Dirty Martini

by J. A. Konrath

  “I was on parking detail. No one told me to bring you a gun. Just to pick you up.”

  “Give me your gun.”

  “Why?”

  I spoke between my teeth. “Because I need one.”

  “It’s my gun. I bought it.”

  It’s a good thing he didn’t hand it over, because I would have shot him.

  “Take Lake Shore Drive,” I ordered Buchbinder. Then I hit my call button. “Reynolds, I’m going north on LSD. Have Rossi meet me on Monroe.”

  “Roger that. The SRT has checked the house for thermals. Negative.”

  Buchbinder refused to turn onto Lake Shore.

  “What the hell are you waiting for?”

  “There’s a lot of traffic.”

  “Jesus, take the damn footpath.”

  “What if I hit somebody?”

  “Buchbinder, get the damn bike moving or . . .” What the hell could I threaten a parking cop with? “Just get the damn bike moving.”

  He crossed the street and pulled onto the footpath.

  “What’s our next move, Lieutenant?”

  I had to choose my words carefully. I knew O’Loughlin was listening in.

  “I think he’s using an auto-dialer on the computer. Like telemarketers use. That means he’s not at Alger’s house, it’s just a recording. If you can get your team into the house safely, maybe we could find out where the drop point is before he gets there, so you can get men in place.” I added, “To follow him.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Lots of people taking walks today,” Buchbinder whined. “Dogs too.”

  “Go faster,” I told him.

  We zipped past some Rollerbladers, but Buchbinder was still driving like an old lady in a rainstorm. A blind old lady, with gout in her accelerator foot.

  If I got a gun, and if I had some private time with the Chemist, I’m sure I could convince him to tell me what he was planning. That might not be what the super, the mayor, or the city wanted, but letting this psycho go not only went against everything I believed in as a cop, but more people were going to die. I was sure of it.

  Buchbinder picked up a tiny bit of speed. On our left, Lake Shore Drive, eight lanes packed with cars. On our right, a strip of grass and trees, and beyond that, Lake Michigan, a giant black mirror dotted with tiny white boats.

  I checked my watch. Eight minutes left.

  Maybe this would all work out. Maybe—

  “Dog poo!” Buchbinder screamed.

  He jerked the handlebars left, then right, avoiding the little brown land mines dotting the walkway.

  “We’ve been hit! Did you see the size of that pile?”

  “Buchbinder, dammit, you need to—”

  And then he turned too fast, the bike spun, and we hit a tree and both went flying through the air.

  CHAPTER 28

  I OPENED MY EYES and wondered what kind of crazy dream I was having. My neck hurt like I’d slept funny, only worse. I had a pounding headache, and someone had removed the roof of my house so I faced blue sky.

  I tasted something metallic, delicately probed a fat lip, and looked at my fingers. They had a few blades of grass clinging to them, and blood.

  I looked around, saw the lake, saw the cars, and remembered where I was. The motor scooter lay about fifteen feet away from me, crumpled like a frat boy’s beer can. Someone, a tall white guy, was leaning over it, inspecting the damage. The Chemist? No. Too big.

  “Police,” I said. “Get away from there.”

  I had meant for it to be a yell, but it came out as a croak. Then I searched for Buchbinder, saw him sitting on the lawn a few yards from me. He was wide-eyed and holding out his hands in front of him, Lady Macbeth style.

  “No no no no no,” he moaned.

  “Buchbinder! You okay?”

  He held up his palms for me to see. They were covered in dog shit.

  I sat up, the motion bringing a world of dizziness. Someone helped me to my feet. Someone else asked if I was all right. I reached for my radio earpiece, discovered it was gone. So was the radio. Thankfully, I still had the cell phone. And I wasn’t the only one. Several people had their cell phones out, calling 911.

  “I’m a cop,” I said. “Everyone put down your phones.”

  If the Chemist saw a big gathering of emergency vehicles, it might spook him. I must have looked like an authority figure, because everyone put their phones away. Now I needed to find my radio. I looked through the grass, between me and the wrecked scooter.

