“I can get on the PA, tell him to holster his weapon and come back to the office,” Mueller offered.
Mark shook his head. “Let him finish.”
“You don’t want to let him know something’s wrong, while he’s out there with that Sig in his hand,” Mueller surmised.
“Affirmative.”
Branko would recognize Mark and Rarey, so two Feds and two cops waited for Branko inside the door where he’d re-enter the building. Mark and Rarey remained in the tower where they could keep an eye on Branko while he was on the course.
A mechanical Muslim swung out of an alley to Branko’s left—he whirled and fired—nothing happened, he’d drained his clip. Branko popped the empty, slammed in a fresh load—too late, the bad guy had snapped back out of sight.
“Bummer, dude,” Rarey sympathized, “drive all the way out here thinking this was going to make you feel safer…”
Branko came to a halt. The wrecked Humvee was directly ahead. Branko scanned both sides of the street, checking every door and window.
Branko edged forward, gun in a combat grip—
A terrorist popped out of the wrecked Humvee’s turret—
This time Branko raised his weapon smoothly, took a moment to aim before—
Branko jerked backward and landed on his back, looking as if he’d just lost a gunfight with a plywood jihadi.
The wound in Branko’s forehead and the blood leaking from it looked real. Mark was betting the shot was fired by a biological gunman somewhere in the darkness out past the far end of the tactical course.
One Hundred-Three | 2012
The Kane County TV Star placed a tripod on the spot where Branko had been standing. There was a laser mounted on the tripod, raised to the exact height at which the bullet met Branko’s forehead. The Kane County TV Star tilted the laser so it was at the exact angle of the entry wound. He turned the laser on. It pointed to the exact spot the bullet had been fired from.
Forty feet up the service ladder on a transmission tower a good 400 yards from the Prairie Storm Tactical Shooting Course.
• • •
Mark and Rarey worked through the night. Shuffled into Husak’s office after 11 A.M..
“According to Nardelli,” Mark yawned, “nobody in Gianni’s crew makes that shot. Hadda be a specialist.”
“Yeah,” Rarey enthused, “dude who makes that shot, you know he’s gonna have a whole lotta game.”
“So this specialist was also tailing Branko, but we didn’t spot him,” Husak groused.
“He wasn’t tailing Branko,” Mark declared. “No way the shooter finds that firing position in the dark. So—”
“He knew where Branko was going. How’d Branko make the reservation?” Husak asked.
“Online. Someone’s been snooping on Branko’s computer—TV Stars found spyware.”
Husak’s phone rang. He answered, listened and hung up. “Ballistics. The slug that killed Branko was a .300 Winchester magnum.”
“No matches in the database,” Rarey predicted.
“Nope.”
“A whole lotta game,” Rarey repeated, pleased to be adding a high-end assassin to the FBI’s already yummy menu of targets.
There was a quick knock on the door and Doonie strolled in.
“Morning, gentlemen,” Doonie said.
“Just barely,” Husak said, with a pointed glance at his watch.
“Loo, I got here soon as the doc took his thumb out of his ass and pressed the back-to-work button. Hi,” Doon said to Rarey, then looked at Mark and said, “You need a nap.”
“Thanks Mom.”
“Hey, you’re not as young any more as he is,” Doonie replied, indicating Rarey. “We find out who Branko met at Teddy Flynn’s the other night?”
“Nope.”
“So,” Doonie mused, “Dale Phipps is all we got left, assuming the Mastrizzis ain’t done him too.”
“So Doon,” Husak asked, “what’s your idea for locating Dale?”
Doonie thought it over. “Let Mark sleep on it, see what he comes up with.”
Mark went to Homicide’s crash rack for a couple of hours.
When Mark returned he found Doonie staring accusingly at his computer.
“What?” Mark asked.
“Pure crap.”
More forensics had come in. The shooter hadn’t left prints or trace on the tower. Or footprints in the dirt around it; he’d pulled his car up to the tower’s concrete base. The tread marks in the dirt were from middle-of-the-line Hankooks, found on millions of boring, nobody would give a second glance compact sedans.
