Killing Frost Read online

  ‘It’s only been on the market for a couple of weeks. But I take any offer seriously.’ She clicked and a slide show began. ‘You’re not working with a realtor? Seriously?’

  ‘Seriously.’

  ‘I assume,’ she said, allowing a small – perhaps flirtatious – smile to escape, ‘you would like to see it before you buy it.’

  ‘I heard you were running for mayor.’

  She clicked off the computer, looked down at the tabletop momentarily. ‘You’re wasting my time.’

  ‘I’m registered to vote.’

  ‘Maybe I should call the police.’

  ‘Who said I’m not interested in the house?’

  ‘Could you possibly afford it?’

  ‘I could get a second job,’ Shanahan said.

  ‘And you’re first is?’

  ‘Investigator. Looking into deaths linked to the Civilian Review Board.’

  ‘Deaths?’

  ‘Alexandra Fournier,’ Shanahan said.

  ‘Oh my God. You think there is a connection?’

  She looked surprised, upset, nervous.

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to figure out. How well did you know Mrs Fournier?’

  ‘Not well. I understood where she was coming from, but we agreed on very little. I’m sure that doesn’t surprise you. Listen, Mr Dietrich …’

  ‘Shanahan, Dietrich Shanahan …’

  ‘I’ll let you know if I find out anything that might help. Give me your card, if you would. Also’ – she extended her hand – ‘I’ll be taking your calls from now on.’

  He didn’t want to like her and he knew the first thing a politician learns is to fake sincerity, yet he believed that what he told her did shock her and that she wasn’t brushing him off.

  ‘Mrs Fournier was very interested in the idea of young people getting second chances to straighten out their lives. She might have taken a special interest in the case of Officer Leonard Card.’

  ‘Card?’ She appeared to be searching her memory.

  ‘Leonard Card’s case is about the shooting of a young innocent bystander …’

  ‘Oh, yes. We have more than one case. We don’t know “innocent” or not, hence the investigation,’ she said.

  ‘Any witnesses? A partner?’ Shanahan asked, searching for another way into the case against Card.

  ‘He was undercover. And you? I’ve been forthcoming. Who are you working for?’

  ‘Can’t tell you.’

  ‘Holcomb?’

  ‘You earned that at least. No. Not Holcomb, but it is interesting that you bring him up.’

  The walk across the parking lot provided fair warning. Shanahan’s energy was already waning. He hadn’t exerted himself. Slow walking. A little talking. Was it his brain or maybe the medication? He wasn’t in pain. He was simply drained of the life force, he thought. Life force.

  He and Harold stopped at a Burger King, something he could not do with Maureen. Though it wasn’t a huge sacrifice he made for the woman he loved, he occasionally craved the big fish sandwich with cheese. And just as she secretly devoured pistachio ice cream, he would do the same with a fat fish sandwich from a fast-food chain. This time and for the first time he could only get through half of it.

  It occurred to Shanahan as he walked the evidence of their guilty pleasure to the trash that he had allowed his investigation to center around Leonard Card. It certainly was a connection, but Alexandra Fournier lived a fuller life. She had strong political opinions, owned property. Could there be an inheritance issue?

  Perhaps Kowalski would have something.

  They weren’t moving. Shanahan opened his eyes. He could see the back of Harold’s head. Wires led to his ears and tiny earphones. It was deadly quiet. Outside was a river carrying a couple of dead tree limbs southward. It took him a moment, but Shanahan realized he’d dozed off again. He was at Kowalski’s place without witnessing the trip. He could get used to that kind of travel.

  TEN

  ‘I was worried you went and died on me,’ Harold said.

  Shanahan saw Harold’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

  ‘I get that a lot. How long was I out?’

  ‘An hour maybe. We’re just a few blocks from the address you gave me.’

  ‘Good. We’ll pay Mr Kowalski a visit and call it a day.’

  ‘Miss Bailey called. She wants to see you before you go home.’

  Kowalski shared his riverfront home with a bulldog who seemed to have the same regard for consciousness as Shanahan. Kowalski, in Shanahan’s eyes, was a bulldog too, looking a little more ferocious than he was, but extremely formidable if provoked.

