Okay, Jack. You’re here. Now what?
I ordered an orange juice, playing out various possibilities. As long as Dalton was kept under surveillance, we could arrest him once we had enough evidence to satisfy probable cause.
The term probable cause was misused a lot on TV shows and in books. In U.S. law, it meant a cop could only arrest a suspect if there was information sufficient to convince the cop that a perp had committed a crime, or that evidence of a crime or contraband would be found if a search was conducted. This would justify a search warrant or an arrest warrant, and it had to be able to stand up in court, at a probable cause hearing.
I had a reasonable suspicion that Dalton had abducted a child, and was possibly the enigmatic Mr. K. As a law enforcement officer, that allowed me to detain Dalton for brief periods to question him, and search him if I suspected he had a weapon on him. But it didn’t allow me to bring him in. All he’d given me was double-talk and innuendo, and the case would get kicked before even making it to the arraignment. Even if I perjured myself, lying to the judge and testifying that Dalton had said or done things he really hadn’t, I’d still be required to prove those things at the hearing. The fact that Dalton had survived this long without a single blemish on his record showed he was unlikely to make mistakes, and having his lawyers meet him at the storage area was smart. I couldn’t get to him, either legally or illegally.
Herb walked in, pulling up a stool next to me.
“I left the key under your car,” he said, referring to the concrete milk jug. “Anything happening?”
“Nothing so far. The guy is leaving the country tomorrow, and is possibly about to murder a child, and he’s sitting there without a care in the world.”
Herb picked up the plastic table tent that served as a menu. “Hmm. They have batter-fried bacon.”
I frowned at him. “Wouldn’t it be faster just to inject the cholesterol directly into your arteries?”
“Probably not. Doesn’t matter, though. As of right now, I’m officially on a diet. It was pretty embarrassing not being able to sit up in your car.”
“Good for you,” I said.
The bartender came back, and Herb ordered some fried zucchini sticks. When I gave him the stink eye, Herb said, “What? They’re vegetables.”
I turned my attention back to Dalton. If one of the leads panned out, we could grab him. But I couldn’t count on that. If he really was Mr. K, I couldn’t let him leave the country. It violated everything I stood for.
So how could I make him stay?
“If we saw him committing a crime, we could arrest him,” Herb said. My partner often seemed able to read my mind.
“What are you thinking?” I asked.
“We could plant drugs on him.”
“Drugs?”
“I saw that on The Shield.”
“Good idea. Give me that bag of cocaine you always carry around with you.”
Herb frowned. “Maybe I could get some out of the evidence locker.”
“You’d have to sign for it. Internal Affairs would love that.”
“Don’t you know any dealers we could shake down?” he asked.
“No. You?”
“No. We’re not very good crooked cops.”
Both Herb and I knew this was fantasy talk, not real. While we’d both bent a few rules in our days, planting evidence just wasn’t going to happen.
“I could try to provoke him into taking a swing at me,” Herb said.
“Dalton wouldn’t do it. And if you tried it in front of his lawyers, you’d be facing a harassment lawsuit.”
But that got me thinking. I pulled out my cell.
“Who are you calling?” Herb asked.
“We’re cops. Our hands are tied. What we need is help from someone who isn’t so encumbered by the law.”
“Jack, you’re not really considering…”
He picked up on the first ring. “Hiya, Jackie. Is this a booty call? I think I can squeeze you in tonight. When you stop by, wear something slutty. And bring a pizza.”
I rolled my eyes. “That isn’t going to happen. But I do need your help.”
“I like needy women.”
“I’m at Spill. Get over here as fast as you can, Harry.”
Chapter 8
McGlade strolled into Spill and spotted us immediately. “Hiya, Jackie.” He glanced at Herb. “Jabba. How’s the rest of the Hutt? Fat and ugly?”
I put a firm hand on Herb’s shoulder, holding him in his seat.
“We need your help, Harry,” I said.
