Clean Slate

Chapter 54

"Oh no," Mac murmured.

"Her pregnancy, that ectopic thing, it ruptured," Libby told him. "They rushed her into surgery, but it was like. . .hopeless. Over in a matter of minutes."

"How did you hear?" Mac said, escorting her into the silent corridor.

"Stopped by there." Libby wore a snug lilac colored silk suit, the skirt short as usual, the neckline plunging as always, over a barely-visible ivory cami. Her chopped red hair was a bit shorter today, and for some reason she'd moved her silver thumb ring from her right hand to her left. "Wanted to see how she was."

They walked in silence down the marble hall toward the wide stairs. Mac remembered the brave woman in her hospital bed, driven and determined to do right, oddly certain that she would die – yet working hard, and without apparent fear, to clean up behind her. He wondered how Mike was doing, and debated silently about whether to reach out tonight yet, or wait a day or two. "She was a hell of a gal," he said.

They started down the stairs. Libby touched his hand. "Thank God you thought ahead and had her testimony recorded," she said.

Like that's really important at this moment. Mac shrugged. "That was just to lock it in. My hope was we'd never have to make it public, just use it as a lever for. . .when we go after the bad guy."

"Which'll be now, I assume?" Libby asked.

They exited through security and out the revolving doors onto the wide stone steps of Fannie Annie. The day had clouded over into a humid gray murk, and Mac figured they were in for some long overdue rain. Good for the farm, good for the critters, not so good for flying the next day. Pedestrians, faces down and elbows out, bustled around them. He glanced at Libby, who was watching him intently. "No," he said, "not now. The woman just died, Libby. Let's at least let her family get through the --"

"But that's the whole point!" Libby insisted. "Her dying, that just increases the dramatic impact of the story. We have to run now."

Which Mac found sickening. "And if you'll recall, we made a deal. The deal was Friday. This is Wednesday."

"Well." She sighed. "I suppose." She was casting about for weapons, and coming up empty. "You probably have a point about the funeral."

"Which'll probably be Saturday," Mac said. "Meantime I'll keep working on Miller. I don't want to preclude a grand slam by settling for a base hit."

They stopped at the corner across from Judiciary Square, as commuter cars log-jammed their way through the roundabout and traffic signals bound for Thomas Jefferson Way, the freeways, and the suburbs. Libby sighed again, still annoyed. "Okay. I'll sit tight. Some more. And you keep working on Miller."

"And you won't make a move without telling me."

"Or you." Mac, uncomfortable, just nodded. Libby's expression softened. "Are you doing all right?"

"Just a rough week."

"How did the hearing go?"

"Came out okay."

"Sorry I couldn't be there. Public Service Commission dragged on all morning."

"Indeed."

"Sewer rates," Libby sighed. "Heart-thumping excitement." They looked at each other, and then Libby nodded. "See you later."

"'Kay."

And they parted without a kiss, touch, or second look. Mac trudged down Fourth Street for the stadium, wondering if Libby had been as unforthcoming with him as he'd been with her.

---

Earl Bucaro reached for the phone, drew his hand back, reached for it again, and waited.

His office was silent, almost funereal. Through the glass wall he could see Bailiff Bureau business being transacted in its normal chilly controlled way. This was Thursday afternoon, but it could have been any day of the week; same routines, different jerkoffs. To look at the superintendent, all was as usual with Earl too, from his smooth hair and his flat tanned face to his soft comfortable Banlon shirt and twill pants. The waist felt snug, and Earl knew he needed to start working out again. But at this moment such concerns were quite remote.

Because, at this moment, he was nervous.

About making a phone call.

Finally he picked up the receiver and tapped out the numbers by heart. If voice mail answered, he'd hang up, obviously. But voice mail did not pick up. Ruth did.

"Judge Wildern's residence," came her voice.

Earl cleared his throat. "Hi."

"Hello," she said readily.

"How've you been."

"Quite well, thank you." She seemed to chuckle. "Don't we have this exchange each morning? When you pick my husband up?"

"Well – not alone." Earl hesitated. "I meant, how are you doing."

Pause. "I've been waiting."

