Dirty Martini

“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 di

“Sure. I’ll call you tomorrow, during di

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 disco

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 co

“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 Hothams 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 a

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.