“Hoping you’ll be in one of them.”
“Now you’re making me blush.”
Chapter 31
CHICAGO: TWELVE HOURS TO DETONATION
Declan showed up in the hotel lobby at exactly six forty-five. Anne was seated in one of the large, brown leather chairs checking her emails.
“Here we are in this beautiful, historic hotel on Michigan Avenue and can’t really take it all in,” she said, admiring the charm of the lobby.
“I hear you. Too much on my mind to enjoy this place right now. Another time.”
“Are you asking me out again, Detective?”
Declan’s face blushed red. “A figure of speech. Let me remove my size thirteen from my mouth. And for the record, I’d love to ask you out for a date again.”
“Great. Right now, a breakfast will work perfectly. I checked the menu, and it’s very reasonable.”
“Can’t tell you how fantastic I feel. Woke up at five and got a great workout in. Quite the monster gym for a hotel. My engine’s back running on all cylinders.”
They were on the road by seven thirty for the five-mile drive down Michigan Avenue to CPD Headquarters. The eight thirty brief with the other agencies went well, with the exception of “no new news.” Tomczyk was getting antsy and questioning himself on whether he made the right choice about Chicago. He kept looking at his watch, wondering if making the drive here instead of staying in Milwaukee and guarding the city he was sworn to protect was the right decision.
“C’mon, Declan. Don’t look so glum. You did the right thing. I feel it in my heart of hearts. This was right, you coming to Chicago.” Anne rubbed his elbow reassuringly. “Besides, you know a woman’s intuition is seldom wrong. You heard what I told you last night, how I feel about you. Totally women’s intuition!” She smiled and gently pinched his forearm.
He smiled back. As he was about to respond, his cell phone rang. It was ten-thirty-five. He perked up when he saw who the caller was.
“Ski, this is Blaze. I’m so sorry, man. It took forever to get here, and these people grudgingly gave up the info about their son. We stirred up a cesspool of old and hurtful memories. Remember when they used to talk about Dahmer dissecting rabbits and squirrels at seven or eight-years-old? Well, this dude was blowing them up at that age. Child prodigy with an IQ like Ted Kaczynski who couldn’t corral his emotions or temper. They spent a fortune on private and specialty schools, counseling, and psych wards to straighten him out. Dad even got him a job at one of the nursing homes he owns in River Hills as a maintenance man, but the kid got fired for missing too much work, along with a positive urine test for cocaine and marijuana. Neither parent has spoken to Zuber in months. They are definitely distraught over the broken relationship.”
“Good work, Blaze. Anything at all for associates in Chi-town?”
“Yeah. That Sam Rider guy. He’s Zuber’s cousin. Rider also has a younger brother, Jamie Rider. He’s 6’6” and over 300 pounds. Heck, that’s even bigger than you. They said Sam lives somewhere on the South Side of Chicago, and Jamie may be living with him. They provided us with the parents’ addresses and phone numbers if you want them to call for current info.”
“No, hold that. Let’s see if we can get that from this end. Don’t want to spook the parents and have them tip their kids off. They may have issues, but they’re still their kids.”
“My exact thoughts. “We’ll finish up here and head back to the office to man the hoses. There’s a couple other small things we want to check out that may help you.”
“Fantastic, thanks for the call. You perked me up. Thought I went down the wrong rabbit hole coming here.”
“I think you’re in the right hole. Now, we need to find that rabbit.”
“Keep me posted, brotha, and thanks.” Tomczyk hung up the phone. “Okay, back on the trail. Sam Rider is Zuber’s cousin. Sam has a younger brother named Jamie. Mac, get them magical fingers of yours running and track these guys down. They’ve got to be our connection to Zuber.”
His cell phone rang again. “Detective Tomczyk.”
