The Terrorist Next Door (11 page)

Chapter
19

“HE’S TAUNTING US”

Gold held his BlackBerry against his ear. “You got a trace on the e-mail?”

Fong’s voice was filled with frustration. “Working on it. Looks like it was initiated in Somalia. The tracking information is garbled—and probably fake.”

You have no idea. “He’s taunting us.”

“Yes, he is.”

Gold and Battle were standing next to the charred minivan belonging to the owner of a house across the street from the rectory. He had parked the van at seven o’clock. The bomb could have been planted anytime thereafter. He had been inside Our Lady when the bomb had gone off. There were no casualties, but an elderly couple who lived nearby were taken to South Chicago Hospital for smoke-related injuries. The detonator was a Motorola Droid serviced by Verizon.

“Got an ID on the detonator?” Gold asked.

“Too soon to tell,” Fong said. “My people are taking it to our office for analysis.”

“He might still be in the neighborhood. We’ve cordoned off a two-mile radius, and we have choppers in the air. We’re stopping every car and every pedestrian.”

“
If
he’s still there. How did he know you were at Our Lady?”

“Mojo is following us everywhere. So is every other local TV station. And CNN. And Fox News. The WGN chopper got here before the police chopper.”

“Check your car for tracking devices.”

“We did.”

“Check it again. In the meantime, keep your line open. Maybe he’ll contact you again.”

And you still won’t be able to track him
. Gold hit Disconnect and looked at Battle. “Nothing.”

“We’ll get him if he’s still in the area.”

“Right.” Gold was checking his BlackBerry when he saw a pair of headlights coming toward him on Brandon. His eyes focused on a rusted Nissan Sentra a half block away. He felt an adrenaline rush as his instincts took over. “Get out of the street!” he shouted.

The people on the sidewalk leapt out of the way. Gold grabbed a girl who had strayed from her mother and pulled her behind a pumper truck. Battle dove behind an ambulance.

Gold smelled burning rubber as the Sentra screeched past him, missing him by a couple of feet. It weaved between a hook-and-ladder and two police units before it fishtailed as it turned right onto 92nd.

Gold and Battle sprinted to the Crown Vic. Battle punched the accelerator. Gold placed the red strobe on the dashboard. They circled the block to avoid the fire engines on Brandon. They turned right onto Burley, made another right onto 92nd, and headed west.

No Sentra in sight.

Battle had a vise-like grip on the wheel as the Crown Vic bounced across the Metra tracks just north of the South Chicago station. “Where the hell is he?” he snapped.

Gold’s shoulder burned as he picked up the police radio. “All units in South Chicago. This is Detective David Gold of Area 2. We are attempting to locate a Nissan Sentra last seen heading west on 92nd near Brandon.”

The response came from the chopper. “This is Sergeant Hayden. We have a visual of the suspect heading southbound
on Baltimore near 93rd. Repeat: we have visual of the suspect heading southbound on Baltimore near 93rd.”

Their tires screeched as Battle made a sharp left turn onto Baltimore and headed south past the Metra station. He pointed at the taillights of a vehicle two blocks away. “There.”

Gold’s heart pounded as he picked up the microphone again. “In pursuit of a late model Nissan Sentra heading south on Baltimore at 93rd. Suspect may be involved in the car bombing at 91st and Brandon and other bombings earlier today. Suspect should be considered armed and dangerous. Proceed with extreme caution.”

“Hang on,” Battle said.

Gold braced himself as they closed the gap. Two units joined them when the Sentra turned left onto South Chicago Avenue and roared into the railroad viaduct next to the sag channel near the mouth of the Calumet River. They closed to within fifty feet of the Sentra as they raced past the junkyards and warehouses adjacent to the railroad tracks and the Skyway.

The police radio crackled again as they approached the intersection where South Chicago Avenue dead-ended into 95th. Two ancient grain elevators loomed in the distance. “We’ve cut off westbound 95th,” the voice shouted. “We’re directing him eastbound to the 95th Street bridge.”

