Doubt in the 2nd Degree Read online

  “Well, God bless you, Mr. Landau!” Kate said with an adoration that worried me. “Whereabouts are you from?”

  Her sudden chumminess added to my discomfort, but didn’t stop my curiosity from getting the best of me. I said, “I grew up in the northern suburbs. You said Jackie Whitney was a wonderful person. How exactly did you know her?”

  She smiled. “Jackie come into the little grocery store where I work. Sweepin’ and moppin’ mostly. I see her out’n the aisles all the time. She never say nothin’ ’til one day she come up and say, ‘I’d never known you was a mushroom expert.’ My boss, Mr. Chao, done told her that. I said I’m no expert, but I know some. And she say, ‘I never seen one like this.’ And then I ’splained what it all was and she liked that. From then on she come in and be real friendly and ask questions ’bout me, you know, personally-like, and we become friends.”

  An obese woman holding a baby stood up and started shouting in a shrill, unidentifiable language. Her voice quickly became an ice pick stabbing my head. Two female guards tried to calm her, but by that time every baby in the room was crying. I stood and made some hand gestures indicating my intention to leave and mouthed that I would see her tomorrow. I think she got it.

  —

  Dad had been hallucinating about snakes since his dementia diagnosis. Through the oval glass of the door to my father’s apartment, I saw Arthur, a husky man in his fifties, lumber toward me. I dared think the spring in his step and pleasant expression were good signs.

  “Hey there, Julie,” Arthur said. “C’mon in.”

  I followed Arthur into the foyer. “So how is he?” I said. “Snakes still bothering him?”

  “You know what? I think the drugs are finally kicking in. I’m not saying he’s back to his old self, but he’s more like his old self.”

  We walked down the hall to Dad’s bedroom, where he sat next to his bed in his beloved swivel-rocker-recliner, bathed in the light of a Quincy rerun on TV. “Hey, Bernie,” Arthur said. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

  Dad turned to us. “Hey! Waddya say, Julie? Come over here.” Dad slapped the corner of his bed a few times. “Sit down, for chrissake.”

  I sat on the edge of the bed, next to his chair. “How’re you doin’?”

  “I feel okay. Arthur’s taking good care of me. So what’s new?”

  That this could be the same man who only weeks ago saw untold numbers of snakes piling up in the corners of each room seemed unbelievable. I had given up on the idea of having a normal conversation, let alone discussing my latest case. But what the hell.

  “You heard about the woman murdered in her Gold Coast apartment?”

  “Of course. Auto-parts family. They’ve been around forever. They caught the guy, didn’t they?”

  “It’s a woman. She just hired me.”

  Dad flashed me one of his ambiguous expressions, the kind that approved of getting a pile of cash but hated getting it from a drug dealer.

  “What’s with the look?” I said.

  Dad snickered. “What look? She got the money to pay you?”

  “She has a friend who’s giving me a ten grand retainer.”

  Dad’s face lit up. “No kidding? Good for you. You know how Frownie would approach a case like this, don’t ya?”

  My late mentor, Frownie, was a legendary hard-boiled snoop straight out of central casting.

  “Everybody’s a suspect,” I said.

  “You’re damn right everybody’s a suspect! But it’s still about money. Somebody took it or somebody wanted it. Be careful. If you think she’s got no case, don’t go messing with stuff.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Dad leaned forward then turned his body to me. “I mean, if it’s nothing but dead ends, don’t go making up shortcuts so it looks better for her. Frownie used to do that. You know, try to plant seeds of uncertainty in the jury.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. “Bullshit! Frownie never made up evidence.”

  “Take it easy, will ya? It was a long time ago. I shouldn’t have brought it up. Anyway, you think she did it?”

  Maybe Dad seeing snakes was better. “I don’t have any information yet. Only what’s been on the news.”

  “What’s your gut say?”

  “It’s hard for me to picture her killing somebody. But that doesn’t mean anything.”

