“Oh dear. No, I don’t believe so. He brought the boxes in on a dolly. I don’t remember gloves.”
“Is this the bottle of scotch he forgot?” I pointed to the Oban sitting on a wire rack.
“Yes. He brought that to me about an hour ago. Said he was sure he packed it the first time.”
Rogers spritzed the Oban and the vodka, and Hunt switched on the ALS and pointed the silver wand at the bottles, bathing them in green light. Nothing fluoresced.
“It’s at five fifty-five nanometers,” Hunt said.
“Nini is a picky lady,” Rogers said. “Try six hundred.”
Hunt dialed up the spectrum, and the light went from green to orange. It also brought out a dozen yellow prints on the Oban bottle, and three on the vodka.
Rogers looked at them through a loupe.
“Gloves on the vodka, at least seven different prints on the scotch.”
I took another bottle out of the top box, and a bottle out of the box beneath it. Then I went to the shelves and pulled a few random bottles. We did another spray and glow.
“All gloves on the new bottles, prints all over the old ones,” Rogers concluded.
“The distributor doesn’t wear gloves,” I said, “and he packs the liquor himself. These should have prints on them, unless they’ve been wiped down or switched.”
“But they don’t look like they’ve been opened.” Hunt pointed at the cap on the Perestroika. “The safety seal is still on.”
She was right. And the jet injector, powerful as it was, couldn’t shoot through glass. I placed three identical bottles of vodka on the floor and looked at the fill levels. All of them were uneven by a wee bit. But was that the Chemist’s doing, or were all liquor bottles slightly off?
I unscrewed the cap off of one.
“Lieutenant,” Hunt said, “if you’re thinking of taking a shot, that’s a poor way to test for toxins.”
Rogers raised his hand. “I’ll volunteer to try it.”
I squinted at the cap. There didn’t seem to be any signs of tampering. I took a tentative sniff. Smelled like vodka.
“Rogers, pass me that loupe.”
I held it to my eye and saw a tiny crystal winking up at me on the rim. I ran my pinky—my only finger currently lacking a decent fingernail—around the inside of the cap, and felt a bit of roughness.
“Unless the Perestroika master distillers use ground glass as a secret ingredient, I think we’ve found our toxic liquor. What else came with this shipment?” I asked Bob.
“Oh dear oh dear. A few cases of beer, and some pop. It’s all in the cooler.”
I ordered Rogers and Hunt to go with him, and I opened two more bottles, whiskey and rum. Each had overshot their recommended daily allowance of glass. I called the super.
“It looks like Bains is the target. It’s the liquor. I’m going to shut everything down here.”
“I’ll talk to your captain. We can let the reception go on anyway, bait a trap for the Chemist.”
“I was thinking about that, but it’s too dangerous. There might be other things tampered with, and I don’t think Bains wants to use his son’s wedding for a sting operation.”
“Agreed, Lieutenant. I’m glad I put you in charge of this case.”
I was going to remind her that I wasn’t her first pick, or even her tenth pick, but instead I said, “Thanks, but it isn’t over yet.”
I hung up and called the other team leaders to have them look for broken glass under bottle caps. Then it was huddle-time in the lobby for my team.
“We’ve found what we believe to be contaminated liquor bottles. Talk to me, Reynolds.”
“Perimeter is clear. No IEDs, no sightseers for a block in all directions.”
“Rogers?”
“Beer is bad. I looked at the bottle caps under high magnification, there are marks. Some two-liter bottles of soda have also been compromised.”
“What else have we got?” I asked.
A cop named Mathers said, “Nothing out of the ordinary in the kitchen. They had a few deliveries earlier today, nothing strange about them.”
Another named Parker added, “No strangers prowling around. Staff is spooked, but that’s to be expected. Everyone here knows everyone else, no newbies in the group. We did catch two Latinos trying to sneak out the back door, but that’s because they thought we were Immigration.”
