DIRTY BLOND

by Mark Terry

  “She’s gone.”

  Derek turned to shoot a questioning look his way.

  “We’ve got LeClare in custody, on his way to lockup for a while because he’s a pain in the ass and we like making him miserable. You, we’re still figuring it out. Her, she’s gone. Disappeared.”

  “Huh.”

  “You have a way of contacting her?”

  He did, but he didn’t want to turn over her cell phone number, assuming she hadn’t gotten rid of it. “Through Makatashi,” he said.

  They talked for a while longer. “You shoot up at the restaurant?”

  “No. Just down here when he drove by and shot at me.”

  “Somebody shot at the restaurant. We’re collecting witness statements.”

  “Anybody hit?”

  “No, which is a miracle, you ask me. So Sakura fired her weapon?”

  He thought about it. “No, I don’t think so. Not even out on the street, I don’t think.”

  “So LeClare did?”

  “He might have shot at the shooter to give us a little cover to get off the patio.”

  Wilson studied him for a moment. “We’re going to have to keep your gun, run some tests. You got backup?”

  “Not with me, but yes. And I can get something from the field office if I have to.”

  “Yeah, well, a professional hit man gunning for you, you’d want something.”

  “Mmmmm.”

  “You ready to talk to the press?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Done this before?”

  “A few times.”

  “Okay, let’s go.”

  When they got to their feet, a flock of reporters and cameramen headed their way. Wilson waited patiently.

  Once they were set up, he introduced the two of them. Being reporters of sorts, they immediately blurted out questions. Who was the shooter? Was anyone hit? Who are you? Why are you here?

  Wilson said, “Agent Stillwater is in Chicago as part of an official investigation. The shooter is, he believes, related to that investigation.”

  “What is the investigation?” the WGN reporter asked, her blond hair unmoving in the slight breeze. Like most TV people Derek had encountered in the real world, she had a head that seemed a little big for her body, big eyes and a beautiful complexion. Her teeth seemed too big and perfect, but he didn’t doubt they looked great on camera.

  “I’m here doing some follow-up on certain aspects of the Chemist case.”

  An African-American man, broad shoulders, expertly tailored suit, said, “The Chemist was caught and killed. What type of follow-up?”

  “A few of the deaths originally believed to be the result of the Chemist have been proven to be copycats. They are connected—“

  They clamored for answers: What evidence? How are they connected? Who are they?

  Derek raised his hands for quiet. “Laboratory results showed discrepancies, which is how the copycat killings were identified. A Chicago PD and Homeland Security investigation uncovered a connection. I can’t release that information at this time.”

  “Why were they killed? How many?” asked another reporter.

  “At this point in time, three have identified, with a possible fourth target.”

  “How is this related to today’s shooting?”

  “We have reason to believe the shooter is the individual behind these killings.”

  They immediately started asking questions again: Why would he shoot at you? Who were you with? What’s the evidence that he’s the killer?

  Derek raised his hands again. “The shooter is a Japanese male who is in his late twenties to early thirties. Average height, with dark hair that is in a conservative cut. I don’t have a name for him. He appears to be a professional killer—“

  “Who’s he working for?” the WGN reported interrupted.

  “As yet unknown. Now, I have a partial photograph of this man that I can email to you—“

  They clamored for more, but Derek got them quieted again, and said directly to the cameras, “Anyone who has seen this man, please contact the Chicago Police Department as soon as possible.”

  Behind him he heard Wilson make a slight groan.

  44

  James Brewster, Jr.

  Brewster, Jr. was going over spreadsheets breaking out DynaCorp’s upcoming six-month financials for Asian operations. Overall it looked good, although the China market, as usual, was a pain in the ass. Growing, because it was a huge market, but operational expenses were high, largely because doing almost anything in the country required the so-called red envelopes—bribes.

  The Chinese government liked to crack down on Western companies operating in China for corruption, and made a big freaking deal about it, putting the “criminals” on CCTV—China Central Television, the state’s propaganda channel.

  A couple years ago, GlaxoSmithKline, the British drug company, got caught up in a bribery scandal and was fined almost $500 million by the Chinese government.

  Which was a joke, because if you wanted to operate in China, the wheels got greased from top to bottom, and the Chinese government damn well knew it.

  On the wall a TV ran CNN. He switched off and on during the day with Bloomberg, CNN and CNBC, depending on his mood. Today was a CNN mood, with the frenetic multiple tickers and boxes.

  Asian markets were in the toilet, and it wasn’t helping DynaCorp stocks, although everybody was having the same problem.

  He glanced up as one of the CNN boxes blared: Shootout In Chicago!

  It caught his attention. Jerky footage probably taken from mobile phones showed chaos in a restaurant. Then more footage cut to the street, more shaky footage of cars racing down a street, one a tan Malibu, the other a bright red Mustang. A man crouched on the street, firing at the lead car, then diving behind another car.

  Then the talking head describing the shooting.

  He was about to go back to his spreadsheets when a man appeared with the caption: Dr. Derek Stillwater, Homeland Security.

