I rolled out of the bed, took a quick shower, and put my dirty clothes back on. This was the third day I had worn them, and they had developed a certain character.
I needed to make some phone calls, but my charger was in my apartment—which, as far as I knew, was still off limits. I'd need to make that phone call, too.
I went down to the lobby and paid for another night, bought a new charger from the Walgreens on the corner, and went back to the room and plugged in my phone.
The first call I made was to Alderman Juarez's office to set up an interview with his assistant, Jason Gallagher. The receptionist was much more accommodating this time. I made the appointment for two o’clock.
Next I called Mac. I think I woke him up; he sounded groggy when he picked up the line.
“Mac, tell me you have that program ready,” I said a little too brusquely.
“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled. “What time is it?”
“Almost eleven,” I replied. “Can you meet me at your shop at noon? We have an appointment at two to find out if your thing works.”
“My thing works all right. I can give you several references if you want.” A thousand comedians out of work, and Mac was trying to be funny.
“Ha ha. I'll see you in a few.”
Next, I called Jack Larsen to find out where they were with the investigation. He told me they had identified the victim as Victor Sanz and had tracked down his address. His prints were in the system from prior arrests, but, as of yet, they had been unable to determine why he had been in my apartment or who could have killed him. The lead detective on the case, Rowe, hadn’t had much luck. Jack warned me that Rowe wanted to question me again and that he was doing his best to keep him off my back. Unfortunately, they needed me to sign some papers before they could release the crime scene and let me back into my apartment. When I came in, Jack cautioned, I would probably have to sit down and talk to Mr. Rowe, so if I knew anything, it would be in my best interest to tell him now. I assured him that I didn’t have any light to shed on the situation yet. I didn’t have a reason to protect Juarez, but I also didn’t want to complicate my own investigation at the moment.
When I got off the phone, it was time to head out. I debated leaving my phone in the room to fully charge, but decided to take it with me, just in case. I gave it ten minutes to build up what charge it could while I hit the head. Then I made my way to Mac’s place.
Mac was dressed in khakis and a blue polo, with his black hair going crazy, looking every bit the quintessential computer nerd. He held up a flash drive when I walked in and told me he was ready.
“I’ll need ten to fifteen minutes to upload the program and execute it to run in the background of the OS,” he explained, “maybe a little longer if the system is password protected and I need to hack in.”
“I can probably give you twenty minutes,” I told him. “From what I remember, there’s a conference room just off the hallway near the entrance. The assistant’s office is farther down. The alderman is expecting us, so you shouldn’t have any trouble getting in. I’ll position myself so I can keep an eye on the hallway. When you’re done, I’ll see you leave and meet you outside.”
“Sounds good,” he said, sounding a little excited. It wasn’t often he got to be surreptitious in his work. Then he added, “Did they find the guy who shot at you yesterday?”
“No, and I don’t think they will.”
“Should I be worried?” From the sound of it, he already was.
“Maybe. But I think if we stay around people, we’ll be okay. Whoever’s gunning for me doesn’t want a lot of attention. Of that I’m sure.”
“Okay, then.”
Mac offered to drive, which I appreciated. We stopped off at a burrito place for lunch—I treated—then drove up Broadway to the ward office. Traffic was pretty busy, and we seemed to catch most of the lights red, so we arrived right at two.
Mac took a seat while I spoke to the receptionist. She greeted me with a smile, unlike the day before, then punched a button on the phone to inform Mr. Gallagher that his appointment was here. A few minutes later, he came out and shook my hand, then led me to the conference room. I took a seat facing the door, which forced Gallagher to sit across from me. So far, so good. He closed the door behind him, but thankfully there was a window through which I could watch for Mac. A minute or so later, I saw him walk down the hallway, following the receptionist. He flashed a goofy grin at me as he passed.
My plan was to have a very casual conversation with Mr. Gallagher, keeping him distracted and at ease the whole time. I doubted I’d get any helpful information out of him, especially if he had something to do with Ellie’s kidnapping.
I asked him what he knew about Ellie’s relationship with the alderman.
“Arthur wants to marry her,” he said warmly.
“Arthur?” From the way he said it, I assumed that was Juarez’s first name, but it sounded awfully anglicized.
“Yes, sorry. His name is Arturo, but we’ve always called him Arthur.”
Gallagher told me that he had known the alderman since college and he had always admired his ability to bring people together. “I knew he had one heck of a future in politics when he started a multicultural festival at school. He brought people with many different backgrounds together to celebrate both their uniqueness and commonalities. That first gala was like a dream. I'd never seen anything like it before. But it didn't stop there. He kept reaching out to the students, forging friendships and bonds that had never existed before. He's been able to carry that ability into his role as alderman and it's been invaluable. We called it 'mutually respectful diversity' during his campaign.”
He went on to describe the depth of Arthur’s feelings for Ellie and his desire to take their relationship to the next level. It was on Jason’s advice that he had kept it a secret until the right time arose to announce their engagement. Jason expressed some regret at this fact; she might not have gone missing if they had announced it sooner.
