I saw it immediately, stark white contrast to the brown metal of the Picasso. As I stared, it began to ring.
I didn’t want to touch anything the Chemist had touched, but I took a chance, assuming he wouldn’t kill me this early in the game. I set down the tracking phone and gently lifted the cardboard cup by the rim. Inside was a cell phone, an older, larger model.
I answered the call.
“I found it.”
A pause. Then, “Walk east. I’ll be watching. If I see anyone approach you, this is over, and people will die. Keep the line free for further instruction. If I try calling, and it’s busy, people will die. Remember the rules.”
And then silence.
I had no choice. I began to walk.
In a way, this was all pretty funny. The Chemist was working damn hard to make sure no one arrested him, when all he had to do was knock on the mayor’s door and His Honor would gladly sign over a personal check. Unfortunately, I had a hard time seeing the humor when I had no backup, no radio, no GPS, and no guns. I assumed my fellow officers would still be able to follow me, but that didn’t mean they would. The city of Chicago had made it abundantly clear that the payoff was more important than my personal safety.
I walked east to Dearborn, went right, then continued east on Washington. The day was hot, muggy, in the upper eighties. The sun hurt my face, still pink from the rough scrubbing the hospital had administered. I moved the sunglasses from my head to my eyes, and kept my pace casual even though my heart rate was set on sprint.
After a block, I had an unhealthy film of sweat covering my body, and a really good feeling I was being followed. A yellow cab, creeping along ten yards behind me, matching my pace. I stopped, pretended to adjust the suitcase handle, and looked at it over my Ray-Bans. The taxi also stopped. I couldn’t see inside very well—the sun glared off the windshield—but the cab was hired and it looked like a single occupant in the backseat.
In truth, I didn’t know if I’d recognize the Chemist even if I was staring right at him. The only thing I remembered from my brief encounter with him in Rec ords was the port-wine stain on his face, and his beard. Both were fake. Just like the eye patch.
If I ran into someone with a single distinctive feature, that might be our man. But if he went without a disguise, he could be anyone. Maybe even someone I’ve already met.
I stopped futzing with the bag and continued east on Washington. I sensed that the cab resumed pursuit, and then actually saw it peripherally as it came up on my right.
“Handoff, from a jogger, soon,” Unibrow said through the open backseat window.
Then the cab accelerated past and turned right on Wabash.
The cell phone rang. I connected after the first ring, wondering if the Chemist was going to go ballistic because he spotted the cab.
“Hello?”
A pause, then, “Go to the Art Institute and wait on the steps. You have four minutes.”
That was about four blocks away, one east and three south. I couldn’t make it in time by walking.
I began to jog.
Normally, a four-block jog wouldn’t even get me winded. But heat, exhaustion, sickness, and a forty-five-pound anchor all conspired to have me wheezing like an asthmatic after the first hundred yards. I kept up the pace, my eyes scanning the crowd ahead, looking for the police jogger who was going to hand off something to me. I hoped it was a cold beer.
The jogger, wily little devil, came up from behind after I turned onto Wabash. He ran past me with ease, not so much as a bump, and I almost didn’t think it was him until I thought to check my blazer pocket.
No beer. But he had left me a walkie-talkie and a wireless earpiece. I switched it on, leaving it at whatever frequency they’d set it at, and stuck the receiver/mike combo on my ear.
“This is Daniels,” I panted. “He told me to go to the Art Institute.”
“This is Reynolds, SRT.” It was Unibrow. “We know. Miller took a guess, and the cell phone the Chemist gave you is Trace. Hotham’s. We’re listening in, and we can ping your location. We’re also tracing his calls. It’s not as easy, because they’re being routed through a PC—one of those computer phone lines. It’s not the same phone he called you from initially. That was one of those pay-by-the-minute cells. We’re not getting anything from it. But we should have his new location in a few minutes.”