  Brewster snagged the remote and turned up the volume. He could feel his blood pressure rising as he watched.

  Then the story was over and a forest fire in California replaced it.

  He clicked off the TV, staring into space.

  Finally, he went online and made a plane reservation to Chicago for later that evening.

  45

  Guy

  They’d confiscated his gun, driven him to the station and tossed him into an open cell, the so-called drunk tank, and it looked pretty accurate. There were half a dozen pillars of the community, each of whom eyed him to determine if he was trouble or opportunity.

  One of them, a guy who looked like a black Sumo wrestler, grunted and said, “Who d’fuck’re you?”

  “Room service. What do you care?”

  Sumo lumbered up off the bench and lurched toward him.

  Guy grabbed the guy’s nuts with his prosthetic. “Oops. Mechanical problem. Y’just never know when these things are gonna clamp shut all on their own.”

  Sumo raised his hands. “Hey, man, I’m cool. Cool.”

  “Sit down.” He let go of the guy’s ‘nads. He stumbled back to the bench, almost squashing the guy who was slouched there.

  “Anybody else?” Guy said.

  “Fuck you,” a couple of them said.

  “So we’re all agreed.” He looked around the cell and picked out a spot on the bench that didn’t look puked on and settled back to wait.

  It was maybe an hour when he was called down to an interrogation room where he was questioned half a dozen ways and he was cooperative, or at least as cooperative as Guy ever was. Cops weren’t big fans of PIs, even PIs who’d once been cops.

  One of the cops was probably a new detective. Guy hoped so.

  The youngster, Hispanic, last name Gomez, first initial R, said, “What were you doing at the re
staurant?”

  “I like the artwork over the bar. Y’know, the Budweiser sign. It’s beautiful.”

  “Were you meeting somebody?”

  “This hottie, Mamacita Gomez. Know her?”

  Gomez, R., glared at him. “Why were you at the Plymouth?”

  “Well, their burgers are good, but I was really craving a pastrami sandwich and a beer and I was in the area.”

  “Were you there to meet someone?”

  “No.”

  “But you ran into someone you knew?”

  “Stillwater, yeah, but you know that, right?”

  “How do you know Agent Stillwater?”

  “He’s working with a former partner of mine. Sandy Beach. You know her?”

  Gomez nodded.

  A knock at the door, and a woman said, “Guy, we’ve got a statement. If you can review it and sign it, you’re free to go.”

  Gomez stared at her. “I’m not finished questioning him.”

  The woman shrugged. “Word from on high.”

  Gomez slapped his hands down on the desk. “Jesus Christ. What the fuck?”

  “You forgot shit and goddamnit,” Guy said.

  “Fuck you, LeClare.”

  “And your mother.”

  #

  After Guy signed the statement, was given his wallet and car key, he was led out to the lobby. “What about my gun?” he asked.

  Stillwater was sitting on a molded plastic chair and said, “That’s kind of pushing it, Guy.”

  “I didn’t shoot anybody.”

  “You fired it in a public setting. They want to run some tests on it.”

  “What about you? You get your piece back?”

  “No. They promise me in 48 hours and I’m going to hold them to it. You’re ready to go. I’ll give you a ride to wherever you’re going.”

  Guy stared at him. “You’re being nice to me.”

  “Don’t get used to it,” Stillwater said.

  “You gonna push me through a window again?”

  “Not right now, maybe later. Day’s still young.”

  Gomez was watching them. Guy pointed his finger at him like a gun. “See you around, Chico.”

  Stillwater sighed. “Let’s get out of here before you give them a reason to lock both of us up.”

  He headed out the door and Guy hurried after them. “So we’re what, partners now? You gonna deputize me?”

  Out on the street, Stillwater stopped, scanning around, then said, “What happened to Anne Sakura?”

  “That hottie? Who is she, man?”

  “She’s mostly a hired killer, Guy.”

  “For real?”

  “From what my files indicate. She’s supposedly working for Makatashi as a bodyguard, private security.”

  “Wow. That’s hot.”

  “If you say so. My car’s down the street a block. Where can I drop you?”

  Guy stepped back. “I don’t get it.”

  “What?”

  “You’re being nice. You hate my guts. You pushed me through a fucking plate-glass window.”

  “You deserved it.”

  “Yeah, so you say, but what’s going on?”

  With a sigh, Stillwater faced him. “You’re an asshole, Guy. But when the shooting started, you didn’t run, you didn’t hide. You fired back and you ran after this guy. So you got my respect.”

  They started walking up the street. “So, we’re pals now? You want to give me this killer chick’s number? Think I’d stand a chance with her?”

  “You’re still an asshole, Guy.”

  46

  Sandy

  Sandy, with Derek out of pocket, decided to spend some time writing up her notes on the case. It wasn’t long, however, before news of the shootout was zipping through headquarters, and not long after that her phone rang over and over from several detectives and brass, asking about Derek Stillwater, who claimed to be working a case with her.

  Yes, he was.

