Bad Break: A Novel

Chapter Six

For the second time in thirty-six hours, I'm back in Garfield Park, near the intersection of Monroe and Cicero.

But there's no media circus this time. There isn't even crime scene tape. Just a nondescript Ford Econoline van and two unmarked squad cars.

Det. Allah is waiting for me.

"You got here fast," he says, before pausing and giving me a funny look.

"You drinkin' and driving?"

I ignore him and ask what happened, not waiting for him to invite me up the stairs and into the dimly lit apartment.

Inside, the scene is a template for every single or widowed grandma's retirement home. A leather rocker recliner - the kind with a remote control that raises the seat to help its occupants stand. A plaid patterned sofa whose middle seat cushion is a bit more flattened than the others. At least one large cross on the wall, along with an engraving of the Last Supper. A velour wall-carpet print of a peacock in full spread. A painted portrait of Jesus, complete with halo, that looks suspiciously like Dolemite. A collection of framed pictures of school-aged children, presumably the grands, sitting atop a doily-covered upright piano.

"Aren't you curious?"

Allah is certainly eyeing me curiously.

I am and admit as much.

"First, this is the only neat room. Well, this and the kitchen. The rest is a mess. We can't tell if the place has been tossed or if she's some kind of hoarder. Maybe it's both, even though the esteemed gang from Medical disagree."

"And second?"

"Second, she had your business card. Right there, in fact."

He gestures toward an end table next to the recliner, and under the short lamp sits an old-fashioned rotary phone, and a notepad and pencil. My Midway card rests on the pad.

Another framed picture sits on the end table next to the phone. There is no doubt. This smiling woman, hugging a high school graduate in cap and gown, is the same who tried to recruit Tony and me to help the teenage girl she had claimed to be harboring Monday morning.

The scene is nearly clear. The Medical Examiner's Office had just removed the body when I arrived, and the black van was slowly pulling down the alley.

"Cause of death?"

Now, Allah ignores me.

I'm not worried about the ME's crew or the two uniforms seeing me. They're loyal to Allah. But his loyalty to me tends to be conditional. He did toss an obvious clue my way about the third shooting victim being treated at Jackson, so there's that. Still, I am guarded.

"How do you know her, Wilson?"

The easiest and most expected question.

"I don't. Didn't."

"But your card, and..."

I raise my hand, indicating I wasn't finished.

"When Tony and I were leaving after the briefing Monday morning, she called us over to ask what happened and talked like she might know something but didn't actually tell us anything. So I told her to call if she thought of anything."

He looks at me skeptically. "That's it?"

"She said some girl passed through who seemed really upset and claimed to know the victims. But she didn't tell us the name, DOB, or serial number of the killer if that's what you're getting at!"

Allah scribbles in his notebook - probably a reminder to ask uniformed officers if they encountered any such girl. And thankfully, he seems satisfied for the moment.