Dirty Martini

I didn’t waste any breath answering. The Art Institute was a block away, on my left, and I only had about a minute to get to it. I was sweating freely now, my shoulder begi

“Daniels.”

“Now go to Buckingham Fountain. Stay on foot. You have seven minutes.”

“I need-”

I wanted to say more time, but the co

“Did you get that?” I said into my radio.

“Affirmative. We got a lock on the phone he’s calling from, and it doesn’t make sense.”

“Why not?” I huffed.

“It seems to be coming from Jason Alger’s house.”

The retired cop whose home had been turned into a death trap and whose fingers had been left in the fridge.

“We’re sending a team to check it out.”

“Bad idea. Last time-”

“We’ll be careful. But Alger is uptown. How did he get across town so fast?”

I made it to Jackson, and the light was against me, so I couldn’t cross. It would delay me, but I was grateful for the rest.

“Could have had a remote video camera planted at the Daley Center,” I said. “Or he was watching from a distance. Or maybe he’s forwarding his calls through Alger’s computer somehow.”

“Or maybe he has an accomplice.”

I didn’t like that possibility. Not at all. A guy on the corner next to me gave me a sideways glance, then resumed his cell phone conversation. Suddenly everyone on the street was a potential spy. Or a potential poisoner.

The light changed, and I put it into second gear and charged across the street, almost pulling off my arm when the suitcase wheels caught on the curb. I switched to my left hand, couldn’t find my rhythm, then switched back. I cut left on Van Buren into the cul-de-sac leading to Congress, and huffed and puffed up the bridge over the railroad tracks.

When I reached the apex, my legs, arm, and lungs were pudding. But I could see the Buckingham Fountain ahead, one of Chicago’s most recognizable landmarks, the center jet shooting a hundred and fifty feet into the air. When I got there, I was seriously considering jumping in to cool off. Or to slake my thirst.

Strangely, I was in the same part of Grant Park where my father bought me those three ice creams, years ago. Where were all the damn vendors now that I really needed one?

My phone rang, even though I hadn’t yet crossed Columbus.

“I’m almost there.”

“New destination. Navy Pier. Take Columbus to Grand Avenue on foot. You have fifteen minutes.”

Then he hung up. That little mother…

“Lieutenant, this is Reynolds. We have a team en route to Alger’s house.”

“Why? So you can shake his hand and congratulate him when he gets his money?”

That might have been harsh, considering the casualties they’d suffered, but I was exhausted and in a mood.

“We’re going to watch and wait. The mayor doesn’t want him picked up until we get the all clear. But you can be damn sure we won’t let him out of our sights.”

Reynolds sounded pissed, and I realized he didn’t like playing by these rules any more than I did. Maybe during their surveillance the Chemist might accidentally have his head blown off. The thought made me smile.

I paused for a moment in front of the giant fountain, the Windy City blowing a mist of its water onto my face. I had no idea how clean the water was, but it felt wonderful.

Navy Pier was a mile away, maybe a little more. To make it in fifteen minutes, I needed to haul ass. But something was bothering me. The Chemist liked to talk. Even after he sprayed me with TEPP, he stuck around for a bit to chat. But his last several phone calls had been abrupt, clipped. Either he was worried about being caught on the phone, or…

“Reynolds, what’s the number the Chemist is calling from?”

He read it to me.

“Have you tried calling it?”

“No. We don’t want to tip him off that we know.”

But I could call him back without letting on that I knew his number. I pressed *69. The phone rang ten times. No answer. I tried entering in the number Reynolds gave me. Another ten rings, no pickup.

Then I waited. If the Chemist thought he was being messed with, he’d call me back to scold me. But my phone didn’t ring.

“He’s not in the house,” I said. “He’s not watching me. He’s at the drop point already.”

“Are you sure?”

“Have your team do a thermal scan of the Alger house. I bet it’s empty.”

I knew I was right. But how could we use this to our advantage? I had fourteen minutes to make it to Navy Pier, and if I wasn’t being monitored, I could use that for something else. What could this extra time buy us?

“Get me transportation. The nearest cop in the area. And if Rossi is available, have him come along.”

“Rossi?”

“If not him, try Taurus or Wesson or Daewoo. Any of those guys.”

“Okay. Got it.”

I waited two minutes. My breathing and heart rate returned to normal. The Chemist didn’t call, demanding why I was still at the fountain. Now I was positive he wasn’t watching me. I briefly toyed with the idea of grabbing a cab, getting on a plane to the Bahamas, and seeing how long two million bucks would last.

I heard a motor coming from the right, and did a double-take at the police scooter heading toward me, the manure-fixated Officer Buchbinder at the helm.

“Hello again, Lieutenant. I was the closest cop in range. How’s that for a coincidence?”

“Get me to Navy Pier,” I said, securing the suitcase on the small rack at the rear of the bike with bungee cords. “And watch out for horses.”

“Don’t need to tell me. I scrubbed my bike for so long I had dung stuck in my fingernails.”

He offered me his hand for inspection, which I judiciously ignored.

I mounted the scooter and asked, “Where’s the gun?”

“The what?”

“Rossi. Daewoo. Those are gun manufacturers.”

“I was on parking detail. No one told me to bring you a gun. Just to pick you up.”

“Give me your gun.”

“Why?”

I spoke between my teeth. “Because I need one.”

“It’s my gun. I bought it.”

It’s a good thing he didn’t hand it over, because I would have shot him.

“Take Lake Shore Drive,” I ordered Buchbinder. Then I hit my call button. “Reynolds, I’m going north on LSD. Have Rossi meet me on Monroe.”

“Roger that. The SRT has checked the house for thermals. Negative.”

Buchbinder refused to turn onto Lake Shore.

“What the hell are you waiting for?”

“There’s a lot of traffic.”

“Jesus, take the damn footpath.”

“What if I hit somebody?”

“Buchbinder, get the damn bike moving or…” What the hell could I threaten a parking cop with? “Just get the damn bike moving.”

He crossed the street and pulled onto the footpath.

“What’s our next move, Lieutenant?”

I had to choose my words carefully. I knew O’Loughlin was listening in.

“I think he’s using an auto-dialer on the computer. Like telemarketers use. That means he’s not at Alger’s house, it’s just a recording. If you can get your team into the house safely, maybe we could find out where the drop point is before he gets there, so you can get men in place.” I added, “To follow him.”

“Roger that.”

“Lots of people taking walks today,” Buchbinder whined. “Dogs too.”

“Go faster,” I told him.