“Which should be tomorrow, once he reads the paper.”
I looked at my watch. Visiting hours at the hospital were until eight p.m. I needed to get going.
“Jack, you have something on your cheek.”
Rick did the mirror reflection thing, wiping his own cheek off. I wiped in the same spot.
“Did I get it?”
“No. Here.”
He reached for me, caressed my cheek, and our eyes locked and I couldn’t believe I fell for that stupid trick, but I didn’t pull away, even when he moved in and placed his lips against mine.
I didn’t kiss him back.
Well, not at first.
His lips were warm, soft, and when the tip of his tongue entered my mouth, something snapped in me and a little sigh escaped my throat and I put my hands behind his head and pressed his body against mine.
He grabbed me by my waist and picked me up out of the chair like I weighed nothing, and then his hands were on my ass and mine were on his ass and—damn, did he have a great ass.
As our mouths fought for better purchase, his hand came around my hips and undid my front button, or perhaps just tugged it off, and then his fingers touched the top of my panties and he was a few inches away from seeing how excited I really was. Then common sense overrode hormones and the World’s Worst Fiancée pushed him away.
“I . . . can’t,” I said between deep breaths.
“Sure you can. I bet you’re really good at it.”
I wanted him, but a small voice inside me said I was just using sex to cope with all of my problems. Then another small voice tried to convince me that there was nothing wrong with that, sex was a perfectly acceptable way to cope, and that voice was louder than the first. And then a third voice, louder than both of the others, reminded me about a boyfriend on a ventilator whom I was afraid to marry because I feared making mistakes.
And then it all made sense.
“I’m afraid to get married because I’m afraid I’ll screw it up,” I said, surprised at the self-realization. “So I’m subconsciously trying to sabotage that.”
Rick reached for me again, but I kept him at arm’s length.
“I . . . I fear failure,” I said to Rick. But it wasn’t really to Rick. It was more to myself. “So I’d rather cop out of a situation than take a chance. I mean, look at me, I’d rather sabotage a good thing instead of giving it a try.”
I stared at Rick, who somehow had his shirt open—had I done that?—revealing as nice a chest as I’d ever seen outside of a movie.
“I’m going to see my fiancé,” I told him.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. I’m really sure.”
Rick smiled. “He’s a very lucky man.”
I checked my pants button, and saw that he’d also gotten the zipper down. I zipped them back up, suddenly embarrassed.
“If it doesn’t work out . . .” Rick said, letting his voice trail off.
But I knew it would work out. I’d make sure it would work out. I loved Latham, and I’d do everything within my power to make our marriage succeed.
“We’re not going to happen,” I told Rick, pointing at him and me. “I’m sorry.”
Rick sighed, then buttoned up his shirt and left my office, closing the door behind him.
I adjusted my blouse and realized he had unhooked my bra as well. How the hell had he done that so fast?
The phone rang, and I knew deep in my heart that it was Latham, and he was conscious again, perhaps even well enough for me to screw his brains out.
But it wasn’t Latham. It was Hajek at the crime lab.
“I’m a genius, Lieutenant. A certifiable genius.”
“What happened?”
“I got the license number. And even better, I traced it.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning we’ve got the bastard’s address.”
CHAPTER 19
“WHAT’S THE ADDRESS?” I asked.
“Don’t you want to know how I did it?”
Hajek spoke with the same enthusiasm as a child showing off the construction paper snowflake he made in school.
“Give me the quick version.”
“JPEG compression didn’t work, and neither did resizing or noise reduction, so I used a program that could change the blur width by—”
“You’re a genius,” I said, interrupting. “What’s the address?”
“But changing the focus points wasn’t enough. I had to rearrange the pixels using—”
“The address, Scott.”
He sighed. “Vehicle belongs to a Tracey Hotham. Her apartment is on Thirty-first and Laramie in Cicero.”
“Did you run priors?”
“Of course. No records. I checked DMV, and her license had expired. So I tried Social Security, and found out Tracey died six years ago.”
“How?”
“I didn’t dig that deep. But you can ask her parents. According to 411, they’re still living at the Cicero address.”
Two scenarios came to me simultaneously. Maybe they no longer had the car, or maybe a member of Tracey’s family was the Chemist.
I yawned. Not from boredom—my lack of sleep was catching up with me. “Nice work, Scott.”
“Thanks. Maybe we could discuss it over dinner.”
“Sure. I’ll call you tomorrow, during dinner.”
I hung up, my fingers pressing the speed dial for Herb before my mind remembered he and I were no longer a team. I hit the disconnect button.
Abruptly, I felt very alone.
I could get in touch with Bains, have him assign me a new partner, but that wouldn’t happen today. I wasn’t even sure I wanted a new partner on this case. I didn’t like wearing a bull’s-eye, and didn’t want to hang one on anyone else.
Calling Rick wasn’t an option. I didn’t want to see him again unless I was wearing a suit of armor. I could try Scooterboy Buchbinder, but going solo was preferable to hearing him wax prolific about the World’s Largest Road Apple. Before leaving Willoughby’s, he had taken me aside and confessed that right before the unfortunate collision, he’d sworn the manure pile looked exactly like the Lincoln head on Mt. Rushmore.
