Dirty Martini

by J. A. Konrath

  The guy behind the counter folded his arms.

  “This isn’t the end of the line, lady.”

  “I’m a cop,” I told him.

  “It’s PoliceFest. Everyone here is a cop.”

  The people I’d cut in front of echoed the statement.

  “Look,” I said, lowering my voice. “I’m on the Chemist case. Have you heard of it? I think he’s here, and he’s going to kill a bunch of people. Now, who is in charge?”

  “Jim. Jim Czajkowski. I’ll call him.”

  He used the walkie-talkie attached to his belt buckle. A minute later a short, slightly pudgy man with a waxed handlebar mustache stepped into the booth.

  “I’m Jim, Skokie PD. What’s going on?”

  I leaned in and spoke softly. “We have reason to believe that this festival might be the target of a terrorist attack. Have you noticed anything unusual?”

  “Not really. I mean, setting up an event like this is a nightmare. There are always snags.”

  “What kind of snags?”

  “Well, the music tent has collapsed twice. The garbage cans are filling up faster than expected. Some moron drank too much and cracked open his skull.”

  “Are you sure it was alcohol?”

  “I’m sure. He got into a drinking contest with his buddies.”

  “Anything else out of the ordinary? Problems? Complaints? Maybe from before the festival started?”

  “There’s that damn portable toilet truck.”

  Where had I recently heard about portable toilets? Herb. He was searching for a stolen truck.

  “What about the truck?”

  “Parked here real early this morning, right in the middle of everything, but didn’t unload. All of those Porta Potties are sitting up there, just taking up space. We can’t even take them down ourselves, because they’re wrapped up in chains.”

  “Show me.”

  Jim led the way. Harry once again fell into step behind me, this time eating a hot dog. We walked past a Tilt-A-Whirl, a ring toss booth, and the aforementioned music tent, which appeared to have collapsed again. Eventually, we wound up behind a row of carny game booths on a small patch of dirt, next to a semi with a flatbed trailer attached. Stacked on the trailer were thirty-six portable toilets.

  “Yipes!” McGlade said. “Johns!”

  Jim spit onto the grass. “Someone just drove them up and left them there. And look at the way they’re chained together.”

  I moved closer and agreed it went above and beyond simply securing them to the trailer. The heavy gauge chains formed a net around the toilets, and there were thick padlocks wherever two chains intersected. It would take an hour just to unlock them all.

  I pulled out my cell phone and called Herb.

  “Hi, Jack. I heard about the Bains wedding. Nice work.”

  “Thanks. That stolen Porta Potti truck, was it a flatbed, red Peterbilt cab?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you at the fest?”

  “Bernice and I are in the music tent, watching the volunteers wrestle with the collapsing canvas. Why?”

  “I think I found your truck. I’m to the west of you maybe fifty yards, behind the Tilt-A-Whirl.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  McGlade had climbed up to the driver’s side of the cab and was peering in the window.

  “Hey, Jackie. Maybe you should take a look at this.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a clock.”

  “Most trucks have clocks, McGlade.”

  “This one is counting down. It’s at 18:52 . . . 51 . . . 50 . . .”

  That didn’t sound good. Not at all. I turned to Jim. “We need some tools. Bolt cutters, a saw, anything to get through these chains. Is there a PA system?”

  “There’s one in the music tent.”

  “Use it. Get some bomb squad guys over here.”

  Jim made a face. “If I go on the mike and say we need the bomb squad, people are going to panic. You ever see a human stampede?”

  “Announce that it’s time for the Bomb Squad Beer Keg Defusing Contest or something stupid like that. Snag the first guy that shows up.”

  Jim trotted off, and I pulled myself up onto the flatbed and cautiously approached one of the portable toilets. It was an aqua green color, made of fiberglass, about seven feet tall, and had a padlock on the door. The thing wouldn’t budge, even when I leaned into it, hard. I wrapped my knuckles on the side and there was a dull thump, like it was full of something. I knelt down and tried to pry away the door using the lower corner. I couldn’t get my fingers in the crack.

