Highway Side: The Nick Acropolis novels, #2

By Jack Clark

Chicago private detective Nick Acropolis goes to rural McKinley, Illinois--a town along the old and legendary Route 66--to investigate the case of Jesse Lopez, a truck driver charged with smuggling drugs. Nick meets truck stop waitress Maddy Miller. Her teenage son Billy has been missing for over a year. 
Nick heads out to Southern California, the end of that same lost highway. This is where Billy Miller was last seen. It's also where Jesse Lopez began his trip. Could the two cases be connected? 
"Westerfield's Chain," the first Nick Acropolis novel, was a Shamus Award finalist. 
"A great read," --Publishers Weekly 
"A pure delight for many reasons, not the least of which is the way Jack Clark celebrates and rings a few changes of the familiar private eye script...There's a memorable moment [on] virtually every page." --Chicago Tribune 
"A likeable protagonist and spirited, uncluttered prose." --Kirkus Reviews 
"Jack Clark's descriptions are beautifully haunting and his plotting is exceptional." Romantic Times. 
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jack Clark
• Release date: May 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9781533792624

Jack Clark

Jack Clark was the winner of the Page One Award from the Chicago Newspaper Guild for feature writing. His novel “Westerfield’s Chain,” was a finalist for the Shamus Award. The Chicago Tribune called that book “The best mystery of the month,” and said there was a memorable moment “on virtually every page.” His novel “Nobody’s Angel,” earned him an appearance on NPR’s Fresh Air. The book was called “A gem,” by the Washington Post and “Just about perfect.” He is also the co-author of “On the Home Front,” a collection of his mother’s stories about her younger days in Chicago. Besides writing, Jack has also worked as a long haul furniture mover/truck driver for Allied Van Lines and as a Chicago cabdriver.

Book preview

Highway

Side

Sawyer County was a city boy's nightmare. The glaciers had dropped off some of the best topsoil in the world but they'd forgotten to add a mountain or a stream, or the slightest touch of neon. The big town was McKinley, the county seat, smack dab in the middle of nowhere. And you could forget about restaurants or nightclubs, or anything as entertaining as a movie theater or a roller rink.

The population sign on the edge of town said 3080. It was shot full of holes, of course. The speed limit dropped to twenty-five but there was no billboard for the cops to hide behind, and not enough traffic to bother. McKinley's lone claim to fame was the courthouse where a young Abe Lincoln had once tried a case or two before quickly fleeing.

The houses were small with porches one or two steps above the sidewalk. They all seemed to be sagging towards the street. House-painters and carpenters could make fortunes here, if all the carpenters and house-painters and everyone else with a transferable skill hadn't already moved on.

It was a dismal, gray winter day, the perfect backdrop for a forsaken town. Many of the stores were boarded up and abandoned. Even the churches looked destitute.

The main drag was Front Street, which fronted nothing worth mentioning. It ran straight to the courthouse, a four-story monstrosity in the middle of the town square.

It was an ancient red brick place with a trumpeter at the summit. Under the statue was a belfry, and under that a dome. The dome was supported by columns. Between the columns were patches of newer, lighter bricks, and a series of frosted windows much too narrow to slip through. This was undoubtedly the local jail.

A historical marker in the lobby had Lincoln's likeness prominently displayed. I headed for the elevator, which had obviously been added after his time.

The interview room would have had Abe ducking his head. It was cramped and appropriately dreary, no windows, a single door. The one bright spot was Shelly Micholowski, who gave me a wink when I entered.

She was the picture of a hard-working attorney. Her laptop and briefcase were open on the gray metal library table which took up most of the room. Her trench coat was slung over the back of a no-arm chair. She wore a conservative navy blue suit. Her blond hair was tied in back. She was five foot two in heels and, just like the song said, had eyes of blue, which in her case were helped along by tinted contact lens.

The hair color was phony too, and so were the winks, smiles, leers and hair flips that were now a standard part of her routine. I longed for the girl I used to know.

But that dark beautiful girl—so sad, so shy, so serious—had been gone for years. And I thought I knew why. Once she'd been a true believer, and I'd been one of her causes. Now she was just another lawyer with a job to do. I knew exactly how she felt, because I was just another detective. Worse, I was now a private one.

Radio says a storm's on the way, I said. Let's get this over with and get the hell home. That was Chicago, about 140 miles northeast.

You think I brought you down here to sit in on an interview?

I was afraid of that, I said.

