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Overview
Two years ago, a computer software specialist was found dead in Belmont Harbor, an apparent suicide. Now, the body of a low-rent bookie has been found very close to the same spot—and the businessman’s wealthy widow hires Paul Whelan to find out whether her husband really killed himself at all.
There are, in fact, connections between the two men—and as Whelan tries to sort them out with some unofficial help from a friend on the force, he’s drawn into a world of missing accountants, mysterious tough guys, and dirty deals . . .
“Sleek plotting . . . Raleigh, who delivered the goods in his debut novel, Death in Uptown, shows no signs of faltering.” —Publishers Weekly
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781626816206 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Diversion Books |
| Publication date: | 02/06/2019 |
| Series: | Paul Whelan Series , #2 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 278 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
There were two patrol cars, both on the sidewalk, an ambulance that would not be needed, and a dark, late-model car carrying a couple of park supervisors from the Chicago Park District. A bright, hot morning and the park was alive, so the commotion had already attracted a small crowd of joggers and fishermen and sunbathers and a handful of the people who spend their days sitting on park benches. A gray Caprice drove up the cinder bridle path from the direction of Belmont. From the other direction a pair of young women on horseback came trotting down the jogging path that had replaced the old black-cinder bridle path. The Caprice came to a rolling stop and the driver hit his horn. The girls reined their mounts in and one of them yelled something at the driver. He hit the horn again and thrust a heavy crewcut head out the window, flashing a badge. The girl made a gesture toward the path and said something more to the man in the car, and then the two riders let the Caprice drive between them. The car sped up for a few feet, made a sharp, sudden turn, crossed the sidewalk, and pulled up behind one of the squad cars.
A dark, young, good-looking man in a neon-yellow knit shirt emerged from the Caprice, unstuck the shirt from his back, ran a comb through his thick hair, and walked slowly toward the scene. A moment later the driver emerged, moving slowly and hitching up his pants as he walked. This man was tall and heavyset, with a florid complexion and a nose a shade darker. He wore a blue short-sleeved shirt over a crew-neck T-shirt and blue-and-green plaid pants. A few heads turned to watch him and a couple of young men smiled at his pants. The heavy man stopped, looked at his audience for a moment, and then blew his nose into a bandanna handkerchief. When he was done he rubbed his nose and approached the other squad cars.
A green cyclone fence ran around the harbor and he walked up to the fence and leaned on it. About six feet below him was a narrow expanse of sand, wet from the action of the waves and dotted with cans, discarded paper cups, an old tire, and what appeared to be a shirt. And on the sand lay a body, completely uncovered but with pockets of sand still clinging to the hollows, the eyes, the wrinkles and folds in skin and clothing, the hair. The younger man stood a few feet away looking down at the body, and between them, a short ladder had been set up against the fence from the little beach. There were four men down on the sand around the body and the heavyset man looked at them and then at his partner.
"I hate fucking ladders."
The younger man shrugged. "You want to wait up here till they bring him up?"
"That a joke?"
The younger man looked confused. "No, it's not a joke. I just thought, if you didn't ... "
The heavyset man shook his head. "Body's down there, right? That's where we go. How you gonna find anything out if you wait till they bring him up, huh? You look at a corpse later, you miss a hundred things. You got to examine the body — "
"In situ."
The older man looked at him without saying anything.
"I wasn't trying to show you up, Al, I was just — "
"Finishing my sentence for me. Thanks. Yeah, we got to look at the body in situ." He shook his head irritably and put one foot up on the fence. As he boosted himself over onto the top rung of the ladder, his partner spoke again.
"Just thought you might want to wait up here."
The heavyset man grinned maliciously. "No, you just thought maybe I couldn't climb a fence." And with that, he pushed himself out from the fence and dropped down onto the sand.
Shaking his head, the younger man climbed onto the fence and vaulted down alongside.
The big man nodded to the two uniformed officers, looked briefly at the park district workers leaning on shovels, and walked over to a gray-haired man in a white sergeant's shirt.
"Hello, Michaeleen."
"Hi, Al."
"Whatcha got here?"
"Dead person."
"That's exactly what I was gonna suggest." The heavyset man laughed and the sergeant cackled with him.
"So who's this young fella followin' you around? Bodyguard?"
"This is my new partner." He turned and looked at the younger man for a moment and his smile drooped. "This is Rick Landini. Landini, this is Sergeant Michael Shea, once the scourge of the city but now gone to fat, so they give 'im a white shirt and made him a sergeant."
Sergeant Shea laughed and Landini held out his hand. They shook and the older cop inclined his head toward the heavyset man.
"I bet they assigned you to Bauman to keep him out of trouble. Tough assignment, young fella. His last two partners had to be put out to pasture."
"That's what I heard, too." Landini tried not to smile.
"See, Al? He's been briefed. Everybody knows about you, 'bout how you gave your partner ulcers."
"Ah, bullshit. They gimme partners that're ready for the home. And Rooney was born with gastritis." Bauman looked at the other men standing around watching them. "Hey, all these young guys are gonna think we stand around pullin' on ourselves all day. Let's have a look at the deceased."
He went over to the corpse. Landini followed him and the others moved in closer.
