Konrath, Joe - Dirty Martini (21 page)

I hefted the yellow bag, surprised by its weight. Forty, maybe forty-five pounds, and bulky. I had Biceps hold my phone, then I pressed the suitcase up over my head, made sure it was balanced, and did a 360-degree turn.

Biceps had casually plugged in an earpiece, and Unibrow casually walked back to the Mobile Command bus.

“Good,” the Chemist said when I got the phone back. “Here’s how it is going to work. I’m going to call you, and tell you to go to an address. When you get to the address, you’ll wait for me to call again with more instructions. You’re to go alone, no escort. I don’t want to see any cops with you, near you, or following you. If I do, I’m calling it off, and many people will die. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“I saw that SWAT guy give you some things. A radio. An extra phone. And what was that black thing?”

“Pepper spray.”

“Naughty girl, Jack. Don’t you know that chemicals are dangerous? But I’m not referring to the spray. I’m referring to the small black box, looks like a PDA.”

“That’s a GPS tracker.”

“Put all of those things on the ground.”

I complied.

“The pepper spray too. I wouldn’t want you hurting yourself.”

I made a face, but added that to the pile.

“Very good. Now, I know that you’re going to try to find me. That you’ll try to trace the calls. I’m sure that large phone you’re talking on right now has all sorts of tracking goodies on it. So we’re going to switch phones. Walk over to the Picasso. Bring the suitcase with you, and make sure everyone keeps their distance.”

This was getting better and better.

“Everyone needs to stay here,” I informed the group. The super nodded at me, either a
good luck
nod or a
you’d better follow orders
nod. Then I yanked out the telescoping handle and pulled the suitcase behind me, grateful for the wheels.

“Look by the base of the sculpture. There’s a coffee cup. Put down the phone you’re talking on and pick up the cup.”

I saw it immediately, stark white contrast to the brown metal of the Picasso. As I stared, it began to ring.

I didn’t want to touch anything the Chemist had touched, but I took a chance, assuming he wouldn’t kill me this early in the game. I set down the tracking phone and gently lifted the cardboard cup by the rim. Inside was a cell phone, an older, larger model.

I answered the call.

“I found it.”

A pause. Then, “Walk east. I’ll be watching. If I see anyone approach you, this is over, and people will die. Keep the line free for further instruction. If I try calling, and it’s busy, people will die. Remember the rules.”

And then silence.

I had no choice. I began to walk.

In a way, this was all pretty funny. The Chemist was working damn hard to make sure no one arrested him, when all he had to do was knock on the mayor’s door and His Honor would gladly sign over a personal check. Unfortunately, I had a hard time seeing the humor when I had no backup, no radio, no GPS, and no guns. I assumed my fellow officers would still be able to follow me, but that didn’t mean they would. The city of Chicago had made it abundantly clear that the payoff was more important than my personal safety.

I walked east to Dearborn, went right, then continued east on Washington. The day was hot, muggy, in the upper eighties. The sun hurt my face, still pink from the rough scrubbing the hospital had administered. I moved the sunglasses from my head to my eyes, and kept my pace casual even though my heart rate was set on sprint.

After a block, I had an unhealthy film of sweat covering my body, and a really good feeling I was being followed. A yellow cab, creeping along ten yards behind me, matching my pace. I stopped, pretended to adjust the suitcase handle, and looked at it over my Ray-Bans. The taxi also stopped. I couldn’t see inside very well—the sun glared off the windshield—but the cab was hired and it looked like a single occupant in the backseat.

In truth, I didn’t know if I’d recognize the Chemist even if I was staring right at him. The only thing I remembered from my brief encounter with him in Records was the port-wine stain on his face, and his beard. Both were fake. Just like the eye patch.

If I ran into someone with a single distinctive feature, that might be our man. But if he went without a disguise, he could be anyone. Maybe even someone I’ve already met.

I stopped futzing with the bag and continued east on Washington. I sensed that the cab resumed pursuit, and then actually saw it peripherally as it came up on my right.

“Handoff, from a jogger, soon,” Unibrow said through the open backseat window.

Then the cab accelerated past and turned right on Wabash.

The cell phone rang. I connected after the first ring, wondering if the Chemist was going to go ballistic because he spotted the cab.

“Hello?”

A pause, then, “Go to the Art Institute and wait on the steps. You have four minutes.”

That was about four blocks away, one east and three south. I couldn’t make it in time by walking.

I began to jog.

Normally, a four-block jog wouldn’t even get me winded. But heat, exhaustion, sickness, and a forty-five-pound anchor all conspired to have me wheezing like an asthmatic after the first hundred yards. I kept up the pace, my eyes scanning the crowd ahead, looking for the police jogger who was going to hand off something to me. I hoped it was a cold beer.

The jogger, wily little devil, came up from behind after I turned onto Wabash. He ran past me with ease, not so much as a bump, and I almost didn’t think it was him until I thought to check my blazer pocket.

No beer. But he had left me a walkie-talkie and a wireless earpiece. I switched it on, leaving it at whatever frequency they’d set it at, and stuck the receiver/mike combo on my ear.

“This is Daniels,” I panted. “He told me to go to the Art Institute.”

“This is Reynolds, SRT.”
It was Unibrow.
“We know. Miller took a guess, and the cell phone the Chemist gave you is Tracey Hotham’s. We’re listening in, and we can ping your location. We’re also tracing his calls. It’s not as easy, because they’re being routed through a PC—one of those computer phone lines. It’s not the same phone he called you from initially. That was one of those pay-by-the-minute cells. We’re not getting anything from it. But we should have his new location in a few minutes.”

