“That’s not true but I can see how it would seem that way to you.”
“Thanks, no. I have actual work.”
“I’ll pay you.”
“Will you.”
“Sure. You can be a Chicago Police Department consultant on this case. You’re already a state employee so getting you a vendor number shouldn’t be a problem.”
“I’m not cheap.”
Langdon shrugged. “It’s just tax money.”
“You’re serious.”
Langdon nodded. “We’re getting places. I like making progress. I want to find this guy before something shitty happens to him. I don’t want you run down by an angry spouse.”
“Let me think about it over lunch.”
“I just had lunch.”
“I didn’t.”
“Fine.” Langdon motioned toward the hot dog guy. “Have a dog. I’m buying.”
“This is nice,” Langdon said to me, as we walked onto Wooldridge’s property on North Dearborn Parkway.
“This is expensive,” I said.
“How old do you think this place is?”
“I’d guess it’s been around since the turn of the century.”
“I think it’s older than that.”
“I meant the other turn of the century.”
“Oh. Right.”
We ascended the exterior stairs where a security officer, dressed as a butler, and another man, dressed in a business suit, awaited us.
“Detective Langdon,” the business suit said, extending his hand. Langdon shook it. “I’m Garrett Trimble. Mr. Wooldridge’s personal assistant.” He turned to me. “And?”
“This is my associate, Anthony Valdez. He’s from the Agency, assisting with my investigation.”
“Ah, yes. Of course. Mr. Valdez,” Trimble reached out for my hand. We shook. “I do hope you understand that Mr. Wooldridge is in mourning for his wife. Elaine passed away just a few days ago.”
“We heard,” Langdon said. “Our deepest condolences to him and to you.”
“Thank you, that’s very kind.”
“You do know that we are here to ask him questions about Mr. Albert, the dispatcher who worked with Mrs. Wooldridge.”
“Yes, you made that clear when you called for an appointment.” I saw Langdon give a tiny smile at this; Trimble didn’t know he’d confirmed our guess about Jimmy working for Wooldridge with that phone call. “I note her passing not to attempt to dissuade you from your investigation. Just to let you know that Mr. Wooldridge may be…distracted.”
“We understand, of course.”
“Good.” Trimble motioned with his hand toward the house. “Mr. Wooldridge is receiving visitors in the upper parlor. This way, please.”
The inside of the house featured acres of hardwood floors and stained glass windows older than several of the states in the union. We were led up a flight of stairs to an upper landing and ushered into a large room furnished in the height of fashion for 1915. In a leather wingchair large enough to get lost in, Orval Wooldridge sat, looking indeed like he was trying very hard to get lost.
Trimble glanced over to us apologetically and then walked over to the chair, leaned over, and whispered into his boss’ ear. Wooldridge waved him away irritably. Trimble stepped back.
Wooldridge looked up at us. “Detective Langdon. Mr. Valdez.”
“Mr. Wooldridge,” Langdon said. “Our deepest sympathies on the passing of your wife.”
Wooldridge nodded very slightly, accepting our condolences with the minimum possible grace. He did not invite us to sit. It was Trimble who did, slightly embarrassed, when he realized his boss had no intention of extending the offer. We sat on a sofa that shared a table with Wooldridge’s chair.
Wooldridge glanced up at his assistant. “You have business to attend to.”
“Yes, of course,” Trimble said, and exited, double time.
Wooldridge then turned his attention, such as it was, back to us. “Get on with it.”
Langdon set out a recorder and put it on the table between us. “Mr. Wooldridge, you employed a James Albert recently, correct?”
“I did.”
“He was assisting in the care of your wife.”
“He was. So what?”
“He’s been missing for two days, Mr. Wooldridge. We believe he was abducted by force.”
“What does this have to do with either me or Elaine?”
“We don’t think it does.”
“Then you’re wasting my time.”
“We do think it might have something to do with the Tunneys.”
Wooldridge was silent for a moment, contemplating. Then he waved a hand. “Go on.”
“How did Mr. Albert come into your employ?”
“I asked Garret to find a dispatcher for Elaine. I didn’t specify which one. I didn’t care. Garret found Mr. Albert.”
“And he worked for you for how long?”
“For three or four months. Once or twice a week. Whenever we had the oncologists over to do their fiddling.”
“During this time, how much freedom did Mr. Albert have in the house?”
“None at all. He was either in Elaine’s room on the third floor during her medical procedures or out in the hall while they were changing her or doing things he didn’t need to be there for. He had use of the third floor hall restroom. That was it.”
“Did he ever speak to the members of your security detail?”
“How should I know? I wasn’t tracking his movements in the house. Ask Garrett. He might know.”
“We will, thank you. May I ask you why you chose Tunney Security Solutions for your home security?”
“That isn’t any of your business.”
“We don’t mean to pry. But any information might be what helps us find Mr. Albert.”
“For what good it will do you,” Wooldridge said, and for the first time directed his attention at me. “You. Vasquez, is it?”
“Valdez, sir.”
