Prologue Milan I think I''ve lived long enough to figure it out: Everybody is in one way or another corrupt. Maybe they got a little too much change back from a supermarket cashier and quietly pocketed it without comment. Maybe in school they copied answers from another kid''s paper--or shoplifted a comic book or a candy bar from the local store. Maybe they cheated on their income tax. Perhaps they took sexual advantage of someone, leading them on while knowing all along it would only be a one-night stand. And they''ve all driven faster than the speed limit just to save a little time. (Oh, come on--you knowthis one, at least, is you.) It gets worse, of course.
Take bribery, for example. That can start small, too, but it can wind up big--in the thousands or even millions. Burglary. Picking pockets. Armed robbery. Rape. Abuse. Cruelty to animals.
Cruelty to women. Cruelty to children. And then, of course, there''s murder. The small-timers--the ones who smoke too much weed, eat too many Big Macs with cheese and fries, the ones who speak out against those closed minds who truly believe their opinions are the only opinions and everyone else is criminal--those are the ones who get nailed. Those who commit bigger crimes are more likely to skate because they''re rich or powerful or important. They get away with it. Does that sound cynical? I don''t know. Do you ever read anything in the newspapers besides sports scores? I prefer to hang out with the people who give back their too-much change, but that''s not easy for a private investigator.
While I built my business some thirty years ago as an industrial security specialist--it says Milan Securityon my business card--too often I''ve wound up chasing down and punishing real criminals. I''ve been hurt doing that--too many times. I''m tired of pain, tired of crime and criminals, and I wish I could quit. But I''m too old to get a regular job, and I don''t know how to do anything else. Cleveland, where I''ve lived all my life, is a blue-collar town, and I''m a blue-collar guy. My parents were born in Ljubljana, Slovenia, and I grew up in the Saint Clair-Superior corridor on the east side. I attended Kent State for both a bachelor''s and a master''s degree, but it was too long ago for me to do anything with those diplomas now. I was a Cleveland cop, but I never liked the regimen and the rules, so I quit and went private.
Corrupt people just seem to find me, as they did recently--only days after I barely escaped with my life solving the last stink bomb escapade. An indicted and practically convicted crooked politician asked me for help. By the time I finished, I was up to my neck in government corruption at both the city and the county levels. The city government was mad at me, the county government wanted my head on a pole, and the federal government, which I''ve tried to avoid, was once more very put out with me. And, oh yes--there''s murder in the mix. What follows, then, is pretty much how it happened . Chapter One Milan Waiting for a new client who''s half an hour late arriving for his first appointment gets on my last nerve. That''s because the wait-ee believes he''s a hell of a lot more important than everyone else and thinks he must be waited for.
It doesn''t matter what type of business one conducts, but it''s especially exasperating for me because, as a private investigator, I make my money on the clock. On this particular morning I was expecting my tardy visitor, Berton K. Loftus. He''s a long-time Cleveland city councilman from the 22nd ward, and I can''t even count how many times he''s been re-elected. He''d promised to be in my office at eleven o''clock--but he was a no-show at eleven twenty-five, and the clock resolutely ticked away. I hadn''t bought a desk and chair yet for my new employee, Kevin O''Bannion, although there was a phone connection in the corner he would eventually occupy. I''d only known him for a few weeks and had actually hired him less than twenty-four hours earlier, so now he was hanging out by the floor-to-ceiling windows in my office, open to catch the summer breeze. He looked out at the Cuyahoga River flowing past the building toward Lake Erie, and across to the two back-to-back venues midtown where the Cleveland Indians and Cleveland Cavaliers play.
The Indians were on a western road trip, and the Cavs don''t play basketball in August, but it was a great view nonetheless. Kevin--he prefers being called K.O., which has nothing to do with his impressive fighting ability--had been working part-time for a colleague and good friend, Suzanne Davis, a P.I. in Lake County, who suggested I employ him and teach him the ropes. It had taken me awhile to decide. I''m getting older, as are we all, and an assistant could help me out when my cases get complicated--and they usually do.
