The Governor's Wife (15 page)

R
afael Ramirez worked out of the Twelfth District on the city’s Near West Side. Rodriguez and I sat in the police parking lot twenty yards from his car, a late-model Jeep Cherokee.

“What time does he get off?” I said.

Rodriguez checked his watch. “Another couple of minutes.”

“I can do this on my own, Vince.”

Rodriguez flicked a finger, one of ten he had wrapped around the steering wheel. “I want him to know.”

We sat for another minute. A car buzzed down Racine Avenue, a girl hanging out the window yelling something I couldn’t make out. Then it was quiet again.

“What happened with Ray?” I said.

“They got back some preliminary blood work. Definitely leukemia. Doc says he’d probably been sick less than a year.”

“Makes no sense.”

“And yet there it is. Coroner says they can sit on the report for a week, tops.”

A rectangle of light appeared as a door opened. A couple of off-duty cops, a man and a woman, came out and wandered toward their cars. Then, a couple more.

“What are you gonna do with her?” Rodriguez said. He didn’t have to tell me who he was talking about.

“Well, we know she didn’t kill Ray.”

“She knows who put him in the Ambassador. I can guarantee you that.”

The door opened again, and Ramirez came out alone. He was short, maybe five seven, and thick with quick-twitch muscle. Rodriguez told me he’d been a boxer and liked to show off with his fists. Part of me looked forward to that; the rest of me knew it probably wouldn’t go that way. Rodriguez got out of the car first.

“Ramirez?”

Rodriguez cut off the smaller man’s path to his vehicle. I moved in behind so he couldn’t see the cop shop either. Ramirez shot a quick look my way, then jutted his chin out at Rodriguez.

“That’s right. Who are you?”

The detective flashed his star. “Rodriguez. Violent Crimes.”

“I don’t know you.”

“Yeah. Listen, you got a minute to talk?”

“Who’s your pal?” Ramirez jerked his head toward me without actually looking me in the eye.

“He’s a PI. Working with me on a case.”

“What do you want?”

Rodriguez glanced around the empty lot. “Might be easier if we went somewhere. Maybe a cup of coffee?”

“I just finished a ten-hour shift. Nothing I want except a couple of cold beers, some dinner, and bed.”

“I understand,” Rodriguez said. “This won’t take a minute.”

Ramirez shook his head and sighed.

“You’d really be helping us out,” Rodriguez said.

Ramirez pulled out a key fob and unlocked the doors to his jeep. “Follow me.”

We went to a cop bar on Ogden called JoJo’s. The only thing marking the bar’s existence was an Old Style sign hung crooked in the window. Ramirez pressed a white button by the front door. Ten seconds later, a buzzer sounded, and we were in. The layout was basic. A long wooden counter, a few booths and some high-top tables, a single TV up in the corner. One wall was full of police patches from around the world. To the left of the front door was a jukebox and a glassed-in display with the names and faces of officers killed in the line of duty. The midnight shift had filled the place, maybe a dozen drinkers on stools and another dozen working away at the tables and booths. Most of the cops were drinking beer and whiskey. Some were drinking whiskey and beer. The bartender was pulling red-and-white cans of Budweiser out of a blue cooler filled with ice and telling anyone who’d listen he’d just made some ham-and-cheese sandwiches. I ordered us three beers and a shot of Jack for Ramirez. We got our drinks and found a booth in a far corner of the place. Ramirez knocked back the Jack first thing. Then he popped open the Bud, took a sip, and belched. “What is it you want to talk about?”

I waited on Rodriguez, who pulled out a manila envelope and put it on the table.

“What the fuck is that?” Ramirez said. He still had his gun strapped to his belt; his forehead and scalp popped with sweat.

“Relax,” Rodriguez said. I took a quick look around. No one had said a word to us coming in, but I figured the place had to be full of Ramirez’s buddies. If Ramirez had any buddies. Rodriguez opened up the envelope and took out a small DV tape.

“I’m gonna show you this, Ramirez, but only if you want to see it. If you don’t, it goes back in the envelope. All right?”

“I don’t have time for this bullshit,” Ramirez said, but didn’t go anywhere. I noticed he never took his eyes off the tape.

“I’ve got a friend,” Rodriguez said. “His name’s Eddie Mahoney. You know him?”

Ramirez shook his head.

“Eddie’s got seven kids, six of ’em girls. Goes to mass every Sunday and works Vice the rest of the week. Weird, right? But that’s Eddie. Anyway, he ran a sting about a year and a half ago. Targeted underage girls on a couple of the West Side strolls.” Rodriguez’s voice softened a touch. He tickled the DV tape with a finger. “She was small and dark. Told you her name was Luisa. Eddie shot the video from a van across the street. The two of you in an unmarked squad car.”

Ramirez gripped and regripped his beer can, creasing the aluminum with his fingers.

“You hear me, Ramirez?”

“I heard you. What do you want?”

