The shorter, bearded agent pressed close to his face. “Congrats, Maliki. I hear it went quite well in front of the Ph.D. committee today.”
Al-Salim checked up and down the hallway before responding. “Well as could be expected. The dissertation defense is presented. How did you men find me here?”
“Relax. We’ve got your back. We are your guardian angels. We will make sure nothing comes up. Not until the event. Then, who cares?”
“We will receive our reward from Allah. Paradise awaits.”
Al-Salim scowled and backhanded sweat from his brow. “The package is in place. The core is on its way from Mexico. Please stop following me. I am good.”
“Ragman asked us to protect you until the package is assembled. You’re safe and tonight we’ll even drop around and tuck you in bed.”
“Yeah? How do I know they’re not outside planning to arrest me while you’re in here talking to me?”
Smaller man smiled. He’d heard all this before. “We have more brothers, Sayed. Or maybe you didn’t know that. When I say we’ve got you covered, we’ve got you covered. Is that your classmate you’re playing against?”
Al-Salim turned and looked at the sweaty man, who was nonchalantly evening up the strings on his racquet.
Al-Salim said, “No, that’s just some guy I met in the locker room. The desk hooked us up, both singles looking for a match.”
“He looks fit enough. Look, get back to your game, don’t worry about a thing.”
“If you say so. I’m just having doubts about you two. Maybe I shouldn’t have joined.”
“Relax, you did the right thing. The package just needs your attention when the core arrives.”
“If you say so. OK, back to the game.”
The ball swatting resumed with all its former fury and a half hour later both players were in the steam room chatting about the game, when Al-Salim’s opponent slowly unrolled his towel and pointed a silenced pistol at the engineer. He fired once and Al-Salim’s head exploded against the tile wall. Two more to the heart and he was satisfied his work was completed. The young man casually exited the steam room, glancing back at the body as he left.
He skipped the showers, dressed in shorts and a tee, and exited straight out the front doors, where he climbed into a black Tesla and roared out of the club parking lot.
Thaddeus looked back once in the rearview mirror. No one following, none expected. He swiped the headband from his head and stuffed it in the console.
One down, five to go.
A promise kept.
24
Murfee & Hightower got the call from Chase’s mother when the baby was two months old.
They met and Thaddeus got to know Latoya. She was about his age, give or take, had her degree in education K-12, no military service, but a year in the Peace Corps, right out of college. She had done a year in Micronesia, learned to speak Chuukese, and taught the islanders early childhood education theory and methodology. She had helped in several schools and won a fellowship upon returning, the Paul D. Coverdell Fellowship, though she hadn’t followed through on graduate education. That was still down the road, because at the moment she and husband John were struggling with Chase.
She was a Halle Berry look-alike and told Thaddeus she was occasionally mistaken for the actress. Like Halle Berry she had won a beauty pageant. That was in Chicago. Unlike the actress, however, she had never tried to have a career based on how she looked. Thaddeus found her to be very down to earth and they chatted for probably fifteen minutes, while Chase squirmed in her lap.
Chase was unlike any baby Thaddeus had ever seen. Latoya had told Thaddeus in their initial phone call that she was exhausted and Chase hadn’t been home quite two months. But Thaddeus wasn’t quite appreciative of how Chase consumed every bit of his mother’s attention, until seeing them together. While she and Thaddeus spoke, it was a constant struggle for her to remain engaged, as Chase cried, then threw up, then wildly flailed arms and legs and cried some more. “It’s always like this,” she said, sounding desperate. “When he sleeps it’s for fifteen minutes, max, then I’m back at it again.”
“Do you ever get time for yourself?” Thaddeus asked. Soon he would learn what a lame question it was.
“Never. At night he sleeps on my lap, almost upright. If I move or take a deep breath it jolts him awake and he’s off and crying again.”
“How does he do with food?”
Tears came to her eyes. “It took him a week to learn how to suck. I tried breastfeeding him once he learned about the nipple, but that was a huge struggle. We finally gave up. Now it’s the bottle only.”
