Die Twice (12 page)

“That would be satisfactory.”

“The fee is unchanged.”

“Of course.”

“Excellent. And after that, would you be interested in further consignments? If any should find their way into my hands?”

“The situation would be worth exploring, should it come to pass.”

“I’ll bear that in mind. If you wish to keep that line open, though, there’s something I need to know.”

“What would that be?”

“About Young. One minute he’s a trusted supplier. The next he’s surplus to requirements. How did that happen?”

“That’s none of your concern.”

“Actually, it’s very much my concern. Taking Young’s place on your payroll is one thing. Finding myself in his spot on the bathroom floor is entirely different. How can I avoid his mistake, if I don’t know what it was?”

The guy took a sip of water before replying.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he said. “You may find the episode
illuminating. After all, your association with Mr. Young was itself young, I understand?”

“Droll,” I said. “But accurate.”

“How did your ill-fated partnership establish itself?”

“Through a mutual friend. He set up the introduction. I work through word of mouth, just like you, I imagine. In our line of work, it pays not to advertise.”

“And did this friend explain to you why Mr. Young was seeking a new connection?”

“No.”

“You weren’t curious?”

“What’s the point? Ask no questions—hear no lies.”

“A very laissez-faire attitude.”

I shrugged.

“Not really,” I said. “Just practical. Allegiances shift. People move on. All I care about is finding the opportunities.”

“This particular opportunity came at a price,” he said. “Mr. Young’s previous partner became indisposed.”

“An occupational hazard. And this indisposition—it was permanent, I take it?”

“Not yet. But it soon will be.”

“Good. Less competition for me. How did it come about?”

“The idiot attempted to defraud me. Some of my people went to collect him, aiming to iron out our little misunderstanding. Something I have, happily, now accomplished. But before this could happen, Mr. Young interfered. His foolishness cost two of my men their lives.”

“Sounds like we’re well rid of him, then. Both of us. And I can assure you there’ll be no such trouble with me. I keep my word. When I say I’ll do something, I do it. End of story. I deliver the goods, collect my payment, and stay out of your hair. Unless you decide to do business with me again.”

The guy seemed to think for a moment, then nodded and got to his feet. His people stood up with him, a second later, like puppets on long strings.

“That will be satisfactory,” he said. “Till tomorrow. For now, stay here. For fifteen minutes. You are being watched. And I think you’re developing a sense for what happens to those who cross me.”

My phone rang fifteen seconds after the last of the group disappeared up the stairs. It was Fothergill.

“Got them,” he said. “They’ve cleared the premises. They’re on the street. Heading for a couple of cars. Two Cadillacs. DTSs. They look new. Both dark blue. Parked at the side of the street. Probably rentals.”

“I saw one when I arrived,” I said, getting to my feet. “It was already there.”

The barman glanced up at me as I drew level with the table in the center of the room. He realized I’d noticed him and quickly looked away. I stopped moving.

“If anyone asks, when did I leave?” I said.

He didn’t reply.

“When did I leave?” I said.

“Oh, you’re asking me?” he said.

“When did I leave?”

“Don’t know.”

“When?” I said, taking a step in his direction.

“A few minutes after the others.”

“How many minutes?”

“Fifteen.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. I looked at my watch when the other guys split. Again when you did. There was exactly a quarter of an hour in between.”

“Good,” I said, holding up my phone, switching to camera mode and taking his picture. “I’m sending this to twelve of my friends. Any confusion about the timing, they’ll be paying you a visit. And trust me, you don’t want that.”

The phone rang again. Fothergill was still outside.

“They’re in the vehicles,” he said. “The tall guy and the woman in the first. The other three men in the second. OK, they’re pulling off. I’m staying with them. Heading north on Rush. Into State. They’re sticking together. So far, at least.”

“Good,” I said. “Leave the line open this time. Keep me posted.”

There were four cabs waiting outside the building when I left the club. I took the first one in line. Another ex-police Crown Vic, with a drooping spotlight still attached to the driver’s door. It was painted dark red and the bodywork was a little worse for wear, but otherwise it was cosmetically similar to the one Fothergill was using, a couple of blocks away.

