The Dead Caller from Chicago

Twenty-nine

I figured he wouldn’t make a move until well after nightfall.

After switching cars, I went back to the turret and called an acquaintance who worked for the State of Illinois. Like so many Illinois bureaucrats, he was willing to break the law, by providing me with information from the state’s confidential database. What made him rare was that he didn’t charge for doing it. That ran contrary to the public service culture in a state where two of our former governors were simultaneously doing time in federal prisons.

“Leased vehicle, Dek,” my acquaintance said, after looking up the auto license number I gave him.

“From a dealership in Westmont, according to the license plate frame.”

“You know more than I,” he said and clicked me away.

I didn’t expect much from the license plate, but I had better luck going through Robert Wozanga’s tidy notebook of invoice copies. He’d done work for a Mr. R. Cassone, of 15 Falling Star Lane. Two weeks before, Wozanga billed thirty-eight hours for unspecified services. I would have bet Wozanga had done more work since then, including taking a bumpy boat ride to and from Eustace Island.

The name Cassone nagged. I’d heard it but couldn’t remember where.

I started with the county’s property tax Web site. It told me that Cassone owned the home at 15 Falling Star Lane and that it was worth a little over four million, even in current depressed dollars. He had no mortgage.

Switching over to Google lit my computer screen with the promise of ten thousand sites and lit my memory at last. Rudy Cassone was one of the quieter hoodlums that worked the Chicago area. He’d been in the news for years, linked to charges of illegal gambling, prostitution, and construction-bid rigging in the suburbs around Chicago. Always, though, he’d been a rumored participant, never a primary suspect. I found no incidences where he’d been arrested.

He was a careful, successful man. He drove a hundred-thousand-dollar Benz and lived in a four-million-dollar house, set inside a well-guarded community.

I had an inspiration. I went back to the county assessor’s property tax Web site. Cassone had lived at Falling Star for decades. He’d been able to afford very nice things for a long time.

I hustled over to city hall. Robinson was at his desk, studying a blueprint for a huge house. The drawing must have been for the house under construction on Leo’s block, and I would have bet Robinson was looking for flaws.

“I saw you,” I said.

He looked up, startled. “Where?” His hands shook as he reached for his coffee.

“That new construction. You shut down the concrete work. Who’s building that place?”

“A lawyer, fronting for another lawyer.”

“That wasn’t why I stopped by. I was wondering if you’d heard.”

“Heard?”

“They fished a floater out of the Willahock last night.”

He set his cup down without taking a sip. “I heard. No one knows about that, too.”

“Ever hear of Rudy Cassone?”

“The gangster?”

“The very same.”

“I suppose Master Leo wants to know about him, too?”

“No. Personal curiosity.”

“I’ve been trying to call Leo,” he said, ignoring my lie. “Nobody’s answering his home number. I even looked up his address and stopped by. The neighbor lady said he’s still on vacation.”

“That’s about it,” I said.

“He’s calling you from wherever he is, asking all these questions?”

“Look-”

“Never mind,” he said, glancing down at the blueprint. “I got bigger things to worry about. All I know about Rudy Cassone is he lived, or maybe still lives, in a big fancy house in one of those protected communities west of here.”

“Did Tebbins sell him a security system?”

“I think it was the last one he did, as a matter of fact.”

“Anybody else help?”

“Sure. Snark-” Robinson jerked upright in his chair as he realized what I was inferring. “This is about stolen goods?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Yes you are, Elstrom. This is all about something that got stolen years ago? Leo’s thinking Snark stole something from Cassone? No chance. Tebbins sure as hell knew Cassone was a…”

“A big time badass?”

“Snark Evans might have been a stupid punk, but he’d never mess with a guy like Cassone.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“I… it’s inconceivable.”

“Maybe he was acting under orders.”

A sweat had broken out on Robinson’s forehead. “You mean Tebbins? You’re thinking Tebbins had Snark steal from Cassone, and because of that, Cassone killed Tebbins all these years later?” He wiped at his forehead and cradled his head in his hands. “Oh, sweet Jesus.”

“What do you hear about Tebbins’s death?”

He looked up. “Nothing new. A transient. Nothing to do with Rudy Cassone.”

“Bad things happened to people who worked at his house that summer.”

“You mean Snarky?” His face got defiant. “Snarky died somewhere else that summer. Tebbins got killed by a transient.”

I met his stare, said nothing.

“Look,” he said, “I got to get back to work. Why don’t you ask your friend Leo Brumsky about all this?” he asked. “Or is…” His face lost its defiance. “Is that what this is all about? Leo’s worried he’s in trouble, too? Because of Snarky? Because of Tebbins?” His hands shook as he squeezed the arms of his chair. “That can’t be. I think Leo was out of here long before Tebbins and Snarky did the job at Cassone’s.”

I left him to his nerves and his caffeine.

Walking back to the turret, I called the Bohemian. “Vuh-lo-dek,” he said. “I was just about to call you.”

“What is it, Anton?”

“Your Mr. Smith has become quite frantic.”