  Kowalski greeted him with two glasses of Irish whiskey, keeping one for himself.

  ‘Life is good,’ Kowalski said, stepping to one side. ‘It is important we keep it that way.’

  Shanahan didn’t know what music was playing softly in the background, but it was pleasant. So was the art on the walls. He’d have to be careful not to drift off again, he reminded himself as he sank deeply onto the worn cushions of the leather sofa.

  ‘So, let’s get to it,’ Kowalski said, glancing down at a yellow legal pad. ‘The do-gooder sister, Alexandra, had a ton of money, or assets actually. Judge Fournier bought up property all over town, mostly low-rent, abandoned. He wasn’t a slumlord and there’s no indication that he bought these with any insider knowledge about the future. But some of it has proven profitable and more of it might as city populations are becoming more urban centered.

  ‘Your client, Jennifer Bailey, though you wouldn’t know by looking, is the poor sister. Not only did she lose the judge, she missed out on his investments. Miss Bailey is not going to starve, but she might have to give up hiring private eyes and personal drivers unless the will favors her with a generous bequest.’

  Kowalski raised his eyebrows to emphasize the possible murder motive contained in his words. He flipped the page and continued. ‘There is a brother out there somewhere.’ He shook his head, shrugged. ‘Maybe he’ll bubble up to the surface when they read the will.

  ‘Both Thompkins and Holcomb are who they say they are,’ Kowalski said. ‘For the most part. Thompkins probably doesn’t care who sleeps with whom, but claims to be against same-sex marriage when pressed. She’s a friend to the rich in their times of need. Chamber of Commerce princess. Holcomb is what we used to call a limousine liberal. Not sure how comfortable he is with the great unwashed masses, but he talks a good game. Trust fund baby. Art collector, donor to the arts. The Kennedy school of charm and not subject to the sins of the fathers. Father made it big in commercial real estate, especially in Chicago and the region. Holcomb is a criminal defense attorney, but his are higher-end criminals and most of his skill is making sure there is no time served and reducing fines. Dealing with the guys I deal with would probably scare him to death. Both are on the City Council.’

  Kowalski refilled the glasses, then arranged some logs in the fire, which seemed to energize the dog, who waddled over to inspect.

  ‘He loves this time of day,’ Kowalski said. ‘Cigar?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘No deep, dark secrets I could find,’ Kowalski said. ‘The cop, Card, is a creep. The usual. Loves the power. Loves to hurt people. But usually stays just this side of the line. I can’t imagine him killing the kid on purpose. Not because it would cause him sleepless nights. Too much paperwork.’

  Kowalski lit a match, touched it to the newspaper stuffed under the logs, at strategic spots. It took only seconds for the fire to take off.

  ‘It’s an art,’ he said no doubt considering a bow to his audience during a hot, white burst of flame.

  When the flames retreated to a steady burn, the dog moved in, dropped down on its belly, closed its eyes and opened its mouth, whereupon his mammoth tongue escaped its confinement.

  Kowalski retrieved the legal pad; one more flip of the page.

  ‘Finally, Harold B. Vincent. High school all-star. Scholarship to Purdue. His bas
ketball star status faded in his junior year. He went into the military where he served with, as they say, distinction. He was Special Forces, Shanahan. The real thing. He got out, finished his college and went to work for the state police … no doubt where he met Miss Attorney General.’

  ‘His record with the police?’

  ‘Solid. Duty with the governor’s office. Before that with missing children. Decent retirement. If his tastes aren’t too extravagant, he’s in good shape for his golden years.’

  Irvington is an old neighborhood. Once abandoned during the era of urban flight, its handsome, well-constructed homes and mature trees invited gentrification. Jennifer Bailey occupied one of the grand old two-story homes. The home had a similar sense of propriety to that of her deceased sister’s, though it wouldn’t bring half the sale price.

  Odd, Shanahan thought as he went toward the frail woman standing in the front doorway. Jennifer had a late model car and a driver, while Alexandra was content with an old Buick she drove herself.

