One of the basic investigative rules is that if an incident occurs at night, then it’s always imperative to revisit the crime scene during the day. So with that in mind, I jumped into my ’86 Porsche Turbo and headed north to Lincoln Park. I didn’t have much reason to visit this heavily residential and yuppified part of the city, but as I drove through the cramped streets and narrow houses, it brought back memories of a girl I had secretly dated one summer whose parents were from Stockholm, Sweden, and thought I was giving their daughter tennis lessons. Little did they know that it was the other way around. I was the one receiving lessons, and they weren’t on the tennis court but in the bedroom.
Fullerton Avenue was an east-west street that cuts through the heart of Lincoln Park, running all the way from the lake on its eastern border to the Kennedy Expressway on the west. Starting in the pricey lakefront neighborhood and its multimillion-dollar apartments, the landscape dramatically changed, becoming more commercial and accessible the farther west one traveled. A brush through DePaul University’s campus, then several retail blocks before the Manor suddenly appeared like a giant ship that has run ashore. Uncomfortably situated on a corner, the Manor towered imperiously above its squat neighbor to the east, The Warehouse Bar & Pizzeria. On the opposite corner, farther west, was an understated hair salon, and across the street to the north, a suite of offices belonging to an insurance company. A block east of the building sat a Burger King badly in need of some refreshing.
My first thought was how odd it was for one of the city’s richest men to have an apartment in this neighborhood. I would expect him to have a private getaway in one of the superluxury high-rises in the Gold Coast, not on a street full of small hair salons and insurance agents sitting behind metal desks. Then I thought about it more and realized this actually was a perfect place for him to have his secret apartment. No one would expect a man of Kantor’s stature to spend some of his nights hidden away in this pedestrian block, many miles away from his palatial estate farther north up the lake. I couldn’t help but think of the irony that a man with so much money died in his bed in a building that was once a bank.
I sat in my car across the street and observed the building’s façade. Two security cameras were positioned on both wings of the building, and one camera was above the entrance. The video I had seen must’ve come from the camera above the entrance. I snapped a couple of photos with my phone’s camera, then got out of the car and walked across the street, toward the building. I continued along the side of the building that faced west, along the side street Janssen Avenue. Unlike the commercial storefronts on Fullerton, this was a small residential street full of narrow houses with shiny windows and freshly painted doors. I wondered why he hadn’t chosen to purchase one of these houses, where he would have had complete privacy, rather than an apartment building that had neighbors who might have recognized him.
The back of the building had three garage doors that opened into an alley separating the building from the houses on the other side. This was where they had backed up the wagon that night and taken his body out to avoid the spectacle of carrying him out the front door. I noticed one camera on the eastern edge of the building. That camera’s video was not on the flash drive Burke had given me. I walked through the alley, then looked at the side of the building abutting the adjacent bar. There was enough room to walk between the buildings, and two of the upper floors had balconies that looked out over the bar and the back of the building. Not exactly a million-dollar view.
I walked back around the building. There was very little activity on Janssen Avenue, and I expected there was even less late at night, when most of the families were likely sleeping. But Fullerton was extremely busy at all hours, as evidenced in the video, with cars constantly racing by and people walking their dogs at all hours. The Burger King at the end of the block must’ve contributed its fair share to the activity.
I made it back to my car just as a parking enforcement officer stood looking at the CPD placard sitting in my window.
“Nice car,” she said. “You cops must make a lot of money. You drive better cars than the mayor.”
“Only when we work a lot of overtime,” I said.
She smiled and shrugged, then walked away, searching for her next victim.
I stood and looked across the street again at the Manor. Something wasn’t right about the timeline. Jenny Lee had been in the building for no more than fourteen minutes and twenty seconds, and in that short time, she had tied him up, did whatever it is a dom does to a sub, then fled when Elliott Kantor died. I’d heard that some of these women worked fast, but this brought a new definition to the concept of a quickie. I needed to talk to Jenny Lee, and I needed to find out what really happened.
I dialed Burke’s number.
“Any updates?” I asked.
“My guys are still working around the clock,” he said. “There’s just not a lot to go on right now.”
“What about Jenny Lee?”
“We’re monitoring her, but we don’t have enough to bring her in. They’ve been calling her. She won’t return the calls. We got her fingerprints and ran them against what we found in the apartment. No matches. We only have her entering the building and walking down the hall in the direction of his apartment. We don’t have anything that puts her inside his apartment.”
“What’s going on with the rear video camera on the east side of the building? I just took a look and noticed it in the back alley. None of the video you gave me had anything from that camera.”