  “It’s on my face!” Buchbinder screamed, high-pitched and manic. He began to rub his face, but since his hands were already coated, he wasn’t doing much in the way of cleaning.

  I glanced at the bike again, and saw the curious tall white guy remove the final bungee cord and begin to drag the suitcase up the walkway.

  I automatically reached for my holster, which did about as much good as Buchbinder’s face-rubbing, and then took off after the guy. My legs felt good, strong, but my vision was wiggly and my neck hurt like I’d been playing tetherball with my head.

  “Freeze! Police!”

  My voice was in full effect, but Tall Boy had apparently misinterpreted my order as “Run away faster,” because he picked up speed, heading in the direction Scooter and I just came from. I checked my watch. Six minutes left. If I turned around and ran the rest of the way, I might make it to Navy Pier in six minutes. But I didn’t have a gun, and I would owe the city of Chicago two million bucks. If they took it out of my paychecks, I wouldn’t be able to retire until I was 163.

  I gained on Tall Boy, part of me wanting to shout, “Hard to drag that bastard, isn’t it?” I managed to restrain myself, and instead reached out and caught the suitcase by a strap.

  One of Newton’s Laws got involved, something to do with objects in motion and pulling and pushing, and I jerked him off his feet and ate my own asphalt sandwich a millisecond later. When the tumbling stopped, Tall Boy was on his knees, opening up a folding knife and snarling at me.

  It’s never a good time for a knife fight, but this really wasn’t a good time.

  “I’m a cop,” I said, trying to sound stern despite my fear and exhaustion.

  “I’m Charlie Manson,” he said.

  Great. A loony.

  I reached into my back pocket and took out the butterfly knife. I opened it slowly, with some flourish, letting the handles swing back and forth a few times to show this punk I knew what I was doing.

  “I’m not going to kill you,” I said, getting to my feet. “I’m only going to poke out your eyes.”

  I closed and opened the knife again, as fast as I could. His bravado cracked a bit.

  “Just turn around, and run away. After I take your eyes, I’m going to take your ears.”

  I changed my grip on the knife, did another blindingly quick open and close, and sliced open my knuckles pretty good.

  “Son of a—”

  Tall Boy saw my mistake and attacked. He came in low, his weapon held in an underhanded grip, blade up, stabbing at my chin. I pulled back, wincing at the pain in my neck, but avoiding the cut. He followed up with another jab, to my chest, but momentum was already taking me backward and I twisted my shoulders and all he caught was the fabric above my left breast, making me thankful for the first time in my life that I was a B cup.

  My knuckles were bleeding, but functional, and my grip on the butterfly knife was solid as I brought it down on his thrusting arm, jamming it a good two inches between his radius and ulna. His knife flew into the grass, but leverage was on his side and as he fell the balisong was jerked from my hand.

  He howled, staring at the handle protruding from his forearm, his entire body shaking.

  “Leave it in,” I told him. “If you pull it out, you could bleed to death.”

  I checked my watch. Four minutes and some change left. I hurried to the suitcase, happy to find it intact, and began to jog back to Monroe. My bottom lip was now so swollen I could see it if I looked down my n
ose. It throbbed with every step. I tried to find my rhythm, tried to find the cadence, but my feet weren’t moving as swiftly as I wanted them to.

  I passed Buchbinder, who was wiping his hands on the grass and moaning, “I need a moist towelette,” and one of the onlookers pointed at me and screamed. I must have looked pretty bad to provoke such raw fright. But then I realized she wasn’t pointing at me, she was pointing behind me.

  I chanced a look, and Tall Boy was a few steps away from me. He hadn’t taken my advice about leaving the knife in his arm. The knife was now in his hand, raised over his head like Mrs. Bates during the shower scene in Psycho, and his expression confirmed he wasn’t in a happy place.

  I stopped in four steps, pivoted my hips, and swung my right leg around, planting the mother of all spin kicks into his stomach. It knocked me backward, but I stayed on my feet. Tall Boy fared worse. He fell onto all fours, retching. I was on him in five steps, kicked him squarely in the jaw, and he sprawled out onto the lawn, where he’d probably stay until he bled to death.

