The Skeleton's Knee, page 24
part #4 of Joe Gunther Series
Huff merely raised his eyebrows, but I sensed some of the tension had eased from his face.
“We believe this man was active politically in the late sixties, around the same time you were.”
“I still am.”
“Well, you get the idea. Did you know Bob Shattuck?”
A crease appeared between his eyes. “He’s not dead, not that I heard.”
“When did you last hear?” Runnion asked.
Huff looked slightly scornful. “It’s what I didn’t hear I’m referring to. My interactions with Shattuck were minimal, even back then. Still, if he’d died, word would have gotten out. I doubt he’s your man.”
He looked about ready to leave. I said, “We know Shattuck is alive, but he and the skeleton were connected somehow. We don’t have much to go on, but if you could tell us a bit about him, it might get us headed in the right direction.”
He considered that for a moment, apparently thinking back. “Bob Shattuck… What do you have on him?”
I ran down a quick synopsis of the police department rap sheet, omitting any mention of Shattuck’s latest activities. I could tell Norm was uncomfortable volunteering so much information—it ran counter to a cop’s natural disposition—but I was fairly convinced that if Huff felt we were treating him as anything other than an ally, the conversation would end right there.
Huff glanced at the boat’s wake as I finished, a white-foamed swarm of reflected fireflies—all the city’s lights bobbing in captured frenzy. “That’s it?”
“We suspect more.”
“Like what?”
Norm sighed next to me.
“The rap sheet only reflects the times he got caught. We think that in the late sixties, early seventies, he may have been linked to extremist radicals—Weatherman splinter groups and the like.”
“The Panthers?”
I looked at him straight. “No. They never came up.”
He nodded slightly. “You suspect violence?”
“Definitely.” Huff addressed Norm. “You’re Runnion, right?”
Norm was slightly startled. “Yeah—sorry—should’ve introduced myself.” He made to reach for his credentials, but Huff stopped him with a shake of the head.
“Don’t worry about it. I checked you out after you called. That’s why I’m here.”
He paused, but not for any response from us. He moved slightly, leaning against the railing, his eyes, like ours earlier, on the passing cityscape. “I knew Shattuck back then, but not well. Some of his causes and ours overlapped, or so we believed at first. Not that it mattered much; we were a force unto ourselves and our race, and on that level he was as much “whitey” as the police. Still, there were a few activities where some sort of vague cooperation existed for a while.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing dramatic. But we began to suspect his motives. We were used to some of that—the wanna-be syndrome—guilty whites hoping to become cool by proximity.”
He shook his head, not so much scornful as philosophical. “They tried to be blacker than us—hating more, protesting too much, running around wearing African robes and claw necklaces. Pathetic.”
“Shattuck was like that?” I asked, not bothering to hide the incredulity.
“No. I think the stimulus was similar, but he demonstrated it differently. Under a charming, almost obsequious exterior, he was a very violent, unstable man—vengeful. I sensed he wanted more than to be black—he wanted to be a leader of blacks. We soon made it clear we didn’t want him within sight.”
There was a pause, which Runnion clearly understood. “You’re not going to get more specific, are you?”
Huff glanced at him and merely smiled.
I pulled Abraham Fuller’s dog-eared photograph out of my pocket and handed it over. “This face ring a bell?”
Huff tilted it so the lights off the boat shone on it. He finally shook his head and handed it back, a gesture I was becoming used to. “No, I’m afraid not.”
“One last one; the skeleton I mentioned’s been described as a white male, about one hundred and ninety pounds, left-handed, probably a ballet dancer and a runner. Had a chipped front tooth that was fixed and no cavities—something he may have bragged about.”
He chuckled and shook his head slightly. “No cavities, huh?” He glanced at his watch and then along the length of the boat. “I need to return to my family.”
“Thanks for your help,” I said.
He nodded at me quickly but then looked at Norm again closely. “I understand you’re retiring soon.”
Runnion was impressed. “Not too many people know that.”
Huff paused, obviously considering something, but all he said was, “Too bad,” before he turned on his heel and left us.
· · ·
“I met my first Black Panther tonight.”
Gail chuckled over the phone. “What was he like?”
“Talked better than me, dressed better than me, and was smarter than hell.”
“No black leather gloves and dark glasses? Didn’t call you ‘pig’?”
“All right, all right, so I’m culturally deprived.”
She laughed and then asked, “What else have you been up to?”
I told her about my meeting with Salierno.
She was no longer amused. “Joe, do you really know what you’re doing?”
I knew from the concern in her voice that she wasn’t being offensive—it was a serious question, and certainly one I’d been asking myself a lot lately.
“On one level, I do.” I hesitated, again remembering the two men in the car, the couple at the bridge. “But it’s a little like poking a sleeping dog with a stick. You need to wake him up, but there’s no telling what the reaction might be.”
She sighed but didn’t pursue the point. “I might have some good news. I’ve been fooling around with that astrology chart, calling a few people I know, checking some books out of the library… I think it might be possible to get a latitude and longitude on the birthplace. “
“You’re kidding me.”
