Chapter 10
The next morning, Beau Lee, Nellie, and Capes entered a quaint diner and were immediately overcome by the smell of frying bacon, griddle cakes, and coffee brewing.
Beau Lee craved a hot cup of joe. He hadn’t slept well, though the hotel’s mattress was comfortable enough.
His mind had been on Hollis for the entire night, causing him to wake when thoughts concerning the case bombarded him. So many questions…
Not sleeping well caused wild fluctuations in his appetite.
Around four a.m., he’d gotten up, left the hotel room, and walked to the vending machine at the end of the hall, where he almost gave into temptation by purchasing his favorite: a cheese Danish.
But he could hear Gigi’s voice in his head reminding him that eating sugar at odd hours would lead him on an unhealthy path.
His last high-profile case had led to stress eating.
He’d consumed one or two Danishes a day.
By the time the case concluded, he’d gained ten pounds and was diagnosed with prediabetes.
The hostess was a tall, red-headed woman in her golden years. She was dressed in modest workwear and thick-soled sneakers. “How many?” she asked.
“Four,” Beau Lee said. “We’re expecting one more to join us.”
“All right,” she said, grabbing four menus. “Right this way.”
She escorted the men to a table near the window with a view of the street. They sat and began perusing the breakfast options.
“Grits sound good,” Capes said. “A couple of slices of toast, and I’m set.”
“You sure this Doyle fella’s coming?” Nellie asked. “We’ve never had a cop want to cooperate in an investigation before.”
“We’ve never had a case where a cop was the victim,” Beau Lee said.
“And when are you planning to see Alvarez?”
“Right after we talk to Officer Doyle.”
“Well, about that,” Nellie said, pushing his menu aside. “How long do you think you’ll be here in Chicago?”
“As long as it takes.”
“He won’t be lonely,” Capes said. “I’ll be watching his back and keeping him company every step of the way.”
“I’m going to hold you to that,” Nellie said. “This ain’t our town, and from what I hear, things work differently around here. Not always on the up and up, if you get my drift.”
Capes shrugged. “It’s nothing we can’t handle.”
“What time is your flight back home?” Beau Lee asked.
“Later this afternoon,” Nellie said. “Three-thirty.”
“Want us to roll with you back to O’Hare?”
“Don’t bother. You’ve got enough to deal with as it is. I’ll be fine.”
A bubbly, fair-skinned waitress planted herself tableside. “And good morning, gentlemen,” she said. “What can I get you all?”
“Coffees for the table,” Nellie blurted. “Extra hot.”
The waitress wrote on her order pad. “Got it…. Do we know what we’d like to eat?”
“Grits was sounding good, but I’ll go with the biscuits and gravy,” Capes said. “Scrambled eggs and bacon on the side.”
“Grits, eggs, and bacon,” Beau Lee said. “Extra butter for the grits, please.”
“And how about you, handsome?” the waitress asked Nellie with a flirtatious grin.
He groaned. “Plain oatmeal. No butter. No brown sugar, either. Just the berries on the side.”
“A healthy choice,” she said. “I like a man who watches what he eats.”
Nellie’s frown quickly faded, replaced by a slick smile.
“That’ll be all?” the waitress asked.
“Yes,” he said. “Thank you very much.”
The waitress winked. “I’ll get that going for you.” She reached across the table to collect the menus and noticed the extra one. “Oh, are you expecting someone?”
“We are,” Beau Lee said. “Not sure when he’ll show.”
“Well, when he does, I’ll circle back around.”
“That’d be great.”
The waitress returned to the kitchen and a moment later came out with a carafe and three mugs. She set them on the table and began to pour the piping-hot coffee. “Cream and sugar are on the table,” she said, “but let me know if you need extras.”
“Will do,” Beau Lee said. He waited until she was out of earshot and elbowed Nellie’s arm.
“What?” Nellie asked.
“I’m just looking at a guy who likes to watch what he eats,” Beau Lee said mockingly. “Man, she’s feeling you.”
“Ah, give me a break.”
Beau Lee looked toward the door, anticipating Finn’s arrival. “I hope this guy doesn’t stand us up.”
“Any idea what he looks like?” Capes asked.
“Not a clue, but Mrs. Montrose said he’d have no problem recognizing us.”
“What did she mean by that?” Nellie asked.
“Only that he’s seen us on TV a few times.”
“Yeah, he was probably cursing at the screen. I’m uneasy about this whole thing. Again, we have never had an officer want to cooperate in an investigation before.”
“Let’s give him a fair shake,” Beau Lee said, taking a sip of coffee. “Mrs. Montrose says he’s a loyal friend to Hollis and is real torn up about what happened to him.”
