Sleeping Dogs (20 page)

Authors: Ed Gorman

Tags: #Mystery

BOOK: Sleeping Dogs

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The night. Planes circling O'Hare. Giant trucks racing through the
darkness. The dance music from inside the ballroom. The smells of fresh chilled air out here, and the stench of the bellhop having wet himself.

I hit him hard and square in the stomach. Blood began oozing from the corner of his mouth. His eyes told of defeat and shame. He said, the blood making it difficult to speak, “Just had a phone number. Never met her.”

“Her? You must've gotten her name?”

He shook his head. “No. Honest. I never got her name.”

He painfully explained the situation, grimacing every time one of his body parts sent a pain message to his brain. He'd been contacted by phone by a woman who told him that she wanted him to pick up a briefcase for her. She told him what the car looked like and what I looked like. She also told him that I would undoubtedly be watching from the sidewalk and that he was to come up behind me and knock me out. Nothing that would inflict serious damage. Just take me out for five to ten minutes. And so he had.

“But if I hit you too hard, I'm sorry.”

“You got the briefcase?”

He nodded. “It's in my locker.”

“You open it?”

“She told me not to.”

“How are you supposed to get it to her?”

“I'm meeting her out in the parking lot in fifteen minutes. I give her the briefcase and she gives me a thousand dollars in hundreds.” He was getting much better at speaking with a mouthful of blood.

“Let's go get the briefcase.”

“What?”

“You said you've got the briefcase in your locker. We're going to go get it. You and I. Then we're going to wait in the parking lot for her to show up.”

“I really need that thousand dollars, dude.”

He must have been feeling much stronger now. Calling somebody “dude” requires a certain amount of energy.

“We'll make a trade. You lose your thousand dollars and I don't turn you over to the cops. How's that?”

He seemed to think about it, which suggested that he was a harder case than I'd guessed. I'd trade a thousand dollars to stay out of Cook County Jail for six monthsâhis likely sentenceâbut he wanted that grand badly enough to actually consider risking life in a cell for a thousand dollars.

“Shit,” he said.

“What's your name, by the way?”

“Tim Gaines.”

I took my hands from the bunched shirt I had pressed against his collarbone.

“I can't afford no police record. They'd fire my ass here for sure. Insurance won't cover hops if they've got a police record.”

“Sounds reasonable. Now let's go get that briefcase.”

“I told my girlfriend we were going to Vegas on that money. I already had another fifteen hundred saved to put with it.”

“C'mon. Let's go get the briefcase.”

Even in the newest hotel there are sections below that remind you of the catacombs. We went down two levels to a sub-subbasement, the effect unpleasant for a claustrophobe like me. I could smell the heat from the laundry and hear the boom and grind of different motors at work. The men's locker room had a shower area and different kinds of aftershave. Picking up the briefcase was anticlimactic.

Back upstairs, we went outside. He took up a position at the curb as I'd instructed. I wanted the arriving car to be as close to me as possible. I'd wait until the vehicle pulled up and he'd started to approach it. Then I'd appear, run around the car to the driver's side, and show the Glock. If the driver tried to pull away I'd shoot out the two tires on my side.

Gaines kept looking back at me. His nervousness started to make me anxious, too. All this had to be done quickly. Twice he walked off the curb, giving me the impression that he saw the car pulling up. But both times were false alarms. My armpits were soaked with sweat. Despite the cold I was in need of changing shirts.

Finally he made his move and it was the right one. A two-year-old Pontiac sedan pulled up and he immediately started walking toward it.

I let him reach the car and start talking to the driver before I sprinted out from the shadows and ducked down as I worked my way around the rear of the car and up to the driver's window.

I already knew who I'd see. I'd ridden in this car many times during the campaign.

While she talked to him, I tapped on her window with my Glock. She turned to face me, looking alternately shocked, angry, and then hurt, as if I'd betrayed her in some way.

I opened the door and said, “Slide over, Laura. I'm driving.”

