Stirred (22 page)

Already, I could see the pool of blood.

Herb had his badge hanging around his neck, and he rattled it as we approached.

“Everyone back! No one leaves until we talk to you!”

We stopped several feet away from the carnage.

I said, “Shit, he hit a pedestrian.”

There were two bodies. The first, a suited man—Roe—lay facedown and sprawled in a bed of crushed flower bulbs that had just begun to sprout. He looked like a giant plate of lasagna in a vague man-shape. The poor soul he’d hit was a wreck of bent appendages, and his head had been crushed in against the brick. A thick Bible was open next to him, the pages flipping in the breeze.

Sidewalk traffic had been effectively shut down, so the only onlookers were those who’d been here when it happened.

“I’m going inside to look for him,” I said.

“Jack, we’ve got two dozen cops in the building. They’ll find him.”

“Did any of those cops just have a face-to-face conversation with the killer?” I asked. “I can help.”

“There’s a psycho in there who wants to kill you.”

“I won’t stand here and do nothing.”

Herb touched my arm. “Listen to me, Jack. I promise you…no one will leave that building without you saying it’s all right.”

“Herb—”

“I’ll walk you to the entrance.”

“Herb—”

“Whose crime scene is this?”

I bit my bottom lip, fuming.

But damn, he was right.

“Yours,” I said.

“You respect me?”

“You know I do.”

“Then please, Jack, do what I say.”

April 1, 1:54 P.M.

H
e strolls through the Law Office of Peter Roe, deceased, PC, which has, not surprisingly, become a ghost town following the gunshots.

He can’t stop smiling.

FaceTime with Jack was even better than he imagined.

Passing through reception, he opens the heavy wooden door and steps out into the hallway.

For the moment, it’s empty, although he can hear approaching footsteps and voices just around the corner.

Police officers coming.

Security arrived faster than he anticipated, and no doubt the cops have already surrounded the building.

The sirens are loud even in here.

Must sound like Armageddon out there.

It’s a concern.

But the harder the challenge, the more satisfying the win.

April 1, 2:04 P.M.

T
he elevator doors separated and Sergeant Herb Benedict strolled out onto the twelfth floor of the Marquette Building.

It was quiet as death.

Everyone had probably fled following the gunshots.

SRT had given the floor the all-clear and were now sweeping the lower levels.

Herb turned to the three beat cops who’d rode up with him, sent a pair down the opposing hallway.

“Check every office. If you find anyone, confirm IDs. Anyone who looks even vaguely suspicious needs to be brought down to the lobby and questioned. This guy is a killer. He could have taken hostages. Stay frosty. Sakey, you’re with me.”

Officer Sakey, a curly-haired rookie with a unibrow, followed Herb down the main corridor toward Roe’s office.

The building itself was a work of art, one of the first steel-frame skyscrapers ever built, with masonry walls and a two-story atrium down in the lobby, loaded with mosaics, sculptures, and bronze.

Sakey covered the door and Herb went in first, gun drawn.

The Law Office of Peter Roe, PC, still smelled of gunpowder.

Reception felt empty, and a quick look around confirmed it.

Herb headed down the hall and walked into the largest, plushest office in the suite.

The stench of shots fired was strongest here, but there were other underlying odors—blood, the lake, stale coffee. Herb stood for a moment in the threshold, letting the awful aura of this room wash over him.

At his feet lay the two security guards in puddles of congealing blood.

Multiple gunshot wounds to the chest.

Behind the desk of Peter Roe, a hole had been chopped through one pane of the bay window. Chunks of safety glass peppered the carpet, surrounding what he figured had been used on the window—a fire ax.

How had Kite even gotten a meeting with Roe? There was probably a firm calendar on the receptionist’s computer. Herb turned and started toward reception as the mike on his lapel crackled.

“Sergeant Benedict, Nicholson here, over?”

“Yeah, whatcha got, over?”

“I’m down in office twelve-twelve. Got a guy here who doesn’t want to leave, over.”

“Keep him there, on my way. Out.”

Herb picked up the pace and hollered for Sakey to follow.

