Shaken (40 page)

Our efforts had bought us five minutes, and they were for naught. Hellmann had agreed with my original assessment; we had absolutely no evidence, and no probable cause, which meant we couldn’t get paper on Dalton. No search warrant. No arrest.

Deep down, I knew Dalton had a child in a storage locker somewhere. A child who was running out of time. And there wasn’t anything I could do. Even if I’d tried the loose-wire/vigilante-cop route and attempted to beat a confession out of Dalton, his lawyers showing up had squelched that plan. Not that it was ever a plan to begin with. I was pragmatic about following rules when confronted by a greater good, but unlike Mr. K I had no stomach for hurting people.

The only minor victory we scored was the look on the lawyer’s face when he saw the flat tires. When he went up to Herb, spouting off about suing and calling superiors, my partner told them a story about a roving band of tire-slashing thugs who had a vendetta against luxury cars, which was why my Nova was spared. When asked why he didn’t do anything to stop it, Herb replied, “I asked my lawyer, and he advised me not to.”

I truly did love the man, in that brotherly/sisterly way.

“Follow the cab?” he asked. “Or break into his car?”

I considered it. On one hand, if we chased Dalton, he surely wouldn’t lead us anywhere helpful. On the other, he wouldn’t leave his car with us if there was anything important or incriminating in it. But we couldn’t afford to miss that chance.

“Both,” I decided. “Hurry up. There’s a lock pick in my trunk.”

I hit the button and Herb gracelessly extracted himself from my vehicle, pulling out my lock pick—a one gallon plastic milk jug filled with concrete—just as the cab was pulling away. I took off after Dalton, then pressed the button on my earpiece to keep in touch with Herb. After two rings, he picked up.

“Ms. Daniels, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I think this milk has gone bad.”

“It’s gone very bad,” I said, smirking. “You may have to arrest it for B&E. Call me back if you find anything. I can have a car pick you up.”

I heard the
CRUNCH
of breaking safety glass, and the whine of the car alarm. I killed the phone, then used the radio mic to call Tom Mankowski, the detective on my team.

“Car five-five-niner, this is Lewis.”

Roy Lewis was Tom’s partner. “Hey, Roy, it’s Jack Daniels. Tom keeping you in the loop?”

“He don’t tell me shit. Plus the dude’s drunk all the time, on the take, and dealing crack to underprivileged schoolchildren. Plus he has erectile dysfunction.”

I heard Tom say “asshole” in the background, then, “What’s up, Lieut? I haven’t confirmed Dalton’s property in Cape Verde, but I did find his flight. He’s taking United out of O’Hare on August ninth, two fifteen p.m.”

I checked the current time, and the digital watch countdown. That coincided exactly with the time running out.

“I need you to arrange for a round-the-clock on John Dalton, sixty-one years of age, residing at 1300 North Lake Shore Drive. Three teams, eight-hour shifts.”

“Roger that. Where is the suspect now?”

“In a yellow cab, just turned off of Clybourn, heading west on Diversey. I also need you to assemble a team and start calling every self-storage facility in Chicago, checking to see who’s renting unit 515. If it’s John Dalton, John Smith, John Doe, or anything cute, get me immediately. I’ll be in touch. Out.”

I cut off, then called home base. “Dispatch, this is Lieutenant Daniels out of the two-six. I need a car to rendezvous with me en route.” I gave them my make, model, and plate number, as well as the upcoming intersection. Less than a minute later, a black-and-white pulled up alongside me. I read their car number off their front fender and got them on the mic.

“Car seven-six-three-seven, I need a photo taken to Scott Hajek at the crime lab. Complete workup, plus run the pic through missing persons. Grab it at the next stop.”

We all came to a red light at Western, Dalton’s cab right ahead of me, the patrol car on my side. A uniform—a young black woman who couldn’t have been older than twenty-one—hopped out of the passenger seat and hurried to my window as I lowered it.

“It’s really an honor to meet you, Lieutenant.”

I checked her nametag.
Graves
. “Thanks for the assist, Officer Graves. I need this at the lab ASAP. Hit the lights.”

“Roger that, Lieutenant.” Graves held out an evidence bag, and I dropped the envelope inside. Before she ran off, Graves hesitated.

“Did you need something, Officer?”

