Shaken (11 page)

“Found something!”

Phin looked over at Herb, who was thirty yards away, in the bushes near the garage. As he was getting down he found a Lemonhead candy stuck in the tree bark. He left it there and walked over to Herb.

“Footprints, right here.” Herb pointed at the ground. “Also some twigs broken off the bush so it was easier to see the house.

“Back there, someone was in a tree. You thinking two vantage points?”

“Either two vantage points,” Herb said, “or two abductors.”

They walked the perimeter of the property, trying to see if anyone else could have been watching. All they found were old, spent shell casings—the reason Jack now insisted on keeping the shades drawn, and why she’d installed the new burglar alarm. But there was no evidence of recent surveillance, except in those two spots.

Herb and Phin went back into the house. Harry was in the kitchen. He’d made himself a submarine sandwich and was finishing a bite. “No bugs in the refrigerator,” he said, mouth full.

“How about the rest of the house, jackass?” Herb said.

McGlade stared at Herb and protectively hid the sandwich behind his back. “Whole house is clean. At least, it was.”

Harry pointed his chin to the floor, which was dotted with nettles Phin had dragged in. Phin pondered that for a moment, wondering if it meant something. Wondering what they were supposed to do next.

Three years ago

2007, August 8

“W
hat are we supposed to do next?” Herb asked.

We were exiting Dalton’s building and walking back to my Nova.

“The only thing we can do,” I answered. “We watch him. Follow him. Hope he makes a move.”

“You think he’ll make a move?” We waited for a cab to pass, then crossed the street. “He’s leaving the country tomorrow. You think he’ll do something to screw that up?”

“I think he’s a disturbed old guy who wants to play some kind of game. And if he does screw up, I want to be there.”

I unlocked my car, started the engine, and cranked on the air-conditioning. The chassis rocked when Herb sat down. After checking for traffic, I pulled out onto the street, turned onto Lake Shore Drive, and parked next to the 1300 building, near the underground garage. It didn’t matter if Dalton saw us—he practically challenged us to follow him, and no doubt knew we would.

I called a detective in my district, Tom Mankowski, and asked him to check the passenger lists on all flights to Cape Verde over the next three days, looking for Dalton’s name. I also asked him if he could confirm Dalton had a residence there.

Then we waited.

“So how’s Latham doing?” Herb asked. “Fully recovered yet?”

“He’s good.”

Latham, my fiancé, was still recuperating from a bout with botulism. He was almost back to normal, and we were going on vacation later in the month, renting a cabin on Rice Lake in Wisconsin. I had to testify at a murder trial next week, but that wouldn’t take more than a day or two. Then I was free of police work for seven glorious days. Though, knowing my luck, I’d probably run into some psychopath during the trip.

“How’s the wife?” I asked Herb.

“Good.”

We kept waiting.

“Think we’ve run out of things to talk about?” Herb asked.

“No, not at all,” I answered.

Neither of us spoke for fifteen minutes. We watched a bike courier ride up to Dalton’s building. He unhooked a bag attached to his rear bumper with bungee cords, and walked past the doorman.

“Remember when we first met?” Herb asked.

“Not really.”

“Sure you do. It was with that guy…the escort murder guy. Shell.”

“Can we talk about something else?” I didn’t like thinking about Shell.

“Sorry. Didn’t know it was still a soft spot.”

“It’s not,” I lied. “What about it?”

“That was eighteen years ago. We’ve been working together for a long time.”

“Sure have.”

“I’ve probably spent more time with you than I have with my wife.”

My eyes wandered away from the building and over to Herb. “You’re not going to tell me you’re in love with me, are you Herb?”

Herb smirked. “I wouldn’t want to ruin what you’ve got going on with Latham.”

“That’s kind of you, because I’d hate to break up your marriage.”

“Also, and I don’t mean this to be an insult—”

“Translation: here comes the insult.”

“—but you’re a little too much like one of the guys. It would be like sleeping with my brother.”

“You have a brother? And he has boobs?”

“We’re getting off tangent here. What I wanted to say was—”

“I want to hear about your D-cup brother.”

“—we’ve been partners for a long time—”

“Is he my size? Maybe we could swap designer clothes.”

