SOME DEAD GENIUS

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SOME DEAD GENIUS Page 28

by LENNY KLEINFELD


  “Scrapes and bruises from climbing a wet tree in the dark. FBI flew him out of here before dawn.”

  “And the Feds who rode with us?”

  Mark summarized. The SWATs were aces. Lost only one man despite getting jumped. Four FBI seriously wounded, but they’d make it. Everybody else was dinged but still standing.

  The SWAT who bought it was the guard they’d posted at the entrance to the driveway. When the shit went down he circled in behind the shooters and nailed the fuck firing the RPG. Saved everybody’s ass except his own.

  There were seven dead shooters. But no prisoners, because the surviving shooters pulled out, and the FBI didn’t chase; had casualties to tend to, their trucks were shot up, and oh yeah, their first priority was to come find out what was left of you me and Dale.

  Doonie looked away, thinking. Looked back at Mark. “The shooters musta got there right before us. Had no time to search for Dale before we showed up.”

  Mark nodded.

  Doonie muttered, “That car and van, passed us right after Dale called.”

  “And those cones blocking the exit ramp.”

  Doonie took a sip of water. Looked at Phyl. “Throat’s all dry. Couldja run down the cafeteria and grab me a popsicle or something, hon?”

  “No,” Phyl said, glaring. “Doctor said no work, no stress. None.”

  Silence.

  Phyl and Doonie looked at each other like two people who’d spent twenty-seven years married to the right person.

  Phyl turned to Mark. Said, “Five minutes.” She gave Doonie’s foot a grudgingly affectionate squeeze and left the room.

  “We ID the dead shooters?” Doonie asked.

  “Three American, ex-military, ex-Blackwater. Four Mexican, ex-military, wearing Zeta ink.”

  Doonie stewed. Said, “Langan dimed us.”

  “Yeah. But probably not to Cousin Eddie”

  “Cousin Eddie’s the one wants Dale not talkin’ about Branko.”

  “Dale already isn’t talking about Branko.”

  “Think Eddie wants ta gamble the little shit won’t crack once the Feebs start bustin’ his balls?”

  Mark said, “I think going Full Metal Jacket on cops and FBI doesn’t say Cousin Eddie. He likes invisible. So does Cousin Eddie’s cousin.”

  Doonie sighed, disappointed in himself. “Fuckin’ concussion… You’re right, Langan’s for rent, and the Mastrizzis gotta stop Dale. So Gianni goes for one last great big swing a the dick before he dies…”

  After a moment Mark said, “I’ll keep you posted. If you stay off the booze. Totally. For a month.”

  One Hundred-Twenty-One | 2012

  Mark was in the hospital cafeteria, about to have his third all-soup meal of the day. His throat wanted nothing to do with solids.

  Before eating, Mark checked his cell: No missed messages.

  During one of his few free minutes that afternoon Mark had tried to contact JaneDoe. His burner was at home, so fuck secrecy, he used his regular phone. Called JaneDoe’s burner. Left a voicemail. Called her cell. Left a voicemail. Called her landline. It had been disconnected. Mark emailed and texted. No response.

  Mark dipped the spoon into the soup—his phone vibrated, incoming text—Mark grabbed it.

  Rarey.

  Last Mark had checked on him, early this morning, the kid was out cold. Now he was asking Mark to come to his room.

  • • •

  Rarey was sitting up. His leg was immobilized. Had a laptop on his tray table. His eyes were a little glassy but had no trouble focusing on Mark’s swollen multi-colored neck.

  “Awesome impersonation of a turkey in heat.”

  Mark croaked, “Shit, you haven’t had surgery yet—I was hoping for post-op zombie.”

  “Nope. Taking a chopper to Midway, then I hop a plane to Baltimore. There’s this dude at Johns Hopkins who’s the best orthopedic surgeon in the universe, and went to high school with my Dad.”

  “Uh-huh.” Mark, indicating the laptop, complained, “You’ve been working.”

  “Haven’t you, multiple wounds and all?”

  “Yeah. What’s wrong with us?”

  Rarey grinned. “How’d those mercs know to follow us, and how did they listen in when Dale called?”

