Final Stroke (20 page)

“My grandfather had records like this,” she had said.

Steve had smiled, his smile more melancholy then. “It’s Sandor Lakatos, the famous Gypsy violinist. He learned the violin from his father, and his father from
his
father. Five generations of Hungarian Gypsy violinists.”

The solo violin began slowly, almost weeping, exactly the way it had been on her grandfather’s record player back in the nursing home. Although the tune increased in momentum, it maintained a haunting feeling as each note faded in and out. In a way, the music was like a stroke, starting slowly, then going faster and faster, approaching a cli
max using the mystery of its minor keys.

She recalled Steve standing on the other side of the coffee table playing an imaginary violin, swaying from side to side as he stared at her with those dark eyes that seemed larger at a distance.

The music sped up, other instruments joining in. Steve kept play
ing the imaginary violin, smiling at her, then laughing when the music became so fast he could hardly keep up. When the song ended they both laughed and, following Steve’s lead, Jan drank down the wine she had poured for them.

The next song was very slow, at first seeming sad, but there was a contradictory pleasure to the anguish, the music soothing like watch
ing a sad movie and enjoying the sadness.

Again, Steve played along, swaying as he bowed his make-believe violin, alternately staring at her and closing his eyes. Perhaps he’d been thinking about the tragic death of his fiancee in Cleveland as the
music played. His first love struck down in pointless violence. Per haps she’d been thinking that she would become like him, melancholy for the rest of her life.

They drank the wine down between songs, put the glasses on the table, and danced. Steve held her tightly and they danced slowly, his arms strong, his legs pressing against hers, his breath at her ear. When the music sped up they continued holding one another as they danced faster and faster and the music grew louder and louder.

“The
czardas
!” said Steve.

“I know! I remember my grandfather dancing it with me at a wedding!”

“How old were you?”

“Very small! He bent over!”

They danced around the living room, into the dining room. When the
czardas
ended, another slow song played and Jan led, waltz
ing them slowly, very slowly, down the hall to her bedroom.

They fell onto the bed in the dark, side by side, Steve’s arm across her breasts. After a moment Jan stood and turned on the light. Steve looked up at her, sat up. The music from the living room sad as hell and Steve’s eyes sad as hell and her sad as hell she hadn’t met him twenty years earlier.

When the music ended and the tape deck clicked off, Jan put down her glass of scotch. She had wished the scotch into red wine served ten years earlier. For a few minutes, while the music played, Steve had been there. She had been able to recall the evening vividly because it was the first time they had made love. She wondered if the same evening was somewhere in Steve’s brain. That evening trying its best to fight its way through dead and injured brain cells to make it self known once again in sad minor keys. Could those have been the keys Steve referred to when he mentioned Marjorie’s past? Perhaps
Marjorie’s death reminded him of his mortality. Memories from the past locked away, and if only one could find the keys before …

As she stared at her empty glass, Jan recalled what Steve had said about the glass he’d found near Marjorie’s body. Something about a sink in a janitors’ closet and him thinking maybe the puddle on the floor had been made by someone using the glass to spill water there. He’d wanted to have her give the glass to someone to get fingerprints off it, but somehow the glass had broken. Now, as she recalled Steve telling her this, she wondered if the disappointment he expressed was because of a glass that had broken, or because of his realization that the story of the glass might have been concocted in his head.

She thought of Lydia again, and the long weekend coming up. It was late, Lydia had said she was going to leave Thursday night and was probably already gone. Obviously she had delayed calling because she did not want to go, but wanted Steve to think she’d gone. She recalled Steve saying, “You fishy kid,” and wondered if the “fish” in what he said was an indication he’d been thinking about what she was think
ing right now. A fishing expedition.

A name came to mind, someone Steve had used for fishing expedi
tions. So easy to go on a fishing expedition when she and Steve knew a guy like Phil Hogan who had his fingers in so many things and had a reputation at the Chicago PD for being unable to keep his mouth shut, especially when he was drinking, and, according to some, he was always drinking.

She recalled that, before his stroke, after a phone conversation with Tamara, Steve had said something about Phil Hogan maybe being on the take, something about wondering whether Phil should be trusted. But Phil seemed friendly enough, especially lately. Could be a good sign. Could be Phil was having some luck getting off the booze, not drunk all the time and that’s why he’d been calling more often asking
how Steve was doing.

Jan wondered if maybe she should call Tamara and ask her what she thinks, both about the fishing expedition and about whether Phil was someone to be trusted. But if she called Tamara, it wouldn’t be a fishing expedition. What would happen is that Tamara would want to arrange to speak with Steve and her together. Then, if there was something worth fishing for, Tamara would insist on opening an offi
cial investigation. And, for some reason, it seemed that was something Steve did not want to happen right now. If she was going fishing, it had to be on her own. Chances are she’d find nothing, but at least she’d feel good knowing she’d done it. At least she would have tried. Steve seemed genuinely pleased with her questioning of the nurses’ aide, and she’d done that on her own. No involvement on Steve’s part, no big waves, only small ones.

She reached for the phone and punched in a number.

“Yeah.”

“Phil?”

“Jan, that you? Hey.”

“Yeah, Phil, it’s me.”

“Hey, honey, how’s good ol’ Steve doing?” Once Phil relaxed his guard she could tell from his voice that he’d been drinking as usual.

“He gets a little better each day. But it’s gradual and I find myself wanting him back exactly the way he was, yet knowing it may never happen.”

“Yeah, I been thinking ‘bout you guys a lot. Everyone downtown who ever worked with Steve asks about him. Even his old boss from cop days.”

“Donovan?”

“Yeah, Donovan the schnause.”

