Windy City Blues (20 page)

Eating a sandwich while driving a stick shift in heavy traffic was not a good idea. By the time I parked on LaSalle, hummus, feta, lettuce, cucumber, and salsa covered my lap.

I walked to the lobby of the Wolfe Professional Building and waited around, hoping to find Jones or young businessman Jerry. Kalijero’s name appeared on my cell phone.

“What did the Russian say?” he asked.

“Are you okay working together on this?”

“Working together on what? You got a connection between the dead sister and the dead parking officer?”

“Jesus, Kalijero, you should’ve at least suspected. That metal ornament on the dead girl belonged to Gelashvili.”

“Why the hell didn’t you say something?”

“Gelashvili was Georgian. The ornament was Georgian. What more was there to say?”

Kalijero had no response. I pictured him rubbing his eyes. “What did she tell you?”

I sat on one of the lobby’s marble benches and repeated Soboroff’s story of Gigi smuggling Russian girls to work as prostitutes, Jack’s relationship with Lada, and the love letters from “Prince” and “The King’s Son.”

“So your suspect is still this media big shot?”

I saw young businessman Jerry and his mother walk out through the revolving door. “And Elon. He’s the—”

“I know who he is. Why Elon?”

“They’re old pals. A mentor-student-ego affair playing power-finance games for decades, going back to their days at Decatur-Staley. A chunk of Windy City Meters’ money is taken out for kickbacks. But first it’s laundered through the Department of Revenue, where the cash is mingled with the city’s parking ticket money. Then it’s delivered across the street to Vector Solutions, one of Konigson’s companies and, coincident
ally, a subsidiary of Decatur-Staley.”

“You’d need auditors and accountants and tax attorneys to prove anything, and there’s too many of them greasing the city machine. And the public won’t care because they won’t understand.”

“Damn it, Kalijero, you’re missing the obvious again. Jack Gelashvili and Lada Soboroff were in love. Now they’re both dead. You put Konigson or Elon as the letter writer, you’ve established murder motives like hiding any connection to white slavery, prostitution, money laundering—not to mention psychotic jealousy. And you know damn well prostitution cash is also cleaned at Revenue.”

“Yeah? So how’re you gonna prove this?”

Before I could formulate a response, the elevator door opened and out walked three XXL suits surrounding a short, mostly bald man with bushy gray eyebrows and matching beard. The ends of his mustache seamlessly blended with chin hair falling long and straight, giving the impression of a well-groomed schnauzer. I pushed the “end” button on the phone, then followed Konigson as he and his three heavies shuffled through the revolving door.

Once on the sidewalk, I was surprised at the speed the entourage moved considering that Konigson was in his eighties with a significant leg-size differential. Three Konigson steps equaled one bodyguard stride. I caught up then kept pace, which drew the attention of the closest escort. “Keep your distance,” he said.

“Can I take a few minutes of your time, sir?” I said.

Konigson didn’t quite glance at me although the bodyguard shifted laterally, putting me in direct line with pedestrians walking in the opposite direction. At the corner the group turned left, which caused me to lose more ground. By the time I caught up, they were approaching a green canopy extending over the sidewalk that served as the entrance of a pub.

“I know about Lada,” I yelled. Konigson and two bodyguards continued walking in, the third remained in front of the door.

“Don’t harass my client,” he said.

“Who’s harassing? I just want to ask the man a question.”

“You wanna get arrested?”

One of the bodyguards that had entered the pub returned, whispered quickly in the ear of the guy engaging me, then walked back inside. My man looked at me and said, “Let’s go.”

It was a standard pub-deli with lots of wood trim and rows of two-tops, mostly empty since the downtown lunch rush had long ended. Konigson watched as I was accompanied to his table. My escort joined the others at a table behind the boss. I didn’t wait for an invitation to sit.

“What do you want?” Konigson said, sounding more puzzled than suspicious. I took out my IDs and handed them over. He studied each one carefully then handed them back. “I’m under investigat
ion?”

