“Ah, love,” he sighed, sounding equal parts amused by Mark’s ardor and concerned about surviving Mark’s driving.
Mark gave no sign of having heard Rarey, or, moments later, a radio squawk reporting the good news that the subjects were unharmed. He floored it all the way.
Skidded to a halt at the scene. A SWAT team was setting up a perimeter around the Suburban, and unis were evacuating the block’s residents.
Mark and Rarey hurried to the military-serious SWAT commander, who was trying to determine if there was anyone in the Suburban by issuing bullhorn commands to “step out of the vehicle!”
Wasn’t getting a response.
Mark introduced himself and asked, “Anybody see him get in the truck?”
“No.”
“The building been swept?” Mark asked, indicating Lila’s three-flat.
“Been cleared basement to roof,” the SWAT commander told him.
“The subjects been evacuated?”
The SWAT commander gave his head one crisp shake. “Got unis guarding them—didn’t want to bring ’em out till we know where our psycho perp is. Or isn’t,” he said, returning his gaze to the Art Critic’s truck.
Mark studied the Suburban. The tint on its windows was so heavy the bleaching glare of the helicopter’s spotlight didn’t penetrate.
The SWATs’ night-vision wasn’t showing a thermal signature inside the vehicle, but the goggles weren’t reliably sensitive enough to rule out a man crouched low behind the truck’s doors.
The SWAT commander told Mark, “Frodo’s on the way.” Frodo being one of the Department’s miniature robo-tanks, employed to inspect dicey locations. “Be here in ten minutes.”
Which meant ten minutes or maybe thirty. And then Frodo’s wizards would get him moving anytime from instantly to a wide range of not instantly.
“Need to know if Tesca’s in there,” Mark said, “or if he ran when he saw the chopper and realized we made his truck. If he’s gone we need to get after him.”
The SWAT commander said, “Not risking my men for that. Just you and me. And you go first.”
“Me too,” Rarey volunteered, to make sure the FBI would share credit for the bust.
Which would be broadcast live—news choppers were swarming, and camera vans were piling up at either end of the block.
Mark and Rarey strapped on Kevlar. They and the SWAT commander rushed the Suburban.
Mark grabbed the driver’s door handle and yanked.
The door opened—Mark lunged in, sweeping his flashlight and muzzle through the SUV.
“Clear!”
Mark withdrew from the SUV, whipped out his phone and ordered balls-out ground and aerial searches of the vicinity. He asked the SWAT commander, “The subjects see or hear him?”
“Subject said her doorbell rang—haven’t heard the details, been busy since I got here,” the SWAT commander replied. Then added, with what might have been a shadow of a hint of a grin, “Been running my ass off all day, thanks to you.”
Right. The Art Institute gala this morning, a million years ago.
“You can buy me a drink when you cash the overtime,” Mark said. “Which apartment are the subjects in?” As if he didn’t know.
“Third floor.”
Mark looked up at it.
Yup, that’s where JaneDoe was.
Standing in the front room’s bay window.
Alive.
Looking down at Mark.
Looking up at her.
He heard the SWAT commander yell, “Tell those assholes get her the hell out of that window!”
A moment later Mark saw JaneDoe react to something said by someone behind her, then a uni put himself between JaneDoe and the window.
Mark murmured “Thanks” to the SWAT commander, for issuing the order Mark should have.
“De nada,” the SWAT commander said, regarding Mark with what was definitely a shadow of a hint of empathy. “You’re having the mother of all fucking crazy fucking endless days.”
“True.”
And the next part of that endless day would be Mark interviewing the subjects, Lila Kasey and JaneDoe.
With Agent Rarey at Mark’s side, relishing the moment.
Eighty-Eight | 2012
Late at night, climbing the stairs to Lila’s apartment to see JaneDoe. Just as planned. Except for how this secret reunion was gonna take place in front of Mark’s happy FBI handler.
And except for how JaneDoe’s reaction to the news about the FBI bugs had been worse than Mark’s worst-case imaginings. So much so, she and Lila hadn’t been answering or looking at their phones and computers.
