Dirty Martini

Bob came galloping back into the lobby, with a large pan full of linguini. Noodles hung from his mouth.

He yelled, “It’s fine!” or something similar. Hard to tell with all the food stuffed in his cheeks.

There were no heroic attempts on behalf of my people to tackle Bob and wrench the linguini from his starch hole. No one screamed, “Spit it out, you idiot!” We all just watched, silently, as Bob chewed, swallowed, and didn’t die. When he finished, he held out both arms in a silent ta-da! No one applauded.

“I’m trying the soup next,” Bob said, and trotted off.

Captain Bains chose that opportune moment to call, spitting vitriol and threats before I said word one. When he paused to take a breath I cut in, explaining how everything went down.

“And what’s Bob doing right now?” Bains asked when I finished.

“He’s standing three feet away from me, eating a bowl of wedding ball soup.”

Bob nodded vigorously and gave me a thumbs-up.

“How does he look?”

“Crazed.”

“Sick? Poisoned?”

“Not so far.”

“Tell him if he tries everything on the menu and lives, we’ll go on as pla

“I’ll let you tell him that. How was the ceremony?”

“The flowers look like shit. One of the big arrangements fell over during the vows, and the ring bearer is still screaming in fright. I’m going to hang the florist by his green thumbs and have everyone in my District take turns beating him with hoses.”

“I’m glad it went well.”

“I’m on my way there. Let me speak to Bob.”

I passed the phone over to the manager, and informed my team that we’d just confiscate the liquor and beverages for now. Then I conferred with Reynolds.

“Have you checked in with the SRTs at the other weddings?”

“They all seem to be clear.”

“Call them over here. I want a watch on the property, and I want two undercovers inside checking the guest list. It looks like Bains is going to jeopardize hundreds of lives to make his son happy.”

“Can’t blame the guy. The bond between a father and a child is a powerful thing.”

“Yeah,” I said, conjuring up the image of me and my father in Grant Park. “Nothing can break that bond.”

A few minutes later I had my phone back, Manager Bob was noshing on a Caesar salad with anchovies, and Bains arrived and in no uncertain terms told everyone to get the hell out. I might have put up a fight if it was anyone other than my boss, and I might have even put up a fight with my boss, but the double vision had returned and I was so tired I could fall asleep standing up.

Which is why I left Reynolds in charge and hopped in the car, ready to head home. It was only a little past noon, and I felt like I’d been awake for a year.

I doubted we’d pick up the Chemist today. If he did stop by, all of the police vehicles still in the parking lot would scare him off. But I felt pretty good that we would eventually catch him. He’d gone through a lot of trouble and risk to steal the case files from Records. There had to be something in there worth protecting. And though Alger and his partner were dead, and those files were gone, the information they contained was still available if I dug deep enough.

This wouldn’t end in a dramatic gun battle, or a climactic chase. It would end in a warrant and a quiet arrest. But it would end. I was sure of it.

I took 290, heading back to my house. I was making damn good time too, so good, I might actually make the trip in less than an hour. I would take a shower, maybe do a little napping, then visit Latham.

Which is why it was especially surprising to me when I exited on Harlem and headed north. Bensenville wasn’t north. The hospital wasn’t north. Elmwood Park was north. Elmwood Park, where Wilbur Martin Streng lived.

“This isn’t a good time,” I said to myself.

But I kept going, on my way to visit a man I thought died about forty years ago.

CHAPTER 33

THE CHEMIST DRIVES PAST Chateau Élan, sees the police brigade camped out in the parking lot, and doesn’t even slow down.

The cops figured it out fast. Very fast. But it doesn’t matter. That’s only a side bet. The big wager hasn’t been placed yet.

He thinks about tomorrow. If everything goes according to the Plan, the death toll will be in the tens of thousands. And there will be drastic afteraffects as well. Panic. Riots. Widespread terror. Crime will spin out of control, with no one to stop it.

It’s more than simple revenge. It will teach the world an important lesson.

And the best part of all is that no one will see it coming.

He heads home to make the final preparations.

CHAPTER 34

WHAT DO YOU SAY to a dead man?

I started with, “Hello.”

Elmwood Park blended into Chicago on the west side. It was small but densely packed, predominantly white middle-class, mostly residential. Wilbur Streng lived in a small beige house on a small piece of property, bordered on either side by equally small houses, at Belden and Seventy-third. There was room for me to park on the street legally, but I chose a hydrant out of habit.

I didn’t need to psych myself up, or check my makeup, or consider what I was going to say. I was on autopilot, acting without thinking. After parking, I walked up to his door and pressed the bell, and a minute later an old man answered.

I expected some sort of emotion on my part, some sort of internal dam breaking. But I felt nothing. The person standing before me didn’t look anything like the memories, or photos, I had of my father. He was stooped with age, which put him at my height. More liver spots on his head than hair. Thick glasses, and a lot of loose skin on the face and neck. Slightly built, but with a small pot belly.

“Figured you’d come by someday. Might as well come in.”

And then the dam broke. I’d forgotten what he sounded like. Is that odd? To forget a parent’s voice? But when he spoke, I realized I hadn’t forgotten it at all. I could never forget it. That voice had read me countless bedtime stories, had answered my questions about lions and thunder and airplanes, had helped me with my homework, had said I love you so many times. That same voice had bought me three ice creams and never gotten angry.

My father’s voice. Dad’s voice.

I felt my throat begin to tickle and my chest get heavy, but I stayed outwardly calm.

“You… know who I am?”

“Saw you on TV, many times. In the paper too. Your mother finally tell you?”

“She told me you were dead.”

He nodded. “It was easier that way. You coming in?”

I wasn’t sure if I wanted to. Still, my feet followed his into the house, and the door closed behind me with a surreal, otherworldly feeling.

The house was dark, clean. It smelled of lemon polish and cigar smoke. We passed a living room with a leather couch, a TV, an old hi-fi. Paintings on the wall, mostly of wooded landscapes, in heavy ornate frames that were popular in the ’70s. Lots of wood paneling. Lots of wood everything. The kitchen was also done in brown, tile and wallpaper. Tidy, but without any overt personality.

“Would you like coffee? I have some from earlier.”

He indicated the green percolator on the counter. I didn’t want coffee, but I suddenly felt uncomfortable and I wanted to have something to do with my hands.

“Coffee is fine.”

“Cream or sugar?”

“Black.”

He grunted, like he expected that, and took a mug out of the drying rack in the sink.

“Got this machine about thirty years ago. Still brews a decent cup.”

So he didn’t abandon appliances, only families. He handed me the mug, and I was grateful for the warmth.