When No One Is Watching (12 page)

“You still there, Slazak?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. One more thing. I’ve received reports that you’re still poking around on the Moran case in direct violation of my orders. I won’t say this again, Slazak—that case is closed. I won’t have you wasting the department’s time on that or causing us any embarrassment. It’s over and you’re done with it! If you violate my orders on this, there’ll be hell to pay! Got it?”

“Why do I feel like the more I’m told to stay away from this, the more I shouldn’t?”

“Goddamn it, Slazak, just do your job!” Rollins shouted as he hung up.

“You’re damn right I’ll do my job, you stupid piece of shit,” Slazak muttered to himself. “And you can’t stop me!”

CHAPTER 17

Thursday

A
large crowd was gathered in Daley Plaza in the heart of downtown Chicago for the weekly lunchtime concert. A rhythm-and-blues band was playing loudly, and the crowd was responding enthusiastically to the infectious energy of the lead vocalist, a hefty, middle-aged black woman with a stunning voice and an ability to engage the audience. The normally reserved array of business people were boisterous, many of them gyrating to the pulsating beat.

 

Sam McIntire stood on the fringe of the plaza as far from the deafening music as he could get. He had not come there to enjoy the concert.

At two minutes past noon, a uniformed police officer sidled up next to him. The officer was nearly as tall as Sam, with a dark complexion and mirrored sunglasses, the bulging physique of a serious bodybuilder giving shape to his dark blue uniform. His nameplate read “Capetta.”

“You’re late, Frankie,” Sam growled without looking at the officer.

“Nice to see you, too, Sam,” the officer replied nonchalantly. “Big crowd,” he remarked, observing the obvious.

“Talk to me,” Sam ordered.

“Everything went as planned. The valet is long gone. I told him his three sisters would be deported unless he left town immediately. I gave him the two grand and told him never to come back and never to mention our meeting. He won’t be back.”

“Good. I may have another job for you. This one will be trickier.”

The officer folded his muscular arms across his chest. “I can handle it,” he said coolly. “What do you need?”

Sam stared straight ahead, applauding politely as the band finished another crowd-pleasing tune.

“There’s this cop, a guy named Slazak. He’s becoming a problem.”

CHAPTER 18
S
lazak had been in a foul mood all day, thinking about his new assignment. While there was at least a remote chance that Rollins was shooting straight with him about the stakeout, his gut told him that was bullshit. A more likely scenario was that Rollins was pissed at him for ignoring orders or for his display of “attitude,” and this was his way of letting Slazak know who was boss. The other possibility was that his pursuit of the Moran case was making somebody nervous—somebody who had some stroke. Both of those possibilities made Slazak even more determined to do exactly what Rollins had ordered him not to do.

Rollins had insisted that no more of the department’s valuable time be spent on the Moran case. Slazak told himself that he would honor that request. However, no one would tell him how to spend his free time. He wasn’t on duty until 4:00 p.m., when his shift at the North Side stakeout began. Until then, he was off the clock and would do whatever he pleased.

He placed a call to Chez Pierre and asked to speak to the person in charge of personnel. He was connected to Arnie Schultz, a nervous-sounding man with a high-pitched voice. When Slazak informed Mr. Schultz that he was calling on police business and was trying to locate Carlos, the valet, Schultz launched into a rambling and disjointed discourse, the gist of which was that Carlos Ramirez had produced all of the necessary documentation to confirm that he was eligible to work in this country legally. Slazak assured the skittish personnel director that he wasn’t interested in immigration issues and that no one was questioning Chez Pierre’s hiring practices; he simply needed to locate Carlos. Schultz calmed down a bit and indicated that he would be happy to provide the last known phone number and address he had on file for the young valet, but because of privacy laws and confidentiality concerns, he would need proof that the caller was truly a representative of the police department. Slazak informed Schultz that he would drop by later that afternoon to obtain the information and would bring his badge and police ID with him.

