages of the file, refreshing her memory. “Medical science.”
“Are you so certain the body wasn’t moved?”
“No, that isn’t it. The corpse was in such bad shape, I couldn’t make any determination on that score. Not for certain.”
“Then what?”
Wilson closed her file. “The first thing I did at the crime scene was take decomposition readings to establish the time of death. Not that I enjoyed it. It was midnight, I was cold, and the joint had more posters of naked women than I’ve seen in my entire life. The DA was being an asshole and trying to tell me what to do and when. But I performed the tests, just the same. And the time of death was well after 9:30—more like 11:00, 11:15.”
Christina shook her head. “I don’t know. My client is pretty convincing.”
“Christina, if the beating took place in a vacant lot, don’t you think the police would’ve found traces?”
“The boys didn’t remember where it was. They said they were drunk and drove and drove—and stopped at a deserted place chosen at random. Of course, the cops never looked too hard, since they think Tony was killed in the frat house. And even if the vacant lot were found, it could’ve been cleaned up.”
Wilson dropped the file back in its drawer. “Christina, I realize you don’t know me, but I’m a straight shooter. If the DA’s case sucks, I’ll say so. But you’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely. Scout’s honor. Girl-to-girl. Your client killed the poor kid. There’s simply no other possible explanation.”
“Hello, handsome.”
Mike sighed, eyes still glued to his desk. “Look, Baxter, if this is—”
He stopped short. Wrong voice.
“Special Agent Swift! What the hell are you doing here?”
Mike rose to his feet and crossed his office to greet her. Just like the last time he’d seen her, she was wearing a black turtleneck. And looking fine in it, too.
“I’m on special assignment. How ya been, you big teddy bear, you?”
“Oh, all right. Nothing to—”
“Don’t just stand there. Give me a hug.” She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed. And did not let go.
“Hey, Morelli, shouldn’t we be leaving to—”
They both turned to see Sergeant Baxter standing in the doorway.
“Oh, excuse me,” Baxter said. “I didn’t know you had . . . company. I’ll come back later.”
“No, no,” Mike said, “come on in. We’re just . . .” What the hell were they doing, anyway? “Baxter, this is Special Agent Swift. With the FBI. I told you about her. We worked on the Metzger kidnap case together. Before your time.”
Baxter looked at the other woman levelly. “Right.”
Mike turned back to Agent Swift. “And this is Sergeant Baxter. She’s my partner. For the time being.”
Swift extended her hand. “Glad to meet you, Baxter. Got a first name?”
“Yeah. But I think Morelli is afraid of them.”
“I noticed that. I’m Danny. Short for Danielle.”
“Kate.” They shook hands, but Mike noticed that Baxter seemed very tentative. “What brings a Chicago white shirt out to our lowly cop shop?”
“Special assignment,” she explained.
“Anything I’d know about?”
“Well, yes, actually. The drill bit boy.”
“That’s a homicide. What’s the FBI interest?”
“Sorry. I’m not at liberty to say.”
“You’re going to be working with us. But you can’t say why?”
“For the moment.” She leaned forward and spoke in hushed tones. “Don’t sweat it, Kate. I’ll spill something as soon as I can. I’m not much for the rule book—ask Mike. I just like to get the job done. And the best way to accomplish that is for us all to get along.”
“I think maybe we need to talk to Blackwell.”
“Don’t bother. I’ve just come from his office. He’s on board.”
Baxter frowned. “I won’t pretend I’m happy about this. These interjurisdictional things always turn out to be a headache. And I’ll be honest—I don’t much like working with Feebs. Neither does Morelli.” She paused. “Right, Morelli?”
Mike’s shoulders rippled. “Well, as a rule, working with the Bureau is not my idea of the good life. But I guess I don’t have any problems with this.” Baxter looked at him as if he’d just sold her into slavery. “At least I have some history with Agent Swift.”
“That’s right,” Swift said, jabbing him in the ribs. “And we got along pretty well, didn’t we, handsome?”
“Yeah. Except for the minor detail of the bad guys getting away.”
Baxter looked as if the top of her head were burning. “Just so you know, Swift, we don’t usually go in for that overly familiar flirtatious stuff.”
“Lighten up, Kate. We’re just joshing.”
“There’s nothing funny about inappropriate office conduct. Sexual harassment is not a joke.”
“Sexual harassment?” Swift looked at Mike. “Did I harass you? I don’t recall you complaining.” She helped herself to a chair. “Why don’t one of you tell me what you’ve got on this case so far?”
Mike wanted to sit behind his desk, but that would leave Baxter standing, and that was too rude, even for him. “We don’t know much about the victim. Not even his name. We checked the mug shots. Didn’t find a match.”
“Check the DEA records?”
An interesting question. “No. We’ve been interviewing people who knew him, neighbors and such, but there aren’t many. They say he mostly kept to himself.”
“But you’re not buying that, right?”
“Right. No man is an island, entire of itself.”
Swift turned to Baxter. “Don’t you get shivers when he does the poetry thing?”
“Love it,” Baxter deadpanned.
“I appreciate you two being so reasonable about this,” Swift said. “Sometimes local law enforcement just goes ape when we Feds come in. Get more territorial than most jungle primates.” She checked her watch. “Wanna go somewhere for a cup of java?” She smiled in a way that was uncommonly inviting. “We could catch up.”
“Yeah. I think I’m about finished here.” Mike fiddled absently with the stapler on his desk. “Baxter, care to join us?”
“Thanks, but I’ve got some paperwork to take care of. Why don’t you call me when you’re actually ready to work? Partner.”
“No problem.” Swift grabbed his arm. “So, isn’t there a Java Dave’s within walking distance?”