That next afternoon, Carolina pulled her tinted-window Jaguar into my father’s garage. In the event someone was watching his house, we secretly loaded his suitcases into the trunk and him in the back seat, and she pulled out and headed to the airport. Mechanic sat in his car at the end of the block to see if anyone pulled in behind her. No one did. She got him to the airport without incident, and he was safely on his way to London. Mechanic planned to watch over the house the next couple of days to see if there were any visitors who showed up without invitation.
By the time I got back to the office, a large, unmarked envelope had been slipped under my door. I opened it and pulled out the autopsy report of Bianca Wembley. I immediately went to my desk and read through it. The ME’s report was largely unremarkable. There were no signs of trauma. She had impressions on both wrists, which could’ve been from bracelets worn too tightly. She had a piercing in her left nostril, but no nose ring present. Ligation marks were found around her neck consistent with the body being hung on the statue. The cause of death was listed as suicide.
My curiosity was getting the best of me, and I couldn’t help but wonder about the circumstances surrounding this woman’s suicide. One of the deficiencies of an autopsy was that there was no way to assess the mental state of the deceased, and in cases of suicide, what brought the person to the point where they felt no other option was viable other than to end their own life. The ME only had the physical evidence to work with to describe the how of death, not the why.
I called Dr. Ellison, who said he would take a look at the report, but per the information I relayed to him, it sounded like a straightforward suicide, of which he unfortunately had seen many in his career. But he would give the report a full vetting and see if there was anything that might’ve been missed. He cautioned me that in cases like this where the decedent had not yet been identified, and given the volume of cases the ME’s office was struggling to clear, these exams tended to be superficial and highly prejudicial toward the actual findings at the scene of discovery. In other words, if the evidence in the field strongly indicated a manner of death, most autopsy reports in cases like this were going to support those findings.
Karla Coe finally got some information on Connelly, so we agreed to meet at the Eleven | Eleven bar on Lake Street that was owned by Nazr, a former player for the Chicago Bulls who I had met in the Meinsdorf’s owner’s suite a few years back. It was one of my favorite bars, because the vibe was low-key, it was never too crowded, and Nazr hired a Michelin-worthy chef who turned out creations worthy of some of the city’s finest restaurants. I arrived a few minutes before Karla and was seated on the small roof-deck almost eye level with the “L” train above Lake Street.
The bartender personally brought over an old-fashioned as compliments from Nazr, who had told me when we first met that it was his favorite drink. The other tables were full of fashionable, hip patrons who spoke quietly while enjoying the warm breeze. I had just put my drink down when Karla appeared. She wore a sleeveless pink silk top that showed her toned arms, and a snug skirt that accentuated her commitment to the gym. She had her hair down and her face made up lightly with some color in her cheeks and eyeliner that made her hazel eyes pop.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said, sitting. “I was at a celebration for a law school classmate who just made partner.”
“You have fun?” I said.
“I survived it,” she said. “It reinforced the reasons why I decided to leave the world of big firms, overly entitled clients, and supersized egos. Complete shit.”
“You don’t miss the big salary?”
“Not enough to sell my soul again,” she said. “Besides, I did pretty well for myself, and I’m not a big spender.”
“You just look like one.”
“That’s where the art lies.” She smiled, and I couldn’t help but wonder how many of those Randolphs who were senior partners got a little randy with her.
“What are you drinking?” I asked.
“I really shouldn’t,” she said. “I’m already at my limit. What are you having?”
“An old-fashioned.”
“I love a good old-fashioned,” she said. “But I shouldn’t. Maybe a glass of wine.”
Our waiter came, and she ordered a glass of Chardonnay from Carneros, the southernmost tip of Napa Valley.
“I see you still have the stubble working,” she said.
“I got back from LA a few days ago and haven’t been inspired to shave,” I said.
“Maybe it’s best you don’t find that inspiration. This look really works for you.”
I had a response but thought better of it. Instead, I said, “So your sources have come back on Monroe Connelly.”
“In a big way,” she said. “When you told me his name, I figured him for just another corporate type sitting on top of the bloodsucking law-firm pyramid. But this guy’s a real doozy.”
“Sounds fun.”
“First of all, he’s a named partner, makes a shit ton of money, but doesn’t have that many clients.”
“So how is he making so much money?”
“The clients he does have are all big and always in need of his services.”
“He’s running a margin business and not volume. I can’t be mad at how he’s playing the game.”
“‘Game’ is the right way to describe it. He did a lot of work for the businessman Elliott Kantor, who died recently.”
“What kind of work?”