“I’m investigating the murder of Jack Gelashvili.”

The waiter brought over a corned beef sandwich and a pint of dark beer. Konigson gulped half the glass then attacked the sandwich, taking several large bites. While he chewed, his shaggy brows scrunched together as if in deep thought. He stayed this way for a full minute before lifting his head to reveal a mass of damp facial hair covered in crumbs.

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“Maybe nothing.”

Konigson took his napkin and thoroughly wiped his mouth before gulping down what remained of his beer. Then he stuffed the rest of the sandwich into his mouth and returned to his knitted-brow posture. After he swallowed the last of the sandwich and gave his face a final mopping, he said, “Didn’t the police solve that case? A mentally unstable man or something?”

“Who told you that?”

“Who’s telling you otherwise?”

“My client’s money and—” I almost mentioned the spiked story.

Konigson chuckled. “It’s good to know one’s motivation.
If one does not know to which port one is sailing, no wind is favorable.
”

“I’ll bet Seneca is your favorite Roman statesman.”

“You went to school?”

“That surprises you?”

“Young people don’t know Seneca from Santayana. What’s worse is they don’t give a damn, because it’s not about getting an education, it’s about getting smart enough to make money.”

“Lada knew Jack Gelashvili. Did she mention him?”

“What makes you think I know anyone named Lada?”

We locked eyes. I said, “Okay, my turn. What do you want?”

“Only to know why you were following me.”

“It took shouting Lada’s name for you to talk to me.”

Konigson leaned back and eyed me thoughtfully. “You young people think I’m just a cold-blooded capitalist pig.”

“No, I think you’re Mother Teresa. Did you know Jack Gelashvili?”

“I’m wealthy. But that doesn’t mean I don’t help people.”

“Lada Soboroff. A Russian prostitute. Did you help her?”

Konigson appeared to evaluate my question. “I’m a small ugly man with a lot of money. That doesn’t mean I have to judge others. I can change people’s lives.”

He didn’t seem to be talking to me. “Congratul
ations. How about Lada’s sister, Marta Soboroff? Did you pay off her debt to some unsavory Russian pimps?”

Konigson looked bewildered. “Is that a crime?” he said. “Helping someone change their life?”

“I thought you prayed to the god of self-interest-comes-first.”

“And why can’t helping people also be in my self-interest?”

I guess he had a point. “What about your pal at Revenue? Elon. Would he approve of your selflessness?”

“Ask Elon.”

“Where can I find him?” Konigson ignored my question. I said, “Rich Jones works for Elon. But he’s also a parking officer, and I’ve been told he used to work for you, too—driving you and your dates around. It was Jones who introduced Lada to Jack Gelashvili. Lots of connections. Anything you’d like to get off your chest?”

Konigson gave a sideways glance to the table of bodyguards. One of them stood then walked to me and said, “Time to go.”

I rose from my chair and was about to step away when Konigson said, “I tried to help him, you know. I tried to help Rich Jones. But sometimes trying isn’t enough.”

Across from the lobby newsstand, I leaned against the marble façade. Konigson knew Baxter took the fall for Gelashvili’s murder. His dancing around the issue of knowing Lada seemed intentionally ambiguous and was hardly the behavior of a man determined to hide something. His comment about Jones sounded ominous. Through the lobby window, I recognized Robertson double-timing it down the sidewalk before stopping at the entrance and pushing his way through the revolving door. Once inside, he carefully scanned the room. For fun, I grabbed a magazine off the newsstand rack and waited.

“Hey, there, Mr. Landau.”

I finished reading the fine print of a mutual fund advertisement and looked up. “Supervisor Robertson.”

“Hey, I been askin’ around and I think I know where you might find Jones.”

“You’re shittin’ me!”

He lowered his voice. “Look, I don’t care what a guy does with his life. Look at me. I know you think I’m a scumbag, but I’m just makin’ a living. I take orders from people who are the real scumbags, but they pay me good. I never got a good education or nothin’ so maybe you can understand and not blame me—”

“I absolve you, Robertson. So where is Jones?”

