Chapter 22: A Note

Chapter 22 starts with Regis Cahan heading to the Fine Time with a very important purpose.

Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.    

Cahan was early. He again sat in the middle of the horseshoe curve. His location allowed him full access to anyone entering or leaving the “Fine Time.” Someone approached him from behind the bar and asked, “What would you like, sir?” 

The question caught him by surprise. He stammered, “What? Where’s Ramon?” 

The pretender smiled and said, “He doesn’t start till seven.” Regis settled down and ordered a Black Jack. Ramon arrived before the drink was half finished. More than a few patrons looked relieved.  

Grandisha walked in. Cahan did a double take. Ray was wearing a black pin striped suit. The combination of the fancy duds and his stooped appearance didn’t really mix. Unless you knew him. 

Before Ray settled in the bar stool, his Glenlevit was waiting. Ramon was busy, so there wasn’t a lot of banal chatter with the customers. Two or three people stopped at the bar to gab with Grandisha. The conversations usually only lasted a couple minutes. 

Cahan was nursing his drink. After an hour, he had only downed two. A colleague sat next to him, but quickly left after receiving terse answers to questions and comments. Regis wanted no distractions. Finally, Grandisha rose from the stool and walked to the foyer. He may have been going to the washroom. 

Regis laid a bill on the bar, asked Ramon if ten was enough, and started around the curve of the horseshoe. His right hand was pocketed. He stopped and dawdled where the bar straightened. Within a minute, he spied Grandisha back in the foyer. Regis continued on, towards the entrance. The two men were face to face before Ray reached his seat. 

Cahan extended his right hand, then said, “Ray, how have you been?” 

Grandisha saw the hand come out of the pocket, recognized the gesture and shook the hand before it was fully extended. He returned the greeting. “I’m fine Regis, nice to see you.” Cahan continued on, and left the establishment. 

The move was smoother than any maitre d’ could ever hope to achieve. Ray felt the paper enclosure, and was surprised for a half second. No trace of the brief, fleeting startle crossed his face. He climbed the bar stool and pocketed the note in one motion. Ramon’s back was turned at the time. Grandisha wondered if he would have noticed.  

After five minutes, Ray excused himself again and proceeded to the washroom. The bartender watched him leave. He entered a stall, sat, and unfolded the note. “I need to talk to you in private. I’ll be outside, in the back.” 

Grandisha rubbed his questioning face, mumbled, “Okay,” stood, ripped the note to shreds, flushed it and returned to his station at the bar. He finished the scotch, paid Ramon, and left. 

The “Fine Time” had ample parking in front and on the sides of the building. The back abutted a wooded, overgrown vacant lot. A narrow sidewalk surrounded the entire structure. Previous owners had planned to pave the vacant lot, and decided they needed the rear sidewalk in place. The current owners didn’t know the back concrete strip existed. 

Transcript

Chapter 22

Cahan was early. He again sat in the middle of the horseshoe curve. His location allowed him full access to anyone entering or leaving the “Fine Time.” Someone approached him from behind the bar and asked, “What would you like, sir?” 

The question caught him by surprise. He stammered, “What? Where’s Ramon?” 

The pretender smiled and said, “He doesn’t start till seven.” Regis settled down and ordered a Black Jack. Ramon arrived before the drink was half finished. More than a few patrons looked relieved.  

Grandisha walked in. Cahan did a double take. Ray was wearing a black pin striped suit. The combination of the fancy duds and his stooped appearance didn’t really mix. Unless you knew him. 

Before Ray settled in the bar stool, his Glenlevit was waiting. Ramon was busy, so there wasn’t a lot of banal chatter with the customers. Two or three people stopped at the bar to gab with Grandisha. The conversations usually only lasted a couple minutes. 

Cahan was nursing his drink. After an hour, he had only downed two. A colleague sat next to him, but quickly left after receiving terse answers to questions and comments. Regis wanted no distractions. Finally, Grandisha rose from the stool and walked to the foyer. He may have been going to the washroom. 

Regis laid a bill on the bar, asked Ramon if ten was enough, and started around the curve of the horseshoe. His right hand was pocketed. He stopped and dawdled where the bar straightened. Within a minute, he spied Grandisha back in the foyer. Regis continued on, towards the entrance. The two men were face to face before Ray reached his seat. 

Cahan extended his right hand, then said, “Ray, how have you been?” 

Grandisha saw the hand come out of the pocket, recognized the gesture and shook the hand before it was fully extended. He returned the greeting. “I’m fine Regis, nice to see you.” Cahan continued on, and left the establishment. 

The move was smoother than any maitre d’ could ever hope to achieve. Ray felt the paper enclosure, and was surprised for a half second. No trace of the brief, fleeting startle crossed his face. He climbed the bar stool and pocketed the note in one motion. Ramon’s back was turned at the time. Grandisha wondered if he would have noticed.  

After five minutes, Ray excused himself again and proceeded to the washroom. The bartender watched him leave. He entered a stall, sat, and unfolded the note. “I need to talk to you in private. I’ll be outside, in the back.” 

Grandisha rubbed his questioning face, mumbled, “Okay,” stood, ripped the note to shreds, flushed it and returned to his station at the bar. He finished the scotch, paid Ramon, and left. 

