“Grumpy’s an understatement,” he said as he trudged into his office and shrugged out of his coat. “I’ve got half a mind to gather up my toys and go home.”
Rachel Wu stood in front of an open file cabinet near his desk, trying to jam a bulky manila folder into its proper slot in the drawer. She was young, Chinese-American, and had a fresh-scrubbed beauty that Donovan never got tired of admiring. More than once he’d thought about asking her out to dinner. Unfortunately, a pesky little thing called office protocol kept him in check.
He draped his coat over the back of his chair and sat. The wall next to his desk was a shrine to the evil that was Alexander Gunderson, a compilation of newspaper clippings, police reports, and mug shots that chronicled a life of crime and social anarchy. An eight-by-ten of Gunderson’s face was riddled with tiny holes. A tight circle of darts adorned the spot between his eyes.
Anyone entering Donovan’s office would immediately realize he had a serious obsession. He sometimes joked that he was a stalker with a badge, Gunderson’s Number One Fan. Now if only he could tie the bastard to a bed, grab a sledgehammer, and hobble his ankles …
Donovan glanced at the mess atop his desk and sighed. More police reports, a stack of aging newspapers neatly folded to the crossword puzzle, a couple of federal procedure manuals. Amidst the chaos, a smiling, freckle-faced six-year-old stared up at him from a framed photograph. It was an old one, but one of his favorites.
His daughter, Jessie. In better times.
Despite their problems, Donovan thought of her as his salvation. His only lifeline to a normal world. A line that, unfortunately, was a little frayed at the moment.
Which reminded him. He checked his watch, looked up at Rachel. “Any word from the wayward one?”
“Not so far.”
“She’s running late.”
Rachel shoved the file drawer shut. “They always run late at this age.”
“Oh? You read that in the manual?”
“I’m studying up, just in case.” Rachel was divorced and childless. Donovan had no idea what kept her from taking another dive into the deep end of the pool, but it certainly had nothing to do with looks or personality. Maybe she was simply as puzzled by relationships as he was. Whatever the case, she was a good sounding board for his parental insecurities.
He glanced at Jessie’s photo again. “You think I’ll ever see the day she actually wants to spend time with me?”
Rachel raised an eyebrow. “You’re lucky any of us do.”
Donovan shook his head and smiled as she gathered up an armload of files and headed for the door. Shifting his attention to the collage on the wall, he stood up, grabbed the cluster of darts adorning Gunderson’s forehead, and pulled them free. “Tell me something, Rache.”
She turned, waited. She looked good framed in the doorway like that, her straight, dark hair parted at the side and cut just below the shoulder. Her brown eyes were always bright and clear and attentive. And her body …
Donovan moved around to the far side of his desk, putting some distance between himself and Gunderson’s photo. “What do you see when you look at that face?”
Rachel frowned. “Besides the bad complexion? Killer. Sociopath. Someone who enjoys inflicting pain. He’s what my grandmother would call a si futt lou.”
“Si futt lou?”
“An asshole,” she said flatly. “Reminds me of my ex.”
Donovan knew he was supposed to laugh, but instead returned his attention to the dark malevolence of Gunderson’s stare. “Sometimes I look into those eyes and it’s like he’s crawled inside my brain: ‘Better come at me with everything you’ve got, hotshot, ’cause I’ll take you down the very first chance I get.’ ” He looked back at Rachel. “Live with that long enough and you’re bound to be grumpy, too.”
Rachel gave him one of her patented smirks. As always, it looked great on her. “Jack, I mean this in the nicest possible way: have you ever considered therapy?”
With that, she spun on her heels and walked to her desk outside. Donovan watched her go, thinking thoughts he knew he shouldn’t be thinking, then turned and fired a dart toward that well-worn spot between Gunderson’s eyebrows.
Bull’s-eye.
A.J. MOSLEY HAD never met a cup of coffee he didn’t like, and today’s blend was particularly satisfying. A buddy from the Federal Public Defender’s Office in Honolulu had shipped him an entire case of Kona dry-processed beans that produced a full-bodied cup of perfection that went down oh-so-smooth, without even a hint of bitterness.