“Can you set up a roadblock on the bridge?” Gold asked.

“Negative. We have three units coming from the East Side, but they won’t be there in time.”

Dammit.
“Block off Ewing and Avenue L. Funnel him into Cal Park. Get him off the main streets so he won’t crash into a house.”

“Ten-four.”

The Sentra slowed down for an instant as it approached 95th. The driver saw the police unit blocking the entrance to the westbound lanes, so he made a hard left and accelerated eastbound toward the drawbridge over the Calumet River that separated South Chicago proper from the East Side. Gold and Battle were right behind, and two police cruisers were on their tail. Mojo led a convoy of news vans behind them. A police chopper and two news helicopters followed the action from above.

The Sentra accelerated up the rusted drawbridge and went airborne as it leapt the crown. It was travelling over a hundred miles an hour when it bounced hard on its tires on the down slope. It skidded to one side for an instant, then it righted itself and continued eastbound. Gold was slammed into the passenger seat as the Crown Vic barreled over the steel-mesh surface of the bridge, and then rattled over a railroad crossing.

The radio crackled again. “Suspect is being routed into Cal Park. Repeat: suspect is being routed into Cal Park.”

The Sentra sped past the marina and through a light industrial area at the entrance to the East Side. It barreled into Calumet Park along the lakefront next to the Indiana border. Battle and Gold followed closely behind. A quarter of a mile later, the road forked. The driver of the Sentra tried to make a hard right onto the access road leading toward the field house and the beach. He misjudged his speed and the tightness of the corner. He applied the brakes too late and lost control. The Sentra elevated onto two tires. It left the ground for an instant, then it came down hard on its wheels in a grove of maple trees next to the softball diamonds. It sideswiped the smaller saplings, then it barreled into a hundred-year-old tree, where it came to a violent halt. The front of the car accordioned, and a large branch went through the passenger side of the windshield, barely missing the driver.

Battle parked the Crown Vic on the access road. Four police units parked nearby. Their flashing lights created a strobe light effect as they bounced off the mature trees. Sirens pierced the evening air. Helicopters hovered overhead, their spotlights shining down on the wreckage. The news vans lined up behind the police units.

Gold, Battle, and a dozen uniforms surrounded the Sentra, flashlights and weapons drawn. The driver was a young man with olive skin and a light beard. He was behind the wheel, eyes open, seatbelt fastened, face covered with blood. He was unconscious, but still breathing.

Gold’s heart pounded as he and Battle approached the shattered driver-side window. “He’s mine,” Gold said.

Battle nodded.

Gold kept his service revolver pointed at the unconscious young man as he chipped away at the broken glass of the driver’s side window.

“There’s your terrorist,” Battle whispered.

Gold shook his head. “He’s no terrorist. Just a garden-variety car thief.”

“You know him?”

“Everybody in Area 2 knows him. His name is Luis Alvarado. Dropped out of Bowen. Spent the last five years in a four-by-ten condo in Joliet for grand theft auto.” He motioned to a sergeant whose weapon was still drawn. “Take him down to South Chicago Hospital and get him cleaned up. And call his mamma and tell her that he’s moving back to Joliet.”

Gold put his service revolver back into its holster. He could still smell traces of smoke from the blast at Our Lady—three miles away. He looked up at the WGN helicopter hovering above the tennis courts. He saw Mojo and her cameraman standing behind a wall of uniforms. His shoulder ached.

They had busted a small-time car thief on national TV while a terrorist was still running free. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” he said to Battle. “I want to check on my dad for a few minutes. Then we need to get back to headquarters.”

Gold was starting to walk back to the Crown Vic when his BlackBerry vibrated. He had a new e-mail. It read, “I’m watching you on TV, Detective Gold. You’re wasting time. Free Hassan immediately or prepare to watch more people die. IFF.”

Chapter
20

“DOES THAT GO ON EVERY NIGHT?”

Gold lowered his BlackBerry. “The Chief isn’t happy,” he told Battle. “He said we shouldn’t have been wasting time chasing a car thief.”

