The FBI and Homeland Security had trumpeted Al-Shahid’s arrest as a great victory. Gold had a decidedly cooler take after he discovered that the Bureau had been monitoring Al-Shahid for months—a detail they hadn’t mentioned to Chicago PD. Gold blamed the feds for Paulie’s death—a contention they disputed. They couldn’t deny one plain truth: if Gold and Paulie hadn’t pursued the investigation into the death of Udell Jones, Chicago might have borne the brunt of the worst terrorist attack on American soil since Nine-Eleven.
* * *
The young man watched the Crown Vic pull up in front of the Art Institute. A uniform escorted Gold up the steps, where he accepted handshakes from the chief and the imbecile from Homeland Security. Gold recoiled when the mayor clapped him on his left shoulder.
He clutched the cell phone more tightly.
* * *
Gold looked across the street at the high rises lining the west side of Michigan Avenue. The mayor was speaking, but Gold wasn’t listening. He was thinking about Katie Liszewski, who was now the single mother of boys aged nine, seven, five, and four. He had visited her almost every day since Paulie’s funeral. He felt a lump in his throat as he recalled the advice of his first partner as they’d driven the hard streets of South Chicago: a cop never cries.
Gold was watching a young mother walking hand-in-hand with her daughter across the street when he felt a nudge from Battle’s elbow. The small crowd was applauding. He adjusted his collar and walked toward the mayor, who smiled broadly and handed him a medal.
“The people of Chicago are very grateful for your heroism,” he said. “Because of your bravery, we are able to enjoy the cultural treasures of this great museum.”
“Thank you.” Gold stepped to the microphone. “This is dedicated to the memory of Detective Paul Liszewski.” He swallowed and added, “I’m glad it’s over.”
* * *
The young man ignored the pedestrians as he watched the ceremony across the street. As the applause reached a crescendo, he pressed Send.
* * *
Gold was still forcing a smile for the cameras when a Camry parked on Adams exploded. He recoiled as the ground shook and the vehicle was consumed by thick flames. The car lifted off the ground, then landed hard on its tires. A fireball roared down Adams, which filled with black smoke. The area was rocked again when the gas tank exploded. The impact blew out the windows of the high rise on the corner, showering the ducking pedestrians with shattered glass.
Gold’s ears rang and his shoulder throbbed. The heavy air smelled of burning gasoline as smoke billowed toward the Art Institute. Car alarms screamed and traffic stopped. Pedestrians stood transfixed for an instant, then they ran across Michigan Avenue toward Grant Park. The cops in front of the Art Institute moved across the street, first at a jog and then at a sprint.
* * *
The young man watched the pandemonium he had created from the smoke-filled alley behind the T-shirt shop. He made sure nobody was looking. Then he tossed his overcoat and pants into a Dumpster. He pressed Send once more. He turned off the cell phone, set it on the ground, smashed it, and dropped the remains into a sewer. Now sporting a Cubs T-shirt and khaki cutoffs, he joined the crowds jogging west on Adams toward Wabash.
* * *
Gold and Battle were standing in front of one of the bronze lions when Gold’s BlackBerry vibrated. He had a text message. His stomach tightened as he opened it.
It read, “It isn’t over.”
Chapter 2
“PEOPLE WILL DIE”
“We need to talk,” Gold said.
Chief Kevin Maloney lowered the megaphone he’d commandeered in a futile attempt to bring order to the intersection of Michigan and Adams. “Not now,” he snapped.
Gold and Battle had found Maloney at the center of a dozen uniforms who had surrounded the Camry. The two hundred and sixty pounds he carried on his six-foot-four-inch frame were considerably softer than during the days he’d played offensive tackle at St. Rita. His older brother still ran the tavern at 37th and Halsted that his grandfather—the longtime chairman of the Eleventh Ward Central Committee—had opened the day after the repeal of Prohibition. His traditional crew cut and perpetual half-grin gave him the appearance of a guy who bought the first round of Old Styles for his softball team at his old man’s saloon.
Gold tried again. “Chief—”
“Later.”