“Ski, Susie from intel. Phone company finally came through with the phone records from Angela Culbertson’s cell. There’s a recurring record to and from a cell phone number of 414-220-5555. It’s gotta be your guy. And here’s a bonus. The cell phone they found on that homicide victim in Gordon Park had at least ten phone calls to and from that number. The last call was made from Culbertson at 2:11 p.m. on the day she was murdered. We checked the number, and it doesn’t come back listed to any of the major carriers, so I can’t get any provider or customer info for you. Sorry. One last thing: An agent from the Secret Service just called. Said something about finally getting into a thumb drive you gave him several weeks ago. He apologized a couple times. Said the pass protection was amazing and something he’s never seen before. Needs to speak to you ASAP. Mentioned it was a matter of national security, but it had to be on a secure phone since the info was all classified.”
“Fantastic news.” He thought for a second. The hidden thumb drive found in Squirt’s boot was classified. That’s not good. “Did you tell him I’m on a mission here in Chicago?”
“Sure did. He just said at your earliest convenience.”
“Thanks, Suze. Lovin’ ya.”
“I know. Later, and good luck.”
Tomczyk disconnected the phone, and the adrenaline started pumping back into him.
“Now we’re cooking. Man, I needed those calls.” A matter of national security. That’ll have to wait. We have major drama going on right now.
“Jamie Roger Rider, DOB, January 2, 1989. Last known address as of three months ago is in an apartment over on Sixty-sixth and Halstead. Nothing major as an adult: drug possession, a couple thefts, and property damage. Armed robbery and burglary arrests as a juvie. He was obviously just trying to find his way.”
“Of course. Young man trying to grow his wings.”
“Ever cynical.” Anne shook her head.
“You’re right. But after the thousandth guy you run across with the same story, your mind gets tainted. Happens to the best of us.” Mac shrugged his shoulders. “Not saying it’s right, just keepin’ it real.”
“Mac, can you do anything with a cell phone? The phone records of Zuber’s dead girlfriend came back and our intel analyst is almost positive it’s his. Said it’s not a major carrier customer number, though.”
“I have a contact at Cell Tower Central. Give me the number, and I’ll run it.”
In five minutes, MacCarthy was back with an answer. “Good stuff. That number pinged off a cell tower in the Englewood area on Tuesday night at about ten. Nothing since. I told them to put a flag on it in case anything goes back in or out of it.”
“Smart move. Narrowing it down. The scumbag kills his girlfriend, then rigs the apartment with bombs set to blow off when the ‘popo’ come knocking. He loads up a stolen van with explosives, drives down to Chicago, and hooks up with his cousins to plan something big. We need to confirm that Jamie Rider, and hopefully Mr. Samuel Rider, are living in that building and plead with a district attorney for a search warrant.” Tomczyk was growing happier by the minute.
“I can go one step further. They got partial fingerprints off some evidence from the bomb hoax bag left at the Biograph. Couldn’t match it with anybody at the time, but if the ID people have known ten prints, they can get enough PC for a warrant based on that.”
“Now you’re talkin’, Mac. Let’s do it.”
Chapter 32
CHICAGO: FOUR HOURS TO DETONATION
It was nearly three o’clock when the Chicago PD SWAT Team stacked outside the apartment building. Plainclothes officers had been “eyeballing” it for the last two hours, with no movement of anyone matching the photographs or vehicle info they each had of the suspects. The ten heavily armed and tactical-gear-wearing police officers were let into the building by two CPD plainclothes bomb technicians. One of them was holding onto a leash attached to a
jetblack lab.
“Smokie didn’t smell any explosives in there. Have fun breaching the door.”
The sound of the apartment door being smashed in a minute later and, “Police, search warrant,” was easily heard by residents in the building.
A short time later came the words over the portable radios, “All secure, send in the detectives.”
“Okay, looks like it’s show time. Let’s go!” MacCarthy walked over to the SWAT supervisor. “What do we got, Sarge?”
“Looks good to me. Didn’t see any weapons, explosives, or anything to worry about. Unfortunately, no bodies. Just a typical dirty apartment with guys living in it.”
“Good, thanks. We’ll handle it from here. If you don’t mind leaving one squad behind to cover us while we do the search, we’d be much appreciative.”