  “You got something?”

  “Daryl Langan was at home when Dale made his first call, telling you he was in Rockford. Right after that, a burner phone placed a call, via the cell tower by Langan’s house, to a burner using a cell tower in Downer’s Grove. Right next to ZeeZeeZ Bowlarama, home of the Mastrizzis’ underground HQ.”

  Rarey paused to gauge Mark’s reaction. Rarey gave up. “Langan and your other superiors gathered at your HQ to monitor the op. But Langan said he was having unpleasant stomach issues, so for everybody’s sake he went to his office and listened on his computer. Thirty seconds after Dale’s second call, giving us directions to the cabin, that same first burner made another call, this time through your HQ tower, to that same second burner at ZeeZeeZ.”

  Rarey held for applause.

  Mark said, “That’s not enough to indict Langan.”

  “It’s enough to lean on him, see what happens.”

  “Nothing, unless he’s had a sudden lobotomy and forgot to dispose of the burner.”

  “You really see Langan skating?”

  “No.” Mark rasped. Flat. Cold. “I see you doing brief interviews with everyone who had access to that feed, except Langan. I see you grilling Langan for six hours. After which I see you floating a rumor you’re negotiating a deal for Langan to flip on the Mastrizzis.”

  As Mark’s plan for the FBI to get Langan killed sunk in, Rarey’s expression went uncharacteristically serious. Just for a moment. A grin returned. The small, sly grin of a man who’d heard what he’d been hoping to.

  “Gotta love that hardcore Chicago pragmatism… And your Chicago status is about to get amazing. First you ace that shooter at the Art Institute, then you wipe out three mercs and save the witness who’s gonna bring down one of the top Mob families in America.”

  “Only the boss and Junior. The Outfit will abide.”

  “Still. Medals, promotions, crazy publicity. Superhero cop, dude, you’re gonna be hangin’ with the upper echelon of your Department. And City Hall—what pol wouldn’t want a Mark Bergman photo op—and Mark Bergman at the dinner table. The stories you could tell.”

  “Spit it out,” Mark instructed.

  “This afternoon,” Rarey told him, “my people interviewed Dale. He swears Branko had nothing to do with the art murders. I think Dale’s lying and his files have been sanitized. So do you.”

  “So?”

  “Dale has to be doing this for someone who has a huge need to make the Branko connection disappear—and huge enough clout to get to Kurnit to get to Dale. The only guys who fit that profile are at the top of the Machine’s food chain.” Rarey again paused. Mark again said nothing. “Superhero cop is going to use his super-powers to get close to certain of those gentlemen.”

  Mark looked at his watch.

  Rarey sighed. “Ah c’mon, Mark. You know my bosses are hardcore DC pragmatists. They’ll Kryptonite your ass from superhero to disgraced, fired, and jailed.”

  “You got nothing puts me in jail. You tapped privileged conversations.”

  “Maybe. Still leaves disgraced and fired.”

  “Disgraced? More like cooler than shit. I’d improve from badass who wasted four heavies to badass who wasted four heavies and slept with a serial killer suspect and was right about her being innocent. All you can do,” Mark croaked, “is get me fired.”

  “Which is why you’ll say yes.”

  “No.”

  Rarey gave Mark an empathetic look: I feel ya bro, totally respect that you need to go down swinging.

  Then he said, hard, “Mark, we both know you won’t give up the job.”

  “Try me.”

  “You can’t give up the job, because… What else have you got?”

  Ma
rk didn’t know the answer. JaneDoe hadn’t called back.

  Rarey waited. Patiently. A new weapon in the wunderkind’s arsenal.

  Didn’t work. There was a quick knock and a nurse entered, followed by a gurney propelled by a burly orderly.

  “My ride’s here,” Rarey explained. “Want a lift? I can chopper you to Midway.”

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  Sooner Mark got home the sooner he could head over to JaneDoe’s apartment. The one with the disconnected phone.

  One Hundred-Twenty-Two | 2012

  Home at last. On the zero percent chance JaneDoe had phoned his burner, Mark fetched it from his desk, turned it on and, sure enough, didn’t find the message she hadn’t left.

