All the Dead Fathers Read online

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Also by David J. Walker

  Copyright

  To Ellen, who loves radish sandwiches

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This is a work of fiction and the persons, places, and organizations appearing herein are either imaginary or depicted fictitiously. On the other hand, without the happening of certain real-life incidents, this imaginary and fictional world could hardly have been conceived.

  And without the help of certain real-life people, the conception could hardly have become viable. These real-lifers include: Jay Daskal, M.D., for help with some medical issues; David Case, a police sergeant and a writer, for help with some firearms issues; Kelley Ragland, my editor, for pointing out so many things I hadn’t noticed; and Danielle Egan-Miller, my agent, for providing both opportunity and direction.

  Chi-ca-go (shi-kaw-go) n., a city in northeast Illinois, on the shore of Lake Michigan; the name is said to be derived from the Native American chicah goo, literally “stink root,” or, perhaps more elegantly, “wild onion.”

  1.

  Debra Moore drove in behind the man and went on past him when he parked near the building where the restrooms were. Two-thirty in the morning, and no one else around. No one. God had given her this opening. It was time to get started.

  She had followed him in here before, several times, and had studied the layout. There was a slight rise back toward where people walked their dogs, and once over that, on the downward slope, you couldn’t be seen from the parking area. She pulled into the very last space and walked all the way back to the building—at least fifty yards—and waited.

  Plenty of light here, and nothing about her would cause anyone concern. Besides, with men like this one, their special needs so often overrode their sense of caution. Not to mention that he’d been drinking.

  She watched him come out the door. “Hi there, big fella,” she said.

  “What?” He was actually a rather small man, sixty-something, old enough to be her father … and depraved enough, she knew.

  “I said, ‘Hi.’” She smiled. “I … uh … I saw you back there.”

  That shook him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” A man burdened with less guilt would simply have walked on by. “Back where?”

  “At that store,” she said. “Looking at the books and tapes and DVDs. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Still … I know what you were really wishing you’d find. I could tell, because that’s my business.”

  “What, backseat blow jobs? Forget it.” He turned toward his car.

  “Wait.” She touched the pervert’s back, just lightly, and he turned around. “I’m not a hooker,” she said. “I sell things. Helpful things.”

  “I gotta go.”

  “But I have what you want. What you need. Books, videos.” She had his attention. “I handle the stuff you don’t dare go near on the Internet.” The hook was in now, she could tell. “They’re in my van.” She pointed. “Take a look, at least. Can’t hurt.”

  She walked and he came with her. He seemed nervous, and she spoke soothingly about how she understood his needs. But then, way back, a car pulled in off the highway and the headlights shone on them from behind.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I better go.” They both turned and watched the car pull into a space the other side of his.

  “Just someone here for the washrooms,” she said, stepping between him and the way back to his car. “It’s all right, c’mon.”

  “No, I really have to go home.” He was whining now. “I gotta—”

  “Shut up!” She slid the gun from under her coat. A nine-millimeter SIG Sauer, silencer attached. Enough to frighten far more of a man than this maggot. “If you move, or say one word, I’ll kill you.”

  His eyes bulged and his mouth fell open, and if he hadn’t just emptied his bladder she knew he’d have peed down his leg.

  “Turn around,” she said, and he did. “Now … walk.” They started walking and she heard car doors open and close behind them. She glanced back and saw two people, a man and a woman, heading toward the restrooms. She prodded the pervert with the gun and he walked faster. They were almost to her van when she looked back again, and saw the couple disappear into the building.

  This wasn’t the way she had planned it. The stripping and the slicing were to come first. But one must be both strong and flexible. “Stop walking,” she said. “Stand very still and I won’t hurt you. I promise.”

  He stood there, trembling, but otherwise as still as Lot’s wife. Debra held the gun with both hands, the elongated barrel aimed midway between his shoulder blades. She crouched slightly and angled it up, almost touching the nape of his neck. “Please,” he said. “I don’t want—”

  “I promise,” she repeated, and carefully squeezed the trigger.

  2.

  The mutilated body of a man was found shortly after five A.M. by Mort, a Doberman pinscher who’d been dragging Alvina Martin by a leash along the edge of the southbound rest stop on I-90, just south of the Wisconsin border.

  Dugan was in the kitchen eating breakfast and saw the news report.