Gold’s lungs burned as he surveyed the scene. Sirens wailed. Police cars, ambulances, and fire engines struggled to navigate the gridlock. Pedestrians with soot-covered faces made their way to the east side of Michigan Avenue. An overmatched uniform tried to steer traffic to one side. An ambulance lost precious seconds as it inched along the crowded sidewalk.
Maloney raised the megaphone again, but Gold reached over and pushed it down. He spoke directly into the chief’s ear. “I just got a text from the asshole who set off the bomb. He said it isn’t over. He blocked the return number, and our carrier couldn’t trace it. Our best tech guy in Area 2 thinks he used a throwaway cell phone with no GPS.”
“Why did he contact you?”
“It must have something to do with the Al-Shahid case.”
“Did you call the FBI?”
“Not yet.” I wanted to give you a chance to step up.
The chief frowned. “We need to get them involved right away.”
This response came as no surprise to Gold. Maloney was a political animal who kept his superiors happy and deflected blame when things went wrong. If the feds identified the bomber, he would magnanimously take credit for putting the interests of the city ahead of his personal glory. If they couldn’t, he wouldn’t hesitate to throw them under the #14 CTA bus idling in front of them.
“I’ll handle it,” Maloney said. “In the meantime, I need you and Battle to help us secure the scene and look for witnesses.”
“We’re going to take the lead in this investigation, right?”
“We’ll talk about it later.”
“We should talk about it now.”
They were interrupted by the reporter from WGN who had pushed her way to the front of the yellow tape. Carol Modjeski was a red-haired fireball whose father had run a chop shop on Milwaukee Avenue. “Mojo” had cut her teeth as a fact checker for Mike Royko, and later became the Trib’s lead crime reporter. Eventually, she took her act to WGN-TV, where her series on payoffs in the First Ward garnered a Peabody nomination. She shoved a microphone in front of the chief’s face. “Is this a terrorist act?”
Gold had been on the receiving end of her inquisitions on numerous occasions. Don’t engage, Chief.
“The situation is under control,” Maloney insisted. The word “the” came out as “duh.” “We are personally taking charge of this investigation.” He pointed at the Art Institute. “We are setting up our command center across the street.”
Battle leaned over and whispered into Gold’s ear. “What are we doing?”
“We are telling the bad guys where to find us. There wasn’t anything in the playbook in Personnel about dealing with a terrorist attack.”
Maloney’s syntax became more tortured. “Additional emergency personnel is on the way. We ask the good citizens of Chicago to remain calm, cooperate with the police, and disperse in an orderly manner. We guarantee that we will find the people responsible for this senseless act.” He tried to disengage, but Mojo kept firing.
“Are there other bombs?” she shouted.
Maloney froze. He didn’t want to start a panic, but he was reluctant to lie, so he opted for obfuscation. “We’re taking every conceivable precaution.”
“Yes or no: is the public in danger?”
“We will use every available resource to protect the citizens of Chicago.”
“Has anyone claimed responsibility?”
He shot a look at Gold. “Not to my knowledge.”
Mojo’s eyes narrowed. “I saw you talking to Detective Gold. Does he have any additional information?”
&n
bsp; Maloney thought about it for an instant, then he motioned to Gold.
Battle spoke just loud enough so that only Gold could hear. “No comment.”
“No comment,” Gold repeated into the microphone.
Mojo was undeterred. “Were you targeted, Detective?”
He didn’t pull my name out of a hat. “No comment.”
“Did someone threaten you?”
“No.” Technically, it wasn’t a lie. The text wasn’t exactly a threat.
“Has anyone contacted you?”
“No comment.”
“Has the FBI been called?”
Maloney answered her. “Yes, along with Homeland Security.”
“Doesn’t that suggest this is a terrorist act?”
“It’s a criminal act.” The chief pushed out his jaw. “We aren’t going to let some nutcase set off bombs on Michigan Avenue. That’s it for now.” He pointed at Gold and Battle. “I need to talk to you—in private.”