I told the driver to start off straight, and that I’d give him directions as we went along.

“Going left on Schiller,” Fothergill said. “Right on Clark. Right on North Boulevard. Oh. Right again on Dearborn. They’re doubling back. Where are you? Can you cut across on Burton? Maybe jump in ahead of us?”

We did as he suggested, but reached the junction just as the second Cadillac was passing through. Fothergill was holding his distance, two cars astern. I told the cabbie to hang back, join in behind him, then stay on his tail no matter what else happened.

The Cadillacs stayed together through the next two intersections, drifting along innocuously in the steady flow of traffic. They took a left on Division Street, then went left again, taking us back onto State.

“Hey,” the cabbie said. “What’s going on? We’re going in circles here.”

I ignored him.

The next junction was State and Goethe. The first Cadillac turned right, swerving at the last minute without using its signal. The second kept going straight, darting ahead of a delivery truck.

“I’m on the leader,” Fothergill said, pausing for a moment to let a bicycle rickshaw through on the inside before accelerating away down the side street. “Good luck with your guy. Don’t let him get away.”

The second Cadillac moved much faster without its partner. The traffic was building steadily but the driver was relentless, weaving around other vehicles and jumping four red lights in a row. My cabbie had real trouble keeping up, swearing almost continuously and glowering at me in the mirror on the odd occasion when we did stop moving.

We finally came to a complete halt on Pearson, just up from the Hancock Center. The Cadillac swung over to the side of the street and the driver climbed out, tossing the keys at the feet of a smart, uniformed man in his late fifties.

“See that?” the cabbie said. “Asshole. If I was him, that car would be getting parked in the lake.”

The passengers emerged from the backseat before the startled valet had even moved. They pushed past him, caught up with the driver, and formed up under the entrance canopy of the Ritz-Carlton. None of them moved again for fully three minutes. They were in a triangle, one looking east, the others west. Then they turned and moved, one at a time, through a wide set of revolving doors.

I paid the cabby and followed the guys from the Cadillac into the hotel. An elevator took me to the lobby level, and I emerged just in time to see them veering away from the long line of reception
desks and heading for a second bank of elevators on the far side of an elaborate octagonal fountain. A giant sculpture of waterbirds cavorting in a broad white dish was set high in the center. There were two, rearing up with long necks and outstretched wings, ready to fly away. They could have been swans. But whatever the species, they made for excellent cover. The three guys were constantly scanning the area around them as they walked, but they had no idea I was watching. They paused when they reached the elevators, but still didn’t spot me. The driver hit the call button and the doors to the left-hand car slid open almost immediately. Then they stepped quickly inside, standing together in front of the entrance and blocking a gray-haired couple from following them.

I watched as the digits on the floor indicator above their elevator counted steadily upward. They wound all the way to thirty, paused, and began a leisurely descent. I waited to make sure they didn’t stop again before the lobby, then made my way around to the nearest customer service desk. The clerk switched on a training-course smile as she saw me approach, but she seemed genuinely pleased when I told her I was interested in a room for the night.

“It has to be something special,” I said. “My girlfriend’s in town for the first time. From Antwerp. I want to surprise her. So let’s think. The best views are up high, right? What have you got on the top floor, right now?”

“We only have rooms as high as the thirtieth,” she said. “It’s all apartments above that.”

“OK. How many rooms do you have on the thirtieth?”

“Three. But they’re all suites, not rooms.”

So the Myenese guys had themselves a suite. That made sense. Fewer other guests passing by. And plenty of space to keep a prisoner under wraps.

“Even better,” I said. “I want something she’ll really remember. What kind of suites are they?”

“We have the Executive Suite. The Premier Suite. And the Vivaldi Suite.”

“Just one of each?”

“Yes.”

“Very exclusive, then. Which one is the best?”

“They’re all equally good, sir. And there are none better in Chicago.”

“Well, how can I decide between them? I know. What about availability? No point in setting my heart on something I can’t have.”

The woman took a moment to consult her computer.

“The Premier’s available,” she said. “And the Executive. But not the Vivaldi.”

