Kill Me Twice (A Zeke Edison Novel Book 1) (4 page)

“Aaron wouldn’t lie to me,” Zeke said. “Also, being Israeli, he knows he has to get things right the first time because there might not be a second time.”

George chuckled. “I believe you and I had some coaches with that attitude.”

“Yes, we did. So here’s the deal with Jonas Dawson. He was a Chicago cop who had a long record of abuse of authority.”

“He beat the hell out of people,” George said. “Ones who look more like me than you.”

“Smaller than you, but you’ve got the picture. There were also accusations he was part of a crew of bad cops who robbed drug dealers of both their cash and their product.”

“Damn, I think I read something about that a long time ago, all the way down in Georgia.”

“Yeah, it was national news. Anyway, Dawson was the only one who got off.”

“That tells you something, right there. Nobody else in his gang snitched on him to make his own life easier. He must’ve been the scariest SOB of the bunch.”

“Maybe it was even more than that. I’ll get to it in a minute. Dawson didn’t go to trial or get locked up, but he was accused of being one of the bad guys, and he knew his time as a street cop was over. The department was going to put him in some dead-end clerical job and he’d never get promoted. So he decided to leave with a bang; he sued the cops and the city for defamation of character.”

George laughed. “That guy has some balls, but please don’t tell me he won.”

“The city settled. Jonas decided to use the money to go to law school. He was smart enough to graduate and pass the bar exam.”

Shaking his head, George said, “That’s not a good combination: crooked, smart and holding a law license.”

“Yeah, and with his experience as a cop, he knows all the weaknesses in a case to look for when one of his clients gets pinched. Aaron said Dawson has put more bad guys on the street than a jailbreak.”

“I’m liking this man less all the time. I see him even getting near Paulette and —”

“You’ll be real careful,” Zeke told him. “The thing I didn’t mention before, why nobody ratted him out, Dawson is supposed to have mob ties.”

“Well, hell,” George said. He thought about that for a moment. “You know what? I don’t give a damn. Anyone tries to hurt that girl and —” George slammed a massive fist against an opposing palm.

Zeke saw Paulette, Dexter and the crowd from the neighbor’s place coming their way.

Everybody seemed happy and looking forward to a good time.

“Yeah, me too,” Zeke told George, “but before we go all badass on him let’s see if we can get the bastard to hang himself first.”

Zeke surprised himself with that idea.

It was like expecting an opposing ball-carrier to trip over his own feet.

Making a bone-crushing tackle unnecessary.

Where was the fun in that?

Paulette Mallory spent the night at Zeke and George’s house, in a guest bedroom by herself, as far as Zeke knew. The little get-together with the band and the neighbors had quickly evolved into a social event of grand proportions. The kids from next door had sought and received permission from Zeke and George to invite
some
of their friends over to listen to the band.

Then the mom and dad from next door, Helen and Brad Kinsey, asked if they might have a few of their friends over, too. Thinking an adult presence might constrain youthful exuberance, that request was granted, too. Soon, the gathering became an impromptu block party.

Forcing Zeke and George to lay down the law: no booze, drugs or brawling. Anybody who thought to violate the house rules would be used as a tackling dummy. Zeke said as much with a smile on his face, but nobody chose to test him. At its height, the gathering numbered close to 200 people by George’s count.

The cops came, of course, but no arrests were made. There was no cause for that. The gathering was just a large group of well-behaved people having a good time: listening to music, dancing, starting new romances, renewing old ones. Zeke invited the cop in charge, Sergeant Charles Manley, into the mansion’s kitchen and gave him a bottle of Coke.

“It just sort of happened” Zeke explained. “We invited the neighbors and their kids over to listen to the band, and they asked if some of their friends could come over. It got out on social media and the crowd grew. But everyone’s behaving.”

“You have to keep anyone from joining the party?” Manley asked.

“We did, George and me and some of the bigger guys who’re working on the house.”

The sergeant smiled. “I bet nobody gave you a hard time about being turned away.”

“Nobody did.”

“And you just happened to have a band here because?”

“They’re guys who are working on the house during the day.”

Manley could hear the music through an open window. “They’re damn good.”

“Yeah. So are we okay?”

Sergeant Manley nodded. “You all right with wrapping things up by midnight?”

“Sure. We’ve all got to work in the morning.”

“You do? You gonna play again?”

Zeke should his head, gave Manley one of his business cards.

The cop looked at it and then at Zeke. “A private investigator? Really?”

“Gotta do something.”

Manley handed Zeke his card. “You ever need some official help or just have a question, give me a call. I’ve got family on the CPD. They’ll be glad to help, too.”

