When No One Is Watching (11 page)

“
Almost
all?”

The State’s Attorney’s Office is insisting that you serve at least some jail time. Sixty days. Like I said, the rest of the sentence is suspended, so as long as you stay out of trouble, sixty days is all you’d serve.”

“So, I’d have to go to jail, and I’d have to plead guilty to a felony? That means the State Bar will probably revoke my law license. Think about the humiliation that would cause my family.”

“But think about the alternative, Dano. If you go to trial, there’d be a ton of publicity. It’ll be brutal. Think about what that would do to your family. Besides that, you could lose. In fact, you probably will lose, in which case you could be in prison for
ten years
, maybe longer. What does Leo Lewis recommend?”

“You know Leo. He’d love to try the case, partly because he’s a publicity hound, but also because he loves a challenge. He thinks there’s a chance that if I tell a good story, I’d be acquitted. But Leo is also practical, and he said the same thing you just did: If I’m convicted by a jury, I could be looking at a long time in jail, so if I don’t want to take that risk, I should consider a plea bargain.”

“Talk to Leo about this, Dano. Sam will be filling him in so this can go through the right channels, but I wanted to talk to you first. It’s a good deal. I’m sure Leo will tell you the same thing.”

Danny picked up the picture of his daughter from his desk and stared at it with unfocused eyes. “This is all happening so fast. I can’t even think straight. I’m going to need some time to sort everything out.”

“They won’t give you much time, Dano. The state’s attorney may take a lot of heat if he cuts a deal. The only reason he’s open to this is that, if you cut the deal now, he can put the right spin on it and make himself look good. He can take credit for acting quickly and decisively and procuring a confession and a plea bargain in a matter of days. They’ll play up the seven-year sentence and won’t focus on the fact that most of it is probated. But if you don’t give him that victory, he’s got no incentive to bargain. As you get closer to trial, he’s got more taxpayer money invested in the case, and the media coverage will pick up again, so a plea bargain will look like a copout for him at that point. You’ve got to take the deal now, or it’ll be gone.”

Danny continued staring at Allie’s picture as he put it down on his desk. “I can’t put my family through a trial, Blair.”

“And you can’t risk ten years in jail, not when you could be in and out before the summer’s over.”

Danny pushed his chair back from the desk and stared at the floor for a long moment. “You know, even if I went to trial and got off, that just wouldn’t be right. Think about the McGraths. How would they feel if I were acquitted? I’d have a hard time living with that.” He looked up at Blair. “I need to accept responsibility for what happened. This is the right thing to do, isn’t it?”

“It’s the right thing to do, Dano.”

“I’ll call Leo and tell him to take the deal.”

Wednesday

“Come on in, Slazak. Shut the door.”

Slazak shut the door, but remained standing in the hope that the meeting would be quick. The two men had gone through the police academy together and had known each other for over twenty years, but had never been friends. Their opinions of each other were formed many years ago and hadn’t changed. Slazak considered Rollins to be a lazy, unimaginative bureaucrat who was much more comfortable behind a desk than on the streets. He was a political animal, intent on rising through the ranks, and Slazak knew from personal experience that he wasn’t above being sneaky and deceitful to get ahead. Rollins’s opinion of Slazak was equally unflattering. He made no secret of the fact that he considered Slazak an undisciplined cowboy and a prima donna in a job that required teamwork. However, like everyone else, Rollins tolerated the maverick detective because he recognized that Slazak got results and made him look good.

Slazak was neither pleased nor disappointed when Rollins moved to his precinct two years ago and became his boss. He’d had worse. For the most part, the two interacted as little as possible. Their meetings were something neither of them enjoyed and were therefore infrequent. They typically involved situations where Rollins was forced to confront Slazak about some conflict Slazak had created with a colleague, or had to ask Slazak to do something he almost certainly wouldn’t want to do.

“The Moran case is over,” Rollins said brusquely. “You can close your file.”

“Over? What do you mean? I’ve still got some leads I’m chasing down.” Slazak made no effort to conceal his irritation with the overpaid desk jockey in front of him.

“I don’t know what leads you think you have,” Rollins scoffed, “but you can stop wasting your time. Moran confessed. He’s copping a plea. Close it out, Slazak.”