“I bet,” Capes said.
“Look, let’s check all the bias at the door. We don’t want cops jumping to conclusions about us, so how about we avoid doing the same?”
“You’re right, boss,” Capes said. “Everybody starts with a clean slate.”
What Beau Lee knew of Finn was that he was a fifteen-year veteran of the Metra police department and had been Hollis’s partner for eight of those years.
The way Mrs. Montrose described him made him sound like most veteran officers Beau Lee encountered—gruff and worn-out—and he expected Finn to look the same way.
The waitress arrived with a large tray and lowered the plates of steaming food and Nellie’s bowl of oatmeal with a side of fresh berries onto the table. The steel-cut oats looked pathetic next to Beau Lee’s and Capes’s platters of carbs, fluffy eggs, and slices of fatty pork.
“Can I get you gentlemen anything else?” she asked.
“Looks like we’ve got everything we need,” Beau Lee said. “Thank you.”
The waitress beamed with satisfaction and returned to the kitchen. Beau Lee sprinkled salt and pepper on his grits and pushed a pad of butter onto the creamy white hominy. It began to melt as he took a bite of bacon and chewed like he hadn’t had a meal in days.
A short, stocky man with a bulldog’s face entered the restaurant and stood a moment. He stroked his silver mustache as he scanned the booths packed with patrons. His bushy brows were like canopies over his probing blue eyes. He locked onto Beau Lee and approached with heavy steps.
“I think this might be our guy,” Beau Lee said. The man carried a manila folder and held himself with the confidence and authority that only came from wearing a badge and carrying a pistol that had enough punch to blow a hole through meat and bone.
Beau Lee wiped his hands on a napkin and slipped out of the booth to greet him. “Detective Finn Doyle, I presume.”
“Chicago’s own.”
“Nice to put a name to the face.”
“Likewise, Attorney Cooper.” Finn shook Beau Lee’s hand. “It’s terrible we’re meeting under these circumstances. I’m sick over what happened to Hollis. I haven’t been able to think about anything else since I got the news.”
“The sentiment is shared by his family and so many others,” Beau Lee said. “These are my associates, Attorney Nelson Rivers and our firm’s investigator, Brent Capers.”
“Nice to meet you all,” Finn said, offering his hand for quick shakes.
He was gruff but polished—a crisp collared shirt under a peacoat, pressed slacks, and shined loafers—an appearance that didn’t deviate much from what Beau Lee had expected.
Finn removed his coat and hung it on a hook fixed to a wall with black-and-white photos of the historic coffee shop throughout the decades.
The photos told a story—the shop was a staple in the city where politicians and celebrities had dined over the years.
Even Muhammad Ali had broken bread with the Honorable Elijah Muhammad in a booth that looked vaguely similar to the one they were sitting in.
Finn sat down, placed the manila folder on the table, and rolled up his sleeves.
“Never been here before. How’s the coffee?” he asked, his thick forearms displaying faded tattoos that Beau Lee struggled to make sense of.
“Not bad. I left a menu for you. Hungry?”
“Oh, I can always eat,” he said, pulling what appeared to be a partially redacted police report from the folder.
“Rocky—er, Mrs. Montrose said this would help you. It wasn’t easy to get, but a guy owed me a favor.
Not sure who filed it. Someone blacked out the arresting officer’s info with a Sharpie. ”
“Not uncommon with leaked reports,” Beau Lee said. “Can I take a look?”
Finn handed the report to Beau Lee. “Sure, look that over, and I’ll see if this place serves up corned-beef hash.”
Finn flipped through the menu while Beau Lee read the report.
He immediately scanned the summary of events, noting Hollis’s failure to identify himself as law enforcement.
It was the first sign that the report was likely full of falsehoods.
Rocky was adamant that Hollis always notified officers he was police when stopped, and Beau Lee had little doubt that it was true.
Next was the suggestion that Hollis had been aggressive toward the officers.
The words “threatening” and “combative” popped off the page.
But what Black man in his right mind, let alone a cop, would behave that way during a traffic stop or with any police encounter?
Lashing out or becoming combative was like rolling the dice during roulette and hoping it landed on red.
It was the great unknown—the officer’s disposition, their incomplete knowledge of the law, and inclination for bias or profiling could often dictate the outcome.
Beau Lee continued to read, eventually arriving at the most damning sentence: “Suspect drew his firearm, aimed it at arresting officers, and fired two rounds. In response, officers opened fire, striking the suspect numerous times in the back…”
Beau Lee felt nauseous, and his chest pounded. He struggled to calm his breathing.
Finn looked up from the menu: “You all right, Mr. Cooper?”