Windy City Blues (17 page)

Izzy’s voice mail “greeting” emitted an extra helping of gloom, as if anticipating every call would bring only bad news. In my most cheerful voice, I asked him to call me and then headed to the Old Town neighborhood where I had encountered the oversensitive city parking officer. I wandered twenty minutes before I spotted a female officer. She looked early forties, prematurely gray, with a braid reaching the small of her back. I said hello, and she sort of nodded and said, “Question?”

“Do you know where Jones is working today?”

“Nope. He moves around a lot.”

“Can you tell me where the city’s parking office is?”

“You can pay your tickets online or at city hall or at one of our payment processors.” She handed me a card listing addresses.

“I don’t have tickets. I want to visit your office, where you and your fellow officers report before your shift starts.”

“We work for the Department of Revenue. Check with them.”

“Your office is at the Department of Revenue? In city hall?”

“Check with them.”

“So you can’t tell me where your office is?”

“We’re not required to give out that information.”

“But it’s all part of the public record. Your salary, your name, your annual reviews, it’s all information readily available.”

“Then you don’t need me to tell you about it.”

She had rehearsed this conversation, and had said it all many times before. “I’ll bet you’ve been instructed not to give out information.”

“We are not
required
to give out information.”

“Then why bother talking to me at all?”

“We’re here to help people. Do you have a question about parking?”

“Thanks for your help. I think I’ll go over to the Department of Revenue and check with them.”

The lady turned around and continued her walk.

It was a nice day and I had a decent parking place near my office, so I walked to Sedgwick and took the Brown Line downtown, back to the tenth floor of the Wolfe Professional Building where I once again stood in front of Young Businessman’s mother. Her look told me she had a finger hovering above the “security” button.

“I mean no harm. I just want a word with your son.”

“He’s not here.”

“Is he coming in today?”

“That’s none of your business. How do you know my son?”

“We talked in the lobby after you threw me out.”

“What’s his name?”

“We didn’t officially introduce ourselves.”

Mommy shook her head in disgust. “I don’t know what kind of sicko you are, but if you leave on your own, I won’t call security.”

Down in the lobby, leaning against a marble pillar, I watched John and Jane Public walk to or from their various conferences, presentations, pitches, speeches, talks, forums, and every other type of gathering associated with that beloved force of nature called capitalism. I couldn’t help but notice how the City of Big Shoulders had morphed into the metropolis of expansive stomachs and vast rear ends. Buttons and zippers on Armani shirts and Dior skirts strained against the forces of Italian beef, Polish sausage, and deep dish pizza—a metaphor waiting to be conceived.

“Don’t move,” said a voice followed by a poke in the ribs, followed by laughter. “I’m just messing with you!”

Young Businessman’s chubby face then appeared. I pretended not to have been startled. “I tried to find you upstairs. Your mom wouldn’t give you up.”

“You know what a Judas Chair is?”

His suit conformed to his portly body as if custom made, although the knot of his tie was still loose.

“A what?”

“It’s a pyramid-shaped seat. You’re lowered onto it. Very painful. That’s what it would’ve taken for my mom to give me up. So what do you want?”

“I’m looking for a guy named Rich Jones.” I gave a description and said he worked as a parking officer but that I saw him hanging out with the guy who delivered the package to Konigson’s office. “And what the hell is your name?”

He now stared through the lobby as if he hadn’t heard me. “Yeah, I know him. He’s a pathetic son of a bitch.”

“How do you know him?”

“He writes parking tickets. And sometimes he was a driver for Konigson, like a private chauffeur.” He gave me a goofy grin.

“I got a feeling there’s a lot you’re not telling me.”

He leaned back a bit and pretended to size me up. “You asked me my name? How about I ask who the hell you are and why I should tell you anything?”

“I’m a private investigator.” I gave him my card. “A few weeks ago a parking officer was murdered near his home. I want to find out why.”

He stared at the card, said my name, and gave me a smug look. “There are really people who still do this detective stuff? I mean, I know about finding birth parents and cheating husbands, but murder? What kind of money you making?”

“You ask that question as if really expecting an answer. As if you don’t expect me to say ‘None of your fucking business.’ ” I took out a roll of cash from my pocket and peeled off two fifties. “I’ll tell you what. You give me some useful information, starting with your name, and I’ll give you a hundred bucks.”

