“Daniels.”
“Hello, Jack.”
“Is it you this time, or another recording?”
He smiles. She thinks she’s so clever. If that’s the case, why is he the one with two mil in his trunk?
“It’s me. And it’s also the last time you’ll be hearing from me. You kept your end of the deal, and I’m keeping mine. Today, a prominent Chicagoan is getting married. I helped out with the refreshments. If you don’t intercept them in time, the reception will be really dead.”
He had planned on saying that, but it isn’t as funny out loud than it had been in his mind.
“Whose wedding is it?” Jack asks.
“That’s for you to figure out. Better hurry; you only have a few hours.”
“And that’s it, then? You’re done terrorizing the city?”
“Rest assured that I’ll never poison anyone again.”
“I think you’re lying.”
He smiles. “Believe what you like. I did what I set out to do. Now I’m going to disappear. Think of me, next time you go out to eat.”
“You’re a monster.”
“Good-bye, Lieutenant. I hope I showed you a good time. I had a blast.”
He separates the battery from the phone, and tosses it in the backseat to dispose of later. He would like to feel a sense of accomplishment, of completion, but there is still much to do. The wedding reception is in a few hours, and he wants to be there to watch the show.
Supermarkets and restaurants are easy to sabotage. A reception is difficult. It requires a lot of work, and more than a little luck. But it can be done, if you know how.
Two weeks before the event, call the banquet hall, speak to the banquet service manager, and ask if he would like to switch liquor distributors. Some chitchat will get you the name of the distributor they’re currently using, and even the day of the week they deliver.
Next, wait around the back entrance of the hall for the distributor to show up. Tail him during his route until you have a chance to kill him—many toxins can imitate heart attacks. Then take a look at his invoice clipboard until you find the weekly liquor order for the hall. Make a copy of it. Also make copies of his keys, and take a look in back at how the liquor orders are packaged. Then return everything where you found it. Someone will discover the driver and the truck eventually.
On delivery day, wait for the new driver at an early stop in his route. When he dollies in the boxes of alcohol, he leaves the truck unattended. Use your keys to get into the back of the truck, and substitute your order for the hall’s order. It might not be exactly the same, but who cares? They might make some exchanges when they check the invoice, but enough of the tampered alcohol will get through.
The Chemist finished this last step early this morning. He also noticed that on the banquet hall marquee, there are two receptions scheduled for the day. Fortunately, he poisoned enough alcohol to kill everyone at both weddings. He also tampered with a dozen two-liter bottles of soda, using the jet injector and a tiny dot of superglue to plug the hole so the CO2 wouldn’t escape. Non-drinkers and the kiddies shouldn’t miss out on the fun.
It’s possible that the police will stop it in time. But that’s okay. As much work as this has been to set up, it’s just a diversion.
The real show hasn’t even started yet.
CHAPTER 31
REYNOLDS PICKED ME UP in the cab after I walked back to Streeter.
“Maybe we should stop by the ER,” he suggested.
“It’s just a fat lip,” I told him, except I said fab lib. I handed him back the SIG and his radio.
“What next, Lieutenant?”
“We need to stop a wedding reception. Know of any big shots getting married today?”
He didn’t need to answer. SWAT guys didn’t read the society column.
Which gave me an idea.
I called information, got the number for the Tribune, and had the front desk connect me to Twyla Biddle, a reporter who did a column about celebrities. I’d never spoken with Twyla directly, but I’d been in her column a few times, mostly in connection with a TV show I’d done some consulting for against my better judgment.
“Lieutenant! Thanks for calling. What have you got for me? Something juicy, I hope.”
Twyla had a deep whiskey and cigarette voice, like Marge’s sisters on The Simpsons.
“Maybe. I need to know what famous Chicagoans are getting married today.”
“Why? What have you heard?”
“Just rumors and innuendo.”
“I make a living on rumors and innuendo. Spill it.”
“Give me a list, and if it pans out, you’ll get the scoop.”
Did reporters even use the word scoop? If they didn’t, Twyla didn’t call me on it.
