The Innocence Game Part 7

13.

I'd just come up on the intersection of Roosevelt and Ca.n.a.l when I saw the blue flashers in my rearview mirror. A voice came over the PA system.

"Turn off onto Ca.n.a.l, sir."

I drove for a block and a half before pulling into an empty lot near the Pacific Garden Mission. An unmarked black sedan stuck to my b.u.mper the whole way. A couple of b.u.ms were hanging around outside Pacific. Otherwise, we were alone. A middle-aged white guy in a s.h.i.+ny suit got out of the car. His partner, a little younger and black, stayed inside. The one who got out was all forearms and fists. He had thinning red hair, gray sideburns, and dark sungla.s.ses. He gave me a quick look at a silver detective's star and put it back in his pocket.

"License and registration."

I handed over my license and dug my registration out of the glovie. He took both without a word and headed back to his car. I pulled out my phone and punched in a number. Sarah's voice mail picked up on the first ring. I watched the cop car in the rearview mirror as I spoke.

"Sarah, it's Ian. Listen, I'm driving back from the evidence warehouse and just got pulled over on Ca.n.a.l Street, south of Roosevelt. It's an unmarked car. I can't read the tag number, and I have no idea why they stopped me." The sedan door swung open, and the detective got out. "He's coming back. I'll call you when I can."

I cut the line and shoved the phone into my s.h.i.+rt pocket.

"Step out of the car, Mr. Joyce."

I got out.

"Give me the phone."

"Why?"

He pulled it out of my pocket and checked the last number I'd dialed. Then he slipped the cell into his pocket and put a hand on the b.u.t.t of his gun.

"Do you know why I pulled you over?"

"No sir, I don't." My heart was fluttering inside my rib cage. My voice sounded strong.

"You made a lane switch back on Roosevelt and failed to use your turn signal."

"Turn signal, huh?"

"That's right."

I couldn't help but look at the paperwork from the warehouse, sitting in the backseat of my car.

"I'm going to need to ask you a few questions," the detective said.

"How about you just write me a ticket?"

"Are you carrying any contraband in the vehicle?"

"Contraband?"

"Drugs, firearms, things of that nature?"

I shook my head.

"Do you mind if we take a look?"

"Actually, I do."

"That right?"

"Yes. And I'd like my cell phone back if that's okay."

The detective smiled behind his sungla.s.ses and dropped his voice as if someone in the empty lot might be listening. "Here's how this works. You consent to the search of your car, or my partner calls in a canine unit. We cuff you and put you in a squad car until the dogs show up. Probably about an hour or two. Then we run the f.u.c.king dog around for five minutes and, surprise, surprise, he hits for the possible presence of contraband. Then we search your car anyway. Only it's two hours from now, and we make it hurt. So, it's your choice, smart guy."

Ten minutes later, I was sitting in the backseat of the sedan as the two Chicago detectives opened up the doors to my car, popped the hood, and began to take things apart.

At the end of the day, they confiscated twenty-three dollars I had in my pocket and another eight in singles they found in the center console as "possible drug money." They also took an empty gas can, a Cubs cooler with three warm beers in it, and all of the paperwork from the backseat. The white detective leaned on the hood of my car and wrote out a receipt for the confiscated property.

"Can I get your names?" I said.

"It will be on the receipt."

"Can I ask why you took all the files from my backseat? I'm a student at Northwestern, and they're part of a cla.s.s project. I don't see how they could be considered contraband."

"It's all explained here." The detective ripped off the receipt and held it between his fingers. "You have thirty days to file a pet.i.tion for the return of your items. If you don't file a pet.i.tion, the confiscated materials become the property of the government. If you do file, we'll either return the items or you can pursue a civil suit to contest the forfeiture. Is that clear?"

"No. Nothing's clear."

"I'd suggest you head straight home, Mr. Joyce. And be more careful using your turn signal in the future."

The two detectives walked back to their car and drove off. I studied the receipt they'd given me. There was no explanation as to why they'd seized anything. Just a lot of checked boxes indicating they had. I stuffed the receipt into my pocket and climbed into my car. Five minutes later, I was on the highway. The white detective had given me back my phone. Sarah had left three messages. She sounded concerned. If nothing else, that made me feel better.

14.

I'd just pulled up to my house when Sarah called again.

"Where are you?" she said.

"Just got home. Why?"

"Jake and I drove down to Ca.n.a.l and Roosevelt looking for you."

My heart leaped a touch at the idea of Sarah Gold getting into her car and searching for me. The fact that Havens was her pa.s.senger? Not so thrilling, but I'd take what I could get.

