Kept Boy to Made Man - 8. Enemies and Allies

“Romeo, I was wondering when you were going call.” There was both concern and an obvious fondness in the deep voice that answered his call.

“Sir. It’s good to hear your voice.” Juan was surprised by the sudden emotion he felt and had to work to hold back tears.

There was a long pause before Juan’s former Captain spoke.

“Are you alright, son? I’ve received two unofficial reference checks in the last five hours. The first had me thinking you were being scouted, but the second tells me that you may have slipped into a gator infested sink hole.” The man always had a way of cutting through to the heart of the issue.

“I think I’m in over my head, Cap. The shit’s hit the proverbial fan, and I don’t know the rules of engagement or who I can trust.” He didn’t have a plan when he dialed the number to Fort McClellen; he just knew things felt completely out of control.

“Where are you calling from soldier?” Captain Marcel Thibodeaux had been a centering force in the lives and careers of many young men throughout his military career, but Juan and those in his unit were special; One of his boys needed help.

“A phone booth in Union Station, Chicago, sir.” Juan said even as he peered through the glass looking for watching eyes.

“Smart, First Sergeant Ramos. I’m glad to see you haven’t lost your edge. Sitrep, go.”

Juan told the soldier everything, beginning with the job offer to join the Chicago Police Force and ending with the cloak and dagger note he received in Grant Park. The older man listened, setting aside his own feelings as his tactical mind catalogued everything the younger man said. Silence stretched once more as Juan ran out of relevant things to share.

“Let’s break it apart. Who do you trust?” There was something soothing about the familiar question asked in Captain Thibodeaux’s faint Creole accent.

“The DA seems solid, but he requested a new, unknown detective to lead the case. That could mean he doesn’t trust the veteran detectives or that he hopes my lack of connections and experience will hinder an actual investigation. So, I don’t know.

“I trust Judge O’Malley. The kid’s case had him in tears, and he didn’t hesitate to sign the warrant. It’s possible he is dirty, but he didn’t try to stop me from searching the Miller house. My gut says he clean.

“Then there is my mystery informant. He went out of his way to tip me off, but I have no idea why. He could be anyone: vigilante, a competitor, a good Samaritan. Whoever he is, he’s connected and careful. I think I can trust what he’s told me, but his motives are unknown.

“He says Charles Miller is connected to the mob and that there is a mole in the PD. I believe him, which means I can’t trust anyone in the department. I grew up in Chicago, Cap. The Italians have eyes and ears everywhere.” Juan waited to see what he had missed.

“You’re on the ground behind enemy lines. You need allies. Your assessment was solid, but I have a few things to add. I said I received two calls about you. The first was from a Mike Schultz, your DA. He asked that you run lead, but reading between the lines, his choice has some powerful people upset. He wanted to know if you could stand up to the heat and still get the job done. My gut says the DA is a powerful friend and clean.

“The second call worried me quite a bit until five minutes ago. The man seemed sincere, but I made a few calls of my own. He has deep ties to the mafia, and I was worried he was digging into your past on their behalf. Now, I’m pretty sure he is your secret admirer. You’ve met him.” The man wrestled with the desire to reveal the man’s identity and the hope that Juan would make the connection himself.

Juan thought back to the familiar voice over the phone and the note. He was well informed but careful. That spoke of fear, either for himself or Juan. I could be that he was simply concerned for Charles Miller’s safety, but that didn’t feel right. He had reached out the lead investigator trying to convict the man. Which begged the question of how he knew of Juan’s involvement in the first place. It was random chance that pulled him into the conference room to take Thomas Miller’s statement. He remembered the voice over the phone. It clicked.

“Roger Cicero.” He said simply, before voicing the one thing that didn’t fit in his mind. “What does Thomas’ attorney have to do with the mob?”

“Yes, Mr. Cicero called me. He asked almost the same questions the DA had. Could you handle a big investigation with heavy interference and possible danger. His call seemed strange. He said his interest lay in protecting his client, but he didn’t say who his client was. So, like I said, I made some calls.