“Phil, Steve asked me to tell you about this other guy named Phil
who’s got a room across from his at Saint Mel’s. He asked me to do it when I was listing names of friends one day and your name came up. He said to tell you what this other guy named Phil says all the time.”

“Oh yeah? Did this guy have a stroke like Steve?”

“Yes, he did. But a little more serious.”

“Okay, I’ll bite. What does this Phil say?”

“Apparently he’s only able to say two words, always the same two words. I’ve heard him and sometimes it’s kind of funny. I guess that’s why Steve wanted me to tell you. He likes to tell people things that make them laugh.”

“Okay, Jan, honey. Make me laugh.”

“Jesus fuck.”

“What?”

“Jesus fuck. That’s all the guy ever says. If you say hello to him, he says, Jesus fuck. If you ask how he’s doing, he says, Jesus fuck.”

“I guess that could be pretty funny, depending on the circum
stances,” said Hogan, beginning to sound more sober, as if he knew this couldn’t possibly be the reason she called.

“Anyway,” said Jan, “I promised Steve I’d call you sometime and tell you that. And one other thing as long as you’re on the line.”

“What’s that?”

“Suppose someone at a nursing home was found dead and hap
pened to be related to a guy named Max Lamberti. And suppose some
one else at that nursing home thought maybe some water was spilled on the floor to make it appear that this older relative had slipped, but she really hadn’t slipped. And suppose further the glass that had been used to spill some water around was available to fingerprint.”

When he did not answer immediately, Jan wondered if she’d said too much.

“You there, Phil?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“So, what do you think?”

“I don’t mean to be rude, Jan, honey, but I don’t know what you’re talking about. Is this something Steve wanted you to ask me?”

“No. It was someone else at the nursing home attached to the place where Steve’s a resident. This woman I’ve gotten to know there told me this crazy story, and when I told her I knew a cop or two, she asked me if I’d ask around about it.”

“This woman gave you that name … What was it?”

“Max Lamberti? Yes, she gave me the name.”

“The name rings a bell, Jan. Of course I don’t personally know the guy, but with a name like that in a city like this …”

“The mob?”

“Could be, Jan, but it would only be a guess on my part. If you like I’ll check around and give you a call if I find anything.”

“Thanks, Phil. I really appreciate it.”

“Sure, Jan, sure. And say howdy to Steve next time you see him.”

After Jan hung up she retrieved her glass and went into the kitchen. She rinsed the glass in the sink and put it on the counter. As she stood at the kitchen sink staring down into the drain where the disposal waited to tear apart flesh or anything else that would fit down there, she remembered the cesspool in hell joke Steve said he shared in rehab. Standing in a cesspool up to their chins, all the people in hell who’d chosen the door behind which there’d been no screams of pain are whispering, “Don’t make waves,” to one another.

So maybe it was time for her to make a few waves. Or maybe she’d already made some, because she knew damn well Phil Hogan must have known exactly who Max Lamberti was. Phil Hogan had been one of Steve’s main sources at Chicago Police Headquarters. And during the last ten years, Jan understood enough about Steve’s cases to know
Phil Hogan made it his business to know all the hoods in the city.

As she got ready for bed, she made plans for the next day and hoped she was doing the right thing. What the hell. Maybe she
could
do something to find out if there was a possibility Marjorie had been murdered. And if so, the unearthing of a case for the two of them to work on would most likely do more for Steve’s recovery than all the magazines in the world.

After turning out the bedroom light, she realized she’d left the light on in the living room. On her way down the hall to turn out the light, she saw movement at the kitchen window and paused in the hallway. After a few seconds, and having seen nothing, she mumbled, “Right, probably a monkey escaped from the zoo was swinging in the tree branch. Or better yet, maybe there’s this thing called wind that moves the branches from time to time and causes shadows from the parking lot.” Then she realized the reason the movement had caused her to stop was because she was still used to the kitchen window on the second floor where it was above the small tree near the entrance.

In the living room, after turning out the light, she parted the drapes to look out at the parking lot and saw a man standing beneath the light in the center of the lot. The man was short and his clothes were baggy. Although the light was above and behind him, she could see he wore a baseball cap. And by the way he moved, punching the air like a shadowboxer, she saw the cap was on backward. Funny thing about this was that even though it was obvious the cap was backward, there didn’t seem to be much of a profile on the man, or at least much of a nose.

As she watched the man shadowboxing in the parking lot, she couldn’t help wondering if the movement she’d seen at the kitchen window might not have been a tree branch. Lifting the drape a little more and glancing toward the tree outside the kitchen window, she
detected no movement at all, no wind.

After shadowboxing for several seconds, the man in the park
ing lot went directly beneath the light and used the light pole to do stretches against. He was wearing baggy sweats and white athletic shoes. She couldn’t tell much else about the man except that his nose was very small, or flat. Yes, flat like a boxer.

After a few more seconds of stretching, the man jogged in place, then began running and soon disappeared into the darkness where the parking lot bordered the road that paralleled the fence surrounding the Brookfield Zoo grounds.

Jan reached for the phone in the dark, picked it up, and punched at the lit numbers. Although she knew Lydia would not be there, she decided to leave a message saying she had decided not to join her for the long weekend.

When Jan finished with the message, she couldn’t recall exactly what she had said and how she had said it. She walked down the hall but did not go into the bedroom. Instead she continued to the end of the hall and stood outside the door to the spare bedroom. Although is was dark, she knew that inside the room was the cabinet where Steve kept his gun and ammunition, and she also knew that just a few steps behind her, in the bathroom medicine cabinet, inside a band-aide box, was the key to the gun cabinet. But she did not retrieve the key to un
lock the gun cabinet, and instead went to her and Steve’s room.