Shaken (41 page)

“Are you high?” I said through clenched teeth.

“A little.”

The lawyers began to shout at me, hurling legal terms like
harassment
and
battery
and
litigation
. Dalton, for his part, looked slightly bemused. I decided to try to turn this lemon into lemonade.

“Mr. Dalton,” I said, “I saw the whole thing. I suggest you come down to the station and press charges.”

“What?!” McGlade shouted.

Herb bent over next to Harry. “You have the right to remain silent,” he said, a terse grin on his face, as he snapped a cuff on McGlade’s wrist. “Which I heartily endorse.”

Dalton smoothed his hands over his suit. “I won’t be pressing charges. I simply don’t have the time.” He stared over at me. “Time is such a precious thing, isn’t it, Jack? We really should savor every minute. Some of us only have so long left.”

Herb and I hefted McGlade up to his feet.

“I’ll be seeing you,” I told Dalton.

“No you won’t. But maybe I’ll call you later, after I land.”

We dragged Harry out of there. Once back on the street, McGlade said, “I think that went well. Can you get these cuffs off?” Neither Herb nor I made any effort to follow his request. “What’s up? Why so lugubrious?”

“God, I hate him,” Herb muttered to himself.

“Come on. You’re not really arresting me. Are you?”

I sighed. “Herb, let him go.”

“Do we have to?”

I nodded. My partner made a face, but freed Harry’s wrists.

“What were you thinking?” I asked. “Don’t you remember what it was like to be a cop? There’s a child’s life at stake here.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Jeez, Jackie. Gimme a little credit, will you? If that guy is Mr. K, he’s as cold as they come. There was no way he’d lose his temper and throw a punch. Especially in front of two cops.”

“So instead, you think it’s helpful to make an ass out of yourself?” Herb said.

“No, Shamu. That was just a distraction.” Harry reached into his pocket and held up something, his face triumphant. “Who wants to see that SOB’s wallet?”

Chapter 9

“E
very time I think my opinion of you couldn’t possibly get any lower, you pull a rabbit out of your hat,” I told Harry. “Or a perp’s wallet out of his pants.” He handed the aforementioned wallet to me. “I’ll send you my bill in the mail. I’m saving up to buy a monkey.”

Years ago, Harry had a fish tank. Not a single one survived. Hopefully a primate would fare better.

“Good luck with that,” I told him.

“I think it would be fun to have a pet that could fetch me beer. Plus I could give him a tin cup, pretend to be blind, and make a few bucks on the L train.”

“Quite the plan,” Herb said.

“Yeah. But in total honesty, I’ll probably just blow the money on malt liquor and lap dances.”

“Thanks for your help, McGlade.”

He nodded at me, gave Herb the finger, and walked off down the street. Every once in a while, McGlade came through for me. But I was incredibly grateful not to be working with him anymore. I couldn’t imagine going down that route ever again.

I tapped Herb and we quickly got into my car, driving away before Dalton figured out Harry had ripped him off. Then I double-parked two streets over and examined our prize.

The wallet looked like any other men’s wallet. Brown leather, trifold, worn in. Dalton had a Platinum American Express, a Visa bank card, and a driver’s license in the various pockets. In the billfold compartment he had three hundred and forty dollars and a strip of paper with a twelve-digit number on it. There was a familiar logo in the corner.

“Federal Express,” I said. “He FedExed something.”

“Recently?” Herb said.

The paper was from an express U.S. airbill. Normally, it was attached to a full receipt that listed the sender and the recipient, along with a description of contents, packaging, and services. This had been torn off, so only the tracking number remained. It appeared new—things that were in wallets for a long time tended to have a faded, frayed look. The fold was still crisp. The colors still fine.

“I think so. Let’s see.”

Using my iPhone, I got online and accessed the FedEx Web site. Personally, I loved the iPhone, but part of me missed the good old days when phones had huge antennas and weighed two pounds.

“I ever tell you about the time a cell phone saved my life?” I asked Herb.

“About a million billion times.”

“I think I need a new partner. Someone who appreciates my classic stories.”

I used the touch screen to punch in the tracking number. It told me no information was available, indicating the package wasn’t in their system yet.

