I give him a look. “The double murder,” I say. “You might remember it. The one where I caught a bullet in the brain.”
Pop stiffens. “Nobody tells me anything,” he says.
Since the investigation involves me, his immediate family, my father is not allowed to participate or even supervise.
“If I remember correctly,” I say, “your ears still work.”
Between Pop and Goldie, it’s hard to imagine they couldn’t snoop into the investigation if they wanted to. And they want to.
“I’m sure you’re gonna be fine,” he says, not answering the question, clearly trying to pacify me. “Me, I think the evidence looks exactly like what it is. Kate walked in on you and Amy, she went into a jealous rage, she opened fire on you, and you returned fire. Two people died in the process, and you got lucky. To me, the only one committing a crime in that room was Kate, and she’s dead. I’d close the file without charges if it were up to me.”
The hope in his voice is obvious. But he still hasn’t answered my question.
Pop looks at me like he has something to say and is trying to decide whether to say it. I wait him out while he wrestles with it.
“Ah, shit,” he says. “I didn’t want to bring this up now. Not tonight.”
“Bring what up?”
He blows out air. “They—there’s a new cop running the investigation.”
“Who?”
He shakes his head. “Wizniewski,” he says.
I take a step backward. “How—”
“He requested it. He went to the superintendent.”
“The superintendent who wants my head on a platter.”
“That one, yes.”
“He turned the investigation over to the Wiz? The guy who’s been running a protection racket? The one who tried to talk me out of raiding the brothel because he was protecting the politicians I caught? The one who killed the brothel manager so she couldn’t point the finger at him? The one who killed the cop who met me on the subway platform because I was getting too close—”
“Billy, Billy.” Pop raises a calming hand. “We don’t have proof of any of that. I know you’re right. But what I think doesn’t matter. We have to prove that Wizniewski’s dirty.”
Pop throws down his beer bottle. Luckily, it bounces on the grass instead of shattering on the porch.
“I’d quit the force the way they’ve treated you,” he says. “But how does that help you? I’m no help to you as a private citizen. Even if they’re holding me at bay, maybe there’s something I could do.”
Patti comes through the back door carrying a salad in a huge glass bowl. None of the men will eat it, unless maybe Patti draws her firearm, which is always a possibility.
“You guys are both missing the point,” she says as if she’s been part of the conversation all along. I look behind me and notice the open window into the kitchen, where she must have been listening.
“What’s the point?” I ask.
“The point,” she says, “is you have to get your memory back. Until then, you’re at the whim of Wizniewski.”
Forty-Nine
DR. JILL Jagoda narrows her eyes, peering at me in concentration. She leans back against the high-backed leather chair, crosses a leg, and removes her black-rimmed glasses. Tucks a strand of her ash-colored hair—hanging down today to her shoulders—behind her ear.
“That’s it?” she says. “That’s all you remember?”
“That’s it,” I answer.
“You had a date with Amy Lentini that stirred up a lot of emotions for you. You went home and drowned your sorrows. Your sister came over. She has a key?”
“To my house? Yeah, of course. Patti has a key.”
“And the next morning, this woman who ran the brothel, Ramona Dillavou, was found dead. Tortured.”
“Correct.”
“So over the course of two days, two people—that woman and the cop who met with you on the subway platform—were killed.”
“Right. Like someone was trying to clean up a mess.”
“And then…” She leans forward in her chair.
“And then—nothing,” I say. “I don’t remember a single thing. The curtain comes down. End of story. Hope you enjoyed the show. Thanks for coming. Drive safely.”
Her eyes drift upward. “That’s…two weeks before you were shot.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“You lost two whole weeks of memory?”
I make a fist, then flay my fingers open. “Poof.”
“You don’t even remember the sex-club trial?” she asks. “When the mayor and the archbishop and all the others caught in that brownstone were prosecuted—”
“No,” I say. “I mean, I’ve read about it since, like everybody else in the damn country. But it’s like I’m reading about another person. I don’t have the slightest memory of that trial.”
“I…okay.” The Ivy League–educated shrink bites her lower lip. Another long, sleeveless dress for her, today royal blue. She dresses up for work, I’ll say that much. Don’t see a wedding ring, either. Just basic detective work, basic instinct…it’s not like I’m interested in her in that way. Maybe under different circumstances.
“Talk to me,” I say.
“Well, it’s just—memory loss has a physiological and a psychological component,” she says. “Memory loss proximate to a traumatic injury is typically physiological. You get into a car accident but you don’t remember the collision. You were knocked unconscious and you suffer retrograde amnesia.”
“That would be the physical part.”
“Yes. Or neurological amnesia—memory loss suffered because of a brain injury. That’s physiological, too. You could lose your entire memory from something as severe as the injury you received.”
“I could,” I say, “but I didn’t.”
“Exactly. You didn’t. Your memory loss is very specific, very contained. You seem to have a strong, vivid memory that suddenly—almost violently—disappears in the snap of a finger. You go from a full-color, 3-D memory to an absolute black hole.”
“That’s right. I remember being at Ramona Dillavou’s apartment, and then, like I told you, poof.”
