When No One Is Watching (27 page)

She looked at the picture, then turned her eyes to the track, without responding.

“Here’s another picture of him, taken a long time ago.” He showed her the picture taken during Van Howe’s run for Congress ten years ago, the same picture he had intended to show the valet at Chez Pierre before he vanished. “Have you seen him before?”

“I see him on TV sometimes,” Ashley replied.

“Do you remember him from anywhere else?” Slazak asked.

Ashley stared at the runners speeding past them. “Yes.” She continued staring straight ahead.

“Where?” Slazak asked, his voice becoming intense.

“At the car crash, when Daddy got killed. He was there.”

“Are you sure about that, Ashley? Are you absolutely sure?”

Ashley nodded vigorously. “I have a good memory.”

CHAPTER 41
T
he words sucked the air out of his lungs: hepatocellular carcinoma—liver cancer. Danny Moran stared at the pained expression on the face of his friend and physician, Dr. Rich Carroll.

 

“Are you sure, Rich?” Danny asked weakly.

“I’m sure, Danny,” he heard Dr. Carroll respond in a faraway voice. Dr. Carroll explained something about blood counts and alpha-fetoproteins, but the explanation was just a jumble of words without meaning, as a flurry of scattered thoughts raced through Danny’s mind. Dr. Carroll showed him the MRI and ultrasound images, and proceeded to explain them. Again, the words were beyond his grasp, but Danny understood the pictures: the large dark masses all over his liver were cancer.

“How bad is it?” Danny asked, staring at the images and fearing that they spoke for themselves.

“It’s not good, Danny. To be honest, I’m surprised that you’re even able to walk around and that your body is still functioning somewhat normally. We call this Stage Four HCC. That means the cancer is very advanced. I’m not going to sugar-coat this for you, Danny. When we see this kind of cancer this far along, it’s almost always fatal in a very short period of time. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

Danny looked at the floor, hoping to hide the fear that he knew was plastered across his face. “What are my options, Rich?” he asked.

“It’s inoperable, Danny. It’s too far advanced. There are things we can do to control the pain and discomfort, and we can probably slow it down a bit with some aggressive treatments, but the treatments will be hard on you. They’ll make you sick, and they’ll wear you out, but they may prolong your life for at least a little while. How long, I can’t say, but even in a best-case scenario, you probably don’t have much time. As your doctor, I want to fight this and buy you as much time as we possibly can, and I’m willing to do that if that’s what you want. As your friend, I should tell you that my honest opinion is that there’s something to be said for making the most of the time you have left. To me, that means spending as much quality time with your family and friends as you can and doing your best to enjoy the quality of life you still have, rather than embarking on a brutal course of treatment that can only prolong the inevitable for a short time. There are some experimental treatments, but there’s no record of success yet and frankly, given your condition, it would take a miracle, Danny.”

“Miracles can happen, Rich. My life is a testament to that,” Danny said softly, still looking at the floor and trying to fight through the daze that had possessed him. “I need to think about this. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Danny decided to skip his regular Friday night AA meeting that evening. He was in no frame of mind for casual visiting and was not ready to share his grim news with his friends. He was struggling to come to grips with it himself.

He spent the evening hours alternating between pacing aimlessly around the house and sitting in his living room armchair, seeking wisdom and solace in his devotional, but they would not come. His thoughts were scattered. What should he do about treatment? How should he break the news to Allie? Should he call Karen? Was his will up-to-date? He couldn’t focus. His efforts to think rationally were thwarted by two over-powering emotions. The first was a profound sense of sadness at the prospect of leaving his daughter and his friends behind. The second emotion was even more powerful: fear—pure, unadulterated, primal fear.

The stillness in the house was pierced by the shrill ringing of the telephone. “Danny? It’s Pat Jordan. I was hoping you could help me out.”

“Are you drinking again, Pat?” Danny knew the answer before he asked the question. Pat’s slurred speech and the bar noise in the background left no doubt.

“Yeah, I’ve slipped again, Danny,” Pat replied in a shaky voice, thick with embarrassment and remorse. “I need your help before I get too far gone. I’m at Harrigan’s Pub. Can you come get me?”