Jesse Lopez was escorted in by two deputies. He was a burly guy wearing a red jumpsuit with PRISONER stenciled on the back in yellow. His hands were cuffed in front and he moved with his head down. One of the deputies put a hand on Lopez's back and guided him into a chair on the far side of the table. Lopez let himself be led but you could feel the tension. He wanted to explode. His hair was jet-black, his skin dark. His gaze stayed down. He'd been arrested the day before, charged with smuggling 170 pounds of cocaine, hidden in a truck loaded with California grapefruit.

Officer, would you please take those handcuffs off, Shelly said. Lopez looked up for just a moment, and I had a sudden memory of my own time in handcuffs.

Sorry, ma'am, the deputy bowed. Sheriff Archer's orders. Lopez looked back down. His small hope gone.

I'd like to speak with the sheriff, Shelly said.

He's out of the building, the deputy said. But I'll tell him you were asking. The deputies headed for the door. You have any problems, one of them said, or you're done, just knock or yell. We're right outside. The door closed and a lock slammed into place.

Shelly patted Lopez's cuffed hands. Jesse, I'm sorry I can't give you a proper handshake. My name's Shelly Micholowski. I'm your attorney. This is Nick Acropolis, he's an investigator. He'll be helping to prepare your defense. First, let me ask you, how are you doing? Are they treating you OK?

He held up his bound hands, which all that bottled up muscle wouldn't be enough to separate. They haven't beat me or anything like that, if that's what you mean.

Good, she said, and pulled a yellow legal pad from her briefcase. Now why don't you tell me exactly what happened.

He held up his hands again. This is what happened. They got me locked in here like some kind of animal.

Shelly raised the legal pad, like a crossing guard with a stop sign. Why don't you take us through the stop and arrest? Could we start there?

Lopez looked down at his hands for a moment. Yeah, sure, he said, his voice still angry. They pull us over and ask can they search the trucks, then the dog goes in and the next thing I know they're putting me in the back of the squad car and I'm under arrest.

Why did they pull you over?

A stop sign. We were trying to get back to the highway . . .

Why did you get off the highway? I asked.

I don't know. Rudy he gets very excited on the CB, `Get off. Take the exit.' And so I got off and he was waiting for me at the bottom.

Now Rudy was driving the other truck, is that correct? Shelly asked.

Lopez nodded.

And what's Rudy's last name?

Valdez.

So you followed Rudy Valdez off the highway and then what?

I was a mile or so behind him. But we could talk on the CB, back and forth, you know. He told me, get off at the exit. He was real excited. See, he must have known.

Known what?

He must have known about the drugs. That's the only thing I can think of. He knew the drugs were there. That's why he didn't want us running together.

But you were running together.

No, no, no, I told you. He was like a mile ahead.

OK, but why does that lead you to believe that he knew about the drugs?

See, because I was wondering why we were doing it that way. If you're with another truck, usually you stay together. It's better. You know, if something happens to one of you, the other's right there to help out.

So what happened when you got off the highway?

Rudy was at the bottom of the ramp, and I said, what are we doing, you know, on the CB, why did we get off? So now he starts whispering, did I see some sign.

What sign? Shelly asked.

I don't know. That's what I keep telling him. I don't know what he's talking about.

Did he tell you what the sign said? I asked.

Lopez shook his head. He says he must be seeing things, `Let's get back on the highway.'

And when did the police stop you? Shelly asked.

Right then. When we tried to get back on the highway.

And they said what?

They said we didn't stop at the stop sign.

Did you?

He shrugged. Probably not. But we were going real slow.

So the police wrote you a ticket?

And then they ask can they search the truck.

And you said . . .

I said, sure, go ahead. It's full of grapefruits, what do I care?

Did you sign anything?

Yeah, I signed some paper they gave me.

And then what?

And then they put the dog on top of the load. And I was making a joke, don't let the dog pee all over the grapefruits. But then when he came out, that's when they locked me up.

Was the dog there from the get-go, I asked.

They were all there, Lopez said. Must have been five, six cars.

So they were waiting for you?

They were waiting for someone.

There was a knock on the door and then a deputy stuck a head in. Five to, he said.

Shelly waved him in. The second deputy followed.

Shelly patted Lopez's hands. We're going to plead not guilty, she said.

I am not guilty, Lopez said, sounding like a true believer.

Say it just like that to the judge, Shelly said.

TWO

In the courtroom, Jesse Lopez suddenly lost his voice.

You are charged with one count of controlled substance trafficking, which is a Super Class X felony, Judge Watrous intoned from atop the dark wooden bench. Conviction carries a mandatory sentence of 30 to 120 years in the Illinois Department of Corrections.

Jesus Christ, Lopez moaned softly.

How do you plead? the judge asked.