* * *
In his Cubs T-shirt and khaki shorts, the young man blended in easily with a dozen employees and a few early-morning shoppers watching the chief’s impromptu news conference in the sports bar in the basement of the Macy’s in the old Marshall Field’s flagship store. Some people held cell phones to their ears. Most stood in grim silence. The air conditioning was a welcome respite from the blistering heat and the thick smoke outside. The young man’s demeanor remained impassive, but he was pleased to see the fear in Maloney’s eyes and the troubled look on Gold’s face.
Your stress is just beginning.
His stoic expression belied a sense of satisfaction bordering on elation. Maloney’s mealy-mouthed reassurances had been a bonus. He would begin the next phase immediately. The police would be on high alert, and the FBI would be called in. He would contact Carol Modjeski. It would enhance his stature if he communicated through the legendary “Mojo.” Above all, he confirmed that his instructors had been right: meticulous planning is, indeed, the key to success.
He pulled out another throwaway phone and discreetly pressed Send. He turned it off and tossed it into a trash can as he headed into the subway.
That should get their attention.
* * *
Gold was standing next to Maloney when his BlackBerry vibrated. He had received another text.
It read, “Free Hassan Al-Shahid or people will die.”
.
Chapter 3
“THAT’S THE WAY THINGS WORK IN SOUTH CHICAGO”
Maloney’s round face was bright crimson. “Did we get a trace on the second text?”
“No, we didn’t,” Gold snapped. We’re wasting time. “Our people and the FBI are working with our carrier. We’ll know more shortly.”
“Dammit.” The chief had convened a summit conference around the mahogany table beneath the skylight in the Ryerson Library in the Art Institute. It was a high-brow setting for a hastily called strategy session including Gold, Battle, an assistant chief, a commander from the Bomb Squad, a captain from the Area 1 SWAT Team, and the head of the Chicago office of Homeland Security. The room was hot, and tempers were short.
Maloney held up a meaty hand. “Our people have secured an eight-block perimeter. We’re reviewing surveillance tapes. The museum has been evacuated. We’re going door-to-door in search of witnesses. The FBI is analyzing the remnants of the detonator.”
Analyze faster, Gold thought.
The head of DHS looked up from his BlackBerry. Talmadge Blankenship III tried to sound as forceful as a rotund investment banker could. “The federal government is prepared to make every resource available,” he intoned.
Gold looked down at the table. Just like Katrina and the BP oil spill. Somebody set off a bomb across the street and we’re having a meeting.
The double doors swung open and a diminutive, well-dressed FBI agent marched inside, followed by two taller, equally well-attired G-Men-in-training. The leader’s dark brown eyes blazed as he tugged at the lapels of his pressed charcoal suit, put his mirrored sunglasses inside his breast pocket, and strode purposefully to the head of the table, where he placed his laptop, a legal pad, and three sharpened #2 pencils. “Supervisory Special Agent George Fong,” he announced in a forceful staccato. “I’m taking charge of this investigation.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Gold muttered.
Fong ignored the dig. His jet-black hair, boyish features, and rail-thin torso made him appear younger than forty-eight. “Nice to see you again, Detective Gold,” he lied.
As if. Gold turned to the chief. “Was this your decision?”
“It came straight from the head of the Bureau’s Chicago office. Not my call.”
“It sure as hell is your call.”
“Special Agent Fong is the point man on the Al-Shahid investigation. It makes sense to take advantage of his knowledge and expertise.”
“His knowledge and expertise got my partner killed.”
Fong responded before Maloney could answer. “We’ve covered this territory, Detective Gold. We did everything we could.”
“Except figure out that Hassan Al-Shahid was building bombs in South Chicago.”