“Jerry,” he said and laughed loudly. “That’s awesome! You guys really do that? Money talks, right? I mean, it’s the norm in city business—”

“That’s right, Jerry. It’s just business. Everything is just business. Now tell me what you know about Jones.”

“Like I said, he was Konigson’s chauffeur.” Again with the goofy grin. “But only on special occasions when he went out to party with his bitches.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know how these fat cats get young babes to fuck them in exchange for buying them whatever they want? That’s just the way it is. That’s what I’m gonna do someday. Why not?”

“Terrific. So Jones used to drive him on dates but then he stopped?”

“Yeah, I guess he started messing up.” Jerry began sniffing the air. “You know what I mean?” He sniffed more. “Get it?”

“Cocaine?”

“Oh, yeah, big time. Jones started moving blow around the city for some gangs but got caught dipping into the inventory. Usually, you’re a dead man when that happens. Konigson’s got a soft spot. Word is, he bought Jones some time.”

“What’s he doing at Vector Solutions?”

“I don’t really know. He still writes tickets, when they can get him out there. I don’t think they know what to do with him.”

“What about the guy who carried the package into Konigson’s office?”

“He’s a Revenue hack. A real crony. Probably mobbed up. I always see Jones with him. Sometimes Jones is in his parking uniform.”

“Where’s the parking office?”

“In city hall. In the basement somewhere. Too many threats to have the meter maids out in the open when they’re just hanging out.”

With that tidbit, I peeled off another fifty and handed over three bills. Jerry shoved them into his pocket and said, “It was a pleasure doing business.”

Frownie told me the best investigators are the ones who know how to make friends. You never knew who might turn out to be a valuable resource.

Before heading into the bowels of city hall, I stared at one of the domed ceilings of colorful frescoes depicting allegorical backdrops of seed sowing and abundant harvests and thought how much more efficient society had become by planting money instead of waiting for rewards to sprout from seeds.

The only signs of visible life in the basement came from the open doors of various storage rooms where archivists spent their days managing one hundred and fifty years of documents. Compared to the breezy foyers above ground, the silence of the marble and terra-cotta halls reminded me of a mausoleum.

I knocked on one of the open doors and said, “Hello?” From behind a portable shelving unit, up popped a balding, skinny head with half-frame reading glasses on the end of his nose. His face looked washed out under the fluorescent light, as if he hadn’t seen daylight in months.

“Yes?” he said, surprised to see me.

“I was told the parking office was down here somewhere. Is that true?”

The man laughed, stood up, dusted off his knees, and smiled as if genuinely happy to talk to me. “Parking, huh?” He laughed again. “Well, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I don’t know. Seems like all kinds of people come through these halls and disappear somewhere. Mayors, aldermen, dignitaries, police chiefs, prisoners in orange jumpsuits. Why not ticket writers?”

I took out my cell phone. “You ever see either of these guys down here?” I showed him the picture of Package Man and Jones.

“Yeah. Usually together.”

“Where do they go?”

“No idea. I just see them walk past the door or I pass them in the hall.”

I looked down the hallway toward the elevator. “I’m curious. Do you remember if they’re always walking in the same direction?”

He pondered my question. “Can’t say for sure, but I think they always come from the same direction as you.”

“What’s in the sub-basement?”

“As far as I know, just doors that open up to the old coal tunnels that run all throughout downtown. You want to leave a message if I see those guys again?”

“No, thanks.” I gave the man my card. “If you happen to notice which door they disappear through, give me a call. You’ll be rewarded for your services.”

The man took the card, then nodded and smiled as if paid a great compliment.

I got the feeling Jones and friend entered the building through the lobby, took the elevator down, opened a locked door to a secret office, and then exited the building at an unofficial location. Outside, I checked the perimeter of the gargantuan building. The solid granite exterior revealed no phony walls leading to secret passageways or planters disguising stairwells to subterranean hideouts.

Back inside, I strolled the lobby with the nagging thought that, somehow, the glittering ostentation represented ground zero for tragedy. While leaning against the marble wainscoting under portraits of three jailed aldermen, I thought of billionaire buddies Konigson and Elon, so seamlessly woven into the fabric of big-city politics that crony capitalism had become a part of their genetic makeup, and blurring the line between public and private money occurred without forethought.