“Shame,” I said. “I liked the sound of that one. But at least it narrows things down. So what about prices?”

She told me the Premier was twice the cost of the Executive.

“OK,” I said. “That’s great. I’m pretty clear about what I want to do. You’ve been a huge help. I’ll be sure to mention your name to the manager when I make my booking.”

“Thank you,” she said. “It was my pleasure.”

“One other thing, though, before I go. I need to check a couple of details before I go ahead and book, and I need to get back on the road in a minute. The traffic out to O’Hare’s been brutal lately. Any chance you could just jot down the number for reservations for me? That way I can call from the car.”

“Of course,” the woman said, reaching for a hotel compliments slip.

“You wouldn’t have a Post-it note, instead, would you?” I said. “I don’t want the paper to slip out of my things at the wrong moment and ruin the surprise.”

“Oh, my goodness,” she said, opening her drawer. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I’ve got a whole bunch in here. Let me give you one of these.”

The elevator lobby on the thirtieth floor opened onto a kind of vestibule, ten feet by fifteen. A pair of Louis XV chairs was lined up against the back wall. One was sitting on either side of a rectangular table. It was made of wood. A decent attempt at French provincial, I’d say. A giant ormolu clock sat in the center. Its gaudy turquoise and gold marquetry was reflected clearly in the polished surface. The little cluster of furniture was flanked by two pairs of doors. There was one for each of the suites. And another which had no visible name or number.

I took the Post-it note the clerk had given me, stuck it over the spy-hole on the Vivaldi Suite’s door, and rang the bell. I gave it three long blasts. Twenty seconds passed without a response. I was stretching out to try knocking when I heard footsteps approaching from inside the suite. They were heavy, but not hurried. Definitely one person. They lumbered closer, and stopped near to the door.

“Who is it?” a man’s voice said.

“Valet parking,” I said.

“What? Up here? Why?”

“Allow me to explain, sir. My name’s Ferguson. I’m the shift supervisor.”

“I don’t care what your name is. What do you want?”

“I’m afraid there’s been a slight problem. Are you the driver of a dark blue Cadillac?”

“You moron. What have you fools done to my car?”

“We parked it, sir.”

“Have you damaged it?”

“No, sir. Not at all. In fact, the car’s as stunningly immaculate as the day it left the factory, I would imagine.”

“Then what’s the matter?”

“It’s one of our valets, sir. Señor Benitez. It seems he hurt his back in some sort of key-dropping incident. Threw out a disk, in all likelihood. Not a good prognosis, I’m afraid. He may be unable to continue in his job. His future earning potential may be severely curtailed.”

“Who cares? Why are you wasting my time with crap about this guy?”

“Because, sir, he doesn’t feel the situation that led to his injury came about entirely by accident.”

“Why’s that my problem?”

“Well, his current recollection is that the driver of the Cadillac dropped the keys on purpose. That would be you, sir. So he’s looking for some kind of compensation from you. And if none is forthcoming, he’s talking about involving the police.”

“What? No way. Nothing happened.”

“Señor Benitez has secured CCTV footage of the whole affair, sir. From both of the cameras under the front canopy. They leave no doubt as to what transpired.”

“What, maybe. But not who. It wasn’t me. And there’s no need for any police.”

“I’m sure you’re right, sir. And I thought you might feel that way. That’s why I’m here. To see if we can find some way of discouraging that particular course of action.”

“Bring the guy up here. I’ll discourage him. Permanently.”

“I’m sure you could do that, sir. But I think there might be a simpler way.”

“Like what?”

“Perhaps a more transaction-oriented solution, if you see what
I mean, sir? One that would draw less unwelcome attention from the authorities.”

“You’re trying to shake me down? Seriously?”

“Not at all, sir. Just trying to help. That’s how we do things in Chicago.”

The guy didn’t reply.

“Obviously there’s no obligation to accept my proposal, sir,” I said. “But if you do decide to go with the police option, I have one request. On behalf of the hotel manager, actually. Do you think you could allow yourself to be arrested somewhere else? Handcuffs and night-sticks are not consistent with the image we try to propagate here at the Ritz-Carlton.”