by J. D. Barker
Poole turned back to Warnick. “And you’re what, the mayor’s fixer?”
“I’m the man who called both your bosses and told them we have a serious fucking problem that needs to be handled under the radar for the greater good of Chicago. This can’t get out. Not a single word of it.” With two fingers, he pointed out the door at Maddie Abel’s back, the videos still repeating in front of her. “One of those two men is responsible. We need to figure out which one and get the mayor back before any of this gets out.”
Nash nodded at the bed. “That amount of blood most likely means there is no getting the mayor back.”
“The mayor weighs nearly two hundred eighty pounds. There is no way a woman carried him out of here. She had a gun on him, maybe a knife or something, but somehow he walked out of here under his own power.”
Nash said, “Could have used a laundry bin, room service cart…there are a million ways to get a body out of a hotel this big.”
“Maybe Vincent Weidner,” Poole suggested.
Warnick frowned. “The guard from New Orleans?”
“He escaped. Porter said he’s in the diaries. He might be connected.”
Warnick waved a hand through the air. “Fuck the diaries. If Porter paid that Upchurch guy to write them, they’re all bullshit anyway.”
Poole turned back to Beddington. “What can you tell us about the woman you saw in here?”
Beddington scratched his nose and shook his head. “I saw her for all of a half second. She walked past the open doorway. I didn’t get much of a look at her.”
“Try closing your eyes. Sometimes that helps.”
He did. He chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Short. Maybe five-two, five-three. Brown hair, shoulder length. She was wearing this slinky black dress, gorgeous legs.”
“What about her face?”
“I didn’t see her face.”
“I want the phone number for the agency you called,” Poole told him.
Beddington frowned. “Weren’t you listening? She didn’t come from the agency. She was already here.”
“So how did she get here? If the agency didn’t send her, how did she know to come to this hotel to this specific room when she did?”
“There’s no mystery there,” Warnick said. “The mayor does this every Monday—same time, same room. You can set a clock by his penis. That’s how the wife knows. That’s how his staff knows. People here at the hotel know. I’ve already spoken to the agency—it’s a dead end. I don’t want you wasting time on them. This woman somehow got wind of the mayor’s schedule, knew he’d be here, and worked this out from there. She may not be alone, but she’s not with them.”
“Was it Carmine’s Pizza?” Nash asked.
Warnick turned on him. “How do you know that?”
“Carmine’s came up on a list of Arthur Talbot’s businesses a few months back when we checked out his finances. It had also been red-flagged by vice as a front for a high-end escort service. They’ve been under surveillance for the better part of a year.” He turned to Poole. “When we get back to Metro, we can pull the records, but I think Warnick’s right. She wouldn’t have come through them. Too easy to get caught.” Nash turned back to Beddington. “Does the name Sarah Werner mean anything to you?”
Beddington shook his head.
Warnick frowned. “The woman Porter said he was with in New Orleans? You think it was her?”
Nash shrugged. “Similar description. Brown hair, shoulder length.”
“Why would she attack the mayor?”
Nobody answered that. Frustrated, Poole looked back at the bed. “We need CSI in here. Do either of you know the mayor’s blood type?”
“Oh no,” Warnick countered. “No CSI, no photographs. Nobody else sees this room. Nobody knows the mayor is missing, and it needs to stay that way.”
“Then what exactly do you expect us to do?”
“I expect you to figure out who took him and find him without putting up a signal flare. I want the mayor tucked back in his bed by midnight like none of this happened and Porter or Bishop, whoever is responsible, rotting in a cell somewhere. I want the people of Chicago to think everything is just fine and it’s safe to be out on the streets. I want the two of you to do your goddamn jobs,” Warnick said. He produced a knife, went over to the bed, and cut a small strip of the bloody sheet and held it out. “Here’s your blood sample. The mayor is A positive.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“No?” With his free hand, he took out his cell phone and dialed a number on speaker. Poole recognized the voice who picked up immediately. Warnick said, “Hurless? Tell your boy here to do his job.”
“Sir?” Poole said.
On the other end of the line, SAIC Hurless cleared his throat. “Do as he says, Frank.”
“This man has contaminated a crime scene and is attempting to cover it up.”
Hurless said, “Nobody’s covering up anything. The room will be sealed. The evidence isn’t going anywhere. At this point, our priority is finding the mayor without creating a panic. Return to Metro and question Bishop and Porter. One of them knows exactly what’s going on. That’s our best bet.”
“I’m not comfortable with this,” Poole shot back. “Not at all.”
“We’re locking it down for three hours. If you haven’t found the mayor by then, I’ll get an Evidence Response Team to tear that room apart. We’ll involve the press, if need be, but right now we don’t risk a leak.” He paused a moment, then added, “I’ll bring in someone else if I have to, but I don’t want to waste time getting another agent up to speed.”
Warnick’s face flushed red. “Nobody else. Another agent means another possible leak. Wasted time means more possible deaths, we—”
Hurless cut him off. “Did you show him the box?”
