Happy new year, everybody! Here's the next part; thanks for reading, thanks for being patient, and thanks for the lovely reviews!
Disclaimer: Nope, don't own Chicago or Law & Order. Don't sue me.
Part Six: Lord Knows He Ain't Got the Smarts
It took a couple of weeks before they would let the detectives go through the clothes Fred Casely had been wearing when he got shot. . Some kind of bureaucratic mix-up, the guy told Curtis. Curtis didn't quite believe him but waited anyway. Finally, after they called up the DA's office to complain, they got a phone call to come down and check the guy's stuff.
There wasn't too much to check out, just the clothes he'd been wearing, with a couple of packs of cigarettes and thirteen dollars and twenty-seven cents. Curtis shook out the pants to make sure and found a matchbook. It was from a place called The Onyx, 19th and Broadway. If they could find the right people, get Roxie's husband and Fred's wife to talk to them, they might be able to get past the whole confession thing.
Briscoe and Curtis went down to the Onyx around five, just before it opened for dinner. It was an old club, not very big, and probably not as sleazy as it looked at that time of day. There were only three or four people getting the place ready, along with a herd of security people hanging out by the door. Curtis figured the bartender was as good a place to start as any, so they set to work.
The bartender was a little, skinny guy with dark, greasy hair and dark, greasy clothes. When the two detectives walked up to the bar, he was stocking up for the evening. Curtis looked over the selection. Pretty cheap stuff. Most of it was the kind that came in plastic bottles instead of glass. He made a mental note never to come here off-duty. Well, it did seem like a place that about matched Fred Casely's clothes, which had looked like something Lennie might wear.
Lennie started off by striking up a conversation with the bartender about business. Apparently it was slow lately. The economy and all that. Now that the guy had been well chatted up, Curtis got down to business.
"So, is this one of the women been in here lately?" he asked, showing the guy a picture of Roxie.
"Can't say. Who wants to know?" the bartender said flatly, not looking at the picture.
"Police," Curtis answered, showing his badge.
"Damn it," the bartender muttered. "I knew you guys were dressed too nice for this place."
"How about her? How'd she dress?" Curtis reminded him.
"Like she was trying to dress nice, but had the wrong idea. Not trashy, though," the bartender said, as he looked over the picture.
That sounded about right to Curtis. "She have a friend with her?" he asked.
"Yeah, she had a friend, all right," the bartender smirked. "Nice guy, too. Security had to talk him into paying for their drinks."
"He come up with the money?" Lennie asked.
"Sure, once Mike told him it was either that or get thrown out on his head," the bartender told him, motioning to one of the security guards sitting by the door.
"When was this?" Curtis asked, flipping through his notes, trying to find which day the murder had been committed.
"Oh, they've been in here a lot, but after the first couple of threats he got the message," the bartender answered.
"Were they in here last Saturday?" Curtis asked.
"Yep. Had a big fight, too. I couldn't tell what about. They were trying to keep it down, but she was pissed about something. Looked like he talked her out of it later. They walked on out all friendly. Pretty well lubricated, too."
"How well lubricated?" Lennie cut in.
The bartender didn't even need to check. "Almost ninety bucks lubricated, that's how," he said.
"They have any trouble with security that night?" Curtis asked.
"Nah. The guy muttered something when he paid, but I ignored it. They waltzed on out of here."
"This guy, he have a name?" Curtis said.
"Well, he always paid cash, but I think she called him Freddy," the bartender said, after some thought.
Yeah, that was their guy. The bartender didn't have anything else useful to say, other than letting them know that night's specials. Curtis was more than a little nervous at the idea of talking the security guards, who looked about three times his size, but Lennie thought it was important. So Curtis did the smart thing and followed along while Lennie went to talk to the bouncers.
Briscoe went to talk to Mike first, the one who the bartender said had dealt with Casely.
"You toss a lot of guys out of here?" he started.
The man turned and looked down at him. "I don't talk about my work," he rumbled.
"Fine. We just have one guy in particular in mind."
"I said, I don't talk about my work."
Lennie pulled out his badge, Curtis slowly making his way behind him. "NYPD, buddy. We're investigating a murder. This guy's murder. Is there anything you can tell us?"
"We've heard he had trouble with the security here," Curtis added.
Mike scowled at them. "We don't discuss security business here," he snapped.
"You want to discuss it at the precinct, then?" Lennie snapped back.
Mike smirked. "They don't teach you people which questions to ask, do they? We have a confidentiality agreement. Take it up with the management lawyers. Now get out of here."
