I’d brought a stack of work with me. As the wait dragged on, I managed to answer a bunch of e-mails and finish a report, on the fraud burdening a small tool-and-die company, before Bobby came out of his office to see me.
He’d greeted me with a mix of affection and wariness. He knew I wouldn’t have come to police headquarters unless I had a favor to beg. Still, he put an arm around me, called to his secretary to bring in a cup of coffee for me, and started with family news. He’d become a grandfather for the seventh time, but he was as pleased as he’d been the first time round. I made suitable noises, and wrote a note in my PDA to remember a christening present.
“That boy you’re dating, I hear he’s back in Afghanistan. He didn’t go halfway round the world to get away from you, did he?”
“That boy is a fifty-year-old man, and we both realized he finds Afghanistan way more exciting than he does me.”
I startled myself as well as Bobby with the bitterness in my voice. Before Bobby could probe, or, worse, comment that my lack of domestic virtues was what drove men from my side, I quickly started to explain my story: the trail I was trying to follow, how Ella Gadsden’s inquiry had led me to the old Harmony Newsome murder trial.
Bobby shook his head. “If it was one of mine, I’ve forgotten it.”
“It was high-profile at the time. Civil rights worker, killed in Marquette Park. Her family brought a lot of pressure on the department until they made an arrest.”
“I still don’t remember.” He smiled bleakly. “Families are always pressuring us to make arrests. This time, we made an arrest, right? And got a conviction? So where’s your beef? You saying now that the verdict was tainted? You’re Madame Zelda who sees all, knows all?”
I pressed my lips together. “I wasn’t planning on overturning the verdict, although maybe I should try. Reading the trial transcript was like reading Mistrial, Malfeasance, and Nonfeasance 101. The state couldn’t produce a murder weapon, and the public defender didn’t call any witnesses. The detectives, the state’s attorney, and the judge had a good old time laughing over language and customs on the black South Side, except they used far-less-polite words.”
“So the justice system in 1967 had its flaws. I can’t fix the past. Tell me one of my cops is using filthy language today, and I’ll do something about it.”
“My dad was the arresting officer.” I got the words out with difficulty. “I’m trying to find out what happened. People are hinting that Tony crossed a line—”
“I don’t believe this!” Bobby thundered. “I don’t believe even you would have the nerve to come in here and smear Tony’s name. Two things mattered to him: Gabriella and you . . . you for what reason I’ve never understood. The best officer, the kindest man, the closest friend, and you . . . you . . . you have the damned gall to—”
“Bobby!” I stood and leaned over the desk into his angry face. “Shut up and listen to me! I don’t want to think any bad thing about my father, ever. I know better than you what kind of person he was. He trained a gazillion cops. A lot of them did like you, went on to big careers, but he wouldn’t put in for promotion himself because he didn’t want to make compromises in his . . . his code of honor.
“Something happened to Steve Sawyer after my dad picked him up. The men who know Sawyer won’t tell me, but they keep passing hints, and I need to know.”
“If I knew, which I don’t, I wouldn’t tell you. You’d put it out in the Daily Worker or some other left-wing pile of crap and smear—”
“Enough!” I sat down wearily. “It is not easy to be a cop’s kid and date cops and have cop friends, all the time knowing what some people do with that badge in front of them. But if Tony didn’t talk to you about the Sawyer arrest, he didn’t. Maybe that means it went by the book. I guess I’ll see if George Dornick will talk to me. Or Larry Alito.”
“Dornick? Alito?” Bobby leaned back in his chair, suddenly quiet, even wary. “Why . . . Oh, were they the detectives in charge? Well, well, well. Dornick is a big SOB now out in the private sector. I’d love to be a fly on the wall listening to how you figure out a way to talk to him.”
“And Alito?”
“Last I heard, he retired up to Chain of Lakes. You let me know how you make out with him and Dornick. If you end up with your nose broken, I’ll send them a personal commendation on department stationery.”
I stood up to leave. In the doorway I turned to look at Bobby, who was still breathing hard.
“Guess who Steve Sawyer’s PD was, Bobby. Arnie Coleman!”
“So?”