  The expression on Miss Bailey’s face wasn’t pleasant. She didn’t invite him in. It seemed to him that she was, in fact, blocking the door.

  ‘I have learned that you have been asking questions about me?’

  ‘Yes,’ Shanahan replied.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Due diligence.’

  ‘You don’t trust me?’

  ‘Trust isn’t in my job description. Or yours.’

  ‘I’m paying you to investigate me? And Harold?’

  ‘The fact is, Miss Bailey, you might not know if someone hates you or resents you or wants something from you. Harold seems like a nice enough guy, but who knows? I like to know who I’m dealing with.’

  ‘What did you find out?’ she asked.

  ‘That, apparently, you still have connections. I’ll have to be more careful.’

  ‘Mr Shanahan, have you been drinking?’

  Shanahan thought about ignoring the question, but decided some lines had to be drawn.

  ‘Some very fine Irish whiskey.’

  ‘On my dime?’

  ‘I do business my way. Sometimes having a drink with someone is the best way to get information or simply an enjoyable way to pass the time. If you wanted a teetotaler, maybe you should have hired a Mormon.’

  ‘I forgot,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Time had erased the memory of some of your sharper edges.’

  ‘All coming back to you now?’

  ‘We’ll proceed your way for the time being,’ she said. ‘Harold! Please take Mr Shanahan home.’

  Shanahan headed for the Lexus. He stopped. ‘Who is the beneficiary of your sister’s estate?’

  ‘We’ll find out tomorrow.’

  ‘Her daughter?’

  ‘They had a falling out.’

  ‘There are photos of young kids in her wallet. Birthday parties.’

  ‘Probably from the center. She disowned the lot of them. She could be stubborn.’

  ‘You didn’t disown them.’

  ‘No. I did not.’

  Shanahan’s house on Pleasant Run was what they used to call ‘a stone’s throw’ from Irvington. He managed to stay awake during the short trip. He thought about Jennifer Bailey, a highly respected attorney who knew nothing about her sister’s will. He thought about tomorrow, as unsure of its arrival as he’d ever been and he thought about Maureen, about how his increasing frailty could exacerbate the already existing issue of his age and hers; though the issue as far as he knew was in his mind only.

  He napped, the whiskey softly coating his inflamed Irish brain.

  ‘Good.’ She nodded at the usual spaghetti carbonara he had learned to make. ‘And how was the day?’

  ‘Visited with Kowalski’s bulldog.’

  ‘And Kowalski?’

  ‘Him too. As well as the lady, Tompkins.’

  ‘What was she like?’

  ‘She came around.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Maureen seemed almost angry.

  ‘She softened a bit. Her eyebrows looked like they were tattooed on, her lipstick applied by a sign painter, the lines were so perfect.’

  ‘And …?’

  ‘That’s intimidating.’

  ‘She’s tough.’ Maureen grinned. ‘That’s her reputation.’

  ‘You cross paths?’ Shanahan asked.

  ‘She serves a different clientele.’

  ‘If I give you an address, can you get me a phone number?’ he asked.

  ‘Isn’t that part of your bag of tricks?’

  ‘Used to be. I’m an old dog and I don’t understand the new tricks at all.’

  Shanahan cleared the table. It was a slow process because his left hand still refused to follow commands. He had broken a half-dozen dishes so far.

  Maureen retrieved her laptop and returned to sip her wine and begin her search. She squinted at the little piece of paper he had given her and her fingers danced over the keys, clinking.

  ‘No Samantha Byers in South Bend,’ she said. ‘Who’s she?’

  ‘Somebody playing house or hanging out with a troubled cop.’

  ‘The address belongs to Benzie’s Motel.’

  ‘Benzie’s?’

  ‘You know it?’ Maureen asked.

  ‘A divey place just outside South Bend’s city limits. I’ll be damned. You have a number?’

  ‘And how do you know such a dive so easily when you can’t even remember what you had for breakfast?’

  ‘I have a divey past.’

  ‘No one here by that name,’ said the man who answered the phone at Benzie’s.

  ‘You remember her?’

