Greed: A Detective John Lynch Thriller

by Dan O'Shea

  On the other hand, Heinz’s record was spotless. Honorable discharge once he hit his twenty years, solid career with one of the big pharma companies after, and everybody there thought the guy was just swell. Of course, he had been the brainchild behind one of those boner pills that made the joint a few hundred zillion dollars, so everybody they talked to probably owed Heinz for half the bounce in their stock options.

  But Heinz had always been a lab guy, not a C-suite player. Good money, but not Bill Gates money. They’d pulled his finances apart, and if you plugged everything into a spreadsheet, then this Heinz wasn’t living beyond his means, not so that you could prove it. But he was living on the edge. The very edge. And the last couple years, when the economy had tanked and everybody else in the world had pulled their belt in a couple notches, Heinz had gone right on spending.

  Nothing you could take to court, but it sure felt like he’d picked up an extra income somewhere. So that had Munroe suspicious. That and Heinz showing up dead. Dead guys always made Munroe’s nose twitch.

  CHAPTER 62

  The next morning, Lynch and Bernstein were out in Aurora.

  “Nice place,” Lynch said. He and Bernstein were shaking hands with Perez in the lobby of the new Aurora PD headquarters. Bright, airy, lots of windows, more like some corporate HQ than a cop shop.

  “Yeah,” said Perez. “Just moved in a couple months back. You don’t get the nice digs in the city?”

  “Asbestos, lead paint, Seventies linoleum,” said Bernstein. “All the modern conveniences.”

  Perez wound them through the building back to Jenks’ station. The IT guy. Black slacks today, expensive-looking white shirt, some kind of linen thing but without the wrinkles. Jenks walked them through what he had.

  “First, you gotta understand we’re going to be pulling this apart for months,” said Jenks. “He didn’t keep much on his local drives – looks like just whatever he had cooking at the time – but he was a bitch for backups. Had a floor safe, pretty high-end piece we had to cut. Backups going back three years. Just scratched the surface on those.” Jenks pulled out a file from a drawer, set it on the desk. “Start of an inventory in there. He had the backups sorted by the name of the subject he was tracking.”

  “OK,” said Lynch. “What about these shots of Hardin?”

  “He had three Hardin files,” said Jenks, “and pretty much the same stuff in all of them. So he had three customers interested in the guy, and he was just reselling the intel.”

  “Can you tell who the customers were?” Lynch asked.

  “I can tell where he sent the stuff,” said Jenks. He clicked at his terminal for a minute. “OK, here’s customer number one. Gmail account in the name of John Smith, so that’s bullshit, right? But I looked at the IP addresses where this account pulled down the data Lee sent. You get a few outliers, but mostly you get the Starbucks downtown at Wells and Madison and you get another Starbucks up in Highland Park. So whoever it is, they’re making an effort to say off the grid, keeping it public so you can’t tie it to them.”

  “Not trying hard enough,” said Bernstein. “Gerry Ringwald’s office is across the street from one of these Starbucks, and he lives in Highland Park.”

  “Who’s Ringwald?” asked Jenks.

  “Corsco’s lawyer,” said Lynch. “Any way we can tie it to him more directly?”

  Jenks shrugged. “He’s working remote – could be a laptop, could be a cell phone, could be an iPad or something. If he still has the device he did the download with, then I might be able to tie the data to the box. Might even find the files on there.”

  “OK,” said Lynch. “Who else you got?”

  “Customer number two, the first few hits were in Juárez, so you have to figure that’s Hernandez. Then those start bouncing around. Picked up mail here in Aurora a couple of times, a couple spots in Chicago, all around the area. They’re moving around, sticking to public access Wi-Fi, so I can’t track this back to any base of operations.”

  “Same deal?” asked Lynch. “We catch them with the right laptop, we can tie them in?”

  “Yeah,” said Jenks. “Now, customer number three. This guy’s picking up his mail all over the 19th arrondissement.”

  “The what?” asked Lynch.

  “Paris,” said Bernstein. “The Arab quarter, actually. Where they had the riots back in 2005.”