Robertson looked around. “Well, you know he’s got that problem, right? And that we’ve been keeping him supplied, just to shut him up?”

I stepped back and gave Robertson the once-over. “This is how you’re helping him, instead of—how did you put it?—‘kicking his ass into the street.’ ”

Robertson looked genuinely hurt. “I just do what I’m told—”

“Yeah, yeah. So where is your little crack slave buying his dope?” Robertson described an alley that ran behind a well-known Italian restaurant on Taylor Street. “How do you know he’s still there? Wouldn’t he just score his crack and be off getting high somewhere?”

“Well, that’s what’s weird. Usually, someone comes by with a little something to give to him. We never sent nobody in that alley before. I gotta bad feeling about this.”

“Why are you playing the nice guy all of a sudden?”

“Maybe you can help me when this all blows up. You know, tell your cop pals I ain’t such a bad guy.”

I had not been in this Near West Side neighborhood since my friend’s body was found on Maxwell Street a few months earlier. From the sidewalk, I could see the restaurant’s staff setting up for dinner while giving the stink eye to a few couples lingering from the lunch crowd. Single-car garages connected to orange brick townhomes lined one end of the alley, while the other end contained the decaying masonry façades of the restaurant and a dry cleaner.

Jones stared at the ground and paced near two Mexican busboys on a cigarette break. His bandaged right hand confirmed who had destroyed my apartment and dripped blood on the floor courtesy of an outraged cat.

I approached to within ten feet and yelled, “What happened? You get attacked by a wild animal?”

Jones looked at me with a face that had not slept in days. “Why are you following me?” He searched the pockets of his shabby overcoat and produced a small knife. He struggled to unfold a three-inch blade and held it awkwardly in his left hand. “Did they send you?”

I stepped back and held up my hands. “Easy. Did who send me?” The busboys inched their way along the wall on Jones’s right.

“Esta bien, esta bien,”
I said to them.

“Who told you I was here?” Jones demanded.

“This isn’t really a crack alley, is it?”

“It’s none of your damn business what I do.”

“You been waiting long?”

Jones looked past me down the alley and then at the busboys. There was nobody else around. “They told me to come here,” he said with a touch of panic in his voice.

“Hey, Rich, maybe it’s time to tell me the truth about Jack’s murder.”

“I gotta get a rock.”

“It’s not happening here, my friend. They want something bad to go down. If they get me out of the way, nobody’s snooping around anymore. But if they get you out of the way, they don’t have to worry about a squealer.”

“I didn’t do anything!”

“Jack’s murder, Rich. I know you wouldn’t kill someone outside their building and then hang around to ransack their apartment. Someone else was with you. Did you do the killing or the ransacking?”

“I didn’t kill anyone! I keep telling you that. You’re putting words in my mouth.”

“Okay. But if you know who did, you’re still guilty as hell.”

“I can’t talk to you, asshole! I’m dead if I talk.”

“You’re already dead! They got you on the crack pipe, right? That’s a fast one-way trip to hell. They used you up and now they’re spitting you out.”

Jones winced, stamped his foot several times, then shouted, “Fuck! They always
gave
it to me. I need some money!”

I took out some cash. “I can help. But you gotta give me something in return.”

Jones stepped toward me, knife still in hand. I took out my .40-caliber and pointed it at his chest.

“You come within three feet of me and you get a bullet through your heart. Self-defense is written all over that knife.”

Jones held the knife up to his face for a moment, then dropped it. He took another step forward. “It’s the Russians. They do the killing.”

“The Russians killed Jack?”

“It had to have been. Why are you doing this to me?”

“What do you know about the prostitutes?”

“I—I didn’t work with them. Only sometimes drove them places. That was run higher up. You trying to make me a pimp? I’m not a damn pimp.”

“You know any of the girls’ names? You knew Lada, right?”