  But I knew who could.

  “McGlade! Come here!”

  “Where are you?”

  “Next to the toilets!”

  “I don’t have to go right now.”

  I clenched my teeth, remembered that he had the emotional maturity of a three-year-old, and forced myself to relax.

  “Harry, you do want me to talk to the mayor, right?”

  He sauntered over and stared up at me.

  “What do you need, baby? Moral support?”

  “You think you can crack one of these things open using your hand?”

  “Maybe.”

  He tried to pull himself onto the trailer, but couldn’t get a leg up over the edge. I had to help him.

  “Whoa. I need to rest for a minute. Be a good girl and run get me a lemonade.”

  “Dammit, Harry, we don’t have time for you to play around. See if you can open up one of these.”

  He sighed, crawled over to the toilet, and rolled up his sleeve. I watched, both fascinated and revolted, as he peeled off the flesh-colored rubber, revealing a curved metal claw with one lower thumb and two upper fingers.

  “Here, Jackie. Hold my hand.”

  He tossed me the rubber cover, and I flinched and it fell at my feet. McGlade didn’t notice. He’d gripped the lower corner of the Porta Potti and I saw his lips whisper, “Close.” The fiberglass made a cracking sound, then splintered inward.

  “Aw, Christ. That’s disgusting. Open.”

  When McGlade retrieved the claw, it was covered with a brown, pasty goop. He stared at it, scowling, and then tentatively brought it under his nose.

  “What the hell is this stuff? Smells kind of like gasoline.”

  I walked up to him, though I could honestly say it was the last thing in the world I wanted to do. The stuff on his hand had the consistency of toothpaste, and was a brownish gray with various-sized flecks of white and silver.

  “Taste it.” Harry stuck his claw under my chin. “Lemme know if it’s poisonous.”

  I shoved him aside and bent down to look into the hole he made. The smell of gas was even stronger, and some of the stuff had poured out onto the trailer. Mixed in with the gunk was a one-inch nail.

  “Don’t touch it!”

  McGlade and I looked behind us. Jim was hurrying over with a tall black guy wearing a T-shirt that said If I Get One More Restraining Order I’m Gonna Kill Someone.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “I’m Murray. CPD, bomb squad.”

  Murray hopped onto the trailer with much more ease and grace than McGlade, and crouched down next to me. He peered into the hole.

  “This is ANFO. Not commercial quality. Looks homemade. But competent. There’s aluminum in here. An accelerant.”

  “It also has nails in it,” I said. “Shrapnel?”

  “Probably. Shit, that’s bad.”

  “Question.” McGlade raised up an arm. “What’s ANFO?”

  “It’s a high explosive. Ammonium nitrate fertilizer mixed with fuel oil. It’s what Timothy McVeigh used for the Oklahoma City bombing in 1995.”

  “Oh my God,” McGlade said. He put his good hand on my shoulder. “I’m so glad we took your car.”

  I thought about the last thing the Chemist said to me on the phone. I had a blast. When he told me he wasn’t going to poison anyone else, that had been the truth.

  “Isn’t
this hard to get?” I asked.

  “A few states have restricted policies for buying ammonium nitrate, and some require additives that make it difficult to weaponize. Unfortunately, Illinois isn’t one of those states. The process isn’t very easy, and it isn’t very well-known, but anyone can learn how to make ANFO on the Internet. Luckily, most people get the proportions wrong and blow themselves up.”

  Murray knocked on the next toilet over, and then the one behind it.

  “Are all of these full?”

  “We haven’t checked. But there’s a timer in the cab.”

  “What’s the timer at?”

  “Probably about fourteen minutes left.”

  He hopped off the trailer bed. I followed him.

  “Can you jimmy open a truck door?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Murray picked up a concrete block being used as tent ballast and crashed it through the driver’s-side window. A moment later he was in the cab, cradling the timer in his hands.

  “Bad news. This isn’t the timer. It’s just a countdown clock, probably synched to the timer, to show the detonation time to the driver. I’m guessing the real timer and detonator are buried in one of those porta stanks.”

