DIRTY BLOND

by Mark Terry

  A funny expression crossed Ohara’s face. “She’s … we were told to cooperate with her, that there’s been a specific threat to Mr. Makatashi. And that you and that guy—“ He nodded toward the car where Guy farted and slept. “--were expecting someone to try and get into the parking garage sometime tonight or tomorrow. Into the garage, into the building.”

  Derek nodded. “What do you think?”

  “About what?”

  “If a killer were trying to get at Makatashi and wanted to get in the building, how would he or she do it?”

  “It’s a woman?”

  “No.”

  “Oh. Um, well, yeah, I can see trying to come in through the parking garage. Or the front door. Lot of security at the front door, although when it’s prime, between 8:30 and 9:00 AM and again at 5:00 to 5:30 PM or so, it’s a little crazy. A lot of people, hundreds, and with the current security measures, there’s a real bottleneck.”

  “What about the other exits.”

  “They’re really designed as emergency exits. Each one’s got a security guard on it these days, and you have to badge out or an alarm goes off. They’re locked from the outside. It would require your, uh, killer, to have someone on the inside.”

  “Or get a key.”

  “That would still set off an alarm in the security office.”

  Derek nodded. He knew all that from Anne, but he was interested in the separate perspective.

  “What can you tell me about this killer,” Ohara said, trying to sound casual.

  “He’s for real. He’s a pro. He’s Japanese. And he started out as a copycat of the Chemist.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit.”

  “So he’s a poisoner.”

  “This killer? So far he’s poisoned some people, but he’s also used a sniper rifle and a handgun that I specifically know about. I think he’ll use whatever works.”

  Ohara swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. “The real deal.”

  Clapping him on the shoulder, Derek said, “When’s your shift over?”

  “Seven.”

  “I think you’re safe. But can you keep an eye out for a few minutes while I take a piss?”

  “Sure.”

  Derek slipped into the security office, out the door and used the restroom, splashing cold water on his face. When he returned, he noted that Ohara was standing near the car.

  When he approached, Ohara waved a hand in front of his nose. “Man, you weren’t kidding.”

  #

  He’d paced the parking garage, which had four levels, practiced some karate kata to keep the blood flowing, and spent some time perched on the hood of the car, listening to music on his phone, his own earbuds plugged in. He shifted back and forth between the Beatles, The Rolling Stones, and fingerstyle guitar guys like Leo Kottke and Don Ross.

  But sure enough, at two hours, Guy’s phone buzzed and he jerked away. “God, who shit their pants?”

  “That’s you, dude.”

  “Must be the jerky.”

  “I thought maybe something crawled up your ass and died there.”

  “Yeah, well, let me go to the shitter, then you get some Z’s.”

  Guy disappeared for about twenty minutes, then said, “Good to go?”

  Derek gave a thumb’s-up, got in the passenger seat and cranked the seat back. If a career in the Army had taught him anything, it was how to sleep anywhere and anytime at a moment’s notice. Within seconds he was out, unaware of anything until two hours later the blues riff woke him up.

  Guy held up the iPad and the porno. “Can you believe the jugs on that chick?”

  “Not really, no. Anything going on?”

  “A couple cars came in. I ran them by Ohara. Ambitious execs.”

  “Asian?”

  “No. Black guy, white guy and a Hispanic woman. Total babe, too, if you spin that way.”

  “Why would I not be interested in an attractive woman?”

  “Hispanic.”

  “I’m not picky.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Yeah, Guy, as long as they’ve got a pulse.”

  “Could be negotiable under the right circumstances.”

  Derek stared at him for a moment. Finally, “I think I’ll just let that slide. I’m going to use the john and get some coffee.”

  63

  Sandy

  Orville searched the kid, coming up with a wallet, a cell phone, a couple condoms, and a baggie of weed and pills. He held up the baggie, eyebrow cocked. I gave him a small shrug. It gave us a reason to bust him, but it wasn’t why we were here.

  Orville handed me the wallet. There was a couple hundred dollars. The driver’s license indicated his name was Samuel Ko. He was nineteen. There were a handful of business cards, all men, all out of town.

  “What’s with the business cards?” I asked.

  “Friends,” Ko said.

  I stared at him. He dropped his eyes. He mumbled, “Clients.”

  “Johns,” I said.

  He shrugged.

  Orville peered at the baggie. “Definitely weed. What are the pills?”

  “Viagra. Caffeine pills.”

  “Your clients men or women?”

  He shrugged. “Mostly men.”

  “This your room?”

  “No.”

  “Why are you here?”

  He looked up at me. “This guy paid me to come get his stuff.”

  Orville and I exchanged a look.

  “What guy?”

  Samuel shrugged.

  “Mr. Ko—“

  “Sammy.”

  “Sammy. Where’s this guy?”

  “He rode in on the train with me. I thought … I thought he’d come in with me. That it was all just a scam, instead of, you know, just telling…”

  “Go back to the beginning,” Orville said. “What guy?”

  “The guy?”

  Orville sighed. Clearly Sammy needed step-by-step directions. “Where did you meet this guy?”

