Jim had tried hard to be a different kind of dad, but, well, maybe he hadn't fallen as far from the tree as he'd thought. As he'd hoped. He cleared his throat, pushing aside his doubts. He'd examine them later. “Mark's right, and if anyone should know, it's him. He had similar fears.”
* * *
CJ tore open the envelope. One reason he usually developed his own prints, in addition to the convenience of having the darkroom readily available in the studio, was because he made larger prints right from the beginning. It allowed him to get a good look at the images. As he sorted through the prints, he wished he'd driven over to the studio after all. There was definitely something here. That was obvious as the photos didn’t look at all like what he’d actually photographed. Now, he just had to decipher exactly what he was looking at. He grabbed the loupe he now kept on his desk and held it over the photos. Shit. It looked as bad as he'd thought. It was a bloated body floating in the Chicago River. CJ swallowed hard as he tried to note details from the gruesome image.
What was he supposed to do about it? He didn't even know who the guy was, where or how he'd gone into the river, or even when. The only thing CJ knew for sure is that it was a man. The torn, muddy clothes appeared to be a suit and a tie, although the tie was embedded around the man's neck. CJ rubbed his own neck, a gagging sensation crawling up his throat in a sympathetic response to how tight the silk had become on the victim. He shook his head. The guy hadn't been strangled, at least not that CJ could discern from the image. The length of the tie was appropriate, it was the neck that had bloated around the tie, not the tie tightening around the neck. So, that pretty much ruled out one cause of death. There appeared to be bruises on the face, but CJ had no clue if they had been caused from an assault or a fall. The guy could have somehow plunged into the river, although a man in a suit probably wouldn't be near the river unless he was crossing a bridge on his way to or from an office, and if he fell from one of those in the Loop, it would be all over the news. Of course, by then, it would be too late for CJ to do anything about it.
There had to be a reason he was shown this image. It had to be preventable, if only he knew more. He sighed. Not much he could do tonight but sleep on it.
* * *
It was going to happen somewhere around here. CJ stood at the end of the alley. It was still dark and he hoped he was on time or that he wasn't too early. While his photos had only shown a dead body, his dream had given more information. It was a good thing too, because the photos had shown the bloated body in bright daylight, but the dream had shown him the time the man had been first attacked. CJ wasn't sure the guy died here, but he was certain this was the last time he was okay. That was why he had to step in now and disrupt the timeline.
He only hoped he wasn't too early. Like a day too early, but the time of the murder was just before dawn, and since he'd taken the photos yesterday, which meant today. This morning.
In the dream, it had seemed simple enough to prevent the murder. The victim was leaving a police department, and he'd had a glimpse of the man's badge attached to his belt, so he was a detective. That meant the victim had most likely been caught off guard. CJ decided that if he could just warn the cop, the element of surprise would be lost and the two men CJ had seen in his dream would find a much easier target, or hopefully, change their minds entirely.
The department was just a block from an EL stop and CJ guessed that the commuter train was the destination of the detective when he walked past this alley. CJ hunkered down, not wanting to get caught alone any more than he wanted the officer to be caught. He had his gun tonight and the weight reassuring in his pocket. He hoped he wouldn't have to use it, but he was glad it was available…just in case.
His first thought upon waking had been to get his dad's advice, but when he'd knocked on his door, there'd been no answer, and when he opened the door, thinking his dad hadn't heard him, his dad wasn't there, although the bed was unmade. Then he saw his dad's running shoes were gone. Guess he had an early day at the office. CJ knew he ran early in the morning but thought he usually waited until the sun came up.
CJ reached into his pocket, his hand on his gun. He didn't know when the detective would be murdered or even the true cause of death. The body might have been dumped immediately, or the victim might have lived several hours first for whatever reason—maybe there was a ransom note to come, but there hadn't been one in the dream. Unfortunately, the dream hadn't been specific, just showing him the alley and two shadowy figures. The victim had been walking down the street, his pace normal, not in a rush, but not strolling either. It was probably a trek the man made every day. His head had been down, as though deep in thought, and that was CJ's other clue that this was routine to the man. He was complacent. As an officer, he should know better, but maybe he felt his status as a detective made him untouchable.