“Okay, we’re still going to shut the place down. Mathers, I want you to—”
“You can’t close us!” This from the worrisome Bob, of course. “We’ve got two events today! These people have counted on us to make this the most important day of their lives!”
“Sorry, Bob. Can’t risk it.”
“But you said the kitchen was fine! It’s only the liquor shipment that came today!”
“We can’t take the chance.”
Bob began to cry, then fled the lobby with his hands over his face, but not before running headfirst into a plaster reproduction of Michelangelo’s David. It was more sad than funny. After thirty seconds of uncomfortable silence, I picked up where I left off.
“Mathers, get five guys to bag and tag the liquor bottles. We’re going to have to clean out the pantry, and the staff needs to be tested for BT as a precautionary—”
Bob came galloping back into the lobby, with a large pan full of linguini. Noodles hung from his mouth.
He yelled, “It’s fine!” or something similar. Hard to tell with all the food stuffed in his cheeks.
There were no heroic attempts on behalf of my people to tackle Bob and wrench the linguini from his starch hole. No one screamed, “Spit it out, you idiot!” We all just watched, silently, as Bob chewed, swallowed, and didn’t die. When he finished, he held out both arms in a silent ta-da! No one applauded.
“I’m trying the soup next,” Bob said, and trotted off.
Captain Bains chose that opportune moment to call, spitting vitriol and threats before I said word one. When he paused to take a breath I cut in, explaining how everything went down.
“And what’s Bob doing right now?” Bains asked when I finished.
“He’s standing three feet away from me, eating a bowl of wedding ball soup.”
Bob nodded vigorously and gave me a thumbs-up.
“How does he look?”
“Crazed.”
“Sick? Poisoned?”
“Not so far.”
“Tell him if he tries everything on the menu and lives, we’ll go on as planned. And also tell him to run to Costco and pick up a truckload of liquor. My side of the family likes to drink.”
“I’ll let you tell him that. How was the ceremony?”
“The flowers look like shit. One of the big arrangements fell over during the vows, and the ring bearer is still screaming in fright. I’m going to hang the florist by his green thumbs and have everyone in my District take turns beating him with hoses.”
“I’m glad it went well.”
“I’m on my way there. Let me speak to Bob.”
I passed the phone over to the manager, and informed my team that we’d just confiscate the liquor and beverages for now. Then I conferred with Reynolds.
“Have you checked in with the SRTs at the other weddings?”
“They all seem to be clear.”
“Call them over here. I want a watch on the property, and I want two undercovers inside checking the guest list. It looks like Bains is going to jeopardize hundreds of lives to make his son happy.”
“Can’t blame the guy. The bond between a father and a child is a powerful thing.”
“Yeah,” I said, conjuring up the image of me and my father in Grant Park. “Nothing can break that bond.”
A few minutes later I had my phone back, Manager Bob was noshing on a Caesar salad with anchovies, and Bains arrived and in no uncertain terms told everyone to get the hell out. I might have put up a fight if it was anyone other than my boss, and I might have even put up a fight with my boss, but the double vision had returned
and I was so tired I could fall asleep standing up.
Which is why I left Reynolds in charge and hopped in the car, ready to head home. It was only a little past noon, and I felt like I’d been awake for a year.
I doubted we’d pick up the Chemist today. If he did stop by, all of the police vehicles still in the parking lot would scare him off. But I felt pretty good that we would eventually catch him. He’d gone through a lot of trouble and risk to steal the case files from Records. There had to be something in there worth protecting. And though Alger and his partner were dead, and those files were gone, the information they contained was still available if I dug deep enough.
This wouldn’t end in a dramatic gun battle, or a climactic chase. It would end in a warrant and a quiet arrest. But it would end. I was sure of it.
I took 290, heading back to my house. I was making damn good time too, so good, I might actually make the trip in less than an hour. I would take a shower, maybe do a little napping, then visit Latham.
