See Here, Detective Vanek, a Vanek Mystery

By Leon Shure

Had Detective Vanek made a mistake and the killer was still killing? Vanek accepts the challenge of protecting the family of a murder victim, while being distracted by arson, embezzlement, and death. Moreover, would the marriage of his partner, Vejr, to his former daughter-in-law come off without a hitch? Would he be able to find Emily’s missing student who apparently had joined the word of pornography? And where did Ann Marie’s finance go at midnight?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leon Shure
• Release date: Nov 24, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311283443

Leon Shure

I am currently writing five mystery series: (1) the Tommy Spevak and Kate Wehring mysteries, about an impaired veteran and an investigative reporter; (2), the Vanek mysteries, about a crusty and devious Chicago Police Detective; (3) the Dr. Adam Karl mysteries, about a medical doctor fighting against his fate; (4) the Cal Hodges mysteries, about a law firm investigator who is haunted by his past, and (5) the City of Brunswik mysteries, which are tales of political skullduggery. My characters vary in age and ethnic backgrounds and each series has its own continuing cast of characters. They run the gamut from good to murderous. My main characters are not extraordinary geniuses and, sometimes, are even bad detectives. They are just people caught up in mysteries they can't avoid. Whatever happens to my main character, he or she must really use all their resources, while trying to keep their objectivity, not to mention their sanity. Each has an unusual and unique way of looking at life. They all have a sense of humor and irony. Sometimes romance is possible, but that is not my main concern. Probably my most unique character is Dr. Adam Karl, a neurologist who struggles against perceptual problems and a difficult family history. His mysteries have received the best reviews, earning five stars. Also, I write in another genre, humor. My tweet collections "#Conversationstoppers: Puns, Non Sequiturs and Impossible Scenarios" have been the most popular of my books. I don't really see my books of puns as being separate from my other work. All my books have a significant amount of word play, and my book titles sometimes are puns, as in the book, "Deep Lucy" which is "deep blue sea." I am a life-long resident of the Chicago area, and have lived both in the city and in the North and Northwest suburbs. A bachelors and masters graduate of Northwestern University's Medill School of Journalism, I worked for the Lerner Newspapers (a chain of weeklies in the city); the Day Newspapers, a suburban daily newspaper chain owned by Field Enterprises, now the Chicago Sun-Times;, and Paddock Publications, a chain of daily newspapers in the Northwest suburbs. I received the Jacob Sher Award for Outstanding Investigative Reporting. Shure also served as an attorney for a Federal Agency and has held elective office in local governments. He is married and has two children.

Book preview

Chapter One

What faced me was a woman who’d been badly beaten. Bruises all over. The bandages that covered one eye probably meant the socket had fractures. She could lose that eye.

She’d been attacked as she walked from her law office to her car. It was no accident of fate, being in the wrong place, but intentional, she insisted.

Her voice gained volume and determination. Her head lifted slightly off the hospital bed to add emphasis. In the darkened hospital room, she said, I do not believe that my father’s murderer has been caught. This is my punishment for saying that.

She, being Jayne Lassiter Walchek, who no longer went by her married name, because she’d divorced Walchek.

What do you want from me? I asked.

Justice.

Justice, with a capital J? Or is it that she wants Vengeance, with a capital V?

The latter, mostly, I decided. She wants me to be the instrument of her vengeance, I thought, and if a little justice occurs, that would be okay, too.

Fine, I think to myself, I am he, the vengeance-provider. Even though I am just Old Cop near retirement, befuddled by the world in general and by women in particular.

Doing my yeoman’s job. Sitting at my desk until bidden to go out into the world. A cup of coffee, always in serious danger of being spilled, stands upon the stains of spills past. Hearing sounds of camaraderie echo off the walls of my precinct. These are my folk, men and women in uniform and decade-old suits, these cops. Closer to me than those of my ethnic background or my co-religionists, or the guys and gals I grew up with, or my neighbors.

Just not so close as my family. Nothing is more important than family.

So much for contemplation. Back to the trashed woman in her hospital bed.

Beaten, she was still slim, 30ish, blondish. I could remember her uninjured face as being beautiful in a reserved, well-bred way. I’d met her when her father, Robert Lassiter, a prominent attorney and Cook County Commissioner was murdered months ago in his suburban Brunswik home.

He’d served as campaign manager for Anton Marchette, and after his untimely death, for his wife, Angela Marchete, who replaced him as a candidate for Mayor of the City of Chicago. She’d won, for all the good that did her.

