I tried my hardest to fall in line, but when I refused to sign off on the incident report, my superiors came up with all kinds of phantom reasons to strip me of my authority to continue the investigation. So, I just leaked the details to a reporter friend of mine who covered the city hall beat at the Tribune. He wasted no time in exposing the attempted cover-up. The press leak circled back to me, and I was faced with either a demotion and years of watching my back or turning in my shield. I chose to do the latter and keep my integrity. My lawyer worked out an extremely generous package on my way out. Burke was the one who’d fought behind the scenes to make sure I was treated fairly.
Burke was a straight shooter who’d always taken his job seriously, but he was also a realist. Information was a commodity, and the ways you needed to acquire it in certain situations weren’t exactly taught at the academy. From time to time we traded favors. This time I needed one.
“What do you know about the missing Gerrigan girl?” I said.
“You might be in over your head on this one, AC,” Burke said, shifting his body with great effort. He was having trouble getting his large frame comfortable in the chair. The old wooden legs squealed like a dog whose tail had just been stepped on.
Our sandwiches arrived. I had a turkey with provolone, mayo, oil, and Italian seasoning. Burke had a double roast beef with the works. Most of it, except for his fingers, seemed to disappear in one bite.
“I’m in over my head is your official analysis?” I said. “It wouldn’t exactly be the first time you said that to me.”
Burke groaned a yes. He was already working on what little was left of the sandwich. He took a long pull on his cream soda, then said, “Lots of red flags on this one. The family dynamics are complicated, and the girl is a little out there.”
“Is that your way of saying ‘progressive’?” I said.
“In Catholic school we called it ‘out there,’” Burke said. “I’ll stick with that. Anyway, I think you want to stay as far away as possible from this one.”
“Your vote of confidence overwhelms me,” I said before launching into a healthy bite of my own sandwich. The bread was soft and warm, and a little of the oil mixed with mayo leaked from the corners of my mouth. Good sandwiches were meant to be served hot. Burke always got his cold and rare. “The way meat’s supposed to be eaten,” he liked to remind me.
“Something’s not right,” Burke said. “Mother walks into one of the districts to report her daughter missing. Desk sergeant has no idea who she is. Don’t add up that the father is one of the richest men in the entire state, and this thing isn’t even wired yet. Not a peep from the Fifth Floor.”
A case was considered “wired” when someone with big political connections and a direct link to the top office in city hall or the state legislature put in a call. Then word would quickly emanate from the fifth floor of 121 North LaSalle, that meandering oak-paneled maze of rooms officially known as Office of the Mayor. A man of Gerrigan’s wealth was sure to have a direct line to Mayor Bailey. Ignoring the difference in their personal politics, masters of the universe like Gerrigan hedged their bets and donated heavily to both political parties, so that regardless of the election outcome, they would always be in favor. Gerrigan was a staunch Republican. Bailey was a fifth-generation Democrat. The opposing political affiliations would never get in the way of doing business and making money. This was Chicago after all.
“I thought it was odd that Gerrigan wasn’t the one who showed up in my office,” I said. “His wife came alone.”
“I hear he’s a tough one to read,” Burke said. “He’s like most of these gazillionaires. Sees the world only on his terms. Spends most of his time making money, but not a lot of time at those fancy charity balls downtown. His wife’s the one who gets their name cut into a lot of buildings.”
“He have any enemies?” I asked.
“Occupational hazard of being rich,” Burke said. “You can’t make that kind of money without making some enemies along the way.”
“Anyone in particular?”
“Not sure right now. We’re looking at some guys from the Spire mess.”
“He’s involved in that?”
“Up to his neck.”
“Which side of the deal?”
“Right now, the winning side. He sued and got the deed snatched from the Irish company. So, the property is his. The developers are mad as hell. They’ve sunk over fifty million into the project.”
The Spire building was the brainchild of a Spanish architect and a Chicago developer. It had been designed as a supertall skyscraper with 116 stories, including a hotel and private residences. However, soon after construction, the developer faced financial difficulties and couldn’t survive the mounting debt. He lost control of the project and was forced to sign it over to the project’s biggest creditor, Gerrigan Real Estate Corp.—GREC.
“The Spire project is buried in a blizzard of lawsuits,” Burke said.
I took a long sip of root beer. It felt heavy and icy against the back of my throat. “I need help on a Tariq ‘Chopper’ McNair.”
“Who the hell is he?” Burke said.
“The daughter’s boyfriend.” Although I hadn’t gotten much more than his name from Tinsley’s friend Hunter.
Burke tightened his eyes. “Randolph Gerrigan’s daughter was dating someone with the name of Tariq McNair?” A hint of a smile cracked the corners of his mouth.
“Love is blind,” I sighed.
“For some it might be,” Burke said, “but the hell if it is for people like the Gerrigans. They were probably one of the original families that came over on the goddamn Mayflower. I can’t imagine their family planning included little Tariq Jr. running around the old North Shore mansion.”
“I’m not sure yet if the family knew about the relationship,” I said.
“So, you want to talk to this Tariq and get his version of events?” Burke said, dusting off the last of his barbecue chips. He folded his napkin as delicately as a man his size could and wiped the corners of his mouth. “And you want me to see if we have anything on him.”
“Your detecting mind is nothing short of extraordinary,” I said.
“Fucking wiseass,” Burke said, getting up from the table and lumbering out of the restaurant. Niceties had never been his strong suit.
4
TRYING TO LOWER MY golf handicap was not the only reason I had been reluctant to take on the Gerrigan case. I pulled my van up to the intersection of North and Ashland Avenues, where Wicker Park meets Bucktown to the north. Directly across the street sat a hodgepodge collection of storefronts, from an herbal salon to a karaoke bar called Louie’s Pub. I focused on a squat, nondescript building with a yoga studio called Greatly Gracious on the bottom floor. Mark Stanton lived on the second floor in a small one-bedroom that faced the street. His curtains were drawn. Several potted plants rested on the rickety fire escape adjacent to his middle window.
I had a photograph of him sitting on my dashboard: his mug shot from ten years ago. He’d been forty-five at the time, tall and very handsome. Faint speckles of gray had just begun to streak his strong black hair; his olive complexion had no trace of wrinkles. He wore his clerical collar and a long-sleeve black shirt. It was all in his look—smug and confident and beyond reproach. He was the anointed one. His eyes were unable to hide the darkness in his soul. Five men had accused him of molesting them when they were teens, but they were the only ones willing to go on record. Conservative estimates put his body count well into the dozens.