“Has Chase been evaluated yet by a pediatric neurologist?” Thaddeus asked.
She shook her head. “He’s only seen his pediatrician. That’s partly why I called you. I didn’t want to go out and create a bunch of medical records like a paper trail. Not without talking to a lawyer first.”
The young lawyer nodded. “What made you think you needed to see a lawyer?”
“That fool doctor was late at the hospital. Chase was delivered late. It took everything the nurses had to get him to show up at all. You could hear their ‘stat!’ pages all over the hospital. They were frantic to get an OB on my case.”
“What do you mean late?”
“They told me they had thirty minutes to deliver by C-section once something happened about his heart rate. I think it was his heart rate. So they wrote it down and gave it thirty minutes. But Doctor Payne came in after thirty minutes. I think that’s how Chase got hurt.”
“Has anyone told you what’s wrong with Chase?”
She shook her head. “His pediatrician just says Chase needs to be evaluated. He gave me the name of a pediatric neurologist. We went there once, Doctor Arroyo. Now it’s time to go back for the results of the tests they did. But I wanted to talk to you first.”
“All right. Let’s go ahead and set up that meeting. Then we’ll meet again and discuss what comes next. Fair enough?”
“Okay.”
Thaddeus called the office of Dr. Arroyo.
Thaddeus was anxious to hear what he knew he was going to hear.
And anxious to get a lawsuit on file, as things were rapidly coming undone in the Staples household. Latoya and John were exhausted. They were bickering and fighting almost constantly. John had suggested they might be happier if he got a room elsewhere.
They needed serious legal help.
Now.
25
Morgana returned to Jones Marentz without further discussion of how it would be played. She had decided that whether she turned over actual records or forged records would be her call, that she simply wouldn’t address the issue with A.W. and Carson. She thought she was attorney enough to avoid any huge casualties anyway, and if she did, well, they’d have to discuss it at that time. Likewise, A.W. didn’t broach the subject with her, which, in one way, was surprising to Morgana, but she also understood that all he really wanted at that point was retirement. Make no waves seemed to be his mantra. Turn over the keys and don’t look back. Six months later there were still no catastrophes, so all was well.
It was a Friday morning when they discovered the Chase Staples records.
They were in Morgana’s office, door closed against prying ears. Morgana was at her computer reviewing a screen full of hospital records. Manny was sprawled on a deep leather couch, texting on his phone.
Reading aloud, Morgana said, “So here’s a new file. Kid by the name of Chase, plaintiff claims brain damage caused by late C-section.”
“What do the records look like?”
“Let me see. Okay, they sent us two sets of nurses’ notes. Reading...reading.”
“Take your time. I’m ordering lunch over here. Two tacos again?”
“Two tacos. Still reading.”
“Two tacos and a green chili burro,” Manny texted. “Plus two medium Dr Peppers.”
“This is funny,” Morgana said. She was studying the recor
ds and shaking her head. “I’m guessing the original notes are the ones that place the C-section late after the Decision to Incision page. And the...let’s see—”
—flipping pages onscreen—
“—the notes on yellow paper are the scrubbed notes. Right on, this set shows the doctor arriving on time. They’ve changed the records, Mano. But they screwed the pooch. They gave us copies of the originals and the forgeries. This is cute. Shit, what whores. So which records do we give the plaintiff?”
“How the hell did we get real records? Let me see.”
Morgana turned the screen to Manny.
Morgana shook her head. She was scowling and tight-lipped. “This case has the potential for a fifty-million-dollar verdict. Caroline is due in three months and we’ve got to have health insurance, plus my student loan is running five thousand two hundred fifty a month. Which records do you think we turn over?”
“I’m afraid you’re going to tell me the phony ones.”
“This time. Just this time. We can’t lose this puppy. Mommy has bills to pay. Which reminds me, we’re off to the doctor for Caroline’s sonogram. I’ll be back in around four, we’ll stay until nine, then we’ll grab a beer and adios. And don’t forget I see my oncologist in the morning, so don’t schedule anything before noon tomorrow.”