“Roger Cicero is the mafia’s go to defense attorney. He has been for years. But assuming he was referring to the kid and not the mob as his client, I think the note he sent would make sense. He’s connected Juan, and very capable. The feds have investigated him multiple times, but he always come up clean.”

“He’s clean, Cap. At least regarding Thomas. He destroyed Charles Miller in court, and his anger was real. I almost wish the court officers hadn’t tackled the creep, but then I’d be trying to protect him in the hospital instead of lockup.” Juan was now all but certain Roger Cicero was the owner of the familiar voice he had heard over his station phone.

Knowing the attorney had ties to the Italian mob didn’t disturb Juan as much as he thought it should. He had seen the lengths the man had taken to protect Thomas. He felt certain the man would also protect Charles Miller’s other victims as well. His involvement felt personal. It also explained the secrecy. Roger would know better than most how to avoid the mafia’s eyes and ears.

“So, you have the DA, a judge, and an extremely capable attorney with inside knowledge on your team. It’s a start, but your still outgunned. Let me make a few more calls and see if I can drum up some reinforcements. Would you take a bit of advice from an old soldier?” Marcel knew Juan still saw him as his boss, but that needed to change.

“That’s why I called, Cap. I’m lost,” Juan responded.

“Fuck that shit, Romeo. You are working your network even as your working the case. That is what a good investigator does. You needed a sounding board. I’m in Alabama, so you knew I was likely safe. You’re doing your job well, son.” Marcel was extremely proud, and his tone communicated it.

“If I were you, I’d work on getting your suspect out of low-security holding. It might help to start making some out-of-state connections. If you can find a crime that crosses state lines, you can call in federal assistance. I trained the current Special Agent in Charge in the Chicago FBI Field Office. He went to Langley after leaving the Corps. He’s the person I asked about your attorney friend. I’d vouch for him any day.” Marcel Thibodeaux planned to make another call to his former report as soon as his ear was free.

“Securing the dirtbag was my first priority, and some help from outside the department sounds good to me. Thanks for taking my call, boss.” Juan saw a path forward and felt far less alone.

“I’m not your boss, Detective, but I am your friend and ally. Never doubt that I will take your call. Go get the bastards.” Marcel’s pride was again audible. “And be careful, son. Remember-”

“Trust you’re your guys, your gut, and your gun. Oorah!” Juan couldn’t contain the smile; He hadn’t realized how lonely he had become, but the short conversation reminded him that he was not alone.

. . .

“Judge O’Malley, please.” Juan was still in the small booth in Union Station.

“One moment.” Juan heard several clicks before ringing could be heard once more.

“Cook County Courthouse.” Juan closed his eyes as he responded.

“This is Detective Juan Ramos with the Chicago PD. I need to speak with Judge O’Malley, please. It is urgent.” He hoped the man wasn't in court, or worse gone for the day.

“Judge O’Malley has left for the day. I can transfer you to his office where you can leave a message.” The woman was officious.

“I really need to talk to him today, ma’am.” Juan knew she had the ability to give out the judge’s personal information for official emergencies.

“Well, I suppose I could transfer you to his mobile line,” she said begrudgingly.

“I would appreciate that, ma’am. Thank you.” He tried to keep his anxiety and exasperation out of his tone; he heard ringing over the line again.

“Hello? This is Chris.” Juan could just make out the man’s words through the static and distortion.

“Hello sir, this is Detective Ramos. I’m not sure if you remember me, but I need some official guidance.” Juan waited for a response, hoping the man would forgive his intrusion.

“Hang on, you’re breaking up. Let me park. Damn cell phone.” Juan was smiling again, as he pictured the large orange-haired Irishman juggling the phone and steering wheel in afternoon traffic.

“Alright, let’s try this again. Detective Ramos you said?” the man said twenty second later; the line was much cleaner.

“Yes, I’m sorry to bother you. You signed a warrant for me yesterday after Thomas Miller’s trial,” Juan reminded him.

