I guess he was listening! “Understood,” Emily responded as she laid a black ribbon of Goodyear on Jefferson Avenue, roof flashers licking downtown with red and blue tongues. She crested the hill at Eagle Street and saw the subject baying at the full moon.
With a full moon.
“You’re gonna love this, Marty,” she muttered, looking for weapons as she barreled into the lot. None. Nowhere to hide them, anyway. As Daddy used to say, the young man was “nekked as a jaybird.” Her floodlight lit up his pale body—skater hair, narrow chest, muscled legs, no wrinkles, shriveled johnson—as she skidded to a halt. She popped out, leading with her Glock. “Police!” she barked. “Put your hands on top of your head!”
A jaunty grin broke across the boy’s whitewashed features. “Emily?”
“Put your hands on your head!”
“You are Emily!” the kid cried. “You’re the one I’m supposed to talk to!”
“Put your hands on your head!” she bellowed, each word distinct in case the kid was stoned. No good—he bounced and wriggled like a puppy. “Sir, if you don’t obey my orders, I’ll get in my car and run you over.”
His stubby fingers wove together and grabbed his head. “I’m unarmed!” the kid shouted, squinting against the eye-busting glare. “I’m just supposed to talk to you!”
“We’ll get to that in a minute,” Emily replied. “First you need to get on your knees.”
“On the asphalt?” the kid complained. “Aw, shit, c’mon, it’s full of gravel!”
“On your knees. Now.”
He complied.
“Very good,” Emily said. “Now lie facedown, and clasp your hands behind your back.”
“All right.” Then in a muffled voice, “Then can we talk, Emily?”
“Absolutely.” She shuffle-stepped to ensure she didn’t lose her balance. Forget the Unsub. If she fell on top of a naked guy, she’d never hear the end of it. “I’m going to handcuff you,” she said when close enough. “Don’t fight me, OK?”
“God no!” the kid squealed, and she whiffed the stale beer. Phew! This guy didn’t want to fight. He had to take a leak! “I’m just supposed to deliver a message, Emily. The dude said taking off my clothes was part of it. I’m not a pervert, you know.” It seemed important she acknowledge that, so she made appropriate murmurs. “Do whatever, Emily. I won’t fight.”
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate it,” she said, cuffing his bony wrists behind his back and his ankles to each other. She bunny-hopped him to the car, locked him in the caged backseat. “Situation is under control, dispatch,” she reported. “Tell backups to slow down.”
“All units, cancel Code 13,” Jodi said. A moment later, “Patrol Five, what did I tell you about waiting for help?”
“Sorry, sir, couldn’t be helped,” Emily said. “The subject insisted on surrendering.” She glanced around the lot, saw movement. “Civilians are gathering. I didn’t want them endangered if the subject changed his mind and ran. So I double-cuffed and locked him in my unit.”
“Understood, Five. Sounds like the correct call. But we’ll review your actions later.”
Which meant he agreed but would chew her out, anyway, make sure it got around. He needed to wave that flag for anyone who might be tempted, for less credible reasons, to “misinterpret” his orders.
She could live with that.
“So what’s this all about, kid?” Emily asked. “Some kind of fraternity stunt?”
He shook his head. “I was watching the Bulls game at the Lantern. You know, the downtown tavern?”
She nodded.
“This old dude walked up and says hello.”
“Old?”
“Ancient. At least forty.”
Hey! Wait till you’re two days away! “What’d this man look like?”
“A dude,” the kid said, shrugging. “You know.”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t there. Was he white?”
“Uh-huh, he—”
“Tall?”
“Yeah, pretty big, I guess—”
“How was he dressed?”
“I need to tell you the message, OK?” the kid said. “It’s part of his deal.”
“All right, but hurry it up.”
He nodded. “Me and the dude are talking sports. He buys a round. Cool. Then asks if I’d do him a favor. He’s buying, so I said, ‘Yo, dude, if I can.’” He paused.
“And?” Emily prompted.
“Says he’s planning a birthday joke for his girl. If I help, he’ll pay me five hundred.”
Emily blinked. “Dollars?”
