Murder is the End of the Line

By Edward Fadden

Jake O'Shea struggled to move from a working class neighborhood to a successful career among Chicago's financial elites. Along with financial success came Lorenza De Luca a beautiful and intelligent product of the city's Gold Coast. But in Chicago things do not always work out as planned. Lorenza loved to quote Karen Abbott, “Leave the fireworks for those who cast no spark of their own.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edward Fadden
• Release date: Oct 4, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301445295

Edward Fadden

Edward Fadden is a native of Chicago and the author of numerous short stories. He attended Georgia State University – BA and Shorter University – MBA.When Fadden is not hard at work on writing short stories about the Windy City, he is editing, writing, or devouring another book.

Book preview

Murder is the End of the Line

A Murder Mystery

A Novel by Edward Fadden

Smashwords Edition

Copy Write 2013 by Edward Fadden

All Rights Reserved

[e-mail]

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

A Deserted Lot on the Westside

Clayton Beaux struggled to look out the window from the back seat of the dark sedan. When the car lurched into a left turn, he raised his head long enough to see the towers of Chicago's Loop miles away. A quick right turn bounced his head against the window frame and stars exploded before his eyes. When his head cleared, he stared at rows of rundown bungalows and apartment houses on a dark city street.

Of course, he had no idea where he was or where he was going. The last thing he remembered was talking to an acquaintance in the underground parking garage of his Hyde Park condominium. Now he leaned sideways against the door of a large sedan, an expensive one judging by the cream-colored leather interior. His hands and feet bound with duct tape. A silk handkerchief, smelling slightly of cologne or perfume, stuffed in his mouth, prevented him from speaking. No attempt had been made to cover his eyes.

At a busy intersection, the sedan idled waiting for the light to change. Clayton stared out the window at a group of young black men watching the traffic flow past dirty piles of snow left behind by the city plows. One was dressed in only blue jeans and a basketball jersey against the cold. When the man looked at him, his eyes betrayed no emotion. Clayton had the feeling that both he and the car were invisible.

In a few moments, the car began moving again and the man in the jersey disappeared in a cloud of exhaust. On the opposite corner, Clayton saw a bank. The time on the sign read nine o'clock.

Taking a deep breath, Clayton tried to clear his head and form an impression of the driver. A dark watch cap covered his head. He assumed it was a him because it was hard to fathom a woman working up the fury that had battered his body. His head felt cracked open and sealed back together with the congealed blood he could taste at the corners of his mouth. With each breath, his ribs and back burned with pain.

Forcing himself to concentrate on the driver, his eyes scanned the upturned collar of a heavy wool coat. Neither the watch cap nor the coat registered in his mind as belonging to someone he knew. Confused, he tried to raise himself higher in the seat for a better look, but a sharp pain in his back forced him back against the cool leather as the car hummed along a frozen avenue.

Why was this happening? Muggings and carjacking were common in Hyde Park. Even during his days at the university, students were warned about the potential for crime in the neighborhood. Abduction was a new twist on neighborhood felonies. Though he tried, Clayton could not come up with a reason, personal or professional, for his predicament.

At least the car was warm he thought. In fact, the heat had been running nonstop since he first regained consciousness. Clayton wondered if the heat was preventing him from slipping into shock. Was this what the driver intended? Were criminals cold blooded and required blasts of heat to make them think, feel?

As sweat poured down his back and chest, Clayton became aware of the smell of his body. Blood, perspiration, and fear mingled with the something else. Had he soiled himself during the attack? He closed his eyes and tried to quell the wave of nausea that washed across his body.

Focus, Clayton thought. Fighting back the bile that burned his throat, Clayton forced his eyes open. Focus and remain alert. There had to be something, some clue that would reveal to him why he was here. Something he had done that had made someone very angry?

A woman, a jealous boyfriend, a conflict at work, something had put him in the back seat of a car on a dark winter night. Never physically strong, Clayton had always relied on his intelligence to make his way through the world. Now as he fought to remain conscious, he felt his intellect, his reason, his mental foundation slipping out of his grasp. If only he could free his hands, he thought, he might be able to gather it all back together.

A sudden left turn pushed his head painfully against the corner where the backseat met the doorframe. Just as Clayton's breathing began to slow with the receding pain, the car eased to a stop. He blinked his eyes and tried to make sense of his surroundings. On the left side of the street sat a row of burnt out row houses. Rolling his eyes upward, he could see the dark sky and a few snowflakes that drifted down and melted against the glass of the car. The ice cold of fear began to replace the pain in his broken body.

Before he could think further, the driver gunned the engine and jumped over the curb to the right. Clayton bounced into an upright position and lost consciousness. He came to when the driver opened the door and he tumbled out on to the snow-covered ground.