A.J. had sampled just about any bean you could think of, from the mild sweetness of the Sul de Minas crop, to the heavy acidity found only in Zimbabwe’s Chipinge region. He didn’t consider himself a connoisseur by any means—even a stale cup would do in a pinch—but he certainly knew what he liked. If it started with a C and ended with double E, chances were pretty good it would bring a smile to his face.
He was savoring a much needed second cup when the telephone on his desk bleeped.
He snatched up the receiver. “A.J.”
It was one of the division operators. “Got a call from a Ron Stallard at Chicago PD. Want me to transfer it?”
“Send it on over.”
After a couple of clicks, Stallard was on the line. A.J. had sent him a bag of the Kona and figured this was a thank-you call. “Hey, big guy, am I a god or what?”
“I’ll leave that to you and your flock to figure out. Got a situation you’ll definitely be interested in.”
“Yeah?” A.J. said. “What’s going on?”
“You sitting down?” Stallard’s voice was tight with excitement and A.J. knew this was something big.
“Come on, Ron, spit it out.”
“Strap your balls on, buddy boy. Guess which weasel just popped his head out of the hole?”
16
HALF A CITY block was cordoned off. Chicago PD had been generous with the yellow tape, steering the press and any curious bystanders clear of the immediate area. A couple of police choppers hovered high overhead, keeping the sky clear of pesky newscopters and their telephoto lenses.
The only pedestrians who remained were the handful off the street who had directly witnessed the incident, and the busload of passengers who now waited on the sidewalk as police technicians scurried about both in and outside the bus.
Donovan and A.J. pulled in next to one of the half dozen patrol cars parked just outside the tape. Al Cleveland, a member of Donovan’s team, was there to greet them as they climbed out.
Donovan eyed the bus. “What are we looking at?”
Cleveland waved a hand toward the flurry of activity around them. “All I’ve been able to get so far is Gunderson snatched a schoolgirl.”
A.J. frowned. “Schoolgirl? What the hell’s he want with a schoolgirl?”
What indeed? Donovan thought. This wasn’t something you’d expect from a guy like Gunderson. His first public appearance in over a month and he snatches a kid? It didn’t make sense.
Then again, his wife, Sara, had been a schoolgirl when Gunderson had first come into her life. Maybe the sick son of a bitch was shopping for a replacement.
“Are we sure it’s our guy?”
“Witnesses recognized him from all the media coverage,” Cleveland said. “But don’t expect much cooperation from the CPD. They’re looking for the gold star on this one.”
“Who’re we talking to?”
“Fashion plate with the comb-over.” Cleveland gestured toward the sidewalk where a rumpled, balding plainclothes detective was interviewing a witness. It must’ve been fifty-six degrees out, with a windchill of God knew what, and the guy was sweating. “Name’s Fogerty.”
Donovan turned to A.J. “I thought Ron Stallard was in on this.”
A.J. shook his head. “Just a courtesy call. He warned me that we might run into a little resistance.”
Donovan sighed. “This should be a treat. You know the drill.”
He took his badge from hi
s coat pocket, ducked under the yellow tape, and crossed the blacktop toward the sidewalk.
Lack of cooperation between branches of law enforcement seemed like a cliché reserved only for pulp novels and bad television, but nine times out of ten Donovan found it to be true. In his experience, cops both city and federal were a territorial bunch. What they hated most was some dildo trying to encroach on their jurisdiction.
Even within departments the competition for case control was stiff. Donovan had seen it time and again during his years on the local force. In the end, everyone followed the proper chain of command, but they rarely did it willingly or quietly. Add the invasion of outsiders like the ATF to the mix and the potential for verbal fireworks increased tenfold.
Like it or not, it was a reality that had to be dealt with. Donovan’s solution was to take command immediately. He approached the sweating cop, held up his badge. “Jack Donovan. You in charge here?”
The cop, Fogerty, was busy talking to an elderly witness in a Cubs cap. He looked up at the sound of Donovan’s voice, the sight of the badge provoking a weary sigh.
