DIRTY BLOND

by Mark Terry

  “Think Makatashi knows?”

  “Sure. He’s a pretty normal guy, too, for someone worth a billion dollars or so. Have you met him?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you think?”

  Derek paused for a moment to consider. “He seemed very smart and very pleasant and I think the first part is true and the second part might be bullshit.”

  Ohara looked surprised. “I’ve met him. He is pleasant. Very friendly in a traditional Japanese way. I mean, he’s sort of reserved, as least by American standards.”

  “He may very well be friendly and sociable and a nice man,” Derek said. “But he started an international corporation that does government contracts and he’s still running things. He’s cut-throat.”

  And he hired a known assassin to act as his bodyguard and security consultant when he suspected someone was murdering his people.

  “What the hell?!” Ohara said.

  Derek glanced at the computer monitors. Tossing the coffee in the trash, he sprinted for the parking garage, Ohara at his heels.

  Guy was standing in front of a black Cadillac in a classic Weaver stance, a massive Desert Eagle in his fists. Two men were standing, hands in the air, screaming at Guy, who was yelling, “I said freeze! Freeze, motherfuckers! I said freeze!”

  Behind him, Ohara said, “Oh shit. Ikeda.”

  As they drew closer, Derek saw that one person was a young African-American, probably about twenty. In a dark suit, white shirt and red tie, he was heavy-set with a round face and heavy black-framed eyeglasses. He looked totally terrified, eyes wide, the whites completely visible. His hands were laced on top of his head.

  The other man was older, probably in his forties, tall, muscular, Asian, with carefully gelled and styled black hair, in an expensive-looking, obviously tailored navy blue suit. His hands were up in the air, but unlike the younger guy, he didn’t look scared. He looked pissed.

  “…put your weapon down. I don’t know who you are or who you think I am, but I’ll have your badge. I’ll sue you—“

  “Mr. Ikeda,” Ohara said, “my apologies. This has been a horrible misunderstanding.”

  “Guy,” Derek said quietly. “Ease up.”

  “This is the guy!”

  “Too old,” Derek said. “And not the guy.”

  Ikeda turned to Derek. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Agent Derek Stillwater, Department of Homeland Security. This is my associate, Guy LeClare. We’re a little on edge. We have an ongoing situation—“

  “Why don’t I know about this!” Ikeda demanded, turning on Ohara. “Who are you? What’s your name?”

  “Ito Ohara, sir. Agents Stillwater and LeClare are working with Mr. Makatashi on a security problem. This has been a misunderstanding.”

  The black guy was still standing with his hands on his head, not moving.

  “Guy,” Derek said. “Gun away.”

  “Oh yeah.” He tucked the handgun into his shoulder holster. “Sorry.”

  “I’ll have your badge! What’s your name again?”

  Derek intervened. “Mr. Ikeda, I assure you that not only is this a very serious and imminent situation, it’s a matter of national security for both the U.S. and Japanese governments. This has been a misunderstanding and I apologize for any distress or inconvenience this has caused you.”

  “What is this all about?” Ikeda demanded, turning on Derek.

  Derek glanced at Guy and Ohara, then gestured for Ikeda to step out of earshot. In a low voice, Derek said, “Mr. Ikeda, there have been several deaths of either employees of the company or individuals related to government contracts—“

  “Yes, I know. Itsunori Sato, with the Japanese consulate was one of the victims of the Chemist.”

  Glancing back at the three other men for a moment, Derek took Ikeda’s elbow and nudged him further away. In a conspiratorial whisper, he said, “Mr. Ikeda, this is a matter of national security. I’m counting on your cooperation and confidentiality. You can speak of this matter with Ichiro Makatashi, but no one else. You understand?”

  “Yes, yes,” Ikeda said, “of course.”