In my own quiet way—I’m a man who likes to swim beneath troubled waters without making a wave--I’d unearthed a conspiracy to manipulate and dominate the mayoralty of Angela Marchete. She was, unfortunately, manipulated and dominated into the grave, by someone who put the man in manipulation. I thought I’d caught all the wrongdoers, these being her assistant Mr. Gregory Rourke and his co-conspirators.

I do not believe my father was killed by the man you arrested or by anyone working for him, Jayne said. I believe that my father was killed for a totally different reason and by another.

Was that possible? Of course. The world is filled with possibilities. If I was wrong, though, why come to me? I’d already failed the first time around.

Because, she must figure, I’d want to make things right, leave nothing undone before I retired. I would want to know who really killed her father, because it was my last chance to find out.

She assumed I had a conscience. Did I? Unfortunately.

I opened Lassiter’s murder file. I’d brought it at Jayne’s request, having surreptitiously pushed it into a communal briefcase. I hadn’t asked permission to take the file out of the precinct, and there might be hell to pay if I lost it. Very little danger of that. I wasn’t so old I couldn’t protect a file

Give me a few minutes to review this, I said.

She gave me an irritated look, made horrific by her injuries. As if I should have already digested the facts and had them permanently placed in an easily accessible section of my brain. This being one bad result of computerization, because, indeed, a computer does remember everything. Also, because of fast food, she expected almost instant gratification.

I balanced the file on the portable shelf contraption that swings over the bed, already having removed the water jug and plastic glasses, and stood over it. Leafing through the voluminous, bound-on-the-top mound of papers, I came to the description of the murder scene, as provided by the first uniformed officer who responded. Lassiter, 65, was discovered dead by his wife in his Brunswik home at approximately 3 a.m. on a Saturday morning [so was killed on a late Friday or early Saturday]. He’d been shot from at least 10 feet away [the officer helpfully estimated] and was found face forward, crumpled, on his desk.

Nothing was found in his date book to reveal the identity of his last visitor. No one had seen [or admitted to having seen] this him or her. Lassiter's study had a door built into the back of the house. [This was the intent, anonymity, to meet with the great man, because] someone could park in an area behind the house and enter the study, without being noticed by someone walking on the street.

I flipped to the coroner’s report. Not very helpful. The bullet was from an unknown gun. Death was instantaneous.

Whatever conflict had existed between Lassiter and the murderer was resolved in favor of the murderer, who could, for all intents and purposes, be said to have finally convinced Lassiter of the merits of his assertions.

As to the nature of said conflict of opinions, resolved, I had presumed differently than the two detectives assigned to the case, Polachek and Villarreal, both goodly men, but who are not, like all detectives and all mortal men, always right.

I’d believed Lassiter was killed because he was too close to the mayor, Angela, and whoever killed him wanted to gain that influence for himself.

I could have been wrong. I’d been wrong before. Seldom, but true.

Jayne’s insistence and her bruises introduced an element of doubt. At the least, I’d need to confer with my two most trusted consultants to see if, indeed, I’d gone off the track. If so, they’d help me put it aright.

Obvious question, so I asked it. Who do you think killed your father?

She winced at the word father, although she’d used the word herself. Perhaps it was a personal violation to remind her of him or I had pushed her defense mechanism. Like, in a way, evoking the childhood game of Made you Flinch. During which the meaner of the two children makes an assaultive gesture towards the face of the milder, then laughs when the innocent pulls away in a trauma-avoiding gesture, involving the closing of the eyes before impact.

I believe that some hate group killed my father.

Wrong answer in the world of Vanek, I thought. In Chicago, the only motive that makes any sense is greed.

As greed had been from the very start and continued to be so. The motive that built the city and its fingers-stuck-in-the-eyes skyscrapers. The immigrant’s anger that built organized crime in parallel with industrialism. The ethnic downtrodden’s impulse to form gangs and fight back.

How would you define a hate group, exactly? I asked.

Lawyers love definitions, so she was willing to try. Some organized conspiracy to either keep things the same or change everything, to benefit those with nothing or those with everything, and against specified groups who do not conform to an exact image, a religious or visual ideal.

That’s not it, I thought. What she’d described included everything from the Democratic and Republican parties to any group espousing anything. Trying to be helpful, I asked, Do you mean, by violent means?

Yes.

Any other theory?

It’s possible that my father had discovered some corruption on the county level and that he was killed to shut him up.

Now we’re getting somewhere, I thought. How do you expect me to accomplish what you’re asking me to do? Putting the burden of realistic expectations back upon her.

I know you are very close to retirement, she said. I know that you’re getting a smaller and smaller caseload in preparation for your departure. I’ve talked to your Lieutenant, Elston, who owes favors to my family, and he has agreed to look the other way while you investigate.