Also, I get headaches often, having been hit in the head a few times too many. K.O. turned up at the right time, wandering into my most recent investigation to save my ass. So Suzanne Davis talked me into putting him on full-time, at least until he earns enough working hours to secure his own private investigator license. He''s just a kid, but he''s very smart and tougher than hell. On this morning he''d dressed up a little--sports jacket and pressed slacks--to mark his first meeting with a client--but Loftus was late and the day was beginning badly. "Are we going to spend forever waiting for this dick?" K.
O. groused. "I thought you were running a business." I shrugged. "He''ll spend money with us, so we wait politely until he shows up. Bert Loftus isn''t someone to be jerked around, even if he deserves it." Those who know Bert Loftus--anyone who lives in Greater Cleveland--recognize him immediately. A bluff man with short, gunmetal-gray hair, Hugo Boss suits, and a huge selection of out-of-date bow ties, he walks ramrod straight, nodding royally to his constituents but rarely acting cordial to them, his personal magnetism convincing them how important he is.
When you''re a Cleveland councilman, people tend to take you seriously. I had to the day before, when he phoned and said someone was trying to kill him. The local press had already murdered his reputation. After a long, drawn out investigation--the usual M.O. for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, which crosses every Tand takes forever--he was indicted in federal court on thirty-one counts of accepting bribes and kickbacks from local businessmen who courted him for contracts to make them all richer, and the Plain Dealerand the local radio and TV newscasters reported his every malfeasance with relish. Even those fiercely loyal to his political party--approximately three-quarters of city voters--screwed up their noses when anyone mentioned his name now because his repute stank to high heaven. But no one deserves to die violently, so when he asked for my help, I set up his appointment for eleven o''clock.
His tardiness might be a clue that he wasn''t in as much danger as he professed. He finally arrived without his usual driver, who, along with his secretary, his aide, his cadre of lickspittles, and anyone else who jumped when he told them to, earned his salary from us taxpayers. He entered Milan Security alone, egotistical as usual, but he''d chucked the bow tie somewhere, today sporting a dress shirt with an open collar beneath his almost-gold suit. The last time I saw anyone wearing sunglasses as enormous as his, they rested on the nose of Jackie Kennedy Onassis. Either he''d spent time at the beach or basked in a suntan parlor, because he glowed golden, blending into his suit. The skin around his neck was loose and wobbly, nearly a wattle. He took off his sunglasses to reveal a web of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, matching the creases on his lips. Bert Loftus was growing old, whether he admitted it or not.
Me too. He skulked in like a bad actor in a melodrama, tendering me a dead-fish handshake and bestowing on K.O. somewhat less than that when I introduced them. Then he perched on the edge of a chair as if the smallest sound would send him flying away--like a bird on a power wire. My first-floor tenants ran a busy shop in which they constructed wrought-iron gates and screens and window guards that were really decorative bars, like in an upscale jail, and their banging seemed to bother Bert Loftus. "Milan, I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice," he said, nodding his head for no discernible reason. His fingers dug into his pants legs, nervously kneading bread dough on his lap.
He said my first name correctly--it''s MY-lan, but his use of my surname sounded too familiar, considering we''d never had a conversation before. It''s pronounced YOCK-o-vitch but spelled the Slovenian way, Jacovich. "Not so short," I said, looking at my watch and making no effort to disguise my annoyance. "You''re late, Councilman." "Bert," he corrected me as he''d done on the phone the day before. "Call me Bert. I couldn''t just drive here openly. I might be followed.
I''ve been tailed for two weeks now." He seemed fearful, as though monsters of his nightmares lurked in every shadowy corner. "So I drove around, turning where I shouldn''t have, going down twisty streets--and I eluded my tail, because here I am." "No one''s driving around out there," K.O. said, jerking a finger toward the window. "You''re okay." "Whew," Loftus said.
Maybe he learned that word from a dialogue balloon in a comic book. He settled into his chair, breathing deeply. "Where should I start?" "You asked for this meeting. We''re listening." He cleared his throat as though about to deliver a speech in council chambers. Then he frowned, listening to the noise from downstairs. "What the hell ar.