Jason wasn’t aware of Ellie’s visits to Neo or of any other recent pursuits, but the visit didn’t surprise him, given her strong desire to experience new things and immerse herself in the city. That was one of the things that attracted Arthur to her. They had met at a street festival, after all, one of many in which Chicagoans come together to celebrate their heritage with food, drink, and music.
The way Jason told it, theirs was a storybook romance, and both of them had been swept away by the affair—at least, at first. Then reality had settled in, and the longer they dated, the trickier the politics got. But their love seemed to be real, and they were sticking it out and dealing with the issues the secrecy caused. And then she had disappeared.
Gallagher was extremely forthcoming and didn't seem to be holding anything back. It was one of the easiest interviews I've ever held. Either he honestly wanted to help his friend, or he was involved up to his beaky little nose and was trying his best to appear otherwise.
After about twenty minutes, I saw Mac walk past the door again. He looked a little nervous but gave me a thumbs up anyway. I probably could have kept Gallagher talking for another twenty minutes, but I decided to wrap it up and see what Mac had to say.
I thanked Jason for his candor and assured him that he had been a big help, then excused myself from the conference room.
I smiled at the receptionist as I left and found Mac waiting for me outside as planned.
“What's got you rattled?” I asked quickly.
“Nothing big. Nobody knew the admin password, so I had to hack it. I was worried about how long it was taking me.”
“Well, Gallagher was a talker, so no worries. I didn't even have to get creative. How long before we find something out?”
Mac sighed in relief.
“A couple of hours probably. Depends on how many files are on his hard drive.” We started walking back to his Beetle. “So what next?”
“Huh? Well, I have another... um... interview.” I hesitated. “If
you want to give me a lift, I’d appreciate it, but other than that, I don’t think you should get involved.”
“An interview, huh?” Mac crinkled his bushy black eyebrows. “I take it you don’t think that guy will be as friendly as the last.”
“Probably not. Best you don’t stick around for it.”
***
The address I had was in Rogers Park, the northernmost neighborhood within the city limits. Like most areas of the city, it had a good side and a not-so-good-side. We were headed for the latter. Most of the residential streets had those little traffic circles that are supposed to prevent drive-by shootings. There was plenty of low-income housing, gang activity, and drug trade, but I’d seen plenty of that during my days on the force. Knowing that I’d be dealing with an informant I’d never met and whose face I’d never seen meant I’d need a little cash to help grease the wheels, so I had Mac stop at an ATM. I'd also probably be talking to some locals, so I needed to adopt a grittier persona.
I held my eyelids open, resisting the urge to blink. When Mac politely asked what the hell I was doing, I explained that I was trying to make my eyes appear bloodshot. Then I pinched my cheeks a few times to get them nice and rosy.
As we neared the address, I had Mac slow down so I could get a feel for the layout of the buildings—and find a couple of quick routes to a busy street where I could catch a cab in case I needed to beat a hasty retreat.
Ahead of us on the right, outside a large brick apartment building surrounded by a security fence, loitered three black kids. I say kids, though they could have been in their early twenties. Their attire was fairly typical urban fashion: skinny jeans and hoodies. One wore a puffy winter coat; two of them wore tan colored work boots, while one had on bright purple sneakers. As we cruised by, I saw that this building was the place I was looking for. I didn’t like it. Those guys could be lookouts… or they could just be kids hanging out on the corner after school. Only one way to find out.
I had Mac drop me off on the next block up, around the corner. He asked if I wanted him to wait, but I assured him that would be unnecessary. While I hoped I could take care of this quickly, it might take a while just to find the guy.
Once the car had turned down the next street, I rounded the corner and pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and let it dangle from my lips. I let myself look nervous: eyes darting, constantly looking behind me. The three kids eyed me as I approached and stifled their laughter. I stopped just out of arm's reach, shifted my weight from foot to foot, and fiddled with my own hat.
One of them finally spoke up. “Whatchu want?”
I cleared my throat. “I’m looking for Jimmy.”
“Yeah,” the one wearing the purple sneakers said, “what you want Jimmy for?”
I cleared my throat again and glanced around nervously.
“Business,” I coughed.
They looked askance at each other.
The first one spoke again, “Jimmy ain’t got no bizness wit you... pig.”
“I ain’t no cop,” I told him.
They glanced at each other again. The third one, the quiet one, looked a little less comfortable than the other two.
“Whatever,” Sneakers said. They turned from me and started to walk away.
I stepped forward and grabbed the one in the puffy coat by the sleeve. He whirled around and swung at me with his other arm. I bobbed my head out of the way and caught his wrist with my free hand. When I did, my jacket must have come open, revealing the pistol at my side. The kid’s eyes went wide.
“I just need to see Jimmy. He’s got something I need.” I tried to make my voice sound strained, desperate.
The kid looked over his shoulder to the quiet one and shouted, “Get outta here, Jim! Dude’s got a gun!”
The two other boys took off in opposite directions. Sneakers went west across the street, while the one I presumed to be Jimmy went east along the sidewalk. I shoved Puffy Coat aside and went after Jimmy.
