My knuckles were bleeding, but functional, and my grip on the butterfly knife was solid as I brought it down on his thrusting arm, jamming it a good two inches between his radius and ulna. His knife flew into the grass, but leverage was on his side and as he fell the balisong was jerked from my hand.
He howled, staring at the handle protruding from his forearm, his entire body shaking.
“Leave it in,” I told him. “If you pull it out, you could bleed to death.”
I checked my watch. Four minutes and some change left. I hurried to the suitcase, happy to find it intact, and began to jog back to Monroe. My bottom lip was now so swollen I could see it if I looked down my nose. It throbbed with every step. I tried to find my rhythm, tried to find the cadence, but my feet weren’t moving as swiftly as I wanted them to.
I passed Buchbinder, who was wiping his hands on the grass and moaning, “I need a moist towelette,” and one of the onlookers pointed at me and screamed. I must have looked pretty bad to provoke such raw fright. But then I realized she wasn’t pointing at me, she was pointing behind me.
I chanced a look, and Tall Boy was a few steps away from me. He hadn’t taken my advice about leaving the knife in his arm. The knife was now in his hand, raised over his head like Mrs. Bates during the shower scene in Psycho, and his expression confirmed he wasn’t in a happy place.
I stopped in four steps, pivoted my hips, and swung my right leg around, planting the mother of all spin kicks into his stomach. It knocked me backward, but I stayed on my feet. Tall Boy fared worse. He fell onto all fours, retching. I was on him in five steps, kicked him squarely in the jaw, and he sprawled out onto the lawn, where he’d probably stay until he bled to death.
“Buchbinder! Tourniquet!”
Buchbinder stared at me like my nose had grown five inches. I tried a different tactic.
“This guy has antibacterial wipes.”
Buchbinder scrambled over to him, and I headed back up the footpath, toward Monroe, dragging the suitcase, two minutes to go, hearing Buchbinder cry behind me, “I crawled through vomit!”
And then a wheel on the suitcase broke.
I hefted the bag up to waist level and tugged the strap over my shoulder. Heavy wasn’t a good adjective to describe it. Impossible was better. I couldn’t run, but I broke into a kind of quick hobble. The only thing on me that didn’t hurt was my ass, but there was still time for that.
When I reached the intersection, I looked all around for the cop who was supposed to meet me.
Naturally, there was no cop. I should have expected that. I thought of Herb, sitting behind his desk at Robbery, making a few phone calls to track down his missing toilets, and felt a jealousy so intense I almost started to weep.
A car honked. The cab, with Reynolds in the backseat. He opened the door and said, “Hop in.”
Getting the suitcase off my shoulder was a relief on par with a death row reprieve. I shoved myself into the backseat after it, and Reynolds ordered the driver to Navy Pier.
I checked my watch. The fifteen minutes were up.
“Couldn’t find Rossi, but I got a Mr. SIG-Sauer for you.”
He handed me a P228, semiauto, blue finish. Cocked and locked.
“Thanks. Mr. SIG-Sauer will do just fine.” I adjusted the Velcro straps on my holster and tucked the gun inside. “You need to send an ambulance to the walkway a few hundred yards back on LSD. And make sure they have some towels.”
“Trouble?”
“A little. Lost my radio too.”
Reynolds dug around in his pocket. “Here’s an extra.”
“Any luck with Alger’s house?” I asked, plugging in the earpiece.
“It’s been booby-trapped again. No casualties, but my team can’t get to the computer.”
“Probably too late now anyway. We’ll try Plan B.”
Reynolds narrowed his eyes at me. “You gonna drop this guy?”
“I’m going to have a talk with him.”
“This asshole killed a lot of my buddies.”
I thought of Officer Sardina in Records. “Mine too.”
“Don’t be a hero. He looks at you funny, waste him. No one will shed any tears.”
“And if more people die?”
“They would anyway.”