Mark had no idea how JaneDoe was about to react to being forced to look at him, let alone him accompanied by one of her FBI buggers. Coming right after she’d been a minute or two away from getting murdered. Goosed by the epic amount of booze and weed she’d surely been doing.
• • •
The aroma in Lila’s apartment was awesome. Got awesomer as they entered the living room, where JaneDoe and Lila were seated on the couch. They, their empty bottles of Hospices De Nuits, and their ashtrays full of Dunhill stubs and fat roaches were guarded by a sergeant and two unis armed with street-sweepers. Good weapon for decimating serial killers, not much defense against second-hand smoke.
As Mark and Rarey walked in, Lila stood and said, “Hello.” Her expression neutral. Not giving Mark any kind of meaningful look.
JaneDoe remained seated, wineglass in hand, giving Mark a look so meaningful a dead man could pick up on it. Fortunately the look’s most obvious meaning was I hate you, which the unis would take to be business as usual.
“Ms. Kasey, JaneDoe,” Mark said. “Sorry your big evening turned out this way. Glad no one got hurt.”
“Detective Bergman, the knight in dull black armor,” JaneDoe drawled, referring to his Kevlar and so much more. “Catch the Art Critic yet?”
“No,” Mark said. “I understand he tried to get in here.”
“Maybe,” Lila said. “Someone rang the intercom but when I picked it up they didn’t answer.”
JaneDoe frowned at Rarey, as it dawned on her Mark’s partner was totally not Doonie. “Is Detective Dunegan all right? Was he the officer who got hurt at the Art Institute?”
“Cuts and bruises. He’s okay.” Mark returned to Lila before Rarey had a chance to introduce himself. “Did you hear anything—breathing, any noises?”
Lila shook her head. “Nothing. But a minute later we heard squealing tires, someone peeling off down the street, big hurry.”
Fuck. “Did you see—”
“No. Whoever it was was gone.”
“What makes you so sure,” JaneDoe demanded, “the Art Critic was after me? I mean considering you used to think I was him.”
“His SUV followed you from the restaurant, and now it’s parked across the street,” Mark told her.
“Why the fuck didn’t you bust him before he got here?”
“We just recently spotted him on the tapes, then found out from your attorney where you’d eaten dinner.”
“We tried to warn you by phoning and messaging—but you weren’t responding,” Rarey said, going right at the curious part of the women’s behavior.
JaneDoe educated the naïf: “Not responding is a response.”
“To what?” Rarey wondered.
Lila, bless her, jumped in. “JaneDoe’s been harassed by the media for weeks, tonight needed to be pure celebration. No intrusions.”
Mark said, “Speaking of the media—”
“That’s not a Chicago badge,” JaneDoe noted, squinting at Rarey’s shield.
He grinned. “Special Agent Nicolas Rarey, FBI.”
JaneDoe went dead still. Deciding exactly what she was going t—
“Speaking of the media,” Mark repeated, “they’re out in force. But they don’t know who you are, yet. For your privacy and safety, let me sneak both of you out of here and put you in a guarded hotel room for a couple of d
ays.”
“And if we haven’t nailed the perp by then,” Rarey promised, “my people can extend your stay.”
JaneDoe locked eyes with Rarey.
“My privacy means that much to the FBI?”
“Yes,” Mark cut in, “which is why Agent Rarey and I have to go chase down this creep. So if you ladies will excuse us.”
“Don’t count on it,” JaneDoe warned.
Eighty-Nine | 2012
As Mark and his ebullient young handler walked back to the car Mark called the POD unit: “Drop whatever you’re doing and see if any vehicles tailed the Suburban from One Sixty Blue to Kasey’s house. Thanks.”
Rarey grinned. “The Mastrizzis are looking for Tesca, and now Tesca disappears from Kasey’s doorstep in a blaze of squealing tires. I love this case.”
“You amused by the possibility they got to him before we did?” Mark asked as they got in the car.
“No, but I am enjoying the ride,” Rarey said, buckling his harness. “Besides, maybe those weren’t Mastrizzi tires. Maybe Tesca had an accomplice, who picked him up.”
Mark started driving.
