Clean Slate

Chapter 56

Debby blinked again. A "tell." And Mac felt heartsick at that instant, knowing that, whatever else she said, his theory about the Judge, his worst-case scenario, was correct. "I know him," she said softly.

Feeling forced to go through with it, Mac asked, "Did you do him."

She nodded.

"When?"

"Twelve years," she said, sounding oddly proud. It was, Mac realized, her personal private status symbol, that a powerful man like Chief Judge Wayne Wildern wanted her. "Every week. He got my best. I gave it all to him. And he helped me. . .took care of me, in that jungle back there."

"Heitsler!" came the copper at the door again. The woman beside Brody stood. "You shoulda paid your moving violations," the officer told her. "There's a bench warrant out for you out of Blue Island. Let's go."

"I paid um," the woman whined as the copper led her away.

Alone with Brody now, Mac studied her. Like any PPO, his instinct was not to take things at face value. Twelve years? The Judge got away with this for twelve years? "How do I know you're telling me the truth about the Judge, Debby?"

"Oh hell," she said wearily, "why would I lie? But okay – okay. My building in Riverwood? Across the street there's a parking garage. He paid by the month. Why else would he do that. There's got to be a record, if you look for it. And, uh. . .let's see. Every year, the trial judge's convention? In Vegas? Every year I met him there. Stayed with him for the week. We were pretty much a public couple, out there. I mean, who cares," she added, smiling at the memory, "it's Vegas, right? And when Ruth's mom was sick, and Ruth was away taking care of her, I'd come to his house, stay over sometimes. I can tell you the color of the wallpaper, the kind of sheets on their bed --"

"Okay," Mac said. "Okay." He was as convinced as he needed to be. Now he wanted only to disengage, and leave these hideous rooms, and set sail for home.

He got to his feet. But Brody, having come uncorked, kept rolling. "It's a sad thing," she said, "but I think Wayne's losing it. I think he's been slipping for a long time. I mean, somebody found out. How could that happen. And who does it come down on. Me. Like a ton of bricks it comes down. Not on him. Oh no. Just on me." Mac saw tears welling at the bottoms of her dark eyes. Not cleansing tears, but selfish ones. "I think they were going to kill me."

"Who?"

She rambled, "What I heard was, they were gonna roll me up in a carpet, tape it tight, wrap chain around it and dump me in the river. Alive. That's the message I got."

"From who?" Mac made himself ask.

"Just around," she said, gesturing with a trembling hand.

Mac could not help himself; he had to at least try. "So now," he said, bending a bit to peer into her face, gesturing around the room, "this is what you do? This?"

Her expressions flashed from bewilderment to contempt to jailhouse casualness. "I'm single," she said. "And I like sex. And this is my business. It's all internet now. So much better."

Just once more, because he had to, Mac looked into her eyes, and once again he saw absolutely nothing. She lived, she breathed, she moved about, she interacted with people, she spoke, she ate, she slept – but she seemed to him to be little more than an animate creature with nothing whatsoever inside. Mac would always wonder if she was born that way, or made that way – by herself, others, or both. It had never occurred to him that any person, no matter their history, could be past any chance of a clean slate. But here she was.

Abruptly Mac straightened. "Thanks for your help," he said, and turned to go.

"Remember you promised," she said, voice strained. She got to her feet. "You promised!" She was following him now. "You promised me!"

At the adjoining room door Mac saw that the robed suspect had been taken away. Officers wearing green vinyl gloves were packing up items from the room in evidence bags. The sergeant leaned against the door frame, bemusedly watching Mac approach, a toothpick dancing in his jaw. "Get what you need?"

Brody was coming up behind. To the sergeant Mac said quietly, "I am now putting in a word."

"A word?"

"That's right. A word. On behalf of."

Understanding fully, the cop smiled. "And I'm informing you," he said, "that we make no promises."

"What'd you say?" Brody demanded as Mac went through the door. "What'd he say?" she repeated, apparently to the sergeant, as Mac headed back down the hall. He did not hear the copper's reply. Outside, even the intense urban air of the city of Chicago felt clean and refreshing. Except for traffic lights, he did not stop once during his drive from the hotel to Midway Airport. He went to the Food Court, for it was past dinner time, and he had an hour to wait for his flight. He even bought a sandwich. But it just cooled on his tray, as he sat motionless in his seat, wishing with all his heart to be home already.

---

Earl sat in his study, idly watching the color images on his CAD-sized computer screen. Having put in a dozen hours on the editing, he'd long since gotten over being aroused by what he saw. This was work, not play; a clinical exercise, a technical challenge. His aim was to make the presentation as vivid and specific as possible, so there could be no possibility of misunderstanding as to who the participants were and what they were doing. He'd taken care also to select segments from a variety of encounters, to make it plain that this had not been a one-time shot. And he'd striven to vary the activities also. All in all it came out well. One could wish for better lighting, more variety in angles, and greater depth of field. And the sound was tinny in places, muffled in others. But this was what he had to work with, and it would do the job. He was satisfied.

