Authors: Michael A. Black
Random Victim
They spent the next day tracing down and assembling all the loose ends that Murphy and Roberts had glossed over: the insurance
angle, Miriam Walker’s lack of a will, the bank records preceding her death, the make and model of the trunk she’d been found
in, interviews with all the friends and associates that had been listed, her final appearance at the Women Against Domestic
Violence meeting…But as they sat in the office with the fading midafternoon sunlight streaming through the sole window,
a sense of lassitude settled over them. Nothing had been appreciably accomplished by any of their efforts. Ryan had thumbtacked
a set of the crime-scene photos on the bulletin board. He tapped a pen against his teeth.
“Well,” Ryan said, “the boss wants to see us for an update. Anybody got any brainstorms before we go face the music?”
“It seems strange that she was a lawyer and had no will,” Hart said.
“Actually, she was a judge,” Ryan said. “Next comment.”
Leal saw Hart blush. “Or somebody took it,” he said, standing and walking over to the photos. “Maybe we should take another
look at the original scene.”
“Be my guest, Sherlock,” Ryan said.
Leal studied the photos for several seconds more.
“I’ve been thinking about this,” he said. “Look at the distance from the road to the location of the trunk in the water. It’s
got to be what, at least fifteen feet or so?” He saw the other three looking intently at the photos, too. “A trunk that size
with a woman’s body in it would have to weigh, what? Close to a buck and a half? That indicates a two-man job.”
“Yeah, nobody could’ve thrown the fucking thing that far,” Ryan said. “Not even Hart.”
Hart looked at him and smirked. “With you inside, I might be tempted to try,” she shot back.
Leal raised his eyebrows appreciably. Good, he thought. She’s starting to stand up for herself. He remembered the pleasure
that he got from watching a new recruit or partner gain in confidence and experience. In this case, he had both. The team
seemed like it was coming together a little, too. They were all starting to work together for the same goals, with the same
purpose. But it still gnawed at him that Ryan moved with all the speed of a tree sloth. He seemed to lack the fire in his
belly to get everybody moving. Maybe it’s time for me to exert some command authority, he thought.
“So, Joe,” Leal said. “Anything from the rest of the judges yesterday?”
Smith pressed his lips into a frown and shook his head.
“Nobody seems to know much, or if they do, they ain’t saying,” he said, flipping open his notebook. “They all said she was
smart, competent, and quiet. Stuck to herself…Seemed happy right before she disappeared…Nothing else significant.”
“I noticed something in that box you brought back,” Hart said.
“Yeah, me, too,” Smith said. “It gave me one hell of a sore back.”
He laughed to break the tension, but nobody else did.
Leal found himself admiring the way Hart’s pants stretched tautly over her hips and butt as she bent over the box and sorted
through it. He blinked twice and rubbed his temples, reminding himself that it was never a good idea to think those kinds
of thoughts about your female partner. It could lead to problems. As he brought his hand down he saw Ryan grinning and licking
his lips. He stared at Hart’s back, then glanced at Leal and winked.
Leal was frowning just as Hart stood and turned around. She obviously caught his disapproving look and blushed again.
“What you got, Olivia?” Leal asked. Dammit, he thought. She’s gonna think I meant that for her.
“This book,” she said, setting a dark blue hardbound book on the desk.
“
Ap-hro-deet Rising
,” Ryan said. “What the hell’s this have to do with anything?”
“It’s pronounced Aphrodite,” Hart said. “Read the inside. The title page is signed by the author.”
Ryan sighed heavily and paged through the book with sharp, quick movements. The inscription was handwritten in blue ink, just
below the artfully scripted letters of the ti-tle:
To Aphrodite,Yours Always, Simon
.
“Okaaaay,” Ryan said slowly. “I usually slept through English lit class. Want to bring me up to speed?”
“Simon Ellias is the author. That sounds pretty personal, doesn’t it?” Hart said. “And Aphrodite is the Greek goddess of love.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard all about Greek love,” Ryan said. “But this ain’t even personalized to her.”
“Which could mean he didn’t want to make it too obvious since she was married,” Hart said.
“I don’t know,” Ryan said. “It seems like you’re stretching it.”
“Well, there had to be some reason why she kept this book in her chambers, doesn’t there?” she said. “And look in the acknowledgment
section. He thanks the Lunge Hill Corporation for their ‘gracious assistance.’ According to the bank records Miriam Walker
was a principal stockholder in that company, wasn’t she?”
“Yeah,” Leal said. “Her father was some bigwig with them. Left her a lot of stock in it.”