“Or,” Rarey continued, “maybe Tesca fled on foot, the squealing tires had nothing to do with him.”
“Wanna put money on either of those?”
“Shit no. But if the Mastrizzis did grab him—not ideal, but not a disaster.”
“Except for the part where Tesca could’ve told us why Gianni and Lou were after him, maybe connect them to his Whack An Artist game.”
“We can nail them for Tesca’s murder.”
“Call me when you find Tesca’s corpse. It’ll be next to Hoffa’s. You’ll get to sew two Mafia merit badges on your sash and make Eagle Agent.”
Rarey studied him. “You in such a jolly mood because Tesca might be gone… or because JaneDoe kept kneeing you in the balls just now?”
“Tesca.”
“Okay. But still, dude—why’s she so angry at you? Why wouldn’t she be happy to finally see her man?”
“Maybe she was faking it to make all you other cops think I’m just another pig she hates.”
“Maybe. But why did JaneDoe especially hate me?”
“You’re the supposedly smarter FBI, but you’ve been helping make her life hell instead of busting the guy who nearly killed her tonight.”
“But that crack about the FBI being concerned about her privacy… Sounded almost as if she knew about the bugs.”
“Nick, if I were stupid enough to violate FISA secrecy statutes by warning JaneDoe, I would’ve been smart enough to do it before she had a chance to blab about her and me.”
Rarey gave a wry, equivocal shrug.
“Tell you, what, though,” Mark said. “If it turns out you lied about removing the bugs, I’m gonna be pissed off enough to inform her lawyer.”
Rarey considered that. Grinned. “See? You’re having fun too.”
Ninety | 2006
Torture. Until tonight it had been just a word. Tonight he was learning pain was a living thing, sentient lava studded with broken glass, blistering its way through his veins, howling mockery at his helplessness, turning every single second into a slow nightmare. And Jay Branko had been like this for three hours. Alone in his office. With nothing to ease his torment.
Booze or pills weren’t options. Jay couldn’t afford to be buzzed if Lou called with news about Tesca; Jay’s life depended on how he handled that call.
If it came. The Mastrizzis might not catch Tesca tonight. Or ever. Or maybe they already had caught Tesca, and learned Tesca hadn’t put that hit on Dale Phipps. So there wouldn’t be a phone call. Just a bullet or an explosion when Jay went down to the garage and got in his car.
Could Lou arrange a hit so fast? Unlikely. Maybe Jay was safe tonight no matter what.
Shit no. That’s the kind of lazy assumption—
His burner rang.
Showtime.
Jay gathered himself. Answered with a relaxed, “Hey.”
“Hey.”
“How things?” Jay asked.
“Can’t complain,” Lou said. “Main deal is done, and we’re getting after that little side deal.”
“My man! Now that is the shit. “
“I am, and it is. I’ll be in touch when there’s more news.”
“I know it’ll be good.”
“Awright. Now you sound like the old you.”
“C’mon, bro, that was just due diligence, me on the sensible business tip. My thang. But you gotta know I’m down with you, my bruthah, knew you’d make the smart call, and tonight’s the proof.”
“Damn straight. So you hang loose.”
“Always.”
Jay hung up, sighed, and vomited in the wastebasket.
• • •
Lou hung up and looked at his father.
Gianni raised a questioning eyebrow.
“Jay was kissing ass and putting his heart in it.”
Gianni grinned. Somewhere an angel died, and three more turned in their harps and took early retirement.
Ninety-One | 2006
“Hello?… Hellohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…”
G’bye.
Lila’s words and Tommy Tesca flowed away from each other, Lila’s voice turning blurry gray and getting sucked like smoke back up into the intercom, simultaneously with Tommy being sucked down a gooey black drain that opened seconds after the needle jabbed his neck, he tried to fight but someone stole his bones and he was pouring down the soft soft black drain and then he was the blackness.
• • •
He woke shrieking. His bones had returned. Someone was hammering on his finger. Then the other nine, one by one. Then some of his crushed fingers were ripped off.
Fuckin’ huge hairy cazzo in no shirt and a rubber apron doing the job.
