“Says who?” Don asked.
“Do we really have to spell it out for you? And does it matter?”
“Guess not,” Don said.
“And it should go without saying, but we want to make this perfectly clear that this is to be kept between us. The wrong person hears that the rats aren’t on the city’s hit list anymore, they might jump to the wrong conclusions.”
“Look at it as a reward for a job well done,” the second one said.
There was no point in arguing. The message had been received loud and clear. From that night on, Don and Tommy made a show of putting out traps for the first hour or so, despite the fact that there was no bait in them. Then they would head to the bar and never leave until morning. The instructions were that simple. They would spend the night drinking beer, watching CSN, unless it was golf, then they would begrudgingly switch over to ESPN and that was the cue for everybody in the bar to argue loudly about all the other cities and sports besides Chicago.
Most everybody who worked in vermin control in Streets and Sans knew that Lee was out there, pulling strings, fucking with their jobs, but nobody wanted to talk about it much. Tommy thought it was a hell of a way to earn a paycheck, but so far, Kimmy had kept her end of the bargain, and had not blocked his visits.
CHAPTER 15
9:13 PM
April 17
“Now what do you suppose these fucking idiots are doing?” Ed asked, taking a thoughtful sip from Sam’s flask.
Sam took the flask, leaned back, and got a better angle in the side mirror. Two blocks behind them, a Chicago Police cruiser jerked to a stop at the corner of Garfield and Halsted. They had the flashers on, sending jittery blue lights across the entire intersection. No sirens though. Two uniformed patrolmen burst out of the car.
The guy Ed and Sam had been watching didn’t even bother to run. The cops slammed him on the pavement, cuffed his hands behind his back, and threw him in the back of the cruiser. They jumped into the front and took off. The traffic began to move again, and people ventured away from the buildings and started back across the street.
The whole thing took less than thirty seconds. It was as if a rock had been dropped into a puddle. For a moment, the waves splashed out, disturbing the surface, but before long the water slid back into place, obliterating all traces of the rock.
“Goddamnit,” Ed said.
“We aren’t the only ones picking forbidden fruit, brother.”
“He’s not holding.” Every cop knew this. Very few drug dealers were dumb enough to stand out in the open and conduct business. They just arranged the deal, and sent the customers to the right spot for the actual transaction.
“Doesn’t matter. Gotta be payback for something.”
“If those pricks are working for the Latin Kings, we gotta think of something halfway clever.”
The cruiser headed west down Garfield.
“Fifty bucks says they’re headed into LK territory.”
Ed whipped the Crown Vic in a tight U-turn. Horns echoed up and down Halsted. “Out of the way, hammerhead,” he yelled at a Cadillac that blocked the street.
“Thank God we’re keeping a low profile here,” Sam said.
“Those two are so jacked up from nabbing somebody off the street without calling for backup, they aren’t watching their mirrors. Don’t sweat it.”
The Cadillac finally got out of its own way and Ed sped past it. He squinted at the lights ahead. “Forgot my glasses. They still got their lights on?”
“Can’t tell.”
At the next side street, Ed yanked the wheel to the right, racing west along Fifty-fourth, so they were parallel to Garfield. They rushed through the summer darkness, blowing through stop signs.
“Easy,” Sam said. “Last thing we need is to hit a kid.”
“Yes, Miss Daisy.”
Ed knew that Fifty-fourth Street dead-ended into train tracks so he turned south on Damen. Ed coasted along as Garfield got closer.
“There!” Sam pointed. The cruiser flashed past, running with just headlights. “You owe me fifty bucks.”
Ed ignored this. “That boy is gonna be in a big hurt if they drop him off on the Latin Kings’ turf.” The guy was known on the streets as Ducey and known to the Justice Department as Darryl Adams. He’d grown up in the Blackstones, and now was one of the top lieutenants. Ed and Sam didn’t give a damn about him, though. They were just keeping an eye on him on the off chance they might spot a certain Javier Delgado.