“Not yet.”
Poole glanced back at Warnick. “What box?”
On the phone, Hurless said, “Finish there and get back to Metro. We’ve got a ticking clock.”
He disconnected.
“What box?” Poole repeated.
“It has nothing to do with the mayor,” Warnick said. “You need to understand that.”
“He’s right,” Beddington said. “He’s not into that kind of thing. I’ve known him a long time. I’m sure of that.”
Poole was getting frustrated. “What box?”
Warnick went back to the dresser and tugged open the top center drawer, then stepped away.
Poole and Nash looked at each other, then walked over and peered down into the drawer.
The box was white, no bigger than eight and a half by eleven inches, the size of a sheet of paper. The lid and a black string had been tossed off to the side when someone opened it. Inside the box were at least a hundred Polaroids of teenagers—boys and girls, all in various stages of undress. Some smiling at the camera, most appearing nervous, watching something or someone off camera, near or behind the photographer.
Poole looked at Nash again, then took a latex glove from his pocket and slipped it on. He reached for one of the pictures and turned it over. On the back, written in a neat hand, was: 203. WF15 3k. LM.
They’d both seen pictures like this before. In a much larger box found in Anson Bishop’s apartment.
“The mayor’s not into kids,” Beddington said.
Poole wasn’t listening. He was peering down at something else, something written on the front of one of the pictures in faded black ink. It said, Hey, Sam, remember me?
Strangely though, it wasn’t the writing that had grabbed his attention. It was the boy’s sweatshirt, emblazoned with the logo of a baseball team—the Charleston Riverdogs.
46
Diary
Vincent only managed to open the hood of the truck by forcing a pry-bar under the metal while I pulled the hood release cable from the cab and Kristina held some kind of latch at the center of the hood. It rose with a reluctant shriek, as if it had closed one final time years ago, had come to terms
with its fate, and was now being disturbed in death by the shovels of grave robbers.
Vincent used the pry-bar to prop the hood open and peered inside. “The battery is shit. We’ll need a new one. Half the cables are either rotted or got chewed up by something.” He reached down inside and pulled out a handful of hay and dirt. “Something made a nest in here.”
“Can it be fixed?”
This came from Libby. She was standing next to me, holding the driver side door open.
“Sure, I’ll just need about five hundred dollars to buy parts, another car to get those parts, a shit-ton of tools we don’t have…” He lowered his head. “Do you have a piggy bank stashed away somewhere, ’cause if not, you know Finicky ain’t gonna give it to us. She doesn’t want us going anywhere.” He turned back to Kristina. “I’m packing a bag and walking out of here tonight, just like I said. You want to come with me, be ready at midnight. I’m not staying another night.”
I had no idea what happened to him last night with Welderman and Stocks. Neither did Libby. I suspected Tegan and Kristina did, but none of them would tell the rest of us. The look that flew between Kristina and Vincent said as much.
“What did they do to you?” I asked.
He just snorted and shook his head. “You’ll see soon enough. I hear your girlfriend is next—tonight. You’re probably on deck after her. There’s no sitting this one out. I’m done with it. I’d rather walk out of here and take my chances on my own.”
“I’ll go with you,” Kristina said, reaching for his arm. “I already told you I would.”
He gave her a sideways glance. “Whatever. You better not slow me down.”
“You’d leave the rest of us here?”
The voice came from the open door of the barn. All of us turned to find Tegan standing there. She stepped inside, the setting sun backlighting her. “What about Weasel and The Kid? They can’t get out of here on their own. You’d leave them?”
Vincent turned back to the engine. “I don’t give a shit about any of you. My mother was a coke whore, and I never met my dad. I’ve been taking care of myself for as long as I can remember. I’m nobody’s babysitter. The earlier they realize they’re on their own in this world, the better. They got a roof over their heads and food, same as all you. Everything’s got a price. I know what you’re thinking—you’re thinking we get this truck running, all pile in, and drive off to someplace better. Well, guess what, there ain’t no place better, only different. This whole world is a cesspool. All you can do is pick the cleanest corner and deal with the stink of it for as long as possible, then move on to someplace else. I caught a glimpse of the price tag to stay here last night, and I’m telling you, for me, it’s too fucking high.”
Tegan said, “You really think Finicky will let you go? Even if you manage to sneak out, how far will you get before she’s on the phone with those cops, they call their buddies, and they pick you up and do who-knows-what to make an example of you. How many pictures are hanging in that house? Where do you think they all are right now? They’re not living upstate in a nice, big house with a good family making plans for college. They’re gone. I’ve been here long enough to know what will happen if you try to run off. They will pick you up before you get close to anything resembling civilization, then they’ll beat the hell out of you. If that doesn’t work, guess what? You’ll be gone for good. There’ll be a free bed here at Finicky House, and some new kid will take your place within a day. You’ll be another picture gathering dust on the wall.” She nodded toward the truck. “With that, we’ve all got a shot. We all get out of here.”
