by Wally Duff
“And then he gets killed.”
“Bingo. Feds aren’t happy when they lose an agent.”
“What if the feds find out al-Turk is a drug dealer?”
“FBI will form an Organized Crime and Drug Enforcement Task Force with the DEA to take him down.”
“What if he’s a terrorist?”
“FBI will go it alone and hog all the headlines.”
“We have to prove exactly what al-Turk is doing. I tried the GPS system. You need to tap his phone.”
“A problem.” He began counting on his fingers. “One, I would need a subpoena from a judge for the phone tap, and from what you have, no judge in Chicago would issue one. And two, without more evidence, captain won’t go for it any more than he’ll okay spending money on DNA tests.”
“What’ll you do?”
“Have to work it off the clock at the Twenties,” he said, smirking at me. “It’s a dirty, rotten, lonely job, but somebody’s gotta do it.”
“And you’re the perfect man.”
He shot his cuffs. “You got it, Sweets.”
“What should I do?”
“You used to be a big shot reporter; get off your fat ass and begin investigating. If al-Turk’s delivering his drug product and selling it from his garage, prove it.”
“You’re telling me you won’t go to your captain to request the DNA test unless I give you evidence of that?”
“You got it.”
“And my ass is NOT fat!”
“Just sayin’.”
Now what?
88
Tony walked over to Lorenz’s house to work the case. I went to Molly’s to pick up Kerry.
“Did you have fun at Molly’s?” I asked Kerry, as I pushed her stroller back to our house.
“I pwayed blocks.”
“Did Elmo play too?”
“Uh-huh. We made big house.”
We walked by Lorenz’s house. Yellow crime scene tape surrounded the perimeter of the yard. I could smell the irritating odor of the cigarettes two Chicago uniformed policemen smoked on the sidewalk in front of his house.
“Hey guys, do you mind?” I asked them.
“Mind what?” one of the cops asked.
“The cigarettes.” I pointed at Kerry in her stroller. “You’re polluting the air in our neighborhood.”
They stared at me.
“Maybe I should talk to the detective in charge,” I continued.
One of them crushed out his cigarette with the heel of his shoe. The other one flipped his into the street and grumbled a word that sounded like bitch.
“Excuse me?” I asked.
They turned their backs to me. I continued pushing Kerry around the block to our back door. I didn’t want them to know where I lived because I planned to watch the house through our windows.
When I walked into the kitchen, the landline rang.
“Are you okay?” Carter asked. “Is Kerry safe?”
Tell the truth, Honey. You called to make sure I’m not at the site of the explosion.
“We’re fine. I’m making a snack for Kerry. Do you want to speak to her?”
“No, I’m busy.”
But not too busy to check up on me.
“Any news about the accident?” I asked.
He hesitated, proof that his reporter was still stuck in traffic. “I’ll let you know.”
“No need. I’ll go online and check it out.”
He abruptly disconnected.
I played with Kerry and then put her down for her nap. It hit me as I watched Lorenz’s house: Lyndell.
The feds required a house close to me, and Lyndell’s arthritic knees needed total joint replacements. My guess was the feds talked to her two sons and offered to pay for the expensive surgery and rehab stay in exchange for the use of her house. There was one way to find out: ask Lyndell. She would tell me the truth.
I called her cell phone, but it went straight to voice mail. I dialed the Brookstone Center.
“Hello, this is Tina Thomas. I have a neighbor who recently moved into your facility. Her name is Lyndell Newens. I would like to come and see her. When are visiting hours?”
I heard clicking from a computer keyboard. “I’m sorry, but I cannot give out information about any of our patients unless you are an authorized family member,” the lady said.
The FBI had probably flagged my name in case I called about Lyndell. The feds didn’t want me to visit her and ask questions about the real estate transaction with Lorenz. Lyndell was too sharp not to have records proving what had happened. Money talked, and the feds had plenty of that. The sons would keep their mother content and away from me until this was over.
When I heard the familiar music of an ice cream truck in the street outside our home, I suddenly pictured how I could convince Tony and his captain that al-Turk was either a drug dealer or a terrorist.
But, first, I needed to get the playgroup sleuths together to brief them on the murders in our neighborhood.
89
Six hours after the bombing, the playgroup, minus Hannah and her children, sat in my kitchen. Through my front and side windows, we saw the crime scene tape wrapped around the perimeter of Lorenz’s house. Our kids ran around, oblivious to the presence of police working the scene next door.
“I cancelled my kick boxing class and rushed over here,” Cas said. “What’s going on?”
“The dentist who rented Lyndell’s home died in his office this morning along with Donna Allen, the girl we know from XSport Fitness,” I began.
“Do you know what happened?” Linda asked.
“It was a terrible accident. The dentist and Donna were apparently using nitrous oxide for...fun.”
“Not fun, you mean sex,” Molly said.
“How do you know about that?” I asked.
“I learned a lot of stuff when I modeled.”
