Probably came in a little after midnight. Make me a copy of that recording, will you?”
“Why don’t you just call the 911 control center yourself? That’s routine stuff. They’ll play it for you right over the phone.”
“I tried. I called them a little while ago, and they said they were having some technical problems. I’m pretty sure that’s bullshit, which is why I’m calling you. I want to be sure nothing happens to that tape. It may be important.”
“Anything else?”
“That’s it for now. Thanks, Nolan. I owe you.”
“Yes, you do, Slazak. And I won’t forget it.”
***
At five o’clock sharp, Slazak again pulled his beat-up black Ford to the valet stand at Chez Pierre, where they were accustomed to a different class of vehicle.
“Nice to see you again, sir,” said the annoyingly chipper young man he had met earlier that afternoon. “That’s Carlos right over there.” The valet pointed to a young man wearing an identical black-and-tan uniform, hanging a set of keys on the rack behind the valet stand. “Hey, Carlos, this gentleman is here to see you.”
Carlos dutifully approached them. “Good afternoon,” he said in a heavy Mexican accent, smiling nervously. He was short and slightly built, and looked considerably younger than his nineteen years.
Slazak sensed his nervousness. “Hi, Carlos,” he said in a friendly voice. He offered his hand, and Carlos shook it weakly, looking down. “Relax, pal, there’s nothing to get uptight about,” Slazak assured him. “I just want to ask you a few questions, okay?” He handed Carlos the mug shot of Danny Moran. “Do you remember seeing this man here on Saturday night?”
“Sí, señor, he was here.” Carlos relaxed visibly upon hearing the nature of the question.
“How do you remember him? There must’ve been a lot of people here Saturday night.”
“I remember this one.” Carlos said it insistently. “He was one of the last to go home. He had too much to drink. He walked like this …” Carlos swayed from side to side, doing his best to imitate a staggering drunk.
“Do you remember his car?”
Carlos nodded vigorously, obviously pleased to be able to answer the detective’s questions. “It was a Porsche, black. It looked new. I drove it.” He smiled proudly.
“So you saw him get into the car and drive off?”
Carlos looked confused. “Oh no, señor. He got into the Porsche, but he didn’t drive it. The other man did.”
Slazak stared hard at the young valet. “Another man drove the Porsche?”
“Sí, señor.”
“What did he look like?”
Carlos stared back blankly. “I … I don’t remember. I was excited to be driving a Porsche, and when I got out, the gentleman handed me a big tip, twenty dollars. I must have been looking at the money and not at his face.”
“This is important, Carlos,” Slazak said, urgency in his voice. “I really need your help. Try to remember what the man looked like.”
Carlos looked down, shaking his head, appearing crestfallen. “I don’t remember,” he said sadly, obviously disappointed in himself.
Slazak silently cursed himself for not having the foresight to bring another picture—a picture of Blair Van Howe. “Do you think you might remember if I showed you his picture?”
“Sí … maybe … I don’t know,” Carlos replied in a dejected voice.
“I’ll be back tomorrow with a picture. Thanks, amigo, you’ve been a big help.” He patted the young man on the shoulder, climbed into his car, and drove off.
After driving several blocks, Slazak pulled to the side of the road and turned off the ignition. It was rush hour in downtown Chicago, and hordes of people scurried past him on their way to train stations, subways, and bus stops. He paid no attention to them. He sat in his car with the engine off, staring straight ahead, tossing the old golf ball from one hand to the other.
CHAPTER 15
Tuesday
I t was lunchtime, so the office was quiet. Danny Moran sat at
“Why don’t you just call the 911 control center yourself? That’s routine stuff. They’ll play it for you right over the phone.”
“I tried. I called them a little while ago, and they said they were having some technical problems. I’m pretty sure that’s bullshit, which is why I’m calling you. I want to be sure nothing happens to that tape. It may be important.”
“Anything else?”
“That’s it for now. Thanks, Nolan. I owe you.”
“Yes, you do, Slazak. And I won’t forget it.”
***
At five o’clock sharp, Slazak again pulled his beat-up black Ford to the valet stand at Chez Pierre, where they were accustomed to a different class of vehicle.
“Nice to see you again, sir,” said the annoyingly chipper young man he had met earlier that afternoon. “That’s Carlos right over there.” The valet pointed to a young man wearing an identical black-and-tan uniform, hanging a set of keys on the rack behind the valet stand. “Hey, Carlos, this gentleman is here to see you.”
Carlos dutifully approached them. “Good afternoon,” he said in a heavy Mexican accent, smiling nervously. He was short and slightly built, and looked considerably younger than his nineteen years.
Slazak sensed his nervousness. “Hi, Carlos,” he said in a friendly voice. He offered his hand, and Carlos shook it weakly, looking down. “Relax, pal, there’s nothing to get uptight about,” Slazak assured him. “I just want to ask you a few questions, okay?” He handed Carlos the mug shot of Danny Moran. “Do you remember seeing this man here on Saturday night?”
“Sí, señor, he was here.” Carlos relaxed visibly upon hearing the nature of the question.
“How do you remember him? There must’ve been a lot of people here Saturday night.”
“I remember this one.” Carlos said it insistently. “He was one of the last to go home. He had too much to drink. He walked like this …” Carlos swayed from side to side, doing his best to imitate a staggering drunk.
“Do you remember his car?”
Carlos nodded vigorously, obviously pleased to be able to answer the detective’s questions. “It was a Porsche, black. It looked new. I drove it.” He smiled proudly.
“So you saw him get into the car and drive off?”
Carlos looked confused. “Oh no, señor. He got into the Porsche, but he didn’t drive it. The other man did.”
Slazak stared hard at the young valet. “Another man drove the Porsche?”
“Sí, señor.”
“What did he look like?”
Carlos stared back blankly. “I … I don’t remember. I was excited to be driving a Porsche, and when I got out, the gentleman handed me a big tip, twenty dollars. I must have been looking at the money and not at his face.”
“This is important, Carlos,” Slazak said, urgency in his voice. “I really need your help. Try to remember what the man looked like.”
Carlos looked down, shaking his head, appearing crestfallen. “I don’t remember,” he said sadly, obviously disappointed in himself.
Slazak silently cursed himself for not having the foresight to bring another picture—a picture of Blair Van Howe. “Do you think you might remember if I showed you his picture?”
“Sí … maybe … I don’t know,” Carlos replied in a dejected voice.
“I’ll be back tomorrow with a picture. Thanks, amigo, you’ve been a big help.” He patted the young man on the shoulder, climbed into his car, and drove off.
After driving several blocks, Slazak pulled to the side of the road and turned off the ignition. It was rush hour in downtown Chicago, and hordes of people scurried past him on their way to train stations, subways, and bus stops. He paid no attention to them. He sat in his car with the engine off, staring straight ahead, tossing the old golf ball from one hand to the other.
CHAPTER 15
Tuesday
I t was lunchtime, so the office was quiet. Danny Moran sat at
Similar Books