  And Guy LeClare? He working with you, too?

  No, he was not.

  How the hell did LeClare get involved in this?

  And it wasn’t much longer before she received another official summons from Captain Bains.

  The expression on his face was somewhere between thunderhead rage and smug satisfaction.

  “Stillwater just went public with your case.”

  “Ah, jeez.”

  “And, the bastard gave the media a photograph of your suspect and told the general public to contact us—not Homeland Security—with any tips.”

  “Did he offer a reward?”

  “No.”

  “Thank God.”

  “You’re in charge.”

  “Of…”

  “It’s your case, Sandy. You’re in charge of the phone calls…. And there’s a lot of them. Go to it.”

  “Uh … I’m going to need some staff.”

  “You got Orville. Maybe Stillwater can help.”

  “But—“

  He glared at her.

  #

  “That man looks like Yo Chin, he runs the market on West Cermak.”

  “Do you know the name of the market, ma’am?” Sandy said, working the phone with Orville. Orville had a large bag of Cheetos and a Diet Coke in front of him. He’d taken the “assignment” cheerfully enough, asking about overtime.

  “It’s the Chinese market,” the old woman on the phone said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Sandy said. “That’s in Chinatown. There are a lot of markets on West Cermak and in Chinatown.” And our guy is Japanese, she thought, but didn’t say.

  “Chin’s, I think.”

  “And you think Mr. Chin looks like our suspect, ma’am?”

  “He’s Chinese, ain’t he?”

  “How old is Mr. Chin, ma’am?”

  “I don’t know,” the woman said. “I think he weighs down the scale. You cops should get someone in there.”

  “Could you describe Mr. Chin, please?”

  “He’s a chink!”

  “About how old, ma’am?”

  “Fifties, maybe sixties.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. We’ll check him out. Thank you.”

  She hung up and said, “Any luck?”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “I wish.”

  “You think Bains will ease up and give us some help?”

  “Hang on.”

  She left the room, walked down the hall, saw that Captain Bains had left for the day. She hunted up Captain Lydia O’Day and put in her request.

  Captain O’Day was in her fifties, a short, slight woman with red hair and freckles. “Sandy,” she said, “I was expecting you in here about an hour ago.”

  “You were?”

  “Yes. About five minutes after Bains went home. How many do you need?”

  “Five or six.”

  “I’ll get them up here. Might take half an hour or so.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Any luck?”

  “Usual crap.”

  “Good thing Stillwater didn’t offer a reward.”

  “Still got a lot of whackos calling in. Anyone with a grudge against an Asian.”

  “Not a bad idea, though. It’ll put some pressure on your guy. He might have to get out of town.”

  “Then we’ll never get him. And he’ll try to get Makatashi somewhere else.”

  “And that’ll be someone else’s problem,” O’Day said. “I know how you feel, Sandy, but we can’t solve every problem.” Then she grinned. “Now that Stillwater, that’s a fine-looking man.”

  “Well, he’s probably available.”

  O’Day raised her eyebrows. “Might like a little of the Irish, you think?”

  “Go for it,” Sandy said, laughing, returning to the phone bank.

  Twenty minutes l
ater two uniforms showed up, hopeful that the desk duty might lead to recommendations for promotion. Orville briefed them, and they started answering the phone.

  She’d called and texted Stillwater. He’d responded to her text with, “Busy. Will touch base later.”

  She texted back: “I’m monitoring the phones your press statement got started.”

  He didn’t text back.

  Disgusted, she returned to the phones. About half an hour later she got a woman on the line.

  “I think I know where that guy is staying.”

  “What guy?”

  “You know. The one on the TV. That Asian guy, the one they think killed a lot of people.”

  “Okay. Where do you think he’s staying?”

  “The Hyatt Regency downtown.”

  Sandy sat up straighter. This didn’t sound like someone with a grudge.

  “And you saw him…”

  “I and my friend were partying with him last night.”

  “Partying?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Back up. What’s your name?”

  “Um, do I have to tell you?”

  “It would help.”

  “I’m, uh … I really don’t want to get pulled into this.”

  “Okay. Why don’t you just tell me.”

  “Well, sure, my friend and I, we’re in town with a conference here.”

  “At the Hyatt Regency?”

  “Yes. For the ASCO meeting.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Oh, the American Society of Clinical Oncology. We’re both sales reps for, well, a drug company. Anyway, we were at the meeting all day, and we were going back to our room, kind of late, midnight or so, we’d been out talking up doctors all night. Anyway, this really hot-looking guy was walking down our hallway, getting ice. He didn’t have his shirt on, and he was ripped, I mean, really, really ripped.”

  “And he was Asian?”

  “Oh yeah. Japanese, I think. My friend, Jo, er, my friend, she’s part Asian, Vietnamese, and she said she was pretty sure he was Japanese. Um, later. Anyway, he kind of flirted with us, offered us a drink, so we went back to his room.”

  “And?”

  “And, well … partied.”

  “Okay. Could you describe him for me?”

  “Well, ripped.”