“I thought he was yankin’ my chain, too,” the kid said. “Then he shows me the wad. I put down my beer and say, ‘For that kinda dough, who do I gotta kill?’ Dude laughs, says naw, his girl’s a Naperville cop, and he wants to deliver her birthday card in a way she’ll never forget. He’s willing to pay ’cause the deal’s pretty loopy.”
“Tell me exactly what he wanted you to do.”
“Get here at 3 A.M. Ditch my clothes and scream your name. When you show up, hand you the envelope and say, ‘Happy Birthday, Bambi!’”
The use of her work nickname made her stomach loop the loop. “Where’s the envelope?”
“Wallet pocket of my jeans.”
“Do you have the money?”
The kid looked as indignant as a naked teenager could look. “Well, duh. Think I’d do something this stupid without seeing the green first?”
“Of course not,” Emily lied. “I’ll check it out. You stay here and…well…” The kid was standing a lot taller than a moment ago, and she bit her lip to not laugh. “Want to cover up?”
He looked down. “Uh, yeah, that sounds good.”
She grabbed a blanket from her trunk and tented it across his lap. Then hustled to the clothes. T-shirt and shoes were clean. No underwear—kid went commando. She rifled the Levis and found the cash, along with keys, condoms, and peanut shells. Finally, she fished out a large white envelope. The outside was blank except for a single, manually typewritten sentence.
to bambi on her big four-o
Cursing the tremble in her hands, Emily pulled her folding knife and slit the envelope down the side, preserving the flap for DNA testing. She worked carefully, not wanting to nick herself and bleed on the evidence.
The card inside was ordinary Xerox paper, folded twice. Construction-paper candles and cakes adorned the front. Under them was a message handwritten in red crayon. She sniffed to ensure it wasn’t blood—heavy, waxy, nope, it’s Crayola—and read the words aloud.
that you made it this far, dear emily
She opened cautiously to the inside, half expecting it to blow up in her face.
does so Boggle the mind! happy birthday!
“Oh God,” she whispered. The B wasn’t lowercase, but capital. The only capital on the card. Therefore, not boggle as in overwhelmed with amazement, but Boggle as in the game.
“Dispatch!” she radioed. “Send chief of detectives to this location Code 13.”
“Already en route,” Jodi radioed back.
Back to the card. No signature. Left side blank. On the right side, under the “Boggle” scrawl, a small envelope was taped at the corners. She unstuck one end, tugged out the glossy cardboard inside. Flinched at the oval face smiling back.
“Emily! Hey!”
She whirled to see the kid banging his forehead on the window. She rushed over, flung the door wide, waved her police card in his face. “What kind of sick game are you playing—”
“He said your present’s inside the library!”
Her mouth dried up.
“That’s the last part of the message,” he explained. “For the five bills, I had to hand you the envelope, let you read what’s inside, then say your birthday present’s in the library.”
She blinked rapidly, trying to think. “What would you have said if another officer had arrived first?”
“That I have a message for Emily Marie Thompson, and I’d deliver it when you arr
ived. Dude said Bambi’s your nickname and Child’s your hubby’s name, but your real name is Thompson, so don’t get confused.” His grin turned sly. “Scuse me for saying so, but isn’t this a little too, you know, public? For a married lady? What if your husband finds out?”
She grabbed the radio mike.
“The subject is a delivery man,” she told the shift commander. “The Unsub paid him $500 to deliver a birthday card.” She provided details, relieved to see the sheriff’s car bounce into the lot. Marty’s protectiveness was definitely welcome now. “Do you agree with my assessment?”
“Yes,” he said. “Has backup arrived?”
“Sheriff just pulled in.”
“OK, I’m sending you inside to find out,” he said. “Annie’s four minutes out. I’ve mobilized SWAT, the canine unit, and the county bomb squad.”
“I’m only guessing, boss,” Emily warned. “I might be wrong.”
“You might be right, too,” he replied. “Which is why you need to get inside. But watch yourself. No unnecessary heroics, none of that ‘he surrendered’ baloney from before. You hear me, Detective?”
“Loud and clear, sir.”
“Good. Look around, then get out. We’ll let SWAT clear the building.”
