The Ministering Angel

By C.N. Ranallo

Mac McConty, a one-time high-powered Chicago trial attorney, is asked by his half sister, Tracy, to find the killer of a childhood friend. The victim, a young man, was apparently lured into a dark sexual game by his lover, beautiful, older, married Angel Martin. Mac is captivated by Angel, who used the victim as a life model in her Art class. Mac tries to make a case against Michael Martin, the Vietnam veteran married to Angel. Is he trying to solve the murder or remove blame from this cool alluring beauty, a suspect as well? Mac is distracted by another woman who stalks him, seduces him and ultimately shows him how much anger and rage he manages to hide from everyone else. Together with a crazy artist who sculpts granite monoliths, a retired cop and sister he ignored and often despised, Mac McConty searches for a murderer and the answers to his own dark disconnected past.

Very, very sexy, very, very, complicated, very well written.

Rick Kogan, Chicago Tribune

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 24, 2000
• ISBN: 9781440103452

C.N. Ranallo

C.N. Ranallo is a writing coach in Marietta, GA where she devotes her time to developing a serious writing community by organizing writing groups and teaching workshops. Chicago will always be the city this writer calls home.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Mac McConty stood in the exact center of a six-foot square picture window looking out over Lake Michigan. Dawn had dragged a huge thumb along the horizon, smudging gray water into a grayer sky and excusing the sun’s appearance for the day. As Mac watched nature post her warnings, he could have been the eye of a giant, standing five floors tall above Lake Shore Drive. Not today. Today Mac felt more like a tweezed specimen dropped in front of the glass so some giant could look at him.

Mac, I bumped into Nealy when I came in. She been spending a lot of time here? Paul Levine asked as he sat on a pile of newly washed blue jeans, all normal seating being occupied by other, less sturdy laundry.

You know she spends time here. The woman can’t get enough of me, joked Mac, not leaving the window to face Paul, hoping some humor might forestall a lecture.

I only asked, smart ass, Paul said, because I thought you two were going to start spending all your time together. Some people call it marriage.

Big pause. Mac wasn’t eager to fill in the blanks. You know Paul, Sharon Nealy is the sexiest, smartest, most beautiful woman I know and I love having her on the visiting team, so to speak. I really don’t think she would want it any other way. Besides, I’m waiting for her to finish law school so she can support me.

Okay, okay Paul continued, I’ll let you have your delusional viewpoint on commitment, but would you mind telling me what the hell I’m doing here so early in the morning?

Without thinking, Mac raised his hand to his head to push his hair off his forehead. An unconscious repetitive act that Mac suddenly realized was no longer necessary. Two days ago Mac had his thick black hair cut shorter than when he was a kid. It was a statement of finality. No more blow dryer making finishing touches on a lawyer before he goes to court. No one to impress except the man that sat in front of him. Paul Levine knew Mac better than almost anyone. He and Mac’s father, Buck, were partners on the police force for many years. The hair startled Paul at first.

What the hell did you do to your hair? You planning on a new career in the military? Paul could not help walking over to Mac and rubbing his head. I think it suits you. You look younger.

Mac didn’t feel younger. He felt all thirty-seven of his years were like the pile of discarded magazines he joined on the window ledge. Half read and half enjoyed. When he sat down he felt his knees ache, compressing a six-foot plus frame into a crouch. Mac kept his head down, wishing he had never started this conversation with a flippant attitude.

Mac? Paul said. You asked me to come here this morning, remember? Since Mac’s head was lowered, Paul bent down trying to catch some eye contact. He would have to be persistent when Mac was in this kind of ‘read my mind’ mode. Well?

Mac lifted his head and looked straight at Paul. I’m taking on a case and I need your help.

Let me get this right, Paul said. You were offered a case, and you took it? You’re going back to trial law?

Not exactly.

Paul stood up and walked around putting what he knew about the last two years of Mac’s life together with this new information. Mac, you said you weren’t going to trial for no body, no how, no way. So is that what ‘not exactly’ means?

It’s a criminal case, but I’m not acting as counsel. I’m, well, I’m helping the family of a murdered young man.

Paul took on an exaggerated ‘tic’ with his next sentence. "Murder? Murder? Since your father died you have not done one scrap of litigation. Now you ask me to help you with a homicide? What did you do, take a job with the DA?"

