O’Connor says he’ll talk to the case agent and take care of Nehls. O’Connor may not be my ally, but we have a common enemy. And he can make things happen.
Thankfully, the station is pretty dead when I leave. O’Connor walks me out and hails me a cab. It’s sunny, and almost warm outside, and Addison is alive with bikers and joggers headed toward the lake. I wonder how many of these people are having affairs. I’m probably the only one stupid enough. O’Connor watches as my cab pulls away, and from the look in his eye I can tell he’s hoping he didn’t just make a huge mistake.
The back of one of the photographs has a Wolf Camera logo, so my first step is to find out where they were developed. The first Wolf Camera I visit is a place the size of a magazine stand, stuffed into a building on Rush Street. I present the photos to an older guy behind a counter stacked with processing envelopes.
“Any idea how I find out where these were developed?” I ask. I hope he cooperates since I don’t have my star to back me up.
“If they’re ours,” he says, “there’s a routing number.” I hand him the picture of me outside Mason’s and he glances at the image. Then he looks at me. “Who’s following who?”
“Please, this is urgent,” I say. “I’m a police officer,”
He isn’t sold.
“The person who took these could be in trouble,” I lie.
“You’re a cop?” he asks, wanting proof.
The only evidence I can give is the photo of me in uniform at the bar. I hand it over; he is clearly not impressed, but he turns over the photo and punches some corresponding numbers in his computer.
“That’s our Chicago Avenue store,” he tells me, and I know exactly which one, so I grab the pictures and dart out.
“Thanks,” I say over my shoulder. I can see him shaking his head in the mirror that covers the security camera. Guess I won’t be coming back here for my film processing needs.
“You see the guy who picked these up?” I ask a college kid wearing a tag that says “Tim.” This Wolf Camera is bigger, and the space seems unnecessary.
“We can’t give the names of customers . . .” Tim starts, so I lean over the desk and show him the picture of me at the bar.
“Look. I’m a cop. The guy who took these is stalking me.”
He looks at the photo, then at me, then at every corner of the room. I wonder if his decision hinges on store policy. I size the kid up, stand between him and the store’s security camera, and put a twenty on the counter. Tim considers the money.
“Comes in once in a while with this type stuff,” he says. “Don’t know his name.”
I put another twenty on the counter.
“I don’t know it,” he insists.
“Can’t you look it up?”
He looks up at the security camera. I take that as a no.
I pick up both bills, take the photo, and turn to walk out.
“He drives a yellow truck, right?” Tim says.
I stop.
“He was just in here yesterday. Dropped off a roll . . .” Tim flips through a stack of envelopes and pulls out a processing slip. He puts it on the counter and taps some keys to open his register, waiting for the cash, just like a regular transaction.
I give him the forty bucks and buy the name: Bruce Zahner.
I find a phone booth outside a Streeter’s Pub on Chicago Avenue and open the attached phone book to the end. I search the z’s until I find a few Zahners. Three with first letter B. One within ten minutes of here.
I hail a cab.
The cabbie takes me west down Division Street, away from the upscale brownstone condos and toward the fat ugly warehouses across the river. I stop him a few blocks past the address and walk back to a warehouse facing the river.
I knock. No one answers, so I try the door. It’s open.
When I get inside, the lights are on, but the place is strangely quiet.
“Hello?” I say. No one answers. I should have told the cabbie to wait.
If this guy is a private eye, he isn’t very private about it. All his equipment is in plain view. Photographs of people who definitely weren’t posing for them are strewn over a worktable. A telescope sits dismantled on the floor. A roll of paper hangs from the fax machine; its green light blinks.
“Hello?” I say again. I flip through some papers on his desk, but it all looks irrelevant to my case.
“Who are you?” A skinny woman in acid-washed Levis catches me off guard when she appears from what I thought was a closet. She exhales smoke with every breath.
“I’m looking for Bruce Zahner,” I say.
“So am I,” she says. She jams a cigarette into her mouth and looks me over with shifty eyes. Or maybe her eyes are steady and the rest of her is shifty. She taps her foot and rhythmically wipes her left hand on her jeans. Either there’s music playing that I’m not hearing, or she’s strung out.
“Who are you?” I ask.
“Who the hell are you?” she asks right back.
“My name’s Mary,” I lie uncreatively. “I’m a dissatisfied customer.”
“Join the club,” she says. “I’m Janine. Bruce’s ex-girlfriend.” She proceeds through the office to what I figured was another closet door. I follow her down a hallway.
“Not for a couple days. I should have known he wouldn’t be here. He never shows up during normal hours. Sets up this business to look for people, and always the people who come here are looking for him.” She opens a heavy door and its weight nearly pulls her along with it. “Says he don’t have money. Cheap bastard. Look at this.”
I step into a garage that’s practically consumed by that big yellow truck. She coaxes me on like she’s giving a tour. “Said he had cash coming in under the table, then he goes, gets this shiny car like he’s doing surveillance for Donald Trump. To ‘keep everybody he owes on their toes,’ he says. Moron. And, he owes me money.”
She flips on an overhead light, and I see, parked on the other side of the truck, a 2002 black Mustang. It looks better than mine.
“He owe you something?” Janine asks.
“An explanation.”
“You’re telling me. I ask him maybe he could share the wealth, pay people back instead of blowing it all at the gambling boats like last time . . .” She keeps rambling.
I walk around the car. There are no scratches. Vehicle paint and car body repair tools line a workbench on the passenger’s side. There are Avis rental car stickers on the plates. The chemical smell of paint hangs in the air.
