found?” I asked.
“A lot. Some of it interesting.” She picked up a stack of paper from the computer printer. “Earl Johnson finished third from the bottom of the same academy class you were in. You finished third from the top. Nice symmetry.”
“That’s on Google?”
She shook her head. “I called records. Johnson’s gotten four commendations and two complaints. Nothing unusual for a vice detective. Most of the other guys have records that look about the same.”
“What were the complaints for?”
“First, a hooker says he made an agreement with her—she has sex with him and he doesn’t arrest her. She says they did it a couple of times. But then he took her money and arrested her anyway. Internal affairs investigates but the hooker disappears. Complaint file is closed. Second, a pimp says Johnson beat him up and took his money. Internal affairs investigates again but the pimp disappears too. Complaint file closed.”
“Yeah, that sounds like Johnson.”
“The commendations are all from good citizens whose neighborhoods he cleared of prostitutes. Bob Monroe’s record on vice is shorter, one complaint and one commendation. He came over from the gang unit two years ago. His gang record is clean—officially—but I made another call and the word is he got too friendly with some of the guys he was supposed to be policing. It never went to internal affairs but that’s why they moved him to vice.”
“Who told you that?”
“I’ve still got friends in the department. A couple of them anyway.”
I told her about Victor Lopez, the kid Bill Gubman told me about, who had complained about Monroe and then vanished and was presumed dead. Then I asked, “What else?”
She leafed through her papers, pulled out a few sheets. “The one I can’t figure out is Raj. He’s basically an eagle scout. Six service commendations. No complaints. Fast track to detective. Unless there’s another Farid el Raj in Chicago, he also coaches his son’s Little League team and is a member of the Lebanese-American league, serving as Chicago-area chairman of philanthropic outreach. What’s he doing with Johnson and Monroe?”
I shrugged. “Greed is greed. He looks happy enough when he’s at The Spa Club.”
“I Googled the club name and got hits for a chain of spas in Utah and a stand-alone in Minnesota—straight places, unrelated to Johnson’s. Johnson’s club doesn’t appear at all, not even on the adult chat boards.”
“It’s not like they’re advertising next to the escort services.”
“Yeah, but it’s hard to keep quiet about a place like that,” she said. “Sooner or later, some guy’s going to boast about getting laid, even if he paid a thousand dollars for it.”
“The guys who run The Spa Club have a lot of incentive to keep the place a secret. The people who go there have a lot to lose too. If they slip and it comes out, they fall hard.”
Lucinda gave me a half smile.
“What?” I said.
“I think I see them slipping.”
A little after 6:00, we walked out and had dinner at a Chinese restaurant called Opera, which made the best garlic black bean shrimp in the city. We split an order of the shrimp, some Hainanese mussels, and the black tiger prawn Singapore noodles. For an hour, the city seemed far away. Outside the window, the November wind sucked away the last warmth and life from the leafless branches of the trees in the curbside planters. It swung the metal and plastic sign that hung over the door of the bank across the street. Yellow cabs shined their headlights into the back windows of other yellow cabs as they took their passengers to whatever happiness or sadness was waiting for them at home. But inside the restaurant, the air was warm and smelled of garlic and chili peppers, and the light was low and comforting. A waiter brought a pot of tea, then plate after plate of hot food. He said to let him know if there was anything else he could bring us. It would be his pleasure to bring
“A lot. Some of it interesting.” She picked up a stack of paper from the computer printer. “Earl Johnson finished third from the bottom of the same academy class you were in. You finished third from the top. Nice symmetry.”
“That’s on Google?”
She shook her head. “I called records. Johnson’s gotten four commendations and two complaints. Nothing unusual for a vice detective. Most of the other guys have records that look about the same.”
“What were the complaints for?”
“First, a hooker says he made an agreement with her—she has sex with him and he doesn’t arrest her. She says they did it a couple of times. But then he took her money and arrested her anyway. Internal affairs investigates but the hooker disappears. Complaint file is closed. Second, a pimp says Johnson beat him up and took his money. Internal affairs investigates again but the pimp disappears too. Complaint file closed.”
“Yeah, that sounds like Johnson.”
“The commendations are all from good citizens whose neighborhoods he cleared of prostitutes. Bob Monroe’s record on vice is shorter, one complaint and one commendation. He came over from the gang unit two years ago. His gang record is clean—officially—but I made another call and the word is he got too friendly with some of the guys he was supposed to be policing. It never went to internal affairs but that’s why they moved him to vice.”
“Who told you that?”
“I’ve still got friends in the department. A couple of them anyway.”
I told her about Victor Lopez, the kid Bill Gubman told me about, who had complained about Monroe and then vanished and was presumed dead. Then I asked, “What else?”
She leafed through her papers, pulled out a few sheets. “The one I can’t figure out is Raj. He’s basically an eagle scout. Six service commendations. No complaints. Fast track to detective. Unless there’s another Farid el Raj in Chicago, he also coaches his son’s Little League team and is a member of the Lebanese-American league, serving as Chicago-area chairman of philanthropic outreach. What’s he doing with Johnson and Monroe?”
I shrugged. “Greed is greed. He looks happy enough when he’s at The Spa Club.”
“I Googled the club name and got hits for a chain of spas in Utah and a stand-alone in Minnesota—straight places, unrelated to Johnson’s. Johnson’s club doesn’t appear at all, not even on the adult chat boards.”
“It’s not like they’re advertising next to the escort services.”
“Yeah, but it’s hard to keep quiet about a place like that,” she said. “Sooner or later, some guy’s going to boast about getting laid, even if he paid a thousand dollars for it.”
“The guys who run The Spa Club have a lot of incentive to keep the place a secret. The people who go there have a lot to lose too. If they slip and it comes out, they fall hard.”
Lucinda gave me a half smile.
“What?” I said.
“I think I see them slipping.”
A little after 6:00, we walked out and had dinner at a Chinese restaurant called Opera, which made the best garlic black bean shrimp in the city. We split an order of the shrimp, some Hainanese mussels, and the black tiger prawn Singapore noodles. For an hour, the city seemed far away. Outside the window, the November wind sucked away the last warmth and life from the leafless branches of the trees in the curbside planters. It swung the metal and plastic sign that hung over the door of the bank across the street. Yellow cabs shined their headlights into the back windows of other yellow cabs as they took their passengers to whatever happiness or sadness was waiting for them at home. But inside the restaurant, the air was warm and smelled of garlic and chili peppers, and the light was low and comforting. A waiter brought a pot of tea, then plate after plate of hot food. He said to let him know if there was anything else he could bring us. It would be his pleasure to bring
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