Which is why it was especially surprising to me when I exited on Harlem and headed north. Bensenville wasn’t north. The hospital wasn’t north. Elmwood Park was north. Elmwood Park, where Wilbur Martin Streng lived.
“This isn’t a good time,” I said to myself.
But I kept going, on my way to visit a man I thought died about forty years ago.
CHAPTER 33
THE CHEMIST DRIVES PAST Chateau Élan, sees the police brigade camped out in the parking lot, and doesn’t even slow down.
The cops figured it out fast. Very fast. But it doesn’t matter. That’s only a side bet. The big wager hasn’t been placed yet.
He thinks about tomorrow. If everything goes according to the Plan, the death toll will be in the tens of thousands. And there will be drastic afteraffects as well. Panic. Riots. Widespread terror. Crime will spin out of control, with no one to stop it.
It’s more than simple revenge. It will teach the world an important lesson.
And the best part of all is that no one will see it coming.
He heads home to make the final preparations.
CHAPTER 34
WHAT DO YOU SAY to a dead man?
I started with, “Hello.”
Elmwood Park blended into Chicago on the west side. It was small but densely packed, predominantly white middle-class, mostly residential. Wilbur Streng lived in a small beige house on a small piece of property, bordered on either side by equally small houses, at Belden and Seventy-third. There was room for me to park on the street legally, but I chose a hydrant out of habit.
I didn’t need to psych myself up, or check my makeup, or consider what I was going to say. I was on autopilot, acting without thinking. After parking, I walked up to his door and pressed the bell, and a minute later an old man answered.
I expected some sort of emotion on my part, some sort of internal dam breaking. But I felt nothing. The person standing before me didn’t look anything like the memories, or photos, I had of my father. He was stooped with age, which put him at my height. More liver spots on his head than hair. Thick glasses, and a lot of loose skin on the face and neck. Slightly built, but with a small pot belly.
“Figured you’d come by someday. Might as well come in.”
And then the dam broke. I’d forgotten what he sounded like. Is that odd? To forget a parent’s voice? But when he spoke, I realized I hadn’t forgotten it at all. I could never forget it. That voice had read me countless bedtime stories, had answered my questions about lions and thunder and airplanes, had helped me with my homework, had said I love you so many times. That same voice had bought me three ice creams and never gotten angry.
My father’s voice. Dad’s voice.
I felt my throat begin to tickle and my chest get heavy, but I stayed outwardly calm.
“You . . . know who I am?”
“Saw you on TV, many times. In the paper too. Your mother finally tell you?”
“She told me you were dead.”
He nodded. “It was easier that way. You coming in?”
I wasn’t sure if I wanted to. Still, my feet followed his into the house, and the door closed behind me with a surreal, otherworldly feeling.
The house was dark, clean. It smelled of lemon polish and cigar smoke. We passed a living room with a leather couch, a TV, an old hi-fi. Paintings on the wall, mostly of wooded landscapes, in heavy ornate frames that were popular in the ’70s. Lots of wood paneling. Lots of wood everything. The kitchen was also done in brown, tile and wallpaper. Tidy, but without any overt personality.
“Would you like coffee? I have some from earlier.”
He indicated the green percolator on the counter. I didn’t want coffee, but I suddenly felt uncomfortable and I wanted to have something to do with my hands.
“Coffee is fine.”
“Cream or sugar?”
“Black.”
He grunted, like he expected that, and took a mug out of the drying rack in the sink.
“Got this machine about thirty years ago. Still brews a decent cup.”
So he didn’t abandon appliances, only families. He handed me the mug, and I was grateful for the warmth.
“Your mother tell you why?” he asked. He sat across from me at the kitchen table.
“She wrote a letter. You said you hated her, hated me, and didn’t want to have anything to do with us ever again.”
Wilbur grunted again.
“Is that true?” I asked.
“No. I was always fond of you, and your mother. It hurt like hell to leave.”