CJ had waited as long as he could before he had to leave for the alley, but his dad hadn't returned and he'd cut the time very close, so he had finally headed out without getting a chance to speak with his dad.
Peering into the dim light, CJ wished he could see more. Then came the soft scuffing sound of someone walking on the sidewalk. CJ held his breath to listen. One set of footsteps, or was it two? Was it the victim approaching? CJ thought it was from the direction of the footsteps.
One set of footsteps. Where were the bad guys? He looked down the alley. It was dark and cloudy, just prior to sunrise and streetlights didn't reach this deep into the passageway. CJ turned back to the opening of the alley. In his dream, the shadows had emerged from the alley onto the street, but they hadn't been there long. Just moments. There was as short scuffle, then the victim was dragged deeper into the alley.
The steady beat of the footsteps coming closer made CJ certain it was the victim. There was no attempt made to silence his steps and he wasn't wearing soft-soled shoes, but something with a hard sole. Something a man in a suit would wear. With the victim's location known, CJ inched closer to the mouth from where he'd been lurking about twenty feet back, but as he moved forward, two lumps that he'd mistaken for dark trash bags, morphed into the silhouettes of men.
They reached the victim before CJ, and he cursed his stupidity. Why hadn't he investigated the whole alley? Why had he thought whoever it was would have to pass him to get to the victim? He'd assumed since he knew it was going to happen, that he would have the upper hand and could get there well-before the attackers, but instead, they had been lying in wait this whole time, mere feet from him. Did they know he was there? Well, it didn't matter now if they did or not. CJ darted forward as the victim approached the entrance to the alley. The shadows stalked the officer's movements. The victim's footsteps halted and CJ caught a glimpse of the man's face, but under the orange glow of the streetlights, it was difficult to discern features.
“Hey!” The victim stepped away from the shadows. “Back off! I'm a cop!”
CJ pulled his gun, aiming it at the back of one of the shadows and opened his mouth to order them to freeze, but there came a soft pop, then the victim fell to the ground, writhing. Surprised, CJ watched in confusion. The victim stilled, and the shadows bent, grabbing him under the arms.
“Stop!” CJ steadied his gun, aiming it at one of the shadows. “Let him go!” He guessed that the victim had been shot with a stun gun.
The shadows stopped, whirling to face CJ, one of them letting fly with a string of curses and then the accusation, “Who the hell are you?” Then the man lifted something to his lips and growled an order.
The victim made no noise. The guy was limp between them. Was he dead? Shit! CJ back-pedaled. He was too late. He'd failed again.
He heard a car approaching, the engine racing as it approached. The swing of headlights sliding across the opposite wall of the alley caught CJ off guard. He spun. It was a cop car. Thank god. He'd never been so happy to see a police car in his life.
It stopped a few feet away and CJ kept his weapon on the shadows, but spoke to the cop as soon as the
man opened his door.
“Officer, I just witnessed these men—”
“Shut-up and drop your weapon!”
CJ stared at the end of a gun. Again. This time, he wasn't so much afraid as he was confused. “Wait, I'm not the—”
The cop approached, his weapon never wavering. “Drop the gun!”
CJ complied, leaning forward hands wide from his body as he let his gun drop to the ground. “But—”
The cop kicked the gun towards the shadow men. One of them bent to pick it up.
Another protest formed on CJ's lips but died when the cop kept his gun trained on him. He motioned for CJ to face the building behind him while barking the order, “Turn around, hands on the wall.”
Chapter Seven
CJ shifted his shoulders in an attempt to ease the discomfort. The cuffs bit into his wrists but he didn't complain, not that he could if he wanted to since the cop who had cuffed him was still out in the alley. The car's lights had been turned off, which CJ found odd, considering every time he saw a police officer making an arrest, the lights remained on until they left the scene. He must be arresting the other two guys—the shadows, but where was his back-up? Twisting, CJ looked out of the back window, but other than the faint glow at the far end from streetlights on the intersecting street, the alley was dark.