The unibrow notwithstanding, I liked this guy. The cabbie pulled onto Streeter, and I told him to park it. Navy Pier was less than a block away, and if th. Chemist was watching, I wanted him to see me walk up.
“Good luck, Lieutenant.”
Reynolds offered his hand. I raised mine, noted the bloody knuckles, and gave him a salute instead. Then I manhandled the bag out of the cab, pulled the torture strap up onto my shoulder, and walked toward the giant letters that welcomed me to Navy Pier.
Chapter 29
AS THE NAME IMPLIED, Navy Pier was a pier. It stretched east into Lake Michigan, three hundred feet wide and ten times as long, boasting a dozen restaurants, several theaters, fifty-plus shops, two museums, a fun house, a miniature golf course, a carousel, and a giant Ferris wheel.
I stood in front of the entrance building, known as the Family Pavilion, and watched people come and go. A minute ticked by. Then two. I was wondering if the Chemist had gotten cold feet, and then the phone rang.
“Is this a recording?” I said.
“Take Grand Avenue east, past the Beer Garden and the Grand Ballroom, to the end of the pier. Look for the tree with the red bow. You have three minutes. If you try anything, people will die.”
“Are you a psychotic bed-wetter?”
The call ended. That was definitely a recording. The Chemist was probably already in place, making sure the scene was clear. I heaved the suitcase up and headed east.
I hadn’t been to Navy Pier since it was renovated about ten years ago, and if I hadn’t been there to deliver extortion money to a mass murderer I might have enjoyed the music, the foliage, the myriad of smells, the distinct carnival atmosphere. Instead, I focused on moving as fast as I could and ignoring the many signals from my body that I should stop moving so fast.
Halfway there, I had to stop to move the strap from one shoulder to the other. My blouse was soaked with sweat, and some blood. My jeans were grass stained, my watch bezel was cracked, and my lower lip had swelled up to football size.
The three-minute time limit passed. Then four minutes. I limped onward, finally making it to the end of the pier at the five-minute mark. Beyond the Grand Ballroom building there was some outdoor seating, a semicircle of flags, and a handful of evergreens. The one in the center, next to the railing that prevented people from falling into Lake Michigan, had a red ribbon tied around the trunk.
I approached it slowly, partly out of caution and partly because slow was the only speed I had left. At the base, covered by dirt, was a white business-size envelope.
I looked around, but no one seemed to be paying any attention to me. Figuring the Chemist wouldn’t try to kill me until he got his payoff, I picked up the envelope by the corners and fished out a piece of paper.
Jack, be a good girl and throw the suitcase into the lake, directly ahead of you. Do it now. Then wait for my call.
I started to laugh. The son of a bitch had actually gotten away with it. He’d been there watching at the Daley Center, then used his auto-dialer to send me running all over the place while he put on some SCUBA gear and waited in the lake for the money to come.
“Reynolds, the Chemist left me a note. He wants me to drop the money into the lake. Where’s the police boat?”
“Burnham Park Harbor, about a mile away.”
“Do they have diving equipment?”
“I think so. Hold on.”
I waited a few seconds. Out on the lake, a tour boat glided peacefully by.
“They have equipment,” Reynolds said, “but it would take them a minimum of ten minutes to get it on.”
So much for that.
“Ask them where he could come up.”
“There are a few harb
ors, and three beaches, plus he could be on the lake somewhere. There are dozens of boats out there.”
So that was that. There was nothing else we could do.
I walked to the perimeter fence, which only came up to my waist, and set the suitcase over the top. Then I climbed over after it, walked a few feet to the end of the pier, and gazed down into the inky blackness. Ten yards deep, at least. Probably more. I couldn’t see past the first few feet.
But he’d be able to see it, painted bright yellow.
“I hope it lands on your fucking head,” I said, and dropped the bag into the water.
It hit with a big splash, and then sank immediately; of course it did, with twenty pounds of platinum to weigh it down. I stared for almost a full minute, then hopped back over the fence and sat down at one of the outside benches and watched the waves roll in.