Bauman got down onto his haunches and stared at the dead man for a long moment. The face was dark and sharp featured, high cheekboned and thin. The dead man had worn a thin mustache carefully trimmed and a tiny triangle of beard just below his lower lip. The detective held the dead man's sport coat open with two fingers and examined the torso. The shirtfront was stained brownish red, and after a moment the detective made little pointing motions toward the dead man's chest, lower abdomen, and right side.
"Three wounds?" Landini asked.
Bauman nodded. He looked at the dead man's face again, studied the body, shook his head. Then he touched the man's forehead with his fingertips, quickly but gently.
"What's ... what was that, Al?"
Bauman shrugged and looked around at the little circle of faces watching him.
"Just something I do. Don't worry about it."
"What'd you do?"
"Somebody should always touch a dead man, that's all."
"Oh," Landini said, and his face showed confusion.
"Don't think about it, Landini, all right?" Bauman's face reddened. "It's a fucking personal ... whaddyacallit? It's an idiosyncrasy. All right?"
Landini nodded. Sergeant Shea came closer.
"Got any ideas?"
Bauman nodded. "Yeah. I think this is that guy we're lookin' for, goes with the Lincoln we found in the parking lot Friday."
"Nothing on the car yet, right?" Shea asked.
"No. Registered to some guy that don't exist. Tell you something else. Somebody did a fucking sloppy job of sticking him."
"He's cut up pretty bad," Landini said.
Bauman ignored him. "Shit, look at this guy." He reached down inside the dead man's collar and pulled out a heavy gold chain. "Lookit this. You and me, we can't touch jewelry like this." He noticed the narrow gold chain gleaming from his partner's throat. "All right, I can't afford a chain like this. Probably got rings and shit, too." He turned the corpse's wrist slightly and a heavy emerald and gold ring turned up. He laughed. "I think we can rule out robbery." He reached under the man's body, then felt around inside the jacket. "No wallet, though."
"A hit?" Shea asked.
Bauman shook his head. "No. This is amateur night here. Somebody wasn't sure how you kill somebody with a knife, so he stuck him all over the place. Oops, what do we got here?" He leaned over and pried at the man's mouth with his fingers. A piece of plastic wrap came out, just the corner. There was something white wrapped in the plastic but Bauman didn't bother to pull the entire package out. He looked up at Landini.
"I think what we got here, my lad, is a business transaction that went sour. I think this here is a businessman and his customer had a complaint about the service or, from the looks of it, the product. That's what I think."
Sergeant Shea laughed and looked around at the other cops. "Ah, he's a good one, my pal Albert. What else can you tell us, Al? This is like TV."
Bauman shrugged. "I don't know for sure, but I'd say he's been dead a couple, three days. Face is startin' to bloat up. And he probably wasn't killed here. Dumped here."
"How can you tell that?" Landini asked.
"I can't, but it don't figure. What would he be doin' standin' around on this fucking little sandbar?"
Landini tilted his head up toward the sidewalk. "Got killed there, dropped over the railing, then the guy just hopped down here and covered him up."
"Not bad. But they found a pool of blood up there closer to the yacht club, remember? Lotta blood. That's where I think this guy got killed." He fingered the dead man's shirt. "And I can tell you I wouldn't like this guy. I don't like nobody that wears silk shirts." He shot a look at Landini and laughed when the younger man refused to meet his eyes.
Bauman winked at Shea. "You got silk shirts, Landini?"
"My chick bought me a couple. From France. She went there last year with her girlfriends." He looked around and attempted nonchalance.
Bauman raised an eyebrow. "Oh, they're from France. Well, that's different. Hey, Shea, I got a partner that wears silk shirts from France. I thought we were still at war with France, no?"
Shea shook his head. "No, no. Not a bad idea, though. Be a short war. Nobody'd get hurt."
Bauman looked at his partner and shook his head. "Silk shirts from France. I'm a dinosaur."
"That part's true, Al."
Bauman looked again at the corpse. The dead man's trousers were heavily wrinkled but expensive looking, cream colored and fashionably baggy. He looked down at the man's feet.
"See there? Ankles and feet are all swollen. Nice shoes, though." He looked up at Shea. "I'm gonna take the shoes, all right?"
Landini blinked. "Al, you can't —" He caught himself but it was too late.
Detective Albert Bauman looked at him and roared, a great, red- faced laugh, and Shea and the other cops joined him.
When he could get his breath again Bauman nodded toward the dead man.
"I know it's just my own prejudice here, the clothes and all, but I got a strong hunch this here was not a successful merchant, you know what I'm sayin'? This here was a hood. Either that or a rock star," he said and winked at Sergeant Shea.
Bauman studied the swollen features for a moment and then nodded.
"You're thinkin' again, Albert. Whatcha got?"
Bauman looked up at him with a slight smile. "I think I know who this guy is."
CHAPTER 2Paul Whelan sat down on his front porch, set a cup of coffee down on the top stair, and unrolled his newspaper. He'd be going off to work later, in time for a 9:30 appointment, but now he sat and watched others go off to work and took the time to read his paper.
