DIRTY BLOND

by Mark Terry

  At sixty-six years of age, the man worked easily sixteen hour days. He took meetings, made calls, read reports, watched the news, and wrote memos. Twice a day he exercised—one hour on an exercise bike with two TVs tuned to Bloomberg and MSNBC. The other hour was an intense karate workout in a private dojo.

  Anne was a martial artist and occasionally worked out with him. Ichiro was very old school, pounding a makiwara board, performing brutally powerful katas over and over, repeating basics again and again.

  He was shutting down his computer when she knocked and entered. Ichiro bobbed his head in a slight bow, acknowledging her presence.

  “Is your plan in place?”

  “If that’s what you want to call it,” she said. “Yes.”

  “I am the bait.”

  “You always were. Now it’s official. But Stillwater and this private detective are staking out the parking garage. Your security staff is on alert.”

  “And you are here.”

  “Yes.”

  “I do not believe the Ronin will make it past you.”

  “I appreciate the vote of confidence, but he came very close to killing me and Stillwater this afternoon.”

  “You trust him?”

  “Stillwater?” She shrugged. “Yes. I’ve put out some feelers with my sources, asking about him. He’s unorthodox, maybe even suicidally so, but he gets results.”

  “Very good. Thank you, Ms. Sakura. I will be going to bed shortly. You should get some rest. If you’re right, we will have a big day tomorrow.”

  58

  Sandy

  I wasn’t really surprised when McCafferty balked at surveillance. When I asked him if he was going to join me in watching the hotel room, he hesitated, then said he’d discuss things with his CO and disappeared.

  Orville looked at me. “I’ll bet you a Snickers bar he’s going to say his boss wants the CPD to handle it.”

  “No bet.”

  “Been a while since you and I did an all-nighter.”

  I sighed. “Ah, the good old days.”

  McCafferty came out. “My CO says it’s appropriate for you guys to handle surveillance, but to call us if you need backup.”

  “Sure,” I said. Orville had a sudden coughing fit, turning away and covering his mouth. After a moment he turned back, mumbling, “Sorry, sorry.”

  “Thanks for your help so far,” I said.

  “You want my guys?” He gestured to his patrol officers.

  “We’ve got it. Thanks.”

  We shook hands all around and McCafferty went to talk to his peons, who shrugged, climbed into their car and drove off. I went to dismiss our people for a few hours.

  Orville was walking toward our car when I caught up to him. “There’s a 7-Eleven over there, Orv.”

  His face split into a grin.

  “Stock up,” I said.

  #

  Orville’s ideas of snacks tended to be sugar-based. A couple bags of miniature candy bars, licorice, Mountain Dew and Monster, fruit pies and Hostess cakes.

  But he knew me well. Salty and crunchy for me, along with a big container of coffee—a bag of pretzels, trail mix, a can of Pringles.

  We got set up in the battered Crown Vic in a position where we had a good view of the Ronin’s outside door. The parking lot was well lit, which was actually a problem. We’d found a spot as shadowed as possible beneath a sycamore tree.

  I sipped my coffee while Orville tore open a pack of Snowballs, leaving a flurry of pink coconut on the cracked vinyl seats.

  “So,” Orville said around a mouthful of cake and cream and marshmallow, “how’s Nathan doing?”

  I almost spat my coffee out. “Oh my God, Orville! I … I forgot all about him! I’ve been so caught up in this case!”

  I started to cry. “Oh my God, oh my God! What kind of person forgets her fiancé is in the hospital?”

  Orville patted me awkwardly on the shoulder, tutting, “There, there, it’s okay, it’s okay.”

  “But it’s not,” I cried. “Oh, Orville, what’s wrong with me?”

  Orville waited me out. It took a while to cry myself out and get control of my emotions. “Thanks,” I said. “You’ve always been here for me.”

  “Bullshit,” Orville said.