“That’s not physical,” she says. “That’s emotional. It’s not that you can’t remember, Billy. Whatever happened…you don’t want to remember it.”
Fifty
I DRIFT through the streets—or, as I like to call it, undergo physical therapy, which means walking two miles a day, if my halting limp qualifies as walking. I move my feet and arms and hope that collectively they will jar something loose in my brain and suddenly it will all become clear. I haven’t gone more than a block before sweat is covering my face, my shirt sticking to my chest.
Losing your memory is like misplacing something, except not only can you not find the thing you lost, you also don’t even know what it is you lost. So you drift through the fog, hoping you’ll bump into something and recognize it when you do.
Or, as I said, you go through physical therapy.
It’s summer, so kids are everywhere, throwing baseballs across the street to one another, dancing through the gushing water of an open fire hydrant, sliding and climbing and playing in sandboxes in the park down the street. Everywhere I look there are yard signs, or posters wrapped around light poles or tied to fences; the ones I see the most are the kelly-green ones with huge white letters saying MARGARET FOR MAYOR.
When Mayor Francis Delaney was forced out of office in disgrace, and the state legislature passed a law calling for a special mayoral election, everyone figured that the front-runner for the position was a congressman who represented the North Side. Congressman John Tedesco, silver-haired and handsome, had served in the House of Representatives for fourteen years. He had millions in his campaign coffers and favors owed to him that had accumulated during his time in public office. But he cited declining health and begged out of the race, throwing his support behind his friend the state’s attorney Margaret Olson
.
Maximum Margaret currently leads a crowded field in the special election to replace Mayor Delaney. Three aldermen and two county commissioners have also declared their candidacy, but Margaret is the only woman. She also has far more money than anyone else, and her slogan—“A crime fighter to end corruption”—seems to be carrying the day.
Margaret Olson is everywhere—on TV, on the Internet, on laminated brochures in my mailbox. The most vicious and ambitious prosecutor the county has ever seen is almost certain to become the next mayor of Chicago.
I spend more than an hour walking. I brought a bottle of water with me, but by the half-hour mark I’ve emptied it. I make it to the three-way intersection of North, Damen, and Milwaukee, where well-dressed yuppies and hipsters hang outside at the outdoor cafés or carry their shopping bags from their trip down Damen.
I’m still young, but I feel old. I’ve been through a marriage and a near-death experience, and I move like an octogenarian, limping and moaning while I wait for myself to get back to good. By the time I reach my block, I’m ready to collapse.
Then I stop in my tracks.
Three squad cars and two unmarked sedans are parked in my driveway and along the curb. Five cars full of cops. That can mean only one thing.
As I approach, a few officers who know me nod with apologetic looks on their faces. I nod back. It’s not their fault. They’re just following orders, doing their jobs.
When I reach the cavalcade of law enforcement, Lieutenant Paul Wizniewski gets out of one of the sedans and holds out a piece of paper. He could at least pretend not to be so happy about it.
“William Harney?” he says, like we haven’t worked together for years. “We have a warrant to search the premises.”
“Gee, I wish I’d known,” I say. “I could’ve tidied up the place. Made some cookies.”
Wizniewski steps even closer, so we are almost nose to nose. “You might think about making some omelets,” he says. “We’re going to be here all day and all night. I’m going to find it, Harney, sure as I’m standing here.”
Fifty-One
PATTI HARNEY gets out of her vehicle and rushes toward the squad cars outside Billy’s building. She sees a young officer she recognizes, not by name but by face. “Where is he?” she asks. “Where’s my brother?”
“In the car, Detective,” the officer says, nodding toward a rust-colored sedan parked along the curb.
She finds Billy in the backseat, leaning his head against the headrest. He looks utterly depleted. A lot of that is simply physical. He still hasn’t recovered his stamina. The doctors said it could be a full year before he can do everything he used to do.
She raps her knuckles lightly on the window. Billy’s head lolls over, and he looks at her. She opens the door.
“You wanna get some fresh air?”
“I better stay here, keep an eye on things,” Billy says.
Patti gets into the car and shuts the door. She sits close to him. They lean their heads toward each other until they touch.
“You doing okay, little brother?”
He shrugs. “I’m in a fog, Patti. I don’t know if I’m supposed to be nervous or angry or sad or…what.”
“I know, I know. It’s gonna be okay. This is just Wizniewski getting his jollies.”
Through the window, she sees officers leaving the house, carrying boxes. One of them is holding an old computer in his arms.
“I’ll be lucky if they don’t pull the stove out of the wall,” says Billy.
Sarcasm like that makes her think that Billy is becoming himself again. But he is a long way from back. He used to always wear a smile—everyone’s friend; the comedian; the glass always half full, as though the sun were following him wherever he went. Now it’s like he’s haunted. The glass is half empty, and the sun, which always trailed him, is covered by a black cloud.
Now you know how I feel, Billy. Not so fun, is it? Life ain’t so grand when things don’t fall into your lap, when people aren’t constantly telling you how funny and smart you are.
