It would take awhile before the tapes would arrive, so he took a quick break to get some fresh coffee. Taking a sip, he settled at his desk once again. According to the file, Taylor had a girlfriend…a detective with the Chicago PD. That was an interesting tidbit. The notation said that they appeared to have only been together a short while. Most of his friends had drifted away in the last few years. Jim rifled through the papers to find a brief interview he recalled reading.
He sat forward and sorted through the file. Damn. There wasn’t much. Just the few sketchy police reports he’d already gone over. He checked to see who had filed them. He recognized one. Where had he seen that name recently? Detective Jessica Bishop. He snapped his fingers. Wasn’t that the name of the woman Taylor was dating at the time of his arrest? Interesting. He rubbed his chin, trying to remember the approximate date Taylor had begun dating her. He was sure it had been shortly before Taylor’s arrest.
Jim noted the names and details on a legal pad. He intended to investigate the Bishop angle more closely. He sorted the papers and found the interview he was looking for. It had been filed under the personal contacts since Bishop had been the girlfriend. He skimmed the transcript, and scowled. The officer, Sean Daly, who’d done the interview, was either having a bad day or was lazy beyond belief. He should have pushed harder on the fact that a police detective had a relationship with someone giving tips on crimes. Daly should have pounced with follow-up questions.
The reports needed fleshing out and he decided that he needed to do it himself. He glanced out the window and pulled his shirt away from his body. It would be nice to get out of the humidity. The air barely moved outside his window, and even in the air conditioned building, his shirt stuck to him. He grinned. Chicago shouldn’t be too brutal in September.
His mind still entertaining the idea of Chicago, he shuffled the documents back into the stiff expandable file and moved to the row of tall cabinets lining one wall of his office. There was a short knock on his door, and his secretary stepped in.
“Here are the tapes you requested.”
“Wow, that was fast.”
She held out a bundle of tapes held in a stack by rubber bands. “I have connections.”
Jim took the tapes from her and smiled. “Thanks.” After she left, he took the tapes back to his desk, he found his cassette player and slid in the first tape. He had read the transcripts from these tapes several times before, but that wasn’t why he had requested them. He wanted to hear how Taylor sounded.
An hour later, Jim scrubbed his hands down his face and scratched his head with both hands. He was no closer to deciding what to do with his prisoner. It would have been so much easier if Taylor had sounded calm, but Jim had detected a note of restrained panic in the first calls. In later tapes, he’d been not just panicked, but frustrated and angry. The last tape was different. Recorded at 0743 Central time, Taylor sounded defeated, his voice thick. Was he crying? Either the man was a hell of an actor, or he had truly been distraught. Jim replayed that last tape. Taylor’s voice filled the office.
“Please, you have to put me through to someone in charge. There’s not much time left. Oh, God. Please.”
“I’m sorry sir, I need to ask a few questions first.”
“Goddamn it, there’s no time for questions…time…oh, shit…what time is it?”
There was a short silence and then a sharp thump. Jim leaned in, his ear turned towards the machine. What had he done? Dropped the phone? There was a muffled scrape Jim closed his eyes, picturing the scene in his mind. Fear was etched on Taylor’s face and tension in his movements. Jim shook his head and snapped his eyes open. He was probably just superimposing the familiar expressions he’d inspired when questioning Taylor. That’s all it was.
Taylor choked out, “Never mind. It’s too late.”
The tape ended at 0744. One minute before the first plane had hit.
Jim stabbed a finger down on the eject button. The evidence was impossible to ignore. Even if Taylor knew the exact timetable of the plan, there was no way he’d have known exactly when the first plane would hit. There were too many variables. The terrorist pilots could have made their move sooner or later, there could have been a delay due to fighting, as happened on Flight 93 that went down in Pennsylvania. Even the wind could have been a factor. So, how had he known that by 0744, it was too late? Unless he knew that only a minute later, the first plane would hit.
How had he missed that the first ten times through the transcripts? Jim picked the phone up and called to his administrative assistant. “Jill, could you book me on a flight to Chicago?” Glancing at his calendar, he nodded. “Next Wednesday would be fine.”
