The Green Line (13 page)

“Internal Affairs? So you’re investigating police officers.”

“Yes.”

Abby was intrigued. Questions began whirling above her head, like she didn’t know where to begin, and it was almost as if the detective sensed it, because he quickly rose to leave.

“Anyway, thank you for your time, Ms. Donovan. And I trust we can keep this conversation between us?”

“Sure. Oh, wait.” She grabbed the picture of the man from her desk and studied it again. “So this guy, he’s a policeman?” There was something vaguely familiar, but she just couldn’t put her finger on it.

“Perhaps. I’m looking into it.” He took the picture. “Well, thanks, Ms. Donovan. And please call me if you think of anything else about that man you saw walking out of Reggie’s.”

“Will do.”

AFTER
the detective left, Abby’s head spun with all sorts of unanswered questions. Was Reilly a bad cop? Why did that detective pause when he spoke of him? Why didn’t Reilly care when she called in the description of a man? Was he the target of this man’s investigation? He was white. He was the one who was investigating Ali’s store. Maybe she should have told the detective about that. But he had a crew cut. She wondered who to trust.

She looked at the flowers on her desk. The water was completely brown now. The petals were crisp and fragile. Ali. So nice, so afraid. Nothing about his case or his death felt right.

She pulled her research from the drawer. Research she had tossed aside after that meeting with Jerry. She read through the state laws related to trafficking and forfeiture again and then studied some pages from a website put out by a watch group called the Forfeiture Endangers American Rights Foundation, aka FEAR. She had highlighted some of the FEAR facts and they caught her attention again:
Eighty percent of property forfeited to the U.S. during the previous decade was seized from owners who were never even charged with a crime.…Under civil asset forfeiture laws, the simple possession of cash, with no drugs or other contraband, can be considered evidence of criminal activity.

She turned to an article from the International Society for Individual Liberty. It was the story of a woman stopped at the airport because a drug dog had scratched her luggage. The agents found $39,000 in cash, money she had received from an insurance settlement and her life savings. Even though she documented where she got the money and was never charged with a crime, the police kept the money, and four years later she was still trying to get it back.

There was a
USA Today
article about police in Washington, D.C. who stop black men on the street in poor areas and routinely confiscate small amounts of cash and jewelry, most of which is never recorded by the departments. The article spoke of the continued incentives to expand forfeiture because the police departments benefit by keeping the goods for use on “official business,” or receiving some of the profit from the auctions.

And now, Ali’s property would be sold off to the highest bidder, just ripped from under his dead body. She scanned the local listings. There were twenty upcoming real estate auctions listed. No descriptions, just addresses and pictures. And then she saw it.
Quick Mart
. What? How could it be sold already? Ali’s body was barely cold in the ground. The auction was set for Tuesday, February 10, 2004, 11:00 a.m. Tomorrow. It would be held at the property location.

THIRTEEN

AT
six forty-five, Trip left the city along with the tail end of rush hour traffic and drove up Sheridan Road toward Lake Forest. It would have been faster to take the expressway, but he loved going up along Lake Michigan, winding his way up the shore under the canopy of oak trees that lined so much of Sheridan. There was a good six inches of snow on the ground and it clung to the tree limbs with the grace of an artist’s brush. The street was lined with beautiful old homes, most built in the early 1900s. “Soon,” he muttered.

As he drove through Wilmette, he noticed some construction going on at an old place on the east side of the street and a
Weber Design
sign in the front yard. Of course. It looked like they’d done an addition in the back. It was blending perfectly with the limestone facade and slate roof of the original structure.

He continued up the north shore through Glencoe, Kenilworth, and Highland Park and finally veered right into Lake Forest. Once he got to Deerpath Road, he made the instinctive right toward the lake and wound around the fifteen-foot hedges that blocked views of the massive homes behind them. Many were still covered with Christmas lights, creating a glow under the snow. He made a left into the long gravel driveway and parked in front of the entrance. He looked at his watch—7:35 p.m. Oh well.

He rang the bell and waited. Father answered. Trip smiled at the red pants. It made his father look like Santa Claus with that huge belly hanging over. Even his cheeks were red. But, of course, nothing about his face was jolly. And those dark eyes and mostly bald head dispelled any chance of being mistaken for the world-famous children’s hero.

“Hi, Dad.” Trip extended his hand.

His father didn’t take it. “You’re late.”

“Sorry, just busy at work. You know how it is.”

“New car?” He was looking past Trip into the driveway.

“Yeah,” Trip said with satisfaction. “What do you think?”

“A tad flashy, isn’t it?”

Trip laughed. It had those spinning hubcaps; not exactly Trip’s taste either, but he hadn’t had time to change them. It was a recent acquisition.

“My baby!” Trip’s mother was walking toward the men in the front hall with arms outstretched to hug her youngest child. “I’ve missed you! Oh, look at my handsome boy!” she said, cupping his face in her hands.

“Thanks, Mom. You look beautiful, as usual.” Another round of Botox was doing well to prevent her from looking anywhere near her age. Her hair remained golden blond without a hint of gray, and she had a nice tan.

“Oh, my sweet boy, how I love to hear that. Your father and I just returned from Florida. I just had to get out of this cold for a while. Now, come in, come in! Let’s eat.” She locked her arm in his and they walked toward the dining room. “Cassie fixed a lovely dinner for us.”

The table was dressed with the china and crystal and place settings for seven.

“Sit anywhere, honey. Your sister just called and the kids are sick, so they’re not going to come after all.”

Just as well. The little shits were a pain in the ass.

“So, tell me, how’s work these days?”