“He confessed?” Slazak looked incredulous. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Well, I think there’s more to this story, and if you don’t mind, I’m going to run down those leads before I close the file.”

“I
do
mind, Slazak,” Rollins snapped. “Jesus Christ, it doesn’t get any easier than this! You found the guy drunk behind the wheel of his own car, and now he’s confessed. I don’t want you burning any more of the department’s time on this.”

Slazak stepped closer to the desk and glared down at the bald head of the overweight lieutenant. “Look, Tom, I’m telling you, something’s not right about this. The valet told me that Moran drove home with someone else that night, and the other guy was driving! There was blood in Moran’s car, and he doesn’t have a scratch on him. And guess what? His best friend, Blair Van Howe, who lives two blocks away and was at the same party, shows up with a big bandage on his finger the next day. On top of that—”

“Forget it, Slazak! The goddamn guy confessed! If we start pursuing some crazy theory that a candidate for the United States Congress was somehow involved, the press will jump all over this. We’d be tarnishing a good man’s name and interfering with a congressional election in a case where we already have a confession. Close the file—that’s an order! This meeting is over.”

Slazak glared at his boss, summoning every ounce of selfrestraint he could muster to keep himself from saying something he might regret. He turned and flung open the door.

“Close the door, if you don’t mind,” Rollins asked curtly.

Slazak ignored him, leaving the door wide open as he stormed away.

“Nolan? Slazak here. Got that blood analysis yet?” Slazak spoke into the wireless speakerphone in his car, golf ball passing quickly from hand to hand.

“For the Moran case? I was just told that case was closed.” Nolan sounded confused.

“I’m still looking into a few loose ends. It may be reopened. I need that report, Nolan!” The urgency in Slazak’s voice was unmistakable.

“Well … I don’t have it yet. It’s on its way, but I was asked to give it to someone else.”

“Who?”

There was a long pause. “I … I really can’t say. Look, you’re putting me in a bad spot, Slazak.”

“Okay. Sorry, Nolan. Go ahead and give the report to whoever asked for it. Just make me a copy, will you?”

“What’s going on here, Slazak?” Nolan’s voice sounded worried, which was unusual. He had performed dozens of questionable favors for Slazak over the years and had never shown a trace of nervousness. To the contrary, he seemed to relish those covert assignments.

“You don’t want to know, trust me. Can you do me this favor?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Nolan responded unconvincingly.

“What about the 911 recording? Did you make me a copy?”

“Can’t you call them yourself and have them play it for you?”

“I’ve been trying. They’re stonewalling me. They keep saying that they’re still having some technical problems, but I’m sure that’s bullshit. Did you get a copy?” Slazak asked insistently.

“Yeah, I’ve got it. But Slazak …” There was a long pause. “I’ve got a problem.”

“What?”

“I’ve been told that the Moran case is closed, and I was given strict instructions not to provide any evidence regarding that case to anyone, particularly you.”

“Shit!” Slazak muttered.

“Hey, I’ve got orders. I’m in a tough spot here.”

“Sorry, Nolan, I’m not swearing at you. This is just really screwed up.” He thought for a moment. “Listen, Nolan, if you’re not comfortable giving me that information, no sweat. I’ll try to get my hands on it another way. But whatever happens, don’t destroy it, and don’t let anyone else destroy it, either. I’m counting on you to preserve that evidence, got it?”

“What if I’m ordered to destroy it?”

“Don’t do it! Destroying material evidence is a crime. Following orders may keep your bosses happy, but it won’t save your job if the shit hits the fan. It won’t keep you out of jail, either. I’m telling you, Nolan, this is very important evidence, and if it gets lost or destroyed, it’s your ass!”

“I should’ve known better than to get mixed up in your shady deals, Slazak,” Nolan grumbled ruefully. “Next time you need a favor, call somebody else!” He hung up.

At five o’clock sharp, Slazak’s dirty Crown Victoria lurched to a stop in front of the valet stand at Chez Pierre. He grabbed the rumpled manila folder holding the recent newspaper photographs of Blair Van Howe.