  That was very unlike Orville. “What? Orv—“

  “I abandoned you in the middle of the Chemist case.”

  “But you bailed us—saved our lives—“

  “And your temp partner got killed by the Chemist, Sandy. It’s only been a week or two. You and I had a fight, your alternate got killed, the Chemist targeted you, you almost died a couple times, and you know damned well you should be on administrative leave, your fiancé—did you say fiancé?”

  Had I told him? Nathan had proposed, or tried to, the night I was assigned the Chemist case. And Nathan had ended up in a coma before I could answer him and the case took over and…

  “Oh my God, Orv! Didn’t I…”

  “Start at the beginning. We seem to have a lot of time.”

  59

  Jimmy Brewster, Jr.

  As the Ronin stepped off the train, Brewster exploded up out of his chair and flung himself out of the train car onto the platform just as the doors slammed shut and began to pull away from the station. Staring around, he saw the hitman heading off the platform, apparently oblivious to Jimmy’s presence.

  Pausing, taking a deep breath, he tried to slow his hammering heart and headed after him.

  As far as he was concerned, Ronin was just an employee, no more, no less. Well, less in some ways, he was a goddamned contract employee.

  Staring around, he didn’t immediately see Ronin. He’d never been in this part of Chicago. It appeared to be part residential with apartments and houses, as well as bars, restaurants, and nightclubs. There were far more people out and about than he expected, most of them appearing to be college age.

  There was quite a mix—those dressed up either for theater in suits and skirts and dresses, for clubs in much shorter skirts, leather and silk, and others with pink or purple hair, tats and piercings.

  Scanning up and down the street, he spotted the slouching figure of Ronin, blending into the crowd. He headed after him.

  It was harder than expected to keep him in sight. There were plenty of guys in jeans and hoodies, Asian or otherwise. He found himself pushing through a throng of people waiting outside a theater that was playing The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. Brewster wondered how they ever fit the title on the marquee and why anybody would give a damn about a play with that kind of title.

  But he’d lost the Ronin.

  Hurrying to the next corner, he stared around, finally seeing the killer talking to two Asian guys out in front of a used bookstore that was closed for the night.

  Brewster slipped into the shadows inside the doorway of a coffee shop that was also closed and watched.

  There seemed to be some negotiation going on.

  Finally, the two Asians raised their hands and walked away. Ronin watched them, briefly scanned the street, then turned to leave the area.

  Brewster hurried to keep him in sight, walking on the opposite side of the street in parallel. Ronin seemed to be looking for something or someone. He would pause and look at people, sometimes say a word to them, then move on.

  They’re all Asian, he thought. Japanese guys maybe, maybe Korean.

  What was going on?

  Behind him a siren cut through the traffic noise. Flinching, he turned, saw an ambulance race by, followed a police car, the sirens dopplering away.

  When he looked back, Ronin was gone.

  Shit.

  Rushing forward, he lurched out into the street, paused to let a Buick go by, and jogged to the curb. Looking up and down the walk, he saw plenty of people, but none of them was the Ronin. Damnit. Now what?

  He decided to
continue up the street. A half block, moving further from where people were and more into shops and businesses that were even closed for the night, he paused at the mouth of an alley.

  Did he go in here?

  Brewster hesitated, then ventured in. A couple rusty fire escape ladders hanging a dozen feet from the greasy street, a Dumpster, a couple garbage cans. The stench of something rotting.

  Edging past the Dumpster, he felt more than saw a figure explode out of the shadows toward him. Before he could cry out, before he could barely even raise his hands to protect himself, an arm closed around his neck, choking him.

  Gagging, struggling, he fought for air, trying to pull the arm around his throat.

  Spots floated in front of his eyes.

  The last words Jimmy Brewster heard in this life were, “Some kind of stupid.”