This is the car that ran Susan off the road. This man tried to kill her. There’s no denying it: Mason hired Bruce Zahner for dirty work.
I need air. I find a door that lets me outside to a gravel parking lot. It’s heavy, like the one on the other side of the garage, and I put my weight into it, head down, and push.
That’s when I see the blood. Or is it motor oil? Little specks on the floor that get lost in the gravel outside. I prop the door open and touch a spot on the floor with my finger. It’s not oil.
“When did you see Bruce last?” I ask Janine, moving on to examine the gravel.
“Two days ago,” she says. “I should have known. He’s probably too broke to get back from the casino in Elgin. Last time he was there I had to go get him myself.” Janine follows me past a row of Dumpsters, though she’s moving more slowly than her mouth.
I kneel, searching for evidence, but the blood trail is more like a dead end. Looks like I’m going to have to find out what’s in the Dumpsters.
“I should have left him when he lost all the rent money at some off-track betting place,” Janine continues, kneeling with me like she’s helping, though I don’t think she has a clue what I’m doing.
I stand up and open the lid to the first Dumpster and the rancid smell nearly makes me puke. It isn’t death; it’s more like a Porta Potti. Without looking inside, I drop the lid and move away as fast as I can. About three feet past the last Dumpster, I notice a rut in the gravel. A groove, like something had been dragged toward the river. I follow the subtle path.
“He had this big sob story, and he had the nerve to ask me to spot him a hundred . . .”
I try to block out her jabbering. I feel sick. I stop at the edge of the parking lot where a concrete slab stops the path. I lean over a metal rail that separates the property from the river below. My head spins and I want to tell Janine to shut up. I close my eyes and spit and breathe and try not to vomit. Mason framed me. Mason is responsible for killing his unborn child. I have to find Bruce Zahner.
Janine comes up next to me, still babbling: “. . . I told him if it wasn’t for me, he’d be . . . dead . . . he’s . . . he’s . . . Bruce!”
I think she must be shouting to him across the river. I grip the rail and stand up straight to find out.
“Oh my God! He’s dead!” she howls. She’s pointing down to the river.
There, the body of a curly-headed man floats, snagged on a rock in the slow-moving current. His beady eyes stare up at me, and I remember him from O’Shea’s. And then I throw up.
“Oh no! Bruce! No!” Janine starts to climb over the rail. I wipe my mouth, grab hold of her leg, and pull her back.
“Don’t go down there, you’ll hurt yourself. Can you stay right here?” Janine collapses to the gravel. I watch her and take a second to recover.
“Bruce,” she whimpers.
“I’ll call the police,” I lie. The last thing I need is to be caught here. “Janine?” She looks up at me in a complete daze. “I’ll be right back.”
I’m shaking. A cold sweat sticks to my skin. I run back into the office.
I leave the door open to keep my eye on Janine and I find a phone to call O’Connor.
“Where are you?” I ask when he answers.
“Still at your station,” he says. “Just finished questioning Officer Flagherty. Only thing he admits is a healthy fear of his wife. You know her? If he had any knowledge of corruption around here, I think she would have slapped the cuffs on him herself. He’s in the doghouse just for agreeing to sit nights at Deb Maloney’s. So where are you? I ran into your Sarge. He was close to a coronary. He talked to the agent who impounded your car—something about a trunkful of sympathy cards—”
“Forget the cards,” I say. “I found the guy. Bruce Zahner. Office is on Division, west of the river. He’s floating in it.”
“In his office?”
“In the river.”
“Anybody else see him?”
“His ex-girlfriend just found him. He’s got a black Mustang, all patched up, looks just like mine. It’s parked in his garage. Rental plates. And the yellow truck I thought was yours? It’s here too. It was him. This is proof.”
“Possible proof he was hired to follow you. Not that he was hired to kill Susan.”
“If he’s responsible for Susan’s accident, and we can link him to Mason, that’s solicitation of murder. It’s at least conspiracy to commit, right?”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself. Wait for me there. We’ll trace his steps. Find a loophole. A mistake. Do this by the book.”
“You know as well as I do we won’t get him that way,” I say.
“There are other cops involved, Sam. This is bigger than you know.”
“I don’t care who’s involved, O’Connor. I’m the one who keeps taking the blame.” I think I would taste bile in my mouth even if I hadn’t thrown up.
“Give me the address,” O’Connor says. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Through the doorway I see Janine is out of her daze, waving her arms around and yelling at passing cars. One has pulled into the lot, and the driver is already out of his car, dialing his cell phone.
“Cops will be here in two,” I tell O’Connor. “You want me to be a diversion, don’t let me get stuck in this.”
“Fine. Tell me where to pick you up.”
“That won’t work. If other cops are involved, word that we’re working together is bound to get to Mason if you leave the station. If you aren’t getting any answers there, I’m going to find out who else is working with him. You be the diversion.”
“Dammit, Mack, I don’t like this—” he starts.
“I’ll be in touch,” I finish. I hang up and go out the back, down the alley to Halsted.
If I’m right about the PI, it’s true that Mason intended to get rid of Susan and me. Or at least he wanted to make it look that way; if anyone thought I was working with him, blaming me for attempting to kill his wife would certainly dispel the idea.
Why does everyone think I’m working with Mason anyway? Both O’Connor and Birdie said it’s because I tried to pin Fred’s death on Trovic instead of calling it an accident.
That means nobody believes it was accident. That means someone besides Marko Trovic wanted to kill Fred.
I catch a cab and give the driver Fred’s address. He heads north and I wish he’d move faster, because I need to find out the truth about Fred before Mason catches up with me.