  “My husband used to say that the dog walks me,” Alvina told the woman who stuck the mike in her face. “Anyway, like I told the troopers, all the sudden Mort goes into a crouch and starts one of them low growls, like it’s somethin’ up ahead there and he don’t like it? And so I shorten up on the leash,” she went on, “and go and look down into this here ditch, like a culvert? And when I seen it I said to myself, ‘Oh, my God,’ and ran back and hopped Mort in the truck and called it in. And after that I … you know … I throwed up all over—”

  “Authorities have identified the victim as one Thomas Kanowski,” the TV reporter said, “but are releasing no furth
er information. Meanwhile, police say this rest stop will be closed to traffic for several more hours while officers comb the scene of this horrific crime.” The reporter gave the camera what Dugan figured was her best version of grim-and-solemn, and turned it “back to your local station.”

  Jim and Carol in the studio in Chicago did their own imitation of grim-and-solemn, and then Carol promised, “Up next, startling new claims from Viagra users.” She gave a sly wink and they broke for commercials.

  Dugan went back to his oatmeal and just then Kirsten stepped into the kitchen. She took the remote from the table and hit the mute button.

  “Not interested in startling new claims?” he asked.

  “No, but you might—” She shook her head. “Forget it. What was that business about a murder … on I-90?” She poured herself a mug of coffee and set it on the table.

  “I might what?”

  “That murder,” she said, dropping half an English muffin in the toaster. “I didn’t get the victim’s name.”

  “Thomas Kanowski. I might—”

  “Kanowski?” She seemed stunned. “Are you sure?”

  “That’s what they said. Thomas Kanowski. So what did you mean when you said I might something?”

  “I know that name,” she said. “I mean, it’s possibly not the same—”

  “Jesus, I might what, dammit?”

  She popped the muffin prematurely out of the toaster and sat down across from him. “You might … I don’t know … might listen to what I’m saying and not fixate on something I didn’t say.”

  “But you started to say I might something … about Viagra. I mean have you noticed any—”

  “Don’t be silly. I don’t remember what I started to say. God, is it just you macho lawyers? Or are all men so sensi—”

  The phone rang and Dugan grabbed it. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Doogie pal, how they hangin’?” The day wasn’t starting well.

  “Christ, Larry, it’s only eight o’clock.” Larry Candle, one of the three lawyers who worked for Dugan, was a pain in the ass sometimes—in fact, always—but he could work his round little butt off when he wanted to. The caller ID showed he was already in the office. “What’s so important?”

  “Nothing. I’m calling for— Hey, hold on.” There was a pause and then Larry said, “I got the TV on here, and there’s this doctor on, talking about Viagra. He says a lotta guys who use it discover they—”

  “Yeah, that’s interesting, Larry,” Dugan said. “But I hope to God you didn’t call me about some bullshit you saw on TV.”

  “Actually, it is about something on TV, but I’m calling for Kirsten. ’Cause I think this guy they found—”

  “It’s for you,” Dugan said. He handed the phone to Kirsten and went to take a shower.

  * * *

  Half an hour later, Dugan and Kirsten were in a cab on their way downtown. It was a bright, warm September Monday and Dugan would have been happy to go anywhere other than his office. But he was the boss, after all, so he had to show up.

  He’d given Kirsten the business section of the Tribune, but she just held it on her lap and stared out the window. Finally he couldn’t out-silence her. “So … you gonna tell me what he wanted?” he asked.

  “What?” She seemed startled to find another person in the same cab with her. “Oh, you mean Larry?”

  “No, I mean Moe.”

  “He wanted to know if I’d heard the news about the body on the interstate, wondered if I recognized the name.”

  “And you did, right?”

  “Yes, and Larry’s wondering if it’s the same Thomas Kanowski I know. I mean, not know. Just know of.”

  “Really? Who is he? Or was he?”

  “There was an article in the Sun-Times a couple of months ago. I’m sure I showed it to you, or told you about it. It had a list of names of Chicago priests—some of them ex-priests, I guess—who had sexual misconduct charges against them.”

  “It was abuse, wasn’t it? Not just charges. And involving children?”

  “What the hell, Dugan? You’re the lawyer here. The article said there was ‘reasonable cause to believe’ the charges were true. Not that all of them were proven, like in court or something. And minors, not necessarily children.”

  “Minors are children. Anyway, I didn’t actually read the article. You told me about it, and you felt bad because your uncle Michael’s name was there, and— Damn! Was one of the names on the list Thomas Kanowski?”

  “Yeah.” She shook her head. “I suppose even if it is the same man, there doesn’t have to be a connection. I mean, the fact that someone killed him doesn’t—”

  “They said the body was … what?… ‘mutilated’ or something. But no, it didn’t have to be because he’s a pedophile.”

  “You don’t know that he was a pedophile.”

  “Yeah, right. Just allegations, which there was ‘reasonable cause to believe,’ you said. The cardinal removed them all from their positions, didn’t he?”

  “But Kanowski wasn’t necessarily a pedophile. He could have had sex with a minor, say a seventeen-year-old, not necessarily a young child.”