Lennie turned away, looking as defeated as Curtis felt. "We'll get to the management and the lawyers if we need to," he said, patting Lennie on the back. "We've still got the husband and the wife to talk to first."
They went to Mrs. Casely's residence. She was a slightly mousy-looking woman with dyed blond hair and a dress that didn't look as expensive as the designer must have hoped. There was loud music blaring from somewhere in the house, so there was at least one teenager at home. She was reluctant to let them in. "Well," she finally sighed, "I suppose I should. I don't want that woman to get away with it, although I suppose she did do me a favor."
"How so?" Curtis asked.
"Oh, she wasn't the first of his girls. It started a long time ago. I know I should have left him, but it was always something. I had a lot of trouble finding a job, and then there were the kids. I was finally going to do it, though, as soon as he gave me an excuse. At least that woman spared me the trouble," she said.
"He ever hurt you, threaten you?" Curtis asked her.
"Oh, no, nothing like that," she answered. "He was never that bad. Just never that good, either."
"Did you have proof he'd been having affairs?" Briscoe asked.
"Not really. I heard him talking on the phone, money would disappear mysteriously, things like that. I was waiting for proof when he got killed."
"Did any of your kids know anything?" Curtis asked.
"I think our son did. Frank. He's fifteen."
"We've been told he had a fight with his current girlfriend the night he was killed. Do you know what that might have been about?" Briscoe asked.
"I have no idea," Mrs. Casely replied.
Well, that was a lot of help. "Can we talk to your son?" Curtis asked.
"Sure," she answered. "That's his music. Just follow the noise."
Charming lady, Curtis thought as they went upstairs to find Frank and talk to him.
They found his room easily enough, the one with the blaring music, and walked in. "Hey, Frank? We're from the police. We want to talk to you about your father," Curtis said.
"He was an asshole. What else you want to know?" Frank muttered.
"You ever meet any of his friends?" Briscoe asked.
"Just one of them. That lady that killed him. He said she was a friend from work." Frank laughed. "She didn't look smart enough to be selling furniture."
The kid didn't know anything else. He didn't know what the fight might have been about, either. Apparently nobody did. They'd have to find out from Roxie, if that Billy Flynn character would let them. It didn't sound promising. Briscoe and Curtis figured they might as well talk to her husband and her boss, see if they could find something out.
Joe Hart looked about as pathetic as he had the night of the murder, Curtis thought. He was wearing a suit several years out of style when the detectives arrived.
"Hi," he said softly. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Well, there is one thing about your wife's case you can clear up for us," Curtis said. "We've been told that Roxie and this Fred Casely had a fight the night he was killed. Do you know what that might have been about?"
"No," Joe said softly, his face falling. "I don't know. I didn't spend much time at home, see."
"You were at work most of the time?" Lennie asked. Joe had told them the night of the murder that he spent most of his time at the garage where he worked.
"Yeah. Twelve, thirteen hours a day. Both of us were."
Curtis checked his notes—there it was. "Yeah, she told us she works at the Walgreens up on 94th Street."
Joe nodded. "Every day, like me."
Maybe not, Curtis thought, if she had time to run around with guys like Fred Casely. Twelve or thirteen hours a day at work was no way to run a marriage. "Did you know they were having an affair?" he asked. Maybe Joe knew something else that could be helpful.
He didn't. "I had no idea," he said, his face falling. "I never would have thought she'd run around on me like that. I never would have dreamed…I loved her."
Curtis felt sorrier for him than he had for Mrs. Casely. He just wished the guy had been able to tell them something.
Roxie's boss, on the other hand, was much more helpful. "Sure, I know what they were fighting about," he said proudly. "Her career."
Curtis looked around dubiously. "Her career with Wal-Mart?" he asked.
"What career with Wal-Mart?" the guy laughed. "She was a flake. She barely ever worked, she didn't always come when she was supposed to, and she was almost always late. She thought she was going to be a singer. And dancer. And actress. It was all she ever talked about."
"She say anything in particular?" Curtis asked.
The boss thought for a minute. "Well, the last few weeks, she'd been all happy. She was talking about she knew some guy with connections. He was going to get her auditions, get her on American Idol, everything. She was going to be a star. At least, that's what she said."
Lennie seized on this. "You have any idea who was making her these promises?"
Now this was something, Curtis thought. If Fred Casely had made her promises he never had any intention of keeping, that could have gotten her pretty mad. That would have been something to fight over. Or kill over. Now they just had to prove it.