“If I could do it again, I would have informed you about our investigation. I’ve already told you that I’m very sorry about your partner. We can sit here and argue, or we can get to work. We already know that the bomber is using Motorola throwaway cell phones purchased for cash at various locations over the past six months. He bought the detonator at a Radio Shack in Des Plaines. The phone that initiated the call to the detonator and the first text to you was acquired at a Target on the Northwest Side. He sent the second text using a phone purchased at a Wal-Mart in Evergreen Park. In each case, Verizon was the carrier. The same type of phones were used in the Madrid train bombings. Readily available. Easy to program. Hard to trace—especially since there’s no credit card or contract. We’ve called the stores, but the security tapes have been recycled. We’ll talk to the employees, but it’s unlikely that they’ll be able to identify the purchaser.” Fong arched an eyebrow. “You still want me to leave, Detective Gold?”
“Not yet.” Gold’s neck was burning. “Where was the call to the detonator initiated?”
“We can’t tell. The cheap disposables don’t have a GPS, so we can’t get a precise location. We can narrow it down substantially if you can send a reply that goes through. We know that it pinged a tower downtown. He could have been anywhere within a ten mile radius of Sears Tower.” Fong pulled out a new BlackBerry and slid it across the table to Gold. “This is an FBI-issue phone that will work on your existing number. If he contacts you again, I want you to send a reply immediately. Don’t even type a message. Just hit Reply and Send. Got it?”
“Got it.” So much for the Bureau’s state-of-the-art technology. “We should get Verizon to block access to all throwaway cells.”
“Working on it.” Fong looked at Blankenship. “An order from Homeland Security would help.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Do it fast.” Fong turned to the head of the Bomb Squad. “Tell me about the explosives.”
Commander Mike Rowan was a veteran of Kuwait, Kosovo, Iraq, Afghanistan, and Chicago’s gang wars. He moved his aviator-style glasses to the top of his shaved dome and spoke in a clipped cop dialect. “Regular gasoline in generic ‘jerry’ cans set off by a detonator made from a throwaway cell. Impossible to trace.”
Fong turned to Gold. “What do you know about the car?”
“The Camry was reported stolen Saturday night from 36th and Lowe. The owner is a nurse at Rush Hospital who’s been at work since six o’clock this morning. She isn’t a suspect.”
“Casualties?”
Gold pointed at the walrus-like assistant chief sitting to his right. Harvey Simmons was a droopy-eyed native of the Pullman district whose primary objective was to keep his nose clean as he counted the 212 days until his retirement. “No fatalities,” he said. “Fifteen injured.”
Fong nodded. “We’re monitoring the usual terrorist channels. Lots of chatter, but nobody’s claimed responsibility. We haven’t ruled out the possibility that this is being orchestrated from overseas. We’re also talking to our sources in the Muslim community. I’ve assembled a team here, and I have a group standing by at Quantico. We will, of course, set up our local command center at FBI headquarters.”
“I’d be happy to brief your people,” Gold said, “but our command center will be at police headquarters. He set off the bomb during my award ceremony. He’s already contacted me twice. You can’t expect me to let you run my investigation.”
Maloney spoke up. “After Nine-Eleven, we developed a protocol for potential terrorist events. The Bureau takes the lead with assistance from us. Special Agent Fong will keep you fully apprised.”
“Just like he did last time.”
“We don’t have time for a turf battle. Our immediate priority is the security of our citizens. Besides, it’s inappropriate for you to handle this investigation.”
“Why not?”
“It isn’t a homicide.”
“It’s a serious felony.”
“But not a homicide.”
And you’re covering your bureaucratic ass.
Simmons’s BlackBerry buzzed. The assistant chief held it to his ear and listened. He nodded twice, pressed Disconnect, and spoke in a subdued tone. “A young woman named Christina Ramirez bled out in the ambulance. Student at Chicago State. Address is 8745 South Manistee.”
Gold’s throat tightened as he spoke to the chief. “It’s a homicide case now, and I should handle the notification. The victim’s mother is one of my father’s physical therapists.”
“We need you here, Gold. There must be somebody else.”
Gold quickly considered his options. “I’ll find somebody.” He would visit the victim’s mother later that night. “Given this new information, I respectfully request that you assign Detective Battle and me to head the investigation of the murder of Christina Ramirez.” He emphasized the word “murder.”
The Terrorist Next Door Page 2