“I remember you Detective. Not many men have seen me cry. That makes us friends. What can I do for you?” It was rare for the answering service to connect calls to his personal line, which made the judge curious.

“I’m calling from Union Station. I received a tip that Charles Miller works for the mob and has information they want to keep quiet. My source also claimed there is a mole in the department. I am hoping you can tell me how to request a transfer to a more secure location. If my source is correct, I don’t dare approach my boss at the station. I don’t know who I can trust.” Juan took a breath and held it.

“You’re calling from a public phone and talking about mob connections. I take it Uncle Charlie is something worse than an incestuous pedophile?” The man was quick, filling in gaps Juan left open.

“Much worse, sir,” Juan said angrily.

“I see. Can you meet me at the DA’s office in say, twenty minutes?” Chris O’Malley estimated the time it would take the detective to drive to the office from the station.

“If I hurry, yes,” Juan responded.

“I already happen to have an appointment. Head straight for Mike Schultz’s office. See you soon Detective.” The call disconnected, leaving Juan to listen to the dial tone.

. . .

“The bank is in the final stages of foreclosing on the property. They are demanding the mortgage be paid in full, plus late fees and interest for the past four months.” Donald Cassel had been on the phone all day tracking down the status of Elijah Miller’s assets as well the documents and records Thomas Miller would need to begin his adult life.

“What do I do, Roger? How much money is that?” Thomas was trying to be remain calm, but mortgages, titles, and foreclosures were largely foreign concepts to the teenager.

“Don, what is the home valued at and the total pay off amount on the mortgage?” Roger asked the handsome young attorney.

“I’m not a financial advisor nor a real estate agent, Thomas. I can’t legally advise you on the best choice, but I can tell you your options.” Thomas nodded as he searched for answers in Donald’s rich brown eyes.

“The house was built in 1894, three bed, one bath, and about two thousand square feet. The original mortgage was eighty-nine thousand dollars, with a current balance due of sixty-two thousand, five hundred dollars. Based on a couple of comp sales, I believe the home is worth approximatively one hundred thousand dollars.

“Now, your options. First, you can try to get a loan from another bank, but that could be tricky with out any credit. Second, you could wait for the bank to put the home up for auction and hope to buy it for less than the amount due, but that would also require a loan or cash. Lastly, you could let the bank reclaim the home. They will try to liquidate the contents as well, but I am sure we could get a judge to let you take whatever you want to keep.” Donald could see that he had done little to help Thomas’ anxiety.

Roger put his hand on Thomas' shoulder and squeezed gently. He felt the teen relax only slightly.

“What about other assets?” Roger didn’t want to further burden his charge but knew that time was of the essence.

“Your father did have some stocks from his employer and a small retirement account. The total value is around thirty-five thousand dollars, but it will take time to work through probate. The foreclosure will be complete before you see any of that money, I’m afraid.” It saddened the young attorney to deliver bad news to this boy who had already been through too much.

“Thanks for trying sir. I don’t ever want to live in that house again anyway.” Thomas let his remaining stress leech out through his tears as he mentally let go of his childhood home.

“Donald, thank you for your quick work. Stay on the stocks and retirement. We’ll let you know about the house after Thomas has had the time to process the options you gave him,” Roger said, dismissing the young lawyer; Roger and Thomas watched as he gathered his papers and left the small meeting room.

“Why is this so hard, Roger? I hate the idea of going back into that house, but I feel like I’m getting beat up all over again,” Thomas said sadly.

“Your whole life happened in that house, Thomas. It wasn’t all happy, but it is all you’ve known.” Now that they were alone, Roger put out his hand and Thomas took it. “There is a fourth option that Donald doesn’t know about. I could loan you the money, interest free to pay off the bank. Then you can take your time deciding what you want to do. The value will likely continue to rise. You can sell it for a profit right away, or rent it out.”

“I can’t, Roger. You’ve already been too nice to me.” Thomas was crying again.