  “Buchbinder! Tourniquet!”

  Buchbinder stared at me like my nose had grown five inches. I tried a different tactic.

  “This guy has antibacterial wipes.”

  Buchbinder scrambled over to him, and I headed back up the footpath, toward Monroe, dragging the suitcase, two minutes to go, hearing Buchbinder cry behind me, “I crawled through vomit!”

  And then a wheel on the suitcase broke.

  I hefted the bag up to waist level and tugged the strap over my shoulder. Heavy wasn’t a good adjective to describe it. Impossible was better. I couldn’t run, but I broke into a kind of quick hobble. The only thing on me that didn’t hurt was my ass, but there was still time for that.

  When I reached the intersection, I looked all around for the cop who was supposed to meet me.

  Naturally, there was no cop. I should have expected that. I thought of Herb, sitting behind his desk at Robbery, making a few phone calls to track down his missing toilets, and felt a jealousy so intense I almost started to weep.

  A car honked. The cab, with Reynolds in the backseat. He opened the door and said, “Hop in.”

  Getting the suitcase off my shoulder was a relief on par with a death row reprieve. I shoved myself into the backseat after it, and Reynolds ordered the driver to Navy Pier.

  I checked my watch. The fifteen minutes were up.

  “Couldn’t find Rossi, but I got a Mr. SIG-Sauer for you.”

  He handed me a P228, semiauto, blue finish. Cocked and locked.

  “Thanks. Mr. SIG-Sauer will do just fine.” I adjusted the Velcro straps on my holster and tucked the gun inside. “You need to send an ambulance to the walkway a few hundred yards back on LSD. And make sure they have some towels.”

  “Trouble?”

  “A little. Lost my radio too.”

  Reynolds dug around in his pocket. “Here’s an extra.”

  “Any luck with Alger’s house?” I asked, plugging in the earpiece.

  “It’s been booby-trapped again. No casualties, but my team can’t get to the computer.”

  “Probably too late now anyway. We’ll try Plan B.”

  Reynolds narrowed his eyes at me. “You gonna drop this guy?”

  “I’m going to have a talk with him.”

  “This asshole killed a lot of my buddies.”

  I thought of Officer Sardina in Records. “Mine too.”

  “Don’t be a hero. He looks at you funny, waste him. No one will shed any tears.”

  “And if more people die?”

  “They would anyway.”

  The unibrow notwithstanding, I liked this guy. The cabbie pulled onto Streeter, and I told him to park it. Navy Pier was less than a block away, and if the Chemist was watching, I wanted him to see me walk up.

  “Good luck, Lieutenant.”

  Reynolds offered his hand. I raised mine, noted the bloody knuckles, and gave him a salute instead. Then I manhandled the bag out of the cab, pulled the torture strap up onto my shoulder, and walked toward the giant letters that welcomed me to Navy Pier.

  CHAPTER 29

  AS THE NAME IMPLIED, Navy Pier was a pier. It stretched east into Lake Michigan, three hundred feet wide and ten times as long, boasting a dozen restaurants, several theaters, fifty-plus shops, two museums, a fun house, a miniature golf course, a carousel, and a giant Ferris wheel.

  I stood in front of the entrance building, known as the Family Pavilion, and watched people come and go. A minute ticked by. Then two. I was wondering if the Chemist had gotten cold feet, and then the phone rang.

  “Is this a recording?” I said.

  “Take Grand Avenue east, past the Beer Garden and the Grand Ballroom, to the end of the pier. Look for the tree with the red bow. You have three minutes. If you try anything, people will die.”

  “Are you a psychotic bed-wetter?”

  The call ended. That was definitely a recording. The Chemist was probably already in place, making sure the scene was clear. I heaved the suitcase up and headed east.

  I hadn’t been to Navy Pier since it was renovated about ten years ago, and if I hadn’t been there to deliver extortion money to a mass murderer I might have enjoyed the music, the foliage, the myriad of smells, the distinct carnival atmosphere. Instead, I focused on moving as fast as I could and ignoring the many signals from my body that I should stop moving so fast.