“So what’s your idea for finding Dale? “Doonie asked.
After a moment Mark said, “We knock off at six and grab a drink.”
• • •
They knocked off at seven-forty, having made the same lack of progress they would have if they’d knocked off at six. Or five, or four.
Had their traditional working dinner, burgers and bourbon.
Mark inquired how Phyl and the kids were doing. Doonie caught him up. Mark asked how the cuts on Doonie’s back were doing. Doonie said, “They only hurt when I talk about ’em. How’s our girl doing?”
Mark gave an ambiguous shrug.
“You sayin’ you ain’t been in touch, or you have and things ain’t so good?”
Mark said, “Only hurts when I talk about it.”
So they discussed the case for a few minutes, then gave up on that too.
• • •
Mark tried to read a novel. His eyes dribbled down the page. Mark thought about calling JaneDoe.
No point. Even if she’d agree, it’d be insane to set up another visit; no way to be sure he’d be able to show. And that would be the end of things. Assuming things weren’t dead already.
But they could talk on the phone, if JaneDoe didn’t hang up when she heard his voice.
Or was she waiting for him to call? And getting angrier when he didn’t.
Or should he just go over there right now—
Mark’s landline rang. “Hello.”
“Is that you, Detective Bergman?” A whispery voice.
“Who’s calling?”
There was the sound of tense, trembly breathing. The voice finally brought itself to say, “Dale Phipps.”
One Hundred-Four | 2012
Dale was watching as the morning news shows excitedly tore open the latest gift from the ratings gods: Chicago construction magnate Jay Branko had been assassinated by a sharpshooter—while Branko was blasting his way through a Special Forces combat arms course. The police were refusing to comment, freeing the networks’ guest speculators to wallow in the obvious military and/or espionage implications.
Dale’s emotions were mixed. On one hand Dale was pleased Lou had hired an exponentially more competent shooter to kill Jay than Jay had hired to kill Dale. On the other hand every last one of Lou’s competent killers were now hunting Dale. On the third hand Dale was facing the hard fact his escape plan was a bust. Had no idea how to hire someone who could sneak him into Canada—even as a white male. Forget the results if he were a veiled Muslim woman.
Maybe he could find a place in the woods where he could sneak across on his own… As if he could navigate in the wilderness, let alone survive in it.
But he couldn’t sit in this motel until his cash ran out or Lou’s muscle showed up.
• • •
Dale wired money from a Liechtenstein account to his lawyer in the Caymans.
The Caymans lawyer contacted Chicago criminal attorney Ross Kurnit. Instructed Kurnit to buy a burner phone.
Dale called Kurnit. When the lawyer learned Dale would be ratting out the Mastrizzis, there was a moment of hesitation, then he upped his fee.
The Caymans lawyer wired a retainer to Kurnit. If the cops traced the payment, all they’d get was the routing number of a Caymans bank.
• • •
The veiled Muslim woman took a six-hour bus ride to Gary, Indiana. When t
he cops traced the cell tower her call came through, it wouldn’t be in Detroit.
She took a cab to Indiana University Northwest. Campuses were less freaked out by diversity. And the cell tower wouldn’t be at the bus station.
She found a funky vegan coffee house where people would be too hip to stare. Drank tea and chewed a chalky muffin, killing time and appetite until it was late enough to try contacting Detective Bergman at home.
Bergman’s phone was unlisted, but it had taken only a couple of minutes online to find out he owned a condo. Plus the address, phone number and how much Bergman paid for his one-bedroom 820-square-foot unit.
The veiled Muslim woman went into one of the coffee house’s unisex bathrooms. Locked the door. Phoned a cab company and asked for a pick-up in five minutes. Then she phoned Bergman.
“Who’s calling?”
Her throat tightened. She forced herself to breathe. “Dale Phipps.”
Two seconds of silence.
“It’s good you called. Let’s get you safe, tell me where you are and I’ll bring you in.”