“Copy that!” Emily said, glancing at her prisoner. “Listen, kid, you’ve been really cooperative,” she said. “Keep it up and I’ll talk my boss out of pressing charges on the striptease. Meaning there’s no jail, and you’ll have a great story for your buddies. How ’bout it?”
The kid’s eyes said yes-yes-yes, but his lips felt compelled to add, “And the money?”
She didn’t have the heart to explain Branch would seize it as evidence. “By all means, keep it,” she said. “Buy yourself some underwear.” She locked the car, though it wasn’t really necessary. The kid’s eyes gleamed with beer and adoration. He wouldn’t miss this for a boatload of rubbers. She pulled her Glock, then stared in horror as her backup trundled into the light.
“Well, if it ain’t the Vagina Monologue,” Sheriff’s Sergeant Rayford Luerchen sneered. “No wonder everything’s screwed up around here.”
Emily made a sour face, wondering what god she’d offended to merit this as backup. “We’re going in,” she snapped. “Stay to my right so I know where you are—”
“Uh-uh,” Luerchen interrupted, pointing to the chevrons on his sleeve. “I outrank you. I’m in command. Don’t worry, hon. I’ll be sure to mention you in my report.”
“This is my case,” she growled, sticking her face in so close she smelled his onion breath. “This lunatic is after me. If you have a problem being backup, hon, I’ll wait for my own people.”
Luerchen scowled. “Hey, you wanna take the bullet ’stead of me, be my guest,” he said. “What is this present, anyway? The dispatcher didn’t say.”
Instead of replying, Emily keyed her microphone. “We’re entering the library now.”
“Affirmative,” the shift commander said. “Be careful.”
She tightened her grip on the Glock as sirens filled the heavy air. “Sergeant,” she murmured as she eased through the front entrance, “I believe the Unsub’s left us a…”
EMILY AND BRADY
Chicago
August 1971
“Hold the peanut still, and he’ll come get it,” Alice Kepp whispered. “He won’t bite you. Animals are our friends.”
Brady’s face torqued into total concentration as he pinched the peanut between his thumb and index finger. The gray squirrel advanced slowly but was unafraid, conditioned by the nut trails they laid out while Dwight was in Atlanta hosting an insurance convention.
“Come on, buddy,” Brady whispered. “I’ve got your treat right here.” The squirrel tiptoed to the boy’s hand and lifted its mouth to the nut, like a friendly dog accepting a Milk-Bone.
“He’s got it,” Alice said, relieved her lesson about being nice to animals was paying off. “Let go so he can eat.”
The boy flicked the nut straight into the squirrel’s eye, causing it to screech and dart away.
“Brady!” Alice scolded, slapping the boy’s hand. “Why did you do that?”
“I don’t like squirrels,” Brady said, looking wide-eyed at his mother. “Why did you hit me, Mom? That’s Father’s job. He doesn’t like it when we don’t follow his rules.”
Alice enveloped Brady in her slender arms. About a year ago her son had started using his slingshot on the squirrels, raccoons, and cats wandering their double lot. She confiscated it. He threw rocks instead. When she asked why, he replied, “I dunno.” She mentioned it to Dwight, but he only chuckled. “Good for him,” he said, waving his hand in dismissal. “Goddamn things dig the hell out of my gardens.” Alice said it seemed to go deeper than that. “Brady just seems so furious when he does it, honey. Maybe we should talk to the pediatrician.” The suggestion earned her a ringing slap. “All boys throw rocks at animals,” he growled. “They’re warriors, not florists. My son is perfectly normal and doesn’t need his head shrunk.”
“Mommy didn’t mean to hit you, baby,” Alice said, rubbing Brady’s thick hair. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Mommy made a mistake and feels bad. You’re a good boy, and Mommy loves you.” His silence encouraged her. “Let’s not tell your father about this, OK? It would only make him angry. We don’t want him angry at us, do we?”
“No,” Brady said. “My behind hurts when Father gets angry.”
“Then you won’t say anything, right?”
“I won’t, Mom. I promise.” His half smile filled her with unease. It was almost like her son knew the value of this information and intended to hold it over her. But that was crazy! Brady was six years old!
She hugged him close, not knowing what else to say.
CHAPTER 11
Tuesday, 4 A.M.
