Windy City Blues Read online

  Windy City Blues is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Alibi eBook Original

  Copyright © 2012, 2015 by Marc Krulewitch

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Alibi, an imprint of Random House, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.

  ALIBI is a registered trademark and the ALIBI colophon is a trademark of Random House LLC.

  Originally self-published by the author in different form as Scofflaw Blues in 2012.

  eBook ISBN 9780804177214

  Cover design: Caroline Teagle

  Cover photograph: © Hisham Ibrahim / Getty Images

  www.readalibi.com

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  By Marc Krulewitch

  About the Author

  Prologue

  It was just before nine A.M. when the toddler’s mother saw his little hands and cheeks covered in a sticky substance mixed with crumbly white particles. She shuddered, then walked to where the little boy had been looking for the neighbor’s kitty under a juniper bush and saw the nearly headless corpse. The woman picked up her son, ran into their apartment, then frantically washed the debris off him, first with soap and water, then with rubbing alcohol. After repeating the routine with peroxide, she called 911.

  About ten minutes later, a CPD police cruiser arrived on the scene; two officers approached the woman, as she held her child and pointed to the juniper bush. Adams, the younger officer, took out a notepad and stayed with the woman as Sergeant Morales slow-walked toward the hedge, carefully scanning the area. White tennis shoes quickly caught Morales’s attention. The body lay just off the grass border, barely concealed by the shrubbery. Morales crouched, then used his flashlight to trace the outline of the body, starting from its feet up to a tangle of blood, hair, tissue, and bone fragments where the head should have been. Although Morales was a veteran officer who had seen his share of big-city brutality, the shock caused him to stumble backward and slip on the dewy grass. From his knees, he reported the gruesome discovery to his superior over the radio.

  After Morales got back to his feet, he directed Adams to secure the area with crime-scene tape, then began to scan the immediate surroundings, where he found a patch of grass covered with blood and debris that Morales assumed had once been part of the victim’s head. From this spot, a trail of fragments led to the body. Soon, another cruiser arrived and then two homicide detectives. Morales called Adams over to make sure he got a good look before the medical examiner did his survey and zipped the corpse into a body bag. Adams tried not to appear shaken as Morales moved the flashlight over the mutilated remains of the human head.

  “So what does the condition of the body tell you?” Morales said.

  “He got whacked in the head pretty good with a metal pipe or something.”

  “It’s not easy to kill someone with a single whack to the head.”

  It took a moment before Adams realized Morales was testing him. “So he got lots of whacks. Somebody was really pissed off or sending a message.”

  “Yep,” Morales agreed before noticing three men walking toward them. “Okay, why don’t you go over to the crowd and start asking questions? See who lives here, if anyone saw anything, et cetera. I’ll start briefing these guys.”

  At first, Morales didn’t recall anything about the detectives other than their names—Calvo and Baker—and that they had been on the force long enough to have garnered reputations for having once been good cops, and having once been physically fit. Instead, on this morning, one might be known as tall and fat, the other as short and fat. They appeared happy, giggling like kids on a school outing. Morales also recognized Dr. Irvine, the medical examiner, who appeared appropriately somber for someone about to evaluate a victim of brutal violence.

  Morales met the three halfway between the sidewalk and the bush. The two detectives breezed past. Dr. Irvine stopped to talk.

  “It’s pretty bad,” Morales said, “but I guess I don’t have to tell you to prepare yourself.”

  Dr. Irvine offered a knowing smile and was about to respond when the two detectives broadcast their disgust and started retreating back the way they had come.

  “Looks like a case of old age,” Calvo said to Morales.

  “The result of a bad migraine,” Baker said.

  With Adams in pursuit, a young, dark-haired woman came running toward the group. “Hold on, ma’am,” Morales said, grabbing the distraught woman’s arm. “This is a crime scene.”

  “My cousin didn’t come home last night!”

  Adams and Morales looked at each other. The two detectives stepped away. Dr. Irvine headed over to the stiff.

  “Wait here,” Morales said, then returned with a wallet in a plastic bag. “What’s the name?”

  “Oh, my god! His wallet!”

  “Please, miss, what’s the name?”

  “Gelashvili. Bagrat Gelashvili.”

  Morales looked at the driver’s license and then back to the woman. His expression said it all. “I’m sorry—”

  She screamed and tried to run to the mangled corpse. Adams grabbed her from behind in a bear hug. “No, no, no. You don’t want to see him. Please, trust us.” She continued struggling and began screaming in a foreign language. Morales radioed for a victim’s advocate, then joined Adams in trying to console the woman. Eventually, she sunk to her knees and sobbed.

