Dirty Martini

It was tough to talk while biting my tongue, but I managed. “So we run away to fight another day.”

“You sound pissed off.”

“I am pissed off.”

“Not to put a price on human life, but it’s only two million dollars, Jack. That’s nothing.”

“You’re wrong. It’s two million too much. Tell me about the profile. Let me guess-starts fires, wets the bed, tortures animals, abused as a child…”

“Not even close. Single white male, between thirty-five and fifty-five, college education, white-collar job, lives in Chicago, possibly a leader in the community, does volunteer work, bi-polar-”

“You think? Maybe his problem is he ran out of Zoloft.”

“-above average intelligence, minor criminal infractions in the past, single, some background in theater-”

“Sure, he did Arsenic and Old Lace in summer stock.”

Rick sighed. “This is a decent profile, Jack.”

“Where’s the part about dressing up like Snow White and collecting Do

“Actually, the profile says he probably collects something, like comic books or baseball cards.”

“Or poisonous plants. Look Rick, letting this guy go is a bad idea. Does the profile say he’ll stop if he’s paid?”

“Yes.”

“Well, he won’t. I’ve talked to him. This is all a big game, and he’s enjoying it way too much. Once you give a bully your lunch money, you have to keep paying him forever.”

“What are you pla

I thought about the.38 in my purse.

“I’m going to be a bigger bully than he is.”

“And what if more people die?”

That was the question, wasn’t it? If I caught him, and people died, I’d never forgive myself. But if I let him go, and people died, I’d never forgive myself.

Burglary/Robbery/Theft was looking better and better.

I bid adieu to Rick and spent the remainder of the drive going over scenarios, trying to find one with a decent outcome.

None sprang to mind.

I parked in front of a hydrant on Randolph, kitty-corner to the Daley Center. It looked like a scene from The Blues Brothers. Twenty members of the SRT were there, in formation. At least forty cops. Some brass, including the super. Eight squad cars. Four motorcycles. Two scooters. Four horses. Two mountain bikes. The Mobile Command bus. And a Segway.

The Daley Center served as Chicago’s main courthouse. It was an imposing six-hundred-foot-tall structure, all steel and glass, bounded on all four sides by streets. The area around the Picasso-an impressive metal sculpture in rusty brown that resembled a horse mating with a harp-had been cordoned off with yellow police tape, and onlookers as well as media had gathered around the perimeter to watch whatever was happening.

I popped the trunk, dug out my spare shoulder holster, and put it on under my jacket. I also strapped on an ankle harness that held a five-inch AMT Backup II. It weighed about eighteen ounces. I loaded five 9mm short rounds into the clip, jacked one into the throat, and added one more. My boot-cut jeans covered it easily, plus the wider bottoms made my hips seem slimmer. A win-win jeans experience.

I went back to the front seat and removed my Colt Detective Special from my purse, along with a speed loader, and a roll of antacid tablets. I chewed four antacids while strapping the.38 and the speed loader into the Velcro webbing of my holster.

Then I opened the glove compartment and took out a balisong, a Filipino butterfly knife. It had a four-inch stainless steel blade, which stayed hidden between two halves of the handle. With a few flicks of the wrist, the handles would separate, the blade would come out, and the handles would rejoin. I’d taken it off a suspect last year, and often played with it while driving. I’d gotten pretty good, and could open the blade in less than a second.

The knife went into my back pocket. Then I stuck some Ray-Bans on my forehead, locked the car, and jumped into the fray.

I pushed my way through the crowd, past the SWAT guys, sidestepping the horses and a manure mound that looked disturbingly like Richard Nixon, and sashayed up to Superintendent O’Loughlin. She wore what appeared to be a man’s blazer, which pinched her waist and made her shoulders look like a linebacker’s. The slacks were even less flattering. Someone needed to take away her Macy’s charge card, because she was wasting it.

The omnipresent Davy Ellis, attired in gray Armani, offered me a big smile and a wink. Captain Bains didn’t seem to be around.

“Lieutenant,” the super boomed, “I’ve gotten word that you don’t want to play by our rules.”

Who ratted me out? Herb or Rick? Had to be Rick. Herb would never do that. Right?

“I don’t think we should let the Chemist go,” I said.

“I’m sure your personal opinions won’t interfere with your ability to do your duty.”

“My duty is to catch bad guys.”

“Your duty is to serve and protect. Engaging this guy won’t do either.”

“Neither will letting him go.”

O’Loughlin was hard to read. I knew that somewhere, deep down, she had to agree with me. But her face was granite.

“I’d like you to relinquish your weapon, Lieutenant.”

I blinked. Then I blinked again.

“You’re kidding.”

“You’re going to be watched every step of the way. Air support. Snipers. Even a police marine unit. We’ll make sure nothing happens to you.”

I thought about my AMT backup, safe in the ankle holster, and then handed her the Colt.

“Now the backup piece.”

I made my face blank. “What backup piece?”

“You gave up the.38 too easily. That means you have a backup.”

Smart lady. I should have thought of that.

“I need to have a gun on me, O’Loughlin.”

“You’ll address me as Superintendent or ma’am. Now give me the backup.”

“What if I refuse?” I added, “Ma’am.”

“Then I call over some men to take it from you, and at the end of the day I fire you.”

“And then I go to the media and tell them all about you paying the Chemist off.” I looked at Davy. “Think that would be good for PR?”

“That would be bad,” Davy said.

O’Loughlin got in my face. “You do what you have to do, Lieutenant. I’ll do what I have to do. And right now, I have to take your piece.”

We played stare-down for what seemed like twenty minutes, but was probably only a few seconds, and then I gave her the AMT.

“If I get killed, it’s on your head.”

“I’ve got a lot of deaths on my head right now, Lieutenant. Do I have to frisk you for any more weapons?”

I lifted up my arms. “If that’s what turns you on.”

For a moment, it looked like she was going to do it, but then some SRT guys came over with a big yellow suitcase and interrupted our tête-à-tête. A tall one with a unibrow handed me something silver.

“This is a tracking phone programmed with your number. It sends a GPS signal to the Mobile Command Post, and we can pinpoint your location to within three feet. It will also transmit the number he’s calling you from, and we can trace that number to either an address or to a cell phone within twenty yards.”

“And if you find him, you’ll do what? Deliver a pizza?”

“After we’ve deemed it safe, we’ll get the guy,” the super said. “He won’t get away with this. He’ll pay.”

Another SRT cop, a black guy with biceps larger than my waist, opened up a map of Chicago.

“There’s a chance he’ll run you around town, to try to lose any tails. That’s pretty much impossible with the GPS, but we have teams stationed around the city, all with receivers.” He pointed out a dozen red dots on the map. “We also have people stationed at O’Hare and Midway in case you’re required to get on a plane. Plus three teams dogging your every move. We won’t lose you.”

I wasn’t worried about getting lost. I was worried about the guy dosing me with something lethal before any of the ten thousand cops around me could do anything to stop it.