I didn’t waste any breath answering. The Art Institute was a block away, on my left, and I only had about a minute to get to it. I was sweating freely now, my shoulder beginning to ache from tugging the suitcase. The sidewalks were packed, and the citizens of Chicago paid me little attention as I ran. A few stepped aside. Most ignored me. None offered to give a struggling lady a hand. I passed the Prudential building, and saw the green lion sculptures in the distance, standing vigil on either side of the steps in front of the Ar. Institute, and then the phone rang.
“Daniels.”
“Now go to Buckingham Fountain. Stay on foot. You have seven minutes.”
“I need—”
I wanted to say more time, but the connection ended. The fountain was another three blocks north, and maybe three more blocks east. I couldn’t do six blocks in seven minutes, not as tired as I already was.
“Did you get that?” I said into my radio.
“Affirmative. We got a lock on the phone he’s calling from, and it doesn’t make sense.”
“Why not?” I huffed.
“It seems to be coming from Jason Alger’s house.”
The retired cop whose home had been turned into a death trap and whose fingers had been left in the fridge.
“We’re sending a team to check it out.”
“Bad idea. Last time—”
“We’ll be careful. But Alger is uptown. How did he get across town so fast?”
I made it to Jackson, and the light was against me, so I couldn’t cross. It would delay me, but I was grateful for the rest.
“Could have had a remote video camera planted at the Daley Center,” I said. “Or he was watching from a distance. Or maybe he’s forwarding his calls through Alger’s computer somehow.”
“Or maybe he has an accomplice.”
I didn’t like that possibility. Not at all. A guy on the corner next to me gave me a sideways glance, then resumed his cell phone conversation. Suddenly everyone on the street was a potential spy. Or a potential poisoner.
The light changed, and I put it into second gear and charged across the street, almost pulling off my arm when the suitcase wheels caught on the curb. I switched to my left hand, couldn’t find my rhythm, then switched back. I cut left on Van Buren into the cul-de-sac leading to Congress, and huffed and puffed up the bridge over the railroad tracks.
When I reached the apex, my legs, arm, and lungs were pudding. But I could see the Buckingham Fountain ahead, one of Chicago’s most recognizable landmarks, the center jet shooting a hundred and fifty feet into the air. When I got there, I was seriously considering jumping in to cool off. Or to slake my thirst.
Strangely, I was in the same part of Grant Park where my father bought me those three ice creams, years ago. Where were all the damn vendors now that I really needed one?
My phone rang, even though I hadn’t yet crossed Columbus.
“I’m almost there.”
“New destination. Navy Pier. Take Columbus to Grand Avenue on foot. You have fifteen minutes.”
Then he hung up. That little mother...
“Lieutenant, this is Reynolds. We have a team en route to Alger’s house.”
“Why? So you can shake his hand and congratulate him when he gets his money?”
That might have been harsh, considering the casualties they’d suffered, but I was exhausted and in a mood.
“We’re going to watch and wait. The mayor doesn’t want him picked up until we get the all clear. But you can be damn sure we won’t let him out of our sights.”
Reynolds sounded pissed, and I realized he didn’t like playing by these
rules any more than I did. Maybe during their surveillance the Chemist might accidentally have his head blown off. The thought made me smile.
I paused for a moment in front of the giant fountain, the Windy City blowing a mist of its water onto my face. I had no idea how clean the water was, but it felt wonderful.
Navy Pier was a mile away, maybe a little more. To make it in fifteen minutes, I needed to haul ass. But something was bothering me. The Chemist liked to talk. Even after he sprayed me with TEPP, he stuck around for a bit to chat. But his last several phone calls had been abrupt, clipped. Either he was worried about being caught on the phone, or ...
“Reynolds, what’s the number the Chemist is calling from?”
He read it to me.
“Have you tried calling it?”
“No. We don’t want to tip him off that we know.”
But I could call him back without letting on that I knew his number. I pressed *69. The phone rang ten times. No answer. I tried entering in the numbe. Reynolds gave me. Another ten rings, no pickup.
Then I waited. If the Chemist thought he was being messed with, he’d call me back to scold me. But my phone didn’t ring.