  McGlade laughed. “Heh heh. Porta stank.”

  “Can you disarm it?” I asked.

  “Maybe, if we could find it in time. It might be nothing more than a few sticks of dynamite and a blasting cap. But it’s buried in one of those things. Opening all of them up, digging through them, could take hours.”

  “So what should we do?”

  “We have to get everyone out of here.”

  “Evacuate?” Jim said. “There are over forty thousand people at this festival.”

  “Well, we need to get all of them away from here within the next thirteen minutes and forty-three seconds.”

  “How bad is this?” I asked.

  “As bad as it gets. When this thing blows, it’s going to kill everyone in a one-mile radius.”

  CHAPTER 37

  14 MINUTES

  “DID YOU SAY a one-mile radius?”

  Everyone turned to look at Herb Benedict, who was standing behind us. He wore a blue Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts, and his plump wife, Bernice, was at his side, equally attired.

  “Don’t worry, fatso,” McGlade said. “You’ll probably bounce free of the explosion.”

  Herb reached for his hip holster, but his wife held his arm back.

  “We need to get everyone away from here.” On impulse I looked around. People everywhere, at least a mile thick. To get all of them a safe distance was—

  “Impossible,” Jim said. “We’d never get them all away in time. And if we tried, hundreds would get trampled trying to get away.”

  Murray looked scared, which scared me, because bomb guys weren’t supposed to look scared.

  “No one will get away in time.” Murray’s voice was soft and low. “A pound of ANFO can make a crater a yard deep and kick debris ninety feet away. We’ve got about eighteen tons of ANFO here. This thing is maybe ten times the size of the Oklahoma City bomb, and it’s out in the open with nothing to damper the blast but people. Human tissue won’t do much to stop nails moving at thirty-five hundred meters per second.”

  Everyone leaned away from the truck, and Jim actually took a few steps back.

  “Someone drove it in.” I forced myself to touch the trailer. “Maybe we can drive it somewhere safe. Anyplace around here that might work? Jim, Skokie is your town.”

  “I . . . I don’t know. Look, we all should leave.” Jim was sweating, and he looked ready to bolt. “When this thing blows—”

  “Answer the question.” Herb’s voice was hard.

  “There’s . . . um . . . there’s a few golf courses . . .”

  “What’s around them?” Murray asked.

  “Um . . . houses. Residential areas.”

  McGlade snorted. “This entire town is one big residential area. If you’re going to dump this someplace, at least pick a rich neighborhood. They’re insured.”

  Herb scowled at him. “You got any better ideas, Lefty?”

  “Lake Michigan,” Harry said. “The water absorbs the energy of the blast, and it also creates some new beachfront property.”

  Jim shook his head. “The lake is too far away. You won’t make it in time.”

  “Rivers?” I asked. “Big holes? Tunnels? Stadiums?”

  “Bomb shelters?” McGlade added.

  “A river would be good,” Murray said. “ANFO isn’t water resistant. If it’s soaked, it might limit the force of the blast.”

  “How close is the Chicago River?” Herb asked.

  “It’s about—wait . . . the plant. The Northside Water Reclamation Plant.”

  “What is that? Sewage treatment?”

  Jim nodded. “Yeah. It’s about two miles away. It’s big. And it’s all concrete. Some of those settling tanks are deep too.”

  “What’s around it?” Herb asked.

  “Some offices, south of Howard Street. On the west, homes, but not too many. North is a country club, east, a factory, but it will be closed today. So will the offices.”

  “Okay, Jim, listen carefully. You need to get in touch with the plant, clear them out, and have someone from there call me. You also have to warn the country club and the residents in those houses. Evacuate them, or have them get in their basements.”

  I gave Jim my phone number, and he programmed it into his phone and began making calls.

  “You’re the one going?” Herb’s chubby face was pinched with anger.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  He folded his arms. “Since when can you drive a semi?”

  “How hard can it be?”

