Authors: William Bernhardt
Baxter’s face turned a bright crimson.
“Well, ain’t that sweet?” Swift took a tiny step back. “But I’m not entirely surprised. You two be good, hear?”
“We’ll do our best,” Baxter said, the frost melting fast.
“You do that. And Mike?”
“Yes?”
She smiled. “Parting is such sweet sorrow / That I shall say good night till it be morrow.”
Part Four
The Return
of the Stranger
50
JOURNAL OF TONY BAROVICK
Two things happened this week in the bar. Two bad things. And I’m not sure which of them disturbs me the most.
We had our first hate crime. It wasn’t against me—but it could’ve been. It was against a friend of mine, Brian Meadows, the leader of the South Chicago Gay & Lesbian Alliance. He was here to conduct a meeting and three black street hoods got wind of it somehow. They drove into town in their pickups, hauled him outside to the back parking lot, threw a noose around his neck, tightened it, and dragged him around, humiliating him. They hit him a few times, cracked an egg over his head. One of them even peed on him. “We’re gonna have us a lynching, boys!” That’s what one of them said. The irony of the situation was, I’m sure, totally lost on him.
I eventually got a cop over to break it up. The punks were arrested; they spent two hours in lockup and then went free. Charges were never brought. Brian didn’t want the bad press he knew would result. I was scared to death. I went to Mario and demanded that he hire security for the back parking lot. It’s so big and dark and unfenced, anyone could get away with anything back there, especially in the wee hours of the morning. I didn’t want what happened to Brian to happen to anyone else.
Mario told me to stop being a weak sister and to get back to work.
The second incident did not strike me as personally, but scared me just the same. I caught some kids in one of the back rooms using Ecstacy. We’ve never patrolled those back caverns very carefully. We figure some of the new hitches step in there to try a few sample smoochies before they commit to going home with each other. All well and good. But they weren’t supposed to be party rooms—especially not for anything illegal. Turned out these were high school kids passing for college students. I don’t know where they got the drugs; I just hope to God it wasn’t in the bar. I confiscated what I could and told them to get the hell out and never come back. They gave me a little grief, but eventually they left.
I told Mario about it, and he responded with his typical indifference. What did he care what a bunch of punks did? If they want to ruin their lives with drugs, let ’em. After all, we serve alcohol, and that’s a drug. It was no use. I don’t think he gets it. If we develop a reputation for being a local rave house, our paying customers will be supplanted by crackheads and undercover cops. They’ll look for an excuse to shut us down and eventually they’ll succeed. I’ve put too much into this place to let that happen.
I told Shelly about it, but she didn’t take it much more seriously than Mario had. She says being gay has made me paranoid, made me afraid of authority figures, afraid of everything. I know she loves me, and she probably can see some things about me I don’t see myself. She thinks it was a fluke. She says our customers are way too smart and Ecstacy will never catch on here. And she’s probably right. Maybe I’m just a worrywart.
Which is a hell of a lot better than being a weak sister.
Maybe I’m crazy, but I do think of this place as my home. I created it, in a very real sense. I think of Mario as my grumpy dad, Shelly as my spunky little sister, our customers as my friends. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to this little joint.
It’s the one place in the world where I feel safe.
51
Mike met Baxter at Gate C-37 at O’Hare for their flight back to Tulsa, bearing a gift in a Starbucks cup.
“Heads up, Baxter.”
“This is for me? What brings this on?”
“Just wanted to show you that I don’t subscribe to any sexist old-world stereotypical notions. This time, I fetched the coffee.”
She removed the lid and brought it close to her face, drawing in the rich aroma. “You mean there’s coffee in there somewhere, beneath the whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles?”
Mike grinned. “That’s the rumor.”
She took a sip. “Any luck tracking down the source of Manny Nowosky’s fifty grand?”
“Alas, no.”
“And it didn’t come from the kidnapping?”
“Not directly. We’ve checked the serial numbers. Common sense tells me the ransom money is the only big cash Manny ever came near. But how did he swap out the numbers?”
“What about the Ecstacy-pushing?”
“I don’t think that would yield this kind of . . . of . . .”
Baxter leaned in. “Yes? Is something wrong?”