“Of course you can, and while I understand how you feel, I am not being too nice. I promised to protect you, Thomas. Legally, financially, and physically if need be. The judge chose emancipation, but I was serious when I offered to be your guardian.” Tears were falling from Roger’s eyes as he remembered his other promise to the boy: honesty. “Before you accept, though, I need to tell you exactly who you would be entering into a contract with. I am terrified that you will hate me, but you have a right to know.”

Thomas was suddenly frightened. He knew Roger had a past. It was clear to him that it wasn’t a happy one. His grip tightened on the man’s hand as he thought of the freedom Roger had secured for him. No, this man had saved him and continued to save him. Thomas looked up to him, maybe even loved him. The man had been nothing short of amazing, and nothing from a broken past would change how he saw Roger Cicero. He sat up straight and looked deep into the man’s sad eyes.

“Nothing you say will change how I see you. You are my hero and my friend, Roger Cicero. To me, nothing else matters.” Thomas no longer felt frightened; he would stand by this man regardless of who he had been or what he had done.

Roger shared things with Thomas he had never told anyone. Twenty minutes later, the two men had a bond forged in vulnerability and honesty that would never be broken. Their tear ducts were empty, but their hearts were full.

They arrived at the bank just before closing to secure Thomas’ childhood home. Once that task was complete, they headed into Thomas’ old neighborhood. It was clear to them both that Thomas would need to hire a lawn care and maintenance service before anything further could be done with the house.

“Do you want to go in and grab anything thing?” Roger saw Thomas sink in his seat. “We can come back whenever you’re ready, Thomas. There’s no rush now."

“Thanks.” The teen said quietly. “I don’t know how I will ever be able to go back in there."

“You’ll know when it’s time, and you won't be alone,” Roger said as he pulled away from the curb. “How far away does Brendon live? They should be home by now, so we could ask them to join us for dinner."

. . .

Sam stepped out into the late afternoon sun. She felt alive, giddy, spectacular, but her editor had almost ruined her week. She hated that man. He had laughed at her when she presented her article. Even after reading it, praising it, he had refused to consider it for the lead spot in the next edition. He wanted something graphic to capture the reader, which made Sam think of her second draft. Really, she knew he wanted something from one of her male peers.

“Fucking chauvinist,” she said through a smile that refused to falter.

She looked at the paper folder of five by seven photographs she had picked up from the one-hour photo lab earlier that afternoon. It was the photo that had finally won him over. Sam James’ byline was going to be on the front page of The Windy City Pages, but Samantha was even more excited that the world would meet Thomas Miller through her words.

. . .

Jason Rizzo was back in his booth in the kitchen of Zia Marie’s. He had practically grown up in the place when it was owned by his aunt and uncle. He smirked as he thought about the day he bought them out with money he had made pimping out skinny faggots to fat men in fancy suits. Pimping had been his in. He had consolidated the independent operators on the north side and rebuilt the first slice of Sly Eddie’s crumbling empire.

Like Eddie Vitale, Riz was a streetwise guy. Unlike his predecessor, he wasn’t personally interested in his merchandise beyond the money he could make. He didn’t see the appeal, but plenty of others did. It hadn’t taken long to go from a no-name, nobody to a made man. Money talks, even with the ancient Italian artifacts who supposedly ran the city. No one was watching him because no one wanted his books. That suited Riz just fine.

“Fucking old timers.” The man felt antsy and frustrated, which always made him more aggressive. “Fucking Charlie Miller!”

Business had been good. There was unmet demand which he had worked hard and fast to meet. He had made a fast fortune, but his entire business was suddenly at stake because of one pervert who couldn’t keep his hands off a kid.

He saw the two men he had summoned enter the kitchen unescorted. This was not their first visit. He hoped they would prove more helpful than the high and mighty faggot lawyer had.

“Sit. You two look like fuckin’ Laurel and Hardy,” he said disdainfully.

Neither man, fat nor thin, said anything as they sat across from the young button man. They knew their place, even if they despised the young animal who wrote their checks.