  “So that’s al Din,” Lynch said.

  “Or his handler,” said Bernstein.

  “Or his handler’s cutout,” said Jenks.

  “Any of these guys do business with Lee before?” asked Bernstein.

  Jenks nodded. “He’s sent stuff to the IP address in Juarez before, the Highland Park address, the Paris, so my guess is yeah.” Jenks spun his desk toward his chair, started clicking away on his keyboard. “Something else I wanted to show you,” he said. A slide show of pictures started on the monitor. Stein. Leaving his house, leaving his office, parking at the Stadium. “Part of a file that went to your Paris guy two weeks ago.”

  Little snort from Lynch. He opened the file on Jenks’ desk, ran his finger down the list of names that identified the files Jenks had inventoried. Wide out for the Bears that just got his ass handed to him in a divorce, real estate developer everybody thought had the Block 35 deal tied up before he got low-balled by an out-of-town player, and Mike Lewis.

  “Can you pull up what you got on Lewis?” Lynch asked.

  “Sure,” said Jenks. “Sounds familiar.”

  “County board race last year,” said Lynch. “Remember, that Kroger guy, inherited the seat when his old man keeled over after the primary? Got a little carried away on the patronage, even by Cook County standards? Lewis was the good government candidate that looked like he was going to win the primary, right up until he dropped out a week before the election.”

  “Now I remember,” said Jenks, scrolling down his screen, clicking on this and that. “Real mysterious. Family issues or something.”

  “That’s the guy,” said Lynch.

  “OK, here we go,” said Jenks. Lee ran the file. Lewis leaving his townhouse in Printer’s Row, hailing a cab. Couple shots of the cab, tracking it through town, Lewis getting out of the cab at Belmont and Broadway, Lewis walking north and west. Lewis ducking into the Steam Room. Maybe an hour later, Lewis coming back out, another guy with him, the two of them walking a bit west before picking up another cab, the cab dropping them off at the Marriott on Michigan.

  “What’s that about?” asked Jenks.

  “Steam Room’s a gay bath house,” said Lynch. “Lewis is Mr Family Man, some kind of deacon at one of the black churches. Looks like he was playing on the down low. Hurley, Kroger, or probably one of their guys, they put the eyes on him, knocked him out of the race.”

  Silence for a second, that sinking in.

  “How many files does he have?” asked Bernstein.

  “Haven’t cataloged everything yet,” said Jenks. “So far, better than three hundred.”

  Lynch’s cell rang. Starshak.

  “Looks like it’s your day for the burbs,” Starshak said. “When you’re done in Aurora, head for Highland Park.”

  “Highland Park?” Lynch asked.

  “Somebody offed Ringwald. And his family.”

  CHAPTER 63

  “Scenery was nicer in Wisconsin,” said Wilson. She was in Elgin with Hardin, in her underwear, pulling back the edge of the curtain in the window of their cheap hotel and looking out across the parking lot at the Jiffy Lube across the street.

  “Where I’ve been the last couple decades, this place gets four stars,” said Hardin.

  “So we just sit tight and wait on Fouche?”

  “I was never big on sitting tight. I just don’t know what else to do.”

  Wilson pulled on a pair of slacks she’d bought at a Wal-Mart in Kenosha on the way back down from Door County. She hadn’t had time to pack when they left Downer’s Grove.

  “This has to be over soon, one way or the other,�
�� she said, looking over her shoulder at the mirror. “These things make my ass look like it’s wrapped in plastic.”

  “Think of it as handicapping,” said Hardin. “Gives the other girls a chance.”

  “Fuck the other girls.”

  Hardin shrugged. “If you insist.”

  Wilson smiled at him, laughed, strange look on her face.

  “What?” Hardin asked.

  She shrugged. “This, you and me. Seems like anybody in the world who’d got a gun is lining up to take a shot at us and I can’t stop smiling.”

  Hardin smiled back. “I know.”

  “I was going to say how much I missed being with you, but we never even had that, not the first time.”

  “I know.”