Fifty hours till Emily’s birthday
“He won’t hide this present,” Emily decided after a quick glance around. “It’ll be in the open. He wants me to find it.” She trained gun and flashlight on the string of chairs in the back of the cavernous reading room. “That’s where we’ll begin. Let’s go.”
“Should I turn on the room lights, Commandant?” Luerchen said, voice dripping sarcasm. “So we can actually see something?”
“Switches are on the wall behind you,” Emily muttered.
Luerchen vanished from her peripheral vision. She white-knuckled the Glock, heart thumping in her ears as she crept forward. What am I doing here? her inner civilian screamed as she moved deeper into the gloom. A proper building search involved head-to-toe body armor and snuffling German shepherds.
Blam!
She yelled as her Glock bucked in her hand, blowing a neat little hole in the carpet. The sudden flash of the bright overheads was so startling, she had accidentally pulled the trigger. She slapped her ears to make the ringing go away.
Luerchen snickered as he slid back on her flank. “Glad you insisted on going first. If I’d been in front, you’d have shot me in the ass.”
Emily blew out her breath, furious with herself. “I didn’t realize my finger was on the trigger,” she said, watching blue gun smoke curl toward the windows.
“No kiddin’. You see anything yet?”
Emily stared into now-bright nooks and crannies. “Negative.”
“Me neither. Keep looking. And keep your fuckin’ finger off the trigger.”
She carefully surveyed the room. Tons of books, miles of shelving, computers, magazines, DVDs, videos. Nothing she’d deem a “present.” The sirens grew louder as the ringing in her ears faded. SWAT will be here any second, take over. The Unsub doesn’t want that. He clearly means for me to find it. That’s the whole point of delivering the birthday card.
She spotted a thatch of hair, brown and spiky with gel, peeking over the back of the centermost reading chair—the only one turned away from the entrance doors. “That’s the present!” she hissed, pointing with her Glock. “Cover me!”
“Backup’s on
ly seconds out,” Luerchen objected. “We’re waiting right here for SWAT—”
“Cover me!” Emily snapped, barreling ahead, Glock darting left-right-left as every nerve ending begged the Unsub to appear so she could dump all eighteen rounds in his miserable face. “I’ve got your back, Emily!” she heard Annie cry behind her. Luerchen was barking into the radio, “Dispatch, we found the present!” Emily spun to clear the area of threats, then yelled, “It’s a man! Checking for vitals!” She looked over the top of the chair, gagged. Run! her mind screamed. Let the real cops deal with this! She ordered her feet to stay put—you are a real cop, act like one!—and wiped her sweat-drenched hand on her shirt. She placed two fingers on the man’s carotid artery. No pulse. She shifted her fingers. Yes! “He’s alive!” Emily shouted.
“The man’s alive, repeat alive!” Luerchen barked. “Hustle those paramedics!” He ran to the chair, waving his shotgun like a magic wand. “What do we have here. Oh shit!”
Emily’s mouth was so dry, she couldn’t speak. Instead, she prayed the balding middle-aged man with the purple gym shorts would survive. It didn’t look promising. The double-edged silver dagger was shoved in to the handguard. It split his left breast in two, its ropelike handle covering his nipple and its razor-sharp tip protruding from his back, below the shoulder blade. Blood leaked from both sides. Not nearly enough for such a grievous injury, some detached part of her brain noted. Drained elsewhere, dumped here. Silver handcuffs hung from his hands, which were folded in his lap. “Holy Christ,” Emily heard Luerchen breathe. She followed his stare, and her eyes widened at the rolled-up card protruding from a hole drilled through the man’s right shinbone. Her entire body shuddered.
“Aw, you’re not gonna heave, are you?” Luerchen said, quickly backpedaling.
“No!” Emily coughed, doubling over, feeling like she’d drank sewage. “No way I’m—”
Too late. She blasted Luerchen with pizza, potato chips, and coffee. His cussing was explosive, and she burned with humiliation. Avoiding Luerchen’s murderous glare, she spit coffee grounds from her teeth and grunted into her radio, “Dispatch, advise responding units that…never mind.” She waved at the Whitman’s Sampler of cops, SWATs, and firefighters charging her way. “I felt a pulse!” she cried. “He’s alive!”
Blown Away Page 10