Booting the DVD, he put it in its plastic case – unlabeled: though with a wan smile he found himself considering the options – and left it with the player on the table. It was getting late – close to his 11 p.m. bedtime. But he was not tired. He'd had three shots of Stoli, but he felt cold stone sober. Again and again he puzzled over tomorrow: the wheres, whens, and hows. What about during the drive downtown? He could pull over, perhaps into Prospect Park, and have the discussion. . . . But no. Too public. And Earl had always believed that, in things like this, to be sure of getting the correct outcome, suddenness and surprise were key. No hints, no pussy-footing, no half measures.

He knew the Court House was also out. Way too visible, too many people in and out all the time. Tomorrow was Friday, which was a good thing, because the typical Friday always included time away from the Court House, "up the street," as the expression went. Trouble was, Earl had no way of knowing what the timing would be. That left just one option: surveillance. Christ, he thought as he went into his living room and clicked Fox News on with the remote, he could be all day waiting! But what other option was there?

Because by morning, certainly by noon, Erkfitz and Love would have the lab report. And then they would want a word with Earl. By then he had to have the fix in place. Tight timing, and a near thing –

His land line rang. He could not believe it. Nobody called him on that phone, except telemarketers, and this was too late even for them. He'd thought for months now that he ought to just get rid of the thing. It seemed quaint, this hard wired phone. But he hadn't bothered. Caller ID said BLOCKED CALL. He almost let it go, then snatched up the receiver. "Yes!" he barked.

Silence, then: "Earl?" came the female voice, turning his name into a two-syllable jibe.

"Bucaro here."

The woman laughed. Unfamiliar voice. "How about this," she said. "It actually worked."

"Who is this."

"I typed your name into this web site," she said, "and bang there's your number. Son of a bitch. It worked," she said again, evidently to someone with her.

To Earl she sounded drunk, or high. "I'm hanging up," he warned.

"You don't want to do that," she returned. "I'm Jessica. Remember me? You raped me, you sorry son of a bitch – you made me fuck you, back when I was in the system, you asshole."

The name meant nothing to him. And it didn't matter. This had happened before, once or twice, these later contacts. One woman even tried to blackmail him. He'd just laughed. They had nothing on him; never had anything. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Well, you're about to find out," she said, "because some of the girls, they've sworn out statements about you. The DA's gonna have it, and the newspapers, too. You're on the dime, mister. You're pinned to the wall. You can wiggle and dance, but you're going to go down. It's gonna be public, and I'm gonna be there to watch you board that bus for the fucking Stockade, you sorry ass mother fucker --"

Earl dropped the phone on its cradle. Its plastic surface was glistening, from dampness in his palm. He wiped himself on hits pants, eyes drawn to Bill O'Reilly giving it good to some bespectacled pansy ass book reader. Sworn statements? What could that be about? They wouldn't dare. They certainly wouldn't. And even if they did, what Earl had just put in its plastic case in the other room – that "get out of jail free" card would solve all problems.

But he'd learned, through the years, always to have a plan, and a back-up to the plan, and a back-up to the back-up. Which is why he now went to the walk-in closet in his Spartan guest room, pulled away some boxes, and retrieved a metal case hidden in the back. Spinning the combination wheels, he opened the lid. All was still there, ready and waiting. Passport in a different name, driver's license to match, birth certificate ditto, an American Express card on which the annual fees had been dutifully paid, and four thick bricks of hundred dollar bills. During his last trip to Brownsville, he crossed over to Rio Bravo and purchased a safe deposit box, in which he placed additional – and quite substantial – funds. From Rio Bravo it was a quick car ride to Monterrey, and from there he could be anywhere in the world in a few hours.

He did not want to leave his life. He was fifty, set in his ways, comfortable. So tomorrow he'd play his ace. He fully expected it to work. He absolutely planned to be with Ruth on Sunday, at Room 33, as usual. His vacation was coming up, his ticket to St. Kitts already bought, and he had no doubt he'd be there once again, too. And from there he'd work his job, and date his girls, and go on with his life.

But tomorrow he'd take with him these other items. . .just in case.

---

It was nearly 1:00 a.m. when Mac eased his Suburban into the short driveway of his farm house. The night had turned gorgeous; a sliver of moon rode high in the sky, putting out enough light to cast shadows from the big trees. A warm breeze came from the southwest, carrying with it aromas of the forests and fields. Mac trudged wearily into his house and straight to his room, moving comfortably in the dark. Snapping on the endtable lamp, he sprawled onto the bed and kicked off his running shoes. God willing sleep would come quickly. He only had a few hours before he had to be up and running again. He felt all right about the mission. His anger and disgust at confirming the worst about the Judge had ebbed during the flights back to St. Marys. Tomorrow he'd see the man, as early as possible, to confront him with what he'd learned. Not out of malice or spite, but to let him know that Mac knew the truth, that he was disappointed, and no longer among the fooled. And also to alert him – because Mac felt he owed the Judge this – that the genie had finally leaked out of the bottle, Bucaro's best efforts notwithstanding.

And then to deal with Bucaro. Mac planned to make one more run at Jessica Miller, but if she remained among the missing, he'd go forward with the Privette affidavit. He wanted nothing made public till after Privette's funeral. But there was nothing wrong with seeing a prosecutor tomorrow to show him what he had. Friday was a good day to see prosecutors. Then Bucaro would go away, Eddie Fant would be avenged, and Libby would at long last run her story –

Which brought to mind another issue. He'd had no contact with Libby today. He'd called for her twice, from Midway both times, and left messages.

No response.