Ryan squinted and took out his cigarette pack.
“I think Olivia’s got a good point,” Leal said. “Let’s go talk to this author guy.”
“Okay, go get ’em, tiger,” Ryan said, lighting a cigarette and drawing deeply on it. He paged to the back inside flap of the
book and stared at the picture of Simon Ellias, then shook his head theatrically. “Nothing to look at, is he? But who knows,
maybe they were doing the nasty. Says here he lives in Willow Springs, which is close enough to check on, I guess.”
“That could go toward motive if the husband’s involved,” Leal said.
“Yeah,” Ryan said, blowing some smoke through his nostrils, “but we don’t even want to think about going there unless we got
more than just a book of love poems by some asshole who may or may not have been jocking her.”
“Come on, Tom,” Leal said. “It’s something we got to check out.”
Ryan’s cheeks hollowed as he drew on the cigarette more copiously this time. When he spoke his words came out amid a cloud
of smoke. “Let’s run it by the boss first. Like I said, he wants to talk to all of us today for a progress report.”
Brice’s sports jacket had been hung over the back of his chair, and the sleeves of his white shirt had been rolled up over
his muscular forearms.
When they came into the office he stood up and moved around the desk with an anxious step, first slapping Ryan on the back
and then extending his hand toward Leal.
Taken somewhat aback, Leal reciprocated and got snared in Brice’s patented “sissy shake,” his big hand powerfully grinding
the tips of Leal’s trapped fingers together. Brice gripped Smith’s palm in similar fashion, but Hart was seemingly spared.
Maybe he’s afraid her grip will be stronger than his, Leal thought to himself, shaking his fingers.
Brice walked back behind his desk and opened a metal box next to the framed photograph of his wife and kids with dated-looking
clothes and hairstyles. He removed a thick cigar from the box and bit off the end, leaning back and spitting into the waste
can.
“Hope nobody minds,” Brice said as he flicked the lighter and held it to the end of the cigar. “Thank God this no smoking
thing doesn’t apply to private offices.”
Leal noticed the cords in Hart’s neck tighten visibly. Suck it up, kid, he silently urged her.
Brice blew out a cloud of smoke and coughed several times.
“So how’s the investigation going?” he asked.
Ryan took out his own cigarettes and held up the pack.
“Boss, may I?”
Brice sat back and nodded, the cigar jutted at a sharp angle from the corner of his mouth.
“We’ve been going over the background of the victim,” Ryan said, withdrawing his own cigarette after taking a quick puff.
“Getting to know her, so to speak.”
“What’s that mean, Ryan?” Brice said. “She’s dead. How the hell can you get to know her?”
“We were exploring possible motives,” Leal said.
“Motives?” Brice said.
“Right,” said Leal. He sensed the growing hostility in Brice’s tone and sought to lighten it. At this stage of the game animosity
would be counterproductive. He grinned. “After all, she didn’t die of the flu.”
But Brice didn’t laugh or even smile. He removed the cigar from his mouth and said, “I’m well aware of that.”
“So basically,” Ryan cut in, “we were trying to establish her habits, who her friends were, her enemies…So we could
try and develop a better understanding of what might have happened.”
Brice wrinkled his nose, as if he were smelling a foul odor.
“Wait a minute,” he said. “Didn’t you people read the case file on this? Murphy and Roberts went over all that already. They
pretty much established that Miriam Walker was a random victim.” He looked at each of them and drew deeply on the cigar, causing
the ash to redden. Leal glanced over at Hart. Between the lieutenant’s pungent cigar, and Ryan’s smoldering cigarette, she
looked about ready to puke.
“I gotta say, I expected more from this group,” Brice said. “But it seems that instead of hitting the ground running, you’re
just going over old ground.”
“With all due respect, Lieu—” Leal started to say. But Brice cut him off.
“Can it, Leal. I’m a lot more familiar with this case than any of you. I worked it before, you know.”
Yeah, Leal thought. And you did real good, too, didn’t you?
“So,” Brice said, blowing out some more smoke, then coughing again. “I want you guys to concentrate on checking down every
lead in two main areas. Random victim carjackings and chop shops. We find the car, if it still exists, then we got a good
lead on who killed her.”
Leal started to speak, but stopped as Ryan said, “You know, boss, I been thinking along those lines, too.” Leal snorted and
Brice stared at him sharply.
“You got a problem with that, Sergeant?” Brice said.