“The management company is working on it,” Burke said. “They were having a problem getting the video to download from the cloud. All this fancy shit. That’s what happens when everything turns so high-tech. Anyway, we’re expecting something within the next forty-eight hours, if not sooner. And I got a call from the ME’s office. They’re planning on having all the lab results back tomorrow. I’ll let you know when they come in.”
“Is Bailey saying anything?”
“He’s up Fitzpatrick’s ass every goddamn day, who then gets up my ass. I’m getting too old for this shit.”
“Nothing’s stopping you from retirement.”
“Trust me. The minute I have enough to buy a place on the gulf, I’m long gone. I’m trading all this shit in for margaritas and tacos.”
“You’re gonna miss our deep-dish and Italian beef.”
“Not hardly. With a credit card and app, anything can be shipped these days. High-tech shit.”
Jenny Lee walked out of the Rivers Casino employee entrance five minutes after her shift ended at eleven. I had my car positioned so that I could see her pull out of the employee lot. Not long after she walked into the restricted parking area, the electronic arm lifted, and a midnight blue Maserati with tinted windows pulled out into the casino driveway. I slowly fell in behind her and kept a safe distance as she made her way onto River Road and then the expressway to make her trip south toward the city.
Traffic was light at this time of night: mostly passengers who had arrived on late flights at nearby O’Hare, mixed with motorists passing through Chicago to get to Indiana. I kept her in my sights as she changed lanes without using her signal. Not only did I like her ride but I liked that she wasn’t afraid to put her foot on the gas. She looked delicate and timid sitting in the interview room in front of Gallagher, but she was anything but that behind the wheel. We made it downtown in just under ten minutes for a drive that typically took fifteen. I followed her off the Ohio Street exit that fed into one of the major arteries running into downtown. Once we had come to the end of the exit ramp, she took a series of left turns, which put us in the trendy River North neighborhood. I wondered if she was going home or going to see a client. She pulled up to a well-maintained mid-rise building at 400 West Huron. She drove past the garage and pulled into a parking spot on the street. I was waiting for her when she got out of the car. She immediately clutched her large handbag when she noticed me standing in the shadows.
“Your bag is the last thing I want, Jenny,” I said, stepping under the streetlight so she could see me better. “I just want to ask you a couple of questions.”
She scanned around nervously, as if planning an escape route. Then she looked back at me and said, “Who are you?”
“I’m the guy who’s gonna help you keep from getting arrested and going to jail.”
“Arrested for what?”
“For killing a man you didn’t kill.”
“I haven’t killed anyone.”
“I just said that. But the cops don’t know that. They think you either killed Elliott Kantor or helped whoever did.”
“I don’t know anyone named Elliott Kantor.”
“You might not know him, but you have his address in your phone: 1425 West Fullerton. He’s the dead man strapped in his bed you found a week ago.”
A slight relaxation in her face signaled I was correct. She started to walk past me. “I have to go,” she said.
“He was already tied up to the bedposts by the time you arrived,” I said. “You had been given the assignment to go and see him, much like you’re about to do right now.”
She stopped, but she didn’t turn around.
“When you got into his apartment, the place was so big, it took you a little while to find him. He was already dead when you walked into the room, so you didn’t try CPR or anything. He would’ve had your lipstick all over his mouth. Instead, you shook him once or twice, and his head just fell to the side. You panicked and ran away. You didn’t do anything wrong, but they’re still gonna keep coming after you, because unfortunately for you, that man wasn’t just any client. He was one of the richest men in this city.”
She turned and faced me.
“What do you want from me?” she said.
“The truth.”
“Are you a cop?”
“I used to be.”
“Well, if you’re not a cop, why are you here asking me these questions? What business is it of yours?”
“I used to be a detective, but now I’m a private investigator. And I’ve been hired to help the cops figure out what actually happened in the apartment that night.”
“If you’re working with the cops, and you know I didn’t do anything, then just tell them I’m innocent and leave me alone.”
“That’s not how this works,” I said. “You answer my questions truthfully, then I’ll have enough to go back and tell them to leave you alone. You hide anything from me, then sooner or later, they’re gonna pick you up in the middle of your shift at the casino and haul your pretty little ass to jail.”
She thought for a moment, then walked back toward me.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Cayne. Ashe Cayne.”
“You think all this is funny?”
“No, I think you were unlucky that night. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. All you have to do is tell me what exactly happened, then I’ll get back in my car, and you can go visit whoever it is you’re scheduled to see.”
