“Hi, Mr. Kelly,” she said. “My name is Elaine Remington. I’m the woman from John Gibbons’ letter. The one who almost got killed.”
From her bag Ms. Remington pulled a more than capable-looking nine millimeter and pointed it in the general direction of my left eye.
“I’d like to talk to you,” she said.
“Sure,” I said.
My keys came out of a pocket but had trouble fitting in the lock. Capable-looking nine millimeters will do that to a set of keys.
“If you see any cops inside, yell and I’ll shoot them,” I said.
She wasn’t smiling anymore.
“Better yet, why don’t you just shoot them yourself?”
She motioned with the gun and I went inside.
I sat her down on the best chair in the best corner of my flat. I figured it was the gentlemanly thing to do. Besides, she had the gun and would take it anyway.
“Want some coffee?” I said. She shook her head and pulled my piece off my hip.
“Thanks,” I said. “How about some orange juice?”
“Sure,” she replied. “Orange juice is a good source of potassium. Women need that, you know.”
I didn’t know and didn’t argue.
She unloaded my gun and checked the pipe. I rustled through my fridge looking for another suitable weapon. Nothing came to mind. She had already figured this out and kept talking.
“Sorry about the gun, Mr. Kelly. It’s just a precaution. Girl needs to be able to protect herself.”
I placed the orange nectar squarely before her and took a less-than-comfortable perch on the sofa.
“How do I know you’re the woman from the letter?” I said.
She got up from the chair. With one hand, she began to undo the first few buttons of her top. To my credit, I kept my eye on the nine. It didn’t waver.
“Here,” she said.
The scar was purple, thick, jagged, and heading south from just under her collarbone.
“It goes to just about here.” She pointed halfway to her waist.
“You know how many pints of blood the human body holds, Mr. Kelly?”
I didn’t.
“Eight. I lost six. They basically reinflated my body. With blood, I mean.”
The gun faltered just a bit. Then found its focus.
“He raped me, too, Mr. Kelly. Did Gibbons tell you that? Probably not. Tied me up like a hog. Laughed about that for a while. Then he raped me.”
She flicked her hair back, and the skin under her right eye twitched once.
“Listen, Ms. Remington,” I said. “Why don’t we put the gun down and talk about it.”
“Gibbons was supposed to help,” she said. “Now he’s dead.”
“How do you know that?”
“I saw him last night. A bar called the Hidden Shamrock over on Halsted and Diversey. Gibbons liked to hang out there. You know the place?”
I did.
“I met him there,” she continued. “He told me about you maybe helping us and said he had a lead. Said he had to meet a guy down at Navy Pier.”
“And you followed him?”
Now her eyes slid away.
“He was supposed to come back to my place close to midnight. When he didn’t show, I went down to the pier. I found him there and called the police.”
“Did the police talk to you?”
“Until about a half hour ago. They asked me about you.”
“How wonderful of them.”
“Why do you think they did that?”
“I have no idea, Ms. Remington.”
Her smile was tight now. The tic under her eye was constant. Like a heartbeat. I judged the distance from my hand to the gun. Not good enough.
“You think I killed Gibbons,” I said. “Hell, he was shot with a nine. Take that one down to the station and have your friends test it.”
Her eyes flicked to my weapon lying on the coffee table.
“But tell me first,” I said. “Why did I kill him?”
“I don’t know that you did, Mr. Kelly. What did John tell you?”
“He showed me your letter.”
I reached for a cigarette. She raised the gun and I showed her the pack. Marlboros.
“Okay,” she said.
I crossed my legs. She did the same. But better.
“Gibbons asked me to help you,” I said. “Then he gave me a retainer. May I?”
I pulled the envelope with cash from my coat pocket and threw it toward her. She didn’t bother to look at it. I lit my cigarette and continued.
“So technically, I guess, you’re my client. Although I don’t see as you need a whole lot of protecting. At least for the moment.”
I drew deep and let out some smoke. She coughed a little. I enjoyed that. Sometimes one must live for life’s smaller triumphs. Then she finished coughing and started talking again.
“What about the rest of it, Mr. Kelly?”