“Well, I gotta tell you, Lieu, I think it’s gonna be like looking for a needle in a haystack. How many months has it been
and the car still hasn’t shown up? And I don’t feel comfortable zeroing in on any one theory until we’ve ruled the others
out.”
Brice rolled his tongue over his teeth before he spoke. “Well, I’m really not interested very much in your ‘comfort,’ Leal.
First of all,” he held up the index finger of his non-cigar hand. “I been working this case a helluva lot longer than you,
which means I’ve had plenty of time to sort out all the different theories and directions. And two,” he held up another finger,
“I am in charge of this investigation.”
“I realize that, but—” Leal tried to say.
“No buts,” Brice said, cutting him off again and waving his palm back and forth. Then he pointed to Ryan, “Check out the chop
shops and random victims file. Trace down every lead. Look for similar MOs. Shit, maybe we even arrested some punk who knows
something. Get ’em to flip. That’s the way this thing’s gonna be solved. Good old-fashioned police work.” His eyes shot toward
Leal momentarily. “And, Ryan, if you’re not capable of leading and directing this group, I’ll find someone else who is. Understood?”
“Sure thing, boss,” Ryan said. His cigarette smoldered untouched between his fingers.
“Okay,” Brice said, taking a careful draw on his cigar.
“Give me a written report summarizing everything you’ve done so far. And I want it typed and on my desk by the end of business
today. I’ll expect one every three days. If things don’t improve, I can increase that to every day.”
Ryan stood and nodded. “Gotcha, boss.” He turned and motioned toward the door, taking one more drag on his cigarette before
exiting the office. He blew out the smoke, causing Hart to wave it away as they emerged in the secretary’s office area. Ryan
grinned and handed the butt to the secretary. “Take care of this for me, will ya, babe?” Then, he turned to Leal as they were
out of earshot. “Jesus, Frank, could you have done any more to piss him off?”
“He’s an asshole,” Leal said. “Always has been, and always will be.”
“Yeah, but he’s also the head asshole,” Ryan said. “Now we got to go curl up and kiss his ass.”
“Maybe you do,” Leal said.
Ryan gave Leal an imploring look. “Frank, he’s got the authority to replace any of us if he wants.”
“Bullshit, he’s not going to replace anybody. He’d look like too much of an idiot after that big press conference. He was
just blowing smoke out his ass.”
Ryan sighed. “Well, if he was, I don’t want to be standing behind him.” He grinned, as if pleased with his own wit. “But right
now we got bigger problems. Getting this summary to him. Hart, can you type?”
“Sure,” she said. “As long as it’s in a nonsmoking area.”
Machines and Machinations
“Hi, I’m not in at the moment, but if you leave a message after the beep, I’ll get back to you.”
Leal exhaled loudly through his nostrils and waited for the series of electronic manipulations to give the desired signal.
He hated talking to these damn machines, but after finally getting up the nerve to talk to her he didn’t want to just hang
up. Besides, if he did, and she had caller ID, she might trace the number, thinking it was a pervert or something.
“Ah, Sharon, this is Frank Leal,” he said haltingly. “I wanted to give you a call to see if you were busy. I’ll make it another
time.”
He left his departmental voice mail number and flipped the cellular closed, wondering if he should have left his home number,
or at least his beeper. Nah, I got a long time to be disappointed, he thought. No sense waiting for a call that probably won’t
ever come.
It was quarter after three, and he was practically alone in the cafeteria section, which was why he’d chosen it. Some deputies
and a few maintenance people sat at the far end in the smoking section. Leal stepped over to the vending machines and dropped
some change into one of them. A diet Pepsi for him, and a natural juice for Hart. As he gripped the can and the bottle and
headed back to the office, he saw her standing by the wall, stretching.
“How’s the typing coming?” he asked, setting the juice down on the desk.
“Just finished, Sarge,” she said, completing her stretch and now flexing her fingers. Ryan and Smith had hung around for a
little while, then silently departed, leaving the two of them to complete the investigation summary thus far. Hart hadn’t
seemed to mind that the typing duties fell to her, and she worked at incredible speed. Like a human typing machine, Leal thought.
And since they’d ridden to work together that day, he was obligated to stay until the report was done. Not that he would have
considered leaving with the others. She was, after all, his partner, for better or for worse.
“Here’s your juice,” he said, tapping the cap. “Let’s go make some copies and get it to Brice so we can split.”
Hart moved forward and twisted open the juice and drank some.
“He’s gone for the day,” she said. “I just called up there to tell him it was done. He left shortly after the meeting.”
“That son of a bitch,” Leal said. He regretted saying it a moment later, not wanting to criticize a higher-ranking officer
in front of her. “We’re going nowhere fast on this one.”