I wondered if after decades of success, they couldn’t help but buy into their own mythology that their actions had no consequence not easily handled. Someone screwed up. An immigrant parking officer dead. Konigson panicked, aggravated the mistake by calling the city editor of the
Republic,
demanded that an otherwise innocuous murder story—in a city brimming with murders—be spiked.

“Sir?” Three police officers stared at me, keeping a five-foot cushion.

“Careful. With my back against the wall I got nothing to lose—”

“Sir, do you have some business here?”

“I’m waiting for someone.”

“Probably better if you wait outside.”

“I’d rather wait inside.”

“We think it’s better if you wait outside.” They stepped forward.

“I’m a public citizen waiting in a public building.”

“You’re a public citizen loitering in a public building.”

The officer handed me a card with Chicago Municipal Code 8-4-015. I read aloud, “ ‘Remaining in any one place under circumstances that would warrant a reasonable person to believe that the purpose or effect of that behavior is to enable a criminal street gang to establish control over identifiable areas, to intimidate others from entering those areas, or to conceal illegal activities.’ ”

“You think I’m enabling a criminal street gang?”

“We think you’re loitering.”

“You mean loitering as defined in a post-9/11 world.”

“Are you going to cooperate?”

“You think I’m intimidating others from entering the building or do you think I’m concealing illegal activities?”

“We don’t know what you’re doing here, which is why you are going to leave.” Another step forward.

“Oh, that’s right. The ordinance refers to how a reasonable person would think, not police officers.”

“I’m going to ask you one more time—”

“Actually, I could use some fresh air.” I stepped away from the wall, and they escorted me through the lobby inside a human triangle. I had never felt so safe.

Loitering once again, this time across the street near the Picasso sculpture, I watched for any sign of Jones or some indication of the parking office’s location, but after forty minutes, the only evidence I saw confirmed my previous observation of an overfed populace.

An unmarked gray Econoline van pulled up to the bus stop on Washington Street in front of the subway entrance. The sliding door opened and three city parking officers climbed out. From the way they smiled and joked with each other, I surmised their shift had ended. As they approached the stairwell, I hurried over and followed them down to the platform, where they walked behind the crowd waiting for the Blue Line’s appearance, then down a short flight of steps to track level. When one of them reached for a door handle, all but invisible to the uninitiated, I sprinted to catch up but arrived as the door slammed shut. I cursed loudly, grabbed the door handle intending to pull it out of the wall, but almost smashed myself in the face when it flew open with ease. Light from a brightly lit hallway now greeted me. After my pupils adjusted, I stared down the corridor and replayed the previous few minutes to confirm I wasn’t hallucinating.

A young Latina officer appeared from behind, smiling broadly. “Excuse me,” she said. I held the door open and watched her enter.

I said, “Is the parking office down here?”

“Follow me.”

She walked ahead of me at a fast clip, glancing behind occasionally to say, “Still with me?” The hallway turned left at a ninety-degree angle and continued for at least a hundred yards where another door awaited. Along this route, we passed several other doors with the words “Coal Tunnel” painted on them. The final entrance opened into an L-shaped room full of parking officers, some in street clothes looking as if getting ready to go home, others in uniform ready to start their shifts.

“This is the back way in,” the woman said. “Over there is the front door.”

“Where the hell are we?”

“City hall basement.”

“And what’s with the van?”

“The vans drop us off at our various districts and then pick us up again.”

“Do you have a supervisor down here?”

The girl directed me around the corner to an office defined by two half walls of glass. Sitting at a desk I saw the package courier and the back of a man he spoke to. On the door was the name Dave Robertson. Robertson’s face told me he wasn’t happy. When his eye caught mine, the other man turned. At first, I didn’t recognize Jones’s sickly pale face, but he recognized me and bolted out of Robertson’s office.

I caught up with him just as he opened the door to the city hall corridor and grabbed the back of his shirt collar. He spun around and shoved me hard in the chest, knocking me to the hallway floor and then sat on top of me.

“What’s the matter with you!” he shouted. “You want to get me killed?”

