Chapter One
Chicago, July 1938
The smell was the first thing that told him this wasn't going to end well. The sound reinforced that. A low, undulating humming told him the rest. The call had come into the station only an hour ago. Clearly, even then it had been too late.
Charlie McIntire, only, had spent enough summers on his Uncle's farm to know what flies feeding on a corpse sounded like. He stood outside the door of the abandoned warehouse on South Street, in an area full of abandoned buildings that had fallen victim to the Depression. Brilliant light flooded the room. He wished it didn't.
Behind him, Fat Lou--Louis--grunted and wheezed up the two flights of stairs. Fat Lou wasn't really fat. Maybe he had been at one time, but his recent bout of pneumonia had drained him of health and melted his pounds off. Charlie thought he was a fool for coming back to work when he had. But he could hardly blame the man. Sick or not, he had a wife and four kids to feed. To Charlie's eyes, he looked twenty years older than the forty he claimed.
Lou huffed to a stop.
"Crime scene's not out here, boy," Lou said. "You gotta go in. Secure the scene."
"I know," Charlie whispered, knowing neither one of them wanted to. They both knew what was in there. "It's bad, sir."
"Yup. It is. The world's a bad place. You better get used to that now. That's if you mean to be a copper."
Charlie swallowed against the vomit that threatened. He couldn't throw up. Not here. Not in front of this old man who had probably seen worse, much worse, in his twenty years on the force.
Lou handed him a cigar, and lit one of his own. The acrid smell helped cut the other smell. Charlie lit his, sucking in smoke while he stepped into the sunlit room. Most of the windows were broken and had never been boarded over. That explained the light that poured through them, unimpaired. Charlie would have preferred darkness.
He took a few more steps. The pale hair of six-year-old Timothy Baker caught the light and made it look like the dead boy's head was surrounded by a halo. Charlie shut his eyes. He didn't want to see the boy's golden head, the red sneakers or the small, chubby hand reaching toward the light as though he had been trying to catch sunbeams at the time of his death.
Timothy had been kidnapped from his school five days ago. His father, Illinois Supreme Court Justice Michael Baker had paid the ten thousand dollar ransom at noon yesterday. Then he had gone home to his wife, waiting for the phone call to tell him where to find his son. The call had come today. But it was clear now the boy had been dead before the ransom call had even been made.
Charlie stared down at the tiny body sprawled untidily on the dirty floor of the warehouse that only recently had housed a typewriter manufacturing plant. Now it was a morgue for a little boy. Even with the smell and taste of the cigar in his mouth and nose he could still smell the decay. The flies crawling and buzzing around the blood and open wound on the boy's head paid him no mind. Light glittered off the iridescent bodies of the hovering creatures, lending them a terrible beauty. Dust motes stirred up by the two uniformed officers danced in the beams of light.
He waved away the flies, focused on the scene before him, trying to remember the lessons the older cops had imparted to him. He studied the body and everything around it. A scrap of dirty white linen on the floor near the boy's outstretched hand might have been a blindfold or a gag. An empty bottle of cheap whiskey and a single footprint in blood led away from the body. The killer's? But it looked too smeared to be of any use.
A further look around the dusty room revealed more footprints. He looked closely at them, using any excuse not to stare into the blank eyes of the boy. There were two sizes.
"More than one person was here recently." He turned to face Fat Lou, who was still puffing furiously at his cigar.
Lou coughed and hacked up a glob of phlegm before answering. "How'd you figure that?"
"Two distinct footprints."
"Good eyes." Lou grunted and let his gaze sweep the well lit room. "Guess it's time to call in the bulls and the ME. Let them sort it out--"
There was a rush of air and Charlie spun around in time to see a dark haired man in a trim fedora and a look of utter despair on his rugged face enter the cavernous room.
"Oh dear God. Is that Timmy?" The man barely turned away before the vomit Charlie had fought earlier erupted from him, filling the room with a new stench.
Charlie almost lost it for a second time.
"Who the hell are you?" Lou roared. Charlie wouldn't have thought he had it in him.
Eyes glazed over with tears turned beseechingly toward Charlie, who felt a rush of sympathy.
Not so Fat Lou. "Get him out of here." He swore again. "Find out who the bastard is and where he came from."
Charlie hurried across the room. Part of him glad to be away from the body and Lou's towering rage. Part of him wanted to find out who this guy was.
Charlie wasn't a movie star fan like his wife, Lorraine, but what he'd seen of them on the rare night out to the theater and when he'd been courting her, was the beauty of many of the leading men. The Barrymores, Errol Flynn, Cary Grant, Gary Cooper--those were the men that his wife swooned over.