“So why did you?”
“I had to.”
I pushed down the anger, which was gathering like a storm in my head.
“Another woman?” I asked.
Wilbur laughed.
“No. If that were the case, I would have told your mother.”
“So what happened? You woke up one morning, decided you no longer wanted the responsibility?”
Wilbur stared at me for a long time, and for a moment I wondered if he’d died with his eyes open. I was almost ready to reach out and feel his pulse, when he said, “How is your mother doing?”
“She’s doing fine. And you’re avoiding the question.”
“I suppose I am. I’ve . . . thought about this moment. Many times. You, being here. Sometimes you’re yelling at me, screaming. Sometimes you’re crying. Sometimes you even pull a gun on me. I always start off by trying to explain how things were different back in the sixties. It’s not like it is today. Men were expected to act like men. I could have done the easy thing. I could have stayed and lived a lie.”
Some anger seeped out. “You’re acting like leaving your family was courageous.”
“You asked me if I no longer wanted the responsibility. I always wanted the responsibility.” Wilbur’s eyes got glassy. “The day you were born, I promised to—”
“Stop.”
“—take care of you, forever. I made that same promise to your mother, on our wedding day.”
“Which is why you abandoned us, left us with nothing.” I folded my arms. “You never tried to contact us, never gave us a dime.”
Wilbur stood up, walked to the percolator, and took a fresh mug from the cabinet. He poured himself some coffee, sipped it slowly.
“It was easier to walk out of your lives than have you and your mother deal with . . . everything. I had to play the bad guy.”
“Why?”
“Because the truth would have hurt more.”
“And what is the truth?”
Wilbur didn’t answer. I decided I’d had enough of this. It was only making me angry. I stood up.
“Thanks for the coffee, Dad. Maybe we can do this again in another forty years.”
“Jacqueline, wait . . .”
I left the kitchen, walked down the hall, and noticed some pictures hanging on the wall. One was a baby photo of me. I pulled it down and stared at it.
“Why do you have this?” I yelled. “You don’t deserve to hav
e this.”
I wasn’t sure if I should keep it or throw it across the room, when I noticed another picture on the wall, of my father and another man, both wearing tuxedos. By the size of the lapels, this was mid-1970s. Wilbur was smiling, and so was the other man, who had his arm around my father’s waist.
And all of my anger vanished, as if a trapdoor had been pulled under it. I took the frame off the wall and walked back into the kitchen.
“You’re gay,” I said.
Wilbur opened his mouth, then closed it. He did this a few times, like a fish in a net, before he finally spoke.
“I think I always knew. But I spent the first thirty years of my life denying it. Fighting it. Unable to accept it. Homosexuality was considered a weakness back then. A lack of self-control. Or a disease.”
Wilbur smiled, but it was tinged with pain.
“The University of Chicago had an experimental program at the time. I went once a week to get shocked. Electrocuted. Aversion therapy, they called it. They showed me gay images, had me read gay literature, and then gave me a jolt. Barbaric, by today’s standards. So much has changed.”
“Mom didn’t know?” I asked softly.
“No. And I couldn’t tell her. Not only because of the ridicule she would have gotten from her friends, her family. But it would have really hurt her. She would have felt like it was her fault, that she wasn’t trying hard enough, that she made some kind of mistake. It would have been a much harder rejection for her than me leaving because I was an uncaring bastard.”
I looked at the tuxedo picture again. Saw how happy he looked.
“Did you . . .”
“I never cheated on your mother. Not once. But I couldn’t give her what she needed. If I’d stayed with you, I would have been living a lie, and we all would have been miserable as a result.”
“But what about me?” I asked, my voice very small.
“Your mother told you I was dead. How could I visit you? I sent money, of course, kept sending it up until you graduated from college.”
Now my eyes were glassy too.
“How responsible of you.”
“I’m sorry, Jacqueline.”
I turned away, unwilling to let him see me cry.
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