Delgado was wanted in connection with a suspicious murder-suicide in a crack house in Northern Indiana. Word was that Delgado was hiding out with family in Detroit, but Ed and Sam knew that Delgado and Ducey’s sister had a three-year-old son together, so it was worth a shot. Commendations from both the narcotics squad and the homicide division certainly wouldn’t hurt when they went looking for consulting gigs after retirement.
But now Ducey was about to be kicked into a rival gang’s territory, a wolf tossed to the lions. The locals called it a “bitch drop,” as in you got dropped off and then ran like a bitch. Ed and Sam didn’t particularly give a rat’s ass about a gangbanger like Ducey, but it was the principle of the thing.
Ed jumped into traffic on Garfield, cutting into traffic in a storm of horns and brake lights. He pulled up next to the cruiser and Sam locked eyes with the cop driving. Sam held up his badge and pointed to the curb.
The driver nodded and gave a mock salute. He didn’t pull over to the side of Garfield. Instead, he turned the next corner and parked on a quiet side street, away from the eyes of passing cars.
“Let me do the talking,” Sam said.
“Don’t piss ’em off.”
“Let me do the talking.”
Ed eased to a stop behind the cruiser. The patrolmen didn’t wait in the car like citizens. Instead, they met Ed and Sam in the wash of headlights in front of the Crown Vic.
“What can we do to help you out, detectives?” the driver asked with a fawning sincerity that was almost real enough to mask his irritation.
“Officer . . . Falwell, is it?” Sam asked.
“Yes, sir. Again, how can we help you, Detective . . . ?”
“I’m Detective Tackleberry. This is Detective Hightower.” Sam hoped the patrolmen were too young to have bothered watching the movie Police Academy. “We’re actually working with IA.” Sam paused for dramatic emphasis, as if he was about to tell someone a loved one had been killed in the line of duty. “Officer Falwell, we need to speak with you in private, I’m afraid.”
Officer Falwell and his partner exchanged glances. “Look, whatever you need to tell me, you can tell me in front of my partner.”
Now it was Sam’s turn to glance at Ed. Ed shrugged. Sam assumed a concerned expression. “Son, I hate to have to tell you this. It’s why we flagged you down, didn’t want to use the radio.” He folded his arms, looked at the ground. “Somebody in IA has a real hard-on for you. Whatever you did, you pissed somebody off. Big time.” He took a deep breath. “Apparently, they’ve got you targeted as an officer that picks men up on minor drug charges, then forces them to perform oral sex on you in exchange for kicking them loose.”
Officer Falwell’s mouth opened and snapped shut. Rage crawled over his face.
“That’s a fucking lie,” his partner shouted, and took a step forward.
Sam raised his hands. “Don’t shoot me. I’m just the messenger. Why do you think we’re talking to you out here?”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Officer Falwell managed to croak.
“I know. I know.” Sam nodded sympathetically. “That’s department politics for you. How long have you been on the force? Year? Two years?”
“Five.”
“Then this shouldn’t be any surprise. You pissed on somebody’s shoes. From here on, assume somebody’s got their eye on you. Like him.” Sam indicated Ducey, still in the back seat of the cruiser. “He legit, or are you using him for something else?”
“This
is bullshit,” the partner said. “Bullshit.” He looked like he wanted to punch something. Sam felt sorry for whoever got in the officer’s way tonight.
Officer Falwell said, “I’m gonna fucking find who did this. Gonna fucking put their head through a fucking wall.” He went to the back of the cruiser, yanked the door open, and dragged Ducey out. He unlocked the cuffs and said, “Get the fuck out of here. I see you again, you’re fucking dead.”
Ducey didn’t need to be told twice. He’d been around enough to know that whatever was going down didn’t involve him, and hauled ass toward Garfield.
Officer Falwell slammed the cruiser’s back door and moved back around to the driver’s side.
“You’re welcome,” Sam said.
“Fuck you,” Officer Falwell shouted back, got in, and took off.
“You’d think he’d show a bit more gratitude,” Ed said.
They found Ducey a few minutes later, moving quickly along the south side of Garfield. Ed pulled over and Sam stuck his arm out of the window and waved him closer.