He felt relief wash over him, and then felt sour. Christ, Earl thought. Sunday she issued the ultimatum, and four days later I'm caving in already. Just four days. "I've worked it out," he said.

"Oh?"

"Just like you asked."

"That's good to hear."

"Same place?" Earl asked, trying not to sound hopeful. "Same time?"

"Quite," she said. Then added: "You will not be sorry. I promise you that."

Unexpectedly he felt himself hardening down there. This bitch, the things she can do – she's evil. "So I'll see you."

"Thanks for the call."

As Earl hung up, his door tapped and opened. The scheduler peered in with her usual half-cringing expression. "Visitor, Superintendent. A Mr. Fouts, from the Department?"

Another unfamiliar name. Earl rose. "Okay, in here."

She backed out, and in came a youngish white man with a fashionable fade cut, dressed in dark pants and the uniform shirt of a Department of Sheriff civilian employee. His hand was out and he was grinning toothily. "Superintendent! Zeke Fouts. Thanks for seeing me."

Earl did not sit, nor did he invite his guest to. "I'm very busy. What's up."

Fouts kind of edged around the side of Earl's desk, apparently to get closer. His voice lowered. "Well sir," he said casually, "I'm a tech in the forensics lab."

"Okay."

"And I ran some samples this morning," Fouts went on, "that I think might be of interest to you."

Still Earl made no connection. "What does this have to do with us?"

"Not a Bureau matter, Superintendent. This concerns you. Personally."

The young man's face was half smiling, expectant, pregnant with news and in low-grade thrill about it. Earl felt himself steel up. Can't be. No way. "And?"

"I was tasked with comparing hair samples," Fouts said, and it was all Earl could do to keep from grabbing him and hissing at him and shaking him like a rag – get the fuck on with it. "One from a murder scene, on Central Avenue, and one donated by you. What you need to know is – we had a positive match."

Impossible, screamed a voice in Earl's head. And what's this about a murder? There was no murder. Medardo stabbed himself. He attacked a peace officer, and in the struggle stabbed himself. Earl said, "Well, this is out of order on a half dozen counts! Starting with, what's a criminalist doing here with --"

"This isn't official," Fouts said softly, showing long pale palms and a quick head shake. "Hell – if my boss knew I was telling you this, I'd be out on my ear. You know that."

With difficulty Earl settled down. "And?"

"It's just. . .I wanted to alert you. As a favor."

"In return for what?"

"Well. . . ." Earl knew the young man wanted to insist that no payoff was needed. But from long experience Earl knew differently. "There's this buddy of mine? He's doing six months in the Stockade, for getting behind on child support. I wonder if --"

"I can't get him kicked." Which was not strictly true – Earl could probably engineer it – but just now he was saving all his markers for himself.

"No no no," Fouts said. "I just wonder. . .if you can get him transferred to the Central Jail down here. Or maybe the work farm. Stockade's such a hell hole."

"I'll see what I can do." Earl studied Fouts' features, curious to discern how wide and deep his "flexibility" went. "This other sample you mentioned? Where'd it get found?"

"What the evidence sheet said, it was found at the scene, in the bed."

Fouts seemed to be trying not to smile. Damn, Earl thought. That little bitch, she couldn't even keep house. His head started to pound, and his throat felt tight, as the implications unfolded in his mind. This was not just a hiccup. This was bad, bad, bad. "You file your sheet yet?"

"Oh, absolutely. They log everything, the chain of custody, it's all in the computer."

"So when exactly did you file?"

"Lunch time. My boss reviews it, and then --"

"Okay." Earl knew the process very well. Some detectives checked lab test status on the network whenever they got around to it. Others requested automated email advisories when results were ready. Erkfitz and Love could have the information by late today, first thing tomorrow at the latest. Not much time. Earl considered asking Fouts to – but no. That was unworkable at every level. The kid didn't have that kind of clout, nothing like the necessary guts. And Earl would never hand someone like this kid such a lever over him. "Go on, take off."

Fouts blinked and ventured toward the door, then looked back and said, "Marty Moran?"

"Huh?"

"My buddy. At the Stockade."

"Yeah, right. Go on. It's handled."

Expression clouded, Fouts left. Earl sat back down behind his desk, studied the glowing computer screen, fidgeted. He had moves to make. But which one first?

