Rusty Nail

CHAPTER 44

THE DOOR GAVE on my third kick, and I twisted my ankle badly enough to bring tears to my eyes.

Special Agent Dailey and Special Agent Coursey waited in the hallway, citing statutes about breaking and entering, illegal search and seizure, speaking without raising my hand, etc.

I didn’t think Harry would mind, considering I was trying to save his life.

McGlade used to live in Hyde Park, in a little rat hole apartment. Since hitting it big with Fatal Autonomy, he’d moved to a penthouse on the GC – the Gold Coast. Heated garage. Twenty-four-hour doorman. And a damn good front door, which I hurt myself getting through.

The condo dripped opulence, which isn’t to say it was attractive or tasteful. Harry decorated like a child-king rules a country – with enthusiasm, but no intelligence.

The carpet was deep, expensive. While the furniture all screamed wealth, the styles were confused. An art deco table breakfront. A colonial dining room set. Art nouveau chairs and a rococo sofa. And beanbags. Lots of multicolored beanbags.

The walls displayed pricey-looking paintings and drawings: oils, watercolors, acrylics, pencils. Some postmodern, some minimalist, some classical. The only common theme was their subject: naked women.

A plasma TV was the centerpiece of the most hi-tech entertainment center I’d ever seen, boasting stacks upon stacks of blinking stereo and video equipment. It was like Harry had gone into a Sharper Image store and said, “I’ll take everything.”

The place was clean, to the point of fastidiousness. Unusual for Harry. I’d had the unfortunate displeasure of visiting his last apartment, which was like a landfill, only roomier.

I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. Holly/Alex had spent some time here. I doubted she’d left any clues; Holly was too smart for that. But I had no other leads, and I had to do something. Waiting around my office for another videotape to arrive wasn’t in my game plan.

The kitchen was larger than my whole apartment. Copper pots hanging from a rack on the ceiling. A center island with a six-burner stove and a grill. A microwave large enough to defrost a whole pig.

“You find anything?”

One of the Feebies, calling from the hallway.

“Some pictures,” I yelled. “Hoover in a cocktail dress.”

The kitchen let out into a hallway. I limped into the bedroom first. A king-sized bed dominated the room, dead-center. On the right side of the bed was a control panel. I had no desire to find out what it controlled.

The next room was all shelves containing videos and DVDs, many of them still unopened in their plastic wrappers. The room after that was a spare bedroom, which looked unused. Lastly, at the end of the hall was a closed door that had a plaque on it that said Spy Room.

The spy room contained electrical gadgetry, and a lot of it. Infrared cameras. Listening devices. Night-vision goggles. A biohazard suit. Plus a large collection of remote control cars, helicopters, and airplanes.

I had no idea McGlade was such a techno-geek.

“Lieutenant Daniels! The police are here.”

I followed the voice back out into the hall, and indeed four of Chicago’s finest were surrounding the Feebies.

Which made sense. If Harry loved electronics this much, he probably had a silent burglar alarm. I hadn’t seen the arming panel when I came in, but I hadn’t been looking for it.

We coddled the cops, who were willing to overlook the criminal breaking and entering but still had to file a report in case Mr. McGlade wanted to press charges. I also arranged for the door to be fixed, so no one could walk in and steal all of Harry’s goodies. And he had lots of goodies.

“Are either of you car buffs?” I asked the Feebies in the elevator going down.

“I know a few things,” said Dailey. Or maybe it was Coursey.

“How much is a 1967 Mustang worth?”

“Depends on the mileage, the condition, and the model.”

“Assume everything is mint or rebuilt.”

“Maybe forty or fifty thousand. If a lot of custom work had been done on it, maybe more.”

Harry loved his car. He’s had it for as long as I’ve known him. If he pimped out his condo like that, he would have also pimped out his ride. And if he pimped out his ride, he’d want to protect it.

Back in my humble Nova, I radioed in a stolen vehicle – Harry’s Mustang. Then I gave my location and requested for any nearby squad cars equipped with LoJack tracking equipment to give me a holler if they got a ping.

Chicago adopted LoJack a few years ago. The LoJack company sold transmitters that were hidden in cars. If a car was stolen, a police report automatically activated the transmitter, which emitted a silent radio signal, revealing its location using global positioning satellites.

LoJack helped us locate stolen cars. I was betting Harry had one in his Mustang, and I was also betting that Holly had taken his car rather than a cab, which meant we might be able to track her right to Harry and Phin’s location.

Lots of betting involved with this plan.

“Roger, Lieutenant. This is car 88, just received confirm on LoJack, have the vehicle moving north on La Salle, just passing Adams. Over.”

Sometimes betting pays off.

“What’s your twenty, car 88?”

“South on Columbus, east of Randolph.”

I was on La Salle and North Avenue, about two miles away.

“Car 88, maintain pursuit but do not engage. Repeat, do not engage. We don’t want to spook her.”

I kicked my car into gear and headed south on La Salle, hoping the Feebies had the good sense to turn on their sca

“Suspect is at Washington, continuing north on La Salle.”

I stopped at a red light on Division, squelching the urge to blow through it and set a new land speed record. Holly would recognize my car. I needed to remain calm and focused, keeping a safe distance.

Arresting her was the wrong move. Holly wouldn’t give up Phin and Harry’s location, even with physical persuasion. Though I was having a hard time reconciling the calculating murderer with the woman I’d spent most of yesterday with, I knew Holly would die before telling me where they were. She was too competitive, her desire to win too strong. She wouldn’t take losing well.

The smarter move was to follow her and hope she led us to my friends. Which should work… unless they were already dead and in her trunk.

“This is car 88. We’re west on Van Buren, turning north onto La Salle.”

“Keep your distance, car 88. I don’t want her spooked.”

“Roger that.”

The light changed. I stayed the course, weaving in and out of the sparse traffic. In the rearview, I noticed the Feebies’ sedan, stuck to my bumper as if I were towing them.

“Dailey, Coursey, if you’re on this frequency, loosen up the tail. You’re crawling up my muffler.”

They must have heard me, because they pulled back to almost half a car length.

“Suspect just passed Wacker Drive, continuing on present course.”

I was coming up on West Chicago Avenue. Less than ten blocks away from Holly. I turned left on Chicago. I’d try to flank her by ru

“Suspect has stopped at the corner of La Salle and Kinzie.”

I passed Clark, and pulled up to a fire hydrant on Chicago and Dearborn to wait.

“This is car 88. We’re still on La Salle, coming up on Washington. Suspect is still on Kinzie.”

A honk, behind me. Then several more. I looked in the mirror, and saw the Feebies were parked in the middle of the street, blocking traffic. This didn’t go over well with the long line of commuters forming behind them.

“We’re approaching Wacker Drive. Suspect is still stopped on Kinzie, one block ahead. Please advise.”