“What’s happening? Has he said anything?” Jason Rizzo asked the two men.

“You got balls, calling us at work, Cugine,” the thin man said through clenched teeth.

“If you want to keep yours, you should watch you tone. I know plenty of men who would pay good money for the chance to remove them.” It was true, and it wouldn’t have been the first time he had profited in that way before icing some poor bastard who pissed him off. “Answer the fucking question!”

The men shifted uncomfortably. It was the fat man who finally obeyed.

“He hasn’t even been pulled into interrogation yet. I’m surprised you haven’t sent in a lawyer though.” The man sounded nervous as he questioned the boss.

“I tried to give him a pass. The bastard does good work, but it turns out Charlie’s legally fucked. I need one of you to do a piece of work, capeesh? He doesn’t get the chance to sing.” Riz sat back and waited for the excuses he knew were coming.

“We can’t off the guy in holding!” At least they were succinct.

“Drop him down some stairs, mix up his medication, poison his food. Hell, find someone to it. Kidnap someone’s kid. Promise to care for some dying tweeker’s grandmother. Figure it out! I don’t like paying empty suits!” Riz let the threat echo as he nodded his head towards the door.

The men recognized both the order and the dismissal. They slid free of the booth and made their way quickly out of the unbalanced man’s presence.

. . .

It was slightly after five o’clock by the time Juan arrived outside the DA’s office door. His receptionist’s desk was empty, and he could hear good-natured banter through the open office door.

“Hello?” He called.

“Detective Ramos? Come in and close the door behind you if you don’t mind.” Jaun recognized Mike Schultz’s voice immediately.

Juan checked his pocket and was relieved to feel the envelope still where he had placed it after reading it in Grant Park that afternoon. He entered the office to find two large, toned men sitting in armchairs in a small sitting area to the right of the DA’s impressive wood desk. Each held a tumbler with a finger of amber liquid.

“Scotch, Detective? Or will you belligerently and stubbornly request Irish Whiskey like this insufferable fool.” Juan couldn’t help but smile. It was like a very sophisticated variation of how he and his friends would have behaved.

“Please call me Juan. I’m a tequila or cervesa man, sir, but I’m still on the clock. I’d take a glass of water, though, if it isn’t too much trouble.” The DA got up to fill another crystal tumbler with water from a glass pitcher.

“None whatsoever. In this office or anywhere after five o’clock, it’s Mike.” The DA said as he handed Juan the glass.

“Chris,” the judge added motioning Juan to the empty couch across from the occupied chairs; He kicked off the conversation once everyone was settled.

“Start from the beginning. Just assume we know nothing, which in Mike’s case is almost certainly true.” The three men laughed, and Juan appreciated fully how shrewd Chris O’Malley was as he felt himself relax; he recounted everything he knew, even sharing the clandestine message.

. . .

The three men sat in silence as they digested what they had heard. It was Mike who finally broke the silence.

“I’m pretty sure I know who slipped you the warning.” He was struggling with how much to reveal as a scandal would not help his campaign in the least.

“I’ve got my own guess,” Chris stated.

“I think I know who he is, but I haven’t confirmed it,” Juan added.

Mike decided that he trusted these men. He also realized that he was more concerned with saving exploited children that protecting his job as the District Attorney.

“Last Friday I made a call to Roger Cicero, off the record. I may have pointed him towards Thomas Miller’s case. I know some things about that man most don’t. I am confident that if he is your source, we can trust him.”

“So you’re responsible for yesterday’s courtroom circus,” the judge tried to sound annoyed, but he was too impressed to pull it off. “Thank you, Mike. I take every nasty thing I’ve ever said about you back.”

“That’s why Roger called you when he needed to cut a few corners,” Juan observed, causing Chris to speak up again.

“Roger let Charlie dig a deep pit and walked him right over the edge, all while ensuring you were waiting at the bottom to pick him up. I’ll be damned if that man isn’t the most prepared lawyer I have ever met.” Chris said not for the first time.