***
He sat as straight as the shackles allowed. Across the table, Jim sorted through Mark’s file. At least, Mark assumed it was his file. What was the guy up to? And where were the others? As horrible as interrogations were, at least he knew what to expect. This change in procedure smacked of some kind trickery. The guards were ever present, but stood by the door instead of right beside Mark. For the first ten minutes, Jim had ignored him, looking at him briefly when he had first arrived, and then checked his watch every few minutes. Mark shifted in the chair. What was he waiting for? Were the others late? But why were there no other chairs?
Mark jumped when there was a knock on the door, and right on cue, his heart began pounding. He knew better than to turn to see who had entered. He couldn’t help himself, he prayed it wasn’t a doctor.
Jim smiled and motioned for someone to enter. “Bring it in. Thanks.”
Before Mark could get over his shock at seeing the other man flash a genuine smile, a woman strode past, giving Mark a wide berth and avoiding eye contact. She carried a white paper bag in one hand and a drink holder in the other. The two soft drinks sloshed as she set it down along with the bag. “There’s extra ketchup, mustard and salt.”
“Great. I appreciate it.” Jim dug into his pocket and handed the woman some cash. “That should cover it.”
Mark was torn between wanting to look at the woman-the first he had seen in months, or the bag, whose scent told him what it contained. The woman ignored him and left the room. That left him no choice, but it didn’t make it any easier. He swallowed hard and studied the floor. It was the safest choice.
At the crinkle of paper, Mark raised his head. Jim dug into the bag and pulled out two large sandwiches. He pushed one in front of Mark. “I think it has the works.”
Mark recoiled. What was the guy up to?
Jim frowned as he began unwrapping his own sandwich. “It’s okay. You can have it.”
The smell filled the air, and he hoped he wasn’t drooling, but he didn’t touch the food-not even when a container of fries joined the burger on the table in front of him. For all he knew, it was poisoned. More likely, it was a trick and the second he put it to his mouth, Jim would order him to drop it.
Mark remembered a dog he’d had as a kid that would sit with a treat balanced on its nose, waiting eagerly for permission to flip the morsel up and snatch it out of the air. Mark now knew how that dog had felt. It made him ashamed of teaching his pet that ‘trick’. Now it seemed cruel. He studied his shackled hands clasped in his lap. Even if he dared to eat the burger, he couldn’t reach it anyway. There wasn’t enough slack in the chains.
“Eat the damn burger.” Jim set his own lunch down, and wiped his hands on a napkin. “I’m trying to do something nice here.”
Mark darted a look at him. “Why?” His voice was hoarse from disuse, and he cleared his throat. There had to be an ulterior motive. Jim’s face hardened and Mark raised his chin a notch. This was the man he knew. He could handle this.
For a long moment, their eyes clashed and Mark felt a thrill of triumph when Jim looked away first and shook his head. “Fine, eat it or not. I don’t care.” Jim took a bite of his burger and Mark turned his head, the sight of the food making him light-headed.
The thrill of winning died in the next f
ew minutes as he remained at the table, hearing the crunch of the lettuce, smelling the charcoal-grilled meat and the aroma of French fries. What had he won? Nothing. Mark took a deep breath. “I…uh…I’m sorry. I just…I don’t know what you want from me.”
Jim sighed and dropped the fry he held. “I just thought it would be something special for your birthday. We’re not heartless here.”
Shocked, Mark stared at Jim. “It’s my birthday?” It was September eighth? He had been here only ten months?
He was thirty-six years old. Were his parents thinking of him today? Or did they think him a terrorist? Last year, he had spent the day at a Cub’s game. The sun had been hot, the beer cold, and the home team even won the game. He closed his eyes, picturing the deep green ivy covered walls, the emerald diamond and the flags on the center-field scoreboard blowing straight out. Towering above the team flags had been the American flag. He opened his eyes and blinked hard.
“You didn’t know?”
Mark shook his head. How could he have known? It wasn’t like he had a calendar tacked to the wall of his cell.
