Boom-BOOM! Page 9

  “Is there something you’re not telling me about this cop?” she asked.

  “Me? No. Why?”

  “Tina, I know you. I can feel you blushing.”

  My face began to burn. “We can talk about this some other time.”

  “Promise?”

  “Only if you have a hot guy in your past.”

  I heard her sigh. “Only one, but he was amazing.”

  “Okay, then, after you stop breastfeeding, we’ll go out for a drink. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

  “Done.”

  “But I still need a fabulous personal interest story for my August column. My deadline is Friday, August eleventh. Al-Turk’s story is going to take way too long to be ready by then.”

  “Obviously the trash didn’t help on this one,” she said.

  “Not yet. I don’t know if it ever will.”

  “When are you going to call the cop?”

  “Tonight. If he’s off duty, he might have time to talk to me.”

  49

  “Hi, um, may I speak to Tony, please?” I asked.

  Monday night, I’d hustled around in the kitchen shooting baskets with Kerry on the Nerf basketball set my dad had given her and making a salad while we waited for a pizza delivery from Pizzeria Serio on West Belmont. The odor of anchovies I’d added to the salad hung in the air.

  I didn’t have Tony Infantino’s current cell phone number, and I was too busy in the kitchen to go online to find it. I dialed the landline number he’d had when I moved to D.C. and he’d lived at his parent’s home. When a woman answered, I recognized her voice.

  “Who this?” the female voice asked. She still has the trace of an Italian accent.

  “Mrs. Infantino?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s Tina Thomas. I used to be Tina Edwards, and…”

  “I recognize you voice. What you want?”

  “I would like to talk to Tony.”

  “Why?”

  “I really need his help.”

  “Gimme you number.”

  I gave her my cell phone number.

  Fourteen years earlier, when I was a cub reporter at the Sun-Times, Chicago Police Officer Tony Infantino and I had been an item. And who could blame me? He was a tall, athletic, movie-star-handsome, third-generation Italian-American in a tight-fitting Chicago PD uniform. As a single, twenty-two-year-old female in Chicago, I was into hot guys. At that point in my life, a man’s I.Q. wasn’t as important as his physical attributes.

  The longer we were together, the harder it was for me to walk away, even though I suspected he would never be faithful to me. When I was offered a fabulous position in D.C. with the Washington Post, he rejected my suggestion to move there with me. He was a Chicago guy. His dad and grandfather had been on the Chicago police force, and he wasn’t about to ditch that heritage and leave.

  But I’d worked my butt off for the Post job and wouldn’t pass it up, so I’d ended the affair and headed to D.C.

  And I’d saved his ass by not reporting a mistake he made on the job. He owed me for that, and I was going to collect.

  He quickly called my cell.

  “I’m sorry to bother you at home, but I need your help with a potential story,” I said.

  “Meet me at Ann Sather, the one on West Belmont, at noon tomorrow,” Tony whispered.

  “Great.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “Tony?”

  Still no response. I opened my mouth to say his name again, but I realized he’d already hung up. There was a noise behind me. I turned around with the phone still next to my ear. Kerry dropped her Nerf basketball.

  “Daddy!” she yelped.

  Uh-oh!

  Carter stood in the doorway, his eyebrows knitted together. Kerry ran to him.

  “How’s Daddy’s girl?” He picked her up and gave her a kiss on the cheek. He turned to me. “Am I interrupting something?”

  If you only knew.

  I held up my free hand to keep him from asking questions I didn’t want to answer.

  “Thanks for the idea, Lyndell.”

  Push the off button.

  I made it obvious that I was pushing it on the already disconnected phone.

  “I’m sorry, honey.” I turned and gave him a kiss. “I couldn’t hear Lyndell with you talking. She called to tell me that a man who ran by her front window looked like a leprechaun. She’s convinced he would be perfect for my column.”

  “Let me guess; she’s already suggested the headline: ‘A Leprechaun in Lakeview.’ ”

  “She did. How did you know?”

  “I’ll need a glass of wine if we’re going to have this discussion.”

  “Let me pour it for you.”

  Get him talking about something else.

  Carter and I have a great relationship, but he is vulnerable in one area: my previous torrid affair with Tony. If Carter discovered I was doing an investigative piece on Mr. al-Turk and my former lover was going to help me, he would be crushed.

  Out of respect for my husband, I would drop the investigation, and my rebooted investigative journalism career would be over before it had begun.

  But if he doesn’t find out, no harm, no foul, right?

  50

  Tuesday morning, as I was getting ready to step into the shower, Carter rushed into the bathroom. He had Kerry in his arms.

  “I have to go in,” he said. “Sorry.”

  He handed her to me and ran down the stairs.

  Just freaking perfect.

  My plan had been to shower after my morning run while Carter fed Kerry. I would shave my legs, curl my hair, and put on enough big-girl makeup to show Tony Infantino what he’d lost out on when he’d refused to move with me to D.C.