Lopez didn't answer. The silence stretched across the nearly empty courtroom.

A court reporter sat on the right side of the bench, her fingers poised above her machine. The bailiff was leaning against the witness box. The two deputies were loitering along a wall, keeping an eye on Lopez. The only spectators were a couple of old-timers whiling away their retirement years. Both appeared to be napping.

State's Attorney Dennis Dornbery was about six-four; he looked like an NFL linebacker. His dark suit didn't need the shoulder pads.

He'd introduced himself a few minutes before, while dropping off a pile of police reports. Hate to say it, but we've got your guy cold. If you want to plead it out, I might be able to get you the minimum.

Thirty years? Shelly said, her voice rising.

Dornbery shrugged. That's the best offer you're gonna get.

We must be going to trial.

The only sound was Shelly paging through the police reports. After a minute, she looked up. Not guilty, your honor.

Is that your plea, Mr. Lopez? the judge asked.

Yeah, that's it, Lopez said, but I could barely hear him.

You'll have to speak up, the judge called out.

Shelly whispered to Lopez.

Not guilty, he said, but without the conviction he'd had in the interview room.

OK, we'll set May 6, 10 o'clock in the morning. I assume you'll be wanting a jury.

I'm not sure yet, Shelly said.

Let me know by April 19, if you would.

Your honor, I'd like to request a bond hearing at this time.

Dornbery stood up. We're opposed to bond in this case. But that said, we'd like time to prepare for any hearing.

Shelly stood up. Judge, I'd like to point out that Mr. Lopez is the sole support of his family—that's a wife and two children—and it's a hardship for them if he is in jail and cannot provide.

Maybe your client should have thought about that before he decided to smuggle cocaine, the judge said.

Shelly made a big show of looking around the courtroom. I'm sorry. Did I get here late? Did I miss the trial?

The judge leaned over the top of the bench and pointed a stern finger at Shelly. Young lady, I'm only going to warn you once.

Your honor, I believe my client is entitled to the presumption of innocence, and I must say I'm tempted to ask you to recuse yourself.

There was a low chuckle from the state's table.

Counselor, that's your right, of course, the judge said. And if you were to make that motion, I would very likely grant it. Denny, how much time were you looking for?

Two weeks, your honor, Dornbery said.

Two weeks? Shelly said. That's . . .

OK, we'll all be back here for a bond hearing at ten o'clock on March . . . He stopped in mid-sentence and pointed that same long finger at Shelly. Don't flip your hair at me, young lady.

Shelly started another flip, then caught herself, and set her hair back in place by hand. She did a little bow before sitting down.

The judge nodded, as though he thought the curtsy was an improvement. March 9, ten o'clock, he said.

Fuck him, Shelly whispered. I'm getting another judge.

THREE

Thirty fucking years. We were back in the interview room, and all Lopez could think of was his possible sentence. Is that some kind of joke?

You'd be out in 15, I said.

So if the judge gives me 120, I'll only have to do sixty?

Jesse, you're not going to prison, Shelly said. She was paging through the police reports, and then passing them on to me.

He lifted his cuffed hands. I'm already there.

Tell him, Nick, would you?

She's the best, I said. This was part of our routine. But if Shelly had ever tried a drug smuggling case, I'd somehow missed it.

Most of her practice was defending cops brought up on departmental charges. This was how we'd met years ago.

She'd been fresh out of law school at the time, assigned to assist my primary attorney. I was on my way to being an ex-cop, I knew, and my lawyer didn't try to dissuade me from that conclusion. But Shelly refused to see it that way. She truly believed. And because she did, she was the one who argued my case before the Police Board.

I sat at the defense table with my attorney of record and watched as the rookie hit a home run her very first at bat. We silently applauded, smiled, nodded our heads in agreement, and gave her big hugs and handshakes when she returned to the table.

I think if the Police Board would have seen her that day, I'd still have the badge. Unfortunately, the Police Board rarely attended hearings, which were presided over by a hearing officer. The board made its decision after reading a very dry transcript.

Well, maybe they read the transcript. Maybe they fed it to the nearest dog.

So I'd been Shelly's first real case, her first bitter defeat. Soon thereafter we'd had a bit of a fling.

There were those who thought I'd taken advantage of the situation and, in retrospect, they were probably right. She looked about 16 years old back then, and more than once we were mistaken for father and daughter.

Shelly eventually came to her senses, which was too bad as far as I was concerned. But when I'd found my new career in the private sector, she quickly became my number one client.

Most of her clients were cops in trouble. Shelly no longer believed in every one of them and I'd long ago lost my innocence. But still, we were a good team. And we won more than our share.