“Okay, stay there, Pat. Order some black coffee. I’m on my way.”

CHAPTER 42
M
ike Nolan had said that he typically returned home from work at around 7:00 p.m. Slazak was so anxious to get his hands on Nolan’s information that part of him wanted to be waiting on Nolan’s front steps. He resisted that temptation and decided to give Nolan a little time to get settled and have some dinner before dropping in on him. Nolan lived in Oak Lawn, one of the larger suburbs south-west of the city, approximately halfway between Slazak’s airport hotel and his old Mount Greenwood neighborhood. As Slazak pulled his rented Ford onto Massasoit Avenue shortly before eight thirty, he thought that this was exactly the type of place he envisioned Nolan living. There was nothing exciting about the area—no bars, nightclubs, or elegant restaurants—just street after street of neat, tidy little brick houses built during the 1950s and 1960s. The homes and their tiny front lawns were meticulously well maintained. The streets and sidewalks were immaculate and in perfect condition, unlike the dirty, pothole-ridden streets within the city limits.

Slazak drove slowly down the street, straining to see the addresses on the houses, as darkness was rapidly descending. Halfway down the block, he found the correct address. Immediately, he sensed something was amiss. The house was dark, but the front door was wide open.

Slazak raced up the walkway and pounded loudly on the open door. “Nolan! Hey, Nolan, you in there?” There was no response.

He stepped inside and looked around. In the dim light, Slazak could see that the place had been ransacked. Lamps, pictures, drawers, and their contents were strewn all over the living room. Shattered plates and glasses littered the kitchen counters and floors. Cabinet doors were flung open, revealing empty interiors. “Jesus Christ!” Slazak whispered to himself as he surveyed the damage. “Nolan!” he shouted.

He heard movement from the second story, grabbed a kitchen knife and bounded up the stairs. At the top of the stairs, he stopped, listening carefully. He heard a muffled groan coming from the front bedroom. He walked quickly in that direction, looking around cautiously as he did so. He peered into the front bedroom and gasped at the sight.

Mike Nolan was sitting on the floor, back against the wall, holding a grossly misshapen left wrist in his right hand. Blood streamed down his face from a gaping wound on his forehead, just below the hairline. His left eye was bright red and swollen shut.

“Jesus, Nolan, what happened?” Slazak rushed to his old colleague and wiped the blood from his face with a handkerchief.

Nolan glared at him through his one good eye. “What the hell does it look like, Slazak?” he shrieked. His voice was harsh and accusatory. “I was attacked and robbed! They got here first!”

“Calm down, Nolan! Who got here first? Tell me exactly what happened,” Slazak asked in a steady voice, trying hard to mask the confusion and rage he was feeling.

Nolan took a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself. He was shaking all over. “I got home and came in the front door, probably about an hour ago, and someone grabbed me from behind. There was another guy going through all my drawers, throwing things everywhere. The guy who grabbed me said, ‘We’re here for Slazak’s package. Where is it?’”

“What? He used my name?” Slazak asked, a look of disbelief on his face.

“Yes, he used your name, Slazak! But I knew you hadn’t sent him because they were ransacking my house. I told him I didn’t know what he was talking about. Then he started hitting me.” Nolan put a hand over his swollen eye and began sniffling.

“Let me help you up, Nolan,” Slazak said, his voice softening. “Damn, that arm looks bad.” Slazak put his arm around Nolan’s back and under his arms, and gently guided him to a standing position, then walked him over to the side of the bed, where he gingerly helped him sit down. Slazak crouched so that he was at eye level with his old colleague. “Then what happened, Nolan?” he asked, his voice intense.

“They said they wanted the package or they’d break my arm. I told them I didn’t have it. Then one of them grabbed my arm and held it out in front of me, and the other smashed it with his nightstick.”

Slazak looked at Nolan’s wrist, limp and crooked where it should have been firm and straight. “Those bastards!” he said, menace in his voice. “They won’t get away with this, Nolan, I promise you!”