“I keep seeing it. President Lincoln’s face, getting cleaved in half. And that haunting, squishing sound . . .”
The guy had issues. More than issues—he had a whole subscription.
So I had no choice. I’d be going stag to Cicero.
On my way to the car, I called the Cicero police, and was bounced around until I connected with a sergeant named Cooper.
“You think the Chemist lives in our burg?”
“I have no idea. As of now, the Hothams are persons of interest. It’s your jurisdiction, if you want someone there.”
“We’ll meet you at the apartment. You need a warrant?”
“I just want to ask some questions. Don’t . . .” I thought about walking into Alger’s house. “Have your people wait for me before they go in. This guy likes to set traps.”
And then I hopped in my car and headed for Cicero.
The drive only took fifteen minutes. Cicero bordered Chicago on the west, blending into it seamlessly. Mostly Hispanic, a population of around eighty thousand, middle class, blue collar, more like a neighborhood of Chicago than a distinct town.
Their patrol cars were black with silver accents, and there was one of them at the address when I arrived. It was empty.
On the drive over, I’d gotten a little sleepy. But this put me into full alert mode, complete with adrenaline sweat and a tug of nausea. They’d gone in without me.
I dug out my .38 and stared at the apartment building. Three stories, brick, dirty beige. Black wrought iron railing along the walkway, rusty and broken. Security windows on the first floor. Front door open a crack.
I hung my star around my neck, drew in a big breath, and went through the door.
Hallway was well lit, the walls freshly painted. I took the stairs two at a time, up to the second floor and 2-C, where the Hot
hams resided. Their door was also open a few inches. I nudged it with my shoulder, peering into the apartment but keeping my face well away from the crack.
I heard static, then, “Car seventeen, this is base, please copy.”
“Police,” I announced. “I’m coming in.”
I eased the door open, still not daring to breathe the air coming out of the apartment.
I saw the legs first. Male, black shoes, sidearm still in his rocker holster.
“Seventeen this is base, what’s your twenty, over.”
He lay on his back, bloodshot eyes wide, mouth hanging open and coated in froth and mucus. I didn’t see any movement, but I knew I needed to check for a pulse to be sure.
The problem was, I didn’t want to go into that apartment.
I parted my lips, still not breathing, but trying to taste the air, to see if it was safe. I didn’t taste anything.
“Is anyone inside this apartment?” I said loudly.
No answer.
My options were to call for backup, or go inside and look for possible survivors. If this was the Chemist’s apartment, it could be booby-trapped.
“Car seventeen, this is base, please respond. You there, Smitty?”
I let in a tiny bit of air. It seemed fine. No strange smell. No physical reaction, other than a strange sense of déjà vu that I’d been in this same situation before, which wasn’t déjà vu at all.
But this time, I didn’t have a space suit.
I went in, crouched next to the fallen cop, probing his carotid. Nothing. So I reached for the radio clipped to his chest.
“This is Lieutenant Daniels, Chicago PD. We have an officer down at 1730 East Thirty-first, apartment 2-C. Request immediate assistance.”
The radio crackled a response, but I wasn’t paying attention; my eyes focused on the two people sitting on the couch.
A man and a woman. Early sixties. She had brown hair, cut short, with gray highlights. He was mostly bald. Both wore glasses. Both stared straight at me.
Both were dead.
It took a moment to realize that. After the adrenaline startle, I stood erect and took a few steps toward them. Their eyes were dry, lifeless. Their faces devoid of color. They held hands, and I noticed the lividity blush to their fingers, where the blood had pooled.
What killed these people?
My paranoia kicked up to near panic, and I looked up, down, left and right, in every direction I could, for traps, for gas, for IEDs, for poison, for anything dangerous or out of place.
Cobwebs on the ceiling. A clean carpet. An easy chair. Two floor lamps, glowing. A window air conditioner. A large floor-model humidifier, silent. Photos on the walls, of the old people. It was their house.
“Is anyone in here?” I shouted.
No response.
I walked past the fallen officer, through the living room, nice and easy, aware of my center, my footing, my balance, eyes sweeping the floor for wires and fishing line.
Another cop was in the kitchen, facedown on the tile floor, a pool of vomit surrounding his head like a green halo. Gun clenched in his fist. No signs of any injury, just like his partner.
Had they surprised the Chemist, and he dosed them all and then ran out?
Or had they run into some of his improvised traps?
Or was the Chemist still inside, waiting with his jet injector?
The phone rang, and my finger flinched. I was a millimeter away from shooting the dead cop before I caught myself and eased back on the trigger.
It rang again. I stared at the phone, one of those older desktop models the phone company once called “Princess,” on the kitchen counter between a coffee machine and a tabletop humidifier—apparently the Hothams preferred a humid household.
I moved in closer, searching for trip wires or switches attached to the phone. It seemed untampered with. On the third ring, I picked it up.
“Hello?”
“Who is this?” A male voice, whispering.
“Lieutenant Daniels, of the Chicago Police Department. Who am I speaking with?”