Looking the other way, herself, she turned her head towards the other person in the room. Detective Vejr, pronounced Veer, my soon to be son-in-law, who’d been listening. I even have permission for your partner to help with the case.

Checking on her efficiency: I suppose you and Elston have discussed the probability that I’ll be working outside my jurisdiction in Chicago? Your family is in Brunswik and the County of Cook takes in one hell of a lot of suburbs beyond the city limits. Brunswik being one of those wealthy and diverse suburbs along Chicago’s North Shore, which is, of course, at the Southern tip of Lake Michigan.

I’ve discussed your investigation with the County Sheriff, and he will appoint a liaison with local police departments.

You arranged this all before you were beaten?

Yes.

That’s what got you beaten, I thought.

What I said, though, was I’m at your disposal. Oddly appropriate to say that, because I felt one part refuge for her problem and one part, just wretched refuse.

* * * * *

Chapter Two

Do you want my opinion? Vejr asked, as we drove along.

No, but I nodded yes.

Vejr’s wedding to my widowed daughter-in-law, Amanda, was imminent. She’s the mother of my grandchildren, the little ladies. Her remarriage would soon make Vejr my son-in-law, as well as my partner in crime. So I obviously couldn’t just ignore him.

I do not dislike Vejr. I just find him young and callow. A bit foolish because he thinks with his genitals.

Vejr said, This Lassiter woman is a spoiled brat who cannot believe someone would dare to muddy her pool.

It took me a moment to figure out what Vejr meant, a not unusual happenstance. He meant that she’d no experience with bullies, had gotten her way on everything her entire life.

That wasn’t quite right. She’s divorced, you know, and her ex is no prize. A difficult divorce. That kind of thing must put something wacky into a women’s world view.

Would to a man’s view of the world, as well. I’ve never, thank goodness, been divorced. I’d been very happy with my first wife, who left me a widower, and I was just as damn happy with Debra, my second.

In fact, I was in a semi-coma of happiness with Debra. We’d recently wed. If our marriage, which was out of a picture book, should decline into animosity and backbiting, I’d be very disappointed and very surprised. I felt very privileged to be married to her and to have inherited her three adult children, two of them biological, one the daughter of her deceased brother, who’d been my friend. I especially tolerated her son, Elliot, who was training at the community college for a career in law enforcement, even if he was occasionally irritating.

My own son. . . I still can’t talk about it.

I’m always with you, Pop. My late son said in my head.

I know.

It’s not so odd that a child would want justice for the death of a parent. If you’d been killed in the line of duty, don’t you think I would have tried to find the murderer? You found mine.

Yes.

She seems like a fine person, of quality, my late father said in my head, interrupting, as in life. He had a baritone voice with a lilt of accent that made me feel sad and happy at the same time. I know all about vendettas. I understand them, but don’t condone them. Back in Poland . . .

Not now, I thought.

My cell phone rang. It was the elder of the little ladies, Tessa calling on behalf of the two, being, in their own minds, a single entity. Papa, I have a question and only you can answer it. Unless you are catching bad men right now. I don’t want to be rude.

No, that’s alright sweetheart. I’m just on my way to someone’s house in Brunswik and I’ll be home for dinner. You can tell Mrs. Mischevski that.

I heard Tessa say to Margo. Tell Missus, Papa will be home for dinner. They call our housekeeper and babysitter by her marital title.

No, said Margo, I want to talk to Papa, too.

Stymied in her effort to communicate the unrude way, Tessa raise her voice and shouted into the ether, Missus, Papa will be home for dinner!

The task complete, Tessa said, Detective me a word, Papa.

Alright, I said.

What’s the word when you are trying to put a lid back on a jar, but you end up with the top kind of stuck crooked, but then you jiggle it and try again and all of a sudden all of it gets in the right place, and you feel good about it?

I thought about it. Sweetheart, I’m afraid there is no word in the English language that describes what you are saying.

Nor Polish my father said in my head.

Following that interruption, I said, You will need to make up a new word, and after that, everyone else will eventually learn what it is and say that when it happens.

I heard Tessa explaining this to Margo.

I heard Margo say, Putonthetopgood!

Tessa said, No, Topjiggleshooray!

Bye-Bye, Papa, said a laughing Tessa.

After she broke the connection, I held up the phone to my ear for a while, unwilling to leave the pleasant cyber-presence of the little ladies.

I did have a concern. I wasn’t sure that the girls were bonding with Vejr the way that stepdaughters, or just daughters, should. They were still shy with him. Even though they knew the wedding would be in a few weeks and Vejr would be their new daddy.