But this man watching him with clear, tear-filled eyes as blue as Lake Michigan on a fine summer day and a face of chiseled granite was beyond handsome. Even his mouth looked bewitching -- Charlie jerked away. Where the hell had that come from?
In a burst of anger, he clamped down on the stranger's arm and half dragged, half pushed him out of the room, not stopping until they were at the top of the stairs leading to the street. He didn't release his grip.
"Who are you? What are you doing here?"
"I'm Owen Power. I work for the Tribune." He swallowed and his haunted gaze turned toward the room of horrors behind them. "Was that Timmy Baker?"
"How do you know the victim's name?"
"I--I know Mrs. Baker. She and my mother were friends. She heard... she heard the police had found the boy and she wanted me to come and find out if it was true."
Then he started to cry. Not great bursts of tears, but softly, as though he couldn't help it or was even aware of it.
"This will kill her. Oh, the poor woman. She thought after everything, the kidnapper would let him go. He had the money." Owen's voice rose toward hysteria. "He had the money! Who could do such a thing to a sweet child? What kind of monster?"
"The kind the world's full of. I would think you being a reporter, you would know that."
"I don't work the police beat." Tears streaked his face. Even so, Charlie sensed the underlying strength of the man. He also thought he looked like someone he had met before. "I'm just a friend of the family." He pulled out a large white handkerchief and wiped his eyes then blew his nose. Something about his manner struck Charlie. Charlie looked at him, then realized what it was: he wasn't embarrassed about his tears, or the open display of emotion. While other men might have tried to hide their feelings behind a stoic mask, Owen's face reflected his grief--and his anger--without any apology.
Lou came up behind them, obviously listening to the conversation. "Well, friend of the family, you can just come downtown with us and tell us the whole story about your friendship. Don't think for a minute I won't be checking your story with the Bakers."
Owen looked too dazed to understand what was happening until Lou clapped a pair of cuffs around his wrists. Then he jerked away from the older cop, looking at the handkerchief crumpled between his fingers.
"What are you doing? I haven't done anything."
"If that's true, you won't mind answering some questions then, will you?" He looked disgusted by Owen's blubbering. He swung around to face his partner. "Take him down to the car. I have to find a call box and report this. Then we can book this family friend and get the truth out of him."
Alarmed as he was, Charlie obeyed, leading the now silent Owen down the stairs to the squad car. Only when they reached the street did he talk again.
"Why are you doing this? I told you, I haven't done anything."
"Then you have nothing to worry about, do you?" Charlie didn't let his own doubts show. Unlike Lou, he didn't think Owen was anything but what he said he was. Surely even the coldest liar couldn't weep like this guy did. But Lou was the senior and Charlie knew better than to openly voice his doubts. Instead, he stayed quiet while they waited for Lou to come back from calling the details of the crime in so the watch commander could send out a homicide team and the coroner. His mind shied away again from the memories of the grisly discovery.
While he waited, he studied the man in the back of the car, puzzling over his earlier reaction. Why would he be so quick to notice the man's remarkable good looks? It wasn't something he'd ever done before. When Lorraine went all gushy at a movie star his reaction was usually amusement with a touch of jealousy. He was never sure he liked Lori ogling other men, even when they were giant, unattainable images on the silver screen. But he could hardly tell her that. He knew what her reaction would be. Laughter at his silliness. And it was silly. Lorraine was the love of his life as he was hers. His childhood sweetheart, they married as soon as Charlie had a steady job and could support them. Five years later he had joined the Chicago PD. Now here he was, wondering, as he often did when faced with a particularly brutal crime, if that decision had been smart. He had known he would be fighting bad men, but he had envisioned only the fight against the city's legions of gangsters, from Al Capone to O'Bannion and his North side boys. Not this. Not sick animals who snatched a young boy out of his sheltered life and did horrible things to him. And why? Like Owen lamented, the family had paid the money demanded. There had been no trap set by the police, because Baker had not called them until the ransom had been dropped off. Even though he was an officer of the court, Baker had feared for his son's life and heeded the kidnapper's warnings about going to the cops.
All in vain. Owen was right. What kind of monster did such a thing? Surely not a human one. Behind him a black Dodge pulled to the curb and two plainclothes detectives climbed out.
The driver's door was yanked open and a flushed Fat Lou slumped into the seat. Charlie looked over in alarm. All the color had gone from his partner's face and his wheezing had grown worse.
"You all right?"
"Fine. Let's just get this asshole out of here. Leave this mess to the dicks." He fired up the engine and took a minute to catch his breath. It didn't do any good. Charlie was sure he was going to collapse in front of him.
"You want me to drive?" He had visions of them plowing into a wall.
Lou shook his grizzled head. "I'm fine."