"No I did not take a job with that incompetent asshole, and for christ sake stop getting angry. I am not representing anyone.

There is no trial. It’s an investigation that the police want to drop for lack of evidence and the family of the victim wants retribution." That final word tied up the dimension Mac and Paul were in and held it hostage for a time two years ago when the same justice system freed the man responsible for killing Buck McConty. An act for which no forgiveness was available, then or now. It took several moments for these two men to reconstruct the present tense. Silence was busy scooping up the abundance of unused words that dropped from both Mac and Paul when Buck showed up in a conversation. Mac’s father had been dead two years but it was two years too soon to bury him.

Paul was up and circling, repeating his fall back phrase. Let me get this right. You were asked to investigate a murder. In other words, do private investigating? Paul spoke those two words with an excess of saliva as well as a tic. It was inconceivable to him that Mac would repeat a face-off with the Chicago Police Department and the District Attorney after all the enemies he had made during his father’s murder trial. Not one officer, detective or attorney connected with the acquittal of Buck’s killer survived Mac’s war. And not a shred of Mac’s reputation survived either. Where the hell is this coming from? Who asked you to get involved in a murder?

Actually, it was Tracy, Mac said. She and the victim were friends growing up. The kid’s name is David Campbell, also known as David Campanelli. I don’t know if you remember Lily Campanelli, but she was Adeline’s neighbor.

Paul remembered the short, heavy-set woman who lived next to Buck and Adeline, and he vaguely remembered that she had a son. What he couldn’t remember at all was the last time Mac had mentioned his half-sister, Tracy McConty.

Start from the beginning, Mac, I’m too old and it’s too damn early in the morning for all this to sink in. Paul groaned and tried to find a more comfortable place to sit down. Before he could, Mac pushed a manila envelope at him, then walked towards the kitchen. Bring that with you. I’ll make some coffee.

Now we’re getting somewhere, Paul mumbled as he sat down at the kitchen table, tipping the contents of the envelope.

Death scene photos slid onto the table with their own urgency, gruesome candidates for first prize in a horror competition. Look at this kid, Paul said, what a mess. How long before they found him?

A day or so, Mac said.

And this was one of Tracy’s friends…shit. I still think of her as a kid. This guy’s a man. A very dead man. Were they real close? Mac? Paul lost Mac to a reverie involving Tracy’s youth. No doubt a painful one because Buck was alive then. But what Paul would never know was the jealousy that Mac felt towards a legitimate sibling raised in a real home, Mom and Dad around to listen, to love. Could be Mac really didn’t want anything from this deal except to get into what was left of that family, Tracy and her mother, Adeline.

What? Oh no, not that close when he died. But he was around a lot when Tracy was growing up. He’s about three years older than she is. I think he might have been her babysitter. Anyway, he was shot at close range, in his apartment. Thought to be thirty some hours before the body was found late in the day, April 16th. No murder weapon was found, but two bullets from a .45 automatic were found, one in the wall, close to the mattress, one in the ceiling molding. He was naked except for a light robe; the room was neat, music on…

What’s neat got to do with it? Paul asked. Mac explained as only a bachelor can, with the assurance that he shared the same instincts as any man in pursuit of a woman. Paul listened and had to agree.

The apartment was prepared for a visitor, very likely a female. The shades were drawn, music on, a CD to be repeated automatically when it finished. The only thing missing was the champagne.

Maybe the kid couldn’t afford it, Paul said, following Mac’s lead. OK, so we think he had a date. Do we think the date is the killer? If so, a .45 might be a big gun for a woman, and it makes a big noise. Nobody heard anything, saw anyone?

The apartment is in the English basement of a two-flat apartment building. Nobody is home during the day and not many people home at night. There’s a lot of singles in the neighborhood. Besides that, the two-flat backs up to a supermarket loading dock. Trucks go up and down the alley all day, all night. People park in the store lot to walk to a baseball game.

That’s a lot of activity, Paul said, hinting that there should be a witness.

For whatever reason, the police didn’t turn up a single person who saw or heard anything.

Suspects? Paul asked.

There is a woman, an art teacher that the kid posed for. She’s married and according to all reports the closest thing to Mother Theresa. Alibis almost every minute from the time she saw David Campbell until the police found him.

So it was the jealous husband, Paul said with a homicide cop’s conviction.