  “Now, odds are, in a couple of days, we’re dead. I know that. And you know what? If you told me right now I could turn back the clock a week, I’d pass.”

  “Me too.” Hardin’s smile faded and he held her eyes.

  “Odds aren’t good, are they?” Wilson said.

  “No.”

  “I wait the better part of my life for you to come back, and I get a week if I’m lucky.”

  “We,” Hardin said. “We get a week.” Hardin paused a moment. “Want to know the selfish thing? I hope they get me first. I’ve been in my share of shit, seen people shot, seen them bleed out. That’s OK. I can do that. But I don’t think I can watch you die.”

  Her face serious now, too. “So how about we don’t?”

  Hardin swallowed, nodded. They both finished dressing as he thought about their options, or lack of them.

  CHAPTER 64

  Lynch and Bernstein stood in Ringwald’s kitchen. The wooden chairs were arranged in a semi-circle, Ringwald on the end to Lynch’s left, Ringwald’s son on the end to the right. The boy, probably four years old, was next to the mother. The girl was between the mother and Ringwald. Lynch was guessing she was seven. Had been seven.

  “.22s again?” Lynch asked.

  “Yeah,” said McCord. Some Highland Park cops were milling around, but they didn’t get crimes like this on the North Shore. With the .22s and with Ringwald in the mix, it tied into Chicago, so they’d made the call. They were happy for the help.

  The blood on the floor was tacky, drying, and the corpses didn’t look fresh.

  “How long?” Lynch asked.

  “Last night, late,” said McCord. “I’ll know better when I get them in the shop.”

  “Everybody’s gagged except Ringwald,” Lynch said.

  “Yeah,” said McCord.

  “So you figure al Din was talking to him.”

  “Yeah,” said McCord.

  They both stood for a moment, saying nothing, looking at the bodies. The boy was wearing an Iron Man T-shirt. The girl was wearing a Miley Cyrus T-shirt and a pair of gym shorts. Lynch tried to picture the scene for a moment – everybody getting herded into the room, getting taped to the chairs, getting…

  “This guy is starting to piss me off,” said Lynch.

  “Yeah,” said McCord.

  “I assume we’re going to talk to Corsco?” Bernstein asked.

  Lynch just nodded.

  “His right to counsel might be a problem, he decides to play it that way.”

  “Fuck his rights,” Lynch said.

  CHAPTER 65

  Al Din’s phone pinged. He opened the text from Tokyo. A photo of a large, older man entering the Hilton hotel on Michigan Avenue.

  The Americans had sent Munroe.

  If Munroe was in town, then al Din had to assume he was getting close. Time to switch IDs. He checked out of his hotel, drove to O’Hare, returned his rental car, took a shuttle to the terminal, took another to a different rental car vendor, rented a new car under a new name and then headed west, away from the city. Munroe would check the city first. Then he would look near the Interstate highways.

  North Avenue was a busy arterial street between Interstate 90 to the north and Interstate 88 to the south. Lots of traffic, lots of stoplights, not an easy place to get away from quickly. That made it a bad choice, which, with Munroe looking for him, made it a good choice.

  Al Din found what he wanted – an inexpensive motel with an odd name, not one of the national chains. He checked in. It was late, he was tired, but he was also hungry. He walked across the parking lot to an anonymous tavern.

  As soon as he walked in the door, he could feel the emotional buzz of a group sharing some significant experience. Then there was a loud roar from the back of the room. Al Din turned. A basketball game, probably part of this college tournament he’d been hearing talked about all week, this March madness. The team from the University of Illinois had progressed to one of the final rounds and the game was on.

  Al Din flashed back to his last trip to the US. He had walked into another bar at almost exactly this time of night, that time in Cleveland, Ohio. The dozen or so people in the bar were not scattered at their separate tables, but were all standing in front of the large television at the back of the room. The American president was on, announcing that Osama bin Laden was dead. The Americans had tracked him to a compound in Pakistan and killed him.