Manley left two cops in a car parked out on Sheridan Road as a precaution.

Zeke brought them soft drinks, too.

The party broke up at midnight, as promised. Everybody went home happy, thanking Zeke and George for a great time. More than a few of the ladies, young and otherwise, kissed the cheeks of their hosts. Dexter and his bandmates drew the attention of an intellectual property rights lawyer who was present. He had music industry connections and asked for a meeting.

George told the band they couldn’t go off and get rich and famous until the work on the house was done.

Paulette was invited to stay the night.

Zeke took an iPhone picture of her, smiling blissfully, before saying goodnight.

Teddy’s Diner did its breakfast and lunch business on Columbus Drive, catching locals on their way to work on Michigan Avenue and tourists on their way to the lakefront to jog and swim, cycle and sunbathe. Here and there among the upright citizens, assorted white-collar malefactors did their best to blend in and eat in peace. Their hope was anybody who might wish them ill would be reluctant to open fire in a roomful of witnesses.

Most of whom would also video anything newsworthy on their phones.

Like most of the honest patrons, many of the miscreants conversed over their meals. Sometimes with their accomplices, other times with their lawyers. They hid the content of their exchanges with whispers, jargon and foreign languages. Competing conversations, the clang and clatter of knives and forks being wielded and tables being cleared also provided cover for criminal conspiracies.

The diner was Jonas Dawson’s favorite place to start the day. He liked Teddy’s eggs and ham and he billed his clients for the time they spent with him there. Made them pick up the breakfast tab, too. Dawson had his fifteen minutes of fame back when he beat the rap on the armed robbery and drug dealing charges. His photo had made the front pages of the
Trib
and the
Sun-Times.
People at Teddy’s had stolen glances at him.

Now, if anybody remembered him at all, it was just as another hairball the city’s culture of corruption had coughed up. Nobody bothered to give him a second look. He liked it that way.

The guy everybody was looking at that morning was Zeke Edison.

He arrived at the diner after the line to secure a table had formed.

The guy taking names for the waiting list, Teddy’s nephew Nikos, knew who Zeke was immediately, despite the fact that Zeke had let his hair grow out several inches since his playing days and was wearing sunglasses.

Nikos grinned and wrote down Zeke’s name without being asked. “Ten minutes, okay, buddy?” Then he winked and said, “Maybe sooner.”

Zeke shook his head. “I’ll wait my turn.”

That conversation, and Zeke’s good manners, were noticed by everyone close to him in line and people at nearby tables. The message quickly spread throughout the room:
Look who’s here.
Nodding heads and hand gestures informed everyone where to look.

Within seconds Zeke was the center of attention. As a player, he’d dealt with public attention by being polite but distant. That morning at Teddy’s, he allowed himself to be curious. What was it people found so fascinating about public figures? The way he saw it, most of the people who lived in the public eye had gotten there only by being lucky in one way or another.

Physically attractive or gifted, exceptionally smart or glib, they’d all lucked out. They’d had the right parents or teachers and the opportunity to make the most of whatever talent they had. But nobody walked on water. They all had their flaws and weaknesses. Many of them you’d never even want as neighbors.

Although he and George had done pretty well at being neighborly last night.

Two boys about ten years old, wearing Bears jerseys, one with Zeke’s name and number, were the first to ask for his autograph — on the palms of their hands. Zeke didn’t have a pen, but Nikos provided one. He obliged the kids and everyone else who asked.

He had a forty-two autograph wait for his table, a two-top with a street view.

A pretty young waitress came and took his order. She smiled at him, leaned in close and said softly, “Teddy is very happy you were so nice to everyone. He told the wait staff to ask everyone not to bother you while you eat, and he says your meal is compliments of the diner.”

Zeke nodded. “Give Teddy my thanks, but let me see the check anyway. What I don’t have to give him, I’ll give you.”

The waitress beamed. “Thank you.” She took his order and said, “I’ll be right back with your breakfast.”

As she left, Zeke took the opportunity to look around. Just about everyone was looking his way. When he looked back, they all turned away, with varying reaction times. Jonas Dawson was the last to look away. As if he was trying to make Zeke blink first. Not that he could tell if Zeke might blink behind his sunglasses. But Dawson was the guy to turn his head first.

Zeke took his phone out and laid it on the table.

When the waitress brought his order, she took a peek at his phone’s retina display.

It featured the photo of Paulette Mallory he’d taken the night before.

“Very pretty,” she said, loud enough to be heard three tables away.

Necks began to crane, people trying to get a peek without being too obvious. Zeke gave the waitress her tip up front, flashing a big roll of cash and making the gratuity far more extravagant than he’d first said. The young woman, overcome by emotion, clasped her hands around Zeke’s and said, “Thank you so much.”