“This is interesting and all that, and it’s too bad about Donna, but what’s that have to do with us?” Cas asked.
“More to the point, is al-Turk involved in this?” Linda asked.
“Donna worked at the Twenties, and that’s all we know,” I said.
“What do we do?” Linda asked.
“Carter and his reporters will cover this with all of their firepower. We can’t compete with that. I don’t want to miss my August deadline. I think we need to concentrate on Hannah and Micah.”
And not risk you guys getting blown up.
“It’s your call,” Cas said. “They’re your stories; we’re just trying to help you.”
“But do you want to give up on al-Turk and the Twenties?” Molly asked.
“It’s taking an enormous amount of my time to follow those GPS trackers and chase the money trail,” Linda said before I could answer. “I vote to let Carter and his reporters investigate al-Turk.”
“Great,” I said. “We can put that story on the backburner and plan to report what we’ve learned about Hannah and Micah at our next playgroup.”
They didn’t need to know I would never give up on al-Turk’s story.
Part 4
90
Tony needed convincing evidence about what al-Turk was doing across the street. Friday morning, I reached out for help to prove it. While I ran, I called the home office of the Windy City Ice Cream Company.
“Elena, this is Tina Thomas. I hired one of your ice cream trucks to park outside our house during my husband’s birthday last year.”
“I remember,” she said. “Did you have fun?”
“We did, and it’s why I called. I know this is short notice, but I need one of the trucks as soon as I can get one.”
“Let me see what I can do.”
“And if Hugo’s available, I would like to use him.”
“Call you right back.”
It took fifteen minutes for Elena to give me the go-ahead with my idea, but she couldn’t arrange it until that afternoon.
While we waited for the truck, Kerry and I went downstairs to m
y office. The only new intel I hadn’t addressed concerned the owner of the GMC truck that had delivered Donna to the dentist’s office. I ran the plate on my computer.
The truck was registered to the Arun Corporation, which also owned al-Turk’s home and his two vehicles. I needed to know where the truck parked and who drove it.
Time for another road trip.
“Kerry, Momma has to run an errand again.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but I stopped her short.
“Why don’t we buy donuts before we go?” I asked.
She blinked as she thought about this. “Elmo and Walph go too? They wuv donuts!”
Bribes always work.
Ten minutes later, after I had purchased a dozen donuts from Dinkel’s, we were headed to the Twenties. I drove around the block and discovered the black GMC truck parked in the apartment complex behind the strip club. The driver was somehow involved in the story.
But was the driver a man or a woman? And was that person connected to al-Turk?
91
The pale-yellow ice cream truck arrived right after Kerry and I had finished lunch. The music reached my ears before I saw the truck, which was the major component of my plan.
Ice cream trucks are a daily part of summer life in Lakeview. They are in our neighborhood frequently, and most people ignore the music unless they intend to buy one of the goodies. The non-buyers don’t “see” the trucks slowly moving up and down the street.
But not Kerry. When she heard the tunes, she jumped up and down. Pavlov would have been proud of her response. And my stomach began growling when the familiar songs drifted into our kitchen.
Following my instructions, Hugo parked in our driveway where al-Turk couldn’t see the truck from his front windows. I carried my daughter down the back stairs to the driveway, and we stood by the truck’s window.
“Thanks for coming,” I said.
“My pleasure, Mrs. Thomas,” Hugo said. “Elena said you have a special request.”
“I sure do, and it’s gonna be a little strange, but roll with me on it, okay?”
“Sure, but would your daughter like a treat first?”
“Kerry, would you like ice cream?” I asked.
“I wuv ice queam!”
“What’s the magic word?”
“Pwease, Momma.”
While Hugo prepared the order, Kerry and I climbed inside the truck. Kerry began eating her ice cream. I instructed Hugo to back out and drive to Belmont and turn right. We went three blocks and then turned back toward the alley behind al-Turk’s house.
“Is this the right one?” Hugo asked.
“It is. When we get next to the target garage, you hold Kerry and I’ll pop out and do what I have to do. It shouldn’t take more than thirty seconds.”
It didn’t take that long. He stopped in front of al-Turk’s garage. I threw open the passenger door and squatted down, using the truck’s open door for partial cover. With tissues, I swabbed the garage door and the cement driveway leading into the garage.
I hopped back into the truck, and Hugo handed Kerry back to me. It went perfectly, the first easy thing I’d done on the story. He stepped on the gas and, at my suggestion, drove along three more alleys to make it look like he traveled that way all the time.
We returned to our driveway twenty minutes later. Back in our kitchen, I called Tony.
“I have what you need from al-Turk’s house,” I said. “Hopefully, it’ll convince your captain to financially support this.”
“On it,” Tony said. “Gotta work the dentist’s office. Be at your house this afternoon.”
