Silent Night

by L T Vargus

  “Helps pass the time. And it’s not mindless. If anything, I think it keeps me focused. It’s like it occupies the part of my brain that tends to wander. Frees up the rest of my mind for problem-solving and all that.”

  “Oh yeah?” Frank asked. “So tell me, what problems are you solving over there exactly? You work out world peace yet? Find a cure for cancer?”

  “Shoot, nothing like that. Smaller things, Frankie,” Vince said sincerely. He didn’t seem to notice the way Frank was rolling his eyes. “Like just now, I realized that I was smoking the levels, one after another, for about a week. And then all of a sudden, I’m getting stuck. Sometimes I’m on the same level for two days before I get past it. Then it hit me. I remembered that I hadn’t played at all for the month or two before my killer run. I’d switched over to Candy Crush Jelly, mostly.”

  A salt truck rumbled past, so loud that Frank felt the vibrations in his bones.

  “Jesus Christ with all this. Are you giving me your dissertation on Candy Crush or do you have a point to make?”

  Vince held up his hands, the phone still clutched in one meaty fist.

  “OK, OK. It’s just that I realized it’s rigged. They make it easy for a while to lure me back in after I hadn’t played for a while, you know? Gotta get me back on the hook. Because if I’m not playing, I’m not spending money.”

  Frank held up a finger. “Please tell me you’re not spending money on this shit. I thought the games were free. I thought that was the whole point.”

  “Well yeah, the game is free. But there’s stuff like gold bars and boosters that—”

  Frank closed his eyes and shook his head.

  “No. Forget I asked.” He sighed and let his eyelids flutter open. “This is the problem with the younger generations, by the way. You can’t just sit and be still for a damn minute. You gotta have all these distractions and doodads to hold your attention. It’s a sad state of affairs is what it is.”

  The brake lights on the Fed’s car suddenly flared, and then he was pulling into traffic.

  “Where’s this joker going now?” Frank mumbled.

  Vince looked up from his phone, searching out the window until he found the Fed’s rental car.

  “Back to the hotel?” he guessed.

  Frank shook his head and put the Buick in gear. “The hotel’s in the opposite direction, numbnuts.”

  “Well, he’s going somewhere,” Vince said.

  “I can see that,” Frank said in his most condescending voice. “I’m wondering where our target is going in the middle of a snowstorm at five-thirty at night in a strange city.”

  He dug out a cigarette and lit it one-handed, keeping his eyes on the snowy road while he did it.

  “It’s not normal Fed behavior. I don’t like it one bit.”

  Chapter 52

  By the time Loshak made it to the right neighborhood, the tiny, delicate flakes had become heavy clusters of white, plummeting toward earth like dropped snowballs instead of fluttering down. Where the snow hit, it stuck.

  The rental’s wipers swept back and forth. Ice built up on their edges and left wet distortions streaked across the glass.

  Visibility dropped to a few car lengths at best, and Loshak had to squint up at the street signs to read them. Luckily, the navigation on his phone told him when to turn and again when he had reached his destination.

  All along one side of the road, parking had been blocked off with concrete barricades, and scaffolding and construction netting covered the façade of an old building, stretching up into the opaque curtain of swirling snow.

  Loshak circled the block and found a spot on a cross street where he could park. It only took a couple of seconds after turning off the car before the cold was forcing its way inside. He checked the address on his paper one more time, then zipped his coat all the way up, past his chin.

  A gust of wind ripped the door out of his hand when he opened it, rocking the whole car. He climbed out and wrestled the door shut again. Obviously, the weather was picking up. Hopefully, he could wrap this interview up pretty quickly and get back to the station before things got really bad.

  Chapter 53

  “He’s headed around the block,” Vince said.

  Frank rolled his eyes. “Thanks for the play-by-play, Tony Romo. I wasn’t watching the exact same guy you were.”

  “How we gonna see him if we’re parked over here and he’s around there?” Vince said, leaning in his seat like that would help him see around corners. “What if he gives us the slip?”