Charlie knew that was a lie, but he kept his mouth shut anyway. In the rearview mirror he saw the equally worried look on Owen's face and wished he could offer some reassurance. But with Lou's overt hostility to the man he didn't dare.
Charlie had no idea where Lou was heading until they pulled up in front of a large, red-brick mansion set back on a manicured lawn replete with black lawn jockey at the foot of the sweeping, circular drive. He could see white fences stretching into the distance. Three mares with spindly legged foals grazed the emerald green pasture. A silver Rolls-Royce Phantom crouched outside a three car garage.
The double-front door swung open before Lou and he stepped out onto the pebbled drive. Lou opened the rear door and hauled Owen out.
A woman dressed in a burgundy dressing gown, her hair in a severe bun atop her head, stood on the wide front porch watching them approach. Her hand was at her throat. Even though Charlie could see the fear in her face, her voice was steady when she spoke.
"Officers? Owen? What is this about?"
Charlie hung back with Owen. He knew what Lou had come here to do, and he dreaded it. Lou took his hat off as he approached the woman and stopped at the bottom of the steps.
"Mrs. Baker." He spoke in a low voice. "We found your son. I'm... I'm sorry."
The woman held her composure, but Charlie could see the strain on her face. It became like brittle glass and he knew that one tap would break her completely. Her whole body sagged and he thought for sure that she was going to faint. Charlie bound up the steps and would have taken her in his arms but she pulled away from him. He scrambled to take his own hat off, pressing it against his chest.
"Ma'am, I'm so sorry."
She waved her hand as if dismissing his words.
"Don't. Please." Her look entreated him then turned back on Lou. "You're mistaken. You must be..."
All Charlie could do was shake his head miserably. He couldn't look her in the eye. This time when she crumpled, her shoulders shook and she moaned softly. Behind her the door opened again and a distinguished looking man, clearly her husband, stepped out.
Charlie had only seen the judge's photographs in the paper. He was stern there but in person he appeared even sterner. Ramrod straight, he faced the men, barely glancing at this wife. His gaze swept past Charlie, settling on Lou. His eyes held the question unasked.
"We found your son this morning," Lou said. "I'm sorry. He was not alive."
Mrs. Baker turned toward her husband, pressing her face against his thick chest. He put his arm around her shoulders and stroked her back. "Go back in the house, Mildred. These gentlemen and I need to talk."
At first Charlie thought she was going to refuse, then she threw a last imploring look at the three heralds of doom who had, in a few short words, destroyed her life. Charlie knew Timothy had been their only son--the baby born long after his three older sisters were in their teens and sent to boarding school in the east. Mildred Baker clearly was of an age where it was unlikely that she'd have more children. He felt a pang. Lorraine and he had been trying since their wedding to have children and so far it hadn't happened. Somehow, seeing this woman's loss etching lines in her face, he wondered if that wasn't a good thing. How would he handle such a loss? How would Lorraine?
He knew. It would destroy her as completely as if a knife had been taken to her heart. Another baby would never assuage that loss. Only when she had vanished back into the house and the four men were alone did the judge unbend.
"Please," he said hoarsely. "Tell me everything." It was at that moment that he seemed to notice the handcuffed man beside Lou. "What is this?"
"He showed up at the crime scene after – said he was a family friend." Lou abruptly cut off whatever he had been about to say. Instead, he took a deep breath that sounded labored to Charlie. His face still had an unhealthy duskiness. "We brought him along to corroborate that."
"What? Well, yes, Owen's mother was a sorority sister to my wife. So he's like family. What did you think? That he had something to do with..." His eyes grew haunted. He couldn't say it. "Please, remove those things from him."
Lou did and Owen stood there, rubbing his wrists and not meeting anyone's gaze. Finally he raised his head and looked at the judge. "I'm so sorry, Judge Baker. I would have given anything to make it not so."
The judge dipped his balding head. He turned back to Lou. "I want the perpetrator caught. Do I make myself clear? Caught and taken care of."
Charlie held his breath waiting for Lou's reply. He knew damn well what the man meant. He expected the kidnapper never to see the inside of a courtroom. Lou said nothing, but he did nod, one firm dip of his head. His eyes bore straight into the judge's.
"Good, then we understand each other."
He turned and strode up the step, as rigid as he had been when he came out to hear the news. Not once did he turn around to look at the two police officers and their companion.
"If you want a ride back to town, get in," Lou said to Owen. "Otherwise find your own way back."
Owen scrambled into the car, Charlie following. He threw one last troubled look at the colossal mansion, now surely as dead as the young boy who used to live there.
"Will you catch the man who did this?" Owen asked quietly as Lou circled the drive and emerged back on the unpaved road leading back into town.
"I'll find him," Lou said. "If it's the last thing I do."