  “What will I tell Deida?” she said several times, then, “How can I tell her? How can I tell her?”

  Adams and Morales stayed with the woman until a member of Crime Victim Services arrived, put her arm around her, and led her away. Morales approached the detectives, who stood on the sidewalk with the other onlookers.

  “I’m Sergeant Morales. Let me give you the few details I know.”

  Neither bothered with their own introduction. “What’s to know?” Calvo said, and chuckled. “That kind of message only comes from one place.”

  “He pissed off somebody pretty bad,” Baker said.

  “You wanna try to talk to th
e woman?” Morales said. “She’s his cousin.”

  The two detectives glanced at each other. “Not now,” Calvo said. “We’ll find her later, after she’s had a chance to calm down.” Morales watched as the two men turned from him and shuffled a few steps away. Apparently, the briefing was over.

  Adams got on the radio and cleared them from the scene. In silence, the two cops drove away in their cruiser. Then Morales detected a small laugh from Adams.

  “What?”

  “Those two detectives.”

  “What about ’em?”

  Adams laughed again. “I don’t know. They seemed kind of—”

  “You know what a stereotype is, right?”

  “Yeah, but that neighborhood. You don’t expect that kind of crime there. And I doubt two fat-slob dicks acting like they were at a backyard barbecue gave the residents a reason to sleep better at night.”

  “Yep,” Morales said and the two were silent again until Morales said, “Just focus on being a good cop. Everything else—that’s out of your control.”

  1

  Sheridan Road was the quickest way to Frownie’s condo. Named for a Civil War general whose scorched-earth tactics destroyed the commercial infrastructure of the Shenandoah Valley, Sheridan Road now represented a corridor of economic privilege running through the leafy northern suburbs lining the shores of Lake Michigan. Although I was a son of the North Shore, the domain claimed no special feelings in my soul nor aroused nostalgic aching. Having gained entrance via my father’s illicit profits, I considered my legacy invalid.

  My mentor, Sid “Frownie” Frownstein, was a hard-nosed sleuth from the old days who had skillfully hoofed that muddled line between investigation and collaboration until he withdrew to a lakefront penthouse with spectacular views of the shoreline and a hobby restoring antique cars. Despite his age, Frownie still clearly remembered the days when the cliché hard-boiled detective originated—the “Bogart Bullshit” days, he liked to say. He’d always been out in the lead, taking life where he wanted it to go. But at age ninety, life was catching up fast. Frownie’s best advice? Don’t trust no one.

  It had been too long since my last visit. I was ill prepared for how significantly his body had deteriorated. Sitting upright in bed, leaning against an enormous reading pillow, Frownie wore a T-shirt that hung on his skeletal frame like a towel over a clothesline. A disconnected IV bag dangled from a pole. If I softened my gaze, I could evoke the image of a cadaver. Then he spoke.

  “Hey, Julie! C’mon over here, ya little schmuck. How the hell are ya!”

  The voice, still deep, clear, dripping with a blue-collar Chicago accent straight out of central casting, covered me like a warm blanket. Had I closed my eyes, I could’ve been back in my childhood, ensconced under Frownie’s desk while he reminisced on the phone with former clients and past “operatives.”

  When I leaned down to kiss his cheek, Frownie hooked his left arm around my neck and pulled himself up to hug me. He had all the weight of a laptop computer. I carefully lowered him back to the pillow, fearful his bones would snap.

  “I look like I was in a concentration camp. But I ain’t this body. It’s just a skin and bones costume that’s wearin’ out. Hey, doll, get over here. I want you to meet someone.” Frownie’s live-in nurse walked into the bedroom. I guessed she was around sixty, fit, attractive, long hair colored blond. “This little putz ain’t related to me, but he’s taken the role of the grandson I always never wanted.”

  The three of us laughed and I introduced myself.

  “I’m Helen. Nice to meet you, Jules.” Helen walked to the other side of Frownie’s bed and examined the catheter bag.

  “They wanna hook me up if I get too dried out,” Frownie said and pointed to the IV. “Right, honey?”

  “We want you to be comfortable. Maybe Jules can convince you to stop fighting us.” She winked at me and turned to leave the room. “Call if you need anything.”

  “Not a bad piece of ass to be hangin’ around an old fart like me, eh? So what’s up?” Frownie closed his eyes and waited. I had the feeling he was toying with me, that he knew exactly why I was there. Just as I was about to answer his question, he said, “It’s your old man, ain’t it?”