“Look,” he said, “I already told Agent Numbnuts your invitation’s rescinded. This is a city bus on city property. It ain’t your party.”
“It is when Gunderson’s the guest of honor.”
Fogerty turned toward him fully now. “Aren’t you the chuckleheads who lost him in the first place? Look me up when you get your head outta your ass.”
He was about to return to his witness when Donovan grabbed his meaty arm and pulled him off to the side.
“Hey, hey—what the fuck?” he squealed, wrenching the arm free.
Donovan nodded toward A.J. “You see my partner over there?” A.J. had his cell phone out and was busy punching a number. “Right now he’s dialing Chief Dearborn’s private line. In about two minutes your division commander’ll be getting a call wanting to know why one of his detectives is waving his dick at the senior member of a federal task force.”
Fogerty eyed him defiantly. “It’s a big dick. Maybe I like showing it off.”
“Good,” Donovan told him. “Because what we have here is a circle jerk whether you like it or …” He paused, his attention drawn away from Fogerty to a cluster of shell-shocked girls standing on the sidewalk just outside the bus. Each wore a white blouse, blue skirt, and matching cardigan.
A school uniform.
Bellanova Prep’s uniform.
He swiveled, stared at the bus, the destination placard like a swift, hard kick to the groin: Lincoln Park.
Oh, Jesus.
He turned back to Fogerty. “The girl Gunderson snatched—what was her name?”
“Look, you wanna observe, fine. But stay the hell out of my—”
A surge of adrenaline overtook Donovan. He grabbed Fogerty, swung him toward the nearest lamppost, and shoved him against it, hard. “What’s her fucking name?”
Fogerty’s eyes got big. He fumbled in his pocket and brought out his watch pad. “Uh, Jessica something …” He quickly leafed through it until he found what he was looking for. “Jessica Lynne—”
“Donovan,” Donovan said, knowing the answer before it had even passed Fogerty’s lips. He released Fogerty and stepped back, his knees weak. It was an effort to remain standing.
No. God, no.
Not Jessie.
“Hey, you okay? You don’t look so hot.”
A lump of bile formed in Donovan’s throat, choking him as he tried to respond. Before he could get a word out, his cell phone rang. Fumbling it from his coat pocket, he clicked it on and raised it to his ear.
It took him a moment to find his voice. “Jack Donovan.”
“Daddy?”
“Jesus Christ—Jessie?”
Please tell me she’s all right. Please tell me she’s—
Her words came out in a jumbled rush, her voice high and thin and filled with terror. “Daddy, he says he’ll hurt me. He says he’ll hurt me if you don’t—” Donovan heard a noise and Jessie yelped. After a quick flash of static, a familiar voice filled his ear.
“Hiya, hotshot. Guess who’s got himself a new girl? Not as sweet as my Sara, but she’ll do in a pinch.”
The words barely registered in Donovan’s brain. His world was spinning. “You motherfucker …”
“Now, now, Jack, that’s two demerits for bad manners. You’re only allowed one more, so be careful what you say.”
This isn’t happening. Tell me this isn’t happening. “If you touch her,” Donovan said, his voice shaking, “I swear to Christ I’ll—”
“You’ll what? Hunt me down like the dirty dog I am? Oops, too late. Special Agent Jack and the United States of Fuck You have already put that plan in motion. You see, hotshot, short of blowing my brains out there’s not a whole lot you can do to me that’s worse than what you’ve already done. So the name of the game here is clarity. That’s what I want. I hang on to the pea pod long enough for you to understand, with clarity, what you did to my Sara.”
Donovan tried to breathe. Stay calm, he told himself. Figure a way out of this. “Listen to me, Alex. Let her go. We can make a deal. Anything you want.”
Gunderson laughed. “You gonna forgive me all my sins, Jack? Huh? You gonna work up some miracle cure to solidify the mush that used to be Sara’s brain? You gonna bring back my kid? I don’t think we’ll be making any deals. But I will make you a promise. If and when your schoolgirl comes home—and I’m stressing the if here—you can be absolutely certain of one thing: she won’t be the same sweet Jessie we all know and love.”