“I never asked you,” Billy says. “I’ve wanted to, but…I don’t know.”
She turns to him. “Asked me what?”
“One night back before I was shot,” he says. “I followed Ramona Dillavou. I found her with you at Tyson’s, on Rush.”
Patti stiffens.
“Why were you meeting with her? I never asked.”
But you did, Billy. You did ask me that question. You just don’t remember.
“I was trying to get the little black book,” she answers. “I was trying to help you.”
“By buying her a drink? You thought that’s all it would take?”
She lets out a sigh and runs a soothing hand over his leg. “Billy, Billy,” she says. “Always pushing away the people who want to help you. Always drawn to the people who don’t.”
“That’s not an answer to my question.”
Patti shakes her head and looks out the window again. Another officer, carrying another box out of his town house.
“Don’t worry about a thing,” she says, stroking his arm. “I won’t let anything happen to you. Your sister will protect you.”
“I don’t need protecting. I just need the truth.”
She turns again and looks at her broken, damaged baby brother, even if he’s only younger than she is by a few minutes. She’s the elder, but it’s always been as if it were the opposite, as if she were the baby, as if she needed assistance, propping up, protection from the world.
“Remember,” she whispers. “Don’t say a word to Wizniewski. Don’t tell him anything.”
Fifty-Two
I SIT in an interview room, the irony not lost on me—this is a room where I have questioned dozens of suspects over the years. I know where the creaks are in the floor. I know where to seat a suspect so he’s right under the air-conditioning vent or, depending on the time of day, so he’s right where the sun will angle through the blinds and hit him squarely in the eyes.
The door opens, and the chubby face and cigar odor of Lieutenant Paul Wizniewski greet me. He is carrying a plain brown box and places it on the table between us.
“You understand you’re not in custody,” he says. “You understand you’re free to leave.”
“I understand you’re saying that so you don’t have to read me my Miranda rights and so you don’t have to turn on that video recorder.” I nod in the direction of the camera perched on a tripod in the corner of the room.
A wry smile crosses Wizniewski’s face as he takes his seat.
Whether I’m read Miranda or not, I obviously know my rights. And I know what Patti, Pop, and Goldie have all said to me—don’t talk to the police.
But here’s the thing: I’m on the outside now, looking in. I can’t just pick up the phone and ask the Wiz about the status of the investigation. They won’t even tell my father what’s going on. So this is the only way I can get the cops to talk—by agreeing to an interview.
“Whatcha been doing these last couple of days, since I last saw you?” he asks.
“Since you ransacked my house? I’ve been trying to clean it up. Three days of cleaning, and it still looks like it was hit by a hurricane.”
“Yeah, that’s a real shame. Hey, I want to show you something,” he says. “It’s a video taken in the subway station at Jackson.” He picks up a tablet and turns it so I can see it, hits the Play button.
I haven’t seen the video, but I remember meeting with Camel Coat—Sergeant Joe Washington. The video shows us doing what we did that night, pretending we were meeting in secret, cloak-and-dagger stuff, the handoff of an envelope.
“Do you know who that person is?”
I don’t answer.
“Sergeant Joe Washington,” says the Wiz. “You might recall that the same night you were seen with him doing a James Bond routine, he was found dead from a GSW to the noggin, parked in his car on Jackson. Anything you’d like to tell me?”
“I’m not a big fa
n of your aftershave,” I say.
“If memory serves, you were at the crime scene later that morning,” says Wiz. “Come to think of it, I saw you at Ramona Dillavou’s crime scene, too, the day after that. Anyway, let’s stick with Joe Washington for now. You and him on the subway platform.”
“If memory serves,” I say, mimicking him, “I recall seeing you on the platform across from us, Wiz. Watching the whole thing.”
His face lights up with a smile. “Is that a fact?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Hmph. Camera didn’t seem to pick that up.”
Yeah, because you were hiding in the shadows with your head down.
“Anyway…” As if he doesn’t have a care in the world, the Wiz reaches into the evidence box sitting on top of the table. He pulls out a handgun in a clear plastic bag, which he holds at the top, letting the gun dangle in front of me.
“Look familiar?” he asks.
“Based on my years of detective training, I’d say that’s a firearm.”
“Yeah, but this firearm, it so happens, I found inside an old cigar box in your basement.”
I do a slow burn.
“Took us a bitch of a long time to find it. You had it tucked away nice and good.”
“Not my gun,” I say.
“We got ballistics back,” he says.
“That was fast. Three days and you have ballistics results?”
“Yeah—go figure. See, our state’s attorney, you mighta noticed—old Maximum Margaret—is running for mayor.”
“Yeah. I might have seen a yard sign or two.”
“Right. Sure. ‘Margaret for Mayor.’ And this is a priority for her. Y’know, Amy Lentini was one of her top people. She was grooming Amy. Had high hopes for her.”
Wizniewski draws a long, delicious breath. “Anyway.” He holds up the bag with the gun again. “So ballistics comes back on this gun we found in your basement. And guess what? You’re never gonna guess in a million years. I tell ya, you could’ve knocked me over with a feather.”