  “Over near North Broadway.”

  “Okay,” I said. “What were you doing?”

  “Hanging out.”

  “Looking for clients?” Orville asked.

  Sammy dropped his gaze again.

  “It’s okay, Sammy. That’s not what this is about. We want to know about the guy who hired you.”

  “Yeah, I was out working. He stopped and talked to me. I didn’t think he was a typical, uh, client.”

  “How so?”

  “Huh? Oh. He was a little younger and, y’know, wearing jeans. I’m more used to, like, business people.”

  I showed him a photograph of the Ronin.

  “Yeah, that’s him. What’d he do?”

  “Kill people.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit. What did he say?”

  “He said he had a job for me. I’ve heard that one before.”

  “Sure. What was the job?”

  “Well, he claimed he wanted me to go to his hotel room and collect his shit for him.”

  “Why?” Orville said.

  “He claimed his wife caught him sleeping with his girlfriend and kicked him out, but he heard her brother was coming to beat him up. I figured it was bullshit. He was just trying to get me into his room.”

  We asked him another round of questions, then I tossed him his wallet. Orville threw him the condoms and the bag. He also handed him a business card.

  “What me to call you?” Sammy said.

  “It’s a safe place,” Orville said. “If you want, get you off the street, help you with some of your problems.”

  “Yeah, sure. What’s in it f’you?”

  “I’m just a fricking saint, Sammy.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Orville shrugged. “I’ll keep an eye out for you, Sammy. This guy who hired
you, stay away from him. If you see him again, run.”

  We sprung Sammy, who scampered out of the room.

  “Now what?” Orville said, looking around the room.

  “Pack up his crap and go. He was watching.”

  “Not good, Sandy. He tried to kill you.”

  “Yeah, and when you and I went in here, he could have taken both of us out if he was going to.”

  Orville sighed. “I don’t think I’ll tell Bernice about that.”

  “He didn’t kill us.”

  “Unless we walk out of here and he puts a bullet in our heads.”

  “I’ll go first.”

  He grinned. “You can hide behind me. I’m not the target.”

  We took all the remaining belongings, basically a suitcase filled with dirty underwear and clothing. It would be useful to pull DNA off, should we have to make a case against the guy.

  And sure enough, Orville walked out first, me following.

  No sniper bullet. Nothing.

  I went to the lobby and told them what I’d done, handed them a receipt and a business card and told the two women at the front desk if the Ronin showed up—unlikely—to call me.

  Back in the car, Orville said, “Think it’s worth waiting around here?

  “No. I’ll call Stillwater, but otherwise I think I need to check in with the Lieutenant and see if our phone guys have gotten any tips.”

  “We know the guy was around North Broadway.”

  “Yeah, and he took the train out here. He could be around here.”

  “So let’s drive around the area, look for him.”

  I thought about that. This guy had left the city, come out here, then gone back into the city, hired Sammy, then ridden back out here.

  Was he going to keep using the L?

  No. He had a car.

  “Let’s go and talk to rental car places in the area, if any of them are open. Maybe we can figure out what this guy’s driving.”

  Orville sighed. “Good old-fashioned police work.”

  “Yeah. You drive. I’ll make some calls.”

  64

  Sandy

  Talking to rental car agencies in the middle of the night isn’t the easiest thing to do, but at least around the airport they’re open and staffed. It was about 3:30 in the morning and Orville and I were losing steam. We’d shown the photograph of the Ronin to all the staff and although there were a number of “maybes,” because, hey, a 20-something or early 30-something Japanese male wasn’t exactly the rarest thing around a major metropolitan airport.

  It was the Avis office, where the heavy-set guy with the wispy ginger beard who was worshipping a Red Bull, said, “Yeah, came in a couple hours ago. I was just coming on shift, that’s why I remember him.”

  “Can you pull up the information on his rental?”

  He paused. “Let me see your badges again.”

  I hoped he wasn’t going to require a warrant. Orville and I showed him our ID.

  The guy, whose name tag said he was “Ken,” nodded, turned to his computer and tapped a couple keys, nodding and humming to himself. He took a slurp of his Red Bull.

  He hit a button on the keyboard and a printer whirred into action. He turned the monitor so we could read it.

  Larry Nakamura.

  Beige Ford Taurus. Illinois license plate, DY 4876.

  He handed us the printout. “You think this car’s going to get trashed?”

  “Actually,” Orville said, “does this car have a navigation system?”

  Ken rechecked the computer screen. “Yeah, the SYNC system. That help?”

  “Maybe,” Orville said. We thanked Ken, took the printout and headed back out.

  “That’ll require a court order,” I said. “And I’m not optimistic.”

  “We can put a BOLO out for the car and talk to the department tech guys. And maybe a call into Ford.”

  “In the middle of the night?”

  “Maybe our tech guys.”

  “Let’s head back in and talk to Captain O’Toole. Maybe she’ll have some ideas.”

  #

  She said to talk to a judge and see what happens. I started on the paperwork and Orville went to talk to some tech people in Internet Crimes to see what they had to say. Meanwhile, Captain O’Toole got the BOLO going.

