Burners - A Jack Daniels/Alex Chapa Mystery Read online

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Is that short for Alexander?”

  “No, Alejandro. I was born in Cuba, but when I became a U.S. citizen my mother decided it was a good idea to go with something less ethnic, so she changed it to Alex.”

  I heard a high-pitched creaking to my left. Judge Malvo was slowly leaning in my direction.

  “That was a wise decision,” he said, his voice trailing the stench of his breath—coffee, cigarettes, and decay, wrapped in stale indifference.

  Because the thing I wanted most at that moment was to get out of there and get on with the rest of my life, I chose to ignore the judge’s remark. In a different setting I would have told the old fart how my mother had apologized to me on more than one occasion for a decision she’d long regretted. Instead, I waited for the next question.

  Lipscomb, too, had chosen to ignore Judge Malvo. She was probably accustomed to his idiotic side comments. “It says here you work for a newspaper.”

  “On my good days, yes.”

  She looked up from her clipboard.

  “And what about on your bad ones?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  Lipscomb lowered her brow without taking her eyes off me, like a parent on the verge of unloading on an unruly child. This was good.

  “You’re a reporter, then, Mr. Chapa?”

  “I’m a columnist.”

  I heard Simon Lebanon snicker, then he said, “Isn’t a columnist just a reporter who gets his photo in the paper?” He sat back, apparently pleased with himself, and ran a hand through his hair. I watched the brown tufts retreat for a moment before beginning their southbound journey back to the usual resting place.

  Still focused on escaping the stand and getting out the door, I opted to ignore Lebanon just as I had the judge, and turned my attention back to Lipscomb.

  “Have you ever written any stories about crimes or criminals?”

  “Many.” What cave had this woman been living in the past fifteen years? There was even a better than fair chance I’d mentioned her in one or two of my stories. Or could be this was just a formality on the road to dismissing me. I hoped that was it.

  “And how do you feel about the police and our justice system, based on your work experience?”

  Finally.

  “I believe that the police get it right nearly all of the time, and that anyone charged with a major crime is usually there for a reason.”

  “And what about the justice system, the courts?”

  “In my work, I’ve covered a great many trials. Most have ended in a conviction.”

  Apparently Lebanon had somewhere else he needed to be. After sneaking a glance at his watch, the D.A. abruptly got up, left the table, and walked out the same set of doors he’d entered through.

  “And how have you felt about those convictions? Have you disagreed with any of the decisions?”

  “My job is to report and analyze, not to agree or disagree.”

  That was good. It suggested an inability or at least unwillingness to judge, which should give the prosecution some doubts about my reliability on a jury. Then again, it could also suggest an innate impartiality. That would be bad.

  A young man in a tan suit, who I figured was a clerk, got Lipscomb’s attention. She leaned down to hear him whisper something. Then she whispered something back and I began to imagine myself being dismissed, walking out of the courthouse, sitting in my car, slipping Bob Seger’s Against the Wind into the CD player, and cranking the volume.

  Lipscomb was nodding as she turned her attention back to me.

  “One more question, Mr. Chapa. Would you have any trouble voting to send a man to jail for the rest of his life for murder?”

  This was my shot. A “yes” answer would likely bring my part of this to an abrupt end. So easy. Just say “yes.”

  But not really easy at all. In my years as a journalist I’ve written about some of the worst monsters the Chicago area has ever spit up. Hell yeah, I could send a man to jail for murder.

  “Would you like me to repeat the question, Mr. Chapa?”

  No, I heard it the first time. I was just calculating my options, and determined I have a much better play with the defense.

  “I could send a man to prison for life. No problem.” I didn’t add what I actually thought—If I was certain he was guilty.

  “We have no further questions, or any objections to this potential juror.”

  Not what I wanted to hear. But I sensed I had a good shot of getting bounced by the defense.