  Dad leaned back in the recliner and stared at the television. We sat in silence until I said, “Tell me more about Frownie messing with evidence.”

  Dad glanced at me then turned back to the TV. Then he looked at me again and said, “Do you know where my mother lives?”

  I thought he was joking until the confused look on his face escorted reality back in. He waited for an answer.

  “Nonny died a long time ago,” I said.

  Dad looked at me squint-eyed for a few moments then said, “That’s right. What’s the matter with me?” He leaned back in the chair, apparently thinking about something.

  I said, “What do you think about the Cubs so far?”

  His grimace was intensely familiar, the identical scowl I had known my whole life anytime the Cubs were discussed, except his gaze remained in the distance alongside some blinking and mumbling. I walked out of the room and sat with Arthur at the kitchen table.

  “Yeah, I should’ve been more specific,” Arthur said. “He goes back and forth. But I swear he was with it all day yesterday.”

  With it. From now on, with it moments would be the best I could hope for.

  Chapter 3

  I lucked out finding a parking place on Bellevue then walked along Lake Shore Drive to Oak Street. It was one of those perfect days that one could legitimately say was not unusual for Chicago in early June. Sunny, light breeze, temperature in the upper seventies, negligible humidity. The sparkling lake gave the illusion of living in the most beautiful, perfect city, and reminded me why I endured the winters.

  After crossing Michigan Avenue, Oak Street became East Lake Shore Drive, eight structures of neoclassical and Roman revival luxury on a quiet, orderly, urban streetscape. Residents of East Lake Shore Drive did not experience Chicago winters, but read about them in the newspapers of Palm Springs and Palm Beach. Three classical arches comprised the entrance to Jackie Whitney’s residence, with the words “Kenilworth Manor” chiseled into the stone above the building’s passageway. A plaque on one facade declared the street a landmark district. Another plaque paid tribute to the architect, Benjamin Marshall, who once hosted the Duke of Windsor at his Wilmette mansion. A third plaque displayed a heraldic shield with a red lion rampant. Prohibition-era pomp radiated from the succession of terra-cotta, brick, and limestone buildings, casting a spell, inspiring images of my great-grandfather’s heyday as boss of the “bloody” Twentieth Ward.

  “Can I help you with something, sir?”

  Breaking the spell was a thickset man in a gray double-breasted jacket and military style officer’s cap. Gold braids adorned his sleeves, his lapels, and the sides of his trousers. Below the M. Alvarez nameplate, the building’s coat of arms adorned the jacket’s breast pocket. Boyishly handsome in a clean-cut, Latin-looking way, he could’ve been forty years old as readily as fifty.

  “Are you the doorman?”

  “Yes, sir. Can I help you find something or someone?”

  “It’s part of your job to check on me because I look out of place hanging around this building. And you probably know everyone who lives here.”

  “It’s sort of an unofficial duty,” he said, appearing not the least put off. “I didn’t mean to offend you, sir.”

  “I assure you, Mr. Alvarez, I am not offended. I was out for a stroll and realized I’d never been down this street. If I were you, I would’ve had me arrested by now.”

  Alvarez smiled and said, “Call me Manny.” We shook hands. The sun reflected off his steel and gold watch. Rolex? A gold curb chain hung around his neck. “Have a nice day, sir,” Manny said then turned to leave.

  “Say, Mann
y, could I ask you a few questions about your job?”

  His expression told me the question was unexpected. “Sure,” Manny said then looked back at the entrance. “Are you a reporter or do you work for any news outlet?”

  “No. I give you my word.”

  “Good enough. Would you mind stepping into the lobby?”

  Initially, Manny’s disinterest regarding what I did for a living seemed strange. But then I remembered the media frenzy surrounding the building in the days after the murder. Compared to all the newshounds trying to get past him to interview neighbors or get a look at the crime scene, a lone individual asking questions probably didn’t worry him.