“You think we’re on the wrong track, huh?” she said, taking another sip of juice.
Why can’t women ever drink things down in one or two gulps? He wondered. He took in a deep breath, then looked at her. He
could say that he thought Brice and Ryan epitomized the term, “political hacks.” Coppers who got their rank and appointments
because of who they were and who they knew, not what they did. But still, he didn’t really know her that well, and she was
something of a mystery herself. “Let’s just say that I don’t have a lot of regard for the approach of our esteemed lieutenant.”
“I get the feeling that there’s history between you two. Am I right?”
Leal smirked. “We went a few rounds once,” he said. “Literally. Back when we both worked at the jail. I don’t think Brice
has ever forgotten it.”
Hart’s eyebrows rose. “Wow, who won?”
Leal laughed. “It was a draw, I guess.” He didn’t want the word circulating again that he’d kicked Brice’s ass. Not while
he was working under him in this new assignment. “Come on, let’s make those copies and get out of here.”
They walked together toward the copying machine, which was on the way to Brice’s office. The building was beginning to empty
out, as the overstaffed day shift was slowly being replaced by those working afternoons.
“So, Olivia, what you got planned for tonight?”
She looked at him briefly, as if deciding what to say.
“Nothing much,” she said slowly. “I’ve got to hit the gym. Tonight’s my back and legs routine. Why?”
“I was just going to offer to buy you something to eat. Where do you work out?”
“The Body Center in Alsip. I gave you that card, remember?”
“Oh yeah,” Leal said, remembering it now. “How long does it normally take?”
“Maybe an hour and a half,” she said slowly.
He glanced at his watch.
“So if we leave right now, and traffic isn’t too bad, you could be through with your workout by?”
“Maybe six thirty or seven, if I wasn’t rushing it. Why all the questions? You thinking of joining me?”
“Actually, I was wondering if you were up to a littleovertime?”
“Overtime?”
“Yeah, I think it’s time to meet Mr. Walker face-to-face.”
“But isn’t that kind of going against what the lieutenant told us today?”
They stopped at the room with the copier. The door was open, but the place was empty.
“Yeah,” Leal said. “But we’re never gonna get anywhere with this case following Brice and Ryan’s slow, careful, step-by-step
directions. It’s time for some initiative.”
“But going over to his house at night? Wouldn’t it be better to just interview him at his office tomorrow?”
Leal shook his head. “I’d rather see him in his natural habitat. Catch him off guard a little. He’ll have too many defensive
barriers set up at his office.” He paused and considered what he was suggesting to her. He would be going to interview Martin
Walker regardless, and she was his partner. But he knew that they could be risking Brice’s wrath if he ever found out. But
how the hell would that happen, anyway? Unless Walker complained, and if he did, that would tell them something, too. “So
you up for it, partner? Or would you rather sit this one out?”
She seemed to consider his question for a couple of beats, looking down at the copies popping out of the machine. When she
looked up, she smiled.
“Okay, I’m in,” she said. “I’ll do a light workout. You going to join me at the gym, or what?”
“I might,” Leal said. “They got any punching bags there? A place to skip rope?”
“Sure.”
Leal nodded approvingly, thinking how nice it might just be to do some boxing work again, imagining Brice’s face on the front
of the bag.
Leal pounded out a rhythm on the speed bag to warm up. He had been less than significantly impressed with the gym, although
the proprietor had seemed nice enough. Hart had introduced Leal proudly as her new “partner.” Rory Chalma had eyed him sharply
as she’d said that, before extending an overdeveloped arm across the wooden counter and saying almost too gaily,
“Mi casa es su casa.”
Leal didn’t know if the man was trying to impress him or what, but his pronunciation was totally anglo. Chalma looked to be
about thirty-five, with a sparse crop of curly blond hair and a massive neck that appeared wider than his head. He had generously
refused Leal’s offer to pay for the workout.
“Any partner of Ollie’s gets the first one on the house,” he’d said. “We’ll talk later if you want to sign up.”
There was something different about the guy, but Leal didn’t know what. Maybe he was a boyfriend of Hart’s or something. Her
name certainly was prominently displayed in the front window with a huge sign:
OLIVIA HART, MID-WESTERN FEMALE BODYBUILDING CHAMP TRAINS HERE
And numerous framed pictures of Hart doing various muscle poses in a small black bikini adorned the walls.
Leal noticed Chalma eyeing them as they walked toward the locker rooms. A few of the obviously hard-core lifters whistled
and yelled, “Hey, Ollie” from their respective workout stations.
