snorted. “Tell it to Oprah.”
I raised an eyebrow, nodded to Clint. “Okay, then, Mrs. Hazen. Care to lose another man you love?”
And I placed the snout of the nine mil against the temple of moaning crybaby Clint.
Mrs. Hazen’s chin lifted defiantly. “You don’t scare me.”
But Clint’s eyes were as huge as a cartoon rabbit’s. “ Tell her, Rhonda! For Chrissakes, she’s crazy ! Crazy cunt is capable of God knows what!”
I thought that was uncalled for, the “c” word. Kind of brave of him, though, with my nine mil’s nose puckering his flesh.
He was raving, “Rhonda, please, God, tell her anything she goddamn wants to know!”
Mrs. Hazen was looking at me carefully now, her expression having shifted to one of horror.
I guess I looked a sight, with blood all over my face from Clint hitting me.
But I swear my expression was bland as toast when I said to her, “Yeah, Rhonda. Help me.”
In about half an hour, a pair of EMTs—one of whom had been nice enough to take time out to clean up my face and provide a bandage for where Clint’s fist had cut me near my right eye—loaded a still uncomfortable Clint Hazen on a gurney into their ambulance.
Mrs. Hazen, baby in her arms again, was watching, distressed, standing near her trailer, joined by a couple of female neighbors in her general age range and apparently frequenting the same tattoo parlor. One woman was smoking, the other had a can of beer, possibly wanting to have it ready should Rhonda or maybe her baby need a sedative.
Two uniformed police officers, a Hispanic woman and a white male, both of whom I’d already spoken to at more length than seemed to me necessary, were on the periphery. So was I, but on a different patch of it.
I’d been asked to wait, and I wasn’t sure why. Then I understood, when an unmarked car, a black Crown Victoria, pulled in next to where the local police car was angled in and parked.
Lt. Rafe Valer stepped from the Ford, shut the car door hard, like he was trying to make a point, and strode toward me. His tan double-breasted trenchcoat made him look every bit the detective he was.
I met him halfway.
“Since when,” I said, “does Chicago Homicide check out shot-off kneecaps in Calumet City?”
He smiled warily, shook his head, his hands on his hips. “Your name on a police call’s always a red flag, Michael. Emphasis on the red.”
I cocked my head. “Just my name caught your eye, Lieutenant? Not ‘Hazen’?”
Suddenly his eyes were awkwardly searching the cinder-strewn ground. “Well...of course, I know she’s the wife of the, uh...”
I got right in his face, my nose maybe an inch from his. “Wife of the bastard who killed Mike?”
“Michael....”
I backed away some, but still stayed right on top of him. “Just what the hell kind of investigation did you boys in blue do for your fallen brother, Lt. Valer?”
Rafe sighed. His eyes didn’t meet mine as he admitted, “Not much.”
His frankness shook me, my indignation freezing......then melting.
Now his eyes came to mine, their dark brown bottomless with regret and, yes, sorrow.
He said, “Michael, I had no inkling of this ‘Event Planner’ at the time of Mike’s murder, and, goddamn it, that’s the genius of this son of a bitch—leaving us nothing to investigate.”
“Really?” I jerked a thumb toward Mrs. Hazen and her friends. “You coulda talked to Miss Trailer Park of 1994 over there.”
His eyes tightened. “You’ve already talked to her...?”
My arms were folded and my expression was smug. “She was real forthcoming, after we got down to, you know, just talking...one widow to another.”
“What did she tell you?”
“Oh, for starters, all about the phone calls that her jailbird soulmate got, right after he got out—phone calls that got him all riled up—seems the caller had some very exact information.”
Rafe’s eyes widened, then narrowed.
“Such as one anonymous call that provided the name and
I raised an eyebrow, nodded to Clint. “Okay, then, Mrs. Hazen. Care to lose another man you love?”
And I placed the snout of the nine mil against the temple of moaning crybaby Clint.
Mrs. Hazen’s chin lifted defiantly. “You don’t scare me.”
But Clint’s eyes were as huge as a cartoon rabbit’s. “ Tell her, Rhonda! For Chrissakes, she’s crazy ! Crazy cunt is capable of God knows what!”
I thought that was uncalled for, the “c” word. Kind of brave of him, though, with my nine mil’s nose puckering his flesh.
He was raving, “Rhonda, please, God, tell her anything she goddamn wants to know!”
Mrs. Hazen was looking at me carefully now, her expression having shifted to one of horror.
I guess I looked a sight, with blood all over my face from Clint hitting me.
But I swear my expression was bland as toast when I said to her, “Yeah, Rhonda. Help me.”
In about half an hour, a pair of EMTs—one of whom had been nice enough to take time out to clean up my face and provide a bandage for where Clint’s fist had cut me near my right eye—loaded a still uncomfortable Clint Hazen on a gurney into their ambulance.
Mrs. Hazen, baby in her arms again, was watching, distressed, standing near her trailer, joined by a couple of female neighbors in her general age range and apparently frequenting the same tattoo parlor. One woman was smoking, the other had a can of beer, possibly wanting to have it ready should Rhonda or maybe her baby need a sedative.
Two uniformed police officers, a Hispanic woman and a white male, both of whom I’d already spoken to at more length than seemed to me necessary, were on the periphery. So was I, but on a different patch of it.
I’d been asked to wait, and I wasn’t sure why. Then I understood, when an unmarked car, a black Crown Victoria, pulled in next to where the local police car was angled in and parked.
Lt. Rafe Valer stepped from the Ford, shut the car door hard, like he was trying to make a point, and strode toward me. His tan double-breasted trenchcoat made him look every bit the detective he was.
I met him halfway.
“Since when,” I said, “does Chicago Homicide check out shot-off kneecaps in Calumet City?”
He smiled warily, shook his head, his hands on his hips. “Your name on a police call’s always a red flag, Michael. Emphasis on the red.”
I cocked my head. “Just my name caught your eye, Lieutenant? Not ‘Hazen’?”
Suddenly his eyes were awkwardly searching the cinder-strewn ground. “Well...of course, I know she’s the wife of the, uh...”
I got right in his face, my nose maybe an inch from his. “Wife of the bastard who killed Mike?”
“Michael....”
I backed away some, but still stayed right on top of him. “Just what the hell kind of investigation did you boys in blue do for your fallen brother, Lt. Valer?”
Rafe sighed. His eyes didn’t meet mine as he admitted, “Not much.”
His frankness shook me, my indignation freezing......then melting.
Now his eyes came to mine, their dark brown bottomless with regret and, yes, sorrow.
He said, “Michael, I had no inkling of this ‘Event Planner’ at the time of Mike’s murder, and, goddamn it, that’s the genius of this son of a bitch—leaving us nothing to investigate.”
“Really?” I jerked a thumb toward Mrs. Hazen and her friends. “You coulda talked to Miss Trailer Park of 1994 over there.”
His eyes tightened. “You’ve already talked to her...?”
My arms were folded and my expression was smug. “She was real forthcoming, after we got down to, you know, just talking...one widow to another.”
“What did she tell you?”
“Oh, for starters, all about the phone calls that her jailbird soulmate got, right after he got out—phone calls that got him all riled up—seems the caller had some very exact information.”
Rafe’s eyes widened, then narrowed.
“Such as one anonymous call that provided the name and
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