It’s the kind of question you want to have some sort of answer to, at least when someone is pointing the business end of a gun your way. I did the best I could.
“The rest of what?”
“Don’t play fuck-fuck with me, Mr. Kelly. What else did Gibbons tell you?”
The possibilities for postmodern witty repartee, not to mention a close, meaningful relationship, seemed plentiful. Or she could just shoot me in the head and be done with it. Then the doorbell rang and the moment shifted.
“Expecting someone?” Elaine said.
“Not so you would notice.”
“I’ll be just down the hall.”
She grabbed her orange juice, tucked her gun neatly into her handbag, and headed toward my bedroom. The bell rang a second time.
“Yeah, yeah.”
I opened the door to a gold detective shield.
“Michael Kelly?” said the voice from behind the shield.
“Where the hell you guys been?” I said.
CHAPTER 6
O ne detective stood at attention. The other was loose-jointed and kicked at a rock on the pavement. I was on the top step, my back to the front door. They both squinted up at me through the morning glare. So much the better. I thought about Elaine Remington, alone in the apartment, rummaging through my various belongings. So much the worse. Loose-jointed flashed his badge again. In case I had any doubts. I caught a glimpse of the gold but no name.
“Dan Masters. This is my partner, Joe Ringles.”
Ringles gave a bit of a salute. He looked lost without a swagger stick.
“You been waiting for us, huh?” said Masters. “Why exactly is that, I wonder?”
Masters was the older of the two. Gray buzz cut gave way to a shiny forehead and sharp ears set close. His eyebrows were crisscrossed with scars. The rest of his face was a bag of skin with red holes where eyes should have been and a slash that moved when he spoke. Booze and twenty years on the job will do that to you.
“John Gibbons,” I said. “Friend of mine. Found dead last night.”
“You want to tell me how you know that, sir?”
That was Ringles. The younger of the two, his buzz cut was still brown and shaved high on the sides. He had no eyebrows to speak of, and the skin was tight over thin cheekbones. His chin was soft enough to make him a target. I gave him the shoulder. Ringles didn’t like it.
“I asked you a question, sir.”
Ringles stepped forward. He was probably in my space, if I thought about it. I didn’t. I just hit him. It doesn’t take much if you know how. Just three inches to the solar plexus. I don’t think Masters even noticed. Ringles did. He fell backward over a convenient piece of shrubbery. The landing area was just a bit muddy.
“Watch it there,” I said.
Ringles came up out of the mud with his piece out. He even looked stupid enough to use it. Fortunately, Masters came around.
“Park it, Joe.”
Ringles glared at me over the sight. I stood my ground and tried to ignore the hammer in my chest. Slowly he eased back on the trigger and pulled out the cuffs. I turned back to the older cop.
“Am I under arrest?”
Masters looked at a point in space somewhere between Ringles and myself. Then he shook his head. The cuffs went away.
“I’ll drive down,” I said. “If it’s all right with you guys.”
Masters was already heading back to his car. “Town Hall,” he said. “You got an hour.”
I went back into the house. Ringles was left alone, wiping off the back of his pants. I stopped just inside the door and listened. Nothing. I started down the hall.
“Honey, I’m home.”
The back door to my flat was open. Elaine Remington was gone. She had rifled my bedroom drawers but left my value pack of ultra-thin, just-like-nothing-at-all condoms. I was slightly disappointed.
On the mirror, over my dresser, she had scrawled a phone number in lipstick. Just like in the movies. I recognized the number but scribbled it down anyway. Then I filled my pockets with cash. I’d been inside a Chicago cop shop before. It was best to go prepared.
CHAPTER 7
A t the corner of Halsted and Addison sits Town Hall, the oldest operating police station in Chicago and looking very much the part. I counted seven cops working the front desk. None of them, women included, checked in under two hundred and fifty pounds. Most of them used Selectric typewriters with multiple layers of white, pink, and green report sheets tacked underneath. Carbon paper and Wite-Out were big items, too. One computer, a Sanyo circa 1982, lurked in a dark and forlorn corner. It was covered in the morning remnants of bear claw and held up a chunk of green plaster leaking off the wall.
