Windy City Blues by Marc Krulewitch

8/10/2019 Windy City Blues by Marc Krulewitch

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This is an uncorrected excerpt file. Please do not quote for

publication until you check your copy against the finished

book.

Windy City Blues is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either

are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any

resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely

coincidental.

2014 Alibi eBook Edition

Copyright © 2012, 2015 by Marc Krulewitch

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Alibi, an imprint of Random House, a

division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company,

New York.

Alibi is a registered trademark and the Alibi colophon is a trademark of

Random House LLC.

Originally self-published by the author in different form as Scofflaw Blues

in 2012.

eBook ISBN 9780804177214

Cover design: Scott Biel

www.readalibi.com



Prologue

It was just before nine a.m. when the toddler’s mother saw his little hands

and cheeks covered in a sticky substance mixed with crumbly white

particles. She shuddered, then walked to where the little boy had been

looking for the neighbor’s kitty under a juniper bush and saw the nearly

headless corpse. The woman picked up her son, ran into their apartment,

then frantically washed the debris off him, first with soap and water, then

with rubbing alcohol. After repeating the routine with peroxide, she called

911.

About ten minutes later, a CPD police cruiser arrived on the scene;

two officers approached the woman, as she held her child and pointed to

the juniper bush. Adams, the younger officer, took out a notepad and

stayed with the woman as Sergeant Morales slow-walked toward the

hedge, carefully scanning the area. White tennis shoes quickly caught

Morales’s attention. The body lay just off the grass border, barely

concealed by the shrubbery. Morales crouched, then used his flashlight to

trace the outline of the body, starting from its feet up to a tangle of blood,

hair, tissue, and bone fragments where the head should have been.

Although Morales was a veteran officer who had seen his share of big city

brutality, the shock caused him to stumble backward and slip on the dewy

grass. From his knees, he reported the gruesome discovery to his superior

over the radio.



After Morales got back to his feet, he directed Adams to secure the

area with crime-scene tape, then began to scan the immediate

surroundings, where he found a patch of grass covered with blood anddebris that Morales assumed had once been part of the victim’s head.

From this spot, a trail of fragments led to the body. Soon, another cruiser

arrived and then two homicide detectives. Morales called Adams over to

make sure he got a good look before the medical examiner did his survey

and zipped the corpse into a body bag. Adams tried not to appear shaken

as Morales moved the flashlight over the mutilated remains of the human

head.

“So what does the condition of the body tell you?” Morales said.

“He got whacked in the head pretty good with a metal pipe or

something.”

“It’s not easy to kill someone with a single whack to the head.”

It took a moment before Adams realized Morales was testing him.

“So he got lots of whacks. Somebody was really pissed off or sending a

message.”

“Yep,” Morales agreed before noticing three men walking toward

them. “Okay, why don’t you go over to the crowd and start asking

questions? See who lives here, if anyone saw anything, et cetera. I’ll start

briefing these guys.”

At first, Morales didn’t recall anything about the detectives other

than their names—Calvo and Baker—and that they had been on the force

long enough to have garnered reputations for having once been good cops,

and having once been physically fit. Instead, on this morning, one might



be known as tall and fat, the other as short and fat. They appeared happy,

giggling like kids on a school outing. Morales also recognized Dr. Irvine,

the medical examiner, who appeared appropriately somber for someoneabout to evaluate a victim of brutal violence.

Morales met the three halfway between the sidewalk and the bush.

The two detectives breezed past. Dr. Irvine stopped to talk.

“It’s pretty bad,” Morales said, “but I guess I don’t have to tell you

to prepare yourself.”

Dr. Irvine offered a knowing smile and was about to respond when

the two detectives broadcast their disgust and started retreating back the

way they had come.

“Looks like a case of old age,” Calvo said to Morales.

“The result of a bad migraine,” Baker said.

With Adams in pursuit, a young, dark-haired woman came running

toward the group. “Hold on, ma’am,” Morales said, grabbing the

distraught woman’s arm. “This is a crime scene.”