I didn’t waste any breath answering. The Art Institute was a block away, on my left, and I only had about a minute to get to it. I was sweating freely now, my shoulder beginning to ache from tugging the suitcase. The sidewalks were packed, and the citizens of Chicago paid me little attention as I ran. A few stepped aside. Most ignored me. None offered to give a struggling lady a hand. I passed the Prudential building, and saw the green lion sculptures in the distance, standing vigil on either side of the steps in front of the Art Institute, and then the phone rang.

“Daniels.”

“Now go to Buckingham Fountain. Stay on foot. You have seven minutes.”

“I need—”

I wanted to say
more time
, but the connection ended. The fountain was another three blocks north, and maybe three more blocks east. I couldn’t do six blocks in seven minutes, not as tired as I already was.

“Did you get that?” I said into my radio.

“Affirmative. We got a lock on the phone he’s calling from, and it doesn’t make sense.”

“Why not?” I huffed.

“It seems to be coming from Jason Alger’s house.”

The retired cop whose home had been turned into a death trap and whose fingers had been left in the fridge.

“We’re sending a team to check it out.”

“Bad idea. Last time—”

“We’ll be careful. But Alger is uptown. How did he get across town so fast?”

I made it to Jackson, and the light was against me, so I couldn’t cross. It would delay me, but I was grateful for the rest.

“Could have had a remote video camera planted at the Daley Center,” I said. “Or he was watching from a distance. Or maybe he’s forwarding his calls through Alger’s computer somehow.”

“Or maybe he has an accomplice.”

I didn’t like that possibility. Not at all. A guy on the corner next to me gave me a sideways glance, then resumed his cell phone conversation. Suddenly everyone on the street was a potential spy. Or a potential poisoner.

The light changed, and I put it into second gear and charged across the street, almost pulling off my arm when the suitcase wheels caught on the curb. I switched to my left hand, couldn’t find my rhythm, then switched back. I cut left on Van Buren into the cul-de-sac leading to Congress, and huffed and puffed up the bridge over the railroad tracks.

When I reached the apex, my legs, arm, and lungs were pudding. But I could see the Buckingham Fountain ahead, one of Chicago’s most recognizable landmarks, the center jet shooting a hundred and fifty feet into the air. When I got there, I was seriously considering jumping in to cool off. Or to slake my thirst.

Strangely, I was in the same part of Grant Park where my father bought me those three ice creams, years ago. Where were all the damn vendors now that I really needed one?

My phone rang, even though I hadn’t yet crossed Columbus.

“I’m almost there.”

“New destination. Navy Pier. Take Columbus to Grand Avenue on foot. You have fifteen minutes.”

Then he hung up. That little mother . . .

“Lieutenant, this is Reynolds. We have a team en route to Alger’s house.”

“Why? So you can shake his hand and congratulate him when he gets his money?”

That might have been harsh, considering the casualties they’d suffered, but I was exhausted and in a mood.

“We’re going to watch and wait. The mayor doesn’t want him picked up until we get the all clear. But you can be damn sure we won’t let him out of our sights.”

Reynolds sounded pissed, and I realized he didn’t like playing by these rules any more than I did. Maybe during their surveillance the Chemist might accidentally have his head blown off. The thought made me smile.

I paused for a moment in front of the giant fountain, the Windy City blowing a mist of its water onto my face. I had no idea how clean the water was, but it felt wonderful.

Navy Pier was a mile away, maybe a little more. To make it in fifteen minutes, I needed to haul ass. But something was bothering me. The Chemist liked to talk. Even after he sprayed me with TEPP, he stuck around for a bit to chat. But his last several phone calls had been abrupt, clipped. Either he was worried about being caught on the phone, or . . .

“Reynolds, what’s the number the Chemist is calling from?”

He read it to me.

“Have you tried calling it?”

“No. We don’t want to tip him off that we know.”

But I could call him back without letting on that I knew his number. I pressed *69. The phone rang ten times. No answer. I tried entering in the number Reynolds gave me. Another ten rings, no pickup.

Then I waited. If the Chemist thought he was being messed with, he’d call me back to scold me. But my phone didn’t ring.

“He’s not in the house,” I said. “He’s not watching me. He’s at the drop point already.”

“Are you sure?”

“Have your team do a thermal scan of the Alger house. I bet it’s empty.”

I knew I was right. But how could we use this to our advantage? I had fourteen minutes to make it to Navy Pier, and if I wasn’t being monitored, I could use that for something else. What could this extra time buy us?

“Get me transportation. The nearest cop in the area. And if Rossi is available, have him come along.”

“Rossi?”

“If not him, try Taurus or Wesson or Daewoo. Any of those guys.”

“Okay. Got it.”

I waited two minutes. My breathing and heart rate returned to normal. The Chemist didn’t call, demanding why I was still at the fountain. Now I was positive he wasn’t watching me. I briefly toyed with the idea of grabbing a cab, getting on a plane to the Bahamas, and seeing how long two million bucks would last.

I heard a motor coming from the right, and did a double-take at the police scooter heading toward me, the manure-fixated Officer Buchbinder at the helm.

“Hello again, Lieutenant. I was the closest cop in range. How’s that for a coincidence?”

“Get me to Navy Pier,” I said, securing the suitcase on the small rack at the rear of the bike with bungee cords. “And watch out for horses.”

“Don’t need to tell me. I scrubbed my bike for so long I had dung stuck in my fingernails.”

He offered me his hand for inspection, which I judiciously ignored.

I mounted the scooter and asked, “Where’s the gun?”

“The what?”

“Rossi. Daewoo. Those are gun manufacturers.”

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

“Give me your gun.”

“Why?”