Jones’s thumbs dug into my neck, pushing on my windpipe. The pain and vulnerability of this position was a new experience, as was the associated panic. I managed to turn my head enough to relieve some pressure, but he had my arms pinned down with his knees, and I soon felt the full force of his hands around my throat. The butt of my .40-caliber was wedged against his thigh. In a futile attempt to make some noise, I kicked the ground. Then Jones flew backward across the floor, scrambled to his feet, and sprinted down the hall.

I lay panting, looking up at Robertson’s extended hand.

“I think I know you,” he said as he pulled me up. “You got some bad blood with Jones?”

I coughed a few times. “Water,” I croaked, wondering if there were any more packages around full of cash.

Robertson led me back to his office and poured a glass of water. “On the elevator,” Robertson said nodding. “I remember the shiner.”

We sat in silence as I caught my breath between sips. I took one of his business cards off his desk and left one of my own. I said, “You’re not wondering what I’m doing here?”

“Got a parking question?” Robertson burst into hysterical laughter, just as he had on the elevator.

“What’s so funny?”

“I don’t know.” Robertson shrugged. “I should’ve asked you why Jones was choking you to death.”

“He would have killed me?”

“Probably. Guys all messed up on drugs do that kind of stuff.”

“Cocaine, I assume?”

“Yep. So how can I help you? Got a parking ticket?” More laughter.

“Why is the parking office hidden away like this?” I asked.

“Who’s hiding? You’re here. It’s a public building. The front door is always open. Anyone can come down here if they want.”

“If they figure out where the hell it is. Has Jones killed before?”

“Before when?” Slightly nervous laughter.

“You sure are a happy boy. Department of Revenue lots of laughs?”

“They take care of me. All I gotta do is sit in this office all day, watch over the crew, and let the public bitch at me on the phone. Not much to it, really.”

“Why is a guy all messed up on drugs working here?”

“Rich wasn’t always like that. We’re trying to help him, give him a chance to straighten out. That’s hard to do if we just kick his ass into the street.”

“From the look of him, he’s been introduced to the crack pipe. You think he can survive your straightening-out program?”

Robertson frowned as if I had insulted him. “You got a funny way of thanking me for dragging him off you.”

“I was thinking you owed me an apology, for this dangerous animal you created.”

“Rich’s problems ain’t my fault.”

“What’re you doing for his wife and kids?”

Robertson shook his head. “He don’t got no wife and kids. These guys say anything to get pity.”

“You think he killed the parking officer in Budlong Woods?”

“Killed Jack Gelashvili? Nah. They got along fine. Everyone got along with Jack.”

“Don’t you want to know what I was doing at Vector Solutions?”

Robertson shrugged. “What do I care what you’re doing? Ain’t none of my business.”

“What do you think of that private company—Windy City Meters—writing tickets?”

“There’s plenty of scofflaws to go around. Windy City does their thing; we do ours.”

“You guys don’t work together?”

“We got nothing to do with them. They’re private; we’re public.” Robertson stifled a laugh on the word “public.”

“I saw that well-executed maneuver by the armored car before you delivered the package to Konigson’s office.”

“Yeah, I’m good at that.”

“What do you know about Konigson?”

“Big bucks. Powerful. Knows a lot of people.”

“He’s tight with the Revenue boss, Elon. Your boss, right?”

“That’s what I hear.”

“How much cash was in that package?”

“Who said cash was in the package?”

This time I laughed. “What do you think was in it?”

“I couldn’t even guess, Detective Landau.” Robertson leaned back in his chair and rested his feet on top of the desk.

“Private investigator. Jones told you I’m investigating Jack’s death.”

“You got it. I was kind of expecting you.”

“Who do you think killed Jack?”

“I got no proof. Only hunches.”

“You want to share a hunch?”

“Why should I?”

“Because you’re a nice guy.”

Robertson laughed. “Says who?”

“Were you shocked by his death?”

“Sure I was. He was a good man. But what do I know? He kept to himself—you know what I mean?”

I knew, but what did Dave Robertson know? “The cops’ prime suspect, Gordon Baxter, got a lot of parking tickets. Is that why he hated parking officers?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Getting towed would piss me off.”