“You seem to be quite the celebrity here,” Leal said.
“Just lucked out and won one of the top amateur contests, that’s all,” Hart said. “Small potatoes, really, but it qualifies
me to compete in the Olympia this November.”
Leal didn’t know what the Olympia was, but didn’t want to say so. An angular-looking woman in street clothes stepped out of
the door marked
Women
and nodded to Hart.
“Hi, Ollie. I didn’t know you were coming early tonight or I would have waited.” Her voice was almost as low as Leal’s.
“I didn’t know, either,” Hart said. “Oh, Marsha, this is Sergeant Frank Leal, my partner.”
“Hi, Frank,” the other woman said. “New member?”
“I don’t know, maybe,” Leal said.
“Hope so,” Marsha said, giving him an obvious once-over. “See you two around sometime.”
As she left, Leal thought that everyone in here seemed to be a weirdo. He turned to Hart.
“Ollie? Is that what people call you?”
She smiled and bit her lip slightly. “Yeah, it comes from growing up in a house with two brothers. My sister is the oldest,
and I was always sort of a tomboy. Olivia never seemed to fit, so everybody started calling me Ollie.”
“Okay, Ollie. See you on the floor,” Leal said.
And he did sneak a few surreptitious glances at her between bag sessions. It was hard not to. She looked striking in a black
nylon workout outfit that left her muscular shoulders and legs bare. Chalma was spotting her as she squatted down with an
Olympic-sized barbell on her back. The bar was fitted with double forty-five-pound plates on each end, and Hart’s thighs bulged
in exquisite bas-relief with each repetition, showing more muscular definition than an anatomy book. But each movement, Leal
noted, was accomplished with an underlying feminine grace. Fluid and lissome, like a female gymnast, yet, at the same time,
undeniably powerful.
If she could develop the same confidence and self-assurance she shows around here, Leal thought, she could be a dynamite copper.
He glanced at his watch and decided to eke out another round on the heavy bag. Maybe this place ain’t such a dump after all,
he thought. I could do worse for a regular workout place. And I could do a lot worse for a partner, too.
They arrived at Walker’s house at seven thirty-five after a winding trip through the exclusive section of unincorporated Palos
Park known as the Wooded Dells. Set just off the main highway, the area had obviously been tailored to maintain a bucolic
appeal with lots of huge trees, curving roads, and picturesquely placed ponds. It was also devoid of street signs and lights,
but the homes were all well lit by variously stationed floodlights to show off the perfectly sculpted hedges and well-manicured
lawns. Every house seemed to have at least a three-car garage.
Leal drove slowly past the house, giving it a once-over.
“Isn’t that it?” Hart asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “But I just wanted to get a feel for things first. See what else is around, how close the neighbors are.”
The houses were set far enough apart so as not to be within easy earshot of one another. There were no alleys, and each home
had long, receding driveways that dropped back toward dark unknowns. A thick six-foot hedge separated Walker’s residence from
his neighbor to the right, and on the left a large undeveloped patch of woods extended about a hundred yards beyond the house,
all the way to the adjacent roadway.
“Maybe somebody’ll call the cops about a cruising ten thirty-seven,” Hart joked.
“That’d tell us something, too,” Leal said. “But I doubt it. If they would have been worried about security, they would have
spent some money on street lights.”
“And signs,” she added.
Leal thought he detected something in her voice. A nervousness, perhaps? Maybe she was getting cold feet joining him on this
violation of the Brice plan. After making a U-turn and following the road back to Walker’s, Leal turned into the driveway.
The headlights shone on a declining slope that descended to a lower level.
Probably the attached garage down there, he thought. As he shut off the car and grabbed the handle, he heard Hart say his
name quickly. He glanced over at her.
“I ’m…not sure what to do here,” she said haltingly.
Leal let go of the door handle. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know if you’ve heard anything about me.” Her voice full of pauses and breaths. “But I haven’t really got a lot of
experience doing this sort of thing.”
He sighed quietly and grinned.
“Ollie, it’s just like anything else. You’ve got to jump in and start paddling. You learn by doing. Just follow my lead. Let
me ask the questions. See what you observe. You’ll do fine.”
Hart’s lips pressed into a thin line.
“Okay,” she said, exhaling. “I’ll do my best.”
“That’s the spirit. Let’s do it to it.” Leal tried to smile reassuringly. It’s the only way she’ll learn anything, he thought.
I just hope what she learns isn’t how to get yourself in trouble with your boss.