“My cousin didn’t come home last night!”

Adams and Morales looked at each other. The two detectives

stepped away. Dr. Irvine headed over to the stiff.

“Wait here,” Morales said, then returned with a wallet in a plastic

bag. “What’s the name?”

“Oh, my god! His wallet!”

“Please, miss, what’s the name?”

“Gelashvili. Bagrat Gelashvili.”



Morales looked at the driver’s license and then back to the woman.

His expression said it all. “I’m sorry—”

She screamed and tried to run to the mangled corpse. Adamsgrabbed her from behind in a bear hug. “No, no, no. You don’t want to see

him. Please, trust us.” She continued struggling and began screaming in a

foreign language. Morales radioed for a victim’s advocate, then joined

Adams in trying to console the woman. Eventually, she sunk to her knees

and sobbed.

“What will I tell Deida?” she said several times, then, “How can I

tell her? How can I tell her?”

Adams and Morales stayed with the woman until a member of

Crime Victim Services arrived, put her arm around her, and led her away.

Morales approached the detectives, who stood on the sidewalk with the

other onlookers.

“I’m Sergeant Morales. Let me give you the few details I know.”

Neither bothered with their own introduction. “What’s to know?”

Calvo said, and chuckled. “That kind of message only comes from one

place.”

“He pissed off somebody pretty bad,” Baker said.

“You wanna try to talk to the woman?” Morales said. “She’s his

cousin.”

The two detectives glanced at each other. “Not now,” Calvo said.

“We’ll find her later, after she’s had a chance to calm down.” Morales

watched as the two men turned from him and shuffled a few steps away.

Apparently, the briefing was over.



Adams got on the radio and cleared them from the scene. In

silence, the two cops drove away in their cruiser. Then Morales detected a

small laugh from Adams.“What?”

“Those two detectives.”

“What about ’em?”

Adams laughed again. “I don’t know. They seemed kind of—”

“You know what a stereotype is, right?”

“Yeah, but that neighborhood. You don’t expect that kind of crime

there. And I doubt two fat-slob dicks acting like they were at a backyard

barbecue gave the residents a reason to sleep better at night.”

“Yep,” Morales said and the two were silent again until Morales

said, “Just focus on being a good cop. Everything else—that’s out of your

control.”



1

Sheridan Road was the quickest way to Frownie’s condo. Named for a

Civil War general whose scorched-earth tactics destroyed the commercial

infrastructure of the Shenandoah Valley, Sheridan Road now represented a

corridor of economic privilege running through the leafy northern suburbs

lining the shores of Lake Michigan. Although I was a son of the North

Shore, the domain claimed no special feelings in my soul nor aroused

nostalgic aching. Having gained entrance via my father’s illicit profits, I

considered my legacy invalid.

My mentor, Sid “Frownie” Frownstein, was a hard-nosed sleuth

from the old days who had skillfully hoofed that muddled line between

investigation and collaboration until he withdrew to a lakefront penthouse

with spectacular views of the shoreline and a hobby restoring antique cars.

Despite his age, Frownie still clearly remembered the days when the cliché

hard-boiled detective originated—the “Bogart Bullshit” days, he liked to

say. He’d always been out in the lead, taking life where he wanted it to go.

But at age ninety, life was catching up fast. Frownie’s best advice? Don’t

trust no one.

It had been too long since my last visit. I was ill prepared for how

significantly his body had deteriorated. Sitting upright in bed, leaning

against an enormous reading pillow, Frownie wore a T-shirt that hung on

his skeletal frame like a towel over a clothesline. A disconnected IV bag



dangled from a pole. If I softened my gaze, I could evoke the image of a

cadaver. Then he spoke.

“Hey, Julie! C’mon over here, ya little schmuck. How the hell areya!”

The voice, still deep, clear, dripping with a blue-collar Chicago

accent straight out of central casting, covered me like a warm blanket. Had

I closed my eyes, I could’ve been back in my childhood, ensconced under

Frownie’s desk while he reminisced on the phone with former clients and

past “operatives.”