  As the younger of the two defense attorneys stood, I saw Lebanon abruptly re-enter the courtroom through the back door, followed an instant later by a tall, shapely woman who appeared to be more than a little irritated. She had dark shoulder-length hair, a nice figure, and an outfit to match. She looked like she’d just stepped out of the front window of an exclusive Mag Mile clothing store.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Chapa.” The slender attorney had taken off the poindexter glasses he’d been wearing earlier.

  I nodded, said nothing, since verbally agreeing under these circumstances would most certainly constitute perjury.

  “Mr. Chapa, have you ever covered a case or written a story about arson?”

  The defense attorney’s question diverted my attention away from the woman—

  “No.”

  —but only briefly. There was something familiar about her, and I wondered if she might be a fellow reporter. Someone whose path had crossed mine once or twice.

  “Do you have any sort of prejudiced feelings toward Hispanics?”

  “What?”

  I hadn’t been paying attention, and for a moment I wondered whether I’d missed a question.

  “Hispanics in general, Mexicans in particular. Any feelings or history of prejudice?”

  “No, of course not. As I said before, I’m Cuban.”

  “Cuban, yes, but—”

  “No, I have no prejudice against anyone.” Besides asshole attorneys in particular, morons in general, and folks who forget to turn off their blinkers on the tollway as a matter of principle, that is.

  Though I could not make out what was being said, the hushed conversation in the back of the courtroom was anything but friendly. Fingers were being pointed, hands perched on hips, and it was clear that Lebanon was no match for this woman.

  I was intrigued.

  “Based on one of your earlier responses, do you believe you have a predisposition toward finding a defendant guilty?”

  I had just decided that she was wearing too much money to be a reporter, when the woman turned and looked my way for an instant. Just long enough for me to confirm this was no reporter.

  “Mr. Chapa?”

  Lieutenant Jacqueline Daniels? What was she doing so far out her comfort zone, which included Chicago’s most treacherous streets, dive bars, and crack houses, but not its western suburbs?

  “I’m sorry, could you repeat the question?”

  Judge Malvo let out a loud, purposeful sigh.

  “I asked if you would be predisposed to finding a defendant guilty simply because he’s on trial, based on an earlier response.”

  Then I put it together.

  Daniels was connected to this case. As a…what? Couldn’t be an arresting officer. So an expert? Maybe there had been similar crimes in her jurisdiction, or she’d had an earlier run-in with the defendant.

  That meant she could wind up on the stand.

  Hmm…

  “Mr. Chapa,” the judge was gradually tilting toward me. “We’ve been here a long time.” Then he cupped a heavy hand over his microphone and whispered, “Could you please answer the goddamned question?”

  Jack Daniels’ head had snapped in my direction at the mention of my name. Now she was staring at me with a look that was equal parts disdain and confusion.

  “I apologize, Your Honor.”

  “Would you like the nice attorney to repeat the question again?”

  “Thank you, but
no, I’m good.”

  Daniels was still staring at me, but the confusion half of the equation was gone from her face.

  I smiled at her, then turned my attention to the defense lawyer. This was simple, now. If I informed them that I knew Officer Daniels, that we’d once solved a case together, one that involved pogs no less, and that I’d saved her life along the way, I would immediately be excused.

  But it wasn’t simple. A journalist’s curiosity has a way of complicating things. If a Chicago cop was involved it meant that his trial had the potential of being a much bigger story than I had imagined. And while I could ask to be assigned to cover it and spend my days sitting in the gallery, I now had the opportunity to track it from the inside, as an active member, as a juror.

  As the attorneys grew more impatient waiting for my answer, I imagined the series I could write after it was all over. I knew what I had to do.

  “I have absolutely no predisposition about a defendant’s guilt or innocence, and I’m certain I can render a just verdict based on the evidence as presented. If I was unable to do that, I wouldn’t be much of a journalist.” I leaned forward for emphasis. “And I’m a very good journalist.”