“You have tacos coming.”
“Stick them in the fridge. I’ll nuke them when I get back.”
“Done.”
26
Claney’s voice purred into the earpiece, “He’s westbound on the Kennedy. Maybe running the Arlington Heights stunt again.”
Agent Pepper’s voice came back to Claney. “Just stay with him. If he hops the train again, Xavier, you stick with him on the train and Claney you stay with his car at Arlington Heights Metra parking. Andrees, do you copy this?”
A third voice came up. “Andrees. We do copy. We’re three car lengths behind Claney and ready to move up. Claney, request you take the Addison turnoff and let us roll with him next four interchanges.”
“Roger that,” said Claney. “Departing Addison.”
“Copy that,” said Pepper. Her own black Crown Vic was parked a block away from the Ragman duplex. She had a clear line of sight to the double driveway and a second government car was two blocks south, same side of the street as Pepper.
It was a Saturday, which, the FBI agents had noticed, seemed to be Murfee’s favorite day of the week to call on the Muslims. While they couldn’t prove it, they calculated that he was responsible for the hit in the racquetball club in Wood Dale. Maliki Al-Salim, aka Data, had been shot dead in broad daylight in the steam room and nobody, not one, had seen anything. The Fibbies had run ads in the Wood Dale Press asking any witnesses to come forward and tell what they might know. But there had been zero responses. Which meant the guy who had pulled the trigger was very good. And right now the full focus was on Thaddeus Murfee, for it was he who had the motive to shoot up this particular group of bad guys. No one else had been anywhere near them, so Thaddeus had been tagged by the FBI.
Which was why they were following closely that Saturday morning.
They followed him all the way to Schaumburg, where he went inside the mall, bought a hot cinnamon bun from Mrs. Field’s, and devoured it with a cup of coffee at a metal table. He then slouched on the escalator, checking for text messages, and rode upstairs to the Barnes and Noble. He purchased one book, a volume guaranteeing instant success in day trading, and left the store. Skimming his new book, he rode the escalator back down, went outside to his car, climbed in, and then shut the ignition off. He left the book in the car and hurried back inside the mall. At the Jungle Zone he spoke to the hostess then hurried back to the restroom. Emerging five minutes later, he returned to his car and drove straight back home. All the way back to Evanston.
Come clear over to Schaumburg from Evanston for a book he could have purchased in Evanston?
Really?
The only explanation was that he had made them.
How, they couldn’t say.
But he was good. He was quite good and they were going to have to get smarter if they were going to catch him blowing someone away.
It was proving to be more difficult than Agent Pepper had anticipated.
But it always did with this guy.
27
Friday nights at the Woodton Mall in Schaumburg were bedlam. Every school-age kid within a ten-mile radius showed up, pocket full of daddy’s cash and ready to do some serious retail damage. Some even carried credit cards that bore their own names, courtesy of the old folks at home.
But it was no different than the Friday night mall scene in any other major American city. The biggest hit with the middle school crowd at the Woodton Mall was the Jungle Zone. It was a restaurant that, when you entered, had the look and feel of a jungle—aptly named—complete with thunderstorms that came and went, macaws that swooped down over the heads of the diners, and upland gorillas that prowled and roared when you least expected it. All mechanical, of course.
Tonight was Sayed Abu-Nidal’s turn with his daughter, nine-year-old Erika. This was a gentleman with a degree from Purdue in electrical engineering, a dues-paying member of the IEEE, and an applicant for the Ph.D. program at Carnegie Mellon. Divorced three years, father had tacitly agreed with daughter at least two years earlier that Friday nights when they were a unit under the terms of the divorce decree would be spent first in the Jungle Zone for an early dinner, followed by the latest middle-school-appropriate movie at the Woodton Thirty Cinema.