“The girl was fifteen. Eddie gave you a pass because you were a cop. He wasn’t so happy when I told him how you treated your oldest daughter.” Rodriguez took out a copy of the police report Elena Ramirez had given me and pushed it across the table. “When was the last time you saw Lourdes?”

Ramirez glanced at the report and pushed it back.

“Doesn’t matter,” Rodriguez said. “It’s your other daughters we’re concerned about. We think they need a dad. Not some asshole pointing a gun at them.”

I watched the vein pulse in his neck, but Ramirez didn’t say a word.

“We own you,” Rodriguez said, flicking a finger between himself and me. “We don’t want to own you, but we do. So go home and start being a man. Take care of your wife. Take care
of the three girls you have left. And consider yourself lucky. Think you can do that?”

Ramirez stared at his boots, then the barroom floor and nodded.

“Good. Do it, and the tape gets buried. Fuck with anyone in your family, and I’ll make sure you pull at least twenty-five for statutory rape. And I’ll make sure it hurts. Now get out of here.”

We watched Ramirez leave. “Asshole,” Rodriguez muttered. We both ordered shots of Jack, finished our beers, and followed him out the door. It was late. And I had an early start in the morning.

T
he clock on my dashboard read 7:15 a.m. I was camped out on Marie Perry’s block with a thermos of coffee and a stack of ham-and-cheese sandwiches I’d bought from the bartender at JoJo’s. I was halfway through my second when the lights in her kitchen flicked on. The door to an attached garage opened at exactly eight-thirty, and Marie’s Lexus wheeled away. I waited another fifteen minutes, then walked up to the brownstone and pressed the buzzer for the third floor. A woman’s voice rang down over the intercom. I told her I had a package and needed to leave it in the lobby. There was a small pause before she buzzed me in. I placed an empty FedEx box with no address on a chair by the mailboxes and walked upstairs. Marie Perry’s apartment was the only one on the first floor. I crouched down by the front door, pulled out the red leather case I’d brought with me, and unzipped it. The lock picks were made of stainless steel and laid out in a row on a soft velvet pad. In a sleeve behind the picks were two silver “bump” keys. Each was
cut almost flat, with tiny teeth of identical height. The first key didn’t fit into the lock, so I tried the second. It slid in smoothly. I pulled the key out a fraction, turned it as far as it would go to the right, and held it. Then I took out a small yellow hammer and tapped the key all the way back into the lock. The key “bumped” past the last pin in the lock, causing the entire pin stack to jump at once and clear the cylinder. The key turned the rest of the way, and the door to Marie Perry’s apartment opened. It had taken all of a minute and a half.

I closed the door behind me and made a quick and quiet tour of the place. Once I was sure I was alone, I found my way into the back room where Marie had stashed Ray Perry’s old desk. I looked through all the drawers starting at the bottom. Not a scrap of interesting paper in any of them. Behind the desk were some file cabinets. I pulled them open and came up empty again. I sat behind Ray’s desk. To the right of the blotter were two pens and a letter opener. Arrayed on the other side were three framed pictures. One was a wedding day photo of Ray and Marie. One was Ray Perry being sworn in as governor. The third was a small black-and-white snapshot of Ray in what looked like a hospital room. His face was cast in profile, and he was cradling an infant close to his chest. I picked up the picture and studied it. There was something odd there, but I couldn’t place it. I put the picture down and went back through the apartment to the kitchen. I was wondering if I had enough time to give the entire place a toss when I saw a hook on the wall next to the refrigerator. It had a set of keys on it with a tag that read
RAY
’
S CADDY
. I grabbed the keys and went down a run of stairs to the garage.

The Caddy was sitting beside the empty slot for Marie’s Lexus. I opened the door and slid behind the wheel. The car was loaded, full leather, power everything, and a complete navigation system. I turned over the engine and hit a button
on the nav menu that read
PRIOR TRIPS
. Up came a list of addresses and dates. The latest trip registered was two years ago—a week before Ray Perry was sentenced to prison. He’d accessed directions to two addresses: 741 West Hickory Street in the western suburb of Hinsdale and 23 Cabot Street in the adjoining suburb of Clarendon Hills. I jotted down both addresses and gave the rest of the car a quick once-over. The interior was spotless. Just for kicks, I popped the trunk. Empty. I pulled up the trunk liner, expecting to find the spare tire tucked somewhere underneath. Instead I found a black metal box with a lock, sunk into what used to be the tire well. The lock hadn’t been disturbed, which told me either the feds had missed the box altogether or they’d found the key to it. Knowing the feds, I was guessing the former. I took out my hammer and used a flat chisel to pop the box open. Inside was a stack of file folders. The first few contained Ray Perry’s birth certificate and school diplomas, the Perrys’ marriage certificate, and what appeared to be a will. Underneath that were a couple of medical reports summarizing Ray’s annual physicals. At the very bottom I found a handful of older files, torn and creased with age. One had
HIGH SCHOOL
scrawled in black pen across the front. Another was baby blue and had a picture of Ray holding an infant clipped to the cover. It was the same photo I’d seen on Ray’s desk and stirred up the same queasy feeling. I put the file aside and was about to dig into the rest when I heard a soft thump upstairs. I’d left the kitchen door open. Now I crept up the stairs and listened. There was movement in the front of the apartment. Heels on wood. Light, quick footsteps. I closed the kitchen door and went back down to the garage. I stuffed the files from the strong box into a small duffel bag I’d brought with me and put the box back into the tire well. Then I closed the trunk and left the Caddy’s keys on a window ledge. There was a single door in the garage that led directly to an alley. I slipped out, walked down the alley, and found my car. Marie’s Lexus was
parked at the curb with its blinkers on. Five minutes later she came out with a black satchel in her left hand. I waited until she’d gotten in her car and turned the corner. Then I followed.