The line clicked in Donovan’s ear.
He lowered the phone, trembling.
DONOVAN SEARCHED THE street, not even sure what he was looking for, an overwhelming feeling of dread doing a kamikaze barrel-roll through his body. His head felt hollow, as if he’d just been smacked with a two-by-four.
How could he have been so careless? He knew what Gunderson was capable of. He should’ve seen this coming, should’ve stopped it before it had a chance to start.
All along he’d assumed that Gunderson would come after him. But he’d been wrong, and his mistake was inexcusable.
His mistake could mean Jessie’s life.
Just this morning he had looked in on her as she slept, amazed by how quiet she was. No moans, no soft snores, no movement. She was so silent that for a moment he had wondered if she was alive; had put his hand under her nose just to make sure she was breathing.
As he looked down at that composed, expressionless face, he’d thought of Sara Gunderson lying motionless on the sidewalk so many weeks ago. He hadn’t known whether she was alive or dead at the time, but he did know one thing: wherever she’d gone, she wasn’t likely to come back. And she would never again feel her father’s embrace.
Donovan had vowed then and there never to let his own daughter get away from him again. He would woo Jessie back into his life, and if nothing else, she would always know that he loved her.
Now, as he stood trembling in the street, her terrified cries reverberating through his head, he thought about their volatile reunion and wondered if that message had gotten across. Because now more than ever, she needed to know it.
Hang on, kiddo.
I’m coming to get you.
17
I WANT EVERYTHING you’ve got. Notes, witness statements, forensics—anything that might tell us where that son of a bitch is headed.”
“Now wait just a minute,” Fogerty said, struggling to keep up as Donovan and A.J. strode toward the bus. “I know she’s your kid and all, but I’m gonna have to get authorization for—”
Donovan spun on him. He couldn’t believe this clown was still giving him static. Normally in these situations he’d try to work out some kind of peace agreement, but there simply wasn’t time. Every second was critical.
He looked Fogerty square in the eyes. “Let me be clear about something. You do not want to piss me off.”
Fogerty swallowed and said nothing for a mom
ent, no doubt weighing the pros and cons of continuing this challenge. Then he raised his hands, a gesture of conciliation. “All I can offer you at this point is the tag on the Suburban.”
“You put out a bulletin?”
“APB, roadblocks, the whole nine yards.”
“You hear anything, even a rumor, you bring it to me before it goes anywhere else, or by this time tomorrow you’ll be jockeying shopping carts at the local Wal-Mart.”
“Lighten up, tough guy. I know my job.”
“That remains to be seen.” Donovan turned and climbed the steps into the bus. A.J. followed, Fogerty pulling up the rear.
Inside, two forensic technicians worked quietly. One was hunkered over the driver’s seat, taking samples from the splatter of blood that marked where the driver had been slain. Another was crouched near the center of the bus, next to the side exit, studying something of interest on the plastic-gloved fingertip of his right hand.
Donovan approached him, carefully navigating the narrow strip of protective plastic that covered the aisle. “What’ve you got?”
The technician looked up with a frown, as if to say, who the fuck are you? then shifted his gaze to a spot over Donovan’s left shoulder. He was looking to Fogerty for approval. It would be a while before word trickled down that the Feds were in charge.
Donovan heard a wheezy grunt behind him. “He’s okay.”
The technician nodded, then refocused his attention on the matter at hand. He gestured to a spot on the floor next to him. A grouping of muddy stains.
“Shoe prints,” he said. “Work boots from the looks of them.”
Donovan glanced at the prints and noted a distinctive sole pattern.
Fogerty wheezed again. “They Gunderson’s?”
The technician shrugged. “Everybody and his brother rides this bus, but they fit his general shoe size.”
Donovan crouched, scraped a chunk of dirt free and rubbed it between his fingers. Relatively fresh. Damp to the touch. He held it to his nose, a sharp, acrid smell burning his nostrils. “Fertilizer.”
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