CHAPTER 28

“Where are you taking me?”

“We're going to drive around and you're going to tell me what the fuck is going on here.”

“I don't want to tell you anything, Dev. And I don't have to.”

“We could always go right to the police.”

“That's bullshit and you know it. They'd want to see the tape. And it would all be over for Nichols.”

“What the hell is this all about? Why did you pay Greaves to make that tape?”

“I already told you I don't want to say anything. I'll only talk to my lawyer, nobody else.”

“What the hell has Warren ever done to you?”

“He fired Wylie. And Phil never recovered. He'd been sober for six years but he started drinking again.” Pause. “I want to call my lawyer.”

“Be my guest. Use your cell. Call him. I'll drive you over there and wait till you're finished.”

“And then what?”

“Then I want you to tell me what this is all about. I think you owe the campaign that much.”

“I don't owe the campaign anything.”

“What were you planning to do with the tape?”

“Send it to Jim Lake.”

“Great. That's loyalty.”

“Yeah, Dev. The same kind of loyalty he showed to Phil.”

“Phil, Phil, Phil. I don't get the connection here.”

“The connection was that I was in love with him.”

“Oh.”

“Even though he wasn't in love with me. He saw me the way he would a sister. We even slept together but it didn't help him.”

“Help him in what way?”

“Help him get over this other woman.”

“Anybody I know?”

“I'm calling David. You need to be quiet.”

The call didn't last much more than a minute. He was awake, and no, it wasn't too late. He'd put on some coffee for her. She knew the address. It was not far from Loyola University, a genteel two-story brick home with white shutters and a screened-in porch running the length of the front. I parked in the driveway and cut the lights.

“You're just going to sit here?”

“I'm just going to sit here.”

“There's no guarantee I'm going to tell you anything.”

“I realize that.”

“You could always take a cab back to your hotel.”

“And miss all the fun of sitting out here?”

“You don't have any right to do this.”

“You know the worst thing about this is that you're a stranger. I'm serious. I don't know who you are. You're this beautiful young woman and that part hasn't changed. But everything else has. Especially your
voice. I've never heard this kind of anger and hatred in your voice before. And the way you look at me. I don't know what I've ever done to you that would make you hate me, too.”

“You took Phil's place.”

“But I didn't fire him, Laura. I only came on because there was a vacancy.”

“Maybe I'm being irrational about you. But I'm not being irrational about Warren.”

“I'm quitting the day after the election. Win or lose.”

“What? Are you serious?”

“Very serious. I don't hold Warren in any higher regard than you do. I'm sick of him and all his lies.”

“Well, then I owe you an apology.”

“You can make it up to me by telling me what's going on.”

“I'll see what my lawyer says.”

She started to turn toward her door, but I grabbed her wrist. “One more question.”

“Let go of me, Dev.”

“Did you kill Greaves?”

“Are you fucking insane, Dev? Do you think I go around killing people?”

I let go of her wrist.

And with that she was gone. The dome light flashed bright for a moment as she got out of the car. A glimpse of that lovely face, so troubled now.

She stayed for slightly more than ninety minutes. I listened to talk shows dealing with the coming election. The vampires were out, sucking the blood from any serious discussion with wild claims and accusations. Most of the cranks hated Warren. He was described variously as a socialist, a communist, a supporter of terrorism, a sissy, and a despiser of all that was good and true in this great land of ours. Lake, on the other hand, was described as a man we could count on when the
Martians attacked. Or the Venusians. I couldn't quite figure out which alien nation they had in mind.

Harsh wind sure made the lemony glow of the downstairs windows look awful cozy. Watching a late movie with a woman I was in love with, a drink or two, and then some comfortable sex before we fell asleep. All things possible. That would be my first priority after I walked away from Warren's camp. Finding a woman. I was ready to resort to sandwich boards if need be. And on Michigan Avenue. In broad daylight.

She was a bit drunk when she came back to the car. And she had the hiccups to prove it.