Chapter 30
THE CHEMIST BREACHES the surface alongside a pier in Chicago Harbor, less than a mile away from where he picked up the suitcase. He drops the Little Otter—the underwater jet scooter that got him here so quickly—and lets his SCUBA tank, still half full of the nitrox air mix, sink to the bottom. He doubts they’ll be found, but if they are, they can’t be traced to him.
Next, he hangs the bag handle on a mooring cleat, pulls off his flippers, and then eases himself onto the pier. There are some people in a boat a few yards away, but they aren’t looking in his direction.
It’s hard, getting the suitcase out of the lake. The money inside is soaking wet, as is the leather, and he almost pops a blood vessel in his forehead hoisting it onto the pier. Once it’s up, he walks casually over to the Miss Maria K, the twenty- three- foot boat that rents this slip, and removes the black vinyl bag he’d tucked under her cover tarpaulin. Another quick look around, and then he opens up the suitcase and stares at the cash, the platinum, and the felt bag full of uncut diamonds.
“For you, Tracey,” he says aloud. But there’s no joy in his words.
That’s okay. The joy will come later.
It takes him thirty seconds to put everything into his new bag, and then he drops the yellow suitcase back into the water, where it slowly sinks. Getting out of the dry suit is like wrestling with an inner tube, but he manages, tucking it into the nylon bag atop his loot. Wearing only a bathing suit, he slings the bag over his bare shoulder and walks down the pier, to the sidewalk, and into the parking lot, where his car awaits.
After locking the nylon bag in the trunk, he starts the car, waits for the light, and pulls onto Monroe.
He makes a few random turns, watching his mirrors. When he’s sure no one is following him, he reattaches the battery to his buy- and- go cell phone and calls the good lieutenant.
“Daniels.”
“Hello, Jack.”
“Is it you this time, or another recording?”
He smiles. She thinks she’s so clever. If that’s the case, why is he the one with two mil in his trunk?
“It’s me. And it’s also the last time you’ll be hearing from me. You kept your end of the deal, and I’m keeping mine. Today, a prominent Chicagoan is getting married. I helped out with the refreshments. If you don’t intercept them in time, the reception will be really dead.”
He had planned on saying that, but it isn’t as funny out loud than it had been in his mind.
“Whose wedding is it?” Jack asks.
“That’s for you to figure out. Better hurry; you only have a few hours.”
“And that’s it, then? You’re done terrorizing the city?”
“Rest assured that I’ll never poison anyone again.”
“I think you’re lying.”
He smiles. “Believe what you like. I did what I set out to do. Now I’m going to disappear. Think of me, next time you go out to eat.”
“You’re a monster.”
“Good- bye, Lieutenant. I hope I showed you a good time. I had a blast.”
He separates the battery from the phone, and tosses it in the backseat to dispose of later. He would like to feel a sense of accomplishment, of completion, but there is still much to do. The wedding reception is in a few hours, and he wants to be there to watch the show.
Supermarkets and restaurants are easy to sabotage. A reception is difficult. It requires a lot of work, and more than a little luck. But it can be done, if you know how.
Two weeks before the event, call the banquet hall, speak to the banquet ser vice manager, and ask if he would like to switch liquor distributors. Some chitchat will get you the name of the distributor they’re currently using, and even the day of the week they deliver.
Next, wait around the back entrance of the hall for the distributor to show up. Tail him during his route until you have a chance to kill him—many toxins can imitate heart attacks. Then take a look at his invoice clipboard until you find the weekly liquor order for the hall. Make a copy of it. Also make copies of his keys, and take a look in back at how the liquor orders are packaged. Then return everything where you found it. Someone will discover the driver and the truck eventually.
On delivery day, wait for the new driver at an early stop in his route. When he dollies in the boxes of alcohol, he leaves the truck unattended. Use your keys to get into the back of the truck, and substitute your order for the hall’s order. It might not be exactly the same, but who cares? They might make some exchanges when they check the invoice, but enough of the tampered alcohol will get through.