“To roll El Chubbo out of here? We’ll need a few more guys, and a block and tackle.”
“Remember Mr. K?” I asked.
“The breakfast cereal?”
Herb leered at Harry. “Did you get in line for seconds when God was handing out the stupid?” he asked.
“Did you get in line for seconds when God was handing out the sweet potatoes?”
“Enough,” I said. “The older guy sitting further down the bar. We think he might have abducted a child, but we’ve got nothing on him. We want you to provoke him enough so he takes a swing at you, so we can arrest him.”
“Shouldn’t take you more than a few seconds,” Herb said. Harry glanced over his shoulder. Dalton and his two lawyers were looking at us.
“What’s in this for me?” Harry asked.
“You’d be saving a young boy’s life,” Herb said.
“So that’s worth, what, in U.S. dollars?” He winked at me. “Or sexual favors?”
Herb jerked his thumb at Harry. “How about I beat him up, and we say it was Dalton?” he said.
“Settle down there, Humpty. I’m just messing with you. Except for the money part. You’ll be getting my invoice in the mail.”
Herb and I moved closer as Harry marched over to their part of the bar. “Which one of you assholes is Special K?”
“I know you,” Dalton said. “You’re that private eye, Harrison Harold McGlade. There’s a TV show about you.”
“Fatal Autonomy,” Harry said, nodding. “You a fan?”
“A big fan. Could I get your autograph?”
“Sure!”
Dalton passed over a napkin, and Harry pulled out a pen and began to sign it. Next to me, I heard Herb slap himself in the forehead.
“So what’s all this I hear about a child abduction?” Harry asked.
Dalton kept his face neutral. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you threaten me!” Harry yelled.
“Excuse me? I’m not threatening you.”
In a quick move, Harry grabbed Dalton by the lapels and yanked him out of his chair. McGlade fell backwards, Dalton landing on top of him.
“Get off of me!” Harry yelled. “Police! I need the police! I’m being assaulted!”
I winced. This hadn’t played out as I’d hoped. But then, what could I have honestly been hoping for?
“Are there any fat cops in the bar!” Harry wailed.
“On the bright side,” Herb said, “Dalton’s lawyers will no doubt press charges, and with any luck McGlade will go to jail for a few years.”
I walked over there before it got any worse. “Get up, McGlade,” I ordered him.
“A cop! Thank heavens! This man is attempting murder!”
Harry was pulling Dalton’s hand toward his own throat. It didn’t quite reach, but McGlade still made choking noises and puffed out his cheeks like he was being strangled. I reached down, pulled Dalton free, and then knelt on Harry’s stomach.
“Are you high?” I said through clenched teeth.
“A little.”
The lawyers began to shout at me, hurling legal terms like harassment and battery and litigation. Dalton, for his part, looked slightly bemused. I decided to try to turn this lemon into lemonade.
“Mr. Dalton,” I said, “I saw the whole thing. I suggest you come down to the station and press charges.”
“What?!” McGlade shouted.
> Herb bent over next to Harry. “You have the right to remain silent,” he said, a terse grin on his face, as he snapped a cuff on McGlade’s wrist. “Which I heartily endorse.”
Dalton smoothed his hands over his suit. “I won’t be pressing charges. I simply don’t have the time.” He stared over at me. “Time is such a precious thing, isn’t it, Jack? We really should savor every minute. Some of us only have so long left.”
Herb and I hefted McGlade up to his feet.
“I’ll be seeing you,” I told Dalton.
“No you won’t. But maybe I’ll call you later, after I land.”
We dragged Harry out of there. Once back on the street, McGlade said, “I think that went well. Can you get these cuffs off?” Neither Herb nor I made any effort to follow his request. “What’s up? Why so lugubrious?”
“God, I hate him,” Herb muttered to himself.
“Come on. You’re not really arresting me. Are you?”
I sighed. “Herb, let him go.”
“Do we have to?”
I nodded. My partner made a face, but freed Harry’s wrists.