It was clear Ducey wanted nothing to do with the Crown Vic, but he finally shook his head and sidled up to the car, not looking at the detectives. He kept his eyes flicking up and down the street instead.
“The fuck y’all want now?”
“Goddamn. Nobody’s appreciating anything tonight,” Sam told Ed. He looked back up at Ducey. “You know exactly what those boys were planning. My partner and I, we just spared you one hell of an ass-whupping or worse. You’re lucky to be walking around right now.”
“Yeah, yeah. Whatcha want?”
“Take a good look at us, kid. Memorize our faces. See, you owe us. Big time. And here’s the thing. Nobody knows. Not your gangbanging buddies, not those cops back there. Nobody. Not yet anyway. You piss me off, everybody on the South Side is gonna know you’re a snitch. Here’s my card.”
Ducey took the card. He looked like he wanted to spit on it and drop it in the gutter, but he slipped it into his jeans. “Yeah, I’m shakin’. Cut the bullshit. Whatcha want?”
“Looking for Javier Delgado. You know why. If he’s around, you let me know. I find out he’s in town and I haven’t heard from you, I know cops a thousand times worse than those two fuckheads back there.”
Tommy and Don were discussing an upcoming three game series with the hated Twinkies with a couple of electricians, also employed by Streets and Sans. Both the Sox and the Cubs were off to shaky starts, but hey, it was early. Plenty of time left before the do-or-die days of September.
On TV over the bar, the anchor was wrapping up their lead story, “More details about this tragic death as they become available. In other news, Streets and Sanitation Commissioner Lee Shea today answered some tough questions about the rat population. Cecilia Palmers was on the scene at City Hall earlier today.” The camera cut away to a shot of the east side of City Hall. Lee always conducted press conferences on the county side in the morning, because the light was better.
One of the Streets and Sans guys pointed at the TV. “Our fearless leader.”
Don and Tommy turned to watch the news.
Lee was out in front of City Hall again, wearing his earnest, concerned expression. “I can assure you that everyone in my department is doing their absolute best with their limited resources. It is unfortunate that the rest of City Hall does not share my concern for the well-being of the citizens of Chicago. Nevertheless, you have my unwavering promise that Streets and Sans is doing everything within its power to control the population of vermin. I can only ask that if anyone is concerned about pests in their neighborhoods, to not only call us, but to call their aldermen as well, and ask them why it was decided that Streets and Sans would not receive sufficient funds to do this job properly.”
CHAPTER 16
8:07 AM
April 18
“Oh, and by the way, the files are in the basement.” Martin kept going over that last sentence that Chad had tossed off so casually. That prick.
When Martin had volunteered, all he’d wanted was a chance to pitch in, make the partners notice his enthusiasm. Here was a man who got things done. Martin, despite his law degree, had worked in the same office job for the last eight years, and it was time to make his move. The firm was gearing up for a huge class-action lawsuit, so sure he’d absolutely volunteer for a thankless job of going through the hard copies of old files that nobody had gotten around to scanning yet for the name of an obscure subsidiary holdings company or something that no one could quite definitively tell him. Sure. He’d do that. He thought he’d at least be able to use an office, instead of the table in the cafeteria. And he certainly hadn’t expected the files to be in the basement.
Thirty-two years old. Worked in the same job for over eight years. Two promotions. Family and a house in the far suburbs. A wife, two kids. Michael was in preschool and Jonathan was a babe in his mother’s arms. He’d be happy to show you pictures of both of ’em.
And so, every morning, for the last four days, he had gone down to the vast basement. Martin had no interest in lingering as he skirted through the blank, slate-gray walls and the endless locked doors. Usually, he had to use a key to access his firm’s storage room, but this morning the door was still unlocked. Good. It was unlikely anyone had bothered to come down to check on the room.
He opened the door to darkness and waved his hand around for the light chain.