After salad—shrimp salad with avocado—but before the entree, Abu-Nidal had the urge to visit the restroom. He was studied closely by a young man dressed in black slacks and back turtleneck who loitered at the showcases in the gift shop, just off the dining room. The young man’s hands felt for the guitar string in his pocket while his eyes followed Abu-Nidal as he dined. It was noted that Abu-Nidal was wearing a white tee, navy cargo shorts, sandals, and white socks.
Thaddeus Murfee was acting alone this night. Christine had left the office building driving Thaddeus’ car. A high-speed pursuit had erupted as soon as she bounced up onto Madison Street, Christine in the lead, two FBI vehicles close behind. The agents thought they were following Thaddeus, who had actually departed the parking garage in Christine’s VW Bug and headed the opposite direction. He drove aimlessly for the first hour, making sure there was no tail. Then he headed for the Woodton Mall.
The deception had been simple and flawless. It would be an hour until Christine pulled into the Iron Skillet restaurant seventy-five miles south on I-55, giving the Fibbies their first real look at the occupant of the Tesla that had led them so far afield. She acted as if nothing out of the ordinary were happening as she parked and went inside, acting as if she drove off from work in Thaddeus’ car every Friday night. When of course she did not.
Upon Abu-Nidal’s departure for the restroom, Thaddeus called over the gift shop manager. How much for a five-minute thunderstorm? He slipped the guy $100 and thanked him. Two minutes later a gully-washer of an electronic thunderstorm, complete with rolling thunderclaps and lightning flashes, Surround Sound vibrating plates on tables and silverware settings, erupted throughout the restaurant. And the restrooms. Thaddeus fell in behind. The guy had a sixty-second head start. Thaddeus walked up to the restroom door and counted down another full minute before entering.
He slipped inside. An ancient gentleman in bulging slacks and golf shirt was carefully washing his hands. He finished up and switched on the hand dryer. Thaddeus walked up to him, took his elbow, and forcefully waltzed him right outside the rest room. He hurried back in and checked the stalls. There he was inside the far stall: sandals and white socks.
Thaddeus removed the E string from his pocket, wound it tightly around his fists, and crept up to the stall. He removed a hairnet from the rear pocket of his black denim trousers and pulled it tight down over his hair and ears. Latex gloves completed the preparation. He raised his right foot and
kicked with every ounce of muscle. The door flew back and slammed into the horrified Abu-Nidal, knocking his head back against the tile wall and reflexively snapping him forward, and at that exact moment Thaddeus formed a loop with the E string around the terrorist’s neck and pulled with everything he had in his arms, back, and shoulders. In less than thirty seconds the guy went limp, the string cut into veins and arteries, and the bloodbath erupted. Thaddeus threw down the string and backed out of the stall. His footprints were everywhere, in blood, but that was okay. He would take care of it.
He crossed to the sink and one by one lifted his shoes into the sink and placed them under running water. Blood swirled off the rubber soles and ran down the drain. He stepped onto paper towels with the damp shoes and scooped the paper towels from the floor into his pockets. He strolled out and headed to the front of the restaurant, unhurried, almost nonchalant, standing aside so wait staff could pass by him and diners had access to the aisle.
Then he was outside, in the mall itself, and hurrying for the main exit.
He made it to Christine’s VW, climbed inside, and raced to the main road and freeway access.
Then he was gone.
He would make it home in time for a movie with Katy and Sarai. Probably Little Mermaid, again.
He sighed.
It just didn’t get any better than that.
Tomorrow he would put the Bug’s top down and take Sarai for a spin. He hoped Christine would enjoy the Tesla over the weekend.
It had been a fair trade.
28
The FBI CSI machine took command of the Jungle Zone crime scene that same night.
Known as Locard’s Exchange Principle, the exchange-of-materials principle is what modern forensics relies on as the basis for all examinations. The principle holds that every contact a perpetrator makes with another person, place, or object results in an exchange of physical materials. If one is going to commit a crime and get away with it, Locard must be understood and respected.
Chase, the Bad Baby: A Legal and Medical Thriller (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thriller Series Book 4) Page 9