Slazak’s next challenge was trickier—getting a copy of the 911 recording and the blood analysis, when those with access to that information were apparently under strict orders not to share it with him. He sat in the leather recliner in his living room, staring at the blank TV screen, tossing the old golf ball from hand to hand, pondering the possibilities. This was an occasion when having lots of friends on the force would have come in handy, and his lone wolf approach to detective work definitely put him at a disadvantage. Despite twenty years on the force, he couldn’t think of a single colleague he could count on to help him out with a delicate task for the sake of friendship. So he considered his quandary from another angle: Who owed him? Again, because he usually worked alone, he was rarely in a position to do meaningful favors for fellow officers. But there was that one time, about ten years ago, with Robbie Walsh. Walsh definitely owed him big-time.

Robbie Walsh was in his late thirties and had been on the force approximately fifteen years. Slazak had lost track of him, but knew that he was working in some sort of administrative capacity, which was precisely where he belonged. It was difficult to envision anybody less suited than Walsh to be a street cop. Walsh was a moon-faced carrot-top with a serious weight problem. He could not have been more than five feet six, but must have weighed at least 230 pounds. He was unfailingly friendly and cheerful, a genuinely nice person who didn’t have a mean bone in his body. Unfortunately, those traits didn’t serve him well when he was patrolling the rougher neighborhoods on Chicago’s South Side. He was utterly out of his element and completely ill-equipped to deal with the hardened street thugs he encountered on a daily basis.

Slazak remembered the incident vividly. He had heard the call on his police radio. “Backup needed at 4900 South Ashland. Officer down, another officer under fire. All units in the vicinity respond immediately.”

Slazak had been less than a mile away and rushed to the scene. It was a drug bust gone bad. He saw one officer lying on the pavement, next to the blue-and-white squad car. Walsh was taking cover on the other side of the car as three gangbangers approached from across the street with guns drawn, all three firing in Walsh’s direction. Slazak sprang out of his car, drew his weapon, planted his feet, and without so much as flinching, proceeded to empty his firearm. Two of the three thugs dropped instantly, dead before they hit the ground. The third fled the scene and was apprehended several hours later when he showed up at a local hospital seeking treatment for multiple gunshot wounds. Slazak helped the terrified Walsh to his feet just as a small army of blue-and-whites arrived on the scene, sirens blaring. “I owe you, Slazak,” Walsh had stammered in a trembling voice. “I’ll never forget this.” Shortly after that, Walsh had transferred to the safety of a desk job downtown.

“Okay, Robbie boy, it’s payback time,” Slazak said quietly to himself as he dialed headquarters. The switchboard patched him through, and Robbie Walsh answered on the first ring. He greeted Slazak with his customary cheerful enthusiasm, and the two chatted like old friends for several minutes, each bringing the other up to date on their current assignments. Robbie explained that his career path had taken a perfect turn, and that he was now working for the department’s public relations division. Essentially, that meant that he was a goodwill ambassador whose job entailed giving speeches at schools and representing the department at various community functions, with the goal of maintaining a positive public image for the Chicago Police Department and developing closer ties with the community. It suited him perfectly.

Slazak explained that his job hadn’t changed one iota, but that he still enjoyed the work, despite the bureaucracy and the bureaucrats. He then cut to the chase and informed Robbie that he was calling because he needed help working around that bureaucracy. He mentioned that he was working on a very sensitive case that could involve members of the department, and therefore he needed to obtain some evidence through unorthodox channels. Robbie’s cheerful and accommodating demeanor turned serious and nervous as he listened to the details of Slazak’s request and absorbed what was being asked of him. He promised to give the matter some thought and call Slazak first thing Monday morning. He said he wanted to give himself the weekend to consider the various ways of accomplishing Slazak’s request. The response was about what Slazak had expected, and he hoped that, given a little time, Robbie’s conscience and sense of obligation would bring him around.

On his drive toward the Lincoln Park stakeout, Slazak stopped at Chez Pierre and obtained the address and phone number the restaurant had on file for Carlos. He called the number from his cell phone and struggled through a conversation with a young-sounding female who spoke little English. Two words told him all he needed to know: “Carlos gone.”

The stakeout was tedious and unproductive. Slazak parked across the street, several doors down from the swanky Lincoln Park three-flat, from 4:00 p.m. until midnight, when his replacement arrived. He had seen two attractive young women leave the building at around nine o’clock. No one had returned, and there were no other comings or goings for the duration of his shift.