Disclaimer: Nope, don't own Chicago or Law & Order. Don't sue me.
Part Six: Lord Knows He Ain't Got the Smarts
It took a couple of weeks before they would let the detectives go through the clothes Fred Casely had been wearing when he got shot. . Some kind of bureaucratic mix-up, the guy told Curtis. Curtis didn't quite believe him but waited anyway. Finally, after they called up the DA's office to complain, they got a phone call to come down and check the guy's stuff.
There wasn't too much to check out, just the clothes he'd been wearing, with a couple of packs of cigarettes and thirteen dollars and twenty-seven cents. Curtis shook out the pants to make sure and found a matchbook. It was from a place called The Onyx, 19th and Broadway. If they could find the right people, get Roxie's husband and Fred's wife to talk to them, they might be able to get past the whole confession thing.
Briscoe and Curtis went down to the Onyx around five, just before it opened for dinner. It was an old club, not very big, and probably not as sleazy as it looked at that time of day. There were only three or four people getting the place ready, along with a herd of security people hanging out by the door. Curtis figured the bartender was as good a place to start as any, so they set to work.
The bartender was a little, skinny guy with dark, greasy hair and dark, greasy clothes. When the two detectives walked up to the bar, he was stocking up for the evening. Curtis looked over the selection. Pretty cheap stuff. Most of it was the kind that came in plastic bottles instead of glass. He made a mental note never to come here off-duty. Well, it did seem like a place that about matched Fred Casely's clothes, which had looked like something Lennie might wear.
Lennie started off by striking up a conversation with the bartender about business. Apparently it was slow lately. The economy and all that. Now that the guy had been well chatted up, Curtis got down to business.
"So, is this one of the women been in here lately?" he asked, showing the guy a picture of Roxie.
"Can't say. Who wants to know?" the bartender said flatly, not looking at the picture.
"Police," Curtis answered, showing his badge.
"Damn it," the bartender muttered. "I knew you guys were dressed too nice for this place."
"How about her? How'd she dress?" Curtis reminded him.
"Like she was trying to dress nice, but had the wrong idea. Not trashy, though," the bartender said, as he looked over the picture.
That sounded about right to Curtis. "She have a friend with her?" he asked.
"Yeah, she had a friend, all right," the bartender smirked. "Nice guy, too. Security had to talk him into paying for their drinks."
"He come up with the money?" Lennie asked.
"Sure, once Mike told him it was either that or get thrown out on his head," the bartender told him, motioning to one of the security guards sitting by the door.
"When was this?" Curtis asked, flipping through his notes, trying to find which day the murder had been committed.
"Oh, they've been in here a lot, but after the first couple of threats he got the message," the bartender answered.
"Were they in here last Saturday?" Curtis asked.
"Yep. Had a big fight, too. I couldn't tell what about. They were trying to keep it down, but she was pissed about something. Looked like he talked her out of it later. They walked on out all friendly. Pretty well lubricated, too."
"How well lubricated?" Lennie cut in.
The bartender didn't even need to check. "Almost ninety bucks lubricated, that's how," he said.
"They have any trouble with security that night?" Curtis asked.
"Nah. The guy muttered something when he paid, but I ignored it. They waltzed on out of here."
"This guy, he have a name?" Curtis said.
"Well, he always paid cash, but I think she called him Freddy," the bartender said, after some thought.
Yeah, that was their guy. The bartender didn't have anything else useful to say, other than letting them know that night's specials. Curtis was more than a little nervous at the idea of talking the security guards, who looked about three times his size, but Lennie thought it was important. So Curtis did the smart thing and followed along while Lennie went to talk to the bouncers.
Briscoe went to talk to Mike first, the one who the bartender said had dealt with Casely.
"You toss a lot of guys out of here?" he started.
The man turned and looked down at him. "I don't talk about my work," he rumbled.
"Fine. We just have one guy in particular in mind."
"I said, I don't talk about my work."
Lennie pulled out his badge, Curtis slowly making his way behind him. "NYPD, buddy. We're investigating a murder. This guy's murder. Is there anything you can tell us?"
"We've heard he had trouble with the security here," Curtis added.
Mike scowled at them. "We don't discuss security business here," he snapped.
"You want to discuss it at the precinct, then?" Lennie snapped back.
Mike smirked. "They don't teach you people which questions to ask, do they? We have a confidentiality agreement. Take it up with the management lawyers. Now get out of here."
