Chicago Stories: West of Western by Eileen Hamer Read Free Book Online

pockets to anchor his hands on his hips, frowned and went on in a tired voice, “Look, lady. You don't know if that was money in that envelope the driver gave the kid. You don't know what that white powder was. You don't even know which apartment the kid went to, who he is, or who the man in the car was. So what do you expect us to do, since you don't really know anything?”
    So this is the war on drugs I've been hearing about, she thought, drug drive-ups and the cops looking the other way.
    Terreno, the younger, darker one in the navy linen jacket and miraculously-pressed tan Dockers, read the wave of disgust that narrowed her eyes and compressed her mouth. “Hold on, Marko. Miss Pelligrini, let's go back to the kitchen and sit down and I'll explain.”
    Once all three found places to sit, Terreno ran his hand through his thick dark hair, sighed and said, “Look, miss, we can't just go over and grab up anybody we think's dealing. With what you told us, we don't even have reasonable cause for a search warrant. Unless we can prove, and I mean prove, not suspect, that that white powder was a controlled substance, we can't do anything.” He paused, tucked back a stray lock of hair, and said, “In fact we've known for a long time about that building.”
    “Shit.”
    “You saw a red car, a man give a kid something, the kid run inside and come back to the car with something, right?” She nodded assent. “So a good lawyer could say it was the kid's uncle come to pick up some baby powder his mother left there last Sunday after church.”
    “Like anybody's going to believe that.”
    “They don't have to. Can you prove that's not the case?”
    Shit. She knew Terreno was right. “So there's nothing you can do?”
    “We got stuff we're doing,” said Markowicz. “The only thing you could do is let us put a camera up on your roof to record the cars and visitors, but we're not going to do that, are we, Terreno?”
    “Why not?” Sounded good to her. She'd need a higher resolution model, long-range lenses, like that. Maybe that place on Clybourne would have the right ones.
    “Because we like you. Because if we did that, and those gentlemen found out, you would definitely not like the results.”
    “I can take care of myself.” Jesus, weren't they even going to pretend to go after the dealers? She'd get that camera tomorrow. If not Clybourne, Midstate Camera downtown would definitely have something in stock.
    “No doubt,” said Terreno, “But you want your windows shot up? Or a Molotov cocktail tossed into your bedroom some night?”
    “My windows can take care of themselves.” Nice try, guys. I don't scare that easily. She smiled. The men exchanged a glance. She could see what they were thinking, nutcase here. Assholes.
    “I'll show you.” Her voice was frustrated, rough. She stomped over to the front windows. Markowicz followed slowly, humoring her, but Terreno strode to the window, looked, then shifted his head sharply from side-to-side.
    “What kind of glass you got here? It's funny, kinda distorted when I move my head.”
    “It's not glass, it's Maalon. I got it from a friend.” Seraphy punched the window, hard. “See? Thinner than bulletproof glass, and stronger.”
    “You got it from a friend.” Markowicz's eyebrows shot up. Both detectives were alert now, watching, curious. She could hear them thinking, ‘weird stuff for a yuppie chick.’ Their faces flickered with suspicion. ‘Nutcase’ was rapidly morphing into ‘suspect.’ What was she doing with bulletproof glass?
    “The second day I was here working, before I got new windows, I got bricks through eleven windows. I figured the vandals'd smash new ones, too, so I had my new windows made with Maalon instead of Thermopane. It's bulletproof, better than glass. No more broken windows, no bricks.” She shrugged. “Or bullets or Molotov cocktails, for that matter.”
    The cops, busy examining the windows, were silent and alert, their weight on