“Mostly real estate deals and any work that other attorneys turned down. He’s the kind of guy you call for dirty work, things that need to be done off the books. An alderman needs a little encouragement to sign off on a project in their ward. Someone files a nuisance lawsuit, and you need the plaintiff to quietly go away. He’s super connected, and a lot of people in this town owe him favors.”
“Family? Wife? Kids?”
“He’s been married to the same woman for thirty years. They have one son, who’s in college. No one ever sees the wife. They live out in River Forest, and supposedly she’s happy being a suburban wife and not getting mixed up in all his activities here in the city. But speaking of family, he’s the brother of Eugene Andrade.”
“I’ve heard that name before,” I said. “‘Love is urgent. A boat at sea is urgent. It is urgent to destroy certain words, hatred, loneliness, and cruelty, some sorrows, many swords.’”
“I’m impressed,” she said.
“Don’t be. Those weren’t my words. They belong to Eugénio de Andrade.”
“So you know him?”
“A different Eugene. He was a twentieth-century Portuguese poet. One of his famous poems was ‘É urgente o amor.’ ‘Love is urgent.’”
“You’re the first private investigator I’ve ever met who can solve crimes and quote poetry.”
“And juggle three bowling pins while blindfolded.”
She laughed.
“But in all seriousness,” I said, “I know I’ve heard the name Eugene Andrade somewhere else. I just can’t place it.”
“First deputy administrator of COPA,” she said.
COPA was the Civilian Office of Police Accountability that had been established by a city council ordinance in 2016 in response to the public anger over the long-standing and ineffective police review infrastructure known as the Independent Police Review Authority. The city had suffered from a rash of police-related incidents where civilians were either injured, killed, or their civil rights had been brazenly violated. COPA members were appointed by the mayor and were charged with investigating complaints made against police, as well as specific incidents, such as the dangerous discharge of a firearm, the death of a detainee in police custody, and when a civilian was killed during the course of a police officer performing law enforcement duties.
“This COPA connection adds a new wrinkle,” I said.
“In what way?” Karla said.
“That means Connelly has access to the inner workings of certain police information and activities. And in this city, access equals power.”
Hearing about Andrade’s appointment to COPA made it likely that Connelly and Bailey had some kind of relationship, the nature of which was still in question. The waiter brought Karla her Chardonnay, as well as the tuna tartare and caprese salad I had ordered.
I thought out loud. “So you have two brothers who are lawyers. One does real estate work and has a moonlighting gig in COPA. The other does real estate too, but he moonlights as a legal fixer for rich clients. They must have some relationship to the mayor, because the COPA position is his appointment.”
“What do you think all of this means?” she said between small bites of tuna.
“I have no idea, but I’m thinking that Andrade’s work with COPA could easily become part of Connelly’s sphere of influence.”
“Can I ask what specifically your interest is in Connelly?”
I thought for a moment. She had been nice enough to help me without asking many questions. The least I could do was give her an outline, even if it was vague.
“I’m working on a case right now, and I’m not sure if Connelly is involved. I’m trying to get a better understanding of who he is and what he does to see if he’s connected in some way. What you’ve told me is a big help.”
“How?”
“Because I think he might have knowledge or access to knowledge that would make him party to what’s happening with my investigation.”
“Have you ever met him before?”
“Never.”
“It’s certainly not for me to tell you your job, but have you thought about just approaching him and asking him your questions?”
“I have. But with someone like him, your timing has to be almost perfect when you approach. Sometimes you only get one shot, and if you haven’t done your homework, you can blow it all.”
“There was also talk about him being very social,” Karla said. “But I never know how much stock to put into rumors like that.”
“Social in what way?”
“Stepping out of his marriage. He’s supposed to be quite the ladies’ man.”
“Any names flying around?”
“I wasn’t given any. I was just told he likes to be out there. He considers himself an operator. Wears expensive bespoke suits. Drives a lot of vintage cars.”
I was just about to shovel in a piece of mozzarella, but that stopped me. “What did you just say?”
“He’s an operator. He considers himself a ladies’ man.”
“No, the car part.”
“Supposedly, he’s got this big car collection. But he’s very specific. He only collects vintage cars, and all of them are black.”
That put a big smile on my face. Sometimes in the course of an investigation, the heavens open up, and a gift falls from the sky and finds its way right into your lap. This was one of those moments.
“Everything okay?” Karla asked.
“More than okay,” I said, raising my glass.
“What are we toasting?” she said.
“Good goddamn luck,” I said. “That’s what you are to me.”
I now was certain that Monroe Connelly was VintageBlackOnly@gmail.com. He was the one who requested Jenny Lee visit Kantor that night, and he was the one who confirmed the appointment had been completed. He was also in the vicinity of Northerly Island when Bianca Wembley’s dead body was hanging from that statue. It was way past time to have a sit-down with Esquire Connelly.