  For once, Frank had to admit that the lughead had a point.

  “Keep your shirt on.” He put the car back in gear and edged out into the road again. The back tires slid a little, but nothing major. They caught traction after a second and pushed the Buick down the street nice and easy.

  They turned the corner, staring down a line of apartment buildings, the south side of the street blocked off for construction. There weren’t any cops around making sure nobody was parking illegally, though, and there was a sweet little niche between the concrete barriers about halfway down where it looked like the Buick would fit.

  “He’s going into that one.” Vince turned in his seat as Frank drove past. “Fourteen eleven.”

  “Keep an eye on it while I park,” Frank said. He checked one more time for cops, then made a slow u-turn in the street. “Thing handles like a fucking submarine.”

  “Should we call the boss?” Vince asked, ducked down where he could see out Frank’s window now. “All this after-hours running around. Could be related.”

  “Hold your horses.” Frank pulled the Buick into the spot. Perfect fit. He knocked the stick up into Park. “Which one did he go into?”

  Vince leaned over him to point. “That brown one. Are you gonna make the call? Let him know?”

  Frank considered it for a minute, pursing his lips. Then he shook his head.

  “For now, we wait. It’s probably nothing.”

  Something in his gut didn’t like it, though. What was this fuckhead up to?

  Chapter 54

  Benjamin Walsh lived in one of those blocky pre-war apartment buildings clad in heavily painted concrete. Loshak peered up at the high-rise tower, snow flitting past the facade that stretched up into the heavens. Then he pushed through the front door.

  Inside, the floor of the lobby was tiled in black and white hexagons, and the mailboxes and fixtures were all made from tarnished brass. The originals had probably been wrought iron, taken down in a scrap metal drive for the war effort, then replaced sometime afterward. It would’ve been a nice place back while it was still fairly new. It wasn’t a dump now, but you could see the weight of age on everything.

  Loshak paused on the wet, salt-covered doormat to stomp the snow off his shoes and check his phone for anything from Deluca. Nothing yet. That creeping dread crawled up over his shoulders again to grab him by the scruff of the neck. He chewed his lip, considered calling her to make sure she was on her way to check on Spinks.

  But no. If she was driving or they were engaged with the suspect, Loshak didn’t want to distract her. She would send an update as soon as they were out of there. Trust the plan, he told himself. He was the one who hatched it after all.

  He headed up the stairs, shoes leaving a trail of murky wet footprints on the stone.

  According to Walsh’s vehicle registration, the pharmacist lived in apartment 2C. The door in question was tan, slathered in layers and layers of paint, many of them visible in the peeling places, evidence of the years gone by. Loshak bit back the urge to check his phone one more time and knocked.

  Something shuffled inside. Loshak thought he saw movement behind the peephole, shadows shifting, but the door stayed shut.

  Maybe Walsh was wary of strangers. It hadn’t looked like a very dangerous neighborhood outside, but then again, the basic markers of gang activity and criminal behavior on a neighborhood would be harder to spot during a snowstorm.

  Loshak cleared hi
s throat and knocked again.

  “Special agent Victor Loshak with the FBI,” he said, digging out his credentials and flipping open the wallet in view of the peephole.

  Nothing.

  Then a male voice said, “Just a second.”

  Chains rattled and a deadbolt clunked. The door swung open to reveal a man in a button-down blue shirt and khakis. Thirty-something white male. Clean cut dark hair. No beard or whiskers. Handsome in a bland way, like an extra in a movie. The kind of guy Loshak would’ve had trouble remembering two minutes after he saw him.

  “Mr. Walsh?” Loshak asked.

  “That’s me. How can I help you, Agent…?”

  “Loshak.”

  “Agent Loshak. Sorry, I’m terrible with names.” He stepped back and opened the door. “Would you like to come in?”

  Loshak followed him through a short entryway into a rectangular living room decorated with the usual bachelor trio — couch, coffee table, flatscreen. The furniture was all well-made, nothing cheap or second-hand, and the place was spotless. Just from the look of the pharmacist and his surroundings, it was obvious Walsh liked to keep things neat and orderly.

