“Yeah, and another desk, right by the elevators. Same thing: They go in or out, we log ’em. And the garage has a remote gate-you can’t get in without a door opener, and an alarm goes off if a second car tries to piggyback in. There’s a camera, too, so the guard can see who’s coming. Plus, we got a roamer-J.J. there, who went up with you-who mostly just keeps an eye out.”
“You better see if you can get the night crew here. People’ll want to talk to them.” Especially, I thought, about the use of the name Gunther.
The deskman gave me a pissed-off, weary look, realizing all his cooperation had just been turned against him.
Bob Shattuck’s neighborhood didn’t look much livelier by day. Both the shoe-repair store and the sandwich shop were open but empty. The temporary quarters of the Chicago Public Library, which I hadn’t realized occupied one end of the parking lot, was the only door that had people going in and out.
I was standing on the sidewalk, looking up at Shattuck’s building, when a patrol car slid to a stop opposite.
The driver stuck his elbow out the window. “You Gunther?”
I nodded and crossed over as they both swung heavily out of the car-one, an overweight white man; the other, a small, wiry guy with Hispanic features and careful, watchful eyes.
I led the way to the unobtrusive front door and pushed it open for them. They entered, looking around, casually cautious, always aware of what a city like this might tuck behind its doors. They had an animal sharpness to them, even the fat one, which made me think of my own squad back home-less wary, not used to being targets.
The small patrolman looked at me. “You got a key?”
“No.”
He grunted softly and pushed the intercom button to the superintendent’s apartment. A squawky voice asked who it was.
“Chicago Police.”
“What the hell do you guys want?”
“Just checking on one of your tenants.”
“They ain’t my tenants.”
“Open the door, please.”
“Open it yourself.”
There was a loud buzzing and the electric lock on the double glass doors sprang open. The big cop pushed it open. “So much for security.”
I preceded them up the stairs, our shoes making a horrendous clatter against the cement. “You know,” the wiry one said, “if nobody’s home, that’s it. We don’t got a warrant.”
“I know.”
On the fourth floor, as dark as in the middle of the night, I paused, looking down the length of the landing.
“At the end?”
I looked at the big one-Ross, according to his nameplate. “Yeah.”
He cleared his flashlight from his belt and switched it on. As he did, his companion-Diaz-instinctively moved to the other side of the hall, slightly in the lee of a door frame.
The flashlight’s brilliant halogen glare catapulted to the end of the hallway, through the open, gaping door, and flattened against a distant wall.
“Guess we won’t have to worry about knockin’,” Ross muttered.
We moved toward the doorway, my companions no longer disinterested-on the balls of their feet, their hands on their gun butts. We positioned ourselves to both sides of the entrance and waited briefly, listening to the interior of the dark apartment. I didn’t know what they knew of me, except that I was obviously a “suit,” and therefore the asshole who would probably get their tails shot off. I decided I’d better lead the charge.
I reached around and hammered on the open door with my fist. “Shattuck? It’s Joe Gunther.”
Nothing came back. I thought of Shilly’s apartment-that same stillness. Only here, there was something-a feeling of someone waiting.
“Shattuck? Come on out.”
Again, nothing. I gestured for Ross’s light and shined it around inside, keeping myself behind the door frame. The room, with the extinct candle still sitting in its dish on the floor, was empty. I stepped inside, moving along the wall.
I felt Ross and Diaz hesitate behind me, no doubt silently debating the legality of my actions, before pulling their weapons and following me in.
I hadn’t seen a thing the night before, but I’d sensed what I saw now-spareness, almost emptiness: a few pillows on the floor, a few posters on the wall. All the windows had been covered with tinfoil; not a sliver of daylight got through.
Ross stayed in the entrance hall; Diaz moved across the room to the kitchenette, quickly checking the open closet as he went. I waited for them to position themselves before I approached the only other door, presumably to the bedroom and bath beyond.
Again, I stood to one side and knocked, calling out Shattuck’s name; still, I got nothing in response.
I leaned over, twisted the doorknob, and pushed. The door swung back with a faint protest and hung open. I poked the flashlight around the corner and took a quick look.
Sitting in a wooden chair facing me, naked, covered with cuts and cigarette-sized welts, his mouth taped shut to stifle his screams, was Kevin Shilly. There was a neat black hole in his forehead.
The rest of the room and the bathroom were empty. Diaz and Ross stood at the bedroom door, watching me, their arms limp but still holding their guns. Diaz’s eyes were hard on the corpse. Mr. Beautiful, Shilly’s office guard had called him. No longer.
21
I shut my eyes gratefully at the sound of Gail’s cheerful voice, letting it, like the motel bed beneath me, act on my mind like a balm.
“I was hoping you’d call soon. How’re things going?”
“They could be better.”
“Oh-oh.”
I smiled wanly. “That’s one way to put it.”
“Are you all right, Joe?”
“I’m okay.” Having initiated the call, I was now suddenly reluctant-even slightly embarrassed-to turn it into a confessional. “I just got off the phone with Brandt and Klesczewski. Apparently nothing new on our sniper. Ron said they’re looking for other angles, but Brandt’s obviously pretty anxious for me to come home with the goods.”
“I noticed there hasn’t been anything on the news.” There was a small pause. “So tell me what’s really wrong. You sound totally flattened.”
I let out a sigh and told her. “I probably played a direct role in getting a man killed over here-tortured and killed, to be accurate.”
“My God. Who?”
“No one you know, but he was doing fine until I mentioned his name to somebody I was questioning. I’ve never felt like a such a jerk.”
“Who were you questioning?”
“His name is Shattuck-supposedly a retired peace freak turned radical, but now I don’t know… and probably never will.” The last four words were delivered in a flat tone.
Gail picked up on it. “Did the local cops pull the rug out from under you?”
I laughed, although without much pleasure. Leave it to Gail to grasp the political reality immediately. “It’s their case now, and they made it pretty clear they don’t see some woodchuck from Vermont as an asset. In fact, they put me through a four-hour grilling. Pretty hostile session; they don’t make any bones about my having screwed up. One of them’s okay-Norm Runnion-he’s my babysitter. But he’s a few months shy of retirement, and he stuck his neck out by giving me more leash than he should’ve, so now he’s almost as much on the outs as I am.”
“But he’s still your local contact, right? With access to their computers and whatnot?”
I saw where she was headed. “True, except that if the guys running the homicide investigation catch either one of us snooping around their case, there’ll be hell to pay. Besides, why would Runnion risk it? He told me earlier that Chicago averages nine hundred and fifty homicides every year, not to mention a few thousand unsuccessful shootings and stabbings.”
There was silence at the other end: Gail running out of suggestions. “Does that mean you’ll be coming home?”
But suggestions, or at least questions, were finally beginning to stir in my tired brain, despite my own pessimism. “Remember Abraham Fuller?”