I hate running. I mean, I really despise it. I don’t like the way it feels when my feet repeatedly slam into concrete, jarring the bones all the way to my inner ear. It’s not that I’m bad at running—I do cardio on a regular basis, and I’m capable of pretty fast bursts of speed. I don’t even lose my breath, which is pretty strange, given my taste for Camels. I just simply don’t like to run.
Jimmy saw me coming after him and kicked it into high gear, heading for the gate to the courtyard of the complex. He took a hard left, slammed the gate open—apparently the lock was broken—and tore across the courtyard with me in hot pursuit. Instead of heading for the main door, he angled toward the side of the building. Given the layout of the place, I figured there was a side entrance or maintenance access over there.
I was gaining on him—his clodhoppers were slowing him down—but if he made it inside the building, I would lose the advantage.
He rounded the corner about three seconds before I did. To my surprise, he had disappeared from view. I didn’t see any doors, but a fraction of a second later I realized there was a gap in the wall, a small alley of sorts. I skidded to a halt, thinking this would be the perfect spot for an ambush, then poked my head around the corner. Jimmy was about fifty feet down the alley, trying to jimmy open a door. Pun intended. The far end of the alley was walled off to present a solid facade to the facing street; apparently the complex was two separate buildings, with this alley offering rear access to both units.
I double-timed it toward Jimmy. He looked up, saw me coming, and put his shoulder into the door. It burst open just as I got there. He tumbled inside, then scrambled to his feet. I launched myself at him and hit him at the waist with a solid tackle, and we both went to the floor. I expected him to put up a fight, but he just lay there groaning softly.
I picked myself up off the floor and gently rolled the boy over. He was breathing, but unconscious. Even in the dim light, I could see a knot forming on his forehead. He must have bonked his noggin pretty good on the cement floor when I tackled him. Great. I still needed to talk to him, so it looked like I’d have to stick around for a while until he woke up.
I took in my surroundings. We were in a dingy hallway that had never been painted, the gray concrete walls turning black in spots from accumulated dirt and grime. It smelled of mildew and cat piss. Several doors lined the hallway, so I went to investigate them. I didn’t think Jimmy would be running away again anytime soon.
The first door was a maintenance closet holding shelves of industrial style cleaner, a few HVAC supplies, and a mop that looked so crunchy I imagined it would disintegrate if someone tried to use it. The second door led to a boiler room. It was dark; I had to search around the wall for a few minutes before I found the light switch. The single, naked bulb brightened the place just enough that I could see. The boiler hadn’t been lit yet for the year, so I decided this room would be the perfect place to wait with Sleeping Beauty, even if it was pretty grungy.
I went back to the hallway, picked Jimmy up under the shoulders, and dragged him into the boiler room. After propping him up against the wall I returned to the janitor’s closet and grabbed a roll of duct tape that had seen better days and the bucket the mop was standing in. I flipped the bucket upside down for a stool, then taped Jimmy’s hands and ankles together. After that, I searched him; I didn’t want to get stuck with a knife or something because I wasn’t thorough.
His wallet was mostly empty, save for a five dollar bill and his driver’s license, which confirmed that this was, in fact, Jimmy Armstrong. The kid was barely eighteen. I put the wallet back in his pants and searched his hoodie. Here I came up with a dime bag of MJ, a pipe, and a teener of ice, which I set on the floor in front of me. Then I lit another cigarette, sat on the bucket, and waited for him to wake up.
11
Jimmy groaned. His eyes fluttered open. Then he saw me sitting on the bucket in front of him and let out a string of expletives that would have impressed any sailor. When he stopped to take a breath, I interrupted.
“Are you finished? You’ve been out for an hour, and I have places to be. I’d like to get down to business.”
He told me I could go and have intimate relations with myself, only more succinctly and with less imagination.
I grunted, then continued, nonplussed. “Here’s the deal. I have several of your possessions, which likely hold some value.” I indicated the paraphernalia lying on the floor. “I believe you have some information which would be valuable to me. If you answer my questions, nothing happens to your stuff and I'll give you $60. If, however, you continue to be an ass, it will all go bye-bye.”
“Whatever, man. Why didn't you text me? Didn't they tell you how this works down at the station?”
“I already told you, I’m not a cop.”
“Who do you work for, then?”
I flashed him a smile. “Now, now. You're the one that has to answer the questions. So, who would I need to talk to if I wanted to buy a girl?”
“You knocked me out and tied me up so you could find out where to get a hooker?” he asked incredulously. “Try Craigslist, dude.”
I picked up his baggie of weed. “I’m not talking about hookers, you moron. I'm talking about something more permanent.”
He stared at me blankly. “Huh?
“A slave, you idiot. Who would I talk to about buying a slave?”
“A slave?” he repeated slowly. “Man, I don't know nothing about that.”
“That's not what my sources say.” I dumped the bag of marijuana on the floor.
“Whoa, whoa! Dude!” he hollered. “Not cool!”
“I hear you have an inside track on the human trafficking market in this city. What do you know?
“Aw, man, come on. That's above my pay grade.”
Next, I picked up the baggie of meth.
Missing: A Mason Gray Case Page 6