“Duly noted. Was Fong able to trace any of the e-mails?”

“No. Everything was encrypted and sent through bogus accounts. The FBI’s best software people said it looked like it was initiated in Bulgaria.”

“Now we have to shut down e-mail, too?”

“We’d have to shut down every computer on Planet Earth.”

“What about the detonator at Our Lady?”

“A cell phone stolen from a custodian at the old library downtown. The call was initiated from a landline in the field house at Stony Island Park. Looks like he broke in. No fingerprints. No witnesses. No security cameras. We’ve stopped every car within a three-mile radius of Our Lady. Nothing.”

“We can’t shut down every land line in Chicago.”

“No, but we can shut down every cell phone. Homeland Security is still thinking about it.”

Battle frowned. “They should think faster.”

Gold lowered the passenger window of the Crown Vic. He and Battle were parked in front of the weathered brick bungalow near the corner of 89th and Muskegon. At eleven-fifteen on Monday night, the temperature had dropped into the mid-seventies, and a gentle breeze was blowing through the mature maple trees across the street in Bessemer Park. The dull
roar of the trucks barreling overhead on the Skyway had been the neighborhood’s background music since the elevated toll road was built in the fifties to create a shortcut between downtown Chicago and northwest Indiana. Tonight, the Skyway was almost silent.

Battle glanced at the steps of the park’s field house, where a teenager was concluding a sale of methamphetamines. The seller darted behind the bushes, and the buyer headed toward the softball diamonds. “A little terrorist activity doesn’t seem to be having any effect on commerce. Does that go on every night?”

For the past thirty years
. “Goes in cycles. If we clear the park, they move behind Bowen. Then they go to the Skyway underpasses. Then to Stony Island Park. I open the gym at Bowen two nights a week. If they’re playing hoops, they aren’t dealing drugs or gang banging. Stop by on Thursday night. I’ll get you some playing time.”

“It isn’t a good idea for a fifty-nine year old to shoot hoops with a bunch of teenagers.”

“You can watch.”

“I will.” Battle looked at the house that Gold’s grandfather had bought eight decades earlier for the princely sum of thirty-three hundred dollars. The light was on in the living room. The front yard and gangways were illuminated by floodlights. “Ever have any trouble?”

“Not much. Our house is a no-fly zone for the gangs. They put out the word at Bowen years ago—anybody who tries any crap at Mr. Gold’s house will get their ass kicked.”

Battle smiled. “The revenge of the science nerds.”

“Something like that. There are easier targets. Everybody knows I’m a cop and I carry a gun. We have the biggest German shepherd on the South Side. His name is Lucky. He’s the sweetest dog in the world—until you piss him off. A lieutenant from Area 2 lives around the corner. A fireman lives down the street. Except for the area around Obama’s house, it’s one of the safest blocks on the South Side. If you go two blocks in any direction, you’re in one of the most dangerous places on Planet Earth.”

“Looks like your dad’s still up.”

“He never goes to bed until I get home.”

“Neither does Estelle. Can I come in for a few minutes and meet him?”

“It’s late. He gets tired.”

“Another time. We’ve had an eventful first day together.”

“Probably a lot more than you bargained for.”

“I’m going to check in on Estelle. I’ll be back in twenty minutes. We need to get down to headquarters.”

* * *

The young man looked at his laptop. The red dot on the map was at the corner of 89th and Muskegon. The Crown Vic was parked in front of Gold’s house.

You’re going to have a busy night, Detective Gold.

Chapter
21

HARRY

Harry Gold struggled to balance himself on his walker as he stood in the doorway of the only house he’d ever called home. He pointed at the still-functional gold watch his grandfather had brought with him from Russia. “You’re late,” he snapped.

“Sorry, Pop.” It didn’t matter what time Gold got home. To his father, he was always late.

Harry let him off easy. “It’s okay, Dave. You’ve had a long day.”