92
Friday night was difficult for me. After Carter arrived home, he wouldn’t let Kerry and me out of his sight. The reason? His reporter had scooped the TV reporters and social media with the factual story from an “unnamed source in the police department” that the explosion had been caused by a small bomb made of C4. The article strongly implicated the sale of illegal drugs as being involved. There was no mention of terrorism.
Later that night, after I kept badgering him, Carter finally admitted the “unnamed source” had been Tony Infantino. Carter knew about my previous relationship with Tony and didn’t like him. Tony felt the same way about Carter.
Carter couldn’t figure out why Tony had helped him.
But I knew.
Tony was pissed that the FBI had not told the locals they were involved, and he wanted to make sure the public knew the murders were being investigated by the Chicago PD and not any other agency.
It was even worse on Saturday after Carter walked by the dentist’s office and saw the bomb’s destructive force. By Sunday, I couldn’t take it any longer. I forced him to take Kerry and me to the Navy Pier.
When he left for work on Monday morning, he made me promise to stay around our house and not take Kerry anywhere. I did it, but only because I had mommy chores to do. By Monday afternoon I was stir crazy and couldn’t take it any longer. I had to get out of the house.
And I needed to refocus my friends on Hannah and Micah. My August eleventh deadline was coming, and I still didn’t have enough material to write an interesting first paragraph about Hannah and Micah. I called the playgroup to meet in Hamlin Park. I didn’t include Hannah because we were going to talk about her.
It was the middle of the afternoon. We played with the kids and chatted. “How are you coming with your Hannah and Micah assignments?” I asked.
“I have the basics from his scientific papers,” Cas said.
“But not what disease he’s working on?” I asked.
“Not yet.”
“Give us what you have.”
“First, you need a little of the science background. I’ll try to make it not too painful.”
“Thanks,” Molly said.
“Our assumption is that when Hannah got sick, Micah became interested in embryonic stem cell research.”
Nods all around.
“There are two kinds of embryos used in embryonic stem cell research. One is left over from IVF. The other comes from a somatic human body cell.”
“How does that second one work?” I asked.
“The nucleus is extracted from a patient’s somatic cell and is inserted into a donor egg, which has had its nucleus previously removed. It’s called a nuclear transfer, SCNT for short. The egg now contains the patient's genetic material and the reprogrammed cell develops into an embryo.”
“Sounds like cloning,” Linda said.
“It’s called therapeutic cloning.”
“If IVF embryos are destroyed to harvest embryonic stem cells, do they do the same thing with therapeutic cloned embryos?” Linda asked.
“They do. Micah’s process has two steps: the creation of embryos solely for the purpose of stem cell derivation and then the destruction of those embryos.”
“How does this donor egg stuff work?” Molly asked.
“Eggs harvested in excess of a doctor’s need for IVF implantation are frequently used, but it’s not the case in his lab.”
“Huh?” I said. “I assume Micah uses IVF embryos.”
“No, he doesn’t.”
“Why not?” Linda asked.
“He needs too many eggs.”
“Where does he get the ones he needs?” Linda asked.
“Healthy young women are injected with hormones to create a hyperovulation state. Those women then sell their harvested eggs to him.”
“How does he obtain the eggs?” Linda asked.
“He does a transvaginal ultrasound-guided needle egg retrieval on the women to aspirate the eggs from their ovaries.”
“Isn’t selling body parts illegal?” I asked.
“Marketing and selling body parts is considered unethical and is banned in most countries,” Linda said. “Human eggs are the notable exception to this rule.”
“Then the only way Micah can get women to do this would be for them to volunteer their eggs or pay them.” I said.
“Co
rrect.”
“Gosh, I need to talk to Micah,” Molly said. “There’s this killer pair of Louboutin pumps at Neiman’s and Greg won’t let me buy them. I can use the extra cash.”
“You might want to hold off on this until we know for sure it’s what Micah is doing,” I said. “But the real question is what have we gotten into here?”
“Whatever it is, I think Micah is playing God by creating babies in the laboratory and then killing them,” Cas said. “It’s no different than an abortion as far as I’m concerned.”
Abortion.
I needed to tell Cas and Molly what Linda already knew: that I was blown up in an abortion clinic.
93
“Linda knows about this, but I’ve never told either of you any of it before,” I said. “Five years ago, I was injured in an abortion clinic bombing.”
“No way!” Molly said.
“Oh, my God,” Cas uttered.
Linda remained silent since she knew most of it.
“Do you have any residual damage?” Cas asked.
“I had an epidural hematoma, and a few people might say my brain’s still a little scrambled.”
Molly opened her mouth, but I anticipated her question. “The force of the blast ruptured an artery in my head. A neurosurgeon clipped the vessel to stop the bleeding. And to answer any other questions, I had a ruptured bladder and diaphragm, a collapsed lung, and a lacerated liver. I have a dandy scar on my abdomen because of the emergency operation.”
“Gosh, when I saw it at the pool, I thought it was from a C-section,” Molly said.
“Got one here too,” I said pointing above my right ear. “But my hair covers up that one.”