The Chemist finished this last step early this morning. He also noticed that on the banquet hall marquee, there are two receptions scheduled for the day. Fortunately, he poisoned enough alcohol to kill everyone at both weddings. He also tampered with a dozen two-liter bottles of soda, using the jet injector and a tiny dot of superglue to plug the hole so the CO2 wouldn’t escape. Non-drinkers and the kiddies shouldn’t miss out on the fun.
It’s possible that the police will stop it in time. But that’s okay. As much work as this has been to set up, it’s just a diversion.
The real show hasn’t even started yet.
Chapter 31
REYNOLDS PICKED ME UP in the cab after I walked back to Streeter.
“Maybe we should stop by the ER,” he suggested.
“It’s just a fat lip,” I told him, except I said fab lib. I handed him back the SIG and his radio.
“What next, Lieutenant?”
“We need to stop a wedding reception. Know of any big shots getting married today?”
He didn’t need to answer. SWAT guys didn’t read the society column.
Which gave me an idea.
I called information, got the number for the Tribune, and had the front desk connect me to Twyla Biddle, a reporter who did a column about celebrities. I’d never spoken with Twyla directly, but I’d been in her column a few times, mostly in connection with a TV show I’d done some consulting for against my better judgment.
“Lieutenant! Thanks for calling. What have you got for me? Something juicy, I hope.”
Twyla had a deep whiskey and cigarette voice, like Marge’s sisters on The Simpsons.
“Maybe. I need to know what famous Chicagoans are getting married today.”
“Why? What have you heard?”
“Just rumors and innuendo.”
“I make a living on rumors and innuendo. Spill it.”
“Give me a list, and if it pans out, you’ll get the scoop.”
Did reporters even use the word scoop? If they didn’t, Twyla didn’t call me on it.
“Well, the wedding of the week has to be Maurice Williams.”
“Who is that?”
“Former Chicago Cub. All-Star catcher. Abs you could eat a six- course meal off of, and believe me, you’d want to lick the plate when you finished.”
“Who else?”
“William Kent. Owns a lot of real estate, including the Krueger Building. His daughter is getting married to night. And how could I forget Corndog Watkins? Chicago blues legend, marrying a woman forty- five years younger than he is
. Reception is to night at Buddy Guy’s Legends.”
I was writing all of this down in the margins of a Time magazine—no one in the cab had any paper.
“Anyone else?”
“Those are the majors.”
“No one po liti cal?”
“Not that I’m aware of. Hold on, I’m at my computer. Let me search through the marriage announcements for tomorrow’s issue.” I faintly heard fingers hitting keys, at a much faster rate than mine ever could. “Let’s see, he’s a nobody, she’s a nobody, she’s a nobody, he’s a nobody, he’s a—wait. The Bains and Harlow wedding. Jeremy Bains is the son of a police captain.”
I’d completely spaced that out. Captain Bains wasn’t at the Daley Center today because his son was getting married. Two weeks ago someone at the District had taken up a fund to buy a gift, a chafing dish or something equally useful.
“That’s all?”
“All that matter.”
“Thanks, Twyla. If I get anything, I’ll let you know.”
“So how are things with you, Lieutenant? Still dating that hunky accountant?”
I wondered how she knew, but I suppose it was her job to know.
“We’re engaged. He proposed a few days ago.”
“Congratulations! And how is that famous PI friend of yours, the one missing his hand?”
“It’s still missing.”
“And how is—”
“I gotta run, Twyla. Thanks again.”
“Take care, sweetheart.”
I ended the call and wondered if I’d see my name in next week’s column. And if I did, if I would save it. I’m not much for collecting things. I didn’t even have any pictures of my first wedding. We hadn’t bothered to hire a photographer. The wedding might have failed, but I still regretted having no pictures of me in my dress, and regretted it on a semi- regular basis.
“Congratulations on the engagement,” Reynolds told me. “Though I have to admit, I was hoping you were single.”
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