“No. Supposedly, there are dozens of mathematical steps to it, along with a strict procedure, and it only works if the chart is very accurate to begin with. I talked to Billie about it; she wasn’t very hopeful. She’d never done it herself and had never heard of it being done—usually there’s no call for it. She did agree that it would take a ‘real hotshot,’ as she put it, to figure it out. She called the person who taught her—some man in California—but he’d never done it, either.”
“So what makes you think it’s possible?” I asked, fighting to keep the skepticism from my voice.
“It was in one of the books. Anyway, I’m going to keep on it—maybe we’ll find it pinpoints a single tiny hospital in the middle of the boonies.”
“Or six huge ones in downtown L.A.”
We talked for a while, about other, unrelated topics. She told me of a deal she was closing, and about the latest political scrap among the selectmen. By the time we were done, I was longing to be back home. Part of that was the lingering pleasure of hearing Gail’s voice, but another part was being in Chicago. It was just too big for me, too crowded, too complicated, with too many levels to its social structure.
Also, while Brattleboro had its proportion of crazies and hop-heads, whose attention was often best grabbed with the working end of a two-by-four, we didn’t have the Mafia, or slums that covered several square miles, or nine hundred homicides every year. I was a mere blip among millions in this city, and my being extinguished probably wouldn’t even make the front page, assuming someone didn’t arrange to make me vanish without a trace.
My thoughts returned to Shattuck and Bonatto, and to the forces they could conceivably control—and which I had so blithely stirred into motion.
It made me wonder how many bodies were anchored to the bottom of that conveniently located ocean-sized lake.
24
NORM RUNNION PICKED ME UP the next morning, an irrepressible smile on his face.
“What are you so pleased about?”
He slid the car into traffic. “Miles called me last night. He got nowhere on that astrology birth date you had, but after we’d left, he did land a couple of current addresses for our list, one of which was Penny Nivens.” He paused for theatrical effect. “She teaches ballet. I thought we could make her our first stop of the day.”
The boost this news gave me was almost immediately dampened by the dormant paranoia that had been dogging me for almost the last twenty-four hours. I peered out the back window, looking in vain for the large dark four-door of the day before. “Pull over, Norm.”
Norm stopped opposite a fire hydrant and put the car in park. “What’re we looking for?”
I straightened in my seat, quickly debating how to present my fears in a way he would accept. “If you were Bonatto, and I dropped a twenty-four-year-old bomb in your lap and walked away, having dared you to do something about it, how would you react?”
Runnion understood instantly. “We have a tail?”
“We might. I saw two guys in a car opposite your office yesterday afternoon, and I may have seen either the same guys or two others from the tour boat.”
“You didn’t tell me?”
“I wasn’t sure—I’m still not. The two in the car were chatting with a girl passing by, and the others were eating popcorn on the bridge with a crowd of other people. They didn’t do anything suspicious; I never saw them looking in our direction, and the car—when we left your office—stayed put.”
“What about the two on the bridge?”
“They walked away before we shoved off.”
“So they didn’t see us meet Huff?”
I sighed, as if hearing what he was thinking. “I don’t think so—but others may have.”
“Sure,” he muttered matter-of-factly, “Two-or three-man teams. Hard to spot.”
I looked at him in surprise, relieved by his ready acceptance, and added, “Assuming they’re there at all.”
He thought about it for a moment, put the car back into gear, and rejoined the flow of traffic. “Let’s find out.”
He continued up La Salle to North Avenue and turned left. “I’m going to take us out to the expressway, where the traffic is thinner—maybe get a fix on whoever might be out there. What kind of car was it last time?”
“Dark four-door sedan—typical narc car, really.” I planted that last idea on purpose, just to see how he’d react.
He picked it up, but cautiously. “You think they were cops?”
“They could be, especially if your Intelligence pals didn’t quite swallow your story about me.”
He absorbed that without comment.
“The other possibility is Shattuck. If Shilly couldn’t give him the answers he wanted, I’d be his only other option, and he certainly knows enough people to pull it off.”
Runnion shook his head slightly. “Christ, you sounded like such a milk run when I first met you.”
I climbed into the back seat so I could get a better view out the rear window, leaving Norm to search for cars that might be “tailing” us from the front. The traffic on North, however, was cluttered enough to make any discrimination virtually impossible. I scanned the weaving flock of cars behind us, looking for either the same one I’d seen before or the two burly men. But I saw nothing familiar—just a twisting, flowing stream of vehicles, a good half of which might have been following us.
The expressway, however, promised better results.
“You all set?” Norm called back over his shoulder. He hit the accelerator hard but held his speed at sixty-five, as any jackrabbit driver might. I studied the pattern to our rear—several cars stuck with us.
“How many?” he asked.
“About half a dozen, unless the guy is being real subtle.”
“Okay.” Norm slowed back down, activated his turn indicator, and pulled off into the breakdown lane, coming to a full stop. “We’ll give ’em five minutes, enough to force ’em either to take the next exit or pull over themselves. If they have a two-car team, that’ll probably get rid of one of ’em.”
We waited a couple of those minutes in silence, our eyes fixed on opposite horizons. “I wish to hell you hadn’t planted that ‘they might be cops’ idea in my head,” Norm finally muttered.
