Jack Daniels Six Pack (112 page)

“You think? Maybe his problem is he ran out of Zoloft.”

“—above average intelligence, minor criminal infractions in the past, single, some background in theater—”

“Sure, he did
Arsenic and Old Lace
in summer stock.”

Rick sighed. “This is a decent profile, Jack.”

“Where’s the part about dressing up like Snow White and collecting Donnie Osmond lunch boxes?”

“Actually, the profile says he probably collects something, like comic books or baseball cards.”

“Or poisonous plants. Look Rick, letting this guy go is a bad idea. Does the profile say he’ll stop if he’s paid?”

“Yes.”

“Well, he won’t. I’ve talked to him. This is all a big game, and he’s enjoying it way too much. Once you give a bully your lunch money, you have to keep paying him forever.”

“What are you planning on doing?”

I thought about the .38 in my purse.

“I’m going to be a bigger bully than he is.”

“And what if more people die?”

That was the question, wasn’t it? If I caught him, and people died, I’d never forgive myself. But if I let him go, and people died, I’d never forgive myself.

Burglary/Robbery/Theft was looking better and better.

I bid adieu to Rick and spent the remainder of the drive going over scenarios, trying to find one with a decent outcome.

None sprang to mind.

I parked in front of a hydrant on Randolph, kitty-corner to the Daley Center. It looked like a scene from
The Blues Brothers
. Twenty members of the SRT were there, in formation. At least forty cops. Some brass, including the super. Eight squad cars. Four motorcycles. Two scooters. Four horses. Two mountain bikes. The Mobile Command bus. And a Segway.

The Daley Center served as Chicago’s main courthouse. It was an imposing six-hundred-foot-tall structure, all steel and glass, bounded on all four sides by streets. The area around the Picasso—an impressive metal sculpture in rusty brown that resembled a horse mating with a harp—had been cordoned off with yellow police tape, and onlookers as well as media had gathered around the perimeter to watch what ever was happening.

I popped the trunk, dug out my spare shoulder holster, and put it on under my jacket. I also strapped on an ankle harness that held a five-inch AMT Backup II. It weighed about eighteen ounces. I loaded five 9mm short rounds into the clip, jacked one into the throat, and added one more. My boot-cut jeans covered it easily, plus the wider bottoms made my hips seem slimmer. A win-win jeans experience.

I went back to the front seat and removed my Colt Detective Special from my purse, along with a speed loader, and a roll of antacid tablets. I chewed four antacids while strapping the .38 and the speed loader into the Velcro webbing of my holster.

Then I opened the glove compartment and took out a balisong, a Filipino butterfly knife. It had a four-inch stainless steel blade, which stayed hidden between two halves of the handle. With a few flicks of the wrist, the handles would separate, the blade would come out, and the handles would rejoin. I’d taken it off a suspect last year, and often played with it while driving. I’d gotten pretty good, and could open the blade in less than a second.

The knife went into my back pocket. Then I stuck some Ray-Bans on my forehead, locked the car, and jumped into the fray.

I pushed my way through the crowd, past the SWAT guys, sidestepping the horses and a manure mound that looked disturbingly like Richard Nixon, and sashayed up to Superintendent O’Loughlin. She wore what appeared to be a man’s blazer, which pinched her waist and made her shoulders look like a linebacker’s. The slacks were even less flattering. Someone needed to take away her Macy’s charge card, because she was wasting it.

The omnipresent Davy Ellis, attired in gray Armani, offered me a big smile and a wink. Captain Bains didn’t seem to be around.

“Lieutenant,” the super boomed, “I’ve gotten word that you don’t want to play by our rules.”

Who ratted me out? Herb or Rick? Had to be Rick. Herb would never do that. Right?

“I don’t think we should let the Chemist go,” I said.

“I’m sure your personal opinions won’t interfere with your ability to do your duty.”

“My duty is to catch bad guys.”

“Your duty is to serve and protect. Engaging this guy won’t do either.”

“Neither will letting him go.”