"Where are you now?" I said.

"We stopped at the police station down here. They have no record of your being pulled over."

"Maybe it's not in the system yet."

"The cop says it should be. What was the badge number of the officer?"

"It was a plainclothes detective." I pulled out the crumpled receipt and gave it a second look. "I can't read his name or his number."

"Hold on a second, Jake wants to talk to you."

"Wait ..." Too late. Havens came on the line.

"Are you guys at the police station?" I said.

"We just left."

"You gave them my name?"

"Yes."

"Did they ask for yours?"

There was a pause as Havens asked Sarah a question I couldn't make out, then he came back on the line. "Neither of us gave a name. Why?"

"I don't know."

"So you have no way of identifying these guys?" Havens said.

"I didn't get a look at their license plate, if that's what you're asking."

Silence.

"I'm guessing they pulled me over so they could grab the records."

"Seems hard to believe," Havens said.

"Come up with a better reason."

"That case has been sitting there for more than a decade. Anyone could have gone down and looked at it."

"Yeah, but maybe no one did. If I'm right, the old man at the warehouse made a call. Or maybe they were already waiting for us outside." The more I reduced my theory to words, the better it sounded. "Are you and Sarah headed back?"

"Yeah."

"Let's get together tomorrow," I said.

"For what? We've got nothing to talk about."

I checked my eyes in the rearview mirror. "Don't be so sure about that."

"What does that mean?"

"We'll talk tomorrow."

I clicked off, got out of the car, and walked up the path to my house. The lawyer had told me to sell the place. Bank the money. Buy a condo downtown. Or both. What do lawyers know? I went into the kitchen and sat at the table. I could hear her key in the door. A yell that she was home. My mom wasn't much of a cook, so we'd go out and get McDonald's. When I got older, high school age, she told me I should go out with friends. But I didn't care. I liked to eat with my mom. Then college came. Right on schedule, she got sick. I got up from the chair and opened a cabinet. There was a can of soup there and some crackers. I poured the soup into a pot and lit the stove with a match. It was an old stove. Lawyer probably wanted to get rid of that, too.

I walked into the living room. The wooden floor creaked under my feet. I sat on the couch and reread the letter she'd left with the lawyer. Then I put it down and picked up a framed picture I kept on an end table. It was an old print ad for Tide that ran in the Trib. My mom was the star, a young girl pulling sheets off a clothesline. Her eyes were wrinkled, and the sun was on her face.

"What are you staring at, Ian?"

I fumbled the picture and heard the crack of gla.s.s as it hit the floor. My mom stood in front of me.

"Don't worry about it," she said and began to pick up the pieces of gla.s.s, jagged and smeared with blood. Then she got a bandage from the bathroom and wrapped my hand where I'd cut it. When she was finished, she looked up at me. Her mouth was st.i.tched into a frightened smile, and I could see my reflection in the black of her eyes.

"How are you?" she said.

"I'm fine, Ma."

"You look thin."

"I started school this week. Graduate school at Medill."

"Is it fall yet?"

"Summer quarter, Ma."

"That's nice." She sat down beside me. Memories flocked and swarmed around us. She crooked a finger and drew me closer. I moved as if on a string.

"I should have protected you, Ian. Both of you."

The wind rattled a window somewhere in protest.

"You did what you could."

"I should have done better."

Her voice was unraveling. I leaned in, trying to catch the words as they crumbled in my hands. And then I was outside her bedroom, in the hallway upstairs, my palm flat against the door. She stood on the other side, fingers tracing mine against the worn wood, listening to the rise and fall of my chest, counting each breath as her own.

"Ma?" My voice was that of a boy, still drawing warm terror from his mother's breast. The door creaked open and she stood there, in a black wind, one hand resting on a small, white coffin.

I woke with a start. The light outside was almost gone, houses across the street edged in thin lines of pink. The smell of smoke crept through the house. I got up and ran into the kitchen. The soup had cooked off, and the pot was burned on the bottom. I cleaned up as best I could and opened a window. Then I sat at the kitchen table and rubbed my temples with my fingers. Every now and then it happened. She'd be there, picking up the thread of a conversation we'd never had. Dreams like jagged pieces of shrapnel, cutting the wounds fresh. The doorbell rang, and I jumped. I couldn't remember the last time I'd heard it ring. I put my mom's letter away and hustled to the door. Sarah Gold stood on the porch. First, a visit from my dead mother. Now, Sarah.

"Just thought I'd come by," she said. "See how you were doing."