“What were you thinking?” I asked. “Don’t you remember what it was like to be a cop? There’s a child’s life at stake here.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “Jeez, Jackie. Gimme a little credit, will you? If that guy is Mr. K, he’s as cold as they come. There was no way he’d lose his temper and throw a punch. Especially in front of two cops.”
“So instead, you think it’s helpful to make an ass out of yourself?” Herb said.
“No, Shamu. That was just a distraction.” Harry reached into his pocket and held up something, his face triumphant. “Who wants to see that SOB’s wallet?”
Chapter 9
“Every time I think my opinion of you couldn’t possibly get any lower, you pull a rabbit out of your hat,” I told Harry. “Or a perp’s wallet out of his pants.” He handed the aforementioned wallet to me. “I’ll send you my bill in the mail. I’m saving up to buy a monkey.”
Years ago, Harry had a fish tank. Not a single one survived. Hopefully a primate would fare better.
“Good luck with that,” I told him.
“I think it would be fun to have a pet that could fetch me beer. Plus I could give him a tin cup, pretend to be blind, and make a few bucks on the L train.”
“Quite the plan,” Herb said.
“Yeah. But in total honesty, I’ll probably just blow the money on malt liquor and lap dances.”
“Thanks for your help, McGlade.”
He nodded at me, gave Herb the finger, and walked off down the street. Every once in a while, McGlade came through for me. But I was incredibly grateful not to be working with him anymore. I couldn’t imagine going down that route ever again.
I tapped Herb and we quickly got into my car, driving away before Dalton figured out Harry had ripped him off. Then I double-parked two streets over and examined our prize.
The wallet looked like any other men’s wallet. Brown leather, trifold, worn in. Dalton had a Platinum American Express, a Visa bank card, and a driver’s license in the various pockets. In the billfold compartment he had three hundred and forty dollars and a strip of paper with a twelve-digit number on it. There was a familiar logo in the corner.
“Federal Express,” I said. “He FedExed something.”
“Recently?” Herb said.
The paper was from an express U.S. airbill. Normally, it was attached to a full receipt that listed the sender and the recipient, along with a description of contents, packaging, and services. This had been torn off, so only the tracking number remained. It appeared new—things that were in wallets for a long time tended to have a faded, frayed look. The fold was still crisp. The colors still fine.
“I think so. Let’s see.”
Using my iPhone, I got online and accessed the FedEx Web site. Personally, I loved the iPhone, but part of me missed the good old days when phones had huge antennas and weighed two pounds.
“I ever tell you about the time a cell phone saved my life?” I asked Herb.
“About a million billion times.”
“I think I need a new partner. Someone who appreciates my classic stories.”
I used the touch screen to punch in the tracking number. It told me no information was available, indicating the package wasn’t in their system yet.
“His condo,” Herb said, snapping his fingers and pointing at me. “It had a FedEx box in the lobby.”
I got on the radio and told Dispatch to send a car to Spill and keep an eye on John Dalton, filling in the particulars. Then Herb and I headed back to 1300 North Lake Shore Drive. Traffic seemed excruciatingly slow. I thought about calling the nearest squad car and having them check it out before we got there, but that involved all sorts of potential legal trouble. If Dalton had put something dangerous in the FedEx box, we’d need a warrant to take it. In order to get a warrant, we’d have to prove he put something in the box, and the only way we could prove that was with a receipt that we’d stolen. Better to just handle it ourselves.
I parked in front of Dalton’s condo, hopped out of my Nova, and hurried up to the doorman.
“Has FedEx come yet?”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
“About an hour ago.”
Shit. “Do you know the driver? Know his name?”
“Naw. Different guy every time.”
Double shit. I hurried back to the car just as Herb was pulling himself out. “Get in. We need to call FedEx, find out what truck the package is on.”