Gold chalked up another lost argument to the frail eighty-three year-old who weighed less than the huge German shepherd sitting at attention next to him. “I can’t stay long. I have to get back to headquarters.”

“Understood. How’s your new partner?”

“He’s okay. He lives over by South Chicago Hospital.”

Harry nodded. There were liver spots on his bald dome between the few remaining strands of white hair. His hearing aids were of limited effectiveness. His thick black-framed glasses rested on a hawk nose between cataract-ravaged eyes that shone as brightly as the day he had met Lil sixty-three years earlier. Always a conservative dresser, he had worn a jacket and tie to Bowen until the day he retired. He was forced to abandon his beloved neckties after he lost some of the functionality of his left hand after his stroke. Nowadays, he struggled to put on a pair of trousers and a polo shirt every morning. His only other modest compromise to contemporary fashion was his grudging agreement to wear a pair of sturdy
running shoes for his daily walk. He referred to the Nikes bearing Michael Jordan’s silhouette and the transcendent “swoosh” logo as his “Air Harrys.”

Harry gripped his walker tightly. “What’s with the unit outside? You expecting a terrorist attack at 89th and Muskegon?”

“Just being cautious, Pop. After the excitement at Our Lady, I’m not taking any chances. I was thinking it might be good for you to spend a few days at Len’s house.”

“I didn’t leave during the riots after Martin Luther King was shot. I’m not leaving now.”

“You were younger then.”

“And now I’m old enough to know better. Nobody’s going to bother an old man. Besides, the streets are empty. Everybody’s staying home.”

“People are scared, Pop.”

“Can you blame them? I heard the explosion over by Our Lady. I saw your adventure at Cal Park on TV. I hope that kid wasn’t a Bowen student.”

“It’s Juanita Alvarado’s son.”

“I should have known. Luis has always been a knucklehead.”

“He’s going back to Joliet—probably for good.” Gold reached inside the pocket of his dress pants and pulled out a biscuit. “Have you been good, Lucky?”

The shepherd’s ears perked up.

Gold held the Milk-Bone a foot above Lucky’s nose. He waited until the dog sat perfectly still, then he let it drop. The impeccably trained canine snatched it in a lightning-quick motion. He devoured it in one bite, then he licked his chops triumphantly.

Harry feigned jealousy. “What about me?”

“That was my last one, Pop.”

“I was hoping for something a little more appetizing—and suitable for humans.”

Gold held up a peace offering in a stained brown paper bag. “I stopped at Cal Fish. Regards from Roberta.”

Gold got the smile he was hoping for. He knew his father would be pleased if he bore gifts from the humble seafood shack on the Calumet River next to the 95th Street drawbridge—which Gold and Battle had sped across a short time earlier. Calumet Fisheries was opened in 1948 by brothers-in-law Sid Kotlick and Len Toll, whose descendants still owned the business. It earned a fleeting moment of cinematic glory when it appeared in the background as Joliet Jake and Elwood Blues (portrayed by John Belushi and Dan Ackroyd) jumped their 1974 Dodge Monaco police car over the river as the bridge was going up in the original
Blues Brothers
movie. Cal Fish still had no seating or ambiance, and it accepted only cold, hard cash. Nevertheless, its loyal customers made the pilgrimage from all over the Chicago area to savor the fresh trout, chubs, and shrimp that Roberta Morales and her crew smoked daily in the ramshackle shed behind the building.

“Shrimp?” Harry asked hopefully.

“Smoked trout.”

“You know I like Roberta’s shrimp.”

“It isn’t kosher.”

“Since when did we start keeping kosher?”

“Dr. Sandler said you aren’t supposed to eat shellfish.”

“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

Gold smiled. “You gonna let me inside?”

“Did you catch the asshole who killed Theresa’s daughter?”

“Not yet.”

“Come back after you find him.”

Gold shook the bag. “You want your shrimp?”

“You said it was trout.”

“I lied.”

It was Harry’s turn to smile. “Get inside, Mr. Big Shot. If I was still teaching, I would have stuck you in detention for six months.”