Vincent reached inside the engine and tugged out a rat’s nest of rotten cables. He tossed them on the floor. “How do we even work on this thing without Finicky finding out?”
“Finicky’s a pill hound. When the detectives bring us back, and she knows we’re all in the house for the night, she pops whatever she’s got on hand and she’s dead to the world fifteen minutes later. I’ve been in there—I’ve gone through her closet, all her drawers, the crap under her bed—she never budges, just snores and drools on herself. She’s not much better during the day. She’s passed out right now.”
I slid off the driver’s seat and stood beside Libby. “Does she have money hidden somewhere?” I was thinking about the jar Mother kept in the kitchen cabinet above the stove. Her rainy-day fund, she called it. She once told me everyone needed a rainy-day fund.
Tegan shook her head. “I’m sure she does, but I’ve never found it, and I’ve looked everywhere.” She glanced over at Kristina. “We can get money, though, can’t we, Kristina?”
The other girl must have understood what she meant, because her face went a little pale and she nodded reluctantly. “If we have to.”
Tegan turned toward Libby. “If you’re going tonight, you can too.”
“What would she have to do?” I said this before I realized I spoke. I inched closer to Libby and felt her take my hand. She leaned in and whispered softly, “It’s okay.”
It wasn’t okay, though.
47
Porter
Day 5 • 2:15 PM
Sam Porter heard a bang.
That bang was followed by a heavy thump somewhere else in the building. Not like an explosion, more like something falling from a shelf to the ground several rooms over. Somebody tripping in the hallway, maybe landing hard against a wall or the floor.
He lowered the diary.
He listened.
Shuffling feet.
Movement in the upper right corner of the interview room caught his eye. When he glanced up, he realized it wasn’t movement at all but that the light on the security camera—the one that always burned red—had blinked out and gone dark.
The clock under the camera read quarter after two in the afternoon.
He heard a shout then, there was no mistaking it. A male voice. He couldn’t make out the words, but the voice sounded both angry and frightened.
Standing from the metal table, his body groaned in protest. He’d been sitting still for hours and had to take a moment to stretch, give the blood a chance to find his legs.
Another bang, followed by two more.
He told himself it wasn’t gunfire, not within the halls of Metro, but that was exactly what those reports sounded like, and the cop in him reached for the empty space under his shoulder, where his gun usually rested snug in a leather holster.
Porter went to the door.
There was a small window at eye level, designed to give someone entering or leaving a chance to clear whatever was on the other side, and through that window, he saw the back of a head—the officer tasked with guarding him, no doubt. The head swiveled side to side, looking down one side of the hallway before twisting back to look down the other. This wasn’t the casual movement of someone caught at a post for hours on end but more of a panicked herky-jerky movement.
Porter knocked on the door.
The head quickly turned, and when Porter saw the man’s eyes, he knew something was very wrong. The officer only glanced at him for a second before turning his attention back to the hallway.
Porter reached for the doorknob.
Locked.
He knocked on the door again. Banged on the metal. “What’s going on out there?”
This time, the officer didn’t look back at him, something else grabbing his attention.
Three more pops in quick succession.
Porter banged on the door again. “Who’s shooting out there? What’s happening?”
With one quick glance back at the window, the officer darted off to the left and disappeared. The detention cells were that way. There weren’t many, since they were meant for temporary confinement while processing. Limited holding before transportation to central or county. Several large cells for groups, and a half a dozen smaller ones for individuals or pairs. Two large mental doors separated that half of the floor from this one with a guard station between them.
An alarm went off.
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On the wall of the interview room next to the clock, a red and white strobe started to flash. Someone had tripped the fire alarm.
Porter beat on the door again. “Someone let me out of here!”
Three more people ran past his door—two heading toward the detention cells, another running away, a man in handcuffs with long, stringy black hair and tattoos all over his face. Someone who looked a lot like he was behind bars only a few minutes ago.
From the ceiling came a sputtering sound and the sprinkler system came to life—water rained down. Icy cold.
Porter turned back to the table, the diaries. He scooped them up, piled them back in the box and got the lid over them. He carried the box to the door and beat on it with the back of his fist. “Open the fucking door!”
A click.
He reached down and tried the knob again. This time, it turned. And when he opened the door, three more people rushed by, dressed in tactical SWAT gear, the force of them nearly throwing him back. His eyes followed them down the hallway. The doors leading to the cells were both unlocked, and when the three men pushed through to the other side, Porter caught a glimpse of the chaos in the next room. All the detention cell doors were open. The hallway was filled with both cops and the people who had been locked up. Someone swung a pipe at one of the approaching SWAT officers, caught him in the arm, and—
The door swung shut again, leaving Porter on the other side.
Water sprayed down everywhere, the tile floor slick with it.
Although there were several interview rooms in this hallway, from the video Poole had shown him, he knew which room Bishop had been in and when he looked at that door it was open, same as his. He held his free hand over his eyes in an attempt to block the water raining from the sprinklers and peered down the hallway.
He saw him. Fifty feet ahead. Not running, but walking at a brisk pace.