It was Monday morning, and according to the Sun-Times the city was reeling under a massive invasion of pharmacists, thousands upon thousands of pharmacists, from all the states in the union and the wind's twelve quarters, all gathered ostensibly to review pharmaceutical research and developments, to listen to scholarly papers on pharmacy, and to offer their wisdom to their colleagues. In reality eleven thousand men in white smocks had descended upon an unsuspecting metropolis in the dog days of summer, overrunning the city's defenses, mobbing its restaurants and saloons, taxing its hotel capacity and the patience of its police, and annoying its women.
The Sun-Times carried an account of a Rush Street brawl involving a half dozen of these errant druggists, the arrest of an Ohio pharmacist in the women's room of the Drake Hotel, and the successful rescue by Engine Company No. 26 of a pharmacist from Boston who had been overserved by several taverns and found himself standing on the fifth-floor windowsill of a friend's hotel room.
"Oh, good," Whelan said. "A convention, life blood of the city."
He sipped his coffee and glanced at the box score of the Cubs game. Still in first place, against all the sportswriters' predictions, against all the laws of nature and the wisdom of fan tradition. Tomorrow night the amiable boys from Wrigley would open a three-game series in Shea Stadium against the unholy Mets, the universally loathed Mets, the only team in all of sports whose name began with the word "hated." And if this were to be like other seasons, tomorrow night would be the beginning of the end, the start of the swoon. It was August 1 and the Cubs were about to play the Mets. To a true Cubs fan, it was always August and the opponent was always the Mets.
He heard a noise on the left, turned his head slightly, and saw the wrinkled, haggard face of Mrs. Cuehlo. The old woman stared at him for a moment, then slammed the door, and for the only time since he'd known her, Whelan felt sorry for her. Mrs. Cuehlo was in mourning for her cat, and suffused in every pore of her ancient being with hatred for Whelan, whom she believed somehow responsible for the animal's untimely death under the wheels of an ice-cream truck. And while it was true that Whelan had loathed the animal and been caught several times in the act of throwing stones at it to drive it from his garden, he hadn't yet stooped to killing animals. Not even that one.
The brown Chevy returned, slowed down when it reached the house across the street from Whelan's, then laid rubber and tore off toward Lawrence. Same four inside: an old guy driving, a heavyset one in the shotgun seat, two teenagers in the back. No license plate, muffler tied on with rope, rust holes everywhere you could have rust on a car, and a Confederate flag decal on the rear bumper.
They were interested in the new residents across the street, a married couple. The husband was black and the wife was white, and these four in the beater seemed to have a problem with that. They weren't local. Only outsiders would think anything of a mixed couple in Uptown, and there had been rumors when the couple moved in that they'd experienced racial harassment in another neighborhood. Whelan wondered if this was just a continuation of their earlier trouble. This was the fifth time in three days that the Chevy had visited Malden. Several times the car had appeared late at night, and Whelan saw trouble coming.
He walked east on Lawrence past the dark gray walls of St. Boniface Cemetery, grabbed a cup of coffee from the smoky little diner under the El tracks, and went to the door of his office building. He paused a moment to study the street — the storefront that had once housed his beloved Persian A & W was still vacant, the marquee of the Aragon Ballroom promised more boxing, and there was already a collection of men standing outside the pool hall on the corner.
He turned to go inside his office building and had to step over an old man sleeping, sitting up, against the doorjamb. The man didn't stir and Whelan quickly and deftly touched the man's throat. There was a pulse.
Well, that's a start, he told himself.
He trotted up the dark stairwell, opened his office door, and sucked in a lungful of stale, hot air. There was no mail yet. He walked across the room, opened both windows, and thought he felt a slight stirring in the air. Then he sat down to wait.
Twenty-five minutes later she arrived. She was late, and he would've bet the rent on it — it fit with the phone voice and the grammar and all the other baggage that went with them. She stood in his doorway as though deciding whether to come in. She was just like her voice, this woman, but prettier than he'd envisioned, quite a bit prettier, and he was conscious of the heat and the smallness of the office, of the exhaust and street noises coming in the window, and of his own clothes, for this was the type of woman who'd make you conscious of your clothes.
"Mr. Whelan," she said, and it wasn't a question.
"Morning. Have a seat, Mrs. Fairs."
He came around the desk to pull out a chair for her, and she looked down at it before sitting. He went back to his chair and sat. She gave a short shake of her head when he asked if she wanted coffee.
Janice Fairs was a short, slender woman in her early thirties, with frosted brown hair pulled back, very pale blue eyes, high, sharp cheekbones, and fair, almost translucent skin that gave her an ascetic look. She looked at him calmly and the bottom half of her face smiled. She wore a gray business suit and a cream-colored blouse and there wasn't a hair, not a molecule of her existence, that was out of place. In her world it probably wasn't even hot. She tilted her head slightly, looking at his loose cotton shirt.
"A guayabera, isn't it?"
"Right."
"Is that because of the location of your office?" Perfect eyebrows went up in question. "I mean because of the, ah, Latin population?"
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "A Body in Belmont Harbor"
by .
Copyright © 1993 Michael Raleigh.
Excerpted by permission of Diversion Publishing Corp..
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