By now, Clayton's vision had narrowed. He had the sensation of looking up from the bottom of a deep well. The driver stood with his back to him, reached down, and grabbed the collar of his coat. Several attempts to drag him away from the car ended in a frustrated mumbled curse.

Now the driver turned towards him and slowly Clayton raised his eyes to meet those of his tormentor. Willing his mind to clear, he focused on the familiar features of a confidant, a mentor. The face, so gentle and kind, smiled down at him. Warmth began to spread through his body until a single gunshot cracked through the cold night air.

Chapter 2

Every journey begins with the first step. For me the journey began on the steps of the Drake Hotel three blocks from Lake Michigan. Early morning snow swirled across the pavement as I tried to clear my head and focus on my beeping iPhone.

Since last night, my girlfriend and roommate had been sending me instant messages. This I reckoned was message fifteen since ten o’clock last night. Lorenza De Luca, however, was not to be deterred. She was flying back from a family holiday in Florida and I was expected to pick her up at Midway Airport at noon.

A going away party was my reason for being at the Drake. Not that anyone was going away. I was taking medical leave in a few days to have some torn tendons repaired. Working for a British company this then became an excuse for a drinking party that lasted until the next morning. Being unable to drive home, or for that matter locate my car, I decided to take a room for the night. It was now nine o’clock on a windy Saturday morning.

Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out my phone and dialed Lorenza, even though I figured she would be miles above the Tennessee countryside. At least she would have an email assuring her that I would be waiting at the baggage carousel when she arrived in Chicago. Having vaguely remembering parking in the direction of Oak Street, I turned up the collar of my coat and headed north into a blistering wind.

Fifteen cold minutes later I located my car, a black Acura battered by years of living in the city. Letting the car idle, I racked my brain for the location of the nearest Starbucks or Dunkin’ Donuts. My brain needed caffeine if I was to make it to the airport in the next two hours.

Rejecting both options for coffee because they would have required finding a parking space or a pay lot, I choose the McDonald’s near the corner of Chicago Avenue and North State Street. Not that the coffee was any better, but it had a drive through.

Continuing east I hit southbound Lake Shore Drive five blocks later. My head clearing by the minute as I sipped coffee, I took the exit for the Stevenson Expressway. Hugging the far right lane, I exited at Cicero Avenue for Midway. A few traffic lights later, I was on the ramp for the parking decks.

Under a slate gray sky, I ducked into the terminal and headed for baggage claim. Scanning the monitors, I located the carousel on which Lorenza’s luggage would soon be circling.

I was somewhat surprised by the lack of passengers in the baggage area. Then I spotted Lorenza standing alone, her baggage at her feet looking like an angry accusation of my inability to tell time. I walked up to her and gave her a kiss, which she deflected by turning her face.

Jake you forgot when my plane came in, she frowned. Then she threw her arms around me and gave me a kiss.

I reached into my pocket for the scrap of paper on which I had written her flight information.

Lorenza made a dismissive gesture. We took an earlier flight and got in about an hour ago. But somebody wasn't checking their text messages. That must have been some party at the Drake.

You know how those Brits love to drink, I said.

Lorenza yawned and said I could tell her all about it when we got home.

Well let me take a look at you before we head out, I said. Lorenza had the dark hair and eyes of her Italian parents with the olive skin of southern Italy. She was an intoxicating five feet, four inches tall. Looking at her, however, I realized something was wrong.

Did you go out into the sun at all Lorenza? You look the same as when you left.

No I stayed in my hotel room and wrote heart wrenching letters about how much I missed you. Are you saying you didn't receive any? she asked.

Unless it came with the gas bill, no, I said.

You are not romantic, she frowned up at me. It must be your Celtic blood. I knew better than to hook up with an Irish guy. No I stayed out of the sun. The beach was boring.

Thinking it was best to leave it at that, I grabbed the luggage and led her out of the airport.

Good, let's go home, she said. I hear it's freezing outside."

Sweet home Chicago, I said as we headed for the doors of the terminal. We pressed through the crowd and noise into the cold air.

My car, now covered with snow, sat a few rows back from the entrance to the lot. I beeped open the doors while Lorenza studied my face frowned, and bit her lower lip. Honey, you look like hell. Do you mind if I drive?

I smiled, Of course not that'd be great. The engine should still be warm, crank up the heat while I clear the windows.

Reaching in the back seat, I grabbed the snow scraper and started on the back window. By the time I worked my way around to the front, the engine was purring at a steady idle. I looked in the window and saw Lorenza warming her hands on the dashboard vents. She smiled at me and said, How's it going out there?