  “He acts like I’m sticking a knife in his gut. And just because I want to include homicide—”

  “Don’t go makin’ it all nice usin’ words like ‘homicide’! You mean murder! Killin’ human beings! Who do you think you’re talkin’ to?”

  “Okay, okay, murder—”

  “For chrissake, Julie, you already did it. You got nothin’ to prove. You investigated Snooky’s murder and you solved it. And you didn’t get killed in the process. Don’t you see? You won. Move on. You can make a damn good livin’ with all the other investigatin’ they do these days.”

  “Dad wants a guarantee that I’ll never take another murder case. I can’t do that. And I’m not gonna lie to him. Do I gotta remind you it was Dad who got out of prison two months ago, then knocked on my door and gave me my first murder case?”

  “Yeah, yeah, but that was Snooky. Your old man’s no dummy. He knew what Snooky meant to you. And he knew you’d go after his killer no matter what. But he didn’t know you would’ve taken murder investigatin’ as somethin’ to call your own. So do me a favor. Tell me why the people-killin’-people business is so goddamn important? Then maybe I can understand a little bit.”

  Frownie was a realist. Depending on my answer, he could accept how things were, even if he didn’t like it. “Fine,” I said. “You want the truth? I loved it. I loved every goddamn second of it. I don’t know why, but I never felt more alive than when I was investigating Snooky’s murder.”

  Frownie looked away, nodded his head, and said, “That’s what I was afraid of. That’s what your old man didn’t count on. By the way, you still seein’ that broad? Susie Somethin’? You sounded kinda happy about that.”

  “No. Didn’t work out. No big deal. So what do I do about Dad?”

  Frownie turned back to me. “First of all, don’t go guilt-trippin’ yourself. You’re his son. His flesh and blood. When you’re a father, you’ll understand. But for now, that’s his problem. In the meantime, try to ignore his comments. But if he keeps pesterin’ you, just tell him you don’t got no murder case and to stop worryin’ about it. And if you do take another murder—well, you’ll figure it out. Why worry about somethin’ that ain’t happened yet?”

  We both laughed. There was something about Frownie’s voice that sank into my bones, reassured me that everything would be all right.

  “That’s true. Who the hell even knows when I’ll get another murder case? Maybe I’ll never get another one!” I stood to leave.

  “Uh, before you go,” Frownie said. “You should know. Your dad’s kind of losin’ it a little bit. Upstairs. You know what I mean?” Frownie’s expression reflected the pain he felt telling me this.

  2

  Contentment and well-being had not been sensations overly familiar in my life. The farther I drove from Frownie’s condo, the less I held on to the warmth of his words. By the time I stepped into my office building’s lobby, the accustomed pessimism had returned and I realized that the four hundred square feet that made up my new office had become a refuge of sorts—from what, I wasn’t sure.

  I settled behind my desk with the newspaper. A half hour or so later, a thin, boyish-looking man on the landing outside my office caught my attention. Early twenties, I guessed. The fact that the door was wide open and I was presently the floor’s only occupant added to the strangeness of his presence. He leaned against the wall next to the unmarked door of the room across the landing. His dapper suit was comically too large, as if he were a child dressed in his father’s clothes. He held his arms tightly against his chest, suggesting I had been the subject of his gaze for some time.

  I lowered the paper and said, “Can I help you?”

  The stranger’s expression changed to a serious grin. He straightened himse
lf up, walked through the doorway, and extended his hand. Tiny ears held back neatly tapered blond hair. Blue eyes carried resignation and anguish, as if he were destined to carry a heavy burden. I shook his hand.

  “You’re Jules Landau, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said, and became somewhat annoyed when the stranger didn’t respond with an introduction but walked slowly past to linger behind me. I swiveled my chair around. “Do you mind telling me who you are?”

  The man walked back to the front of my desk. “Isadore Himmel,” he said. “Call me Izzy.”

  An ill-fitting name to match his ill-fitting suit. “So what do you want, Izzy?”

  “What do I want? What does anybody want? The truth, of course.” Izzy’s posture gave him the appearance of leaning backward. His hands resided deep in pockets engulfing half his arms.

  “I’m not in the mood for games,” I said. “Are you interested in hiring my services? If not, then take off.”

  “Tell me,” Izzy said. “I was ten minutes or more outside your door. Yet it took that much time for you to question my arrival here.”

  At some mental level, I’m sure I had been aware of someone loitering outside sooner rather than later, but an article about Asian carp invading Lake Michigan had engrossed me. “The door was open. What were you waiting for?”

  “I’m supposed to hire a detective who’s not even curious? Are you sure you’re in the right profession?” His eyes narrowed.