“—and you’re my best friend.”

His words sunk right through my skin, into my bone marrow, where they nestled warmly.

“Really?” I said. “Best friend?”

“Really. I just wanted to say that. And it’s okay if you don’t say it back.”

“Herb, I don’t want to burst your bubble, here—”

“Please don’t hurt my feelings, Jack. I break easily.”

“—but this isn’t the first time you’ve said this to me.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“Herb, you say this whenever we go out and you have more than five drinks.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“Not the part about your brother with the rack, but the best friend bit.”

“Do not.”

“Do too. Has to be over a dozen times now.” I looked at him. “Have you been hitting the sauce today?”

“Not yet. But I may step out and get a bottle of something to kill my embarrassment.”

“Counterproductive. Halfway into the bottle, you’ll be pouring your heart out to me again, wanting to get matching T-shirts and friendship bracelets.”

We waited some more.

“Jack?” Herb said after a few minutes.

“Yeah?”

“So when I’ve had too many drinks, and I say this to you…”

“Yeah?”

“How do you respond?”

I looked him straight in the eyes. “That you’re my best friend too, and I love you like a sister.”

“You have a sister? And she has a penis?”

“We should set her up with your brother,” I said. “They’d be perfect for each other.”

“They’d probably just wind up being friends. Hey, there’s the Caddy.”

Herb pointed, and sure enough Dalton’s DTS was on the move. He squealed tires, swinging onto the road, fishtailing before rocketing forward.

I threw the car into drive and gunned the engine. Hitting the gas in my Nova was akin to yelling at a mouse on a treadmill in an attempt to make it run faster. There were no squealing tires when I pulled out after him, and the engine made a sound somewhere between a whine of pain and a resigned sigh of defeat. I turned onto Division Street, hoping for a tailwind.

“Remind me again why we take your car,” Herb said.

“Just keep your eye on him.”

“He’s too far ahead. I think he just crossed the border into Pennsylvania.”

My Nova moved noticeably faster when Herb wasn’t in the car, but I didn’t say anything and risk insulting my bestest friend.

“I think he turned,” Herb said.

“Where?”

“Up there, at the Washington Monument.”

“You’re funny, like oral thrush is funny.”

We drove another block.

“Try pressing the accelerator,” Herb suggested.

“I am pressing the accelerator.”

“Do you need me to open the hood, wind the rubber band?”

“It’s not a rubber band,” I said, passing a minivan.

“It’s a mouse on a treadmill.”

“I think your mouse is sleeping. Or dead.”

I tapped the brakes and hit the horn to tell a cabbie what I thought of his driving, but the horn didn’t want to respond. “Where’d he turn?”

“Clybourn. Right.”

“Do you think he’s—?”

“Yeah. I do.”

We were heading straight for Merle’s U-Store-It. Was Dalton trying to clear out his storage locker? What if he did it before we got there?

“Put the cherry on the roof,” I said. A little while back, my antique stick-on police siren had fallen off, and I’d been given a slightly less-antique siren. Instead of a suction cup, this new one had a magnet to keep it attached.

“Where is it?” Herb asked.

“On the floor, behind my seat.”

Herb took a glance at his expansive waistline, then at me. “You’re kidding, right? I can’t reach that.”

“Pretend it’s a big box of cupcakes.”

“What kind of cupcakes?”

The light ahead of me turned red, but I blew through it anyway, narrowly missing a sideswipe by an overeager bus driver.

“Recline your seat,” I told him, swerving around the bus. The Cadillac was long out of sight, but I knew where the storage place was. Worst case, we’d get there two, maybe three minutes behind him.

Herb pulled the lever and his seat immediately snapped backward. “I can see the siren,” he said. “I think I can reach it.”

He made a strange grunting sound, sort of like an elephant trumpeting, as he stretched behind me for the light. I turned into oncoming traffic to pass some idiot driving the speed limit and following the rules of the road.

“Got it.” Herb blew out a big breath. “Whew. Got any Gatorade?”

“Now sit up and attach it to my roof,” I said, inching the Nova up to forty-five.

“Sit what now?”

“Up, Herb. Haven’t you ever watched those shows about those morbidly obese people who haven’t gotten out of bed in five years?”