  I didn’t have to look in her direction to know Daniels was staring at me. And as the defense team conferred, I did my best to avoid thinking about what I had just done to the next several days, weeks, or maybe even months of my life.

  The last time I saw Alex Chapa I’d almost arrested him for B&E. He talked his way out of it, and wound up playing a significant role in solving a string of homicides. While I wasn’t fond of his profession—cops and reporters are like oil and water—he was okay by me.

  Seeing him on the stand, participating in his state-mandated civic duty, I figured he wanted to be here as much as I did. Which is why I found it odd that his answers indicated a desire to be selected as a jury member, especially since that didn’t seem to be the route he was taking up until he noticed me.

  Either he had the hots for me, or he thought there was a story to be had—Chapa sniffed out stories like hounds tracked foxes. I might have butted in, told the court that we knew each other, which probably would have resulted in his dismissal, but I had two good reasons to keep my mouth shut. A quick view of the courtroom showed me the jury hadn’t been fully selected yet, and if Chapa was bounced it could be hours before he was replaced. Also, I was here in Birch Grove alone. If my stay in this quaint little suburb lasted for more than a day, and he was after a story, he’d no doubt want to talk to me, which would result in a few free drinks, maybe even dinner after the trial was over.

  Plus, I’d once saved Chapa’s life, so he owed me a drink—at the very least.

  My stomach growled, and I realized I needed something more substantial than the Snickers bar I’d eaten back when I thought I’d be out of here around lunchtime. I exited the courtroom, intent on grabbing something nearby. Though a tourist town, Birch Grove was still old-fashioned enough to have a proper main street, and no doubt I could find a café or deli within walking distance.

  When I got into the lobby, I ran into two men. I identified one of them as Officer Nicholas James, the cop who took my statement after the print shop fire. On that day, he’d been in his Birch Grove uniform. Today he was dressed to the nines, an Armani suit with creases so sharp they could slice day-old bread, and polished loafers that could be seen from space. The man with him was no slouch in the clothing department, either. I knew a bit about fashion, and pegged his jacket as Valentino. Both were tailored, fitting so perfectly they couldn’t have been wearing shoulder holsters.

  Though I liked to dress well, the vast majority of my clothes were bought at discount stores or the Home Shopping Network. Maybe I needed to quit the CPD and get on the Birch Grove force.

  James was deep in hushed conversation when he noticed me, and stopped mid-sentence. He was tall, young, and I guessed his military haircut was a holdover from a recent tour of duty. His expression went from surprised, to neutral.

  “Welcome back to Birch Grove, Lieutenant. This is my partner, Emmanuel Lewis.”

  His partner was black, and upon hearing his name I immediately began to search for any resemblance to the child star who played Webster on that old 80s sitcom.

  “I’m not that one,” Lewis said, reading my mind.

  There was a quick round of handshaking. I noticed James had a Submariner Rolex, and Lewis had a much less ostentatious Movado that was a larger version of the one I was wearing.

  “You staying at the Weatherby House again?” James asked.

  “I love the fireplace.”

  James nodded. “Well, hopefully you’ll be able to testify soon, get back to chasing real criminals in Chi-town.”

  I couldn’t tell if he was being respectful or sarcastic. James had the cool cop demeanor down to a tee.

  “Seems like you’ve found some real criminals here in Birch Grove. A murder/arson is a pretty big deal anywhere you go. Enjoying your newfound celebrity?”

  James had been the arresting officer.

  “Just doing my job. The people here have been pretty worried about the fires, so it’s good they’ve ended. Too bad someone had to die in the last one.”

  “Fires?” I said. “There have been more than one?”

  James and Lewis exchanged a glance.

  “Been real tough around here,” Lewis said. “Shop owners have been terrified. But there hasn’t been another fire since the arrest. More proof we got our perp.”

  “What was the motive?” I asked, knowing I was overstepping my bounds. “Pyro?”