“His condo,” Herb said, snapping his fingers and pointing at me. “It had a FedEx box in the lobby.”

I got on the radio and told Dispatch to send a car to Spill and keep an eye on John Dalton, filling in the particulars. Then Herb and I headed back to 1300 North Lake Shore Drive. Traffic seemed excruciatingly slow. I thought about calling the nearest squad car and having them check it out before we got there, but that involved all sorts of potential legal trouble. If Dalton had put something dangerous in the FedEx box, we’d need a warrant to take it. In order to get a warrant, we’d have to prove he put something in the box, and the only way we could prove that was with a receipt that we’d stolen. Better to just handle it ourselves.

I parked in front of Dalton’s condo, hopped out of my Nova, and hurried up to the doorman.

“Has FedEx come yet?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“About an hour ago.”

Shit. “Do you know the driver? Know his name?”

“Naw. Different guy every time.”

Double shit. I hurried back to the car just as Herb was pulling himself out. “Get in. We need to call FedEx, find out what truck the package is on.”

After three minutes of navigating the plethora of phone tree options, I got a human being and explained that I was a cop in need of finding a package. After another ten minutes on hold, I was redirected to someone in authority. Rather than giving me a run-around, FedEx was surprisingly helpful. As soon as the tracking number was uploaded into the system—which should be within the next half hour—the local station would locate the package and wait for me to pick it up and take a look. No warrant, no judge, no hassle. Apparently, when you sent something FedEx, they could view the contents at their discretion if it was suspicious. A call from a police officer was enough to induce suspicion.

So Herb and I sat there, engine running, me refreshing the FedEx Web site every few minutes, waiting for the tracking number to be updated. When it finally was recognized by their system, I called the number they gave me, and they contacted the driver. I was able to speak to him directly.

“Got it right here, Officer.” He had a nasally Chicago accent, pure South Side. “It’s a small box, about two pounds. It dangerous?”

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. According to the Web, the package was set to be delivered tomorrow to a Chicago zip code. If it were a bomb, it probably wouldn’t go off until it reached its destination. “Does it have an odor? Is it leaking?”

“Ask if it’s ticking,” Herb said. I shushed him.

“Seems like a normal package. If you want to come take a look, I’m on Division, in the Dominick’s parking lot.”

“We’ll be there in five minutes,” I said. “You might want to, uh, wait outside the truck. Maybe a few yards away. Who is the package addressed to?”

“Gotta be a fake,” the driver said. “Is there any real person in the world actually named
Jack Daniels
?”

Chapter 10

A
few seconds after we pulled into the Dominick’s parking lot, the Special Response Team showed up. The FedEx guy, a scruffy redhead named Gordy, had placed Dalton’s package in an empty parking spot, then stood a safe distance away, alongside me and Herb, to watch the bomb squad have at it.

“I hope it’s not a big box of anthrax,” Gordy said. “I sniffed that sucker. Sniffed it good. Do you think it could be anthrax?”

“No.”

“Smallpox?”

“No.”

“Botulism? We just had a botulism epidemic in the city.”

“It’s not botulism,” I said, pretty sure of myself.

“Ebola?”

I gave the guy a WTF look. “Ebola?”

“I saw it on the Science Channel. You start bleeding blood from your pores. Then your skin comes off. I hope it isn’t Ebola.”

I hoped it wasn’t Ebola, too. But I didn’t think it was any sort of disease. Or explosive. Mr. K didn’t operate like that. He was hands-on.

The SRT, in full bomb suits, performed a battery of tests on the box, using various pieces of expensive-looking equipment. I recognized a portable X-ray unit and a boroscope—a flexible camera usually used by doctors giving rectal exams. After ten minutes of poking and prodding, the SRT sergeant tugged off his helmet and chest plate and approached us.

“Is it Ebola?” Gordy asked.

“It’s a bottle, Lieutenant.” He gave Gordy a sideways glance and then handed me the boroscope, showing me the color screen. “Looks like the seal is intact.”

I instantly recognized the familiar shape. I’d seen it many times before. “Thanks for your help, Sergeant. I think I can take it from here.”

“Do you want us to open it?”

“I think I can handle it.”