  Two white vans decorated with the building’s coat of arms pulled out from the valet station. I followed Manny into the lobby, where the marble floors shined, the chandeliers glistened, and the heavy red velvet drapes with yellow fringe looked gaudy. Immediately to the left of the door, just off the main corridor, a round-headed man with a butch haircut and blue blazer sat at his post with a smile painted on his face. “Concierge” was written across the front of the desk in large cursive letters. A densely arrayed cluster of fig and rubber trees in an island of silk grass occupied the middle of the lobby. The doorman’s desk was toward the back of the lobby, near the elevators. It seemed odd that it was stationed so far away from the door. Manny walked to one end of the desk and stood with his feet shoulder width apart, hands clasped behind his back, a pleasant grin on his face. Although he was short and stocky—maybe five-nine—his jacket fell straight over his waist. He wore a silver wedding band, although it may have been platinum.

  “What questions do you have, sir?” Manny said.

  “Call me Jules. What is a doorman’s job description these days besides opening doors?”

  Manny relaxed his posture but kept his vision down the lobby. “Maintain a friendly environment at all times,” Manny said. “Greet residents and guests. If needed, help with luggage, accept packages, hail taxis, answer any questions.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier if you were located up front, near the door?”

  Manny smiled broadly. “You would think! It’s a long story, but it has to do with cutting costs and an uncooperative concierge. But don’t repeat that. Basically, we are doormen, bellmen, and security all in one.”

  “Tell me about security.”

  “We’re often told we are the front line. The co-op board voted to require all visitors to sign the guest book. We try to make sure that happens.”

  “How long have you worked here?”

  “Since ’92.”

  “Enough seniority to lock in the day shift, eh?”

  “Yes, longevity has its privileges.”

  “It must be tough to find parking in this neighborhood.”

  “Unfortunately my job does not include use of the building’s parking facilities. However, the valet gentlemen take care of me.” Manny winked at me. “If you know what I mean. I feel terribly guilty about it, although I’m told it’s kind of an open secret and nobody cares.” Manny coughed a couple of times. “Don’t mention it, if you don’t mind.”

  “Mention what?” I returned his wink. “Do the valets interact with the residents other than when parking their cars?”

  “Yes, they pick up and deliver dry cleaning and groceries.”

  “In the white vans?”

  “Exactly.”

  “What’s changed regarding security since you first started working here?”

  Manny’s posture became a little less relaxed. He probably figured I wanted to know if the building had people undercover also watching over things. “Oh, they just want us paying closer attention. Like in an airport when they tell you to report people acting suspicious—whatever that means. I guess there’s more emphasis on recognizing the building’s tenants and making sure only appropriate people enter. Oh, and the board established a twenty-four-hour concierge/lobby-attendant position.”

  “Yes, I saw the man behind the desk when I walked in. What exactly are his responsibilities?”

  “There’s some overlap with my job, but they handle the regular mail, emergency help, getting a plumber or electrician. They’re also supposed to keep up with what’s going on in the neighborhood. New restaurants or clubs or what have you. We both help people who are locked out of their homes.”

  “So the doorman and the concierge would have access to a resident’s home?”

  “Usually. Unless the resident requests that only their own designated friend or family member has access.”

  Manny began pointing out cameras set up in different corners of the ceiling. Then a voice demanded our attention.

  “There you are!”

  A frail woman, smiling broadly and walking at an implausibly fast pace for her eighty-plus years, approached us with a shopping bag over one arm while waving to Manny with the other. Shoulder-length silver hair bordered oversized orange-rimmed glasses. A flowing leopard-print skirt swished in time to the clomp of thick, low-heeled shoes.

  Manny whispered to me, “Gloria is the eyes and ears of the building. She uses the lobby as a second living room so she can be around people. I adore her.”

  “Hello, my love,” Gloria said to Manny, who bent down into an audible smooch on the cheek. “Thank you so much for taking care of my Louie.”

  “Gloria, you know how much we love Louie,” Manny said. “But how are you feeling? Well enough to rejoin your bridge game?” Manny looked at me. “Gloria is a ranked Life Master of bridge.”