The problem is Fathers and Grandfathers are different and I couldn’t be both. A father is an authority figure and, in my humble opinion, a grandfather is for fun. I’d tried to be both while Amanda was in hiding, but it was exhausting and didn’t work very well. After she returned, if there was some reason to say No! to the girls, their mother said it, not me. Papa just stands mute, not wanting to undermine mommy. Which is fine. I can’t be mad at those sweet faces for more than a milli-second.

My concern was, would Vejr and the girls reach some kind of good place, together? So they could fight and make up and their argument forgotten?

Maybe I should talk to Suzanne about this? She is a psychologist and friend, who, with her obnoxious husband, Ash, sometimes act as consultants to the Chicago Police Department in cases where motive is hard to identify.

She’d moved to Brunswik and opened a private practice. I heard she might even get into politics. She and Ash came to our wedding and would return when Vejr and Amanda said their vows.

Back to the problem at hand, we’d arrived.

The Lassiter home stood in a quiet neighborhood of big homes surrounded by large, green lawns, about two blocks from Lake Michigan. An older neighborhood with mature trees and long driveways. Everything about the neighborhood screamed arrival into the plutocracy.

I’d looked the name of Lassiter up on my smartphone and found out that Lassiter is an English name, for those from Leicester in Leicestershire. That, for me at least, suggested Anglo-Saxon tribes, also a good place for Shakespearean pretenders to the throne to kill each other, also small villages where everyone knows everyone else’s business.

Why did the ancestors of the present Lassiter family leave the old country? Perhaps for the opportunity here and so that someday their descendants could live two blocks from the lake.

I’d seen Lassiter around, at political meetings and on the news. Chicago has been good to the Irish, who dominated politics for so long. I suppose, more subtly, Chicago has been even better to the English merchants and the German farmers, who simply became the establishment, the new aristocracy of businessmen.

Lassiter, himself, with whom I shaken hands several times and with whom I had a nodding acquaintance, was something unique, though. A rich man who was actually smart. Somehow wealth hadn’t worn away his good sense or separated him from life.

He was one of those men who aged wonderfully, with a full head of white hair, and who didn’t look more and more as the years went by like he was from Warsaw.

The kind of man called to Court to advise the King. A personage who could actually tell the King that he was wrong and not get his head chopped off for his effort. A favorite uncle to the King, who could give the This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle, speech. Like old Gaunt in Richard II, newly inspired and with enough wind left in his lungs as he expired to go on for several more inches of type.

I wondered if Lassiter’s wife still lived in this home. I’d seen her around too, but she didn’t accompany Lassiter to the gamey political dinners. I couldn’t remember what she looked like.

I remembered that Jayne had a brother. His first name I could not instantly summon up out of memory. When I saw them both at the precinct, I first wondered if they were a couple, then saw that they too much resembled each other to be anything but brother and sister.

It came to me that Jayne’s brother was named Jonathan and he was a lawyer too. Still, I couldn’t remember if he himself was married, divorced, or what. Did he live in his parents’ home with his family, having shipped the Widow Lassiter to a condo downtown or to a nursing home? Did Jayne live in the mansion with her two children, now that she was fully divorced from Alderman Walchek?

The Walchek in question, who did look like he’d walked off the streets of Warsaw, had actually been arrested once, accused of the murder of Lassiter. I had to agree with Jayne, who said at the time, that Walchek just wasn’t the murderer type. In fact, I found out later he was involved sexually with Mayor Angela Marchete. No one, I feel sure, would be willing to risk his freedom and access to Angela’s goodies by killing his own father-in-law.

As it turned out, Walchek wasn’t Lassiter’s murderer. As it turned out I’d arrested Rourke, an aide to Mayor Angela. That was because I witnessed him killing her. It was just assumed by me and everyone else that Rourke was behind all the murders and mayhem that preceded the Mayor’s death.

If it wasn’t Rourke who killed Lassiter, who was the real murderer? That’s what I needed to find out.

You want me to pull into the driveway? Vejr asked.

No, in back. Where the murderer entered through the private door, reserved for sneaky politicians and anarchists.

* * * * *

Chapter Three

Hush, shush, someone is watching. Someone is watching, watching, watching. Who are these people with time to watch and who is watching the watchers? Most of the images are never seen by a human being, evaporated, gone to pixel heaven. Occasionally though, the image solves the crime.

Sitting in the car while Vejr looked around, my eye caught a hand-drawn diagram in the murder book showing the general outline of the Lassiter house and the location of the surveillance cameras.

When this diagram, more like a doodle, was drawn, there was a camera on a streetlight in front of the house, another on a signpost aimed at the walkway from the street, and a third covering the outside