  As al Din listened to the tone of the coverage and felt the cathartic reaction of the people in the bar, he realized he had completely misread something in the American character. He’d seen the previous American president standing in the rubble in New York swearing those responsible would be brought to justice. He had heard the same hollow boasts from others over the years, the new president, senators, and congressmen. But he had assumed that it was merely rhetoric. That what really mattered was the pretense the attacks provided, the opportunity it had given the Americans to pursue their aims in Iraq and in Afghanistan. In fact, al Din had long assumed that the Americans had no real interest in catching Bin Laden. They had severed him from his network, so he personally was not a threat. And he served a useful purpose as the monster that inflamed their electorate, a name those in power could always use to manipulate opinion. Al Din prided himself on mastering idiom and recalled the word he was looking for. Boogeyman. Osama bin Laden had been America’s Boogeyman.

  But Al Din had been wrong. They had never stopped looking. His opinion of the United States hadn’t been shaped by the sort of people in this bar; it had been shaped by men like Munroe. But for the average American, for the electorate whose favor those seeking power must court, Bin Laden made things simple. One man who, with his robes and turban and beard and hooked nose, could be made the face of Islam, could be the enemy. With him as a fetish, a totem, the American people didn’t even have to try to digest the real picture – the rage of the unemployed young masses in most of the Muslim world. The inbred sense of some historical injustice as they considered the previous grandeur of the Caliphate ground beneath the Crusaders’ heels. The Jewish state forced into their midst by the West, even after the West had spent centuries persecuting the Jews. The differences between Sunni and Shi’a, the distinction between secular and religious motivations. Bin Laden was the distillation for all of it, a way to make the complex simple. He reduced an equation involving centuries of history, dozens of cultures, differing religions and competing worldviews into one of their cowboy movies. Good guys and bad guys in the street with guns.

  And so America, the most powerful nation on Earth, had spared no effort, no expense, no technical wizardry or human sacrifice in their obsession to find Bin Laden. Even with his fortune, his international network, the open support of the Taliban, the tacit support of Pakistan, the ambivalent support of the Saudis, even with all of those advantages, he could not hide forever.

  Al Din stood now in a different bar feeling a crowd of Americans reacting to a basketball victory in much the same way the crowd in Cleveland had reacted to news of Bin Laden’s death and realized that, if Bin Laden could not hid forever, then neither could he.

  With Bin Laden dead, if al Din completed the New Mexico project, the Americans would need a new face of evil. As Tehran’s puppet, its
cut-out, as the face at the end of the money trail, al Din would be it. He would be the new Boogeyman, In fact, MOIS would make sure of it, was already making sure of it. That explained the delay in paying him. Tehran would tie the money from the diamonds directly to al Din and al Din directly to Al Qaeda.

  Al Din had never considered America to be his enemy, just his target. And he had never considered MOIS or Al Qaeda or Hezbollah to be his friends, just his clients. He had no mission but his own wealth and his own survival. Now it seemed that the best way to preserve both would be to switch sides.

  He would make a deal with Munroe. And he would retire in the West, a rich man instead of a hunted one, secure from any threat his betrayal might bring from his current masters, because the Americans, the most powerful nation on Earth, would now be working to ensure his safety instead of his death.

  That was his plan, anyway. But it would be a ticklish business. Munroe would value his cooperation. It was clear from the political rhetoric al Din was hearing in the American media that Munroe was using his knowledge of the diamonds and some other angle that al Din did not understand to create a new axis of evil, this one running from the Mexican drug cartels to Bin Laden’s corpse. Al Din could give Munroe a way to add Tehran to that axis. The only question was whether Munroe would prefer that al Din cooperate as an ally or as a corpse.

  Corpses were much easier to manage.

  In the meantime, he would continue to look for Hardin. He would recover the diamonds, not for Tehran, but for himself.

  CHAPTER 66

  Corsco slammed the door, his face red.

  His home. That cop, that fuck Lynch, had the balls to turn up at his home. Show up with his little Jew in tow; brace him in front of his family. Of course Lynch couldn’t have exactly called Ringwald and set something up, Corsco knew that now.