Derailed (43 page)

“Just checking to see if everything's working out for you after such a long trip.”

“Ah, Mr. Bentley. You're too sweet. Thanks. Yes, we're doing fine, though I'm actually glad we laid over in Denver for a night's rest in a regular bed.”

I laughed. “Yeah. Sleeping on a train berth's not quite the same. Hey, how you gettin' home once you get in? You need a lift?”

“Thanks, that won't be necessary. I felt bad canceling on your son yesterday so I called him personally to apologize. He was very gracious. Even insisted we let him pick us up this afternoon. So we've got our ride. Wouldn't dare cancel on him again.”

“Well, you enjoy the rest of your trip. Hey, if you see me around the station when you get in, you can wave as long as I'm not undercover.”

“I'll be sure to. Thanks, Mr. Bentley.”

Rodney had insisted on picking them up? That set off alarm bells in my head. But I still had to meet with Captain Gilson. I didn't want to lose our perp again. I didn't name Rodney, but Gilson immediately zeroed in on the limo being the probable retrieval point.

“It's a no-brainer, Bentley. Once she detrains, that's the only time when the luggage will be out of her possession. Think about it.” He started in like he was giving stage directions. “She walks up to the limo. The driver greets her, opens the door. She and her assistant get in and sit back in those soft seats, exhausted, facing forward while
the driver goes around to the back to stow their luggage. He raises the trunk lid, so even if they happen to turn around—which they're too tired to do—they won't see a thing.”

“Yeah, yeah. I can see it might happen that way.” I didn't like the clues that implicated Rodney, but even more I didn't like Gilson's insistence on positioning most of the Amtrak police outside the station to target the limo. “Nevertheless, Captain, I'd feel better if we weren't locked in to one option. We need to be ready for anything.”

Gilson tossed up both hands. “Okay, okay. We'll keep a few officers in the station. But we position a couple of our own vehicles on Adams to pull across the intersection and block all traffic on Canal just like the mayor's motorcade did to you yesterday. Only this time we use it to trap the limo.”

Well, it'd probably work, but . . .

I started to leave his office when Gilson said, “Oh, one more thing. Got good news for you. Warrant went through for the phone records. Cell's registered to a Marcel Wagner up in Logan Square. Building's a restaurant that's been closed for remodeling for the last two years. Got a couple of apartments above it. DEA and CPD are coordinating a raid as we speak.”

“No, no, no! Can't do that until we nab this mule
with
the dope! Anything goes wrong with the raid and our perp disappears. I want this guy. Call 'em and tell 'em to hold off until we give the green light.”

Gilson shook his head. “Neither agency likes anyone else tellin' them what they can or can't do.”

“But you gotta tell 'em.”

He shrugged. “I'll try.”

Everyone was in position by 2:40 even though the 2:50 train was running a little late. Except for a couple of momentary false alarms, no one had sighted our perp. Perhaps Gilson was right. It was going to happen at the limo and Max might not even be in the vicinity.
O Lord. Please don't let Rodney be involved in this mess
.

I waited alone, out of sight behind a pillar on the platform for Track 28 as the two huge diesels pulling the Zephyr crept slowly past at three o'clock, the bell clanging and air hissing from the brakes like steam from an old steam engine. A baggage car, three sleepers, and the dining car slipped by before the train came to a complete stop. Perfect. I still had a good view of the sleeper cars, but Grace and Sam weren't likely to look my way as they headed for the doors into the station.

They'd be hard to miss. Not too many young women—one black, one white—traveled together like that. They stepped off the train, making sure they had all their luggage while I took note that the big blue roller bag was with them. I waited until they said good-bye to their attendant and were underway. Twice that morning I'd reloaded and checked my pistol, but as I merged into the flow of tired passengers and began following Grace and Sam, I felt once more for the P250 beneath my sport jacket. Too bad Corky wasn't with me. She was better protection than any weapon. It seemed unfair to deny her a role in the knockout punch for this operation.
Sorry, girl
.

Grace and Sam went through the doors into the station just as Max and Ramona had done yesterday. Glad I wasn't having to communicate by cell phone this time, I lifted the radio mike to my lips. “We're coming in.” Only three uniforms were stationed along the probable path Grace and Sam would take. Two here on the concourse level, and one at the top of the escalators before they'd exit onto the street. Most of the other officers were out on the street in plain clothes. Only a couple there were in uniform.

I searched the crowd for Max as Grace and Sam turned into the wide corridor heading for the main lobby. He was tall enough that I should be able to spot him, but the farther we went without seeing him, the more I began to think Gilson was right. I couldn't imagine Max making his move in this throng. People moved and jostled one another like red blood cells pulsing through an artery.

Ahead of me, I thought I saw Grace and Sam pause near the base of the escalators. Was that them? Yes. What were they doing? The girl. The one from the train, Ramona, they were talking to her.
Ramona was putting on a tan jacket. I pushed forward as I toggled my mike. “This could be it! Bottom of the escalators in the main lobby. No, wait. They're moving around to the back of the escalators, toward the fountain.”