  Derek felt confident he now had the situation defused. “Itsunori Sato was not killed by the Chemist,” he explained. “He was the victim of a copycat killer, a hired assassin, a Japanese hired killer known as the Ronin. Mr. Makatashi is believed to be the next victim. And several other key figures in specific government contracts have already been the victim. That’s why Agent LeClare and I are here. And why my partner is on something of a hair trigger. Again, thank you for your confidentiality and I’m sorry for any inconvenience.”

  “Ken Maeda? Bill Blackstone?”

  Derek nodded. “Please keep this confidential.”

  “They were assassinated?”

  “Yes.”

  He snapped his fingers. “You’re the guy on the news! That guy, the one in the video, he’s the killer?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re expecting him here? Today?”

  “The media exposure and multiple investigations are applying a lot of pressure. He’ll either abandon the job or try to get it done sooner than later.”

  Or bide his time and wait for law enforcement to move onto the next murders or crisis. It was Chicago. There was plenty of crime to keep everybody busy.

  “I understand.”

  “Sorry for the misunderstanding.”

  “Very well.” Ikeda turned, glared at Guy, then said to the driver, “Sorry for this Glenn. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Ohara said, “I’ll escort you inside personally.”

  “No need,” Ikeda said, almost insulted by the idea he would need special security. “I can handle myself.”

  And he headed toward the door. When he was inside the building, Ohara blew out a big breath of air. “Man, that was close. Jesus, Guy, man. That’s the CIO. And he’s a ballbuster. I could’ve lost my job.”

  Glenn the limo driver snorted. “Still might. I don’t know what you were greasing him with, but it must be good shit, man, ‘cuz Mr. Ikeda is not the forgiving type.”

  “You’re good to go,” Derek said. “Drive safe.”

  Glenn climbed back in his Cadillac and drove in a circle to leave the building. Guy said, “How was I supposed to know?”

  “Just because you see a Japanese dude in a limo or a big black car doesn’t mean he’s our guy,” Derek said quietly.

  “But jeez—“

  Derek held up his hand. “It’s okay, Guy. Better too careful than not careful enough.”

  His phone rang. Glancing at it, he saw it was Sandy. “Gotta take this. Don’t shoot anybody else.”

  “Unless it’s the Ronin.”

  “Yeah,” Derek said. “Unless it’s him. Unless you’re sure it’s him.”

  He put the phone to his ear. “What’s up, Sandy?”

  66

  Sandy

  We did a drive-by on the location Hacksta gave us. And sure enough, parked on the street in a meter was the car, apparently empty.

  “Now what?” Orville said.

  I sighed. “Find a parking spot where we can keep an eye on it, hope he comes back.”

  “That’s what I was afraid you were going to say.”

  Orville was driving, and he drove another two blocks, then did a U-turn and came back, pulling into an empty slot about a block from the rental car.

  We sat there for ten minutes.

  Fifteen.

  Twenty.

  Orville yawned. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. Long night.”

  “Want me to go take a look at the car?”

  I thought about that for a couple seconds. I nodded. “If you want. Don’t, like, find a dead body in the backseat or anything.”

  “I’ll try not to.”

  “And be c
areful.”

  “Not a problem.”

  He climbed out of the car and started walking down Jefferson. A car drove by, a Hispanic woman, probably headed to or from a job. She looked like she was wearing a suit.

  Why was the rental car here? Had the Ronin abandoned it? Or was he in the area? And if he was in the area, why?

  The car was parked just down from the 290 expressway, pretty close to Tyson Foods. We were parked by the JeffJack Apartments.

  Was it possible the Ronin was holed up in one of the apartments?

  I watched Orville lumber down the street, disappearing into shadows, reappearing in the pools of light cast by streetlamps, vanishing under trees or behind parked cars, reappearing.

  He walked by the rental car, paused, glanced in. Stopped. I saw one hand on his gun.

  A light flashed. Flicked, flashed. Went out.

  Orville was coming back.

  After a few minutes he climbed back in. “Nothing.”

