Dirty Martini

And then a wheel on the suitcase broke.

I hefted the bag up to waist level and tugged the strap over my shoulder. Heavy wasn’t a good adjective to describe it. Impossible was better. I couldn’t run, but I broke into a kind of quick hobble. The only thing on me that didn’t hurt was my ass, but there was still time for that.

When I reached the intersection, I looked all around for the cop who was supposed to meet me.

Naturally, there was no cop. I should have expected that. I thought of Herb, sitting behind his desk at Robbery, making a few phone calls to track down his missing toilets, and felt a jealousy so intense I almost started to weep.

A car honked. The cab, with Reynolds in the backseat. He opened the door and said, “Hop in.”

Getting the suitcase off my shoulder was a relief on par with a death row reprieve. I shoved myself into the backseat after it, and Reynolds ordered the driver to Navy Pier.

I checked my watch. The fifteen minutes were up.

“Couldn’t find Rossi, but I got a Mr. SIG-Sauer for you.”

He handed me a P228, semiauto, blue finish. Cocked and locked.

“Thanks. Mr. SIG-Sauer will do just fine.” I adjusted the Velcro straps on my holster and tucked the gun inside. “You need to send an ambulance to the walkway a few hundred yards back on LSD. And make sure they have some towels.”

“Trouble?”

“A little. Lost my radio too.”

Reynolds dug around in his pocket. “Here’s an extra.”

“Any luck with Alger’s house?” I asked, plugging in the earpiece.

“It’s been booby-trapped again. No casualties, but my team can’t get to the computer.”

“Probably too late now anyway. We’ll try Plan B.”

Reynolds narrowed his eyes at me. “You go

“I’m going to have a talk with him.”

“This asshole killed a lot of my buddies.”

I thought of Officer Sardina in Records. “Mine too.”

“Don’t be a hero. He looks at you fu

“And if more people die?”

“They would anyway.”

The unibrow notwithstanding, I liked this guy. The cabbie pulled onto Streeter, and I told him to park it. Navy Pier was less than a block away, and if the Chemist was watching, I wanted him to see me walk up.

“Good luck, Lieutenant.”

Reynolds offered his hand. I raised mine, noted the bloody knuckles, and gave him a salute instead. Then I manhandled the bag out of the cab, pulled the torture strap up onto my shoulder, and walked toward the giant letters that welcomed me to Navy Pier.

CHAPTER 29

AS THE NAME IMPLIED, Navy Pier was a pier. It stretched east into Lake Michigan, three hundred feet wide and ten times as long, boasting a dozen restaurants, several theaters, fifty-plus shops, two museums, a fun house, a miniature golf course, a carousel, and a giant Ferris wheel.

I stood in front of the entrance building, known as the Family Pavilion, and watched people come and go. A minute ticked by. Then two. I was wondering if the Chemist had gotten cold feet, and then the phone rang.

“Is this a recording?” I said.

“Take Grand Avenue east, past the Beer Garden and the Grand Ballroom, to the end of the pier. Look for the tree with the red bow. You have three minutes. If you try anything, people will die.”

“Are you a psychotic bed-wetter?”

The call ended. That was definitely a recording. The Chemist was probably already in place, making sure the scene was clear. I heaved the suitcase up and headed east.

I hadn’t been to Navy Pier since it was renovated about ten years ago, and if I hadn’t been there to deliver extortion money to a mass murderer I might have enjoyed the music, the foliage, the myriad of smells, the distinct carnival atmosphere. Instead, I focused on moving as fast as I could and ignoring the many signals from my body that I should stop moving so fast.

Halfway there, I had to stop to move the strap from one shoulder to the other. My blouse was soaked with sweat, and some blood. My jeans were grass stained, my watch bezel was cracked, and my lower lip had swelled up to football size.

The three-minute time limit passed. Then four minutes. I limped onward, finally making it to the end of the pier at the five-minute mark. Beyond the Grand Ballroom building there was some outdoor seating, a semicircle of flags, and a handful of evergreens. The one in the center, next to the railing that prevented people from falling into Lake Michigan, had a red ribbon tied around the trunk.

I approached it slowly, partly out of caution and partly because slow was the only speed I had left. At the base, covered by dirt, was a white business-size envelope.

I looked around, but no one seemed to be paying any attention to me. Figuring the Chemist wouldn’t try to kill me until he got his payoff, I picked up the envelope by the corners and fished out a piece of paper.

Jack, be a good girl and throw the suitcase into the lake, directly ahead of you. Do it now. Then wait for my call.

I started to laugh. The son of a bitch had actually gotten away with it. He’d been there watching at the Daley Center, then used his auto-dialer to send me ru

“Reynolds, the Chemist left me a note. He wants me to drop the money into the lake. Where’s the police boat?”

“Burnham Park Harbor, about a mile away.”

“Do they have diving equipment?”

“I think so. Hold on.”

I waited a few seconds. Out on the lake, a tour boat glided peacefully by.

“They have equipment,” Reynolds said, “but it would take them a minimum of ten minutes to get it on.”

So much for that.

“Ask them where he could come up.”

“There are a few harbors, and three beaches, plus he could be on the lake somewhere. There are dozens of boats out there.”

So that was that. There was nothing else we could do.

I walked to the perimeter fence, which only came up to my waist, and set the suitcase over the top. Then I climbed over after it, walked a few feet to the end of the pier, and gazed down into the inky blackness. Ten yards deep, at least. Probably more. I couldn’t see past the first few feet.

But he’d be able to see it, painted bright yellow.

“I hope it lands on your fucking head,” I said, and dropped the bag into the water.

It hit with a big splash, and then sank immediately; of course it did, with twenty pounds of platinum to weigh it down. I stared for almost a full minute, then hopped back over the fence and sat down at one of the outside benches and watched the waves roll in.

CHAPTER 30

THE CHEMIST BREACHES the surface alongside a pier in Chicago Harbor, less than a mile away from where he picked up the suitcase. He drops the Little Otter-the underwater jet scooter that got him here so quickly-and lets his SCUBA tank, still half full of the nitrox air mix, sink to the bottom. He doubts they’ll be found, but if they are, they can’t be traced to him.

Next, he hangs the bag handle on a mooring cleat, pulls off his flippers, and then eases himself onto the pier. There are some people in a boat a few yards away, but they aren’t looking in his direction.

It’s hard, getting the suitcase out of the lake. The money inside is soaking wet, as is the leather, and he almost pops a blood vessel in his forehead hoisting it onto the pier. Once it’s up, he walks casually over to the Miss Maria K, the twenty-three-foot boat that rents this slip, and removes the black vinyl bag he’d tucked under her cover tarpaulin. Another quick look around, and then he opens up the suitcase and stares at the cash, the platinum, and the felt bag full of uncut diamonds.