  Driving wasn’t an option. Mark called a cab. Covered his neck with a light wool scarf before he left.

  • • •

  He buzzed, he knocked. He peered in a window. The lights were off.

  He went round back to the alley, checked the parking lot. Seven vehicles, none of which was a red Subaru Forester.

  Mark called Lila Kasey.

  “Hello Mark.”

  “Hi. How you doing?”

  “Christ, Mark, your voice—what happened?”

  “Laryngitis.”

  “Uh-huh,” Lila scoffed. “The news said that gunfight near Rockford had to do with your Art Critic case, and two Chicago cops were wounded, so I’ve been just a touch—you and your partner all right?”

  “We’re good. Thanks.”

  “Are you in a hospital?”

  “No.”

  “Well that’s something,” Lila said. Stopped there. Waiting for him to broach the topic she knew he was calling about.

  He broached. “Lila… Tell me where she is. Please.”

  A small soft silence.

  Lila quietly said, “She left something for you.”

  Mark took a cab to Lila’s.

  • • •

  Lila eyed a blotch of lurid skin that was bulging over the top edge of Mark’s scarf. She reluctantly placed a set of keys in Mark’s hand. Held his hand in both of hers. Advised, “You don’t need to go there tonight.”

  Mark kissed Lila on the cheek and went back to JaneDoe’s apartment.

  • • •

  Most of JaneDoe’s things were still there.

  And something human-shaped was sitting on the couch, hidden under a black sheet. There was an envelope propped on its lap. Addressed to Mark.

  Dear Mark,

  Lila’s going to put my stuff into storage, and sell the furniture. If you want any of it, it’s yours. Like I would’ve been. Was. Tried to be.

  Could’ve sworn I was tough enough. Imagine my surprise.

  Europe.

  Turns out Paris wants to meet me. So does London. Frankfurt, Barcelona, Copenhagen, Milan and Lausanne. If my dealer can be believed. And I always do. So I’m off to make New Art for the Old World.

  My last Chicago piece is under the sheet. It’s yours. Whether you want it or not.

  J.

  Mark contemplated the lump under the black sheet.

  He whipped the sheet off and flung it away, in what he hoped was a dramatic enough gesture to satisfy JaneDoe.

  The foam costume—interactive bio-kinetic sculpture—wasn’t one of JaneDoe’s robot/animal/alien hybrids. It was fully human, almost.

  It was him.

  A Chicago cop. Wearing a real uniform.

  But no hat. His hair was just like Mark’s.

  His face had no features. A blank oval. Wearing dark sunglasses.

  There was no hand at the end of his right arm; there was a gun growing out of his wrist. Growing out of his left wrist was a daisy chain: three pairs of linked handcuffs, the first shiny silver, the second matte gray, the third jet black.

  The front of his pants was packed with an enormously intriguing bulge.

  There was a square hole in the left side of his chest. Suspended in the hole, where a heart would be, was a gold badge. There were two tiny LEDs imbedded in the center of the badge, pulsing red, then blue, then red, then blue.

  Mark re-read JaneDoe’s note.

  Nothing in it said she didn’t want him to chase her.

  It said she needed to know how many thousand miles he’d chase her.

  And, Mark was pretty sure, when he caught up with JaneDoe she’d need to hear what he’d say when she informed him she’d be living in Europe for at least a couple of years.

  He needed to hear what he’d say, too.

  Tomorrow he’d put in for indefinite leave and fly to Pari—

  Mark’s cell rang. Rarey. Mark took the call. “Hi. You all right?”

  “I’m cruisin’ at forty thousand feet.”

  “And exploiting your wounded-FBI-puppy status to get away with using your phone in front of the other passengers. Rude.”

  “You slander me, sir. I’m on a private jet.”

  “Which of your parents went to high school with the plane’s owner?”

  “Neither—Uncle Jeff’s like thirty years older than my folks. Preliminary ballistics are in.”

  “Email it.”

  “Remember that wounded merc who was about to kill you, but took a round in the back of the head?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “The slug in his brain didn’t come from any of our weapons—”

  “So it was friendly fire.”