  “Make yourself at home, Agent Loshak,” Walsh said. “I was about to start some coffee. Can I make a cup for you?”

  Loshak almost refused. It would keep him here even longer than necessary if the guy was running around playing host instead of talking. At the same time, accepting hospitality had a way of putting subjects at ease, Loshak had observed. The routine made them feel in control of the situation, brought them a kind of comfort, and law enforcement eating in someone’s kitchen or living room seemed to have a humanizing effect, made the whole thing feel less formal, more casual.

  Some people, too, needed something to do with their hands while they talked, a distraction from the fact that they had an FBI agent in their home when they had probably only ever seen one on kitschy TV crime dramas.

  “Sure, that would really hit the spot,” Loshak said, dry-washing his hands to play up the cold a little. He didn’t have to try very hard. It was actually kind of chilly in the apartment. Walsh must have been hot-blooded. “It’s terrible outside.”

  Walsh gave him a commiserating smile. “A nightmarish mess of ice and snow, or as we call it in Chicago, ‘Tuesday.’”

  Loshak took a seat on the far end of the couch, and Walsh disappeared into the kitchen. Soon the gurgling of a coffee maker drifted into the living room.

  Something tingled in Loshak’s gut, and it was distracting enough that he had a hard time sitting still. He rose and walked to the kitchen doorway to watch Walsh make the coffee. He didn’t know what he was expecting to see, but everything about the process looked utterly normal. Beans ground and placed into the filter. The machine gurgling to life seconds later. Walsh got out two mugs and set them next to the carton of half-and-half already waiting on the counter.

  While Walsh’s back was turned, Loshak looked over his shoulder to take in what he could see of the apartment. There wasn’t much to read into. No books or photos or framed degrees. Not even any differently colored accent pillows on the couch. Like so many people nowadays, instead of art, Walsh had his flatscreen mounted on the wall over an old walled-in fireplace. No guns or ammo or incriminating black trench coats or ski masks on the hooks by the door, just a beige winter coat with gloves and a plain gray stocking cap hanging out of one pocket. Everything more or less looked like it belonged in either an IKEA or L.L. Bean catalog.

  “Have to say, I’m surprised anyone would be out tonight,” Walsh said, leading them back into the living room with two coffee mugs in his hands. “They’re calling for the worst blizzard since 1967. Supposed to drop at least twenty-two inches overnight and keep the fun going all day tomorrow.”

  He held out a steaming cup to Loshak. The agent took it and sat on the couch.

  “Thanks.” Loshak wrapped his hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into the muscle and bone. “Yeah, I’m not looking forward to the drive back to the station, but on the bright side, at least the weather will keep me from taking up too much of your time.”

  He gave Walsh a self-deprecating smile to let the pharmacist know it was supposed to be a vaguely humorous jab at his occupation.

  Walsh mirrored it politely. “So, what can I do for you, Agent Loshak?”

  “I suppose by now you’ve heard about the mass shootings taking place around the city?”

  The pharmacist stopped mid-drink to nod, a grave expression somewhere between concern and anger on his face.

  “Awful,” he said. “It’s just… What is the world coming to?”

  Loshak made an agreeing sound and took a sip of coffee. “Well, it turns out you might have been an eyewitness to one of his getaways without realizing it.”

  “Oh, wow.” Walsh lifted his mug to his lips, then brought it back down without drinking. “How do you figure something like that?”

  “A white Toyota Camry registered in your name was parked in a parking garage near the AMC Theater on Clark and Ohio the afternoon of the theater shooting,” Loshak said. “Did you happen to see anything suspicious while you were there?”

  Walsh pursed his lips and shook his head.

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “I mean, maybe I just wasn’t paying enough attention.”

  Loshak gave him a friendly smile. “Had your mind on other things?”