  Halfway there, I had to stop to move the strap from one shoulder to the other. My blouse was soaked with sweat, and some blood. My jeans were grass stained, my watch bezel was cracked, and my lower lip had swelled up to football size.

  The three-minute time limit passed. Then four minutes. I limped onward, finally making it to the end of the pier at the five-minute mark. Beyond the Grand Ballroom building there was some outdoor seating, a semicircle of flags, and a handful of evergreens. The one in the center, next to the railing that prevented people from falling into Lake Michigan, had a red ribbon tied around the trunk.

  I approached it slowly, partly out of caution and partly because slow was the only speed I had left. At the base, covered by dirt, was a white business-size envelope.

  I looked around, but no one seemed to be paying any attention to me. Figuring the Chemist wouldn’t try to kill me until he got his payoff, I picked up the envelope by the corners and fished out a piece of paper.

  Jack, be a good girl and throw the suitcase into the lake, directly ahead of you. Do it now. Then wait for my call.

  I started to laugh. The son of a bitch had actually gotten away with it. He’d been there watching at the Daley Center, then used his auto-dialer to send me running all over the place while he put on some SCUBA gear and waited in the lake for the money to come.

  “Reynolds, the Chemist left me a note. He wants me to drop the money into the lake. Where’s the police boat?”

  “Burnham Park Harbor, about a mile away.”

  “Do they have diving equipment?”

  “I think so. Hold on.”

  I waited a few seconds. Out on the lake, a tour boat glided peacefully by.

  “They have equipment,” Reynolds said, “but it would take them a minimum of ten minutes to get it on.”

  So much for that.

  “Ask them where he could come up.”

  “There are a few harbors, and three beaches, plus he could be on the lake somewhere. There are dozens of boats out there.”

  So that was that. There was nothing else we could do.

  I walked to the perimeter fence, which only came up to my waist, and set the suitcase over the top. Then I climbed over after it, walked a few feet to the end of the pier, and gazed down into the inky blackness. Ten yards deep, at least. Probably more. I couldn’t see past the first few feet.

  But he’d be able to see it, painted bright yellow.

  “I hope it lands on your fucking head,” I said, and dropped the bag into the water.

  It hit with a big splash, and then sank immediately; of course it did
, with twenty pounds of platinum to weigh it down. I stared for almost a full minute, then hopped back over the fence and sat down at one of the outside benches and watched the waves roll in.

  CHAPTER 30

  THE CHEMIST BREACHES the surface alongside a pier in Chicago Harbor, less than a mile away from where he picked up the suitcase. He drops the Little Otter—the underwater jet scooter that got him here so quickly—and lets his SCUBA tank, still half full of the nitrox air mix, sink to the bottom. He doubts they’ll be found, but if they are, they can’t be traced to him.

  Next, he hangs the bag handle on a mooring cleat, pulls off his flippers, and then eases himself onto the pier. There are some people in a boat a few yards away, but they aren’t looking in his direction.

  It’s hard, getting the suitcase out of the lake. The money inside is soaking wet, as is the leather, and he almost pops a blood vessel in his forehead hoisting it onto the pier. Once it’s up, he walks casually over to the Miss Maria K, the twenty-three-foot boat that rents this slip, and removes the black vinyl bag he’d tucked under her cover tarpaulin. Another quick look around, and then he opens up the suitcase and stares at the cash, the platinum, and the felt bag full of uncut diamonds.

  “For you, Tracey,” he says aloud. But there’s no joy in his words.

  That’s okay. The joy will come later.

  It takes him thirty seconds to put everything into his new bag, and then he drops the yellow suitcase back into the water, where it slowly sinks. Getting out of the dry suit is like wrestling with an inner tube, but he manages, tucking it into the nylon bag atop his loot. Wearing only a bathing suit, he slings the bag over his bare shoulder and walks down the pier, to the sidewalk, and into the parking lot, where his car awaits.

  After locking the nylon bag in the trunk, he starts the car, waits for the light, and pulls onto Monroe.

  He makes a few random turns, watching his mirrors. When he’s sure no one is following him, he reattaches the battery to his buy-and-go cell phone and calls the good lieutenant.