Lynch was more curious about Rusty’s quick spiel on Marslovak. Usually, Rusty was slow, patching things together, stopping to think about this guy or that guy, rummaging around the fifty years of hardball politics that cluttered up his head. So his rehearsed version of the EJ Marslovak story had Lynch wondering. Either Rusty’d been thinking about Marslovak himself – which was natural, given Helen’s murder – or somebody had tipped him off that Lynch might be asking.
Just as Lynch swung north onto the Kennedy, his phone rang.
“Lynch.”
“Hey, John Lynch.” Liz. Son of a bitch. “Thanks for calling this morning. It meant something. Saved me thinking all day. You know, was it just the booze or something.”
Lynch paused, wondering how far to go with this. Fuck it. Just roll with it. “Wasn’t just the booze, Johnson.”
“Not very macho and cop-like, Lynch. You OK?”
“Fine. Thinking about trading in my nine, maybe getting a nice .22. One of those little chrome plated automatics? Mother-of-pearl handle? Later maybe get my legs waxed.”
“Now you’re sounding better. You scared me there for a second. Nice to know that you managed to squeeze in a thought about me, though.”
“A couple, yeah.”
“Nice thoughts?”
“Well, not PG nice, but nice.”
That chuckle. Already falling for that chuckle. “Still want to take me to dinner?”
“Yeah.”
“Like a real date? I go home and change and you pick me up and everything?”
“Yeah, like that.”
“You going to open the doors for me, help me with my coat?”
“Don’t need a coat. It’s nice out.”
“Help me pull up my zipper then?”
“Help you pull it down, even.”
“So a full-service date?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
That chuckle again. “Pick me up at 7.00, John Lynch. And bring me flowers.”
CHAPTER 11 – CHICAGO
Lynch went straight to Starshak’s office. Starshak was wearing what he always wore – a solid navy blue suit, white shirt, simple tie, half a pound of crap in his hair keeping everything locked in place.
Starshak’s office was always neat. He didn’t like shit out. Desk, low filing cabinet along the right wall, tall cabinet back in the corner. On the low cabinet he had a line of framed photos – his wife, the two daughters, one family shot that had the dog in it, big Collie, the kind with the darker hair. A fern hung in front of the window on the left. Thing was huge, and Starshak was always futzing with it, picking off dead leaves, spraying it with the squirt bottle he kept in his desk. On top of the tall filing cabinet, Starshak had a glass case. Starshak made model airplanes. In fact, he was some kind of hot-shot modeler, even had some plaques on the wall near the cabinet. Every month or so he’d rotate a new plane into the case. Lynch had been out to his house a couple of times, holiday things Starshak’s wife would put on for the squad. Whole basement was walled with display cases holding Starshak’s planes.
Lynch was pretty sure the plane in the case was new.
“New plane, boss?”
Starshak looked up. “Yeah. German. FW200 Condor. Scourge of the Atlantic. Long range recon mostly. Tracked conveys and called in the Wolf Packs.”
Lynch nodded.
“So how’d it go with the SWAT guy? He any help?”
“You’re gonna love this. He says the guy took the shot from the old Olfson factory. Fourth floor, east end. Told crime scene, they got the mobile lab down there, they’re checking it out. Looks right, though.”
“That’s like what, halfway to the Loop?”
“Half a mile, give or take.”
“This just gets better and better.”
“Gave me some good stuff, though. Kind of a profile. Been lots of traffic in the old Olfson place, too – lot of garbage, lot of tagging. Based on the graffiti, looks like some offshoot of the Vice Lords hangs out in there. Gave the gang crimes guys a call, see if they can get me any names. Be somebody to talk to anyway. Took a better look around old lady Marslovak’s house, too. Found this.” Lynch handed Starshak the Wrigley shot.
“So Marslovak’s old man had some clout?”
“Talked to my uncle about it. He says Hurley the First owed the guy for something and tried to square it by wiring him in, but it didn’t take. Something about the whole thing seems off. Also, Rusty had some conclave going on out there – Eddie Marslovak, Burke from the mayor’s office, that new finance guy, Lazzara, Pretty Boy Fell, couple of DNC guys. And Marslovak’s got Pete Lewis riding shotgun for him now.”
“So where do you want to go with this? I mean, you start rattling those cages, we both better get our Kevlar shorts on cause somebody’s gonna try to rip our nuts off.”
“I know. Don’t even know if there’s anything there. But what am I supposed to do, not look?”
“Nobody’s saying don’t look. Just look careful.”
Lynch nodded. “Slo-mo around?”
Shlomo Bernstein was a new detective in the district. Came from a rich family on the North Shore, decided he wanted to be a cop when he was six. Parents humored him. When he wanted to go to the academy out of college – summa cum laude from Princeton – his dad made him a deal. Do graduate school. Keep your options open. If you still want to be a cop, fine. So Shlomo took second in the MBA class at the U of C in about ten months and went straight to the academy. Made detective in record time. Probably be commissioner in another six, seven weeks.
Starshak called out into the room. “Slo-mo, my office.”
Bernstein was about five-six, needed his boots and winter coat to go to one hundred and fifty. Good looking guy, though. Very sharp dresser, like some junior-sized male model.
Bernstein walked in the office and looked at the plane in the case.
“Condor, right? Focke-Wulf 200?”
Starshak smiled. “Yeah. Just finished it.”
“You went with the Arctic markings. What, the Murmansk run?”
Starshak laughed. “Bernstein, why don’t you get your ass on Jeopardy, make a couple million? Say, what’s on your plate right now? You got time to help Lynch with this Marslovak thing?”
Bernstein’s eyes lit up like a fourteen year-old finding his dad’s Playboy stash. “Hell, yes. What do you need?”
“Couple of things,” Lynch said. “First, looks like our guy took the shot from better than seven hundred yards. Can’t be too many guys around can put a hole through somebody’s heart from that distance. Get me some background, see what you can find.”
“Like Wimbledon Cup winners, that sort of thing?”
“This ain’t tennis,” said Starshak.
“Wimbledon Cup is the national thousand-yard shooting championship,” said Bernstein.
“Jesus, Slo-mo,” said Lynch. “You got a long gun at home? I gotta put you in the mix for this?”
Slo-mo shrugged. “Just read it somewhere.”
Lynch shook his head. “OK, the other thing. Unlimber that underpaid MBA brain of yours. Take a look at MarCorp, last few years. See if something jumps out at you, somebody that might want to come back at Eddie Marslovak. Somebody that would know where to find this kind of talent.”
“OK. Am I gonna get in the field on this at all, or are you gonna keep my ass parked behind the computer all day?”
“Who knows, Slo-mo. Find me something nice, and I might take you out for ice cream later.”
“Yeah, yeah. Gonna get calluses on my ass. Could have done that at Merrill Lynch for another couple hundred grand a year. All right. I’ll see what I can get. Then I’ll go home, dust my gun.”
“Tell you what, Slo-mo. You get me something nice, and, after ice cream, how about we go roust some bad-ass homies, tune em up a little, maybe cap some nines on their asses?”
Slo-mo smiled. “Double dip, Lynch, with sprinkles. Then we go roust some goyim.”
Back at his desk, Lynch found a stack of messages. Mess of reporters. Two messages from crime scene, one from McCord, all three marked urgent. He called McCord’s cell.