  “You mean like your uncle,” he said. “Anyway, the man’s dead. Or someone named Thomas Kanowski is dead. And maybe it’s the same guy.”

  “If you were one of the priests on that list, wouldn’t you be wondering? And maybe scared?”

  “If I were on that list I’d have blown my brains out long ago. I wouldn’t wanna live inside the skin of someone like—”

  “Hey!” It was the cab driver, and the cab wasn’t moving.

  “Oh,” Dugan said. “Here’s my office. You going to yours?” When Kirsten nodded he gave the driver her address. “This nice lady will pay you,” he said.

  * * *

  As he rode the elevator up to his office, it hit Dugan that Kirsten’s being actually worried about her uncle Michael pissed him off a little. Jesus. Father Michael Nolan. Dugan hadn’t spoken ten words to the guy since he represented him two years ago—but he wasn’t about to waste any sympathy on him.

  And why the hell Kirsten still cared at all about Michael Nolan he couldn’t understand. She said she continued to get together with him from time to time, not because she still felt close to him but because she owed him that much. That made no sense to Dugan. The guy had obviously shredded any familial obligation she owed him. But she seemed to care more than she admitted, maybe more than she knew. And now?

  Dugan didn’t even want to think about where that might lead her now.

  3.

  Kirsten left the cab at Wabash and Washington and went up to her office on the tenth floor. The painted letters on the plate glass door said:

  WILD ONION, LTD.

  CONFIDENTIAL INQUIRIES

  PERSONAL SECURITY SERVICES

  She paused a moment, key in hand, feeling that odd, familiar mix of surprise and satisfaction those words always stirred up. She unlocked the door and went inside. She’d review her messages, check the calendar, return calls. Take care of her business.

  It had never been part of her plan to run her own business. Her dad had been a Chicago cop until shortly before he died and, even though it wasn’t happy for him at the end, that was all she’d ever wanted to be. After college she signed up for the police candidate’s exam and started law school to kill the time while she waited. She scored high on the exam, endured the MMPI and the so-called POWER test, and the rest of the psychological and physical screening. Then one Friday she got a call to report to the Police Academy Monday if she wanted in on the next class. She and law school had never been compatible and she never set one foot back in the place after that. She didn’t even attend Dugan’s law school graduation. Which didn’t bother him, since he didn’t go, either.

  She crouched to pick up the mail that had been shoved through the slot near the bottom of the door on Saturday, and took it with her through the tiny reception area, done in pastels and art deco, and into her office. Equa
lly pastel and deco. The decor, which was not really Kirsten’s style, was by Andrea Brumstein, a designer whose husband was a very successful diamond merchant. She had been Kirsten’s first client.

  Before meeting Andrea, Kirsten had been on the fast track in the police department. She became an investigator in the Violent Crimes Division, and was high on the list to make sergeant. Exactly where she wanted to be. Except as time went by she started to feel the job—the one she thought she loved—physically squeezing the heart out of her body. That’s the only way she could describe it. So she quit.

  By then her job skills were pretty limited. She joined a private security firm that bored her to death, then quit that and started Wild Onion, Ltd. That’s when Andrea came along. Her case had to do, of course, with diamonds, among other things; and it had to be kept secret, of course, from Andrea’s husband, among other people. Andrea was more than pleased with the result. She got Kirsten a great deal on this office, which had been carved out of her husband’s retail showroom. She also paid twice the fee Kirsten asked for. “The secret, darling,” Andrea confided, “is to imagine a really outrageous fee, then double it. You’ll get such a better class of clientele.”

  As hard as she tried, Kirsten was never quite able to carry that off.

  * * *

  There were no e-mail or phone messages worth responding to, and her schedule showed no clients on the horizon. But there were no bills to pay, either. “I’m doing very well, thank you.” She spoke those encouraging words out loud, to nobody but herself. That’s who needed to hear them.

  The only item on her calendar for the whole week was on Thursday: “Dinner, Michael.” They’d become something of a burden over the last couple of years, those almost-monthly dinners, ever since the lawsuit and the revelation of what he’d done.

  Way back when Kirsten was a toddler and he was an uncle she rarely saw, Father Michael Nolan had done something priests vowed not to do. Worse yet, he’d done it with a very mixed-up young girl, not yet eighteen years old, who’d been sinking in a sea of problems and had reached out to him. He’d been alcohol-dependent at the time, and in no shape to help anyone—and he sure didn’t help that girl. Almost at once it was over and she was pregnant and he was sliding faster and deeper into his own downward spiral. A month later the girl was dead, and her family raged and hated him. And when money passed from the archdiocese to the girl’s family in a confidential settlement, the payment eased none of their anger or ill will.