“Everything's going to hell,” she said. “I'll probably be in prison a month from now. The thing I worry about most”âpause for a hiccupâ“is my parents. I was the first person to graduate from college in my family. The Chinese”âpause for hiccupâ“are proud people. Though sometimes you wouldn't know it. All that bowing and”âpause for hiccupâ“crap.”

“You fixed up Warren's drink, too?”

“Yeah. It was actually”âpauseâ“easy.”

I drove slowly back to the hotel, listening to her tell me, between hiccups, what had transpired inside with her lawyer. He had told her that it was unlikely that Warren would bring the matter of taping him or extortion to the police given the nature of the tape. The police would assure him that the contents of the tape would forever be held in secret, but in this age of the media, “secret” was anything that lasted for more than forty-eight hours. But she was convinced that she was headed for prison despite all his reassurances, even when the lawyer said Warren couldn't even go after her for the stiffed drink. He'd be worried that that too would lead somehow to the tape.

“So where is the tape now?” I said.

“Right”âpause for hiccupâ“here.”

And with that she reached in her purse and brought forth this year's
version of the Maltese Falcon. The McGuffin. The one thing everybody wanted. She held it up, streetlights and traffic lights and bistro lights flashing behind it as we moved down the city streets.

That tape should have glowed or been encrusted with barnacles or been heavy with the scrawl of some ancient and mysterious language. But it was just a standard miniature videocassette of the kind you can get at the supermarket for a buck or two.

“Are you sure there aren't any other copies floating around?”

“I made sure of that.” And without a single hiccup. “The only time the tape was out of my hands was when I let Greaves use it for a few minutes to show you. I was in the other room listening. Then what I wanted was his laptop. I trashed his daughter's place looking for it but I didn't have any luck.”

I decided against telling her that I had it. That might come later.

She explained to me that she'd been with Greaves the morning they'd taped Warren, never let Greaves out of her sight in case he had the idea of making a copy for himself. She had the one and only copy.

“So when he said he had the original tape, he was lying to me?”

“Ab”âpause for hiccupâ“solutely.”

She laid the tape on the seat between us. “All yours.”

“Thank you.”

A chortle. “Now
you
should blackmail the bastard.”

“I just want to get away from him. Fast as I can.”

“I'm with you on that.”

“I'm curious. What were you going to do with a million dollars?”

She held up the briefcase and patted it. “Give it to Kate.”

“Kate? She makes good money and she comes from money.”

“Her dad died a while back and her brother took over the estate. I don't know if you ever met him.” Pause for hiccup. “He's a know-it-all. He lost nearly everything for them. They're not poor, but they aren't rich anymore”âpause for hiccupâ“either.”

“Why would Kate need a million dollars?”

“Because Warren won't give her very much for their daughter.”

“Their daughter? Warren's the father of Kate's daughter?”

She nodded. And then, in between hiccups, she told me the rest. Phil Wylie had long been in love with Kate. But Kate had long been in love with Warren. The falling-out between Phil and Warren had been over Kate. Phil felt that Warren should pay an informal kind of child support. Warren felt that Kate was a “big girl” and had known the consequences of having an affair with a married man. He gave her a small “stipend” every month. But he wouldn't acknowledge paternity. Kate could have gone public but didn't because she held out hope that someday Warren would leave Teresa and marry her. This was what Phil and Warren had clashed about. Phil thought Warren was acting despicably. Warren said that Phil was being irrational. Phil resigned in a great rage. Laura watched as he declined into paranoia and helplessness, ending in suicide.

“Then nobody murdered him?”

“No,” she said. “I was making us dinner in the kitchen when he jumped. I panicked and got out of there as fast as I could.”

I saw a Denny's and swerved in there.

“You're going into a Denny's? Do you have any idea what kind of civil rights record they have?”

“You need coffee and so do I. I've got to think all this through.”

“Denny's,” she said. Hiccup. “They'll probably throw me out because I'm Chinese.”