  Exactly what any of us would do when we’re going to meet a former lover.

  Not gonna happen now.

  Kerry was in her PJs and had yogurt and blueberries all over her face. I had to take care of her, leaving me no time to fix my hair or to slap on even a smidge of makeup.

  “Well, Kerry, let’s clean you up and then we can go for a ride, okay?”

  I would be meeting Tony — my buffed and always immaculately groomed former lover — with atrocious hair that needed a cut, dark circles under my eyes, and lugging my two-year-old daughter in my arms.

  At least I’ve lost all my pregnancy weight.

  By the time I tried, and failed, to get Kerry to go potty, dressed her in one of the many cute outfits my mother had given her, hoisted her gear into the van, and secured her in her car seat, I was way past late. My armpits were sweaty, and I began to panic because my deodorant sat untouched in my medicine cabinet.

  Kerry jabbered with Elmo as I turned east on Belmont and headed toward Ann Sather. The traffic was backed up, putting me further behind schedule. When I finally arrived, I drove around hunting for a parking place near the restaurant. It took fifteen minutes to find a spot three blocks away from the restaurant.

  Grabbing my backpack, I plucked Kerry out of her car seat and sprinted toward Ann Sather.

  She immediately began screaming, “Momma!”

  Forgot Elmo and Ralph.

  I’d left them behind in my rush to meet Tony. I ran back to the van and shoved them into her tiny hands.

  When I finally made it to the restaurant’s front door, sweat poured off my forehead and the moisture from my armpits extended to my waist. I looked like a sweaty bag lady with bad hair and no makeup, carrying a toddler who had a red stuffed animal and a “blankie” in her arms, with a stained backpack — rather than a designer purse — slung over her shoulder.

  Tony’s gonna really be impressed.

  51

  I walked into Ann Sather’s industrial-strength air-conditioning and saw Tony sitting in the back at our favorite corner table. He read a newspaper.

  Famous for its homemade cinnamon rolls and Swedish pancakes, the restaurant has been a Chicago landmark for over sixty years and a favorite haunt for
Tony and me. My face flushed as I remembered the late Sunday morning breakfasts we had shared there after a long Saturday night of take-no-prisoners sex.

  My mouth began to water as the unforgettable aroma of the freshly baked cinnamon rolls drifted over me. I glanced at his table, hoping he’d already ordered one for me, but only a single cup of coffee sat in front of him.

  Tony wore beige slacks and a white silk T-shirt under a blue silk blazer. He glanced up. His smile was blinding, confirmation he’d made a recent trip or two to his cosmetic dentist. The brilliant white contrasted perfectly with his glowing tan. I walked to his table with Kerry in my arms.

  He stood up as I approached, as much — I suspected — to show off his impeccably attired physique as to be polite.

  “You look great,” I said before I could control my mouth.

  He could be on the front cover of GQ.

  “Think so?” Tony asked. “Blazer isn’t too loose?”

  “No, Tony, your clothes are perfect, like always.”

  “Good.” He opened his coat to show me a shoulder rig on his left side. “I want to wear my gun without ruining how the material hangs.”

  I wasn’t sure what I should say about that, so I kept quiet. He didn’t notice.

  “This is even better,” he continued.

  He pulled up his right pant leg and showed me an ankle holster and gun. “Smith and Wesson 442 .38 special. Holds five rounds. Internal hammer so it won’t snag on the material. Never know it’s there. My tailor does a fantastic job.”

  Notice anything about me, like the little girl I’m holding?

  I thought I’d help him. “This is my daughter, Kerry. Honey, say ‘hi’ to Tony.”

  She smiled from ear to ear and reached out for him. He held up his hands and lurched backward when he saw her fingers were sticky from the apple juice she’d been sipping in the van on the way to the restaurant.

  “Watch out for the threads here, kid. You got the grubby paws thing goin’ on.”

  “She’s a baby. Her hands are always covered with some kind of glop.”

  “Whatever.” He turned and walked out of the restaurant.

  Kerry and I followed. This was not going the way I’d planned.

  52

  Tony and I stood in the stifling heat outside Ann Sather’s restaurant. He slipped on designer sunglasses and faced me. “I’m on a tight schedule and gotta get rolling. Whaddya need?”

  “To have trash samples analyzed for fingerprints.”

  He scanned the street, giving it the cop once-over. “Why?”

  “For a story I’m working on.”

  “Can’t do it. Would be breaking regulations.”

  “What’s your problem? Have things changed this much in the department? Patrolmen bend the rules all the time.”

  “I’m a homicide detective. Didn’t get my gold shield by screwing the system.”

  “I need this, Tony.” I paused. “And you owe me big time. You wouldn’t have that gold shield if I hadn’t covered up that horrific mistake you made.”

  His jaw muscles twitched. “If I do it, then we’re even, okay?”

  “Done.”

  Fourteen years ago, I prevented the bosses from firing him, and by helping me now, he admitted it. It killed him.

  I saw that look in his eyes.