“Damn.” Mike’s eyes turned toward the sky, his brain racing. “Yes, something is very wrong.
Damn!
” He pushed out of his chair. “Call headquarters and tell them to cash in our tickets. We’re taking a later flight.”
“Why? Where are we going?”
Mike was already halfway across the terminal and accelerating with each step. “To correct a tragic error. Before it’s too late.”
The place wasn’t open yet, but that didn’t stop Mike. She was there, and that was all he cared about.
“Shelly!”
The petite barmaid was dusting the back shelves, around and between the bottles of exotic liqueurs. She jumped when she heard his voice. “Wh—what?”
With one hand on the countertop, Mike vaulted over the bar and landed just before her. “Show me your arm.”
Deep lines creased her face. “What? But it hasn’t healed.”
He reached forward and jerked her arm out of the sling.
“Ow!” Shelly cried.
On the other side of the bar, Baxter was gaping in amazement. “Mike, what the hell do you think—”
He wasn’t listening. He grabbed the bandage on her wrist by one end.
“Ahhh!” Shelly cried out. “Please stop!”
Mike ripped off the bandage with one jerk.
And revealed . . . nothing. No wound, no scar.
Shelly fell silent. Her eyes scoured the bar, finally returning to the man standing just before her. “Look, I can ex—”
“Can it,” Mike barked, pushing her toward a bar stool. “No more of your bull. You’re going to sit down now and tell me what
really
happened. All of it.”
“But I don’t—”
“Quit the crap!” he bellowed. “You’re already in so deep you may be irredeemable. Perjury on top of everything else. Your only hope whatsoever at this point is to tell me the truth. And that’s exactly what you’re going to do.”
On a day like today no one should have to be inside, Mike groused as he rode the elevator to the fifth floor. This was a day for outdoor activity, rappelling and canoeing and playing touch football with the neighborhood children. And he wished that was what he was doing. Actually, he wished he was doing anything other than what he was doing.
FBI headquarters, of course, was open 24/7, and he’d kept his ID card, happily, and by luck he managed to catch her still in her office.
“Mike!” Special Agent Swift said, when she saw him coming her way. She was wearing another one of those turtleneck sweaters, and God but she looked good in it. “You decided to take me up on my offer.” She put a mildly lascivious look on her face. “Which offer?”
“I’d like to talk to you for a moment.”
“Sounds good to me, sugah.”
“I don’t mean the usual foreplay byplay. I mean really talk.”
She frowned. “You’re awfully serious today, tiger. What’s up?”
He took a deep breath. “Shelly spilled. I mean everything. The truth.” He gazed with a deep and penetrating expression into her eyes. “I know.”
Her head craned back. “Know what?”
Mike stared at her, and as he did, that damned Billy Joel song, “The Stranger,” started rattling through his head again. “Swift,” he said quietly, “I know.”
She seemed confused, trying to calculate what next to say, what next to do.
“I’d appreciate it if you’d play straight with me and not try anything stupid. I haven’t called for backup. Yet. And I’ve asked Baxter to remain outside.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any point in trying to convince you that Shelly is lying.”
Mike slowly shook his head.
“Stupid woman. It was a mistake to ever involve her.” She fidgeted with her hands, her long red nails clicking together. “What tipped you off?”
“Tony Barovick,” Mike replied succinctly. “I’ve read his journal. I’ve talked to his friends. Maybe it’s just ego, but I came to feel as if . . . as if I knew the man. Even though I didn’t. Felt like I knew what kind of person he was. He had flaws and problems and insecurities, just like the rest of us. But I think he was basically a good person. A decent person. That’s why I had a hard time believing he was involved in some two-bit drug-running operation. And I had a particularly hard time believing he had any part in the abduction of a little boy, even when all the evidence pointed in that direction. I just couldn’t believe he would ever want or need money that much.”
“People aren’t rational,” Swift said. “Not all the time. They do strange and unpredictable things. You can never really know another person.”
“Yeah,” Mike continued. “I knew that fifty grand we found on Manny had to be the proceeds from the kidnapping, but the serial numbers didn’t match. In other words, the loot had been laundered. But how? Manny didn’t have any means or connections for laundering money. Charlie the Chicken certainly didn’t. That would require someone with a legitimate business. Mario Roma.”