After three minutes of navigating the plethora of phone tree options, I got a human being and explained that I was a cop in need of finding a package. After another ten minutes on hold, I was redirected to someone in authority. Rather than giving me a run-around, FedEx was surprisingly helpful. As soon as the tracking number was uploaded into the system—which should be within the next half hour—the local station would locate the package and wait for me to pick it up and take a look. No warrant, no judge, no hassle. Apparently, when you sent something FedEx, they could view the contents at their discretion if it was suspicious. A call from a police officer was enough to induce suspicion.
So Herb and I sat there, engine running, me refreshing the FedEx Web site every few minutes, waiting for the tracking number to be updated. When it finally was recognized by their system, I called the number they gave me, and they contacted the driver. I was able to speak to him directly.
“Got it right here, Officer.” He had a nasally Chicago accent, pure South Side. “It’s a small box, about two pounds. It dangerous?”
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. According to the Web, the package was set to be delivered tomorrow to a Chicago zip code. If it were a bomb, it probably wouldn’t go off until it reached its destination. “Does it have an odor? Is it leaking?”
“Ask if it’s ticking,” Herb said. I shushed him.
“Seems like a normal package. If you want to come take a look, I’m on Division, in the Dominick’s parking lot.”
“We’ll be there in five minutes,” I said. “You might want to, uh, wait outside the truck. Maybe a few yards away. Who is the package addressed to?”
“Gotta be a fake,” the driver said. “Is there any real person in the world actually named Jack Daniels?”
Chapter 10
A few seconds after we pulled into the Dominick’s parking lot, the Special Response Team showed up. The FedEx guy, a scruffy redhead named Gordy, had placed Dalton’s package in an empty parking spot, then stood a safe distance away, alongside me and Herb, to watch the bomb squad have at it.
“I hope it’s not a big box of anthrax,” Gordy said. “I sniffed that sucker. Sniffed it good. Do you think it could be anthrax?”
“No.”
“Smallpox?”
“No.”
“Botulism? We just had a botulism epidemic in the city.”
“It’s not botulism,” I said, pretty sure of myself.
“Ebola?”
I gave the guy a WTF look. “Ebola?”
“I saw it on the Science Channel. You start bleeding blood from your pores. Then your skin comes off. I hope it isn’t Ebola.”
I hoped it wasn’t Ebola, too. But I didn’t think it was any sort of disease. Or explosive. Mr. K didn’t operate like that. He was hands-on.
The SRT, in full bomb suits, performed a battery of tests on the box, using various pieces of expensive-looking equipment. I recognized a portable X-ray unit and a boroscope—a flexible camera usually used by doctors giving rectal exams. After ten minutes of poking and prodding, the SRT sergeant tugged off his helmet and chest plate and approached us.
“Is it Ebola?” Gordy asked.
“It’s a bottle, Lieutenant.” He gave Gordy a sideways glance and then handed me the boroscope, showing me the color screen. “Looks like the seal is intact.”
I instantly recognized the familiar shape. I’d seen it many times before. “Thanks for your help, Sergeant. I think I can take it from here.”
“Do you want us to open it?”
“I think I can handle it.”
I approached the box, feeling no fear, pretty sure of what this package was. Dalton wouldn’t have sent me anything incriminating, because there was the possibility I would have gotten it before he left the country, and subsequently arrested him.
No, he didn’t send this to threaten me or harm me physically. This had a different purpose.
“What is it, Jack?” Herb was walking alongside me.
“Mr. K has two signatures. One is ball gags. What’s the other?”
“Rubbing salt in his victims’ wounds.”
“That’s what this is,” I said, tearing off the box top.
As expected, there was a full bottle of Jack Daniels Tennessee Whiskey. Dalton’s way of telling me he had won. And rubbing it in. There was also a handwritten note:
By now, I’m on my way to Cape Verde, and there’s nothing you can do about it. I’ll likely never set foot in the U.S. again. I want you to know that I gave you a fair chance to catch me. The clues were there. You simply weren’t good enough. Don’t be too hard on yourself. You can’t win them all.
Shaken [JD 07] Page 32