“Valdez. You’re a dispatcher.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You ever lost one?”
“Have I ever had a failed dispatch? No, sir.”
“Never happens.”
“It can happen. I’ve been lucky.”
Wooldridge made another hand motion and leaned forward. “Luck is bullshit. You do your job or you don’t. You’ve never lost one.”
“Not so far.”
“How long have you been a dispatcher?”
“Eight years.”
“Let me ask you something. In those eight years, in which you’ve never lost a client, have you ever, ever, heard of a dispatcher losing two clients in a row?”
“Two failed dispatches in sequence?”
“Yes! Jesus, pay attention.”
“No, sir. I’ve never heard of it happening.”
“Ever.”
“No, sir.”
“What are the odds of that? Two in a row?”
I was suddenly very conscious of the three dice in my pocket. “About one in a million.”
Wooldridge clapped his hands together suddenly. “Yes. That’s right. One in a million. That’s what I was told, too. You have a better chance of being hit by lightning, I was told.”
“Mr. Wooldridge, is this about your wife?” Langdon asked. “Did Mr. Albert fail to dispatch her?”
Wooldridge ignored her and kept his attention on me. “What do you think about God, Valdez? You kill people and then bring them back. Do you think that’s evidence for God? Does your job make you a new sort of priest? A priest who offers the sacrament of the bullet?”
“I don’t know if there’s a God, Mr. Wooldridge.”
“That’s a depressingly equivocal answer, Valdez. You don’t really believe that, do you? People get murdered and they magically reappear after their deaths! At home! In their homes, Valdez! Wherever in the world they’re murdered, they reappear where they live. Are you under the impression that quantum physics knows people have physical addresses? What else can it be
but God?”
“I’m not trying to equivocate, sir,” I said. “I say I don’t know because I honestly don’t. I don’t pretend to understand the mechanics at play, except to acknowledge they seem supernatural, and that I understand why people see the hand of God at work. But it seems to me that if I wanted proof of God, or if God wanted to prove to us he or she was out there, bringing back murdered people wouldn’t be the way to show it.”
“No? How would God do it, then?”
“God would make humans stop wanting to murder each other in the first place. Sir.”
Wooldridge stared at me, moving his jaw like he was about to yell something. Then as suddenly as he got worked up, he deflated, and fell back into his chair, sighing. He was silent for a moment, then turned to Langdon.
“I hired Tunney Security because Fintan Tunney is an old friend of mine,” he said, as if the furious interlude between her question and his answer never happened. “We went to high school together. Our paths obviously diverged for some decades there. But when his businesses went legitimate I saw no reason not to use them. It’s a prejudice to hold people to their pasts.”
“You believe Tunney’s interests are all legitimate at this point, then,” Langdon said. She glanced over to me as if to say what just happened but then just as quickly turned her attention back to Wooldridge.
“I believe that if they weren’t then the FBI would know about it. Since they don’t seem to have any objection to Tunney at the moment, neither do I. Why, Detective Langdon? Are you under the impression Tunney is less than legitimate?”
“I have no reason to believe so, no. But we’re following every possible line of inquiry.”
“Was your earlier line of inquiry about Mr. Albert meeting with my security people meant to suggest that you believe they engaged him in some less than savory scheme?”
“It was just a question.”
“Nothing is just a question, Detective Langdon. And for the record that line of inquiry is foolish. Mr. Albert would not have had either the time or the means to engage with Tunney’s less-than-legitimate interests, if they existed, even if he wanted to. Between his work here and the work he was obliged to take from the Agency, his time was filled.”
“When was the last time you saw Mr. Albert, Mr. Wooldridge?”
“The morning Elaine…” Wooldridge stopped with something that sounded like a hiccup and sank further into his chair.
“The morning your wife passed,” Langdon said, gently.
Wooldridge nodded, saying nothing. Then, “After she passed he came over to offer his condolences.”
“What did you say to him?”
“I said he could collect his final earnings from Garrett and then I dismissed him, because obviously I had other things that needed my attention.”
“Our condolences again, sir.”
“Fine, fine.” Wooldridge waved a dismissive hand once more. “Are we done here, detective?”
“I don’t have any more questions at the moment, no. If I have any more I will let you know.”
“You will let Garrett know,” Wooldridge said. “I won’t have time for any more of this until after my Elaine’s funeral.”
Langdon and I stood. “Thank you for your time,” she said, to Wooldridge.
“There’s a security man in the hall. He’ll show you out.”
“I think we can make it down the stairs on our own, but thank you.”
“Fine. If you see Garrett downstairs, tell him to come up. I need him again.”
“We will.”
“Then goodbye, detective.” Wooldridge looked over at me. “And goodbye, Mr. Valdez.”
“Goodbye, sir,” I said.
“You’re wrong, you know.”
“Sir?”
“God exists. God exists and he sees what men do, and what they don’t. And he judges them accordingly, Mr. Valdez. When you meet up with Mr. Albert again, tell him that. God knows. God judges. And God punishes.”