I emerged from the corridor as the throng between me and the fountain came to a complete standstill, congested by the lines of passengers waiting at the Amtrak ticket counter. Partially hidden by a large pillar, I hesitated. And then the girl's head slumped from view followed by Grace and Sam dropping out of sight as well. I elbowed my way forward as people huddled like a football team, looking down as if the women had disappeared into a sinkhole.

A small break in the crowd gave me a glimpse of Ramona on the floor, where it appeared she'd fallen. Grace and Sam were stooping beside her trying to help. I pushed closer, only a dozen feet and twenty bodies away. I looked around for Max. He had to be somewhere close. I spoke into my mike. “Watch for the male suspect. He may be on the move.” Why wasn't I getting any response from my backup?

I looked for spiky, blond hair, but what caught my eye on the far side of the fountain was a brief glimpse of Grace's big teal-blue suitcase being pulled by a man with a black hoodie over his head and a gray backpack slung on one shoulder. He walked briskly out of the lobby toward the Great Hall but not so fast as to draw attention. I cut back around the other side of the escalators where the crowd was not so dense, hot on the perp's trail and in time to see him turn north by the Metra ticketing area. “Any APD officer, please respond!” I barked into my mike. “Suspect will soon pass the door of our offices. Please respond.” I ran a Walter Payton through the passengers to catch up, hoping help would've emerged from our offices by the time I turned the corner.

Max was heading for the doors out to the old taxi pickup area that dumped onto Clinton Street. But we now used that “tunnel” as parking for our police vehicles, including my SUV. I clicked my mike again. “Any officer in the motor pool area, apprehend male suspect pulling a blue luggage bag.” Still no answer. As I rounded
the corner, I saw Max again. Instead of going through the doors to the motor pool, he was turning right down the slight ramp to the north set of tracks. Okay, he was heading for a Metra train. With 120,000 commuters per day, access to those trains wasn't restricted. You jumped on board and showed your ticket or pass to the conductor, usually
after
the train left the station.

Max was no more than thirty yards ahead of me when he ducked left through the automatic doors and onto the platform between Tracks 13 and 15. I sprinted—as fast as a guy my age could—past all the other doors to the platform Max had taken.

Where was he? A few passengers still straggled toward me after getting off the train on Track 13 to my left, but no one was boarding the outbound train on Track 15 . . . because it was starting to move. I groaned. Was Max getting away a second time?

I jogged along beside it, peering up into the windows, hoping to spot him. In a matter of moments, the train outpaced me, and then pulled away completely. I came to a stop at the end of the platform, bent over, hands on knees as I sucked air like a winded racehorse.

I triggered my mike. “Find out . . . which Metra train . . . just departed . . . on Track 15. Have local police . . . and the DEA intercept it . . . at its first stop. Apprehend suspect.”

When I got a confirmation, I turned and staggered dejectedly back along the platform. I'd failed. Max had gotten away
again
. And the chance that suburban police could coordinate a successful bust on such short notice was slim at best.

One more commuter stepped from the recently arrived train on Track 13 and turned in front of me toward the station. Then I noticed the gray backpack he held in his hand. Faded jeans, a Chicago White Sox jersey and cap over . . . blond hair.

I unholstered my SIG as I hustled to catch up. “Max Wagner?”

He turned a shocked face to me, and I could see he was about to bolt. “Don't try it.” I showed him my weapon and pulled back my jacket so he could see my badge.

He stopped and rolled his eyes like a teenager. “What is it now?”

“Mind if I have a look in your backpack?”

“You got a warrant?”

“I can get one as soon as I need to. Up against the train. I'm sure you know the position.”

He turned, but not fast enough to suit me. I slammed him against the train and frisked him. Unarmed, but I still cuffed him as I called for backup and told someone to have Creston bring Corky and meet us in the office.

Max wasn't giving up anything as I put him in the interview room, and he still hadn't given me permission to examine his backpack. Where was Corky when I needed her?

I'd dispatched two uniforms to search the last two cars of the Metra train Max had gotten off of, but I'd pretty much figured out that he'd jumped on board with Grace's suitcase, retrieved his drugs and ditched his hoodie, and then detrained like a north suburban sports fan on his way to watch the White Sox play the Royals that evening. He'd almost gotten away with it, but I'd bet my house his backpack held those six sausage-shaped rolls of cocaine.

When I left the interview room, Gilson was standing outside watching Max through the two-way mirror.

“Good work, Bentley.”

“Thanks.” I nodded, feeling a little smug. “And you can green-light the raid now too.”

“I'll make the call.”

I was heading back through the offices when I noticed Grace and her assistant sitting at a desk in one of the office cubicles filling out forms. How much did Grace know? She'd certainly had an unpleasant experience of her luggage being stolen, but I didn't really want her to know she'd been carrying $1.5 million worth of cocaine all the way across the country, not if I could help it.

As I got to the door that led into the rest of the station, it flew open, and Creston burst in. “I'm sorry, Bentley. Your dog won't come.”

I held my finger to my lips and pushed him back out. “What's up? What took you so long?”

He shook his head. “I can't get Corky to budge. She's been sitting in front of a utility closet door for the last—” Creston threw up his hands in desperation. “—five minutes, and I can't get her to move.”

“Where's she now?”

“Still there! Just around the corner and down the hall. Come on. I'll show you.”