Headlights flashed for a moment in the mouth of the alley, but only for a moment. A car door slammed, then several minutes later, what sounded like a trunk slammed. Confused, he stretched to see out of the front window, but between the angle of the car, and the darkness, he couldn't make anything out. He slumped back against the seat.
There was a low murmur of voices, but he couldn't make out what they were saying, and a few minutes later, the cop returned to the car. He didn't speak to CJ, but backed out of the alley, which CJ found odd since the mouth of the alley was only a few yards in front of the vehicle.
CJ lost track of time, but the sky was brightening. At this time of year, that meant it must be about six-thirty or so. Finally, the car pulled into a parking lot behind a building. It must be a police station, but CJ didn't see any other cars around, but there could be another lot, a main one where the other police cars were parked when not in use.
The cop exited the front seat, opened CJ's door and hooked CJ's elbow in a tight grip, pulling him from the back seat. The officer practically dragged CJ the few steps from the car into the building, forcing CJ to scurry sideways in order to keep up and not get his arm yanked from its socket.
“I have the right to know why I've been arrested!”
The officer didn't look at him, just opened a door and shoved CJ inside. “Just shut-up.”
CJ stumbled to his knees and rolled at the last second to keep from falling onto his face. “Hey!” He struggled to sit, his shoulder and knees smarting from hitting the cement floor. The door slammed and CJ found himself in a dingy room. He'd call it a cell, but there wasn't even a bed, just a narrow wooden bench bolted to the floor. Where was he? It didn't look anything like the police station where he'd been questioned by Hamilton.
A small window set high in the door let in a square of light, but the single bulb emitted a weak glow that didn't quite reach the corners. With a bit of grunting and a torrent of off-color language, CJ struggled to his feet and over to the door. While he was tall enough to see out, there was nothing to see but the opposite wall. The door was recessed with short walls blocking CJ's peripheral view. He kicked the door and shouted, “Hey! What about the cuffs? Someone come and take these damn things off me!”
Nobody came to the door and he rested his forehead against the lower edge of the window and fought to quell his anger. This made no sense at all. He knew his rights and he knew procedures. He'd aced his criminal justice classes in college and he'd overheard plenty growing up with a father in the CIA. This situation stunk like three-day old fish.
Lifting his head, he listened. A few voices carried to him, but the effect was akin to voices in a garage or warehouse. There was hollowness to the sound. An echo, almost. He glanced around the room. It wasn't a real cell. It was just a locked room with a bench. He walked over to the bench and kicked it but it didn't budge. He noted the bolts holding it to the floor, and hoped they would be loose or rusty, but the bolts held fast. Not that it really mattered. He didn't know what he'd do with the bench even if he could move it. There was no exterior window to look out. That struck him as odd. He scanned the walls and floor, noticing for the first time the faint marks. At one point, shelves had been on the walls, and something had stood for a long time against the far wall. If he had to guess, he'd say this had been a closet at one time. The marks on the floor were probably from a rack or shelving unit. For some reason, the police had decided to use a utility closet for a cell. Why? Why would they use a closet instead of a real cell?
This wasn't a police station. He was sure of it. For one thing, he didn't see or hear any other prisoners. There was no activity he'd noted when he'd been to police stations before. Phones would ring, police radios would blurt out dispatcher code from police radios, and doors would be opening and shutting all throughout the station—especially a police station in a city the size of Chicago. It wasn't exactly Mayberry where the only activity the jail cell would see would be the town drunk.
He sank onto the bench, flexing his fingers to try to get some feeling back into them, but the movement caused his wrists to scrape against the metal circling his wrists and he winced. These things had to come off soon because he could already feel that his wrists had swollen.