  60

  Sandy

  “What does Bernice think of you working with me?” I asked. Bernice was Orville’s wife. We got along just fine, but she felt that Orville got involved in too many high-profile serial killer cases. She was right, but what were you going to do? When you’re working violent crimes, you hunt violent criminals. Fluffy bunnies rarely kill people.

  Yeah, the little voice in my head said, but lots of cops hunt bad guys without having them target you and your family.

  Shut up, I told my little voice.

  “She loves you, Sandy,” Orville said. “She just worries. And so do I. The Chemist…”

  I knew what he meant. Serial poisoners just aren’t that common. But one of the most famous also took place in Chicago. 1982. Known as the Chicago Tylenol Murders.

  It was before my time. Someone laced Tylenol with cyanide. Seven people died, although there were copycats that killed more.

  It had been solved, sort of.

  Justice arrested a guy named James William Lewis. The dumbass sent a letter to Johnson & Johnson saying if they paid him a million bucks he’d stop the murders. Although the FBI and everyone else pretty much were convinced he was the actual poisoner, they couldn’t make the case.

  He went away on a 20-year extortion charge, got out on parole in 1995. He served 13 years and claimed he didn’t do it.

  The FBI even considered Ted Kaczynski, the Unabomber, as a possible suspect.

  And then there’s the anthrax case in 2001, what the Feebies called Amerithrax. Killed five, infected 17.

  Originally the case latched onto Steven Hatfill. Later, after his life was pretty much ruined, he was exonerated. Eventually it all got pinned on a researcher at Fort Detrick named Bruce Ivins.

  Sort of ironic. In 2008, Ivins committed suicide—overdosed on Tylenol.

  It occurred to me that Stillwater had mentioned Rid, which was the bioweapons research facility at Fort Detrick.

  I wondered if he’d known Hatfill and Ivins.

  I wondered if he’d been in on the investigation.

  I wondered if he had been a suspect.

  “Hey, hey,” Orville said. “We might have someone.”

  An Asian guy in jeans and a leather jacket was walking across the parking lot, staring around at the cars, acting a little nervous.

  “Is it him?” Orville whispered.

  “Could be,” I said. “Get ready, but let’s wait and see what he does.”

  What he did was shrug his shoulders, stick his hand into the pocket of his leather jacket and head toward our suspect’s hotel room.

  Pausing at the door, he looked left, right, left again. The hand came out of the jacket pocket, the key card slipped into the slot, the door opened.

  “Let’s go,” I said. “And pay attention. This guy’s a pro.”

  The guy went into the room.

  I was running toward the room, Orville huffing and puffing behind me.

  At the door, I waited a second for Orville to catch up. I gave him a second to catch his breath. He had a hand raised, asking for more time. I cocked my head, giving him a come-on-Orville look.

  He nodded. Standing to both sides of the door, I pounded. “Open up! Police!”

  From inside there were scuttling sounds. I knew the only window was next to the door. He couldn’t go out the back.

  “Open up!”

  More noise.

  Rearing back, keeping in mind my tae kwon do training, but wishing I had a battering ram, I kicked at the door.

  It was a good kick.

  A great kick.

  The jam shrieked, the wood tore, the door exploded inward.

  I lunged in, gun drawn, immediately crouching to the left.

  Orville came in after me, dodging to the right.

  Standing in the middle of the room, a suitcase at his feet, was an Asian guy, hands over his head.

  He didn’t look that much like the Ronin.

  Yeah, he was Japanese, and probably in his twenties, although barely. And maybe the same height.

  And he looked scared shitless. “OhmyGodohmyGod Oh! My! God! Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”

  61

  Ronin

  From the adjoining parking lot, Ronin watched Sandy Beach and her partner, the fat guy, bust down the door. Despite her partner’s size and relative lack of fitness, they worked well together, their movements coordinated, each knowing what to do, communicating silently with each other.

  Even Beach giving her partner time to catch his breath.

  And going through the door that way, very smooth.