Zeke just nodded. He ate his breakfast at a leisurely pace. Everyone who departed before he did and had reason to pass by his table, and those who made a detour, looked at the image on his phone. Everyone smiled at the least. The more expressive offered a “Woo-woo” or two.

But Jonas Dawson was the only one who looked at Paulette’s photo and did a double-take. Then he turned to Zeke and gave him the evil eye. His effort to convey menace only made Zeke smile.

Zeke didn’t say a word, but he gathered himself as if he might stand up and tell Dawson that staring wasn’t polite. The former cop turned lawyer got the message before Zeke got to his feet. Maybe he’d seen Zeke play for the Bears. In any case, he moved on, and Zeke remained seated. He put his phone in his pocket. A moment later, Teddy came over to Zeke’s table.

“Pardon me, sir. Was that man bothering you?”

“He was a bit rude, but I think he mistook me for someone else.”

“He will not do that again, not in my diner. You, sir, are always welcome.”

“Thanks. You serve a great breakfast.”

Teddy smiled, looking even happier than his waitress had been.

Zeke finished his meal and left. He’d wanted to see if Dawson even knew what Paulette Mallory looked like. There was no doubt he did, and seeing her again wasn’t a pleasant experience. Maybe Dawson did have a problem with Paulette or, who knew, her Aunt Pamela. Either way, Zeke felt his client’s fear was more credible now.

Making Dawson back down had to tick him off. When he learned he was no longer welcome at Teddy’s, an unexpected bonus, his anger would be cranked up even higher. If Zeke was lucky, Dawson would shift his hostility to him.

Being new to his job, though, what Zeke had missed completely was Roberta Lane, the reporter for the
Trib,
sitting not far from the table he’d occupied and now hurriedly writing notes on everything she’d just seen.

When Zeke got back to the city parking structure where he’d left his car he stopped to consider the wisdom of having a fancy ride with a license plate that so clearly identified its owner. Sure, most people in town knew better than to screw with his Porsche, but if somebody like Dawson wanted to go after him, he probably could find somebody to rig a bomb to the car.

For that matter, a bomb might be overkill. A guy with a gun could do the job. Probably not someone who’d get in close and risk a tussle. A guy who knew his car, though, could target him with a rifle or an automatic weapon.

Zeke stopped to wonder if he was being melodramatic.

But, hey, Paulette Mallory was certain Dawson had already killed her once. Crazy as that sounded, it was looking more plausible to him that Dawson was some kind of threat. He’d have to ask Aaron if Dawson had ever shot anyone when he was a cop.

Zeke pulled out of the parking structure, looking around carefully for anyone who might be lying in wait for him. He thought it was unlikely Dawson had the time to set up a confrontation already. But Zeke had been more than just a physically gifted player. He’d had the ability to sniff out trick plays. Ignore misdirection and meet a runner or a receiver with a jarring hit when they were hoping he’d be somewhere else.

That was what had happened on a field with rules and officials enforcing fair play.

On the street, making sure nobody put one over on him might be a matter of life or death.

Just thinking about that as he pulled into traffic gave him a thrill.

“Who’s that?” Paulette Mallory asked. “She looks mean.”

George glanced at the closed circuit television image. The security system at the big lakeshore house in Evanston was up and running. “She is.”

“But she won’t be any trouble for you.” Paulette’s tone wavered between making a statement and asking a question. “I mean, you are much bigger.”

“Yeah, but the temper on that woman … and she’s had some serious training.”

The person on the TV screen pointed at her eyes and then at the camera.

I know you’re there; I can see you.

“Who
is
she?” Paulette asked. “Will she go away if —”

“She’s Zeke’s girlfriend, sort of. And she isn’t leaving without getting what she wants.”

Letting a small shudder pass through his body, George went to answer a second ring of the doorbell. Paulette followed a timorous half-dozen steps behind. Doing her best to hide in the long shadow George cast.

He opened the door and said, “Long time, Reggie.”

“But not long enough, Georgie? Who’s that hiding behind you?”

“Zeke’s first client.”

“And, what, you’re babysitting her?”

George said, “Keeping an eye on her, yeah.”

“Tell her she can come out. I won’t bite.”

George turned sideways, allowing the two women to see each other.

He introduced them. “Paulette Mallory, Regina Green.”

Mustering all the courage she could find, Paulette asked, “Do you really bite people?”

“Only as a last resort … or if they’re especially tasty.”

“Well, if nobody else is interested, I’m available for sampling.”

Zeke had just returned home.

Pleased that he’d been able to sneak up on Reggie.