“Gotta be rough.”
“How the fuck would you know?”
“Yeah. Listen, how was her health, she doing OK?” Lynch giving Marslovak a chance to lie.
“Like I’d know. Talked to her a couple times a week. She’s sounded a little tired, I guess. But she’s pushing eighty and still trying to play Mother Teresa to the whole northwest side, so she should be tired. I haven’t seen her in person since Christmas Eve. I told you I was an asshole, right? I mean, I should stop by and shit, but that usually doesn’t go real well. Also, I’m trying to stave off divorce number three, and I got the usual couple hundred balls up in the air here.” Marslovak slumped forward, elbows on his knees, head down. “So she’s dead. That’s it. Died thinking I’m going to hell. And in her mind, that pretty much makes her a failure. Wouldn’t have killed me, you know, just turn up at church once in a while, go through the fucking motions. Wouldn’t have killed me.”
“Listen, Eddie, I know you’ve got things to take care of. Anything else you can think of I should know? She have any money, anything like that? Something somebody might have been after?”
“With what the market’s done to real estate, if you figure the house, what’s left of the old man’s annuity, insurance, whole estate will go $300,000 to $350,000 tops.”
“Decent chunk,” said Lynch.
“Matter of perspective, I suppose. With the market jumping around like Richard Simmons on Dexedrine, my net worth’s moved more than that while we’ve been talking.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“And that net worth is?”
“Neighborhood of $2.3 billion. Give or take.”
“Nice neighborhood.”
“Until you meet the neighbors, yeah. Anyway, the three hundred grand or whatever — it’s all going to the church. My lawyer did the will.”
“That bother you, with your religious sentiments and all?”
“Nah. Church will do nice things with it. Feed the hungry, clothe the naked. Long as they don’t go clothing any of my favorite porn stars, what do I care? What am I gonna do with it?”
“Could there be some connection to your work? Somebody you pissed off coming back at you?”
“I pissed off pretty much everyone I ever met, Lynch. Some sick fuck got a hard-on for me and shoots my mom? Possible, I guess. Hard to figure. Why not just shoot me?”
“Like you said, some sick fuck. They take some funny angles sometimes. Anybody come to mind?”
“I’m the sickest fuck I know, Lynch. Wasn’t me.”
Lynch pulled out his card and left it on the table. “If you think of anything that might help, give me a call. I’m sorry, Eddie.”
As Lynch headed to the door, Marslovak sat in his chair staring down into his nearly empty glass. “All your life you’ve got a mother, then you don’t,” Marslovak said, his voice flat. “It’s like God dying. Like there’s nobody left to please.”
Lynch turned to see Marslovak finish what was in his glass, then set it down on the table. “Get the fuck out, would you please, detective? And close the door behind you.”
Lynch drove to the station, started the file, called around to crime scene and the lab. Nothing new yet, but Lynch was feeling juiced. This wasn’t another drive-by where they’d haul in one sullen kid or another, it not making much difference whether they had the right one, because whatever kid they hung it on would have been happy to pop whoever had been popped for whatever dumb-ass reason one of the punks would eventually cop to. It wasn’t another obsessive ex who’d beat the one-time love of his life to death and left enough physical evidence behind for ten trials. That’s how Lynch spent most of his time. Piecework. Spending each day wading through a cesspool of human shit.
It was almost 9.00pm when Lynch got back to his place. He had the top floor on a four-story he’d bought after Katie died. Used the insurance money, leveraged himself to the nipples. Picked the right neighborhood, though — Near North just before it got going. Got a great price because the place was falling apart. But the Lynch family knew tools. Best memories from his childhood were working with the old man. Plaster, plumbing, wiring, whatever. Took Lynch ten years and most of his spare time, but now the place was perfect. Retired cop leased the first floor — bar and sandwich joint, McGinty’s — two units on two, two units on three, Lynch on top. Cash flow better than his salary, the building worth better than a million, even after the crash.
Lynch had opened up his floor, exposed the brick on the exterior walls, sanded and finished the wide plank floors. He kept a weight set and a treadmill in the back. Lynch did a couple sets each of benches, military presses, curls, squats. Did a quick twenty minutes on the treadmill. Maintenance. It had been a long day, and it was going to be a longer one tomorrow. Lynch figured he’d read for a while and turn in. Just after 10.00 the phone rang.
“Lynch.”
“Hey, John. Elizabeth Johnson at the Tribune. How are you?”
“I was fine. How’d you get this number?”
“I’m a reporter, John. I’ve got sources.”
“Yeah, well, I’m a cop, Johnson, I’ve got a gun. Look, it’s late. What do you want?”
“What can you tell me about the Marslovak shooting?”
“Come on, Johnson. You know we got actual PR guys paid to do this shit. They even got badges and guns and hats, so you can quote them as sergeant this or lieutenant that, just like they were real cops. So call the public affairs pukes, will you?”
“And I’m sure they will be very helpful, John. I’m sure you’ve filled them in completely. Look, you owe me one.”
Johnson was new in town. She’d been with some paper in Minneapolis for ten years, and she looked Minnesota. Tall, blonde, Nordic, broad shoulders, long legs. Lynch had talked with her three months before. A couple guys in his division nailed some gangbanger on a series of drug killings, and the asshole’s lawyer tried to muddy the water with some made-up crap about payoffs. Lynch’s name hadn’t been in it yet, but it would have been in time. Lawyer was a media-savvy radical, big on his image as the savior of the oppressed, always quick with the sound bites, the leaks, the dirty tricks. What he really was was a leech attached to the artery of drug money that kept all his underprivileged friends in nine millimeters. The talking heads on the TV had run with the payoff shit, reported the allegations, but Johnson actually checked the facts. Ran a series on the shyster, exposed a mess of scummy trial tactics — blatant race baiting, witness tampering, even a juror who admitted to throwing a case after a series of threats. The lawyer ended up getting his bar card yanked, and the gangbanger ended up getting the full ride — a place in line for the state-sponsored OD. Afterward, Lynch had bought Johnson a drink. Some sparks, but pretty clear they were both fighting that, too.
“Hey, I said thank you,” said Lynch.
“John, I was new in town, OK? I should have squeezed you for your marker. But you owe me, and you know it. How about this — we meet for a drink. I buy this time. I tell you what I need, and you decide. That’s fair, right?”
Lynch thought for a moment. Not about the case, but about Johnson. He’d enjoyed the drink last time. And he’d seen her around, she’d say hi, he’d say hi, him always feeling a little visceral tug. And he’d heard she left Minnesota after a divorce. Besides, growing up in Chicago, he understood the algebra of favors. His old man had moonlighted as political ward muscle for years. What was it he used to say? “Everybody’s gotta scratch a few backs. Otherwise, whole world’s got itchy backs. Nobody’s comfortable.”
“Yeah, OK,” Lynch said. “You know McGinty’s?”
“Sure. Half an hour?”
“OK, yeah.”
Lynch wondered should he change. After fourteen hours, he figured a shower and a clean shirt, at least. Toweling off, he poked through the closet and saw the sweater his sister had sent for Christmas. Strange-looking roll neck kind of faded purple thing he always thought looked a little candy-assed, but he had to admit his sister knew this kind of shit, so he thought what the hell. Threw it on over a pair of jeans, slid his holster back on his belt.