  “What’s around here?” I said. “I’ve got the apartments here. Heritage Green Park’s back behind us.”

  “Well, Al’s Italian Beef,” Orville said. “Dylan’s Tavern. Epic Burger. Mughal India. Tyson Foods. Uh, the Chicago Immigration Court. Lou Mitchell’s. Union Station’s a block…”

  He trailed off and I looked at him. “What?”

  “Deluxe Chicago Limo.”

  We stared at each other. “That would be a hell of a coincidence,” I said.

  “Yeah, but Sandy, it’s just dispatch and offices. They don’t keep the cars there.”

  Orville had a point.

  I dialed Stillwater. He answered immediately, which was refreshing.

  “What’s up, Sandy?”

  I told him where we were.

  “Huh. If he were just going to ride in a limo, he could be anywhere, though. Why abandon the car there? Assuming it’s abandoned.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What else is in the area?”

  “Office buildings. Apartments. Lofts. Restaurants. An Urgent Care office.”

  “He could be anywhere.”

  “Quite possibly. In an apartment. In an empty office. Anywhere.”

  There was silence on the line.

  “Any ideas, Derek?”

  “No. This is the best I’ve got. You?”

  “I don’t know. Just a feeling he’s in the area. It’s the rental car. It may just be parked, not abandoned.”

  “Okay. We’re starting to get some early birds here. Keep in touch.”

  I hung up. Orville said, “So we sit and wait.”

  “It’s the best I’ve got.”

  “Yeah. You want to take a nap?”

  “No, you go ahead.”

  And with that, Orville settled his seat back, closed his eyes, and was sawing logs within seconds.

  67

  Derek

  Derek thought, I’m not as young as I used to be.

  Staying up all night on surveillance, chugging coffee … it probably wasn’t ever all that much fun after the first time, but he sure felt the years and the mileage this night.

  He and Guy sat in the car sipping fresh coffee, watching cars come in. The number of them were picking up now and Derek noted a large number of Lexus’s, Infiniti’s, and Toyota SUVs. Probably because it was a Japanese company, he reflected, although there were plenty of BMWs, Mercedes and the occasional sports car in the mix—one or two Tesla’s, a few Porsches, a couple Corvettes.

  “You sure this is gonna happen?” Guy asked.

  “No.”

  “Huh. You mind I go take a walk?”

  “No. Go ahead. I’ll be here.”

  Guy lurched out of the car, striding toward the security office and the entrance to the building. Once he was out of sight, Derek texted Sandy.

  Anything?

  No.

  The excitement and drama of investigations, he thought.

  Of course, it was only yesterday that Ronin was shooting at him from a sniper’s nest, tried to run him over while doing a drive-by shooting.

  There was such a thing as too much excitement.

  He sat up as a black Cadillac SUV pulled in. It was being driven by an Asian guy who didn’t look anything like Ronin, but there was someone in the back seat he couldn’t see because of the window tint.

  Coiling, ready to jump out of the car, the vehicle pulled up close to where he was parked. The driver came out and opened the door and a woman in a tight navy blue skirt about two inches above the knee, a burgundy silk blouse, and a navy jacket climbed out carrying a briefcase. She was Asian, probably Japanese, he guessed in her late thirties or early forties, dark hair worn in a stylish fashion to her shoulder, black-rimmed glasses.

  He was glad Guy wasn’t around, because he’d undoubtedly make some off-color, sexist comment.

  Although, Derek reflected, she was pretty hot.

  The woman said something to the driver, smiled, and entered the building.

  The driver jumped back in and pulled away.

  A few minutes later, after three more cars came in, Guy appeared.

  “Anything?”

  “No. Quiet.”

  “How much more time are we going to give it?”

  Derek gave that some thought. “A couple hours.”

  “That’s it?”

  “You’re welcome to spend the day. But I’m not sure we’ve got the manpower to cover this building around-the-clock.”