  “Can you even drive stick shift?”

  Now I folded my arms. “I’ve seen other people. I think I can figure it out.”

  Harry shook his head. “Even if you can drive stick shift, a truck is an entirely different animal. It’s a ten-speed manual transmission, and it’s not synchronized like a car.”

  “Can you drive this semi?” Herb asked him.

  McGlade waved his robotic hand in Herb’s face.

  “Sure I can, Einstein. I’ll shift gears with my ass.”

  “How about you use that big mouth of yours instead?” Herb said. “I bet it’s been on quite a few gearshifts in the past.”

  McGlade’s eyebrows creased, and then he started to laugh. “That one was actually pretty good.”

  I put my hand on Harry’s shoulder, drawing his attention. “What if I helped you shift?”

  “It’s too hard, Jackie. You have to match the engine revs with the transmission revs. There’s a rhythm to it. You mess it up, you can stall out, or even strip the gears. Plus steering the damn thing is a bitch.”

  Herb said, “You’re a coward.”

  McGlade nodded. “There’s also that.”

  “Harry, if you save forty thousand people, half of them cops, I’m sure the mayor would let you have a liquor license in the middle of the goddamn Lincoln Park Zoo.”

  A sly grin formed on Harry’s unshaven face. “In the zoo? You think?”

  “I’ve done some calculations.” Murray had a calculator in his big hands. I guess bombies didn’t travel without one. “You’ll need to be a mile away after you leave the truck, so if someone follows you in a car, you’d need at least ninety seconds to get out of there to have a chance at surviving.”

  Herb nodded. “I can do that.”

  I asked, “Do what?”

  “I’ll meet you guys there, drive you to safety.”

  “Herb . . .” Bernice and I said in unison.

  “If you two can get the truck to the plant, I’ll be there to pick you up.” Herb kissed his wife on the forehead. “It’ll be okay, dear.”

  Bernice put her hands on his cheeks. She’d begun to cry.

  “I’m warning you, Herb Benedict. If you get yourself blown up, I’m going to date younger men.”

  McGla
de raised his hand. “I’m younger. And with me, there’s no risk of smothering to death.”

  “How safe is this stuff to haul?” I asked, eyeing Herb to make sure he didn’t shoot McGlade.

  “ANFO is pretty stable,” Murray said. “It won’t ignite even if you fire a few bullets into it. It should be safe to transport. Just try to avoid any major collisions.”

  “We’ll try our best.”

  “Is there anything else I can do?” Murray asked.

  “Clear a path from here to the street. We need to get these people out of the way so we can get through.” I looked at Harry. “Are you out or are you in?”

  “You sure I’ll get a liquor license?”

  “I guarantee the mayor will be there for the ribbon-cutting ceremony.”

  McGlade grinned. “Ten-four, good buddy. Let’s get it into gear and put the hammer down.”

  “Okay, it’s a go.” I looked at the cab and frowned. “Does anyone know how to hot-wire a semi?”

  CHAPTER 38

  9 MINUTES

  WE WASTED TOO MUCH TIME trying to start the truck. McGlade tore open the steering column housing and tried crossing several different wires, but all he accomplished was turning the dashboard lights on and off.

  Herb stuck his head in the door. “It’s the red wires.”

  “I’m crossing the red wires. It isn’t doing anything.”

  I watched the timer count down and felt myself getting sicker and sicker.

  “Are you sure they’re crossed?” Herb said.

  “They’re crossed! You want to squeeze your fat ass up here again and take a look?”

  “You’ve got the truck in second gear.”

  “It’s supposed to be in second gear. If you don’t stop bugging me, I’m going to stick my claw so far up your—”

  From behind us: “Is there a brown wire?”

  Someone else had joined the party. A tall woman, young, brunette, tattoos on bare arms, named Renée Davidson. Bernice had apparently gone off and brought back someone who knew what the hell she was doing.

  “Yeah,” McGlade said. “There’s a brown one.”

  Davidson climbed onto the foot platform, next to the driver’s-side door.