The “Fine Time” had ample parking in front and on the sides of the building. The back abutted a wooded, overgrown vacant lot. A narrow sidewalk surrounded the entire structure. Previous owners had planned to pave the vacant lot, and decided they needed the rear sidewalk in place. The current owners didn’t know the back concrete strip existed. 

Ray was parked in front. He moved his vehicle to the last spot on the side. Satisfied no one was around, he exited and approached the back. The night was overcast, darker than usual. As he turned the corner to the back, dark took on new meaning. The trees and vegetation sucked the scant available light from the surroundings, like a hungry black hole. Ray hesitated for a second, allowing his eyes to adjust. He recognized and approached a human form at the dead middle of the building line. 

When he reached the form, he paused, lit a Pall Mall, saw a serious glare on Cahan’s face, and said, “Is this really necessary?” 

Cahan exhaled, lit his own cigarette, and started. “I think you’re a straight shooter, good to your word. I need your consent and agreement that this conversation never took place.” 

Grandisha responded quickly, “I won’t consider it if you intend to confess a crime.” 

“I’m a lawyer, remember. I’d never confess to anything.” 

Grandisha followed, “Then I need to know why the conversation never took place.” 

Regis took a deep drag. The glow from the ember quickly disappeared. “If we talk, I’ll probably violate the lawyer/client privilege a number of times. I’m not sure, but we’re all taught that if you’re not sure, it’s probably confidential. If what I say is helpful and your source is discovered, everything, and I mean everything, will be thrown out of court. I am an obvious source, that’s the reason for this.” Cahan stopped talking and stared at the Lieutenant. 

Grandisha said, “I’m listening, go ahead.” 

“No one can ever see us talking. There can be no evidence of any contact between us. No phone logs. No middle men. No talking on the street or coffee in the deli. No bar discussions. Nothing.” 

Cahan dropped his cigarette on the sidewalk, stepped on the butt, kicked it into the vacant lot and lit another one. Ray’s stare asked for more. He continued. “We’ve been involved in cases before, so it wouldn’t be uncommon for us to shake hands and say “Hi,” as we did tonight.” 

Regis paused again, decided this was as good a man as any to trust. “It’s about “Zola’s” and probably Donas.” 

Grandisha calculated everything in two or three seconds. His word wasn’t lightly given. The fact that he respected Cahan played a major role in his decision. “This conversation never took place.” 

Cahan began. “I have, or had, a client by the name of Ricardo Morales. Hispanic. I represented him in a paternity. He was a wonderful kid to deal with. Then about a month ago, he changed. Became a cartoon character, macho bully. A week or so ago, we had a confrontation in my office. As he was leaving, he knocked over a coat rack and yelled in Spanish, ‘Maricon,” or something like that. My secretary wasn’t present. I asked her if she knew what the word meant. She guessed that he probably said ‘Many cones.” 

Ray shook his head and laughed. “Fucking brilliant detective that I’m supposed to be. I never considered a foreign language. What else?” 

“At first, he cooperated perfectly, did everything I asked. Later, we had trouble getting him in for an appointment. Before the macho bullshit, he was voluntarily going to pay if the tests confirmed his paternity. After the change, he told me he didn’t need me, his people would take care of it.” 

“What led to him knocking over the coat rack?” 

“He kept referring to my secretary as the ‘Bitch.’ A couple of times in the waiting room, while she was present. I yelled at him, when he was still in the waiting room in front of Gina, my secretary. When we were in my office, he told me his people would handle the paternity, and I was lucky his people weren’t going to visit me for the disrespect. He called Gina a “bitch” again, I slapped him. He told me that people who cross “Us” get paid back, then stormed out.” 

Grandisha questioned, “He said ‘Us?’ He said ‘People who cross us?” 

Cahan confirmed, “Yes. I thought it strange. No one was with him.” 

“Jesus Christ. Does he strike you as the kind of person who could kill, in cold blood, for no apparent reason?” 

“Yes. He could have that last day we were together. I thought it was macho bullshit, but he was angry. In a rage. All because of some misguided sense of respect.” 

Grandisha thought of his discussion with Carol Lombard. “How old is he?” 

“He’s eighteen. He’s a senior in high school.” 

Grandisha followed, “Any record? Has he ever been in any kind of trouble?” 

“None to my knowledge. Nothing ever showed up.” 

Grandisha continued, “Are you or your secretary in any kind of danger?” 

“I don’t think so. A gang would be noticed coming in the building and he doesn’t know where we live.” 

Ray pulled out his small notepad. “Can I get his name again, and any other identifying information? Cahan pulled out and read from his own notepad, and then left. 

Grandisha remained, and smoked another cigarette. It was something. Not much, but something. If the information would have come from the general public, it wouldn’t have gotten much attention. Sour grapes from someone with an axe to grind. There wasn’t enough to take the team from other work. Still, it was something. A lead. 

The Lieutenant flicked the butt, got in his vehicle, and drove back to the station. He opened a file that only he would see, locked it in his drawer, then drove to the address he had been given. He found it. Fuck. A cul-de-sac. No way to tail him out of a cul-de-sac. He would have to pick him up on the street or at school. 

Next problem. A reason to be following him. A reason that would see daylight. Ray thought about it on the way home. Had he waited an additional ten minutes, he would have seen Sparne drop off Ricardo.