“Not yet. I want full immunity.”
“From what?”
“Everything I’ve ever done.”
“What do I get?”
“Lou and Gianni. Murder, money laundering, tax evasion. And the name of their next target.”
“That might work. How do I contact you?”
“You don’t.”
“You gonna call this phone?”
“Or your cell, or your office line. It’ll vary.”
Dale hung up. Took the cab to the bus station and returned to Detroit.
One Hundred-Five | 2012
First call Mark made was to tech services, to trace Dale’s call.
Second call was to the Gary, Indiana police.
Third was to Husak.
Husak picked up. “Yeah?” There was a TV playing.
“Sorry to call at home, Loo. I just got off the phone with Dale Phipps.”
Husak said he’d kick the news up the chain, set up a meeting of the relevant parties for as early tomorrow as possible.
Fourth call Mark made was to Nick Rarey. It went to voicemail. Mark hung up and redialed. Voicemail. Mark hung up and redialed. Voicemail. Redial.
Rarey picked up, panting heavily. “This better be the best phone call ever, you prick.”
“I’ve asked the Gary, Indiana cops to sweep the area around the cell tower Dale Phipps called me from fifteen minutes ago. Wouldn’t hurt if you guys got down there too.”
“Done! What’d he want?”
“A free ride and witness protection, in exchange for the Mastrizzis.”
Rarey quietly luxuriated, “O-kayyyy.”
“Nick, wipe the grin off your face,” Mark advised. “Don’t let her see how happy you are you stopped and answered the phone.”
One Hundred-Six | 2012
Mark briefed the well-dressed sober-faced visitors in Husak’s office: senior FBI agent Sten Ostergaard, and Assistant U.S. Attorney Lee Kelley.
“My home and office lines are programmed to forward calls to my cell, so there’s no way I can miss Phipps’ call,” Mark concluded, to assure the Feds the local yokels had all their digital ducks in a row.
The Feds then assured the yokels they’d have no problem getting their legal ducks in a row. All the statutes Phipps violated—except the murders—were federal. The Feds were fine with granting immunity on those if Phipps could deliver Mastrizzi father and son. After which Phipps disappears into witness protection, and, in the half-dozen states where Phipps was at the very least an accessory to murdering an artist, the local prosecutors would have to swallow it.
“Phipps’ attorney should call me, fast,” Kelley told Mark. “But tell Phipps if he can deliver Gianni and Lou, don’t wait for the paperwork—I guarantee the deal, he should turn his ass in before it gets shot off.”
“Got it,” Mark said. He asked Ostergaard, “Any progress in Gary?”
“Nothing yet. You’ll know soon as I do.”
The meeting ended on that collegial note and the Feds made their exit.
“Get any sleep last night?” Husak asked.
“Enough.” Mark turned to leave Husak’s office. Saw Doonie seated at his desk, glowering across the room at three plainclothes cops who were walking into the bullpen: Two young ones, and a tall gaunt vet who had small eyes and a long face coated with three days’ worth of gray-white stubble, which emphasized the desperation of the dark brown dye job on his comb-over.
The three detectives were heading for Husak’s office.
“Langan sent us some fresh bodies,” Husak explained.
“Sent us?” As in, You didn’t request?
“Said he knew we’ve been burning it at both ends, wanted to make sure we had enough manpower.”
“Generous,” Mark observed. Wasn’t a compliment.
“Don’t look a gift horse,” Husak advised.
As Mark returned to his desk, he saw Doonie exchange cold-eyed, nominal nods of recognition with the tall gaunt comb-over.
The three fresh bodies entered Husak’s office.
“Who’s the one you hate?” Mark asked Doonie.
“That’s Phil Adams.”
Adams… The lazy fuck who’d booted the Laurie Desh investigation. And was under the protection of no less than Cousin Eddie.
Doonie gave Mark a significant look, urging him to put it together.
Bridgeport. Two nights ago Jay Branko has that cloak and dagger meeting in Bridgeport with some theoretical clout-heavy Irishman.