At times Gold felt as if he’d been in detention for almost forty years.

Gold followed his father across the creaky hardwood floors as Harry navigated the painstakingly slow walk past Lil’s long-silent upright piano that took up one wall of the tiny living room. They made their way into the even smaller dining room, where the cracks in the plaster were hidden by dozens of framed photos of five generations of Golds. The turquoise appliances in the adjacent kitchen had been considered a stylish upgrade when they were installed in 1962. Around the same time, Harry had hired Danley’s Garage World—which still sponsored the
Leadoff Man
pregame show before the Cubs telecasts—to build the detached four hundred dollar special that had withstood a half century of Chicago winters. It housed Harry’s pride and joy—a refurbished ’71 Mustang that the Bowen faculty and students had presented to him as a retirement present. Harry hadn’t driven it since his stroke, but Gold kept it in mint condition.

Gold helped his father into his tall-back armchair at the head of the dining room table. Lucky sat next to him, ears perked up. The last formal meal in this room had been the somber post-funeral spread after Lil had died three years earlier. The sweet smell of her chicken soup had been replaced by the aroma of the burritos prepared by Harry’s caretaker, Lucia. Over time, Gold had transformed it into his father’s domain, and Harry jokingly referred to it as his “Man Cave.” Gold had pushed the table against the wall to make it easier for his father to maneuver his walker. He replaced the centerpiece
with Harry’s state-of-the-art desktop and a twenty-four inch flat-screen monitor. He mounted a plasma TV on the wall where the china cabinet once stood. Harry’s TV was always tuned to CNN. The WGN website appeared on his computer.

After his father was settled in, Gold went out to the narrow hallway and locked his service revolver inside the wall safe he’d had installed when he moved in. Gold always did this discreetly; Harry detested having a gun in his house. Before Gold had moved in with him, Harry’s only means of self-defense had been the autographed Luis Aparicio Louisville Slugger he’d kept in the umbrella stand next to the front door since the 1959 World Series. Gold returned to the dining room and sat down next to his father, who was picking at his shrimp.

“How’s Theresa?” Harry’s tone was serious.

“Not so good. The funeral is on Friday morning at Our Lady.”

“Will you have time to take me?”

“I’ll make time, Pop. She said she’d find somebody to help you with your exercises.”

Harry nodded gratefully. “You any closer to catching this guy?”

“He’s smart, Pop.”

“So are you. Is he still using throwaway cells?”

“Not anymore. He stole a couple of regular cell phones. We’re trying to cut off access, but the mayor doesn’t like it. He says it’ll shut down the city.”

“He’d rather have somebody setting off bombs on the streets? He just announced that government offices will be closed tomorrow. Is it just one guy?”

“The FBI thinks so. Or maybe a small group. They think it’s a freelancer—maybe home grown. We keep getting messages from something called the Islamic Freedom Federation. The FBI and Homeland Security don’t know
anything about it.”

“CNN said it was an offshoot of Al-Qaeda on the Arabian Peninsula.”

“We’ve heard the same thing.”

Harry arched an eyebrow. “You don’t have a clue, do you?”

“No.” Gold never bullshitted his father about his work. “Anybody call?”

“Rod Sellers from the
Daily Southtown
.” Harry still referred to South Chicago’s neighborhood paper by its old name, even though the conglomerate that had acquired it twenty years earlier had unwisely changed its name to the
SouthtownStar
. “I got an e-mail from Len. He can’t come down this weekend.”

Gold took the news in stride. His older brother had a propensity for ditching them on short notice. “How much time did you spend on Facebook today?”

“About an hour. Len’s kids put up some new pictures. I need you to take me to the Apple Store. They’re releasing the new iPad next month.”

Gold described his father as a combination of the Greatest Generation and a techno-dweeb. Harry had published four iPhone apps on the Periodic Table. “Did you get out today?”

“I had lunch at the senior center. Then Lucia and I walked to the park.”

It took Harry and his caretaker about an hour to cover the fifty yards from their front door to Bessemer Park. Gold leaned forward and softened his voice. “How you feeling, Pop?”