“He’s not in the house,” I said. “He’s not watching me. He’s at the drop point already.”
“Are you sure?”
“Have your team do a thermal scan of the Alger house. I bet it’s empty.”
I knew I was right. But how could we use this to our advantage? I had fourteen minutes to make it to Navy Pier, and if I wasn’t being monitored, I could use that for something else. What could this extra time buy us?
“Get me transportation. The nearest cop in the area. And if Rossi is available, have him come along.”
“Rossi?”
“If not him, try Taurus or Wesson or Daewoo. Any of those guys.”
“Okay. Got it.”
I waited two minutes. My breathing and heart rate returned to normal. Th. Chemist didn’t call, demanding why I was still at the fountain. Now I was positive he wasn’t watching me. I briefly toyed with the idea of grabbing a cab, getting on a plane to the Bahamas, and seeing how long two million bucks would last.
I heard a motor coming from the right, and did a double-take at the police scooter heading toward me, the manure-fixated Officer Buchbinder at the helm.
“Hello again, Lieutenant. I was the closest cop in range. How’s that for a coincidence?”
“Get me to Navy Pier,” I said, securing the suitcase on the small rack at the rear of the bike with bungee cords. “And watch out for horses.”
“Don’t need to tell me. I scrubbed my bike for so long I had dung stuck in my fingernails.”
He offered me his hand for inspection, which I judiciously ignored.
I mounted the scooter and asked, “Where’s the gun?”
“The what?”
“Rossi. Daewoo. Those are gun manufacturers.”
“I was on parking detail. No one told me to bring you a gun. Just to pick you up.”
“Give me your gun.”
“Why?”
I spoke between my teeth. “Because I need one.”
“It’s my gun. I bought it.”
It’s a good thing he didn’t hand it over, because I would have shot him.
“Take Lake Shore Drive,” I ordered Buchbinder. Then I hit my call button. “Reynolds, I’m going north on LSD. Have Rossi meet me on Monroe.”
“Roger that. The SRT has checked the house for thermals. Negative.”
Buchbinder refused to turn onto Lake Shore.
“What the hell are you waiting for?”
“There’s a lot of traffic.”
“Jesus, take the damn footpath.”
“What if I hit somebody?”
“Buchbinder, get the damn bike moving or...” What the hell could I threaten a parking cop with? “Just get the damn bike moving.”
He crossed the street and pulled onto the footpath.
“What’s our next move, Lieutenant?”
I had to choose my words carefully. I knew O’Loughlin was listening in.
“I think he’s using an auto-dialer on the computer. Like telemarketers use. That means he’s not at Alger’s house, it’s just a recording. If you can get your team into the house safely, maybe we could find out where the drop point is before he gets there, so you can get men in place.” I added, “To follow him.”
“Roger that.”
“Lots of people taking walks today,” Buchbinder whined. “Dogs too.”
“Go faster,” I told him.
We zipped past some Rollerbladers, but Buchbinder was still driving like an old lady in a rainstorm. A blind old lady, with gout in her accelerator foot.
If I got a gun, and if I had some private time with the Chemist, I’m sure I could convince him to tell me what he was planning. That might not be what the super, the mayor, or the city wanted, but letting this psycho go not only went against everything I believed in as a cop, but more people were going to die. I was sure of it.
Buchbinder picked up a tiny bit of speed. On our left, Lake Shore Drive, eight lanes packed with cars. On our right, a strip of grass and trees, and beyond that, Lake Michigan, a giant black mirror dotted with tiny white boats.
I checked my watch. Eight minutes left.
Maybe this would all work out. Maybe—
“Dog poo!” Buchbinder screamed.
He jerked the handlebars left, then right, avoiding the little brown land mines dotting the walkway.
“We’ve been hit! Did you see the size of that pile?”
“Buchbinder, dammit, you need to—”
And then he turned too fast, the bike spun, and we hit a tree and both went flying through the air.