“Oh, it’s good, Mom. Really good.”

She dropped her fork then and put her hands to her heart. “I’m so happy you’re not a police officer anymore, Trip. That was so dangerous.”

Trip sighed. He’d heard it so many times before. “I know, Mother.”

His dad joined in. “Yes, Margaret. Everyone at this table knows how you and I feel about that little career choice.”

Trip looked at his mother, who appeared sorry she’d started this conversation.

His father continued. “We could not have wasted more money if we tried, right, Trip?” He didn’t wait for an answer and continued, addressing his wife. “The boy got kicked out of some of the best schools in the country.”

Trip had heard the insults so many times it didn’t faze him. And, of course, his father had no idea how well being a cop had served him.

“Well, Dad, you told me to stand on my ‘own goddamn feet’ and I’ve been doing that for a while now. You ready to let it go?”

His father ignored the question and turned to his wife. “Looks like he’s finally on the road to success, Margaret. The boy drove here in a cherry-red Porsche.”

“Oh my!” Trip’s mother responded, with exaggerated approval. “Didn’t you drive a Mercedes up here last month?”

“I did.” He paused to eat some salad and enjoy the moment. “Hey, Mom, I saw a new project of yours in Wilmette on the way up. Looks like a big job.”

“Oh yes, the Walters’ house on Sheridan. It’s lovely. Great bones, but so out of date. I’m having fun with that one.”

“I might have a new project for you if you’re willing to head to the city.”

“Well, of course. Where is it?”

“It’s not too far from the United Center.”

“But honey, that’s not a good area. From what I remember, the United Center is in a depressed part of the city. A good bit west of Interstate 94, right, Thomas?” She looked at her husband for help.

“It’s changing, Mom. Up and coming.”

His dad let out a chuckle and joined in. “Sounds like a risk, Trip. You know real estate. It’s all about location. And I just read that some analysts are predicting a massive slowdown. Some people think this is a bubble just waiting to burst.” He gave Trip’s mother that look. That look Trip had seen for thirty years. That “Trip is an idiot” look.

Trip dropped his fork. “Please, Dad. I know what I’m doing. I’m making a killing.”

Trip’s mother chimed back in with more support. “It’s wonderful, honey. Let’s talk next week. I’d love to see what you’re doing with your business.” Her smile never wavered, until she looked at Trip’s dad and gave him that “cool it” look.

Cassie served the dinner and Trip’s mother gave updates on his sister, the kids, his brother-in-law, his aunt, the neighbors, old friends. All the gossip for the month. When his cell phone rang as they were finishing their meal, Trip excused himself to the hall and scanned the caller ID:
M.R
.

Trip walked through the kitchen, stepped out into the solarium and took a seat in a lounger among Mom’s flowers as he picked up. “What’s up?” He knew Mike would be panicked.

“You never called me back. Did you get my message on Friday? That woman saw you.”

“First of all, calm down. She didn’t see me.”

“She described a white male with light hair leaving the scene.”

“Hardly cause for panic, as I found out. She can’t pick me out.”

“How do you know?”

Trip paused. He wondered if he should even tell him. Mike didn’t seem to have the stomach for all this. “I just know. Now, what else can you tell me?”

“Nothing. Listen, I don’t think I can do this.”

Trip rolled his eyes and began the pitch. “Mike, you sound stressed. There’s nothing to worry about. I’m not asking you to do anything you haven’t done before.”

“Things have changed.”

“Like what?”

“Like now there are dead bodies.”

Trip was irritated and he knew better than to talk about murders on the damn cell phone. “Mike, you sound hysterical. We have no connection to anything that has happened.”

Mike didn’t respond.

“Hey, Mike, I’ve got your back. Now I know you need the cash. It’s the last one, I swear.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I’m nearly done anyway. I don’t need the stress. This little venture has served its purpose and I’m nearly set, so I won’t be able to help you in the future. Tell you what: How about I give you a five percent cut on the back end this time?”

“That would be great.”

Trip relaxed, satisfied. “How’s your investigation of the Madison brownstone coming?”

“We’ve checked out the title. The owner has a mortgage for ten thousand. The property appears worth a hundred and twenty thousand.”

“Good news. Now why don’t you make that “10” a “100” in the paperwork? Just a little typo to ward off my bidding competition.”

“Okay.”

“Good man. Now what about the owner?”

“He’s illegal.”

“Perfect. It’s a slam dunk. I’ve got big plans for that place. Let’s make it happen.”

“Sounds good.”

Trip hung up and smiled. He was born for sales.

He went back to the dining room and joined his parents for coffee.

· · ·

ABBY
watched the train’s reflection in the building windows along Lake Street as she headed west through the Loop. Once the train crossed the expressway, the scenery went through a rapid change. Before long, she saw shabby and boarded-up buildings. As she got closer to her stop, there were more and more abandoned buildings, graffiti, trash-laden yards, barbed-wire fences, and burned-out cars. But Ali had been right. In the light of day, it wasn’t really scary, just kind of sad. She and several other riders stepped off the train at the Pulaski stop. The wind was whipping along the platform and she quickly pulled her scarf up around her head.

Looking around, she was struck by the difference between night and day. It did not feel like a ghost town anymore. It was loud and full of life. The kids on the street looked too tough for their age, but they didn’t look like criminals. She could hear children playing a block away, and cars poured down Lake Street with seamless energy.

It was probably a waste of time, and it was bound to make her lunch hour entirely too long, but Ali had worked hard on that building, on creating a life here, and now his life and his friend’s life, and all his dreams, were dead. She needed to know that someone would take good care of the building for him.