“Well…shit. Yes, it’s your birthday.” Jim waved to the food in front of Mark. “ So eat up. It’s not poisoned.”
“I can’t…sir.”
“Why the hell not?” The irritation was back in his voice and he gave Mark a sharp look.
Mark bit back a sarcastic reply. This was probably just another way to to torment him. He lifted his hands as far as they would go. If he stretched, he could just touch the edge of the sandwich.
Jim’s face flushed. “Oh.” He called a guard over and instructed him to detach the shackles from the waist chain.
The other man’s embarrassment surprised him, but he didn’t dwell on it. He allowed himself to breathe in the scent of the burger, letting it fill his nose and make his mouth water. Then he took a bite, closing his eyes and savoring the taste and texture. The sauce mixed with the crisp lettuce and tomato and complemented the hot and juicy burger. Pure heaven.
He washed it down with an ice cold soft drink. It made him think of all the times he had eaten this exact same meal. Usually he was with a friend for lunch or late in the evening after a long photo shoot. It was normal. Ordinary. So ordinary, it made his throat tighten and he had to take another long gulp of the soft drink to get the food down. What he missed most was normal life.
Half-way through the meal, it hit him that when he finished eating, he would go back to his cell. Back to his surreal life in a nine-by-six room with white cinder block walls. This meal- this taste of his usual life-it was just a brief interlude. Nothing more. His hands shook and his stomach churned. No longer hungry, Mark set the half-eaten sandwich down.
“What’s wrong? Don’t you like it?” Jim balled up his wrapper and stuffed it in the bag. He tried to quell his anger. Jim probably hadn’t meant to be cruel, but that only made it harder. Mark took a deep breath. “I liked it fine, sir.” For the first time, he lied to the other man. “Thank you. I appreciate the meal.” He touched his stomach. “I’m full, that’s all.” A wave of nausea ripped through him and he prayed he would make it back to his cell before the food came back up.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Jim drummed his fingers on the armrest of the cab as it inched through Chicago’s morning rush hour. His superiors had denied his official travel request, stating that they felt Officer Daly’s report was sufficient and that nothing more could be gained from that line of inquiry. Undeterred, he’d put in for some personal time and paid for the trip himself. So, he was here unofficially. That might be better anyway. If he didn’t find anything useful, he wouldn’t have to admit it to Bill.
Almost an hour later, Jim tossed his bag on the bed in his room. He thought about following it down and taking a quick nap, but it was already after ten. He had a lot of ground to cover before his return flight tomorrow evening. First on his agenda was finding Detective Jessica Bishop. According to his notes, she worked out of the fifth precinct. Jim changed from his rumpled traveling clothes and put on a crisp white shirt, blue tie and black pants. Just because it was technically vacation didn’t mean he couldn’t look official.
Jim paused outside the police station, double checking the precinct number. Satisfied he was at the right one, he pushed through the doors and strode up to the desk sergeant. “I’m looking for Detective Jessica Bishop. Can you direct me to her office please?”
“Who are you?” The man squinted up from his paperwork.
This was the tricky part. Bishop didn’t know him. This wasn’t official business so Jim couldn’t declare that he was with the CIA. He didn’t want to lie, either. He settled for a half-truth. “I’m Jim Sheridan. Detective Bishop and I have a mutual friend, so I thought while I was in town on business, I’d come by and introduce myself.” He pulled out his wallet and showed his driver’s license.
The sergeant raised an eyebrow, but then shrugged. “Whatever.” He waved a hand towards the right. “Her office is third door on the left. But she ain’t there now.” With that, he went back to whatever he was doing with the papers.
Jim braced his hands on the desk and leaned towards the sergeant’s face. “Any idea when she might return, or where she might be? I promised I’d meet her when I was in town.”
The man sighed and rolled his eyes. “Look, I ain’t her secretary. You might find her in the file room. It’s back that-away.” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder.
“Thanks. You’ve been so much help.” Jim headed in the direction the man had indicated and peered in three offices, inquiring in each if anyone had seen Jessica Bishop. No one had any idea and he was beginning to wish he had called first. He’d thought about it, but didn’t want to give up the advantage of surprise. He had found that it was easier to read a person that way. A door marked FILE ROOM was ajar, and he pushed it open and stepped in.