Not enough evidence, but the husband is a veteran of Vietnam. I’m sure he knows plenty about guns even though he swears he doesn’t own one. The investigating officer made a note during the interrogation. It says, and I quote, ‘this guy is a nut, don’t rule him out.’ Still the case is ready for the hopper, nothing new after two weeks. That’s where we come in, Mac winked, partner.

Paul stood up and let all of his five foot nine inch frame take advantage of a seated Mac. Son, listen to me on this one. The cops don’t see a case here; it looks like another domestic homicide and they get one every fifteen minutes. David Campbell is just another dead kid, and I’m just another retired cop who wants to stay that way. Drop it Mac, this one is grief and it’ll be a hell of a lot of grief for Mrs. Campanelli if you give her the obvious details of the sexual relationship that got her son killed. Walk away from it, Mac.

I can’t. I promised Tracy I would take it on and I need your help, Mac said. Are you with me or not?

This is bullshit. Tracy asked you to do a lot of things easier than solving a murder and you couldn’t be bothered. You didn’t make it to her college graduation. No, there’s something else here Mac that I don’t think I want to be involved with. What would I tell Jesse? Sorry, honey, all those plans we made for when I retired are going to have to wait. I’ve decided to become Dick Tracy’s side-kick?

Paul, I’m not backing out of this one. I need your help. Mac didn’t get up; he wanted Paul to feel in control. That was the only way Mac could accept a decision from this man. Paul paced with one of the photos in his hand. He stopped and looked at it for a long time. There was no real color in the picture, all grays and black. Even the blood was black, but Paul could feel the bright red of a dying man’s blood. Bulls are supposed to be color blind, so why does a red cape make them mad? Because they can feel the color. Looking at the body of this young man made Paul mad.

All right, all right, he’s not just one more dead kid, he was Tracy’s friend, but don’t get cocky on me, Mac. The photo flapped in Mac’s face. If I didn’t feel like I owed it to Buck, I’d let you make a fool of yourself without my help. Mac smiled. Oh shit, Paul smiled also, you know what I mean, smart ass.

Mac stood up and walked over to Paul and thanked him. One deep breath and…There’s one more thing..

Paul was talking fast, grabbing his jacket and heading for the door. I’ll need all the paperwork, whatever you can’t get, I can. I still have some pull with the department.

I’ll need a gun, Mac said.

You need permission? Paul said. They both knew that Buck had three, his service revolver and two automatics, but neither man mentioned it.

No, I thought you might suggest something, somewhere to…

Right, a gun, so you can be an armed dick. Paul stood by the door, wishing he was on his way in and all this hadn’t happened. Do you remember how to use one?

A dick, I think so, Mac smiled.

Paul muttered on his way out, shaking his head. Mac could hear him as he walked towards the elevator.

Fucking Dick Tracy all right, and his side-kick, dumb-fucking Levine.

CHAPTER 2

Mac felt his back explode. A wall sandwiched him between its hard surface and a giant sheet of pain. His heart was gone. Blood covered the wall behind him, outlining his body in a dark red halo. Shards of a fiery substance shot though his veins, igniting a scream. Mac woke up into that scream, sending Sharon Nealy into a startled scream of her own.

Mac! Are you all right? What the hell’s the matter? Wake up! Wake up!"

Sharon Nealy didn’t like sleeping in Mac’s bed. She thought of it as a flimsy raft, floating in a vast ocean with survivors clinging to it awaiting rescue. Mac would never give up being that ocean, no matter how many ships went down trying to navigate him. He was a man that many women tried to control and no matter how safe they felt in his arms, sooner or later they’d be scrambling for that raft. After five years, Sharon felt somewhat safe. Familiarity had built her an island.

Nealy, I felt it, Mac leaned on one elbow, his eyes still closed trying to find a window into the dream he had just escaped. David Campbell’s picture was on the bed. I felt the shot, the pain. Shit. Mac rubbed his head, looking for the comfort of some unkempt stands of hair. Shit.

Drop this thing, Mac. This isn’t some corporation trying to screw somebody out of a livelihood. This is murder. You’ve never had to deal with this kind of thing… Sharon stopped before she could catch her words. I mean, it concerns people you don’t know. You don’t need to put yourself through this.

Mac lay back down with an arm thrown across his face. Sharon looked at him with all the same admiration and fear she always felt. Even though his eyes were closed, Sharon could feel their blackness swimming around trying to put thoughts into pictures.