“How do you know I don’t live here?”
“Because you drove by the garage entrance half a block back, and you put that beautiful hundred-thousand-dollar car on the street next to a fifteen-year-old Honda Accord with missing hubcaps.”
She took a beat to process what I had just said then asked, “Even though you’re not with the police anymore, can what I tell you be used against me?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“Did you commit a crime?”
“No.”
“Then you’ll be fine.”
Jenny looked relieved, then took a deep breath. “This is what happened,” she began. “I got a text message to go meet a friend at that address. I was running a few minutes late, because I had to get one of the other girls to come in early and cover the last couple of hours of my shift at work, and she was running late. I showed up at the address and rang the button next to his apartment number. A few seconds later, the buzzer sounded, and I went in. I found his place and went to ring his doorbell, but I noticed the door was already open. I knocked a couple of times, but no one answered. I rang the doorbell and waited. Still no answer, so I opened the door and went inside. I kept calling his name, but there wasn’t an answer. The place was huge, so I started looking around. I finally got to the primary bedroom, and that’s where I found him.”
“Was he moving or breathing when you walked into the bedroom?”
“No, he was just lying there.”
“Then what did you do?”
“I walked over to the bed and shook his shoulder. His eyes were slightly open. His head fell to the side when I shook him. I knew right away he was already dead.”
“My next questions are really important,” I said. “I need you to tell me the truth.”
She nodded nervously.
“Who sent you to meet him?”
“I don’t know the name of the person.”
“What’s the name of the company that sent you?”
“Karol’s Angels.”
“How long have you worked for them?”
“I don’t work for them. They give me assignments. It’s been almost two years.”
“And they always provide the client?”
“Friend, not client,” she said. “We call them friends.”
“Really? Someone you’ve never met and don’t even know their name?”
“Friends,” she said adamantly. “Prostitutes have clients. I’m not a prostitute.”
Now was not the time to debate nomenclature.
“You told the police you didn’t know Elliott Kantor’s name, but you just told me that you called his name when you walked into the apartment. Which is it?”
“The name they gave me wasn’t Elliott Kantor. The message said his name was Vernon.”
“No last name?”
“They never give us a last name.”
“Was this the first time you were assigned to Vernon?”
“Yes.”
“Was this the first time he used Karol’s Angels?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes they’ll say if it’s a frequent flier; sometimes they won’t. Typically, I get a first name, address, and the friend’s preferences. They didn’t tell me his status.”
“And when you’re done with your visit, what happens?”
“I send a text message back that says ‘Complete, and the visit is closed out.’”
“Did you send that message?”
“Yes.”
“Even though he was already dead when you got there?”
“I showed up. It wasn’t my fault he was dead. I missed out on other paying appointments. I need money like anyone else.”
“Did you see anyone leaving his apartment?”
“No.”
“Were you the one who called 911?”
“No, I was too scared,” she said. “That would only make them think it was me who had something to do with it.”
“I want you to think really hard,” I said. “Was there anything else out of the ordinary? Anything that bothered you besides the fact you found a dead man in his bed?”
Jenny looked up toward the dark sky as she thought.
“There is one thing I still can’t figure out,” she said.
“I’m listening.”
“When I arrived, I rang his buzzer. Someone had to buzz me in. It couldn’t have been him. He couldn’t buzz me in, tie himself up, then die in just a couple of minutes. Someone was there, and every time I think about it, I get creeped out. If they killed him, they could’ve killed me too.”
“You sure you pushed the right buzzer?” I said. “Maybe you pushed another buzzer, and someone else let you in.”
“I’m sure,” she said. “1W. It was the top buzzer. They didn’t ask me my name. They just buzzed me in.”
“Did that strike you as strange when they didn’t ask for your name but just unlocked the door?”
“Not at the time. I figured he had seen me on the camera, so he knew it was me. There was no reason to ask my name.”
“Do they send the men your photo before you show up?”
“Of course,” she said. “The female friends we visit get sent our photos also.”
“Female friends?”
“Women use the service too, as much as men do. But I’m not into that, so I don’t accept those assignments. I only do single men or couples.”
“I believe you,” I said.
“Can I go now?” she said.
“One more question. Did you ever get the three thousand dollars?”
“I’m only paid a third of the rate. And no, I never got it. The company gets their money as soon as they make the booking. But I only get paid once the friend sends back confirmation that my visit is complete.”
“Just complete, or does it also have to be satisfactory?”
“My visits are always satisfactory.”
I watched her walk away and thought about how much fun someone was about to have.