  “Yeah.” Walsh’s mouth turned up into a slight smile. “If this is the same day I’m thinking of, I’d just spent all day fighting the insurance company for one of my regulars. Fucking nightmare. She’s on a medication for almost twenty years, and suddenly they don’t cover it anymore?” He shook his head. “Anyway, I was kind of wrapped up in that. I remember hearing a bunch of sirens at one point, but I didn’t hear what was actually going on until I got home and flipped on the TV.”

  “Do you work near the theater that was attacked or were you just in the neighborhood?”

  “Sorry, I should’ve mentioned that first. I work at the CVS on Dearborn. A lot of us have parking permits to that garage. It’s a lot easier than fighting for a spot on the street.”

  “There’s no parking lot at your pharmacy?”

  Walsh chuckled a little.

  “Oh, there is, but we’ve got to leave it open for customers. Employees aren’t allowed to park in the lot.” He rolled his eyes. “Unless you’re the store manager, of course.”

  Loshak took another sip of coffee, then rested the mug on his knee, moving his fingers back so that he was only holding the handle. The steaming liquid had really warmed him up fast. He wished he could set it on the coffee table, but there weren’t any coasters, and the wood looked fairly expensive.

  He glanced back over at Walsh. “You were at work pretty late Thursday night, if you heard the sirens.”

  “Is that late?” Walsh joked. “Welcome to the life of a pharmacist. There’s no guaranteed lunch breaks, the hospitals are trying to kill your patients, the insurance companies are trying to screw your patients, and quitting time is just a pipe dream.”

  If Walsh really had been at work, they could easily get security cameras to back his alibi up. The killer probably wouldn’t have gone with something so simple to disprove, which meant that right now, on the other side of town, Spinks, Deluca, and Brunhauser were probably confronting the real shooter. Then again, maybe their long shot was simply another big miss. Shouldn’t come as much surprise, should it?

  His heart sped up a little, and he reached for his phone. Walsh’s eyes jumped to follow the motion of his hand.

  But no, Loshak realized, he shouldn’t jump the gun on this. Too much could go wrong relying on technology like security cameras — they went down, they weren’t pointed the right direction, the footage got lost. Better to see if Walsh had anybody else who would be able to verify his whereabouts.

  “So, is it just you working the pharmacy?” Loshak asked.

  “Once a week, we have a floater come through,” Walsh said, “
but for the most part, it’s just me. And my tech, Raeanna.”

  Something shifted in the pharmacist’s face when he mentioned the technician, though his voice remained on the same smooth, even keel. Was that anger? Frustration? Or was it just a trick of the light?

  “I don’t know what I’d do without her help,” Walsh added before Loshak could ask another question. “She’s my last line of defense against our store manager, Clint. Talk about a douchebag. The power of running a CVS has definitely gone to his head.”

  Did Walsh’s eyes just dart to the side? Loshak blinked. The warmth from the coffee plus the overheated apartment was making it hard to focus, making his brain slow and foggy, like he’d just eaten a Thanksgiving dinner and was about to nod off.

  Walsh scooted closer to Loshak, turning his body to a three-quarter profile, and lowered his voice. “I’ve had to run him out of the pharmacy before. I showed up a little early for work, and he was back there. None of the controlled stuff was missing, but it was pretty suspicious, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah.” Loshak’s voice sounded muffled in his ears. “But nothing was missing?”

  “Not that time,” Walsh said, raising his brows eyebrows like he was conveying significant information with them.

  Loshak rubbed his eyes. Slowly, his brain came up with the answer.

  “You’ve had medications go missing before?” he asked. “Or since?”

  Loshak knew that meant something, could be important, but he suddenly felt a little lost in the conversation. He definitely remembered that he’d been working an angle relating to missing drugs, but at the moment he was having a hard time remembering why.

  “Have you reported him to the DEA? They’re sup…posed…”

  Walsh blinked, but not with his eyelids. It was just a flash of nictitating membrane closing in from the sides. There and then gone.

  Loshak flinched, then tried to get himself under control. It was too hot in here, and the heat and lighting and his worry about Spinks and the detectives were all combining to play tricks on his brain, make him jump at shadows.