“That’s Konigson’s whore. She’s his, like, private girl.”

“How do you know?”

“I drove them around sometimes. But that’s it. I didn’t pimp girls out. That was the higher-ups.”

“Tell me more about Lada.”

“I don’t know anything. She’s a whore. That’s all I know.”

“That’s all you know? Didn’t you introduce her to Jack at the same time she was Konigson’s girlfriend? You didn’t think that was a little risky?”

Jones’s face became a contorted display of emotions until he settled on anger. “He was lonely! He was my friend. I didn’t know Konigson
owned
her. Who the hell falls in love with a whore?”

“What was Elon hoping you would find when you destroyed my apartment?”

“Konigson’s love letters to Lada.”

“How did Elon know about them?”

“I told him. Lada had showed them to Jack. She thought they could run away together with Konigson’s money. Jack was scared about what would happen if Konigson found out about him and Lada. He came to me for advice. I told him he needed to forget about her, but I knew he wouldn’t listen. So I went to Elon. I told him about the letters. I thought Elon would talk sense to Konigson and that would be the end of it.”

“Konigson and Jack were both in love with Lada Soboroff. She wanted to run away with Jack. Now they’re both dead.”

“No! Lada went back to Russia.”

“No, Lada was just fished out of the Chicago Sanitary and Shipping Channel.”

I took out a photo and tossed it at Jones’s feet. He stared at it and then looked back to me. “I need a rock.”

He stepped toward me. I held up the cash. Jones fixated on it like a dog staring at a treat. “Who runs the prostitution on the city’s side? Konigson?”

“No! Revenue runs everything.”

“How high does it go?”

“All the way.”

“All the way to Elon?”

Jones’s eyes never moved from the money. “The money goes to the very top.”

“Think, Rich. What have you
seen
with your own eyes? How have you
seen
Elon connected to prostitutes or the money?”

Something I said must’ve tapped into a deep memory not yet obliterated by cocaine, because his expression morphed into a kind of disgusted look.

“Elon liked to try the new merchandise,” Rich said, still riveted on the cash. “The tugboat comes in with all the girls. They line up on the dock and he’d pick one and take her to his SUV. The others they’d put into the van and drive off. That sick fuck would already have a sheet covering the backseat. Then he would bang her in his car while we waited outside. Then I’d drive them to one of his apartments. She’d be his girlfriend until the next shipment came in.”

“Tugboat?” I said and began lowering my arm, wondering if his drug-addled brain could be trusted. “Where is this tugboat?”

As Rich reached for the cash he said, “At the port—” Then a shot rang out. I stood motionless, covered in a sticky sheen, watching Jones’s legs fold in slow motion, as if he were carefully laying himself down, until the weight of his headless torso tipped him over, leaving a specter of red mist wafting in the air. For an undetermined amount of time the data overwhelmed my bandwidth, suspended my brain while it buffered the shock, until enough bits had been processed and I broke away running with only the thought of getting home to wash the blood, brain, and skull off my body.

Standing in the shower, I had no recollection of driving or parking the car. Only after I dressed and deposited my blood-spattered clothing into the alley Dumpster, did I look at my watch and realize almost two hours had passed since I had witnessed a murder and not reported it to the police.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t call me,” Kalijero said over the phone. “Go down to the crime scene and file a report—now! What the hell were you waiting for?”

“A man’s skull and brains just erupted all over me. I’m not quite as seasoned as you.”

“Did those busboys see this?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they went back to work before the shooting. Or maybe exploding heads are no big deal in Juarez.”

“Why the hell you would go to that alley—”

“I take chances! Yeah, I know. And that makes me a bad detective.”

“It makes you a
stupid
investigator. It didn’t occur to you that Robertson was setting you up? That maybe that bullet was meant for
your
head?”

Of course it occurred to me, but Robertson’s pathetic veneer exploited the ember of goodwill that still glowed in my spirit. My real failure was not realizing Robertson was just a pawn like Jones.