Next to the cazzo, also in an apron, staring down at Tommy, was bald, bony old Vin The Blacksmith Santoro. Got the nickname back in the day for the number he did on a horse trainer. He was one of the Outfit senior citizens who’d been at the christening at Lou Mastrizzi’s house, wondering why the fuck Tommy was there. The Blacksmith was Gianni Mastrizzi’s oldest, closest, most loyal tool.
“Hiya Tommy.” He let out a bemused snort. “Who’d’a thunk a useless fat turd like you, get so fuckin’ famous.” The Blacksmith gave Tommy an approving pat on the cheek, then removed his eyes.
And on and on. And on.
The Blacksmith and the cazzo gave Tommy a sendoff a saint would envy. When they’d worked themselves to exhaustion and Tommy was three hundred pounds of breathing raw hamburger that was about to give up on the breathing, The Blacksmith sent the cazzo away.
The raw hamburger heard what sounded like a heavy metal door slam shut. The crap you notice at a time like this, heh.
The Blacksmith pulled up a chair and put his lips close to the raw hamburger’s ear. Hissed, “Gianni says to tell ya ’bout the first time he fucked your big-tit whore mom. Long time ago, before you was born. Fucked her up the ass then fucked her in the cunt without wiping her shit off his dick. And that’s how you happened, Tommy. That’s what you’re fuckin’ made of… Gianni says if you’da turned out even a little bit like him you’da been a made man, you’d’a almost been family. But ya turned out the brown stuff on his dick.”
The raw hamburger’s weak, wheezy breathing quickened.
Then slowed.
But didn’t stop.
Torn, bloody lips trembled their way into a sneer.
Tommy exhaled something too labored and faint for The Blacksmith to tell if it was words.
“Speak the fuck up.” He placed his ear by Tommy’s mouth.
“Ash… ash…”
“Ash?”
“Ash-kuh…” Tommy enunciating as best he could with most of his teeth gone or shattered.
“Ask?”
“Yesh… Yoo, yoo ash-kuh… myee Da-duh… “ The word made Tommy chuckle and gag up blood. “Yoo ash-kuh myee Da-duh… how come, heh, he din’ cu’ yoo in onnuh�
�� shcaw.”
“Score? What score?”
“Bigges’ fucshin’ evuh… An’, an’ wuz all my ’dea-uh…”
“What idea? The fuck wuzzit?”
“Wush, wush… myee… myee, mash…”
“Your wha’?”
What remained of Tommy’s lips formed a jagged grin.
“Mash…duh…peesh.”
“The fuck?!?!” The Blacksmith demanded.
Tommy wouldn’t say.
The Blacksmith thumped and pumped Tommy’s chest.
Tommy just laid there being dead, mutilated and satisfied.
Ninety-Two | 2012
The POD unit found footage of a beige van following Tesca’s Suburban. Got a shot of the plate. The plates came up stolen. And the beige van disappeared into the southwest ’burbs.
• • •
A snitch ID’d Vuk Stetenich—the Serbian wheelman. The FBI grabbed Stetenich at O’Hare as he was boarding a redeye for Frankfurt, connecting to Belgrade. All the Feds got out of him was that Zerbjka’s crew was hired by someone throwing around elephant dollars; best money Stetenich had ever almost made.
• • •
Dale Phipps’ amazing face had gone viral. Resulting in two Phipps sightings.
Both turned out to be teenagers with killer acne who’d been dimed by witty classmates.
There was no clue as to where the real Dale Phipps was tonight. Mark and Rarey began assembling timelines matching where Dale, the other faces on the murder board and their money had been during the past seven years.
• • •
At 3 A.M. Mark and Rarey went to tell Husak what they’d come up with. Husak was asleep in his chair. But as Mark and Rarey began to back out of his office, Husak woke and, yawning, insisted they brief him.
Mark told the tale. Detectives had been interviewing anyone with a connection to Dale. One of Dale’s ex-girlfriends said in 2005 Dale was so frantic for cash he’d taken back a Laurie Desh canvas he’d given her, so he could sell it to pay off his debts. This happened a few days before Desh was murdered, after which the value of Desh’s paintings jumped.
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