“He has always maintained that he severed his mob ties.”
“Not that that means much. But he didn’t need mob ties. He had his own club. Money laundering would be a cinch, especially with Shelly helping. She hadn’t been involved in the kidnapping, but she was more than happy to help out with the laundering once Mario promised her a small cut. All they had to do was replace the money that came into the cash register with money from the ransom, a little at a time. Not enough to create suspicion, or a trail. It would be a slow process. But it would work.”
“Assuming no one found out.”
“Yes, but someone did, didn’t they? Tony Barovick, the poor chump. He says in his journal that he had responsibility for the cash register. He counted the daily receipts. He let Shelly do a lot of the accounting work because she was better at it, but he was ultimately responsible. And I also know from reading his journal that he took his responsibilities very seriously. He must’ve caught Shelly or Mario making the switch, or somehow figured out what they were doing. That’s why he had to die.”
“Shelly told you they used her to lure Tony out.”
“Which was all a big con to bail herself out of trouble. She didn’t have to be forced to do anything. She put on that fake sling and told people she’d tried to kill herself after Tony was killed to divert suspicion and give herself a story to tell in case anyone questioned her hard about her fatal phone call. After Mario realized Tony was onto the money-laundering scheme, I’m thinking he went ballistic. A hothead like him—I can see it happening. He thinks his little scheme is crumbling all around him. He panics. And he decides Tony has to die.”
“Mario could never keep his head together under fire,” Swift commented.
“So,” Mike continued, “he needed to get Tony alone, fast, before he said anything to anyone, so Shelly lured him out. She knew he’d come. He loved her. He thought he knew her.” He shoved his fists angrily into his pockets. “But you never really know anyone, do you, Swift? She betrayed him. Just like you did me.”
“What?”
“Don’t waste your breath,” Mike grunted. “I was such an idiot. Tony Barovick, a kidnapper. In retrospect, it’s so stupid.” He swung his fist in the air, pummeling an imaginary punching bag. “Tony Barovick wasn’t the fourth kidnapper. You were.”
She took a step closer to the doorway. “That’s a pretty serious accusation, sport.”
“It’s all too obvious. For months now I’ve been beating myself up over that botched rescue mission. I couldn’t figure out what went wrong. How did the kidnappers know when the snipers had been pulled in tight, making it safe for them to flee through that underground passageway? How did they know you and I were coming up the rear fire escape? Easy. They had a man on the inside. You.”
“Mike, I’ve been working with you to solve that case.”
“No, you’ve been clinging to my side like a barnacle to make sure I didn’t get too close to the truth. And I suppose if you ever thought I was too close, you would’ve taken care of me—just like you did the others.”
Mike watched her eyes flit around the room—to her holstered weapon on the coat stand.
“Please don’t,” Mike said. “You wouldn’t get past me. And even if you did, Baxter and three uniforms are waiting in the elevator lobby. There are dozens of people in this building. It’s over.”
“Guess this is the part where I ask to see my lawyer, huh?”
Mike felt a sadness so intense he could barely speak. “Before you go all Fifth Amendment, answer one question, okay? Why Manny and Charlie the Chicken? Why did they have to die? Just so you wouldn’t have to share?”
She shrugged. “We could’ve handled Tony in a sensible, nonlethal way, but Mario didn’t ask me. He just went off half-cocked and killed the poor kid. At least he had the sense to move the body to the frat house and crank up the air-conditioner—both to confuse the cops. Afterward, of course, the murder became this huge cause célèbre and got so much media attention, Manny and Charlie demanded more money, and fast. Manny was the instigator. We gave Manny all the loot we’d managed to launder so far, but I guess it wasn’t enough. Manny threatened to talk if I didn’t transfer all the money—even the unlaundered stuff—to him immediately. I tried to reason with him, but he wouldn’t listen. He was hiding out in Tulsa, refusing to return to Chicago with the rest of us. He was panicking. With every reporter in the country working on the case, he thought we were doomed. He wanted every penny he could get so he could slip out of the country, and if he didn’t get it, he and Charlie were threatening to make a deal with the DA, so . . .”