  Gloria waved him off. “I’m fine, and that was a long time ago.” She looked at me. “Are you a dog lover like Manny?”

  “Very much.”

  “What kind do you have?”

  “I have a cat.”

  Gloria gave Manny a pretend dirty look. “Manny’s little girl wants a kitty!”

  “But you know she’s not well,” Manny said. He took out his wallet and produced a picture of a toddler sitting on the lap of an older brother.

  Gloria frowned. She said to me in a lowered voice, “He could give a kitty a try, couldn’t he? Happiness has healing properties better than any medicine.” Manny shook his head. Gloria said, “You know, when I woke up in the hospital my first thought was Louie. Who would take care of Louie? But Louie was already with Manny and his wonderful family!” Gloria’s eyes filled. A tear spilled out. “And because of Manny, a humane shelter will guarantee Louie has a loving home should something happen to me.”

  Manny put a hand on Gloria’s shoulder. “C’mon, darling,” he said then began walking her to the elevator. A minute later he returned looking somewhat misty-eyed himself.

  “You have to like people to be good at this job,” Manny said.

  “Easier to like some than others.”

  His face lit up. “They’re the ones who challenge me to like them. And you know what I do? I like the heck out of ’em. Kill ’em with kindness and watch ’em melt.”

  Manny struck me as a harmless, simpleminded guy. He oozed serenity. I envied his consciousness. “Did you like Jackie Whitney?”

  This time Manny’s brows jumped. “You’re a private investigator, aren’t you?”

  I smiled. Scratch the simpleminded part. “You had me dead to rights the first moment you saw me. I never had a chance.”

  “Oh, gosh, I don’t know about that. Although seeing you outside, I knew you were here for a reason.”

  “How did you know?”

  Manny thought about it. “I can’t say for sure. Something about your body language? The way you looked around? I’ve been doing this for a long time.”

  “A true professional.”

  “It’s all attitude. A good attitude means you do a good job, which means you can earn a decent living.”

  “It’s obvious you make an effort to get to know the residents. Do the residents get to know you too?”

  “Oh, sure. They know me, my wife, my kids. They often ask me about my little girl, Alicia. She was born with a lung disease, so she ne
eds lots of extra care.”

  “How does your son deal with his little sister’s illness?”

  Manny beamed. “Alberto adores her. He makes her oxygen therapy into a game so she’ll relax with the mask on her face. He’s quite a boy.”

  Manny stared at his feet. I wanted to get him back on track. “Did Jackie Whitney tip well?”

  Manny gave me a curious look. “Do you have some kind of identification?” he said. I showed him my investigator’s license then handed him one of my cards. He glanced at it and handed it back.

  “Keep it,” I said. Manny put the card into his jacket pocket. “Kate McCall hired me.”

  “To investigate?”

  “I’m helping her lawyer construct a defense.”

  “You’re working for the public defender?”

  “Yes, but Kate McCall is paying for it. Do you know her?”

  “Uh, no. She came and went visiting Jackie, but I didn’t know who she was until I saw her picture in the paper.”

  “You simply knew her as someone who visited Jackie Whitney.”

  “Yeah. It’s none of my business who she was. I never would’ve pegged her for a killer, though, but I guess you never know about those things.”

  “Did she visit often?”

  “Quite a bit. In fact, she had a key to Jackie’s apartment.”

  “Jackie gave Kate a key not for emergencies, but to come and go freely?”

  “That might seem a bit strange. But Jackie had started renting out her place when she left town. The renters got a lower rate if they agreed to take care of her poodle, Trixie. Kate McCall was like her rental agent. So it made sense for her to have a key.”

  “Where’s the poodle now?”

  “The renter asked someone in the building to take her. I don’t remember who it was.”

  “Kate McCall doesn’t like dogs?”

  Manny shrugged. “I never saw her taking Trixie out for a walk or anything like that.”

  “Did you ever take care of Trixie?”

  “Oh, no. Jackie and I were friends, but not with that kind of rapport.”