They made their way back out into the corridor, where every office door stood open, a few having been kicked in.

Around the corner from another set of elevators, he saw Officer Nicholson standing outside an open door. Nicholson didn’t have his weapon drawn yet, but he had unsnapped his holster and his hand was resting on the square composite butt of a Glock.

Herb sidled up beside Nicholson and stared into the small office.

The occupant was a Caucasian with short brown hair, wearing a white shirt and blue tie. Since the response team had already cleared the floor, Herb wondered why the hell this guy was still here.

“Sir, I’m Sergeant Herb Benedict. Put your hands where I can see them.”

The guy scowled as he raised his hands above the monitor.

He said, “I just went through this with those other cops.”

“Didn’t those other cops order you to leave?”

“I know my rights. You can’t make me leave.”

Herb made a mental note to take the SRT to task for not forcing this moron out of here.

He said, “Sir, do you understand what just happened in this building, not two offices down from yours?”

“Yeah, someone got shot. I saw the guy run off. Ran right past here.”

Herb shook his head, amazed. How stupid were some people? “Aren’t you worried about being killed?”

“You want to know what I’m worried about?” The man pointed at a stack of manila folders sitting on his desk next to the keyboard. “Do you know what happens in fourteen days, Officer?”

Herb noted the plaque on the doorway: David Dean, JD, LLM. Master’s of Laws in Taxation.

Ah. He was a tax attorney.

“Filing deadline is two weeks away,” Dean said, “and I’m up to my armpits in work right now. My clients come first.”

Herb took a quick look around the sparsely furnished office, saw a few ferns that needed watering, generic art on the walls. He noticed sawdust on the floor. Probably some recent remodeling. The only personal items were on Dean’s desk—a smiley-face coffee mug, a crystal paperweight, and a framed picture of Dean shaking hands with Bill Clinton.

Herb said, “Sir, I’m going to ask you to leave the building. We’re clearing everyone out.”

“That’s bullshit, I—”

“You’ll be able to come back tomorrow. It is within my power to arrest you if you don’t comply.”

Dean pulled a big, dramatic sigh, rubbed his temples, and then powered off his monitor.

“I don’t get it,” Dean said. “Isn’t this the safest place I could possibly be right now? That guy you’re looking for is outta here.”

He snatched his jacket off the chair as he stood, and Herb escorted him to the elevator, watching to make sure it didn’t stop until it reached the lobby.

Then Herb and Sakey returned to Roe’s office.

April 1, 2:07 P.M.

J
ack Daniels is surrounded by cops, and she’s scanning the crowd in the Marquette Building’s gorgeous lobby.

It’s all terribly exciting, and Luther struggles to keep the smile off his face.

She stares right at him, locks eyes for a delicious moment, and then moves along to the next person in line.

Luther waits patiently for his turn to leave.

April 1, 2:07 P.M.

N
ot for the first time since she had retired, Herb wished Jack was with him. She had an almost supernatural knack for finding clues at crime scenes, for figuring out things that didn’t add up. He understood why Jack had needed to retire, and supported her decision, but he hoped the building would be fully cleared soon so Jack could come up here and offer her impressions.

When Herb stared at Roe’s office, he didn’t see clues. He just saw an office.

Desks, chairs, plants, too many file cabinets to count…

File cabinets.

All offices had file cabinets.

But that tax attorney Herb had shooed out of the office down the hall, the one with the Clinton photo…where were
his
file cabinets?

Herb hadn’t noticed any.

Odd. So odd, in fact, that it made Herb uncomfortable.

Feeling a little spurt of adrenaline, he led Sakey back to 1212 and made a quick tour of the tax guy’s office.

It was small. No reception area. Just a desk and a computer.

And no file cabinets.

Herb grabbed his walkie-talkie.

“This is Sergeant Benedict. Put me in touch with the SRT leader. Over.”

“This is Lieutenant Matthews, SRT. What’s up, Sarge? Over.”

“When you swept the twelfth floor, why didn’t you escort the tax attorney down? Over.”

“What tax attorney?”