---

"The Captain," came the voice of the lead flight attendant, "has turned on the seat belt sign, indicating our final approach into Chicago Midway. Please be certain your seat belts are fastened, and seats and tray tables are at their full upright and locked positions. We'll be on the ground shortly."

Mac, strapping himself back in, wished they'd find a more reassuring way to express that last sentiment. But then, he thought, not every passenger's thoughts go automatically to the splat option, he was sure.

Thus far, the trip had been tough. The flight from St. Marys to Pittsburgh had been late and bumpy, the passengers and crew grim and fractious. Then, at Pitt, his connection was delayed over two hours, due, according to the airline people, to "air traffic control issues in Chicago." Whatever that meant. He'd planned to arrive by late afternoon – in time for the party, which the email called "Sexfest," slated to start at 4 – but now he would not get there till 6:00 or later. Not much time to do what he had to do and catch the 10:15 outbound for home.

Fortunately, he had no luggage, not even carry-on. So once at the Midway gate he was able to exit the plane briskly and make the long walk to the rental car area. Midway Airport, which he had never visited before – this was his first visit to Chicago since his mother's parents died when he was in his teens – was packed with people, many obviously embarking or returning from summer vacation trips. The atmosphere was generally cheery and brisk. On one of the concourses a parade of young adults came by, in white robes and head-dresses, men and women both, playing tambourines and drums, and singing in a Middle Eastern dialect. In the center of the group were a beaming young couple, the woman wearing a headpiece of flowers in her luxuriously dark hair. The joy of the wedding party was infectious; hardened travelers stopped to applaud.

But none of this served to lift his mood. This was indeed a sorry errand he was on. Expensive, time consuming, and most likely without any sort of positive outcome. But still. . . .

"You sure about this?" Abigail had asked, earlier that Thursday at Fannie Annie, as Mac quickly wrapped up his morning business to head for the airport.

"If the party's really happening," Mac told her, "and Brody's there, and I get to talk to her – maybe I can once and for all find out about. . .that gentleman we've been discussing."

"Good luck," she said, with a small smile, and a touch of his arm. "Be safe." And back she'd gone into her office. Since the revelation earlier in the day about how he'd handled Garry Overbye, things had shifted between them, in ways Mac did not fully understand. Abigail had gone from tearily grateful to eye-averted standoffish, as if needing some distance to reassess. At this point, Mac lacked the emotional energy to ponder it much. Let it be, he told himself. Between Suzanne and Libby, he had his fill of relationship complications. . . .

The rental car Wendy had scored for him was a sand colored Olds Alero, with barely enough room for his long legs. Unfolding his notes, Mac exited the terminal, and negotiated the crowded multi-lane streets and intersections to 55th, known also as Garfield. He made only one mistake, which necessitated a U-turn, for which he was rewarded with horn-honks and single digits waved by outraged Chicagoans who had in their lives no doubt neither committed errors nor witnessed any before. Rolling north, Mac hugged the right lane as vehicles whizzed toward, around, and by him, till he saw the Lodge Inn on, quite naturally, the left side of the street. U-turning via a cut-through in the median, he rolled back and then into the hotel driveway.

It was a fairly new building, four stories of white stone and reflecting glass, oblong, with an ornate stone canopy over the main entrance. Mac ignored this and rolled down a few spaces and stopped. He had a copy of the email with him, and he checked it once more.

>

. .find a nice white Toyota Camry in the parking lot will have the room number in her window. Please don't hang around the car! Go in the door nearest the car and straight to the room! The party will have everything you want, plenty of guys and a dozen girls. . . .

Mac scanned the front parking areas. No white Camry. He saw that the parking ran around the sides of the building. Reversing, he rolled to the south side, over speed bumps and past a couple of large garbage dumpsters. More cars were angle-parked here, some along a brick wall to his left and the others against the white brick hotel wall to his right. Nobody was around. Mac eased the car along till he spotted a white Camry. It was parked two spaces up from a canopied side entrance. Beside that sat two cars, white Crown Victorias with horizontal blue stripes and light bars and CHICAGO POLICE printed across their sides.

Oh-oh.