  “And it isn’t a match for any of the weapons we retrieved.”

  “It was friendly fire from one of the mercs who got away.”

  “Mark, we were all throwing mad lead. Every slug retrieved was one of many fired by every weapon in that firefight. Except that slug. It was the only round fired by this particular weapon.”

  “Which means the shooter ran out of ammo for his primary weapon, he pulls a back-up piece, fires one shot, kills his own guy, oh shit, and hauls ass.”

  “I don’t think so. We got a match. This slug came from the same rifle that killed Jay Branko.”

  “Which means the pro who took out Branko was also one of the mercs who amb—”

  No. Rarey was right. If that shooter had been one of the ambushers there’d be a pile of dead cops.

  The pro who killed Branko for the Mastrizzis saved Mark from being killed by the Mastrizzis.

  What the hell?

  Epilogue

  After the job was done she didn’t leave Chicago. She did what Stephan Densford-Kent had worried she’d do.

  She resumed The Hunt. Stalking Him. Learning Him. Getting right next to Him and toying with Him. Taking her time. Years. As many as necessary. Until she devised the perfect moment and method. Had to be perfect. Once in a lifetime, love of a lifetime perfect. Arthur perfect.

  • • •

  She tailed Him back to His apartment. He seemed to be in for the night. She had dinner and returned to her hotel. But an hour later she got an alert from the tracker she’d attached to His car.

  He was headed in the general direction of her hotel. It was easy to pick Him up along the way.

  She tailed Him to an office building in the west Loop. He drove into the building’s underground garage. She parked down the block and waited.

  While she was waiting, a black sedan parked across the street from the garage entrance. No one got out of the sedan.

  An unmarked police car emerged from the garage, with Him at the wheel. His partner was riding shotgun and there was a third man in the back seat.

  His unmarked car was followed by an armored van and an SUV with darkened windows.

  The black sedan pulled out and tailed them. A moment later a large van—must have been waiting nearby—got in line behind the sedan; reinforcements.

  Interesting.

  She tailed the tailers.

  • • •

  Just south of Rockford the black sedan and large van suddenly hit the gas and sped past His convoy.

  A couple of exits later He slowed, wanting to pull off—but the ramp was blocked. His convoy sped up. Got off at th
e next exit and drove across the overpass to get back on southbound.

  She couldn’t follow them through that maneuver without being noticed. She tore ass to the next exit, got back on southbound, took His exit and tracked Him by following the glow of the lights from His convoy. She cut her own lights when she began to catch up.

  She pulled over as she neared an intersection where they’d just turned, and their glow paused. She walked to the intersection and peered down the road. Just in time to see the SUV entering a side road into the woods.

  She got her gear out of the trunk. Put on boots and night vision. She entered the woods, moving quietly, aided by the pattering thrum of the steady rain. Which saved her life, because as she neared the place where His convoy was stopped, opposite a vacation home, she came up behind men hiding in the woods, aiming weapons at Him and His team.

  His car began to move. It stopped at a shed near the house. Someone dove out of the shed and into the back seat.

  He put the car in gear and a war erupted. He drove into the sheltered space between the shed and the house. The house exploded.

  Three of the ambushers stopped shooting and ran in His direction.

  She started to pursue but had to hit the dirt when SWATs blasted away at an ambusher she was passing behind—or maybe the SWATs were shooting at her, they had night vision.

  She crawled until she was out of range of the driveway firefight. She got up and moved quickly toward a faint strobing of muzzle flashes deep in the woods.

  When she got there He was still alive. But an idiot with an Uzi was about to change that. She removed the idiot.

  Nobody but her gets to kill Mark Bergman.

  • • •

  Dina Velaros flew back to Switzerland, contemplating perfection.

  Notes

  Dina Velaros is not that mysterious a character. Her life and motives are an open book. The book’s title is Shooters And Chasers.

  The Art Institute’s collection of armor and weaponry was removed from Gunsaulus Hall in 2007. This novel is set in 2012. Fortunately it takes place in a slightly alternative universe, where the weaponery is still in Gunsaulus.

 

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