It was risky, bringing in the police. It would certainly count as choosing sides in the drug dealer’s mind. And if Halden decided to take a close look at them, he might come across the bills they’d paid. All of Anna’s predictions about bankruptcy and even jail time might come true.
But the man in the suit had already made it clear he was willing to kill them. Going to the cops couldn’t make it worse. Besides, Tom had just handed the detective a lead on Chicago’s highest-profile robbery in years. It was misdirection, sure, but it was essentially accurate. It would put them on the right trail. And so long as the cops were following the bad guys, they couldn’t be looking too hard at the good ones.
Halden gestured with the coffee cup. “This man, he tell you his name?”
“No.”
“How were you supposed to contact him?”
“He gave me a business card.” Tom took it from his back pocket, set it on the table. He’d stared at the number so long he had it memorized, suspected he’d know it in twenty years. “He said to call. To do it soon, or he would… hurt… Anna.” The worse he made the guy seem, the more time pressure he applied, the better it was for them. “Can you get his name from the phone number?”
Halden shook his head. “I doubt it. It’ll probably be a disposable.” The cop leaned forward to pick up the business card, holding it by the edge. Looked at it for a long moment. Then he said, “You know, when I got your message, I thought maybe you had something else to tell me.”
Tom held himself steady. He’d gone round and round trying to remember exactly what he had said. “What do you mean?”
“You mentioned you’d been thinking about what I said.”
“That these were bad men? That’s why I called.”
“No, what I said as I left.”
“What was that?”
Halden’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t jerk me around.”
“I’m not.”
The detective sipped his coffee, set the cup down. “Mr. Reed, by now you’re starting to understand the type of people involved in this. These aren’t forgiving guys. You don’t want to mess with them. If you’ve got anything to tell me, anything at all, now would be a good time. Maybe your last chance.” Halden stared, letting the moment hang. Tom’s palms were wet. The little kid inside of him, ever afraid of punishment, wanted to give in, to just tell the truth. To fall off the ladder and bask in the relief of falling.
But what he said was “Detective, I didn’t know what you were talking about then, and I don’t now. All I know is that someone is after me and my wife. And we need your help. Please.”
The cop stared at him, gaze level. Didn’t blink, didn’t look away. Finally he said, “What else can you tell me about this guy?”
They talked for another half hour, Halden having him run through it again and again. Tom had expected that, and kept his story to almost exactly what happened. Where the drug dealer had been smooth and professional, his violence implied, Tom made him rougher, meaner, more explicit. Other than that, he recounted every detaiclass="underline" the cut and color of the man’s suit, the Rolex he wore loose on his left wrist, the manner of his speech, his “associate” Andre, even the story about Genghis Khan. He remembered the names the guy had asked about, Jack Witkowski and Marshall Richards, and thought he saw something quicken behind the cop’s eyes.
Halden took it all down in the same binder he’d used in their kitchen, precise handwriting flowing from a gold pen. Finally he said, “Okay.”
“What will happen?”
“I’ll run this up the flagpole and get back to you as soon as possible.”
“But what-”
“I’m not sure yet, Mr. Reed. If this guy was involved in the Shooting Star, he’s going to be a top priority. My guess is that we’ll set a trap for him, maybe ask you to call him and say that you found his product. You’d be willing to do that?”
Tom had anticipated that, but made sure to hesitate visibly before saying, “Yes. If that would mean you catch him.”
“It may. I’ll be back in touch with you soon, probably later today. Keep your cell phone on.”
“What about us?”
“Why don’t you and your wife check into a hotel? It won’t be more than a night or two.”
“What if he finds us?” No need to fake the concern in his voice.
“He won’t.” Halden set down the cup, adjusted his tie. “He knew your names because he read a paper. He probably staked out your house, followed you to work, then waited for you to go to lunch. Supervillains are comic book stuff. This guy just has a Tribune subscription.”
Tom nodded slowly. “I guess we could use the rest.”
“There you go. Pamper yourself. Pamper that wife of yours.”
They stood up, Detective Halden passing him another business card, telling him to call immediately if anything more occurred, his tone stern. Tom nodded, shook hands, and they walked out together. Halden was dialing his cell phone even before he opened the door to his pale blue Crown Vic. Tom smiled.
The risk had paid off. The promise of closing the Shooting Star case was too tasty an opportunity for Halden to miss. It was a sexy case, the kind of thing that would no doubt earn him a lot of credit. Like anybody else, Halden wanted to move up. He’d be focusing on the drug dealer, working his bosses, trying to set a trap as quickly as possible. It would keep his attention where it belonged.
Feeling ten pounds lighter, Tom dug out his own cell phone.
“Hey, baby,” she answered.
“Hey,” he said. “Where are you?”
“Running errands.”
“Meet me back home. Let’s grab a few things and go check into a hotel.”
“A hotel? What’s up?”
“I’ll tell you when I see you.”
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” he said, smiling. “It is now.”
He walked three blocks to the Sedgwick station and waited for the Brown Line. Had the platform almost to himself, just a bag lady and a beefy guy who climbed the stairs after him. From the raised platform, he could see the Sears Tower marking the skyline. Maybe they’d go downtown tonight, a four-star, the Peninsula or the Ritz, someplace with fluffy bathrobes and a fancy pool. Splurge a little.
The train clattered up. It was almost five, and the car was packed with rush-hour commuters. He fought his way to the back and leaned against the door separating two cars. As the El rocked and swayed, he thought again of the detective, how intent he had become once Tom mentioned the Shooting Star. This was going to work. Better still, he could tell Anna now. She’d be scared at first, mad at him for concealing it, but she’d be happy with the resolution. With the cops after the drug dealer, and no one after the money, they were clear.
By the time they made Rockwell, the crowd had thinned. A dozen people got off, everyone in their own world, folding newspapers or glancing at watches, hurrying in different directions. The air was cool after the stuffy embrace of the train. He walked the few blocks to their home, listening to the wind toy with the leaves, smelling food and flowers on the night air.
“Excuse me, buddy.” It was the man from the Sedgwick platform, a biggish guy, not fat but hefty, with eight o’clock shadow and dark hair. “I got a question for you.”
“What?” Tom asked.
As he did, his stomach exploded. His knees went wobbly and he doubled over, retching. Struggled desperately to suck air into his lungs, his mind running a mile behind, trying to process that this total stranger had gut-punched him with a fist like a chunk of concrete.
The man said, “Are you right- or left-handed, asshole?”
13
JACK TOOK A HANDFUL of the douchebag’s hair and dragged him up the steps of his building. At the moment the street was clear, but it was just after five, an hour when people walked their dogs and fired up their grills. No point hanging around.