I approached the box, feeling no fear, pretty sure of what this package was. Dalton wouldn’t have sent me anything incriminating, because there was the possibility I would have gotten it before he left the country, and subsequently arrested him.

No, he didn’t send this to threaten me or harm me physically. This had a different purpose.

“What is it, Jack?” Herb was walking alongside me.

“Mr. K has two signatures. One is ball gags. What’s the other?”

“Rubbing salt in his victims’ wounds.”

“That’s what this is,” I said, tearing off the box top.

As expected, there was a full bottle of Jack Daniels Tennessee Whiskey. Dalton’s way of telling me he had won. And rubbing it in. There was also a handwritten note:

By now, I’m on my way to Cape Verde, and there’s nothing you can do about it. I’ll likely never set foot in the U.S. again. I want you to know that I gave you a fair chance to catch me. The clues were there. You simply weren’t good enough. Don’t be too hard on yourself. You can’t win them all.

I knew I couldn’t win them all. It went with the Job.

But I really
really
wanted to win this one.

Chapter 11

H
erb and I sat in my car, parked outside Dalton’s building. It was going on ten p.m., and he hadn’t come home yet. A team followed him from Spill to Bradstreet’s palatial estate in the neighboring suburb of Evanston.

“I tell you,” Herb said, “that bottle of Jack Daniels is looking better and better.”

I agreed. I could use a drink. Herb and I were both tired, depressed, and discouraged. Nothing was panning out. The boy hadn’t matched any recent missing person reports, and hadn’t been identified yet. We’d even given the picture to the TV stations to air, but so far, no hits.

Tom and a rotating crew of ten cops were continuing to call storage facilities within a thirty-mile radius, asking about locker 515, with not a single promising lead. Hajek, from the crime lab, had done a full workup of the photo, and the only thing he could tell us was it appeared to have been altered somehow. Hajek believed the color and contrast had been enhanced. He had passed it on to a colleague who knew more about photographic manipulation, and we were waiting to hear back.

Still no ID on the John Doe who died on the Catherine Wheel. And after calling four different judges and pleading our case, none would sign an arrest warrant for Dalton or a search warrant for his condo.

Things weren’t looking good for our heroes. Which is why I brightened up when Herb said, “Let’s break in.”

“You serious?” I asked.

“He’s probably playing it safe, spending the night at the lawyer’s. Maybe we’ll find something in his home.”

“Wouldn’t stand up,” I said. Any evidence we found would be inadmissible in court.

“I care about the kid, not a conviction. Besides, the wallet gave me an idea. What if his passport is in his house?”

I nodded, getting it. If we swiped Dalton’s passport, he wouldn’t be able to leave the country. Those things took weeks to renew. That would give us more time to hang something on him.

“First we break into his car, then we try to frame him, then we steal his wallet, now we’re going to burgle his residence. Not our finest day, Herb.”

“While we’re inside, I may also piss on his sofa.”

I had a gym bag in the trunk. I took out my sweats and put the cement-filled milk jug and some yellow tape inside. Then walked across the street to 1300 North Lake Shore. It was a new doorman, and we flashed our badges and took the elevator to Dalton’s condo. As far as disciplinary action went, I doubted we’d get into any trouble for this little action. Dalton wouldn’t be able to press charges from Cape Verde. That is, if he even knew we were the ones who broke in.

We stood outside his door, and I gave it a gentle knock. When no one answered, I asked Herb, “Did you hear a scream coming from inside, prompting us to enter without a warrant?”

“I heard a scream, and also smelled smoke,” Herb said. “It’s our duty as police officers to break in and try to save lives. Plus, the door was already broken when we got here.”

I hefted the milk jug. “Did you notice a burglar alarm when we were here earlier?”

“Nope.”

“Me neither.”

I reared back and swung the makeshift battering ram with everything I had, just to the right of the doorknob. There was a loud
CRACK
and the door burst inward, the jamb throwing splinters. I went in low and fast, drawing my Colt from my shoulder holster, quickly scanning the hallway. Then I made my way through the rest of the condo, Herb at my heels. When we deemed it empty, Herb got started putting some yellow CRIME SCENE tape over the doorway. If anyone walked by and noticed the door, the tape would prevent them from calling the cops, because the cops obviously already knew about it.