Now I was the one to sound surprised. “Why? You think they might be?”
“They’re capable of it. What bugs me right now is that I could call in extra units to help us out here, maybe box in whoever it is you think is out there, but I don’t want to do it ’til I know who they are.”
I didn’t respond, and he didn’t call Dispatch for help.
When we did roll again, it was at a snail’s pace. This time, I couldn’t separate anyone from the crowd. They all seemed unanimously irritated at having to negotiate around us—until we crept past the next entrance ramp.
“Bingo. One just got on. He’s way back and doesn’t seem to know what to do. He’s straddling the breakdown line.”
“All right, here goes.” Norm punched the gas pedal and we catapulted forward to eighty miles an hour. Far behind us, almost blocked by the other traffic, I could see a nondescript beige model lurch away from the emergency lane, its rear tires smoking.
“They bit—they’re coming.”
Norm risked a glance into his rearview mirror, although they were still quite a ways back. “They just keeping pace, or trying to close the distance?”
“Keeping pace.”
He accelerated more, taking some risks now that we were without doubt the fastest car in any lane. He weaved right and left, using his horn, once or twice swinging out into the breakdown lane to maintain speed. Staying as far back as they could afford, our pursuers maintained the distance.
“Still there?” Norm shouted, his voice rising above the engine’s howl.
I glanced at him to answer and wished I hadn’t. We were passing cars like they were mere pylons in a suicidal obstacle course. I saw a station wagon just ahead move to get out of our way, realize we were coming on too fast, and switch back jerkily. Norm corrected his direction at the last moment and flew past within inches of the other car’s bumper. My hands were gripping the back of the seat so tightly, my fingernails hurt.
“Still there?” he repeated.
I looked back. “Yes.”
“Okay. Hang on.”
I stared at my white-knuckled fists, wondering how I could do any better. He wrenched the wheel right, slewed across two lanes to an outburst of car horns, and launched us through the air over the top lip of an off ramp. We landed with a sickening, swerving, tire-squealing thump, and Norm pumped the brakes just enough for us to half turn, half slide our way into a cross street.
“They comin’?” I looked out the rear window and saw no beige car. “Nothing yet, but they were pretty far back.”
“Okay.” He pulled a magnetically mounted blue light from under his seat, slapped it onto the dashboard, and stuck its dangling umbilical into the car’s cigarette lighter. He then cranked the wheel hard to the left, hit a switch on his dash that started his siren howling, and proceeded as quickly as possible against the traffic of a curving one-way residential street. Several blocks later, he killed both the light and the siren, turned right, and rejoined the normal flow of cars.
“How ’bout now?”
I checked again. “Clean as a whistle.”
· · ·
Penny Nivens, it turned out, did not teach ballet to the city’s up-and-coming prima ballerinas, nor had she opted to bring the arts to the South Side disadvantaged. Instead, Norm Runnion took me north, out of Skokie, where his careening, subsonic trajectory had landed us, and into the lush green embrace of Lake Forest.
A few hundred yards off the Deerpath Avenue exit from Highway 41, the standard tacky commercial mob of buildings yielded almost instantaneously to a rarefied—and artificial—ruralism, the kind I’d experienced at top-drawer country clubs and upscale modern zoos. Everything natural had been sculpted by experts to make it look “better”—no weeds, no dead branches, no rotting clumps of vegetation. The concessions to modern living had been tastefully blended in—the road smooth and gently curving to enhance that unhurried, country feeling; the sidewalks immaculate and free of cracks. Even the low-key police department, located like a discreet sentry along the main corridor to the violent wastelands, had all the bearing of a bland, retiring, almost embarrassed municipal office block.
Runnion drove through the center of town, past expensive inns, designer retail shops, and the only Ferrari car dealership I’d ever set eyes on, and continued into a vast, intricate, mazelike preserve of trees, lawns, and mind-numbingly gigantic houses.
Neither one of us spoke, our thoughts dulled by the massiveness of the wealth all around us, and it was in silence that Runnion finally parked the car under the protective shade of an ancient gnarled tree by the side of the road. Ahead of us was an ivy-swathed, slate-roofed series of red-brick buildings, surrounded by the playing fields of an exclusive private school.
“She teaches here?” I asked.
Runnion opened his door and swung his legs out. “So I’m told.”
We asked for Penny Nivens at the reception desk. A teenage girl, prim in a navy uniform and white blouse, her hair pulled back in a flawless ponytail, nodded gravely and used the phone by her side to summon a similarly dressed but slightly more disheveled schoolmate, who merely stood by the entrance to the inner hallway and waited.
There was a moment’s awkwardness before an unsmiling portly man in a three-piece suit stepped into the lobby from a side office. Obviously, this was not a place where one just ambled around at will.
“May I help you gentlemen?”
Runnion moved so the two girls couldn’t see his hand as he showed the man his badge. “Yes. We’re here to see Penny Nivens.”
Our challenger’s smile became strained, but he kept his poise. “Why don’t you come into my office and I’ll find out where Miss Nivens is.” He looked over to the girl at the hallway entrance. “Mary, why don’t you just wait there for a few moments?”