When I leaned down to kiss his cheek, Frownie hooked his left arm

around my neck and pulled himself up to hug me. He had all the weight of

a laptop computer. I carefully lowered him back to the pillow, fearful his

bones would snap.

“I look like I was in a concentration camp. But I ain’t this body.

It’s just a skin and bones costume that’s wearin’ out. Hey, doll, get over

here. I want you to meet someone.” Frownie’s live-in nurse walked into

the bedroom. I guessed she was around sixty, fit, attractive, long hair

colored blond. “This little putz ain’t related to me, but he’s taken the role

of the grandson I always never wanted.”

The three of us laughed and I introduced myself.

“I’m Helen. Nice to meet you, Jules.” Helen walked to the other

side of Frownie’s bed and examined the catheter bag.

“They wanna hook me up if I get too dried out,” Frownie said and

pointed to the IV. “Right, honey?”



“We want you to be comfortable. Maybe Jules can convince you to

stop fighting us.” She winked at me and turned to leave the room. “Call if

you need anything.”“Not a bad piece of ass to be hangin’ around an old fart like me,

eh? So what’s up?” Frownie closed his eyes and waited. I had the feeling

he was toying with me, that he knew exactly why I was there. Just as I was

about to answer his question, he said, “It’s your old man, ain’t it?”

“He acts like I’m sticking a knife in his gut. And just because I

want to include homicide—”

“Don’t go makin’ it all nice usin’ words like ‘homicide’! You

mean murder ! Killin’ human beings! Who do you think you’re talkin’ to?”

“Okay, okay, murder—”

“For chrissake, Julie, you already did it. You got nothin’ to prove.

You investigated Snooky’s murder and you solved it. And you didn’t get

killed in the process. Don’t you see? You won. Move on. You can make a

damn good livin’ with all the other investigatin’ they do these days.”

“Dad wants a guarantee that I’ll never take another murder case. I

can’t do that. And I’m not gonna lie to him. Do I gotta remind you it was

Dad who got out of prison two months ago, then knocked on my door and

gave me my first murder case?”

“Yeah, yeah, but that was Snooky. Your old man’s no dummy. He

knew what Snooky meant to you. And he knew you’d go after his killer no

matter what. But he didn’t know you would’ve taken murder investigatin’

as somethin’ to call your own. So do me a favor. Tell me why the people-



killin’-people business is so goddamn important? Then maybe I can

understand a little bit.”

Frownie was a realist. Depending on my answer, he could accepthow things were, even if he didn’t like it. “Fine,” I said. “You want the

truth? I loved it. I loved every goddamn second of it. I don’t know why,

but I never felt more alive than when I was investigating Snooky’s

murder.”

Frownie looked away, nodded his head, and said, “That’s what I

was afraid of. That’s what your old man didn’t count on. By the way, you

still seein’ that broad? Susie Somethin’? You sounded kinda happy about

that.”

“No. Didn’t work out. No big deal. So what do I do about Dad?”

Frownie turned back to me. “First of all, don’t go guilt-trippin’

yourself. You’re his son. His flesh and blood. When you’re a father, you’ll

understand. But for now, that’s his problem. In the meantime, try to ignore

his comments. But if he keeps pesterin’ you, just tell him you don’t got no

murder case and to stop worryin’ about it. And if you do take another

murder—well, you’ll figure it out. Why worry about somethin’ that ain’t

happened yet?”

We both laughed. There was something about Frownie’s voice that

sank into my bones, reassured me that everything would be all right.

“That’s true. Who the hell even knows when I’ll get another

murder case? Maybe I’ll never get another one!” I stood to leave.



“Uh, before you go,” Frownie said. “You should know. Your dad’s

kind of losin’ it a little bit. Upstairs. You know what I mean?” Frownie’s

expression reflected the pain he felt telling me this.



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Windy City Blues by Marc Krulewitch

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