“So, your unnamed source, who we will refer to as Roger believes the mob will use dirty cops to ensure Charles Miller doesn’t talk. I’ll buy that, but what are we going to do about it?” The DA asked.

“I could issue an order to move Charlie, which the DA’s office could approve, but I’m not sure moving him within our system will be enough to keep him alive.” Chris said.

“Well, I know it’s probably a breach, but I called my former CO. Apparently, Marcel has received several calls from Illinois today.” Juan smirked at Mike who nodded sagely. “He had a suggestion. I don’t know if you’ll like it though,” Juan said carefully.

“We won’t know until you tell us my young friend. I’m certainly not going to hold it against you that you reached out to someone you trusted when you learned someone in the department wanted your suspect dead.” Chris was impressed with the young detective and was curious to hear what an experienced Marine Investigator would suggest.

“He told me to look for crimes that crossed state lines. The SAC of the local FBI Field Office used to report to him as well. He encouraged me to call in federal reinforcements.” Juan wasn’t sure how either man would respond as his plan would mean giving up jurisdiction.

“Federal Lockup. I like it.” Chris said simply.

“With those resources, we would have a better chance of finding some of the boys. Plus, we could request a department liaison to work the case alongside the FBI. That would be you, Juan. The feds take down a mafia owned child pornography ring with help from Cook County and hopefully save a bunch of kids in the process. I like it too,” Mike agreed. “Should we see if Daniel is still in his office?”

“Who,” Juan asked confused by the unknown name.

“Daniel Janick, Special Agent in Charge of the FBI’s Chicago Field Office. You’re not the only one on a first name basis with important people.” Mike winked at Juan while silently thanking Roger Cicero again for discovering the young detective, even if it had been complete chance.

. . .

“How many boys did you say?” Daniel Janick was in his office; Initially he had been annoyed by his former Marine Corps CO’s request to stick around for a possible SOS call, but he had forgiven his former boss as soon as Detective Ramos began describing what he had found in Charles Miller’s home.

“The count is still growing, but the last number I heard was eighty-three as of about three this afternoon. They are isolating faces and distinguishing marks. I don’t have the manpower to move as quickly a I’d like, but our plan is to contact nearby city and state agencies to see if we match any of the boys to current missing persons cases.” Juan stated soberly.

“They are trying to move quickly, but the shit is hard to look at. They still had several boxes to go through at the time of that count,” he added after a short pause.

No one spoke for several seconds as the severity of what they were facing sunk in yet again. Finally, Daniel asked a question.

“Mr. Schultz, do you think it’s possible that there are eighty-three local missing person’s profiles fitting the age and gender of the unidentified victims?” The question was asked in an official sounding tone.

“No,” Mike said simply.

“Detective Ramos, do you have reason to suspect that one or more of the unidentified victims may have come from out of state, given the fact that you have more victims than current missing person’s profiles?” Juan would have laughed at the absurd protocol the man was suddenly injecting into their conversation had he not felt ill.

“I do, Special Agent Janick,” he said playing along.

“That’s good enough for me, gentlemen. I have probable cause to at least observe and assist in analyzing evidence to aid in locating out of state victims. I certainly will need to interview Charles Miller. I would prefer to question the subject in my own facility where I am happy to hold him for at least seventy-two hours. If federal charges happen to be brought against him, he will remain in federal custody pending the outcome of the investigation and any resulting trial.” Daniel was looking forward to working with the three men on the phone.

“How do you want to play the transfer?” Juan asked, suddenly dreading the Chief’s response to what he would consider federal interference in local affairs.

“I find surprise works best when dealing with hostile locals. Be at the station in forty-five minutes if you want to watch the fireworks.” Mike and Chris both laughed, but all Juan felt was dread as he stood and moved towards the door.

“Semper Fi, soldier,” he heard over the phone’s speaker as he turned the knob.

“Oorah,” he responded automatically, feeling suddenly justified and slightly more confident as he thought of his fellow Marine’s reminder; Always Faithful.