She stopped to get coffee and drop off some dry cleaning. During the stops, I knocked back a couple of Tylenol for the hand and took another call from Northwestern wondering why I’d left their hospital without checking out. At eleven-fifteen, Marie pulled into the parking lot of North Community Bank on the 3600 block of North Broadway. If things were going to get interesting, this was as good a place as any. She took the satchel out of the backseat of her car and walked into the bank. I watched through the plate-glass windows as she floated past a row of tellers to a heavyset woman sitting in an open cubicle. Marie sat down, and the two women talked for a minute or two. Then they both got up and disappeared down a set of stairs. I jumped out of the car and walked across the street.

North Community was a pet-friendly bank. I knew that because of the sign, as well as the chocolate Lab puppy who slipped his leash and flew at me as I came through the door. I snagged the pup by the collar and engaged in the requisite oohing and aahing with the owner and one of the tellers. I hadn’t wanted to attract attention to myself, but the Lab actually helped. Once he was back on leash, the owner returned to her banking, and everyone else in the place seemed to forget about me. I walked by the cubicle Marie had stopped at and picked up a business card from a stack on the desk. The card read:

COLLEEN BRASHLER

PERSONAL BANKING

I put the card in my pocket and continued toward the dark set of stairs Marie and Colleen had just descended. A sign on the wall read
VAULTS AND SAFE-DEPOSIT BOXES
, with an
arrow pointing down. I heard a door open below and, with a quick scratch behind the ears for the Lab, made my way back through the bank. I’d just climbed behind the wheel when Marie Perry walked out. She carried the leather satchel in her right hand. It might have been my imagination, but it looked a good deal fatter than when she went in.

I followed Marie’s car down Broadway and then east on Belmont. I wasn’t much for playing the lottery. As we drove, however, I felt like I was holding a ticket and waiting for the Ping-Pong balls to drop. First, we jumped on Lake Shore Drive heading south. Then we picked up the Ike with a full load of traffic streaming west. Finally, we turned onto Route 83 and snaked south toward the villages of Hinsdale and Clarendon Hills. I took out my notebook and checked the two addresses I’d pulled from Ray Perry’s Caddy. I figured I had a winner. We got off the highway in Clarendon Hills and cruised past a golf course before taking a left on Norfolk Avenue. Up ahead I saw a sign for Cabot Street. Marie hit her blinker. I went around the block and came up Cabot from the other side. Number 23 was one of a half-dozen cookie-cutter Colonials sprinkled up and down the street. This one had white shutters and a mailbox out front that read
MCBAIN
. Marie Perry’s Lexus was parked in the driveway.

I got out of the car, zipped up my jacket, and took a walk past the house. The shades were open, and I could see two women sitting together on a couch in the living room. Their heads were close together. The satchel was on the table in front of them. I crossed the street and walked back to my car. A quick web search for the address on my phone produced nothing of interest. Then I opened up my laptop and searched for
MCBAIN
on my hard drive. The first thing that popped up was some notes I’d made from my conversation with Jack O’Donnell. He’d flagged at least three fatal car crashes as having been caused by Beacon’s faulty highway construction.
One of them was in May of 2010. A father and three kids were killed when their vehicle flipped on the Eisenhower. The dad’s name was Frank McBain. The only survivor of the crash was his wife, Melissa.

I pulled up a half-dozen articles on the crash. A photo from the
Trib
showed three neighbors standing in front of the house I was looking at, arms around one another, sobbing into their sleeves. I was reading the article when Marie Perry stepped out of the house. Melissa McBain stayed inside, the screen door shut between them. The two women continued to talk for another four or five minutes. Then Marie walked back down the driveway to her car. She had the black bag with her.

I watched Marie drive down Cabot Street and disappear. Melissa McBain stood by the windows in her living room and watched as well. Then she tugged the curtains shut. I took my time leaving the neighborhood. After all, Hinsdale was only a mile away, and I already knew exactly where Marie Perry was headed.