* * *
Jim slowed to a walk, cooling down as he approached home. He looked at his watch, calculating his time, and smiled. He'd covered the seven miles faster than he had last week. As he entered the house, he noted CJ's car was missing from the garage. It was still barely sunrise, and Jim wondered what had him up so early. He liked to ride a bike more than run, and when he rode, he usually chose the evening. But his bicycle was still on the far side of the garage. He probably was out using the camera. A few times he had gone out first thing in the morning although not this early. Then he would go into work with the film ready to develop. Jim didn't know why he didn't do that every day. Sure, CJ hated getting out of bed early in the morning, but he'd get used to it in time. Good thing Mark's studio didn't open until nine.
At the office later, he tried calling CJ again. Nothing. What the hell? What was the point of carrying a cellphone if he wasn't ever going to answer it? Granted, maybe he was busy with a client at the studio. Jim blew out a breath. He didn't really have anything to say, just hadn't seen the kid in a few days.
His intercom sounded, and he hit the button. “Yes?”
“Just reminding you of your two o'clock appointment, sir.”
Damn. He'd almost forgotten. “Thank-you.” Jim grabbed his briefcase and headed down to the conference room. His meeting with the Chicago Police commissioner was important. With the war on terror, they couldn't afford to get their lines of communication tangled. The FBI had instituted nationwide mandates to work more closely with local law enforcement, but for Jim, it was more than a mandate, it was his mission. He wanted to forge a stronger connection with the Chicago police. At some point, he was hoping to find someone in the force who could be trusted with the knowledge of CJ and his camera, and if Mark was willing to divulge, with his abilities as well.
Not only would it help smooth over the rough spots when CJ had future photos showing some catastrophe that needed local assistance, but it would give CJ a little more freedom to take action when warranted.
As he checked through his briefcase to make sure he had what he needed, his cellphone rang. Jim almost ignored it. It would serve CJ right, but he had asked him to call when he got the message Jim had left. He looked at the screen and frowned. Mark.
“Yes, Mark?”
“Hey, Jim. Sorry to bother you. I know you're working but I was wondering if CJ was sick or something?”
“Sick? Not that I know of. W
hy?”
“Well, he's not here, and he's not answering his phone.”
Apprehension coiled around Jim's stomach. He shook it off. “Maybe he's using the camera. Or he might have had something to do this morning and didn't have time to call you.”
“Yeah. Maybe. I wondered that and checked the dark room, but it doesn't look like it's been used for a few days, based on the supplies still there. I just stocked it on the weekend and it looks like everything is still there.”
Another thought occurred to Jim and he cleared his throat. “Well, he's been seeing that nurse, Blanche. I suppose he could be with her.” Had CJ gone out after Jim went to bed? Had his car been in the garage when Jim had gone for his run this morning? He couldn't remember.
Mark chuckled. “Damn kid.”
“Now you sound like me.”
“I guess I'm getting old, too.”
“Who are you calling old? I ran my fastest seven miles ever this morning.”
Mark laughed. “Good for you. Anyway, when you hear from CJ just tell him it would be great if he shows up tomorrow. Today was light but I have a full schedule in the morning. I just hope I don't have any emergencies to deal with, too.”
“I'm sorry that CJ blew off work.” Jim shook his head. It was one thing to ignore Jim's calls, but not his employer's. Sure, Mark was CJ's friend as well, but still, he signed CJ's paycheck. “I thought I'd brought him up better than that.” It hurt to say those words.
“No worries, Jim. I just wanted to make sure he was okay. Seriously. He's doing fine here.”
* * *
CJ lay on his side on the bench, his legs pulled up. His arms were still cuffed behind his back. The pain had faded in his wrists, but that worried him even more. He couldn't feel his fingers. He'd tried again to get someone's attention by another attempt to kick the door down, but nobody had responded, and he finally retreated to the bench once more. He tried to get comfortable, take a nap, but with his arms behind him, he didn't have anything to pillow his head and the angle was painful on his neck. He gave up and swung his legs back to the floor and straightened to sit on the edge of the bench.
Capture: A Crime Thriller (CJ Sheridan Thrillers Book 2) Page 6