“Well, the wedding of the week has to be Maurice Williams.”
“Who is that?”
“Former Chicago Cub. All-Star catcher. Abs you could eat a six-course meal off of, and believe me, you’d want to lick the plate when you finished.”
“Who else?”
“William Kent. Owns a lot of real estate, including the Krueger Building. His daughter is getting married tonight. And how could I forget Corndog Watkins? Chicago blues legend, marrying a woman forty-five years younger than he is. Reception is tonight at Buddy Guy’s Legends.”
I was writing all of this down in the margins of a Time magazine—no one in the cab had any paper.
“Anyone else?”
“Those are the majors.”
“No one political?”
“Not that I’m aware of. Hold on, I’m at my computer. Let me search through the marriage announcements for tomorrow’s issue.” I faintly heard fingers hitting keys, at a much faster rate than mine ever could. “Let’s see, he’s a nobody, she’s a nobody, she’s a nobody, he’s a nobody, he’s a—wait. The Bains and Harlow wedding. Jeremy Bains is the son of a police captain.”
I’d completely spaced that out. Captain Bains wasn’t at the Daley Center today because his son was getting married. Two weeks ago someone at the District had taken up a fund to buy a gift, a chafing dish or something equally useful.
“That’s all?”
“All that matter.”
“Thanks, Twyla. If I get anything, I’ll let you know.”
“So how are things with you, Lieutenant? Still dating that hunky accountant?”
I wondered how she knew, but I suppose it was her job to know.
“We’re engaged. He proposed a few days ago.”
“Congratulations! And how is that famous PI friend of yours, the one missing his hand?”
“It’s still missing.”
“And how is—”
“I gotta run, Twyla. Thanks again.”
“Take care, sweetheart.”
I ended the call and wondered if I’d see my name in next week’s column. And if I did, if I would save it. I’m not much for collecting things. I didn’t even have any pictures of my first wedding. We hadn’t bothered to hire a photographer. The wedding might have failed, but I still regretted having no pictures of me in my dress, and regretted it on a semi-regular basis.
“Congratulations on the engagement,” Reynolds told me. “Though I have to admit, I was hoping you were single.”
“It’s not me,” I said. “It’s my look. Men are suckers for big, sensuous lips.”
It came out sensubus libs.
Reynolds raised an eyebrow—well, the right half of his unibrow.
“Actually, I think you’re one of the bravest women I’ve ever met.”
“Thanks. And thanks for watching my back.”
We exchanged a meaningless mutual admiration society glance.
“Where to now?” he asked. “Back to your District?”
“The Daley Center. My car.”
Reynolds told the cabbie, and I called Superintendent O’Loughlin, and ran through the list of wedding possibilities.
“Four teams,” I told her. “We’ll need to check food
and drinks, search for traps, interview staff for anything out of the ordinary, and if needed, confiscate everything.”
“That will piss some people off,” she said.
“Not as much as their entire guest list keeling over. We’ll make the two-six the base of operations. The conference room. I’ll be there in half an hour.”
“Meet you there.”
“Good. I want my guns back.” I hung up and nudged Reynolds. “Round up your team and as many cops as you can find.” He got on the radio, and I called the Crime Lab. Officer Hajek wasn’t in, but a cop I knew named Dan Rogers was.
“I need four CSUs, fully loaded, at the two-six, thirty minutes.”
“I’ve only got four guys here.”
“You’ve also got a phone. Get more. The superintendent is authorizing the overtime.”
“She is?”
“She will. Haul ass.”
The cab dropped me off, and I drove back to my District. The exterminators had been replaced by a HazMat team, cleaning up the poison in the Records room. Maybe it was oversensitivity on my part, but I could swear the entire building smelled like acrid chemicals, and I tried not to breathe much when I took the elevator to the second floor. The staircase and the bathroom I’d used to wash off the TEPP were being decontaminated, so I had to use the bathroom at the other end of the hallway.