But a drug case in Sawyer County, I was a long way from confident.

Shelly looked up from the police reports. Let's start at the beginning, with your truck breaking down. When was that?

Right after Thanksgiving, Lopez said.

It says here you blew up the engine?

Blew the engine. Might as well have blown it up.

And you didn't have the money to fix it?

I didn't want to pay $8,000 for an engine, so I was looking around for a used one somewhere. You know, off some wreck or something.

What kind of truck is this?

A big Pete, Peterbilt.

And you worked for who?

I'm self-employed, what they call an owner-operator. I pick up piggy-back trailers or overseas containers, that kind of stuff.

How long have you been doing this?

Oh, about 20 years. Ever since I got out of the army.

How did you end up driving the truck you were stopped in?

"Well, I started going down to Cermak Road in the morning to pick up a little cash, you know, by the Steak N Egger. A lot of contractors come by looking for help, like spot labor. They need a couple of guys for a day or two, to paint or hang drywall or something, and they don't want some wino from day labor. I'm a pretty decent carpenter, not finish work or anything like that, but I can frame if somebody lays it out, and I can hang drywall, and I got my own tools. I was going just about every morning, you know, have a cup of coffee, and most days I ended up with some kind of job.

And then one day this guy comes by and asks, is there anybody can drive a truck? Me and a couple of other guys go up, but when he sees my license he gets real excited. The other guys, you know, they can drive school buses and little trucks, stuff like that. But I got the Class A. He asks me how long I've been driving semis. I tell him long time, since I was in the army.

What army was this? I asked.

What fucking army you think?

Sorry, I just meant . . .

You think I'm some wetback. I was born in Texas, man. Only time I been to Mexico is like all the other gringos—on vacation.

Sorry, I said again.

What kind of discharge? Shelly asked.

Honorable.

Good. So when did you meet Rudy?

That's who I'm talking about, Lopez said. Rudy, he's the guy looking for the truck driver.

Then he hired you to drive out to California and bring grapefruits back.

First time was oranges. We flew. The truck was already there.

You flew?

Yeah, Southwest out of Midway. Went through Phoenix.

And then you loaded oranges?

No, the truck was already loaded. We just got in and started driving. First he drove, then I drove. There's a sleeper in the back, so you can doze while the other guy's driving. We went straight through, 2,000 miles. Two days.

Just one truck?

Right.

And Rudy paid you how much?

Nine hundred.

That's a lot of money for two days' work, Shelly said.

Lopez shrugged. How much you make in two days?

Jesse, I'm on your side, Shelly said. But if you get on the witness stand and the state asks you that same question, you're gonna need a better answer than that.

OK. First of all, it's four days: the day flying out, two days driving, and then the next day unloading the oranges. But it could have been five or six days—or even more. We could have broke down or the weather could have got bad. That's what I told Rudy. At first he offers me five hundred. I said, no way.

Did you get paid with a check or . . .

Cash.

Where did you deliver the oranges?

The produce market, off Blue Island Avenue.

Did you unload them yourself?

They take 'em off with a fork lift.

Was Rudy with you?

No. I guess he wanted me to earn my money.

Did you go in the trailer?

No.

Never?

Why would I go in the trailer?

What happened after you unloaded the oranges?

I dropped the truck off at 47th and Western, and then I took the bus home.

What's at 47th and Western?

Rudy told me just leave it on the street there. That's what I did.

How about the keys?

In the ashtray.

How about this second load, the grapefruits, did you go in that trailer?

No.

Were you there when that trailer was loaded?

Yeah. They put 'em on with a forklift.

Did you drive out this time or fly?

We drove out empty, two separate trucks, but then I flew home.

Shelly waved her finger back and forth a couple of times. So what are you doing here?

'Cause then I flew back when the grapefruits were ready.

You better start over.

See, what happened, when we got there, the grapefruits weren't ready. They were waiting to pick 'em or something. That's what Rudy said, anyway. And he tells me we got to wait a week. And I said there's no way I'm gonna do that, you know.

Why not?

Because I go crazy just laying around with nothing to do. I can't do that. That's why this whole thing. . . . He lifted his hands. I can't even think about it—30 fucking years! No way, man. No way. He shook his head and looked down at his hands.

So Rudy said, it's alright, go home?

Rudy's a lowlife. He's drinking and chasing after the women. I'm trying to sleep, he's bringing these whores to the motel. So after two days of this, I told him I was going. And he called Mr. Morales, and he said . . .

Who's Mr. Morales?

"He's the big boss. He's the one owns the