Lennie turned away, looking as defeated as Curtis felt. "We'll get to the management and the lawyers if we need to," he said, patting Lennie on the back. "We've still got the husband and the wife to talk to first."
They went to Mrs. Casely's residence. She was a slightly mousy-looking woman with dyed blond hair and a dress that didn't look as expensive as the designer must have hoped. There was loud music blaring from somewhere in the house, so there was at least one teenager at home. She was reluctant to let them in. "Well," she finally sighed, "I suppose I should. I don't want that woman to get away with it, although I suppose she did do me a favor."
"How so?" Curtis asked.
"Oh, she wasn't the first of his girls. It started a long time ago. I know I should have left him, but it was always something. I had a lot of trouble finding a job, and then there were the kids. I was finally going to do it, though, as soon as he gave me an excuse. At least that woman spared me the trouble," she said.
"He ever hurt you, threaten you?" Curtis asked her.
"Oh, no, nothing like that," she answered. "He was never that bad. Just never that good, either."
"Did you have proof he'd been having affairs?" Briscoe asked.
"Not really. I heard him talking on the phone, money would disappear mysteriously, things like that. I was waiting for proof when he got killed."
"Did any of your kids know anything?" Curtis asked.
"I think our son did. Frank. He's fifteen."
"We've been told he had a fight with his current girlfriend the night he was killed. Do you know what that might have been about?" Briscoe asked.
"I have no idea," Mrs. Casely replied.
Well, that was a lot of help. "Can we talk to your son?" Curtis asked.
"Sure," she answered. "That's his music. Just follow the noise."
Charming lady, Curtis thought as they went upstairs to find Frank and talk to him.
They found his room easily enough, the one with the blaring music, and walked in. "Hey, Frank? We're from the police. We want to talk to you about your father," Curtis said.
"He was an asshole. What else you want to know?" Frank muttered.
"You ever meet any of his friends?" Briscoe asked.
"Just one of them. That lady that killed him. He said she was a friend from work." Frank laughed. "She didn't look smart enough to be selling furniture."
The kid didn't know anything else. He didn't know what the fight might have been about, either. Apparently nobody did. They'd have to find out from Roxie, if that Billy Flynn character would let them. It didn't sound promising. Briscoe and Curtis figured they might as well talk to her husband and her boss, see if they could find something out.
Joe Hart looked about as pathetic as he had the night of the murder, Curtis thought. He was wearing a suit several years out of style when the detectives arrived.
"Hi," he said softly. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Well, there is one thing about your wife's case you can clear up for us," Curtis said. "We've been told that Roxie and this Fred Casely had a fight the night he was killed. Do you know what that might have been about?"
"No," Joe said softly, his face falling. "I don't know. I didn't spend much time at home, see."
"You were at work most of the time?" Lennie asked. Joe had told them the night of the murder that he spent most of his time at the garage where he worked.
"Yeah. Twelve, thirteen hours a day. Both of us were."
Curtis checked his notes—there it was. "Yeah, she told us she works at the Walgreens up on 94th Street."
Joe nodded. "Every day, like me."
Maybe not, Curtis thought, if she had time to run around with guys like Fred Casely. Twelve or thirteen hours a day at work was no way to run a marriage. "Did you know they were having an affair?" he asked. Maybe Joe knew something else that could be helpful.
He didn't. "I had no idea," he said, his face falling. "I never would have thought she'd run around on me like that. I never would have dreamed…I loved her."
Curtis felt sorrier for him than he had for Mrs. Casely. He just wished the guy had been able to tell them something.
Roxie's boss, on the other hand, was much more helpful. "Sure, I know what they were fighting about," he said proudly. "Her career."
Curtis looked around dubiously. "Her career with Wal-Mart?" he asked.
"What career with Wal-Mart?" the guy laughed. "She was a flake. She barely ever worked, she didn't always come when she was supposed to, and she was almost always late. She thought she was going to be a singer. And dancer. And actress. It was all she ever talked about."
"She say anything in particular?" Curtis asked.
The boss thought for a minute. "Well, the last few weeks, she'd been all happy. She was talking about she knew some guy with connections. He was going to get her auditions, get her on American Idol, everything. She was going to be a star. At least, that's what she said."
Lennie seized on this. "You have any idea who was making her these promises?"
Now this was something, Curtis thought. If Fred Casely had made her promises he never had any intention of keeping, that could have gotten her pretty mad. That would have been something to fight over. Or kill over. Now they just had to prove it.