I’m not dropping it. Mac turned to Sharon and kissed her. But I might drop you if you don’t let me have my way with you two or three times before I have to leave.

You scared the hell out of me and now you want sex? Sharon could only marvel that the thought had crossed her mind as well during Mac’s outburst.

Before Mac could answer, a hand crept under the covers until it met with a reaffirming extension of his body.

Mac pulled Sharon close. The dream frightened him into a quieter than usual lovemaking. For one small moment, Mac wished neither of them had places to go or any other lives to live. Nealy, Mac yelled from the shower, don’t you have to go to class? What about all that talk about law school being the only important thing in your life, next to me?

Sharon appeared in the bathroom, brushing her auburn hair into a ponytail. School is the only thing keeping me from jumping in that shower with you.

Now, now, little girl. You school girls are all alike. Can’t get enough. I’m not a school girl. I’m a student, enrolled in law school. Not the same caliber as your alma mater. She was looking menacingly at Mac. But an institution that will prepare me to take the bar. And that is what I intend to do no matter how long it takes.

Excuse me, Mac said. I was simply calling you a school girl to arouse a personal fantasy I have in seeing you in a little plaid skirt and a white blouse, maybe a blazer with an emblem, what do you think? Mac stepped out of the shower, putting his dripping wet arms around her. I just hate thinking of you having to go to school and work at Marge’s serving drinks to a bunch of lawless bums, like myself, every damn night.

I might never see you if I didn’t work at Marge’s, Sharon said, moving away from Mac. And you know I need the money. Besides, I like being a cocktail waitress.

Nealy, you can stir my olives anytime. Mac enjoyed teasing her. It was the kind of intimacy he could handle.

You love to mess with me, don’t you? Sharon said.

I wasn’t prepared to take requests, but, if you insist… With one mighty heave, Mac bundled Sharon up in his arms and carried her back to bed.

Eustace McConty, I don’t know why I put up with you. Don’t call me Eustace. Lovers, children, back to lovers, then finally the adults take over.

I’m going to the precinct this morning; see what I can find out about this murder. I told you I’m going to see it through even if I do lose a little sleep. By the way, Nealy, when do you sleep? Mac didn’t want any more conversation about giving up the investigation. He was already getting plenty from the back of his own mind.

Sharon answered him while she dressed. After class, I hit the library, then I go home and take a nap. I don’t have to be at work until 7 o’clock. Without looking at Mac, Sharon tried to climb back to her island. Are you coming by the bar tonight?

Right by. I’ve got to get into this case.

I’ll bet there’s a woman involved. Sharon said.

Mac didn’t answer, just grunted at the implication. There were too many women involved in his life and in this murder; His step-mother, step-sister, the victim’s mother and of course the woman who most likely caused it all, one Angela Martin. Angel. He said her name out loud.

Are you getting sweet on me, Mac? Angel? You never call me anything but Nealy.

Angel Martin is the woman suspected of having an affair with David Campbell. She’s married, an art teacher of some sort, in her thirties. As disinterested as Mac thought he sounded, to Sharon he might as well have said he couldn’t wait to sleep with her.

I knew there was a woman involved. What does she look like? Have you met her?

The voice of woman-kind. Mac went temporarily deaf.

I said have you met her? Sharon was dressed, but was putting on her lipstick for the third time.

No, not yet. I don’t want her to know who I am or that I’m trying to find Campbell’s killer. Mac realized he didn’t want to discuss this business anymore. But a well-lipsticked Sharon did.

Maybe she really loved this guy, Campbell, and maybe she wants to know who killed him. Maybe she would want to help you.

Mac stared at Sharon. Never before had he been so sure that Adam should have choked and died on that apple. Maybe I should call her up and ask her out on a date. Then I could seduce her and in the throes of lovemaking I can ask her if she killed her boyfriend, or maybe she knew if her husband killed him, or MAYBE, they did it together. She is a suspect, Nealy. A suspect. Mac emphasized the word as though he were introducing it into the human language.

Well, I just thought, she is a woman… Sharon began.

And women lie, cheat and murder. In love or out of love. With or without remorse, Mac glared.

Jesus, Mac. I only meant she might be a victim too. Sharon always got a little frightened at Mac’s intensity. She tried to soften him with her tone. After a moment, he smiled.

"The real victims are those young criminals waiting for you to get