Last night Branko gets shot.
This morning Cousin Eddie’s pet rat gets assigned to this task force.
If Cousin Eddie asked to see the daily reports, DC Langan was the type who’d oblige. But that wasn’t enough. Cousin Eddie needed real-time updates and boots on the ground. Why?
Mark said, “He needs to get to Dale.”
Doonie agreed.
One Hundred-Seven | 2012
Husak ordered Mark to remain at his desk. If Phipps rang, Husak preferred Mark take the call here, not on his cell while driving a car or interviewing a witness. Husak also ordered Doonie to park his ass, because with those goddamn stitches in his back Doonie shoulda stayed home altogether.
Mark and Doonie spent the next five hours building a case for how they both shoulda stayed home altogether.
The Feds and the Gary, Indiana cops turned up squat on Phipps.
There was no progress on the Branko murder.
At 2:17 P.M. Nick Rarey called with the first good news of the day.
There was a coffee house in Gary two blocks from the cell tower. A woman, Dale’s height, wearing a burka, had been there last night—at the time Dale called Mark. When Burka Woman left, there was a cab waiting.
The cab driver’s log showed he dropped off Burka Woman two blocks from the bus station.
Security-cam in the waiting room showed Burka Woman sitting twenty minutes, then going out to board one of three red-eyes: Detroit, Chicago or Indianapolis. But the boarding area camera was on the fritz.
The Feds were trying to contact the drivers of the three buses to determine which one Burka Woman took; in the meantime agents in all three cities were checking the bus terminals for footage of Burka Woman disembarking.
Mark and Doonie went to Husak’s office and gave him Rarey’s news.
“I’m betting Detroit,” Mark said. “Sizable Muslim community.”
From behind Mark and Doonie, someone asked, “Phipps is in Detroit?”
It was Phil Adams, standing in the open doorway to Husak’s office.
“We’re not sure,” Husak said. “You got something?”
“Nah, been dry-humping all day, just got back,” Adams drawled.
Mark was keeping Adams away from the real investigation; he’d assigned Adams to re-interview Tesca’s clueless family and associates. So the lack of results was no surprise. Neither was Adams knocking off at 2:35. Or Adams eavesdropping in Hus
ak’s doorway.
“Got anything else for me?” Adams asked Mark, half-heartedly pretending he wanted to get back to work—
Out in the bullpen Mark’s desk phone rang, and micro-second later so did the cell in his pocket.
“Shut the door,” Husak told Adams.
Adams decided that meant close the door behind him and join them in the office.
Doonie glared at Adams.
Mark put the call on speakerphone. “Bergman.”
Dale said, “Hi. It’s me. How’d my proposal go over?”
“Gangbusters.”
“Good one.”
“Thanks. If you can deliver, the Feds will give everything you asked for.”
“Tell them to call Ross Kurnit.”
“Done. The US Attorney says not to sweat the paperwork, he guarantees the deal. He wants you to do the sane thing, let the FBI bring you in right now.”
“Soon as the paper is signed.”
“Dale—”
“And you have to be the one who brings me in. I won’t call again until I’m ready to go. See ya.”
The line went dead.
Husak asked Mark, “Why you?”
Mark thought it over. “The museum. I saved his life, then when he ran I didn’t shoot him.”
Husak got a call from a phone tech: Phipps’ call originated in Lansing, Michigan.
Mark’s cell rang again. Rarey, even happier than usual.
“Burka Woman’s in Detroit, got footage of her getting off a bus this morn—”
“Dale just called from Lansing. Get people to the Lansing bus station—and the Detroit terminal, in case Burka Woman’s already on her way back there—shit, you find out she’s on any bus going anywhere, intercept the motherfucker.”
One Hundred-Eight | 2012
That morning, an elderly man left Dale’s motel on foot. Stopped a few blocks away and hailed a cab. The cab took him to the dispatch office of a car service. The elderly man paid cash to hire a town car, for a long drive. To the other side of the state.
• • •
SOME DEAD GENIUS Page 24