  He regretted losing the luggage and clothing, but everything else of use and value was either on him, stored in the trunk of a rental car, or in a rental storage locker.

  For a moment, he considered walking to the door and shooting Beach and her partner, as well as the kid he’d bribed. The sniper rifle was in the car. He’d have to get up close and just use his pistol.

  It was risky.

  He’d wandered around the city hitting up Japanese guys about his age and appearance, asking them if they wanted to make a couple hundred bucks, easy.

  Some of them thought he was a john looking for a blowjob.

  For the ones that gave him time, he spun a tale of $300 bucks to ride out to the airport and retrieve his luggage from his hotel room. He had the key to the room, but his wife had caught him with his girlfriend, kicked him out, now the vindictive bitch was sending her brother after him, the bastard had an evil temper, all he wanted was to get his shit and change hotels…

  It was a so-so story, but he was counting on greed and boredom. A couple of the people he tried to sell the story to told him to fuck off, a couple others told him it was lame, what was really going on?

  And this guy, Sammy, was greedy, and if he wasn’t mistaken, in desperate need of a fix. He also wasn’t too bright.

  He’d given Sammy five twenties as a down payment and ridden the train with him out to the stop by the hotel, and pointed him to the room.

  “If you see my brother-in-law, just bail and come back. Can’t miss him, though. Average height black guy, looks like an accountant. Gold wire-rimmed glasses. Usually wears suits. Don’t underestimate him, though. Looks like a wimp, but he’s a mean sonofabitch.”

  Once Sammy got his luggage, he’d give him the rest of the money.

  Sammy was dim enough and desperate enough that he didn’t ask questions.

  And Ronin suspected he was happy enough to run an errand for the money instead of turning a trick.

  It was time to go, he decided. He’d found out what he wanted to know. The cops were closer than he wanted.

  It was time to wrap it up.

  62

  Derek

  Derek’s phone alarm went off, a funky little blues riff, and instantly opened his eyes and shut it off. Glancing over, he saw that Guy was watching a video on an iPad Mini, white earbuds tucked in his ears.

  Peering closer, he saw it was a porno. Two very large-breasted women were tangled up with two extremely
well-endowed men. Well-endowed, hell. One of the guys was an elephant.

  Well, Derek thought. Guy was consistent.

  And unexpectedly reliable.

  They’d been shooting the shit for a couple hours, tossing out ideas of what they might actually do if the Ronin showed up. Feeling fairly confident that they had some sort of plan, half-assed or otherwise, he’d suggested Guy get some sleep for a couple hours, then they’d trade off.

  “Don’t need to tell me twice,” Guy said, scrambling into the backseat and sprawling out. In seconds his garlicky snores were filling the car like a very stinky chainsaw.

  And then the farting started.

  Derek rolled down the windows.

  It helped, but…

  He climbed out of the car, walking around the parking lot, stretching his legs.

  One of Makatashi’s security personnel stepped out into the garage. A short, stocky Japanese, his name was Ito Ohara, and he’d been popping in and out every hour or so.

  “Is everything okay, Agent Stillwater?”

  “Guy’s got gas.”

  Ohara snorted. “That bad?”

  “Pretty bad. Everything quiet?”

  “As an office building after midnight.”

  “Dead.”

  Ohara shrugged. Clearly he was bored, which didn’t surprise Derek much. Being night security in an empty building couldn’t be all that interesting. He’d already gathered that Ohara, who was in his mid-twenties, was in the process of studying for his MBA. The night job was a way of freeing up time for school during the day and watching his two little kids at home while his wife worked for Makatashi in accounting.

  “Some of the execs will work pretty late, sometimes up till midnight or so, but after that it’s mostly an empty building. Except for Mr. Makatashi and some security people. And Ms. Nakamura.”

  Ms. Nakamura was Anne Sakura’s name to everyone who needed a name to go along with Makatashi’s female bodyguard and security consultant.

  “What did she tell you was going on?”