“Fine.”

Here goes
. “‘Fine’ as in ‘I’m feeling good,’ or ‘I feel like crap, but I’m dealing with it’?”

“I’m okay, Dave.”

Gold detested this nightly inquisition, but the aftereffects of Harry’s stroke combined with his diabetes, high blood pressure, and inveterate stubbornness made it essential.

Harry’s rubbery face transformed into a half smile. “Sox won tonight. They beat the Yankees.”

“I heard.” Harry always changed the subject to sports when he wasn’t feeling well. “Anything else I need to know?”

Harry made another attempt at misdirection. “I think we can finally declare my cataract surgery a success. I was able to read the obits in this morning’s
Trib
.”

“That’s great, Pop.”

“I know.” Harry gingerly opened and closed his left fist. “I watched your medal ceremony on TV. I didn’t see Katie.”

“One of her kids had a doctor’s appointment.”

“You’re looking after her, right?”

“Of course, Pop. I talked to her a little while ago.”

“Did you eat? Lucia made some soup. Joey Esposito brought over some leftover pizza.”

Capri Pizza had been serving thin crust pies from a storefront at 88th and Commercial since the fifties. Many of the students at Bowen—including Gold and his brother—got their first jobs delivering pizzas to their neighbors.

“Dr. Sandler said you aren’t supposed to eat pizza,” Gold said.

“Now you’re the pizza police, too? I’m not going to die young, Dave.”

“And you aren’t going to die anytime soon, so you might as well take care of yourself. Did you take your pills?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to check with Lucia.”

“Be my guest.” For seventy-five years, Harry hadn’t taken anything stronger than aspirin and Vitamin C. Nowadays, he had to force down two dozen pills a day at prescribed times and in a precise order. He liked to say that the medications keeping
him alive were going to kill him someday. “Lori called. She said you were at her office today.”

“We’re trying to get Al-Shahid’s lawyer to let us talk to his client.”

Harry turned his head slightly. “How are you and Lori getting along?”

I’m almost forty and my father is grilling me about my girlfriend
. “I’m trying to catch a terrorist, Pop.”

“How are you getting along?” Harry repeated.

“Fine.”

“‘Fine’ as in ‘things are good,’ or ‘things aren’t so good, but we’re working on it’?”

“Somewhere in between. She’s prosecuting a terrorist, raising her daughter, and dealing with her ex-husband.”

“Doesn’t leave much time for you.”

“We’ll have plenty of time after I arrest the guy who’s blowing up cars, and she gets a death sentence for Hassan Al-Shahid.”

“Did she let you park a unit in front of her house, too?”

“As a matter of fact, she did. She’s going to take Jenny up to Lake Geneva to stay with her sister for a few days. They have an extra bed for you, Pop. Lucia can go, too.”

“Not gonna happen” Harry gripped the armrests of his chair and quoted his favorite philosopher, Mick Jagger. “You can’t always get what you want, Dave.”

Gold ran with it. “But if you try sometime, you just might find you get what you need.”

He got another smile. It gave Harry unending joy to retell the story of the time the Bowen administration had sent him a nasty letter instructing him to stop quoting the Beatles and the Rolling Stones to his students during his periodic diatribes about the Vietnam war. Harry leaked a copy to the editor-in-chief of the
Bowen Arrow
, who reprinted it under the headline, “Harry Gold Battles Administration Censorship.” He enlisted his cousin, Al “the Shark” Saper, who had spent fifty years suing the steel mills on behalf of injured workers, to fire off a letter to the principal and every member of the Chicago School Board. The Bowen administration quickly folded. Harry celebrated by blasting the Beatles’
Revolution
at the start of every class for the next two weeks. He further endeared himself to his bureaucratic masters when he hung a framed copy of the administration’s capitulation letter next to the American flag at the front of his physics lab, where it remained until he retired. The faded tribute to the First Amendment was now mounted next to the flat screen TV in Harry’s dining room.