“Pay your tickets and you won’t get towed. That’s all we ever ask.”

“You think he got pissed off enough to kill Jack?”

“That’s what the cops think.”

“Why did your office tow him so often?”

Robertson gave me an odd look. “Because he didn’t pay his tickets! I just said that.”

“Whose tickets did he not pay?”

Robertson straightened up in his chair. “What do you mean?”

“Baxter’s tickets were written by Windy City parking enforcement aides, who work for the private company you guys have nothing to do with. And how do you think he got parking tickets all over the North Side while his odometer stayed put?”

Robertson drummed his fingers on the desk. “Maybe it’s broken.”

“Nope. Checked out fine.” He didn’t challenge my lie.

“Here’s the thing, investigator. You assume just ’cause I work for Revenue, I know something. You know damn well the city’s a big machine. I’m just a little part. I need oil just like all the other parts. So when the boss tells me we’re gonna tow this car, we tow the car. I don’t ask why the city’s towing for a private company, I just do it. If I start asking questions, I don’t get no more oil. And when I break down, they’ll replace me. Where’s a guy like me gonna get a job that pays this well?”

“Here’s the thing, Robertson. Two innocent men are dead. One murdered, the other a phony suicide. If you have information you’re hiding, then you’re an accessory—”

“I got nothing to hide! Why do you think I’m talking to you? You asked me if I think Jones killed Jack and I said no. I never saw the package opened, so how do I know what’s in it?”

“How about an envelope? Ever deliver envelopes full of cash?”

Robertson didn’t like that question. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I know a cop who said you gave him an envelope full of cash to forget to keep an eye on a prime murder suspect named Gordon Baxter.”

“Bullshit! Any cop-snitch knows the guys upstairs would put the hurt on ’em.”

“The thing is, the more parts in a machine, the more likely it is to break down. It’s not realistic to expect all the parts to work properly all the time. Sometimes they start squeaking and break. Especially if they’re about to retire.”

Robertson stood up and walked to one of the glass walls. “What do you want to do, investigator? Take down the city?”

“Give me your opinion. How’s that sound? Elon had you deliver Department of Revenue cash to a cop so that Gordon Baxter could be properly framed for murder. The question is: why would the Department of Revenue boss want an immigrant parking officer dead?”

Robertson leaned against the glass and stared straight ahead while whistling. Then he said, “It just don’t make sense—Elon wanting Jack dead. What does he give a damn about parking officers? As long as they bring in revenue, he’s happy. It must’ve happened on someone else’s orders. That’s the only thing I can think of.”

“And a guy as powerful as Elon takes orders from who?”

“Jones told me he thought Jack had a connection to the Russian mob,” Robertson said.

“Jones told
me
he made that rumor up because it pissed him off that Jack and the other immigrant officers worked cheap. He said if he didn’t recruit immigrants, he would get fired. He thinks your bosses believed the rumor and tried to use him to get in good with the Russians. But Jack found out too much and they killed him.”

Robertson howled in disbelief. “You gotta be kidding! What a wacko. Sure, maybe we was trying to get immigrants to work cheap, but that had nothing to do with Jones. But I’m not so sure he wasn’t telling the truth about Jack and the Russkies. He has some personal experience with them boys.”

“Explain, please.”

“Jones started working for them—”

“Moving cocaine until he started snorting the goods. But what about Jack?”

“One time I said I didn’t think a guy like Jack could be involved with mobsters. So Jones gives me a picture of Jack with some fat baker. Jones says the bakery is mobbed up and the fat guy smuggles in illegal workers. I show the picture to someone else and he tells me not to worry about it—to just forget about it.”

“You still got the picture?”

Robertson rummaged through the top drawer of his desk until he found the photo and handed it over. In the photo Tamar’s boss stood in a rather defiant posture, hands on hips, scowling at the photographer. I wondered if the camera lens had shattered. Next to him stood the profile of someone who looked like Jack, apparently talking to the baker.

I said, “How do you know this guy is Russian mob?”

“Because my sources say so.”

Robertson said I could keep the picture. Maybe the fat baker paid protection money, but human smuggling? Robertson reminded me that his sources knew of what they spoke. I wondered what Tamar could tell me about her boss.