O’Loughlin was hard to read. I knew that somewhere, deep down, she had to agree with me. But her face was granite.

“I’d like you to relinquish your weapon, Lieutenant.”

I blinked. Then I blinked again.

“You’re kidding.”

“You’re going to be watched every step of the way. Air support. Snipers. Even a police marine unit. We’ll make sure nothing happens to you.”

I thought about my AMT backup, safe in the ankle holster, and then handed her the Colt.

“Now the backup piece.”

I made my face blank. “What backup piece?”

“You gave up the .38 too easily. That means you have a backup.”

Smart lady. I should have thought of that.

“I need to have a gun on me, O’Loughlin.”

“You’ll address me as Superintendent or ma’am. Now give me the backup.”

“What if I refuse?” I added, “Ma’am.”

“Then I call over some men to take it from you, and at the end of the day I fire you.”

“And then I go to the media and tell them all about you paying the Chemist off.” I looked at Davy. “Think that would be good for PR?”

“That would be bad,” Davy said.

O’Loughlin got in my face. “You do what you have to do, Lieutenant. I’ll do what I have to do. And right now, I have to take your piece.”

We played stare-down for what seemed like twenty minutes, but was probably only a few seconds, and then I gave her the AMT.

“If I get killed, it’s on your head.”

“I’ve got a lot of deaths on my head right now, Lieutenant. Do I have to frisk you for any more weapons?”

I lifted up my arms. “If that’s what turns you on.”

For a moment, it looked like she was going to do it, but then some SRT guys came over with a big yellow suitcase and interrupted our tête-à-tête. A tall one with a unibrow handed me something silver.

“This is a tracking phone programmed with your number. It sends a GPS signal to the Mobile Command Post, and we can pinpoint your location to within three feet. It will also transmit the number he’s calling you from, and we can trace that number to either an address or to a cell phone within twenty yards.”

“And if you find him, you’ll do what? Deliver a pizza?”

“After we’ve deemed it safe, we’ll get the guy,” the super said. “He won’t get away with this. He’ll pay.”

Another SRT cop, a black guy with biceps larger than my waist, opened up a map of Chicago.

“There’s a chance he’ll run you around town, to try to lose any tails. That’s pretty much impossible with the GPS, but we have teams stationed around the city, all with receivers.” He pointed out a dozen red dots on the map. “We also have people stationed at O’Hare and Midway in case you’re required to get on a plane. Plus three teams dogging your every move. We won’t lose you.”

I wasn’t worried about getting lost. I was worried about the guy dosing me with something lethal before any of the ten thousand cops around me could do anything to stop it.

But I said, “Thanks, Officer,” just the same.

They wired me up with a radio headset/walkie-talkie combo, gave me an extra GPS tracker, and an extra phone.

“Do you want armor?” Biceps asked.

“No need. He’s not a shooter. But I could use some of this.”

I sidled up to Unibrow and put my hands on his utility belt.

“May I?” I asked, taking a can of pepper spray.

“Help yourself, Lieutenant. It’s rated at five million Scoville heat units. Hit him anywhere on the clothing, or just get the stream close to him, he’ll feel it.”

“Thanks. A girl needs her protection, right, Superintendent?”

The super didn’t seem amused, but she didn’t prevent me from tucking the pepper spray into my holster.

“So now we wait,” Biceps said.

The wait wasn’t long. Less than a minute later, my tracking phone rang. A blocked number. I nodded at the group, and said, “It’s showtime.”

Then I answered the call.

Chapter 27

G
OOD MORNING
, J
ACK. HOW
are you feeling?” His voice provoked a reaction in my stomach normally reserved for warm oysters and cheap tequila.

“Nervous. I’ve got all this money, and no one to give it to.”

“I don’t see the suitcase. Hold it up.”

I fought the urge to look around. He could be in one of the surrounding buildings, in a car, in the crowd, on the street, or even in the Daley Center itself. Ultimately, it didn’t matter where he was. We were going to let him go anyway.

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 Rec ords 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.