I spent ten full minutes washing off blood and dirt. My mouth was puffy. My hair was a bird’s nest. I’d sweated through my jacket, and ripped the shoulder. In short, I looked like I died yesterday but no one had bothered to inform me. Reynolds was the brave one, hitting on me when I was like this. Maybe he didn’t like bravery so much as he liked scary.
I didn’t feel much better than I looked. I found Advil in my purse, popped three, then combed the knots out of my hair and used half a tube of thirty-dollar lipstick to try to cover up the lip injury. I inadvertently called attention to it instead, like painting a football red. I went a little heavy on the mascara to compete with it, some rouge to highlight my cheeks, and the next thing I knew, I looked like a hooker. A hooker with bad hair who just got her ass kicked.
Fine. No makeup. I scrubbed it all off.
Then I put just a touch back on.
After making myself appear somewhat human, I went to the water fountain and drank like a camel—not the easiest thing to do with a fat lip, but the cold water felt nice. I had a brief spell of double vision, worked through it, and then showed up in Conference Room A to talk with forty-plus cops, Feds, and others, including the folks from the CDC, USAMRIID, and WHO.
My speech wasn’t particularly inspiring, witty, or even pithy. But I made up for all of that by being brief.
“I recently spoke with the Chemist. There are four high-profile wedding receptions taking place in Chicago today, and if we’re to take him at his word, he’s poisoned the refreshments at one of them. We need to shut all four of them down until we can figure out which one is the deadly one. I need four teams. Each will have a Crime Scene Unit with full gear, an SRT to check for booby traps and IEDs, and as many officers as we can spare to interview the staff. If possible, let’s get in touch with the wedding parties, ask them if anything unusual has happened in the last few days or weeks.”
Rogers raised his hand. “How can we test for toxins or poisons in the field? We need to take samples to the lab, run them through the GCMS. There will be hundreds of samples.”
“Our guy is touchy about leaving fingerprints. Look for things that have been wiped down, or for glove marks. People at the distillery, distributors, busboys, bartenders, servers, managers—they all leave their latents on bottles of booze. Any bottle that’s clean should be given top priority.”
I spied Rick sneaking into the room and sitting near the back.
“Special Agent Rick Reilly from the Hazardous Materials Response Team of the FBI has worked closely with the Behavioral Science Team to create a profile of the Chemist. This profile states that since he’s been paid, he will no longer have any interest in harming our city. Is that right, Special Agent?”
Rick stood. “That’s right. The Chemist is probably on his way out of the country right now. We’ve got teams at bus stations and airports—”
“Looking for a soaking wet man carrying a yellow bag,” I interrupted. “The FBI profile is flat-out wrong, and I don’t want anyone wasting their time with it. The Chemist is still in town. He’s going to try to be at the reception. Maybe as a guest or an employee. Maybe he’ll just watch from across the street. But he’ll want to see it. I’ll need people double-checking the guest lists, new hires, anyone hanging around who shouldn’t be there, plus SRT members to run recon on the locations, to see if anyone is playing I Spy.”
“The profile—” Rick said.
I finished for him. “Sucks. Rogers, Reynolds, divide up your people. Baker, put the teams together. Everyone extra, go where you think you can do some good. I want everyone on headsets. Alpha Team has the Cubs catcher—Baker, you’re in charge. Taylor, you’re leading Bravo Team, and you’ve got the Kent wedding. Charlie Team is Corndog Watkins—Collins, that’s you. I’m heading up Delta and the Bains reception. Keep in touch, keep communicating, and if we find the Chemist, I don’t want to hear any bullshit about letting the guy go.”
Davy Ellis, looking like he’d just stepped off the Ralph Lauren runway, raised his hand.
“The mayor said—”
“The mayor said not to apprehend him during the money drop. The drop is over. Isn’t that right, Superintendent O’Loughlin?”
All eyes locked on the super. Her voice radiated a lot more authority than mine did.
“If we find him, we grab him.”
I adjourned the meeting, and began to work with Baker putting teams together. Rick came up, his pretty-boy looks spoiled by a scowl. He took my elbow and edged me aside.