“Those shows make me hungry.”

Herb had the siren cradled in his prodigious lap. I had ten white knuckles on the steering wheel and couldn’t pull them off to help him.

“Come on, partner,” I urged. “Crank down the window—”

“You have manual windows? When was this car made, during the Depression?”

“—and stick the cherry on my roof. You can do it.”

There was heaving. Grunting. Swearing. And labored, strangled breathing which—if witnessed by a doctor—would have resulted in the crash cart being wheeled over, stat. But somehow Herb managed to get that window open.

“Good work. Now sit up and stick it on the roof.”

“You’re driving too fast. I can’t get the seat up.”

“Come on, Herb. You can do this. Say it. Believe it.”

“Okay.”

“You can do this.”

“I can do this.”

“You got it.”

“I got it.”

“You’re the man.”

“I. Am. The man.”

Herb held the cherry out the window, then immediately dropped it outside. I checked my rearview and watched it bounce off the street, where it splintered into a million little red and blue pieces.

“I owe you a siren,” Herb said.

I frowned. “I never even got to try it.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll call Starsky and Hutch and get you a new one.”

I turned onto Fullerton, seeing that Dalton’s Cadillac was already parked across from the storage place. I hit the brakes right next to the building.

“Put in your earpiece,” I told Herb, screwing my Bluetooth into my ear. “Guard the exit unless I call for help.”

Herb managed to sit up and he nodded, reaching for his pocket. I exited the car and ran into the storage building. The same watchman was there, feet up on his small desk, eyeballs sewn onto the TV screen. I banged on his bulletproof glass.

“Police. Buzz me in.”

“Got a warrant?” he asked, not bothering to look at me.

“Open the goddamn door, pinhead!”

He buzzed me in. I hurried to the elevator, saw it was on the third floor. Once again I trudged up the stairs, tugging out my Colt, feeling a weird sort of déjà vu that wasn’t déjà vu at all because I had actually done this before, earlier today.

“Where are you?”
Herb, in my ear.

“Coming up on the third floor,” I said, taking the stairs two at a time. “Check out his car. See if there’s anything in it. Be discreet.”

By
discreet
I meant
don’t get caught inside without a warrant
.

I stopped at the doorway, crouched, and went through low. First I looked left, and saw John Dalton standing four yards away, hands at his sides, looking at me. His expression was neutral, his stance relaxed. I kept my gun aimed at the floor.

“Hello, Lieutenant,” he said. “I’ve been expecting you.”

I straightened up to my full height, then walked slowly to him. “Open your jacket, Mr. Dalton. Slowly.”

“I just came to clear out my storage locker before leaving the country,” he said, unbuttoning his suit coat and opening it up. Then he turned in a full circle. “I’m unarmed.”

“Coat pocket,” I said. “A bulge. Reach in and take it out with two fingers.”

“As you wish.” He stuck his thumb and index finger into his jacket and slowly removed a microcassette recorder. I could see the tiny wheel turning. “I thought we should record our conversation, for posterity.”

I glanced quickly at Dalton’s right, saw his storage locker, 312, was open. I approached, my weapon still out, my senses all on high alert. As I got nearer, I was able to peer inside his rental unit.

“His car is locked,” Herb said. “Don’t see anything inside. Also, two men just pulled up in a Mercedes.”

“You look a bit high-strung, Lieutenant,” Dalton said. “I assure you, there’s nothing to fear. At least, not at the moment.”

Looking into the storage unit, it appeared empty. No…not empty. There was something small resting in the middle of the bare floor.

“You have my permission to go in and take whatever you want,” Dalton said. “It’s for you anyway. A parting gift, of a sort.”

I took him up on his invitation, walking into the locker. On the floor was a cheap digital watch, the kind with a black plastic band sold in drugstores, and a white envelope. I holstered my gun and dug two latex gloves out of my jacket pocket. Keeping an eye on Dalton, I pulled on the gloves and reached for the watch.

“The men are going into the building, Jack,”
Herb said.
“Want me to follow?”

“Run their plates,” I said, squinting at the watch display. Instead of showing the time, the gray LCD was counting down from twenty-four hours and thirty-six minutes.