A pause. I could hear him breathing. Slow and even, like a metronome.
“You know who this is, Lieutenant. Did they assign you a new partner yet?”
Anger overrode anxiety. “Why are you doing this?”
“You’re the cop. You figure it out.”
I clenched the phone so tight, my knuckles turned white.
“You’re killing innocent people.”
“No one is fully innocent,” he rasped. “Especially not the police.”
“How about these people in this apartment? What did they do to you?”
“Unfortunate, but I needed the car. I believe the government would call them casualties of war, or collateral damage.”
“We’re not at war.”
“I am.”
I waited. An old police trick. Give a suspect silence, and he’ll fill the silence with talk.
“Are you wondering if I’m a terrorist?” the Chemist finally said. “I’m not. I’m not out to cause terror. I’m out to cause pain. An eye for an eye. And I might as well make a little money along the way. Have you decided to pay me?”
“Yes. The ad will run tomorrow. If we pay you, you’ll stop this?”
He chuckled.
“You’re very attractive. Not like that younger woman, the blonde. She had a better body, but she didn’t have that look that you have. The haunted look. You’ve seen things, I bet. Done things. Any sins to confess, Lieutenant?”
I knew I could get the phone records, trace this number, but he probably knew that as well. Why did he call? To ask about the money? To see if there were survivors?
“If you come in voluntarily, we can work out a deal. I know the assistant state’s attorney. We could waive the death penalty.”
“Lieutenant Daniels.” He was speaking normally now, no longer whispering. “I am the death penalty.”
I had talked to my share of psychos, but this one was really freaking me out.
“Why did you call here?”
“For two reasons. First, to get your phone number. You’re the person I want to deal with from now on. What’s your cell?”
I didn’t like that much, but I gave it to him.
“What’s the other reason?”
Another chuckle. “It’s awfully dry in there, don’t you think?”
I glanced at the tabletop humidifier, noticed that the green light was blinking.
“Perhaps you should leave, Lieutenant. A dry environment isn’t very healthy.”
I dropped the phone and backed away, stumbling over the corpse, almost losing my footing, forcing my throat closed in mid-gasp. Back in the living room, I heard the faint humming of the floor-model humidifier next to the sofa. It had been off before, but those things had sensors and timers and started automatically. Now it was running full tilt, billowing lethal steam throughout the room.
I clamped a hand over my mouth and sprinted, still not breathing, and ran out into the hallway into a band of Cicero cops storming up the stairs.
Four men trained their weapons on me. I exhaled, raising up my hands, saying, “I’m police.”
And then my stomach twisted, and my vision got wiggly, and I grabbed on to the railing and thought Oh my God no just as the vomit escaped my lips.
CHAPTER 20
AN OVERLY HAIRY MEDIC named Holmes stuck an electronic thermometer in my ear as I sat in the rear of his ambulance, breathing into a plastic bag.
“Ninety-nine point one,” he declared.
The plethora of unpronounceable poisons, toxins, and diseases I’d been exposed to in the last few days raced like a stampede through my mind.
“So I’m sick?” I asked, my voice small.
“BP is normal. Reflexes are normal. Headache or stomachache?”
“Both.”
“Open wide.”
I opened, self-conscious about my breath after throwing up.
“Throat looks fine.” He shined a pen
light in my eyes. “Pupil response normal.”
“So what have I got?”
“Nothing, as far as I can tell.”
The CPD Mobile Command Post drove up, and six SRT cops got out, all wearing full space suits.
“I threw up,” I told the medic. “Should we go get a sample?”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. To test.”
Holmes gave me a patronizing look.
“You aren’t the first cop to throw up at a crime scene. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“That’s not why I threw up. I’ve seen corpses before.”
“Have you been under a lot of stress lately?”
“Maybe.”
“That’s probably what did it.”
“But you said I have a fever.”
“A slight fever. Could be due to stress, or overheating.”
“And my headache?”
“Stress.”
He packed up his kit.
“If I drop dead, you’re going to feel really stupid,” I said.
He winked at me. “I’ll risk it.”
A Cicero cop came over, Cooper on his name badge. The sergeant I’d spoken with on the phone. Short, dark, and brooding.
“What a giant clusterfuck. Those were good guys.”
He didn’t seem to know what else to say. I didn’t have much either.
“You want my statement?” I eventually asked.
“Yeah.”
We spent half an hour going over it, backward and forward and backward again. Cooper got on the horn with the phone company and a few minutes later found out that the Chemist had called from the Hothams’ own cell phone, which he’d apparently taken with him after their murder. Cooper tried pinging the number—a system that the 911 Emergency Center uses to triangulate cell phone locations to within twenty-five meters—but the Chemist had probably destroyed the phone after calling the apartment.
With my statement in the can, I asked if I could poke around the apartment. When Cooper said no, the relief I felt was a physical thing.
“We’ll keep you in the loop, get you the reports, but you going up there now isn’t going to happen.”
From the hard looks of the Cicero cops who walked past, I understood Cooper’s reasoning. If I hadn’t called earlier, two men would still be alive.
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