“You got it, Mac.” The sergeant looked over at two of his men. “Jives and Walters, hang out with the detectives until they’re done with this place. Put yourselves back in when you’re done.”
“Copy that, Sarge.”
The apartment was bigger than expected: three bedrooms, a kitchen, living room, and dining room area. Ornate construction from a long, lost time. McCarthy took the lead.
“Let’s split her up and knock this place out. I’ll grab photos of the door and doorjamb damage, then all the rooms before we start. Two people to a room. Fair enough?”
“Excellent. This is your stage, Mac; we’re only support.” Tomczyk was now in his element. He loved the mystery of doing searches. Dope, guns, records, and paperwork, all revealing secrets about individuals and their activities.
“Right. Whose stage is this again, smart aleck?”
“Okay, maybe we have a little more than a bit part.”
The complete search was over in an hour. Two backpacks containing clothes, personal property, and hygiene products were in a back bedroom with two day beds in it. No identification markings were in either pack. Personal-use stashes of marijuana were in the living room and burnt marijuana butts in several ashtrays. Utility bills of Jamie Rider were located, along with property and identification paperwork of Samuel Rider to confirm his living there. An old table in the dining room contained the most revealing evidence. A map of Chicago was spread out across the table and a Dell laptop computer sat next to it. There were several pieces of paper with writing and doodling on them: “650 Michigan Ave”; “Two should be enough.” Also printed on the paper was “Soldier Field, game starts at seven.” Tomczyk read the letters and numbers on the other piece of paper. “APJ173.” Below it was written “ABU478.”
“You gotta be kidding me!”
“What do you have, Declan?” Anne asked as she, MacCarthy, and CPD Detective John ‘Duke’ Dukeyser walked over to him.
He pointed to the top line. “This is the plate number to Zuber’s dead girlfriend’s car. We put it into NCIC as stolen and taken in connection with the homicide. See the next line.” He slid his finger down where he wanted them to see. “They made some adjustments and now have a whole new plate. Hopefully, we’ll be seeing these again real soon.”
The large, tan garage door opened up in an alley off of Sixty-third Parkway and Green Street in the CHIRAC neighborhood of Chicago, and a blue van with white horizontal striping drove out and stopped. A second vehicle pulled out after it. The driver of the car stepped out and walked back into the garage. Shortly afterward, the electric door closed again. The same white male, wearing a black leather jacket and blue jeans, reappeared from the side of the garage and got back into the car. Both vehicles drove away through the alley. Thousands of activities occur daily in major cities across the country and are never seen by anyone. This time, the white lace curtains in the kitchen window of the sole single-family house on the block slowly moved back to their original closed position. The elderly woman removed her hand from the curtain and wondered why a Chicago Public Works van would drive out of a private garage, followed by a separate vehicle. It was suspicious enough for her to remove the wall phone receiver and dial the general number for the Chicago Police Department.
“Honestly, are these the best tasting Chicago Hot Dogs you’ve ever eaten in your life?” On their way back to headquarters before heading over to Soldier Field, they made a quick stop at one of Chicago’s famous hot dog stands, knowing it could be a long night. It’s nearly impossible to do great police work on an empty stomach, and they were famished.
“Dang straight, Mac. Hot dogs are the last true American meat. Pretty much everything in ’em except the kitchen sink, but they sure do taste fantastic with all the Chicago-style toppings.”
MacCarthy happened to have his portable radio tuned to the frequency of the police district they were in. “Squad 6287, meet the caller at 6315 Parkway Drive regarding a suspicious vehicle. Plate number on a blue with white-stripes Chicago Public Works van was ABU478. Be advised, no record for that plate number.”
The four of them looked at each other in amazement, knowing they had the exact same thought at the exact same moment.
“Duke, you and Anne head to that call and get the details. Ski and I will shoot over to Soldier Field and give the supervisors the latest and greatest. They’re all aware it’s a possible target, but now we have additional info to get them up to speed.”