  “’Whatever you say, boss.”

  Derek snorted.

  “What?” Guy asked.

  “I don’t get the impression that you’re a follow-the-leader type of guy, Guy.”

  “Yeah, got that straight. So…”

  “So we wait.”

  68

  Ronin

  From the window of the empty apartment, he watched the fat cop walk down and inspect his rental car. He knew the cop was Sandy Beach’ regular partner. What he didn’t know was how they had managed to find his location. His respect for the two cops went up considerably.

  When he came into any city on a job for any length of time, he made a few calls to various apartment and office buildings, asking about possible lease deals. What he was really doing was creating a list of empty apartments or offices.

  If everything went to hell—as it more or less had—it gave him a bunch of bolt holes.

  The fact that Beach and her partner were in the area complicated matters. Simple enough solution, though.

  Using a burner phone he’d picked up at a big-box store, he called the limousine company. “Hi, this is Walter Cho. I’ve got a slight change of plans. Could you pick me up at Union Station instead of the apartment. I’ll be there.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Cho. That’s no problem.”

  After he hung up, he dressed for the job—navy blue suit with a faint chalk pinstripe, white linen shirt, maroon power tie with a light blue pattern, black leather shoes.

  A Beretta nine millimeter with an extra magazine in a shoulder holster beneath the jacket. Everything the well-dressed assassin needed.

  Returning to the living room of the empty apartment, he pulled up the handle of the rolling suitcase, shouldered a gym bag, and headed out of the apartment, down the elevator to the rear entrance.

  69

  Sandy

  I slapped a hand to my forehead. “Oh, duh.”

  Orville, half-asleep, said, “What?”

  “Time for me to go be a cop. You stay here.”

  I pushed open the door.

  Orville caught my wrist. “Sandy? A little background here, please?”

  I pointed down the street to the limo office. “There are people there, right? Dispatchers, probably. Time to go talk to them. Stay here. Keep an eye on the car. And the apartment building. And everything else.”

  “Sure. Watch your six, Sandy.”
/>
  I trotted down the street to the offices of Deluxe Chicago Limo. I tried the door. Locked. I knocked on the door. When nothing happened, I looked around for a buzzer. A moment later I was pounding and buzzing.

  Finally, a burly black guy in khakis and a denim shirt appeared. He cracked the door. “We’re not really open for the public.”

  I held up my badge. “Can I come in?”

  He opened the door the rest of the way, looking up and down the street. “What’s this about?”

  Once inside the anteroom, he tucked his hands in his pants pockets, looking down at me.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Jason Hirsch, Lieutenant. I’m the night dispatcher.”

  “Do you have pickups this morning?”

  He cocked his head. He was maybe six-foot-five, a big hulking guy with hair shaved close to his scalp, otherwise clean-shaven.

  “About thirty or so.”

  “Uh, hmmmm. Any Asian-sounding names?”

  He made a face. “I’m not sure if I should even be talking to you about this.”

  “So far you’re good. You haven’t provided proprietary or private information.”

  “Mmm. Not sure my boss would agree with you. Can you tell me what this is about?”

  “We have a suspicion that a professional killer is going to use a limo service this morning. He’s Asian.”

  “That dude on TV last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I can tell you that some of our passengers this morning have Asian names, but I don’t know how we can help you narrow it down.”

  “Maybe by destinations.”

  He shrugged. “Most are going out to O’Hare. A couple aren’t.”

  “How about to the Makatashi Building?”

  Pay dirt, I thought, seeing Jason’s eyes brighten in recognition.

  “Yeah,” he said slowly. “In fact, we just had a change on that.”

  My heart hammered in my chest. “What? Tell me.”

  Jason swallowed, thinking for a few seconds. Finally, “Client’s name is Walter Cho. Our driver was supposed to pick him up, actually, right down the street, the apartment building there. He just called a little while ago, saying he needed a change, he wanted to be picked up at Union Station.”