“Let’s go.”
Ringles was gone. Masters had replaced him with a larger version of large.
“This is Bubbles,” Masters said and pointed in the general direction of Bubbles’ belt buckle.
“And what do you call the rest of him?”
Masters smiled and jerked his head toward the bowels of the station. Bubbles grabbed my elbow and the rest of me followed.
The room was white walls with a cracked Formica table and plastic molded chairs bolted to the floor. A mirror spanned one side.
“Is the mayor joining us?” I said.
Masters slammed me a shot in the kidneys. I cracked my head on the opposite wall, tasted copper, and turned just in time to catch Bubbles’ size 15Ѕ up the left side of the head. I watched my reflection bounce off the mirror and fall to the floor. Feet shifted to the left and right. I hung my head and moaned, low and soft. A set of feet moved a bit closer. I came off the ground with a right hand. It connected but not enough. Bubbles had his nightstick out, and he was good with it. I heard my knee pop before I felt it and sat down hard. Masters stepped in again.
“Kelly?”
I swung around to focus on the detective. The eyes were still red and hollow. Basically, uninterested.
“I don’t necessarily like Joe Ringles,” Masters said. “But he’s a cop and you’re not. At least not anymore.”
I nodded and tried to get up.
“Fair enough. Now why am I here?”
Masters looked at Bubbles, who shrugged like the fun was over far too soon.
“You know why you’re here,” Masters said.
“I do?”
The detective sighed and picked up a white phone off the white wall. A uniform brought in a file marked HOMICIDE in large black block letters. Like they were proud of it. Then the uniform and Bubbles left. I spit out some blood and told Bubbles I’d catch up with him later.
Masters took one of the three chairs in the room. I took another. The file was between us. Masters read me my rights.
“You want a lawyer?” he said when he was finished.
“Know any good ones?” I replied.
Masters pulled a piece of paper from the file. It was an eight by ten of John Gibbons. He was lying on a piece of concrete walkway. His mouth was open, and he had a hole in his stomach. The detective slid a second piece of paper in front of me. It was a blowup of a fingerprint.
“This is a latent pulled off a shell casing found at the scene.”
Masters put a second print sheet on top of that.
“We ran it through the system and got a partial match.”
I looked up.
“You don’t say.”
“Yeah, computer kicked out your name among the possibles. Private investigator, former cop.”
I stared at the ridges and whorls for what was probably too long. Then I looked up at Masters, who was looking at me but pretending not to.
“Partial, huh? How many points match?”
“Four.”
“When I was on the force, you needed nine to make it stand up and talk for the DA. Has that changed, Detective?”
“Your card was found in his pocket. A partial on the casing. You explain it to me. Starting with how you know so much.”
“You talked to some folks,” I said.
“This case hasn’t left my sight. No one knows about it except Ringles, myself, and the print lab.”
“How about Diane Lindsay? Red hair. Shows up on TV every now and then.”
The flesh around Masters’ eyes furrowed with a smile that never reached his lips. Whoever Diane’s source was, it wasn’t this guy.
“And then there’s Elaine Remington,” I said. “Blond hair. Purple scar running from throat to navel.”
Masters flinched at that one. Now I could see him putting things together. And he was doing it pretty quick.
“She headed right over to see you?”
I nodded.
“She was inside your house when we showed up?”
“Down the hall,” I said.
“Do yourself a favor and explain how she fits.”
I shrugged.
“She was assaulted a long time ago,” I said. “Gibbons was helping to track the guy.”
“Was he getting anywhere?”
“Why don’t you go ask him?”
I thought Masters might call in Bubbles for an encore. He didn’t.
“We still got the print.”
“You do.”
“More than enough to charge you.”
“You have my gun,” I said. “Run it against the slug that killed Gibbons.”
“We will, Kelly. As soon as we dig it out of your friend. But you know what, it’s a funny thing about bullets. They can be used in one piece just as easily as another. Some of us might figure you killed Gibbons and then dumped the murder weapon. Problem is, you forgot to use gloves when you loaded the clip. Could you be that stupid, Kelly? I say, ‘Why not?’ ”