  Unfortunately, the on-call judge was Barnett Callahan, a crusty, letter-of-the-law sixty-year-old who didn’t appreciate being called for a warrant in the middle of the night.

  “What do you want, Beach?”

  I explained.

  “That’s a longshot. You said the captain’s launched a BOLO?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine. Bring it to me in the morning in my office, I’ll sign it.”

  “Sir, the clock’s—“

  “In the morning, Beach.” He clicked off.

  “It is morning, you dickweed,” I said into the buzzing phone.

  Orville appeared. “Any luck?”

  “No.”

  “No one in cyber said they could help, but Dave gave me the contact of a woman who might be able to help.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “A hacker?”

  “Goes by the name of Hacksta.”

  I looked at Orville. He shrugged.

  “How do we get hold of Hacksta?”

  “How else?”

  #

  The response to our email request was almost instantaneous. “Got bitcoins?”

  I looked at Orville. “Does that mean anything to you?”

  “I’ll ask Dave.”

  #

  We were to meet Hacksta at a Dunkin’ Donuts on Wabash. It was empty. We ordered donuts and coffee and sat in a corner booth. Orville had a bear claw and a custard stick. I had a double-chocolate.

  Orville had chowed down on both his and I was still nibbling my donut when a chubby girl with black hair worn in pigtails, a round face, wearing an orange Pokémon T and black yoga pants, wandered in with a laptop case over one shoulder. The color combination was unfortunate. She looked like a Jack-o-lantern.

  The guy at the counter grinned. “The usual?”

  She flashed him a thumb’s-up and sauntered over to where we sat. “You the cops?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  She took in the two of us, then slid into the booth next to me. “Got ID?”

  “Wouldn’t it have made more sense to ask for that before you sat down?” Orville said.

  “No, you two got ‘cop’ written all over you and you’re the only two here, and besides, I’ve seen Detective Sandy here in the media.” She jerked a thumb toward me. “And Refluks told me what you look like.”

  “Refluks?”

  “He’s a cop.”

  “Dave,” Orville said. Hacksta shrugged.

  “What d’ya want?”

  I told her.

  She nodded. “I can do that. Not exactly legal. When do you want it?”

  “ASAP,” Orville said.

  “And the bitcoins?”

  “Er, Refluks is going to handle that,” I said.

  The counterman came over with a Boston Crème, a jelly filled and a Monster. “The usual.”

  She gave him a fist bump.

  “Okay. Give me a little privacy and I’ll have this for you in a few.”

  “Uh, a few what?” I asked.

  “Minutes.”

  Orville blinked. “That fast?”

  “I’m just that good,” she said. “Now shoo. Take a walk. Come back in fifteen.”

  She had to get out to let me out of the booth.

  Orville and I shared a look, then we walked out into the night air. “She’s not what I was expecting,” Orville said.

  “I can’t pin her age down,” I agreed. “She looks about twelve, but it’s the middle of the night, so I’m hoping she’s in her twenties.”

 
I texted Stillwater and got no answer. I called into my minions on the phones and was told they had a handful of leads, almost all that looked like year-old garbage, but it had quieted down in the last hour or so.

  In fifteen minutes, we returned to the Dunkin Donuts. Hacksta said, “The car’s here in the city. Over on Jefferson. You need to write this down or should I email you?”

  65

  Derek

  The coffee was pretty bad, which he supposed wasn’t unexpected during the night shift of a security office in a Japanese company’s U.S. office building in Chicago. Ohara was sitting at a desk with an accounting textbook in front of him, keeping one eye on the security monitors.

  Sipping the coffee from a paper cup, Derek looked at the monitors. Even though it was very early in the morning, there was someone walking in the front door, talking to the guard at the front desk.

  “It’s five-fifteen,” Derek said. “Who the hell comes to work that early?”

  Ohara looked up. “Matsuo Ohai. Executive vice president of operations. Essentially he runs the U.S. operations when Mr. Makatashi isn’t here.”

  “And he walks in the front door?”

  “He does,” Ohara said. “He lives in Water Tower Place.”

  Derek gave him a blank look.

  “Never heard of it?” Ohara said.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “It’s on the Mag Mile.”

  Another blank look.

  “The Magnificent Mile.”

  “Okay. Heard of that. Money, I gather.”

  “Yeah, all the condos there cost over a million bucks.”

  “So he’s got money. And he’s rich and powerful. He doesn’t have a limo and a driver?”

  “He’s three blocks away. He walks to work.”

  “No shit.”

  Ohara shrugged. “He’s kind of an ordinary guy. Gets to know everyone in the company. He doesn’t usually come in quite this early—he just does that when Makatashi is working here. Tokyo’s fourteen hours ahead of us here. So he adjusts. But he always walks, even in snow or rain. He even comes down here and talks to me occasionally. Knows me by name.”

  “So we can expect more people starting to come in?”

  “Oh yeah. Some early risers, especially with Mr. Makatashi in the building. A lot of the most ambitious execs are coming in early while he’s here. It’s pretty much a joke among the security staff.”