“All right, I don’t know what the hell just went on in there, but I’m creeped the fuck out,” I said, as we left the Wooldridge mansion.
“Keep it together,” Langdon said.
“There’s something going on with him.”
“We don’t disagree. But you’re no good to me creeped out. I need to you to focus.”
We exited the grounds. “I am focused. I am focused on the fact I need a drink.”
“The Pump Room is three blocks away. We can get something there.”
“I’m charging it to my expense account.”
“You don’t have an expense account.”
“I do now.”
“Relax, Valdez. I’ll buy the first round. Fair enough?”
“Fine.”
“Now tell me, specifically, what creeped you out.”
“All the God stuff, for one.”
“You told me before that when you go on dates you get to theological issues.”
“That’s different from this.”
“How is it different?”
“That is friendly, flirty ‘oooh do you think God really exists’ cocktail chatter. What was coming out of Wooldridge was ‘sinners in the hands of an angry god’ level. He’s pissed.”
“His wife just died.”
“Yeah, and I think he blames Jimmy for it.”
“You think he dispatched her, and it failed.”
“It seems like it.”
“I pulled her death certificate data before we came over. It didn’t say anything about it.”
“They never do. ‘Failure to dispatch’ is never an official cause of death. It’s whatever was causing the need for dispatch in the first place.”
“Do you think Wooldridge is involved in Albert’s disappearance?”
“I don’t know. Maybe? He seems pissed off enough.”
“The man’s something like eighty years old. He’d been married for fifty-five years or some ridiculous number like that. If he wasn’t pissed off about his wife being dead his heart would probably have stopped from grief by now.”
“You don’t think he might be involved?”
“I’m saying that I understand why he might be pissed that his wife failed to dispatch.”
“That’s the other thing.”
“What?”
“He asked me if I ever knew anyone to fail to dispatch twice in a row.”
“Implying he thought Jimmy Albert did that.”
“I think so.”
“I’ve been through his official records from the Agency. He’s like you. Officially he’s never failed to dispatch.”
“That doesn’t tell us anything about his private gigs, though.”
“So, what? You think he fumbled a private dispatch sometime recently?”
“He might have.”
“How do we tell?”
“We still think the Tunneys are involved in this, right?”
“It’s our best hypothesis at the moment, yes.”
“Do you have records of known Tunney associates? People who are suspected of participating in the family’s shadier side?”
“We do, but think about what you’re asking. That’s a few hundred low-lifes over the last decade.”
“We don’t need to look at them all.”
“Which ones do we need to look at?”
“Any of them that might have shown up in the morgue in the last couple of weeks. Start with the ones listed as suicides.”
Araceli Fuentes, medical examiner, opened the locker and rolled out the body inside. “Brodie Calhoun,” she said. “Fished him out of Lake Michigan yesterday.”
“He died yesterday?” Langdon asked.
“No, he died five or six days ago. But we fished him out of the lake yesterday.”
“He drowned?”
Fuentes pointed at his temple. “Bullet to the head.”
“So, suicide.”
“Seems likely, for obvious reasons. The angle of the bullet trajectory and powder pushed into the skin of the temple
suggest the weapon was in this guy’s hand when it was fired.”
“We don’t have the gun.”
“No. It’s probably at the bottom of the lake.”
“Anyone coming to get him?” I asked.
“There’s a sister coming to get the body released,” Fuentes said. “She’s flying in from Boston. She’ll be here tomorrow. Until then he’s yours.”
“Thanks, Ara,” Langdon said.
“De nada. Roll him back in when you’re done.” Fuentes wandered off to do other things.
“Well?” Langdon asked me.
“Well, what?”
She motioned to the body. “Failed dispatch?”
“It’s possible.” I pointed to the head wound. “The wound makes sense.”
“Explain that.”
“If you’re working for less-than-entirely reputable people, and you’re injured to the point where you need a dispatcher, the dispatcher is going to make it look like a suicide, so just in case it fails no one will ask any questions about what happened.”
“And you know this because?”
“Come on, Langdon. We’re far enough along that we don’t need to pretend I’ve been a perfect angel all my life.”
“You’ve done this.”
“At the very least I know how it’s done. What do we know about this presumed suicide?”
“His sheet is a bunch of low-level bullshit. Some assaults, some larceny, and a couple of drug busts. Did eighteen months at Graham Correctional Center for one of those busts. Model prisoner, completed drug treatment, early release.”
I reached over and moved his left arm. There were needle tracks up and down its length. “I think he might have relapsed.”
“So this one overdoses, gets found, a dispatcher is called to the scene, the dispatch fails, they bundle him up and toss him in the lake. Make it look like he shot himself out on a jetty.”
“Might be. Do we know he’s tied to the Tunneys?”
“He’s been working for a year as a dispatcher—the other kind—at their truck depot. It’s a joe job. He’d be available for muscle work.”
“How do you want to work this?”
“For this part, I go back through his records and do a lot of piecing together of his movements. Then I go through your friend Jimmy’s records and see if there’s any point of contact.”