“You got it, Mac. We’ll keep you posted on what comes up with the call.”
“Excellent. Ski, you ready to go?”
Tomczyk slammed down the last bite of his third hot dog and gave a “thumbs up.” “Let’s rock and roll.” He grabbed the cup containing his ice-filled drink.
Chapter 33
CHICAGO: ONE HOUR PLUS TO DETONATION
It was just after five thirty when an older green Ford Aerostar minivan stopped along the curb in front of a large home decor and furniture specialty store in the six hundred block of North Michigan Avenue.
“I’m going to take a slow ride around the block. You know where to place the bag. I’ll be parked facing northbound on Rush Street, the next street over.” Joey pointed west to make sure Madman understood.
“Got it, dude. See ya in a couple.” Madman got out of the van and began walking. He rounded the corner and headed westbound on West Erie Street. When he reached the end of the white building, he ducked into the alley and placed the blue Nike backpack on the concrete next to it. He then continued on Erie and saw the minivan parked along the curb at the first parking meter. He climbed in the front seat.
“All good.”
Madman pulled the cell phone out of his left coat pocket and unlocked it.
“You know how to work that thing, right?”
“Damn straight I do. Move it!”
Joey made a right turn to go east on Erie and slowly drove down the street. Just as they were passing the spot where Madman placed the backpack, he pushed some buttons, activating a detonation switch and completing the circuit. A loud explosion rang out. Laughter erupted from inside the van. “All right, that bitch worked! Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Joey looked in his rear view mirror and watched the chaos beginning to form on the south side of Erie Street. Cars were stopping, and a crowd of pedestrians were gathering. He couldn’t tell if anyone was down from the explosion or not. Collateral damage if there was, he thought to himself. This was urban warfare against all these nasty, consumer-glutton whores!
“All squads, be advised. We have a report of an explosion that just occurred in the south alley on West Erie between Michigan and Rush Street. Chicago Fire and Rescue are en route. Unknown casualties or damage. Advise if responding. Updates forthcoming.”
A number of squads “miked” into the radio, notifying the dispatcher they were responding.
MacCarthy and Tomczyk were nearing Soldier Field when the call came over all channels. Tomczyk punched his right knee. “Dang it! Not good.”
“You want me to start heading over there?”
“I’m not feeling it. Zuber’s going big and an explosion in the business district along the Magn
ificent Mile isn’t a big enough fish for him. I’m convinced that phony Chicago Public Works van is the key. We find the van, we’ll find Zuber and the explosives. I’ll keep my money on them showing up at the game. By the way, if you HAD been going to the game tonight, where were your seats going to be?”
“Oh, sure. You buy me a bottle of whiskey and now you think you own me. My stomach is still sick at the thought of my brother-in-law sitting in the seat next to my wife because I’m in a squad car working with some useless detective from Wis-CON-sin when I should be getting ready to watch da Bears mishandle the Packers.”
“Where’s the love? By the way, did you notify all the squads at the stadium about the van?”
“Oh, yeah. My guess is every cop in Cook County is searching high and low for that baby.”
“That’s what I like to hear.”
“You see the black smoke up there? That’s the residuals of the explosion.”
“Yeah. Let’s hope casualties and damage are kept to a minimum.”
MacCarthy took the Soldier Field exit off South Lake Shore Drive and made the right turn onto East Eighteenth Drive. The street changed into Museum Campus Drive. Straight ahead, Declan could see the hundreds of boats moored at Burnham Harbor on Chicago’s famous lakefront. Beyond that were the alluring sky blue waters of Lake Michigan. Since it was the second half of November, he reminded himself the water was great to gaze at or ride a boat on, but way too cold to sunbathe at or swim in. He thought about the dozens of times his dad had taken him out on the lake for fishing and to reflect on life. They were disrupted by the reality of iconic Soldier Field stadium to the left and Detective MacCarthy’s voice.
“Ski, we’ll stop off at the command post and check in. Roll call was at four, but I’m guessing they’ll understand our tardiness because of the circumstances.”
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