  “We really can’t discuss that, Lieutenant,” James said. “No talking about the case. You understand.”

  “Well, can you tell me where to get a decent sandwich nearby?”

  “Knuth’s, around the corner. He’ll set you up. Turn left when you exit, then another left.”

  “Thanks.”

  I nodded my goodbye and walked away, feeling their eyes on me. So the accused, Tony Beniquez, was a serial arsonist? I’d met a few pyromaniacs in my day, and they shared many traits with serial killers. Vivid fantasies, compulsive behavior, no remorse. In fact, many budding sociopaths started fires when they were children, before graduating to murder. If Beniquez was that type, it was a damn good thing they got him off the streets when they did, before more people were killed.

  I pushed through the revolving door, leaving behind the stale courthouse air and walking outside into a beautiful summer day. As I walked Main Street, I passed the print shop Beniquez allegedly burned, its storefront windows boarded over with plywood, black char marks still on the brick frames. I recalled the last time I’d seen it, fire belching through those windows, drawn to the scene while my boyfriend was in the bathroom of the bar across the street. James already had Beniquez face-down on the sidewalk and cuffed. While I hadn’t seen the crime, I’d bumped into Beniquez a few minutes prior, running in that direction, carrying a duffle bag. My boyfriend hadn’t remembered him, but I had. Something about the teenager’s face. Something between frantic and excited. I distinctly recalled thinking that the kid was up to something.

  I stopped for a moment, sniffing the air. Even three months later, there was still a faint odor of burnt wood. I looked on either side of the print shop, but the other businesses attached to it hadn’t been touched. The fire department had responded extremely fast.

  I strolled by, turning left where instructed, and spotted the Knuth’s Deli sign, neon and ceramic and probably unchanged since the 1960s. The inside was cool, smelling of cold cuts and fresh baked bread. I had to wait in a short line, and during that time I read over the list of sandwiches handwritten on the dry erase board behind the register. When I made my selection, I checked out the meat through the cooler windows to make sure it looked good.

  It looked good.

  An older man in a white apron took my order. He had a paunch and the bushiest eyebrows I’d ever seen. If he ever shaved them, he’d have enough hair to knit a sweater. A
large sweater, that no one would want to wear.

  “Is the Rueben good?” I asked.

  “Everything is good,” he said with a trace of a German accent. “The Rueben is very good.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “Half or full?”

  My stomach growled. “How big is half?”

  “Big.”

  “Sold. And some kettle chips. Thanks.”

  He padded over to the refrigerator and removed a slab of corned beef with his gloved hands, taking it over to the slicer. I didn’t bother telling him I wanted it thin, trusting him to his work. Instead, I asked something else.

  “So, I hear there have been some arsons in town.”

  The proprietor stopped mid-slice. After two full seconds he started up again.

  “Terrible thing,” he said.

  “How many, so far?”

  “Four.”

  “All business owners?”

  “Yes. A shame. This used to be such a nice town.”

  “Isn’t it okay, now?”

  “Hmm?”

  “They caught the guy. No more fires.”

  He might have snorted, but it was so brief I couldn’t be sure. “Sure. No more fires. That would be wonderful.”

  “So what were the other shops that—”

  “Look, Miss, I really don’t want to talk about this.” He put the corned beef back in the cooler with more force than necessary, shaking the counter. “You want regular or Asian coleslaw?”

  ”Regular.”

  He finished making my sandwich in silence, leaving me to puzzle over what had upset him. When it was time to pay for it, he didn’t even try to upsell me on a drink.

  “Eight-sixty-five,” he said.

  I placed my purse next to the register and hunted through it to find my wallet. As I tugged it out, the shopkeeper’s eyes went wide. I followed his stare and saw he was staring into my purse, at my badge case. My gold shield was visible.

  “I’m sorry, Officer. I didn’t mean to be rude.” He was smiling from ear to ear.

  “Huh?”