A few minutes later I was done and I hopped in the front seat. Lorenza was settled in the driver's seat. How about a real kiss now? I asked. Lorenza leaned into me and I felt her warmth and softness. She was wearing a black leather coat, and I slipped my hand beneath it and around her waist. After a few minutes, she sat back and said, Whew! I need to travel more often.

I guess you missed me?

She smiled softly. Yes, of course.

Lorenza tucked a stray hair behind her ear and put the car in gear. We headed out of the parking lot and onto the circle road that led to the northbound Stevenson. I sat back and admired her in the cool light of the dying day. Her black hair was pulled back in a ponytail, her dark eyes intense as she maneuvered around the afternoon traffic. Driving with the calm assurance with which she handled every task.

How long do you think you will be out on disability? she asked.

Could be one week to six months, I shrugged. Depends on how bad things are when the docs get in there. To be honest I would put it off another year if I could.

Why would you do that? she asked.

Well we both have six months of vacation and comp time built up. Neither of us took any time off last year. And I am coming off that big win, not to mention bonus, of the Western Optics deal.

Oh yes your bonus, she said with a dreamy voice. We talked about going to Europe.

Sometimes being a consultant has it's rewards. I had spent the last summer at Western Optics in the San Fernando Valley. If they couldn't get their supply chain in order, they were on the verge of losing a major government contract. My timely intervention with their main supplier of synthetic fluorite glass had saved the deal. I in the process received a sizable bonus.

Several months in Italy would be nice, I said.

She leaned over and gave me a kiss at sixty miles per hour. In case you're out of it, that means yes.

I smiled at her and unzipped my coat. Lorenza said, I'm glad you don't have to wear suits anymore. They hide your muscles.

I flexed my arm, Like this?

No sweetheart, don't be silly. I mean it. She glanced at me again, There's some gray showing in your lovely black hair

No, I said and pulled down the visor mirror.

Lorenza giggled, I was just kidding. Hey, why are Irish men either big and muscular, or short and small?

Is that a joke or rhetorical question?

My cell phone chirped before Lorenza could respond. Looking at the number, I saw it was my cousin Pauli. Pauli O'Shea, is a Chicago Police homicide detective.

How you doin champ? Pauli asked.

Okay, what's up?

Where about are you? he asked.

"On the Stevenson Expressway, Lorenza and I just left Midway.

We got a, uh, situation over here on the West Side, he said.

What kind of situation?

Well, Jake we got a stiff here. White guy, thirties. We found something interesting on him.

What's that? I asked.

Your business card.

On the dead guy, who is he?

Lawyer name of Clayton Beaux. B-E-A-U-X. You know him?

No, should I? I asked.

Doesn't ring any bells?

None, I don't handle legal. We have in house lawyers, I said.

Do me a favor, champ? The scene is near United Center just off the Interstate. How about stopping by?

Hold on a sec?

I turned to Lorenza, her eyes taking me in curiously. Pauli's over on the West Side. They found a dead lawyer with my business card. He wants me to come by and see if I know the guy. Figure out what he's doing with my card. Sounds like it's all they've got right now.

Lorenza sighed. Sure it's okay with me. Who's dead? she asked.

"A lawyer named Clayton Beaux.

Oh my, she said.

You know him?

I know a lawyer named Clayton Beaux. He handled my divorce. A young white guy? Lorenza asked.

Let's head over there. Okay?

Yes, lets.

Pauli? I said into my phone.

You heading over? he asked.

Yeah. Tell me how to get there. I listened as Pauli gave me a list of twists and turns that would put us on the Eisenhower Expressway and eventually the 2600 block of West Monroe.

I turned to Lorenza. It's on the West Side by United Center. Are you okay with that?

What could happen to me?

We continued northeast towards the lake in silence. The towers of the city loomed ahead and soon engulfed us in a swirl of light and sound. Elevated trains roared past us headed for the excitement of downtown. Just before the University of Illinois, Lorenza gunned the Acura onto the westbound ramp of the circle interchange and on to the Eisenhower.

In a few minutes, the snow covered bungalows and rundown apartment buildings of the West Side replaced the bright lights of the Loop. A full moon scudded in and out of broken clouds as the day faded into a winter night. I turned in my seat and asked Lorenza how she knew Clayton Beaux.

Five years ago he handled my divorce. He worked for the Chicago Friends of the Environment. I guess it didn't pay well and moonlighted.

You had an environmental lawyer handle your divorce? I asked.

All he did was file the papers and walk them through the courts. He was just twenty-five years old back then. He would be thirty now, same as you and me.

You told me Bob was really upset about the divorce. He didn't fight anything?

The only joint property we had was part of a three flat on Janssen Avenue and a little cash. Beaux was an inexpensive way to get rid of Oskowski.

I think Bobby O. was more than just upset. Remember he took a swing at me? This had happened two years ago when Lorenza