“Hi, kid,” he called out to the smiling valet he had met earlier that week. “Is Carlos around?”

“Sorry, Detective, he doesn’t work here anymore.”

Slazak stared at the young man in open-mouthed surprise. “Since when?”

“He came by about an hour ago and dropped off his uniform. Said he was leaving town. Some kind of family emergency, I think. Seemed to be in a real hurry.”

“Any idea how I can reach him?”

The valet shook his head. “Sorry, sir. No idea.”

Slazak climbed back into his car. “Son of a bitch!” he yelled, pounding the steering wheel as he pulled into rushhour traffic and headed toward the South Side. He grew even more agitated as he contemplated his drive home. He hated driving between downtown and Mount Greenwood at this time of day. The trip was barely fifteen miles and took less than thirty minutes on the weekends, but it could take ninety minutes during weekday rush hour. Slazak made his way slowly through the downtown traffic toward the Dan Ryan Expressway, the main route to the South Side, bracing himself for the grueling bumper-to-bumper drive ahead of him.

He passed Thirty-fifth Street and gazed at U.S. Cellular Field, just off the expressway to his right. “The Cell,” as the locals called it, was the home of his beloved Chicago White Sox. He found himself in a better frame of mind as he drove past and was reminded that the White Sox were presently in first place, two games ahead of the pesky Minnesota Twins. He relaxed considerably, realizing that he needed some uninterrupted quiet time to process the day’s events and that navigating the slow-moving expressway actually gave him time to think.

Slazak wondered whether he was wasting his time pursuing the leads relating to the Moran case. Rollins had made it abundantly clear that the case was officially closed. And perhaps it should be; after all, the guy had confessed. Was there really any point in looking for some other explanation when the primary suspect had already admitted his guilt? On the surface, the facts seemed to speak for themselves. Why try to make it more complicated than it probably was?

On the other hand, he wasn’t one to let go of an unsolved puzzle. He held himself to a higher standard and took great pride in his ability to find answers to questions most people wouldn’t even think to ask. Moran could have confessed whether he was guilty or not, because his alternative was a messy trial and almost certainly a conviction and a harsh sentence. Perhaps he truly didn’t remember what happened but was surmising that he was guilty, because it certainly looked that way. But the valet had seemed confident that someone else was in the driver’s seat when the Porsche left the restaurant Saturday evening.

His musings were interrupted by the shrill ringing of his cell phone. He recognized Rollins’s phone number on the caller ID, and his mood immediately soured. Despite his strong desire to ignore the call, he picked up.

“Hello?” It sounded more like an expression of annoyance than a greeting.

“Slazak? This is Rollins. Got a minute?”

“Sure, what’s up, Lieutenant?” Slazak asked, struggling to conceal his irritation.

“I need you on a special assignment, starting tomorrow.”

“What kind of assignment?” Slazak asked suspiciously.

“Can you come by the station? I’d rather fill you in faceto-face. It’s a sensitive project.”

“I’m stuck on the Dan Ryan, moving along at about two miles an hour. I won’t be able to get there for at least an hour. Can we just talk now?”

Rollins hesitated, then said, “Okay, Slazak, here’s the scoop. I need you on a stakeout up in Lincoln Park. It may last a few days or it could be weeks. It just depends on what happens.”

“A stakeout? In Lincoln Park? That’s not my thing and it’s not our jurisdiction! Why me?”

“Like I said, it’s a touchy matter, and we need our best. The chief of police himself asked for you by name.”

“What am I supposed to be looking for?”

“We think there’s a high-dollar prostitution ring being run out of a three-flat on Fullerton Avenue. The reason it’s a big deal is because we think some prominent citizens are patronizing this little enterprise. When we’re able to confirm who’s involved, you’ll understand why this is such a big deal.”

“Come on, Tom! This is bullshit!” Slazak exploded. “You can send a rookie with a camera over there. There’s nothing special I can add to an operation like that.”

“Maybe, maybe not, but like I said, the chief wants you there, so that’s that. You’re on the four-to-midnight shift, starting tomorrow and continuing until further notice.”

Slazak made an obscene gesture in the direction of the speakerphone, but held his tongue.