“You the one looking for me?”
Jim turned towards the voice behind him. She was taller than he expected, only a few inches shorter than his five-foot ten. He had seen a standard file photo of her, but in person, even with her hair in a tight bun, she was striking. She watched him warily.
“Detective Jessica Bishop?”
She nodded, her eyes never leaving his face. “And you are?”
Jim stuck his hand out. “Jim Sheridan.”
For a long moment, she studied him before she shook his hand. Her grip was strong and her eyes hard. “What can I do for you?”
Jim looked over her shoulder to the busy station. “I know this is unexpected. I flew out on the chance I could talk to you when I should have made an appointment, but do you have some time? I’d like to talk to you. Somewhere quiet, if possible. It’s about a mutual acquaintance.”
“Who is it?” Jessica glanced away, and he saw her reluctance and irritation. She held a stack of files and her eyes went from the clock then down to the files in her hand as though weighing in her mind if she had time to waste talking to him
“I see I’ve caught you at a bad time, but I promise you’ll be interested in who this acquaintance is.” He paused a beat letting her realize the importance of his next words. “I’d rather wait to disclose who it is until we can go somewhere else to discuss it.”
She raised her head, her expression wavering between annoyance and curiosity. “Look, I don’t know you from Adam, so why should I go anywhere with you?”
He stepped closer and said in a low voice, “I saw Mark Taylor the other day. I’d like to ask you some questions.”
She lost her grip on the folders, but juggled them quickly and looked like she was going to ask him something, but changed her mind. Hope had sparked in her eyes for an instant before she masked it with a shrug. “Okay. Let me get my purse out of my office.”
As she entered an office, she glanced over her shoulder. “Are you hungry? We can get some lunch.”
“That sounds great.” Jim realized that he was starving, his stomach reminding him that the granola bar he’d eaten on the way to
the airport this morning was a distant memory. He waited outside the detective’s office. Purse in hand, the woman started for the door, stopped, turned back, and pulled a large white envelope from a desk drawer. Tucking it firmly under an arm, she breezed past him.
She drove, not saying much beyond asking him what kind of food he wanted. He shrugged and told her to pick the place. His hopes of putting her at ease turned to regret when she pulled up in front of a grungy hot dog stand. Jim hid a grimace. Maybe she was trying to give him food poisoning. He ordered a hot dog with the works along with fries, and Jessica ordered the same. He followed her to one of the picnic tables sitting on the hot pavement. Jim bit into the hot dog, and then grinned. “This is good.”
Jessica nodded, her mouth full. After taking a sip of her drink, she said, “Yeah, it’s one of my favorite spots.” She glanced around. “It doesn’t look like much, but what it lacks in ambiance, it makes up for in flavor.” A few wisps of her hair had escaped confinement and the gold strands fluttered as she tilted her face to the sun, eyes closed. “Besides, sometimes I just need to get outside for a bit.”
They ate, occasionally making awkward small talk. It was odd having lunch with a complete stranger, and he knew she felt more than a little uncomfortable. At least the food was good even if it was greasy as hell. He chuckled. That was why it was so good. If he ate like this too often, he’d get soft, and what kind of image would that project? He vowed to run an extra five miles to make up for the greasy meal.
The last time he had indulged in fast food had been with Taylor. Jim picked up the last bite of his hot dog, scooping up some errant pickle relish and replacing it on the end of the dog before polishing it off. That meal hadn’t ended as well. The guy had puked upon returning to his cell. The hot dog churned in Jim’s stomach at the thought. Taylor had been nearly catatonic for three days.
Jim took a sip of his soda, then used the straw to loosen the ice. There was always the worry about crossing the fine line between breaking the man’s defenses or just breaking the man. If he pushed too hard, he risked pushing Mark Taylor into insanity. Not hard enough, and they wouldn’t get any information. He glanced at Jessica and held up his cup. “I’m thinking of getting a refill, you want one?”
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