Dirty Martini

But I said, “Thanks, Officer,” just the same.

They wired me up with a radio headset/walkie-talkie combo, gave me an extra GPS tracker, and an extra phone.

“Do you want armor?” Biceps asked.

“No need. He’s not a shooter. But I could use some of this.”

I sidled up to Unibrow and put my hands on his utility belt.

“May I?” I asked, taking a can of pepper spray.

“Help yourself, Lieutenant. It’s rated at five million Scoville heat units. Hit him anywhere on the clothing, or just get the stream close to him, he’ll feel it.”

“Thanks. A girl needs her protection, right, Superintendent?”

The super didn’t seem amused, but she didn’t prevent me from tucking the pepper spray into my holster.

“So now we wait,” Biceps said.

The wait wasn’t long. Less than a minute later, my tracking phone rang. A blocked number. I nodded at the group, and said, “It’s showtime.”

Then I answered the call.

CHAPTER 27

“GOOD MORNING, JACK. HOW are you feeling?”

His voice provoked a reaction in my stomach normally reserved for warm oysters and cheap tequila.

“Nervous. I’ve got all this money, and no one to give it to.”

“I don’t see the suitcase. Hold it up.”

I fought the urge to look around. He could be in one of the surrounding buildings, in a car, in the crowd, on the street, or even in the Daley Center itself. Ultimately, it didn’t matter where he was. We were going to let him go anyway.

I hefted the yellow bag, surprised by its weight. Forty, maybe forty-five pounds, and bulky. I had Biceps hold my phone, then I pressed the suitcase up over my head, made sure it was balanced, and did a 360-degree turn.

Biceps had casually plugged in an earpiece, and Unibrow casually walked back to the Mobile Command bus.

“Good,” the Chemist said when I got the phone back. “Here’s how it is going to work. I’m going to call you, and tell you to go to an address. When you get to the address, you’ll wait for me to call again with more instructions. You’re to go alone, no escort. I don’t want to see any cops with you, near you, or following you. If I do, I’m calling it off, and many people will die. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“I saw that SWAT guy give you some things. A radio. An extra phone. And what was that black thing?”

“Pepper spray.”

“Naughty girl, Jack. Don’t you know that chemicals are dangerous? But I’m not referring to the spray. I’m referring to the small black box, looks like a PDA.”

“That’s a GPS tracker.”

“Put all of those things on the ground.”

I complied.

“The pepper spray too. I wouldn’t want you hurting yourself.”

I made a face, but added that to the pile.

“Very good. Now, I know that you’re going to try to find me. That you’ll try to trace the calls. I’m sure that large phone you’re talking on right now has all sorts of tracking goodies on it. So we’re going to switch phones. Walk over to the Picasso. Bring the suitcase with you, and make sure everyone keeps their distance.”

This was getting better and better.

“Everyone needs to stay here,” I informed the group. The super nodded at me, either a good luck nod or a you’d better follow orders nod. Then I yanked out the telescoping handle and pulled the suitcase behind me, grateful for the wheels.

“Look by the base of the sculpture. There’s a coffee cup. Put down the phone you’re talking on and pick up the cup.”

I saw it immediately, stark white contrast to the brown metal of the Picasso. As I stared, it began to ring.

I didn’t want to touch anything the Chemist had touched, but I took a chance, assuming he wouldn’t kill me this early in the game. I set down the tracking phone and gently lifted the cardboard cup by the rim. Inside was a cell phone, an older, larger model.

I answered the call.

“I found it.”

A pause. Then, “Walk east. I’ll be watching. If I see anyone approach you, this is over, and people will die. Keep the line free for further instruction. If I try calling, and it’s busy, people will die. Remember the rules.”

And then silence.

I had no choice. I began to walk.

In a way, this was all pretty fu

I walked east to Dearborn, went right, then continued east on Washington. The day was hot, muggy, in the upper eighties. The sun hurt my face, still pink from the rough scrubbing the hospital had administered. I moved the sunglasses from my head to my eyes, and kept my pace casual even though my heart rate was set on sprint.

After a block, I had an unhealthy film of sweat covering my body, and a really good feeling I was being followed. A yellow cab, creeping along ten yards behind me, matching my pace. I stopped, pretended to adjust the suitcase handle, and looked at it over my Ray-Bans. The taxi also stopped. I couldn’t see inside very well-the sun glared off the windshield-but the cab was hired and it looked like a single occupant in the backseat.

In truth, I didn’t know if I’d recognize the Chemist even if I was staring right at him. The only thing I remembered from my brief encounter with him in Records was the port-wine stain on his face, and his beard. Both were fake. Just like the eye patch.

If I ran into someone with a single distinctive feature, that might be our man. But if he went without a disguise, he could be anyone. Maybe even someone I’ve already met.

I stopped futzing with the bag and continued east on Washington. I sensed that the cab resumed pursuit, and then actually saw it peripherally as it came up on my right.

“Handoff, from a jogger, soon,” Unibrow said through the open backseat window.

Then the cab accelerated past and turned right on Wabash.

The cell phone rang. I co

“Hello?”

A pause, then, “Go to the Art Institute and wait on the steps. You have four minutes.”

That was about four blocks away, one east and three south. I couldn’t make it in time by walking.

I began to jog.

Normally, a four-block jog wouldn’t even get me winded. But heat, exhaustion, sickness, and a forty-five-pound anchor all conspired to have me wheezing like an asthmatic after the first hundred yards. I kept up the pace, my eyes sca

The jogger, wily little devil, came up from behind after I turned onto Wabash. He ran past me with ease, not so much as a bump, and I almost didn’t think it was him until I thought to check my blazer pocket.

No beer. But he had left me a walkie-talkie and a wireless earpiece. I switched it on, leaving it at whatever frequency they’d set it at, and stuck the receiver/mike combo on my ear.

“This is Daniels,” I panted. “He told me to go to the Art Institute.”

“This is Reynolds, SRT.” It was Unibrow. “We know. Miller took a guess, and the cell phone the Chemist gave you is Tracey Hotham’s. We’re listening in, and we can ping your location. We’re also tracing his calls. It’s not as easy, because they’re being routed through a PC-one of those computer phone lines. It’s not the same phone he called you from initially. That was one of those pay-by-the-minute cells. We’re not getting anything from it. But we should have his new location in a few minutes.”