“Not very professional, Jack.”
“About as professional as telling the super to take my gun.”
“You were going to do something stupid.”
At least he didn’t deny it. But that didn’t make it any less of a betrayal.
“I do a lot of stupid things,” I told him, and let my eyes add extra weight to my words. Rick caught the implication and walked off. There would be no more footsie with Special Agent Hottie. Good-looking men were nice, but loyalty was a helluva lot nicer.
After my team was organized enough to roll, I tracked down the super, who was in a heated discussion with the PR guy.
“I need my weapons,” I said to her.
O’Loughlin reached into her enormous jacket pockets, pockets so large they belonged on a clown or a mime.
“If you apprehend or kill the suspect,” Davy said, “it could get out that the city knew about his plot, and that we paid him off. Think about the outrage, the lawsuits, the damage to Chicago’s reputation.”
“All I’m thinking about,” I said evenly, “is getting him so more people don’t die.”
“It would be impossible to recover from—”
“I forgot to mention,” I interrupted. “The last time I spoke with the Chemist, he asked me why we hadn’t gone public about the money. I told him to take it up with Davy Ellis of Ellis, Dickler, and Scaramouche, that you were the one suppressing his story. He didn’t seem happy.”
Ellis turned a lovely shade of pale beneath his perfect tan. Peripherally, I saw the super’s lips twitch, as close as I’d seen her get to smirking. I turned away, tucked my guns into both holsters, and then headed for Chateau Élan on North and Clybourn to ruin Captain Bains’s joyous occasion.
CHAPTER 32
FROM THE OUTSIDE, Chateau Élan looked like it was designed by an ancient Roman architect with a column fetish. The facade boasted ten of them, thick and white and supporting a vaulted roof. Six columns graced each side of the building, and two held up the marquee on the front lawn, which proclaimed congratulations to Mr. and Mrs. Bains and Mr. and Mrs. Rothschild.
The valet seemed anxious to park
my car, until he found out I was a cop and not going to tip. I parked in the valet area just the same—I’d done enough walking for the day. I was followed into the lot by a parade of cop cars, including the Mobile Command bus. When Bains showed up, he was going to have a stroke.
The lobby had a few marble statues, a fountain, and a lot of flowers and plants. I talked to a Hispanic cook, who led me to a comb-over manager named Bob Debussey. Bob appeared ready to cry when I laid out the story for him.
“Oh dear. This is horrible. Oh dear oh dear.”
“Where do you keep the liquor?”
“Oh dear. There’s a wine cellar, and the cooler. Both locked. Oh dear.”
“Who has keys?”
“I do, and my assistant manager, Jaime. Oh dear.”
Between oh dears I gleaned that there were no new hires recently, there haven’t been any strange people hanging around, and they’d gotten their latest liquor delivery this morning.
“I was missing a case of champagne, and a bottle of Oban. The groom’s father specifically wanted that scotch. The driver had the champagne, but had to go back for the scotch. Marty would have never messed up like that.”
“Who’s Marty?”
“The previous driver. Wonderful man. Died a few weeks ago. Heart attack, right after dropping off our order. Oh dear.”
I directed the mob of police entering the lobby to ask questions, take names, secure the perimeter, and search for IEDs. Bob led me, Rogers, and a perky CSU girl named Patti Hunt over to the wine cellar. Hunt was lugging a large black ALS box, and Rogers had a kit similar to Hajek’s. Bob fussed with the keys, shaking so badly I felt the wind. When he got the door open, he pointed out the stack of boxes in the near corner, sitting in front of a large wine rack that took up the back wall.
“This is presumptive, guys,” I told the team, “not evidentiary. Get me some clues, and the court case can be built later.”
Hunt found an electrical outlet for the alternate light source, Rogers dug out an aerosol can of ninhydrin, and I snapped on some latex gloves and eased a bottle of Perestroika vodka from the top carton.
“The driver today,” I asked Bob. “Was he wearing gloves?”
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