Chapter 28
IOPENED MY EYES and wondered what kind of crazy dream I was having. My neck hurt like I’d slept funny, only worse. I had a pounding headache, and someone had removed the roof of my house so I faced blue sky.
I tasted something metallic, delicately probed a fat lip, and looked at my fingers. They had a few blades of grass clinging to them, and blood.
I looked around, saw the lake, saw the cars, and remembered where I was. The motor scooter lay about fifteen feet away from me, crumpled like a frat boy’s beer can. Someone, a tall white guy, was leaning over it, inspecting the damage. The Chemist? No. Too big.
“Police,” I said. “Get away from there.”
I had meant for it to be a yell, but it came out as a croak. Then I searched fo. Buchbinder, saw him sitting on the lawn a few yards from me. He was wide-eyed and holding out his hands in front of him, Lady Macbeth style.
“No no no no no,” he moaned.
“Buchbinder! You okay?”
He held up his palms for me to see. They were covered in dog shit.
I sat up, the motion bringing a world of dizziness. Someone helped me to my feet. Someone else asked if I was all right. I reached for my radio earpiece, discovered it was gone. So was the radio. Thankfully, I still had the cell phone. And I wasn’t the only one. Several people had their cell phones out, calling 911.
“I’m a cop,” I said. “Everyone put down your phones.”
If the Chemist saw a big gathering of emergency vehicles, it might spook him. I must have looked like an authority figure, because everyone put their phones away. Now I needed to find my radio. I looked through the grass, between me and the wrecked scooter.
“It’s on my face!” Buchbinder screamed, high-pitched and manic. He began to rub his face, but since his hands were already coated, he wasn’t doing much in the way of cleaning.
I glanced at the bike again, and saw the curious tall white guy remove the final bungee cord and begin to drag the suitcase up the walkway.
I automatically reached for my holster, which did about as much good a. Buchbinder’s face-rubbing, and then took off after the guy. My legs felt good, strong, but my vision was wiggly and my neck hurt like I’d been playing tetherball with my head.
“Freez
e! Police!”
My voice was in full effect, but Tall Boy had apparently misinterpreted my order as “Run away faster,” because he picked up speed, heading in the direction Scooter and I just came from. I checked my watch. Six minutes left. If I turned around and ran the rest of the way, I might make it to Navy Pier in six minutes. But I didn’t have a gun, and I would owe the city of Chicago two million bucks. If they took it out of my paychecks, I wouldn’t be able to retire until I was 163.
I gained on Tall Boy, part of me wanting to shout, “Hard to drag that bastard, isn’t it?” I managed to restrain myself, and instead reached out and caught the suitcase by a strap.
One of Newton’s Laws got involved, something to do with objects in motion and pulling and pushing, and I jerked him off his feet and ate my own asphalt sandwich a millisecond later. When the tumbling stopped, Tall Boy was on his knees, opening up a folding knife and snarling at me.
It’s never a good time for a knife fight, but this really wasn’t a good time.
“I’m a cop,” I said, trying to sound stern despite my fear and exhaustion.
“I’m Charlie Manson,” he said.
Great. A loony.
I reached into my back pocket and took out the butterfly knife. I opened it slowly, with some flourish, letting the handles swing back and forth a few times to show this punk I knew what I was doing.
“I’m not going to kill you,” I said, getting to my feet. “I’m only going to poke out your eyes.”
I closed and opened the knife again, as fast as I could. His bravado cracked a bit.
“Just turn around, and run away. After I take your eyes, I’m going to take your ears.”
I changed my grip on the knife, did another blindingly quick open and close, and sliced open my knuckles pretty good.
“Son of a—”
Tall Boy saw my mistake and attacked. He came in low, his weapon held in an underhanded grip, blade up, stabbing at my chin. I pulled back, wincing at the pain in my neck, but avoiding the cut. He followed up with another jab, to my chest, but momentum was already taking me backward and I twisted my shoulders and all he caught was the fabric above my left breast, making me thankful for the first time in my life that I was a B cup.
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