“How was your friend killed?” asked Zolot.
“They said it was a suicide. They said he shot himself, once under the jaw. His wallet was still in his pocket. But he didn’t do it, I know that. I know it. He had a lot to live for.”
“What was your friend’s name?”
“James Johnson. Jimmy. He died in Riverwest less than a month ago.”
“I’ll look him up.” Zolot looked at Peter sideways, from the corner of his eye. “And who the fuck are you, pal?”
“Peter Ash. I was a Marine lieutenant. Jimmy was my sergeant.”
They walked. The open sky felt good, calming the white static. Zolot’s contained rage burned like an oilfield fire, fueled by something deep beneath the surface.
“I never could fucking stand those money guys,” said Zolot. “It’s like you’re working for them personally, and they’re in charge. Like they run the whole fucking world. And maybe they do, sort of, until they fuck the whole thing up and bring it all down around our ears. Even then it’s not their fault. Nothing is ever their fucking fault. Even when they kill their wives. Because he killed her, pal. Skinner was the only one with any motive.”
Peter didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to interrupt.
Zolot kept talking. “It was mostly her money, you know,” he said. “Lake Capital? She was the heir to some Chicago meatpacking fortune. I met her once, at a first responders’ widows and orphans benefit. She looked like the daughter of a meatpacker, I’ll tell you. One of those square Polack faces, and she didn’t starve herself. But there was something really lovely about her, you know? She really looked at you. She listened. And no pushover. There was some talk about her shutting down the fund back in 2006, at the height of the bubble.”
“She could do that?”
“I’m telling you, it was her fucking seed money. A lot of people respected her. She was on the board of her family’s company. If she pulled out, everyone else would follow.” Zolot made a face. “We looked into all this at the time, my partner and I. But there was nothing substantial to tie Skinner to the murder. There was no hard evidence at all.”
“So how do you know it was Skinner?”
“Lot of things pointed to random violence, burglary gone wrong.” Zolot ticked the points off on his fingers. “She was killed in the house. The mailman and the cleaning lady both said the door was never locked during the day. She was killed with a butcher knife from the kitchen like a crime of opportunity, like maybe she walked in on the guy. The envelope of petty cash they kept in a kitchen drawer was gone.”
Then he flicked his hand, dismissing those points as if shaking water off his fingers. “All bullshit designed to point us toward a random killing. The most important information is what we didn’t find. No defensive wounds on the victim, so it was likely someone she knew. The knife was left on the scene, but it had no prints, nothing, like it was scrubbed clean. In fact, no unknown prints anywhere in the house. Just a few smears where prints had been wiped, or maybe he wore gloves. Footprints in the blood; there was a lot of blood. But the tread was new, the shoes probably never worn before, cheap-ass sneakers you could find anywhere. No other clues of any kind. Just this perfectly nice woman stabbed twenty-one times.
“That’s what got my attention right there. A thief looking for a quick payday might stab someone once or twice, out of panic, maybe misplaced aggression. But twenty-one times? That’s a fucking crime of passion. That’s a killer who knows his victim, pal. Or a killer who really fucking likes it.”
Peter thought of the reptilian look that had flashed across Skinner’s face. But he didn’t want to interrupt. Zolot kept talking like he’d been waiting to get this off his chest for years.
“So we went deeper on the husband,” he said. “Standard practice, anyway. The killer’s almost always known to the victim, a family member or friend. We talked to Skinner’s secretary. She said he was in the office all day, meetings and calls. He didn’t even go to lunch. I saw the call logs, I talked to the people in the meetings. The man was alibied up the ass, like he’d done it on purpose. I even went through his closet, looking for blood traces on his clothes. Nothing. I have no idea how he did it.”
“He’s sleeping with his secretary,” said Peter. “She might have lied for him.”