Yesterday, he’d run out of the room, leaving it unlocked. He’d been hearing squeaking all week, and while it made him uncomfortable, it was tolerable, but yesterday morning he had heard an awful squalling from something, then a whole bunch of hissing from things all over. He’d grabbed his files, slammed the door, not bothering locking it, and had run down to the elevator. Upstairs, in the cafeteria, he’d wiped the sweat from his face, put the files on the table and his lunch in the employee fridge. He thought about telling someone, but didn’t want anyone to think he was being weak.
He stepped into the darkness, not wanting to linger.
A click. The jittering bulb cast a pallid orange light over the banks of filing cabinets, stacked wall to wall and two high, leaving a single walkway down the middle, about a foot and half across. He saw the dead rat immediately.
Martin yanked on the chain, plunging the room into darkness. He couldn’t explain why; it was more of a nervous reaction. Maybe the rat would disappear when he turned the light on again, even though he knew perfectly well the rat was stone dead, lying against the cabinets on the left side of the room. Another click.
The rat hadn’t gone anywhere. Martin’s first impulse was to just shut the door and tell someone, but that would eat up too much of his time. He had to get home. God knew he had to get home. His poor wife was at the end of her rope with the two boys.
So instead, he used the toe of his right shoe to prod and flip the rat out into the hall. He’d have to use some kind of spray and disinfect his shoe later, and just hoped it wouldn’t hurt the cheap leather. He squatted, opened a drawer, and pulled out a fistful of files. He did not see the tiny bugs scattered across the floor, all of them about the size of apple seeds, hiding amongst the dust and scraps of paper.
As he straightened, flipping through the files, five of the closest bugs crawled up the heel of his left shoe, paused at the top, stretched out, and caught hold of his black sock. They pulled themselves across the gap and nestled inside the ribs of the fabric. Some ancient instinct compelled them to hide, tucked away, unmoving, until hours later, as they felt the rhythm of his motions grow slow, when Martin fell asleep on the train. The ride out to Crystal Lake lasted an hour and twenty minutes, and Martin rarely stayed awake for the entire trip.
Hidden by his khakis, the bugs emerged and moved swiftly up his sock, pulled by the irresistible lure of warm, bare flesh. Each unfolded a narrow tube from its segmented body and sank it into his skin. The tube was actually split into two chambers; the larger one was hollow and was used for sucking out the beautiful red blood. The second, sm
aller tube was used for bathing the skin in an anti-coagulant and a numbing secretion, so the host wouldn’t feel anything as microscopic teeth chewed through the layers of skin until hitting a blood vessel.
Ten minutes later, the bugs were full and swollen to almost twice their original size. They trundled back down to their hiding places in Martin’s sock, where they tucked themselves away and quietly digested their meal.
The conductor woke Martin up at the end of the line and Martin walked tiredly out through the sea of cars in the parking lot, wondering why his leg had started itching.
“I’m hearing some confusing rumors, Lee.”
Lee tried not to jump. His uncle Phil had an inherent distrust of phones, and had a habit of appearing out of nowhere in the massive corridors in City Hall, conferring quietly, then slipping away when his business was finished, disappearing into the cool marble. More than once, Lee had wondered if Phil knew about some kind of secret passages or something in the building.
Lee decided to play dumb and kept walking. He was heading downstairs; his personal trainer was waiting for a quick jog along the lakefront. If nothing else, Lee knew the steady movement would tire Phil out and the conversation would be short. “Oh yeah? How can I help?”
“You know damn well what I’m talking about. And don’t think that people aren’t noticing. You are treading on some very thin ice here. It’s just a matter of time before some scumbag reporter gets one of your employees drunk and they spill their guts.” Phil sighed. “Do you really think nobody is smart enough to put two and two together? How stupid do you think people are in this city? Or do you have some fantasy that you are untouchable? I’m praying that you didn’t just torpedo your career before it even got started. This goes bad, you’ll be lucky to end up picking up garbage in Peoria.”
Lee rubbed his eyes. “Give it a fucking rest, will ya? They’ll figure out a way to increase my budget. You’ll see. You and your pals pull this crap all the time. The one time I try playing hardball, everybody shits their pants. I mean, seriously, what’s the fucking difference?”
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