Slazak pulled into his driveway shortly before 1:00 a.m., feeling utterly exhausted. Stakeouts always made him feel that way. When he was conducting an investigation, he could spend sixteen hours a day running all over town, working furiously, and still feel alert and fresh. Normally, his work energized him. But not stakeouts. They were dreadful, and they were draining.

He opened a can of beer and flipped on the large flatscreen TV. The house was stuffy and hot, so he opened the windows and turned on the rotary standup fan next to the television. Then he sat back in his recliner and channel-surfed with the remote control, looking for the sports channels, but finding nothing of interest.

He guzzled the beer, pulled the golf ball from his pocket, and slowly passed it from hand to hand. He struggled to keep his eyes open, but within minutes, he was dozing. His right arm dropped over the side of the chair, still clutching the golf ball.

His sleep was uneasy. He dreamed that he heard noises in his house, heavy footsteps and hushed whispers. The golf ball dropped from his hand and hit the wooden floor with a loud thud. He opened his eyes with a start and tried to sit up straight. He grunted with surprise and pain as he was yanked violently backward by some type of strap across his neck.

Slazak was instantly wide awake, a burst of adrenaline rushing through his veins. The eerie glow from the blank television screen provided more than enough light for him to assess the situation. Someone was standing behind his chair, powerful arms holding a strap tightly around his neck. There was an intruder on either side of him, each holding a gun to his head. In front of him stood a giant of a man, also brandishing a shiny silver handgun. The man had a nylon stocking pulled over his head, giving him a demonic appearance in the flickering gray light of the television. He wore distinctive dark clothing that Slazak knew all too well—the uniform of the Chicago Police Department. Through his peripheral vision, he could see that the intruders on either side of him were dressed the same way.

“Don’t say a word, Slazak,” said the big man in front of him in a deep, menacing voice. “I’ll do the talking.” The intruder turned around and pushed the power button on top of the television, plunging the room into darkness.

“Here’s the deal, Slazak. You do exactly as I say, and you may live a while longer. You don’t, you’re a dead man. We can get to you at any time.”

Slazak tried to lunge forward, but the strap around his neck was pulled even tighter, biting into his skin. “Who are you, you prick? Who sent you?” Slazak demanded, barely able to force the words out of his constricted windpipe.

He felt searing pain and saw a flash of light as the pistol to his left crashed into his skull. He felt blood oozing down his face.

“He said he’ll do the talking, asshole!” snarled the man to his left. “Now shut your goddamn mouth!”

Slazak turned and glared at his assailant, trying in vain to see through the nylon mask just inches from his face. He spat into the nylon and immediately felt a sharp blow to the other side of his head, leaving him dizzy and enraged. He struggled in vain against the restraint that was crushing his windpipe.

“Knock it off!” bellowed the big man in front of him, who obviously was the leader. “Are you trying to be stupid, Slazak, or does it just come naturally? Now, listen to me.” He leaned in so that he was within inches of Slazak’s face. “Not another word, not another move, or we’ll kill you right here and now. That would make our job real simple. Got it?”

Slazak glared at the masked man, saying nothing.

“Here’s how it’s going to work, Slazak,” the man continued. “You’re going to leave town—tomorrow. If you’re still here tomorrow night, you’re a dead man. If you ever come back, you’re a dead man.
Capisce,
amigo?”

The big man pulled a thick white envelope from the pocket of his trousers. He threw it on Slazak’s lap. “The Chicago Police Department appreciates your many years of service and wishes you a happy retirement, Mr. Slazak. There’s fifty grand in there to help ease you into your new life. And you’ll get your full pension, starting immediately, direct deposit into your new bank account—in Las Vegas. If I were you, I’d try to stay alive so I can enjoy it. Think of it this way—the longer you live, the more the Chicago PD has to pay you. But if you screw up, if you come back here, or if you mention a word of this little meeting to anyone, then I get to do what I do best. In that case, all you’ll get from the police department is the flag they put on your casket. Don’t be stupid, Slazak!”