  ‘No time for nostalgia.’ The man was gone. Samantha was off the grid. She checked into a motel just long enough to register her car so she had legit plates and registration if she’s pulled over for speeding, but that’s it. Maybe she moved in with Leonard Card.

  ‘Maybe a prostitute,’ Maureen said. ‘An escort working Indianapolis and Chicago.’

  Cops and working girls, Shanahan thought, a natural combination. They work the same streets, interact in the games of petty crimes. Acts of extremely personal violence and intimacy with strangers. Lonely night shifts. Pretend to be tough. Pretend to be turned on. So much in common.

  ‘Maybe,’ Shanahan said.

  He was still awake when she came to bed. Except on the coldest nights, she slept nude. He watched as she casually revealed herself, the golden incandescence from the lamp on the bedside table warming her flesh and the room. He was so old, and aging so rapidly, while she was no older than she was when they met. Was he being fair?

  No. Not in the least. Not only about her living a fuller, more vibrant life, but about Shanahan likely putting her in danger. He had poked the beehive. It was likely that was what Mrs Fournier had done. Look what happened to her.

  The light went out in the bedroom. He felt her slide against him, her lips touched his ear.

  ‘I’m with you for life. Yours. Mine. The earth’s.’

  ELEVEN

  Shanahan awoke determined. As Maureen enjoyed the gray morning under the covers, he called Jennifer Bailey, telling her to drop by and pick him up for the reading of the will.

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ she said curtly. ‘I’ll let you know what happens.’

  ‘I need to be there,’ Shanahan said.

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘There are things you might not see.’

  ‘I don’t think …’

  ‘What time will you be by?’

  Jennifer Bailey was an attractive, elegant, even noble woman. She was also used to getting her way. She wouldn’t waste a moment on false civility. The ride downtown was silent.

  The law offices were located on the fourteenth floor of a handsome neo-gothic building with a gaudy ground-floor bank – Hunter’s Bank – stealing its architectural purity and respectability. Their blue-and-orange signs were appearing everywhere in the city. Shanahan remembered when there were only a few
banks, and when their presence didn’t scream out like an all-night diner. The law offices reflected the architect’s original intent, more subdued, stiff but modest, much like Mrs Fournier’s home.

  Shanahan recognized the sturdy Margaret Tice, who ran the Second Chance Community Center. She dressed for the occasion. She wore a navy blue suit, but still looked like she might have come in from the potato field. She nodded noncommittally in the direction of Shanahan and Bailey. Next to her was a small-framed black gentleman in an ill-fitting suit, sitting with his back to the window. He and Jennifer Bailey exchanged quick and cold looks when she came in. From then on, there were only stolen glances. He moved his eyes but not his head.

  His name, Shanahan learned when introductions were made, was Charles Bailey, brother of Jennifer and of the deceased.

  No daughter. No one inquired about her absence.

  The attorney waited a moment before proceeding. He then opened the large manila envelope and pulled out a thick loose-leaf notebook with several tabs.

  ‘All beneficiaries will be given a hard copy and a CD of the contents of the trust and will. This is a revised document that was finalized late last month. You remain executor of the will, Miss Bailey; however, certain responsibilities have been transferred to your brother, Charles.’

  Jennifer Bailey blinked. Otherwise, she gave away nothing. Charles stole a glance. Margaret Tice seemed deep in thought.

  ‘I want to know where he goes,’ Shanahan said, walking toward the Lexus. Charles Bailey went south on Meridian toward the circle. ‘How long was your brother in prison?’ Shanahan opened the car door for her.

  ‘Follow that man in the brown suit, Harold,’ she said. ‘But don’t let him know it. I don’t want him disappearing.’ She took a deep breath, before saying in a soft growl, ‘Until it’s time for him to disappear.’

  She settled in. ‘Most of his life,’ she said, addressing Shanahan’s question. ‘He’d pop out from time to time, promise to go straight. One or both of us would stake him some money …’ She smiled, closed her eyes. ‘Charles is a confidence man. It’s his nature. I came to this conclusion before Alexandra. Obviously.’

  ‘What’s his line?’