“I just wanted to say I’ve been following your career since I was a little girl. You’re the reason I became a cop, Lieutenant.”

I was flattered, of course, but I played the hard-ass like I was supposed to. “Don’t blame me for your unhappiness, Officer. Now move it or I’ll have you busted down to traffic duty.”

Her smile was sudden and dazzling. “Yes, ma’am,” she said, then nodded and ran back to her patrol car. I wondered if I was ever that young and eager, anxious to make my mark, and decided I couldn’t have been. The light turned green, and I followed the cab up to a club called Spill, which I knew from a case I had a long time ago. It was a known Outfit property, and it reminded me of a man I remembered from my early days in Homicide, a former mob enforcer.

I double-parked and watch the trio exit the cab. Dalton waved at me before going inside. My earpiece rang, and I picked up.

“Daniels.”

“Car was clean, Jack. Not even an owner’s manual in the glove compartment.”

“I’m at Spill, Herb. Up for a shot of tequila?”

“I don’t think I’m ready for tequila yet. But a beer would work.”

“Need a ride?”

“I’ll cab it.”

“See you in a bit.”

I hung up, parked in front of a hydrant, and headed into Chicago’s biggest mob bar to see what trouble I could cause.

Chapter 7

W
ith the clock ticking down on the unknown boy’s life, I walked into Spill, wondering what more I could do to find him. My mind was filled with awful scenarios of what would happen when the timer reached zero. Was the boy in a storage locker in some sort of sealed container, with his air running out? Or maybe some terrible machine would turn on automatically, bringing death? Or did he have a rope around his neck, standing on a slowly melting block of ice?

I shook my head, forcing away the images, and stepped into the club. It used to be
the
nightspot in the city, trendy and hip and A-list. A lot had changed since the last time I’d been in here. Gone were the smoke and the thumping house music and the line around the block. Spill had gone from popular to passé, the dance floor covered with a few lonely pool tables, the once-mighty bar reduced to serving fried pub grub and boilermakers to aging wiseguys. That’s where I found Dalton and his lawyer cronies, sitting on stools at the bar. I parked myself at the other end, watching them glance at me and then huddle in private conversation.

Okay, Jack. You’re here. Now what?

I ordered an orange juice, playing out various possibilities. As long as Dalton was kept under surveillance, we could arrest him once we had enough evidence to satisfy probable cause.

The term
probable cause
was misused a lot on TV shows and in books. In U.S. law, it meant a cop could only arrest a suspect if there was information sufficient to convince the cop that a perp had committed a crime, or that evidence of a crime or contraband would be found if a search was conducted. This would justify a search warrant or an arrest warrant, and it had to be able to stand up in court, at a probable cause hearing.

I had a reasonable suspicion that Dalton had abducted a child, and was possibly the enigmatic Mr. K. As a law enforcement officer, that allowed me to detain Dalton for brief periods to question him, and search him if I suspected he had a weapon on him. But it didn’t allow me to bring him in. All he’d given me was double-talk and innuendo, and the case would get kicked before even making it to the arraignment. Even if I perjured myself, lying to the judge and testifying that Dalton had said or done things he really hadn’t, I’d still be required to prove those things at the hearing. The fact that Dalton had survived this long without a single blemish on his record showed he was unlikely to make mistakes, and having his lawyers meet him at the storage area was smart. I couldn’t get to him, either legally or illegally.

Herb walked in, pulling up a stool next to me.

“I left the key under your car,” he said, referring to the concrete milk jug. “Anything happening?”

“Nothing so far. The guy is leaving the country tomorrow, and is possibly about to murder a child, and he’s sitting there without a care in the world.”

Herb picked up the plastic table tent that served as a menu. “Hmm. They have batter-fried bacon.”

I frowned at him. “Wouldn’t it be faster just to inject the cholesterol directly into your arteries?”

“Probably not. Doesn’t matter, though. As of right now, I’m officially on a diet. It was pretty embarrassing not being able to sit up in your car.”

“Good for you,” I said.

The bartender came back, and Herb ordered some fried zucchini sticks. When I gave him the stink eye, Herb said, “What? They’re vegetables.”

I turned my attention back to Dalton. If one of the leads panned out, we could grab him. But I couldn’t count on that. If he really was Mr. K, I couldn’t let him leave the country. It violated everything I stood for.

So how could I make him stay?