“They got the stuff, Slazak!” Nolan wailed. “I gave it to them. After they broke my arm, they stuck my finger inside a cigar cutter and threatened to cut off my fingers one-by-one until I gave them what they came for. It was in that safe in the closet.” Nolan nodded to a small safe visible through the open closet door. “I opened it for them.” He hung his head as if ashamed of himself and began whimpering again.

“You did the right thing, Nolan. You didn’t have any choice. Now let’s get you to a hospital. Have you called the police yet?”

“No! No police!” Nolan shouted through his tears. “These guys said that if I reported this to anyone, they’d know about it and they’d come back and finish the job. They said I’d be a dead man. Besides that, I think they
were
cops. They were wearing Chicago PD uniforms.”

Slazak froze momentarily. “Did you see what they looked like?” he asked.

“No, they had nylon stockings over their faces. One of them was huge, probably six foot five and built like a brick shithouse. These are bad guys, Slazak. I mean really dangerous. I don’t want the cops involved,” he said adamantly.

“Okay, Nolan. But let me get you to a hospital.”

“No, just leave me alone, Slazak! I can take care of myself.” His voice was shrill and thick with recrimination. “My life has been nice and peaceful since you left town, and as soon as you show up again, this happens. I don’t know what you’re involved in, and I don’t want to know. Just get the hell out of here, okay? Stay out of my life!”

Slazak climbed back into his car, his emotions vacillating between rage and despair. He was enraged over the fact that a harmless soul like Nolan had to endure what he just had, and even angrier at himself for putting Nolan in that position. He was overcome with despair because the evidence that could prove his story was now gone, and there was no hope of recovering it.

The message light on his cell phone was flashing. He retrieved the message and heard Freddy Salazar’s recorded voice. “Do you have it yet?”

Slazak dialed Salazar’s private cell phone number. Salazar picked up immediately. “Where do we stand, Slazak?”

“You prick!” Slazak shouted into the phone. “You told someone about Nolan, didn’t you?”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. “Is there a problem, Slazak?”

“Answer my question!” Slazak demanded.

There was another long pause. “When I briefed Hamilton and his inner circle, I mentioned that a cop was holding some evidence for you. I might have mentioned his name. I had to give them some details or they would have thought you were just another wack job, and we wouldn’t be proceeding with this.”

“You son of a bitch,” Slazak shouted. “You could’ve kept Nolan out of this or just waited until I had the evidence. There was no need to blow his cover!”

“What happened, Slazak?”

“Someone just kicked the living shit out of Nolan. And they took the evidence, Salazar!” The accusation in his voice was unmistakable.

“Are you suggesting that I had something to do with this?” Salazar asked, his voice rising.

“You’re goddamn right I am! As of last night, only two people on the planet besides Nolan knew that he was holding that evidence—you and me. Then you told your cronies and this happens!”

“Shit!” Salazar muttered. “Goddamn it!” He paused, and let out a deep breath, obviously struggling to maintain control. “Okay, let’s think this through, Slazak. We need to figure out where to go from here. The prospect of having a mole on my campaign team is absolutely unthinkable, but I’ll deal with my staff issues. You and I need to figure out how we take this story forward. The facts haven’t changed. It will just be a bit more of a challenge convincing the rest of the world without that evidence.”

“A bit of a challenge?” Slazak roared. “The evidence is gone, Salazar! We can’t prove shit now! It’s over!”

“It’s not over. We still have you, Slazak. You’re the evidence now. And we have the girl.”

Slazak felt a surge of panic. In all the commotion, he’d forgotten about Ashley McGrath. “Did you tell your team about the girl, Freddy?” he asked, his voice filled with dread.

“Damn! I think I did mention her,” said Salazar, realizing the implications. “I didn’t say much about her. I was more focused on the recording and the blood analysis, but I did mention her. You don’t think—”

“Son of a bitch!” Slazak hung up and sped off into the night.

CHAPTER 43
C
ome on, Sister, answer the goddamn phone!” Vic Slazak shouted to himself as he drove as fast as he dared toward Concordia. He heard the click of an answering machine, and then a recorded message advised him to call back during regular business hours. “Shit!” he yelled. He glanced at his watch. It was nine o’clock, and trying to confirm Ashley McGrath’s safety via telephone at this time in the evening was clearly futile.