  You need to puff up your wounded ego.

  “Maybe we can work out some form of tit-for-tat compensation for my time.”

  He put the emphasis on “tit.”

  “You’ll never change,” I said.

  He continued to stare at my breasts. I looked at his forehead until he elevated his eyes.

  His cop interrogation voice surfaced. “Keep me informed about everything, and I mean everything, you find.”

  “You know I have to keep my informants confidential, but other than that, I’ll keep you in the loop, if you do the same with me.”

  “Okay, where’s the stuff you want checked out?”

  I struggled to clutch Kerry, Elmo, and Ralph while I slipped off my backpack. He crossed his arms over his chest, preferring to let me flounder rather than offering to hold my daughter and her companions.

  When I finally unzipped the backpack, I handed him a sack with a few items from the trash I’d stolen. I hadn’t brought all of it because I couldn’t trust he would help me. When Kerry began to fuss, I pulled out the sippy cup of unfinished apple juice from the backpack and gave it to her.

  “Your prints aren’t on the contents, are they?” he asked.

  “You know I’m smarter than that. I wore latex gloves; any prints you find are the ones I need you to run.”

  “Okay, prints it is. That all you want?”

  “You’re the detective. Detect a little here. What else should I look for?

  “How about street or prescription drugs?”

  “I considered computer fraud, or online gambling, but I guess it could involve drug trafficking.”

  “Or drug manufacturing.”

  “Okay, fingerprints plus a chemical analysis.”

  “Don’t expect quick results. Lab’s always backed up.”

  Kerry began squirming, and her face turned red.

  Tony sniffed the air. “What stinks?” He glanced down at my running shoes. “You step in dog shit or something?”

  I glanced at my daughter. She had a wide, relieved smile on her face.

  “Jeez, get over it,” I said. “She’s still in diapers.”

  He waved his hand in front of his nose. “I’m outta here.”

  Sprinting down the street to his car, he hopped into a white BMW 650i Coupe. It was one of Carter’s dream cars, but we could never afford the one hundred thousand dollar price.

  How can Tony?

  The reporter in me was intrigued, but police corruption wasn’t anything new. I didn’t have time to chase a story any reporter with a laptop could write. The stolen trash I’d given Tony might give me what I needed: the names of other people living with al-Turk.

  But first I had to find a changing station for Kerry.

  53

  Tuesday afternoon, Kerry and I played in her sandbox in our back yard. Linda called me.

  “I have info about Micah’s financing,” she said.

  Yes!

  “I began by hunting down the three doctors you said worked with Micah,” she said. “There was one winner: Dr. Bruce Loring. He’s a PhD in human molecular biology and is listed as the director of Micah’s lab.”

  “Did you find the lab’s name?”

  “The Lakeview Center for Medical Research.”

  “Generic.”

  “Ya’ think? Loring also works at Northwestern.”

  “Busy boy.”

  “You have no idea. His hand must cramp up from all the checks he’s writing for the lab’s operating expenses.”

  “How much has he spent?”

  “Up to this point, he’s spent over one hundred fifty million dollars. And the spending has been escalating dramatically in the past couple of months.”

  “How did you find this out?”

  “He has an account at the Texas Capital Bank in Dallas. I hacked into it.”

  “Really? Not a Chicago bank?”

  “No, and there’s a reason. Have you heard of Sherman Krevolin?”

  “Isn’t he the ultra-conservative lawyer from Texas?”

  “Dallas, actually, and behind the scenes, he’s the single most powerful and influential fund-raiser for the guy living in the White House. Krevolin also owns controlling interest in the Texas Capital Bank.”

  “Where Loring has his checking account.”

  “It is, and by hacking into Loring’s Dallas bank account, I uncovered a complicated series of transactions where several of Krevolin’s companies were funneling money into Loring’s account.”

  “Is it possible Hannah doesn’t know the money to run Micah’s lab isn’t coming from her trust fund?”

  “Unless she monitors her statements, she probably assumes
all the funds come from her trust.”

  “But they don’t.”

  “No, they don’t.”

  “This makes absolutely no sense. Hannah has enough money to pay for this.”

  “And why would Krevolin provide funds to run Micah’s lab where he does embryonic stem cell research, an issue Krevolin and his friend the president are on record as opposing?”

  “I need to interview Hannah and, hopefully through her, Micah. Without that, this story is dead.”

  54

  On Wednesday afternoon, we had our weekly playgroup at Hamlin Park. After Linda’s discovery about Micah’s murky financing, talking to Hannah was my number one priority, so I prayed that Hannah had read the note I’d added to the cookies and was going to join all of us at the park. It would have been easier to call her, but I still didn’t have her contact information.

  Linda and I pushed our daughters on the park’s swings. Cas and her two kids, Luis and Angelique, scampered around on the jungle gym. Molly was late again.

  My reporter’s focus intensified when a black Escalade drove up and stopped next to the park’s gate.

  Yes! She’s here!