“If we saw him committing a crime, we could arrest him,” Herb said. My partner often seemed able to read my mind.

“What are you thinking?” I asked.

“We could plant drugs on him.”

“Drugs?”

“I saw that on
The Shield
.”

“Good idea. Give me that bag of cocaine you always carry around with you.”

Herb frowned. “Maybe I could get some out of the evidence locker.”

“You’d have to sign for it. Internal Affairs would love that.”

“Don’t you know any dealers we could shake down?” he asked.

“No. You?”

“No. We’re not very good crooked cops.”

Both Herb and I knew this was fantasy talk, not real. While we’d both bent a few rules in our days, planting evidence just wasn’t going to happen.

“I could try to provoke him into taking a swing at me,” Herb said.

“Dalton wouldn’t do it. And if you tried it in front of his lawyers, you’d be facing a harassment lawsuit.”

But that got me thinking. I pulled out my cell.

“Who are you calling?” Herb asked.

“We’re cops. Our hands are tied. What we need is help from someone who isn’t so encumbered by the law.”

“Jack, you’re not really considering…”

He picked up on the first ring. “Hiya, Jackie. Is this a booty call? I think I can squeeze you in tonight. When you stop by, wear something slutty. And bring a pizza.”

I rolled my eyes. “That isn’t going to happen. But I do need your help.”

“I like needy women.”

“I’m at Spill. Get over here as fast as you can, Harry.”

Chapter 8

M
cGlade strolled into Spill and spotted us immediately. “Hiya, Jackie.” He glanced at Herb. “Jabba. How’s the rest of the Hutt? Fat and ugly?”

I put a firm hand on Herb’s shoulder, holding him in his seat.

“We need your help, Harry,” I said.

“To roll El Chubbo out of here? We’ll need a few more guys, and a block and tackle.”

“Remember Mr. K?” I asked.

“The breakfast cereal?”

Herb leered at Harry. “Did you get in line for seconds when God was handing out the stupid?” he asked.

“Did you get in line for seconds when God was handing out the sweet potatoes?”

“Enough,” I said. “The older guy sitting further down the bar. We think he might have abducted a child, but we’ve got nothing on him. We want you to provoke him enough so he takes a swing at you, so we can arrest him.”

“Shouldn’t take you more than a few seconds,” Herb said. Harry glanced over his shoulder. Dalton and his two lawyers were looking at us.

“What’s in this for me?” Harry asked.

“You’d be saving a young boy’s life,” Herb said.

“So that’s worth, what, in U.S. dollars?” He winked at me. “Or sexual favors?”

Herb jerked his thumb at Harry. “How about I beat him up, and we say it was Dalton?” he said.

“Settle down there, Humpty. I’m just messing with you. Except for the money part. You’ll be getting my invoice in the mail.”

Herb and I moved closer as Harry marched over to their part of the bar. “Which one of you assholes is Special K?”

“I know you,” Dalton said. “You’re that private eye, Harrison Harold McGlade. There’s a TV show about you.”

“
Fatal Autonomy
,” Harry said, nodding. “You a fan?”

“A big fan. Could I get your autograph?”

“Sure!”

Dalton passed over a napkin, and Harry pulled out a pen and began to sign it. Next to me, I heard Herb slap himself in the forehead.

“So what’s all this I hear about a child abduction?” Harry asked.

Dalton kept his face neutral. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you threaten me!” Harry yelled.

“Excuse me? I’m not threatening you.”

In a quick move, Harry grabbed Dalton by the lapels and yanked him out of his chair. McGlade fell backwards, Dalton landing on top of him.

“Get off of me!” Harry yelled. “Police! I need the police! I’m being assaulted!”

I winced. This hadn’t played out as I’d hoped. But then, what could I have honestly been hoping for?

“Are there any fat cops in the bar!” Harry wailed.

“On the bright side,” Herb said, “Dalton’s lawyers will no doubt press charges, and with any luck McGlade will go to jail for a few years.”

I walked over there before it got any worse. “Get up, McGlade,” I ordered him.

“A cop! Thank heavens! This man is attempting murder!”

Harry was pulling Dalton’s hand toward his own throat. It didn’t quite reach, but McGlade still made choking noises and puffed out his cheeks like he was being strangled. I reached down, pulled Dalton free, and then knelt on Harry’s stomach.