“Now, I give you credit for balls. But it’s your wife with the brains. I know you didn’t tell the cops.”
Tom had a sinking feeling, said nothing.
“That’s right, tough guy. I was watching. I got balls too. I sat on your block and watched those two uniforms stroll in, then stroll back out maybe five minutes later. You didn’t tell them shit. You’re not going to, either. Because they’ll make you give up the score. And if you do, I’ll kill you and Anna both.”
“Even if we haven’t got the money.”
“Quite a predicament, huh?” Jack’s voice was merry. “You figured it was pennies from heaven, turns out you got bad men on your tail. Life’s a bitch.”
Tom opened his mouth, closed it. In the dark window he could see the reflection of the room, Anna ghostly behind him. Finally he said, “Why did you call? Just to say that?”
“I called to tell you it’s your lucky day. I’ve got a way out for you.”
“How?”
“Just give me my money, Tom. That’s all.”
“How do I know you-”
“Won’t kill you? We’ll do it in public, like on TV. See, I figure, you can’t go to the cops without getting yourself in trouble, and besides, you don’t really know anything that could hurt me. So just bring what’s mine and get on with your lives.”
Tom stood silent.
“I’m not going away. You won’t go to sleep and find me gone in the morning. That money cost me a lot. So we can do this civilized, or I can show up again when you don’t expect it. But if I do… well, I won’t stop with your hand. Or hers.”
Tom’s fingers throbbed, hot against the tight tape.
“Which’ll it be? Gonna bring me my money?”
“Yes,” Tom said.
“Good boy. You know where Century Mall is?”
“Clark and Diversey.”
“Be there tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“And, Tom?” Jack’s voice hardened. “Don’t fuck around. I’m smarter than you, I’m meaner than you, and this is what I do. You get me?”
“Yeah,” Tom said. “I do.”
THE STEAKHOUSE WAS HUMID, packed with men who wore cuff links and spoke in acronyms. Halden ordered a Bud, thought better of it, asked for a shot of Beam as well.
“Long day, hon?” The bartendress wore a shirt designed to push her breasts up and out in a pale spill.
“Long enough.” After meeting Tom Reed at the coffee shop, Halden had hustled back to the station, feeling that tingle of excitement. If the drug dealer was everything Reed said, he could be the key to the whole case. He’d gone straight to the lieutenant’s office, found Johnson with his feet on the desk, paging through a file folder. “Boss.”
The guy raised one finger, but didn’t look up from his pages. Just kept reading, his lips moving. Finally he closed the file. “Chris.”
They’d made detective the same year, but Johnson cared more about politics than policing, and had put his effort into sucking up to the Irish Mafia, the system of favoritism that ran from Mayor Daley on down. He’d even learned to play the bagpipes so he could join the honor guard. It had worked, obviously, but it always made Halden a little sick, the thought that if it would earn him rank, Johnson would probably put on a kilt and Riverdance.
Before Halden could get a word out, the man said, “We’ve got a body in a Dumpster at Sheridan and Buena. I need you to go out there.”
“I can’t. I’m on something else.”
“What?”
“Will Tuttle.”
“I thought he was an overdose.”
“Yeah, triggered a heart condition. But there’s more. His land-lord, guy named Tom Reed-”
“You still calling it accidental death?”
“Yeah.”
“Then that’s all I need to know. Don’t be digging in closed cases. Grab your gear and head for Sheridan. Victor’s primary, you back him up.” Johnson turned back to the folder in dismissal.
Frustration made Halden speak without thinking. “It’s about the Shooting Star.”
Johnson’s eyes snapped back up. He straightened, then leaned forward. “What? Have you got something?”
And in that instant, the whole scenario played out in Halden’s mind. A chance to close the Shooting Star? Forget it. The brass would get involved. The politicos would start angling for their close-up. They’d cut him out of it with a handshake and a pat on the head. He’d be a line item in the report. Meanwhile Johnson, or someone like him, would climb the ranks.
The same shit that had happened his whole career. Without letting himself think too hard about what he was doing, he said, “No. No, nothing like that.”
The lieutenant squinted. “You sure?”
“Yeah.” Halden coughed. “I just, you know, wanted to check in. See if there’d been any progress. Since I handled Tuttle.”
Johnson stared for a moment, then shook his head. “If it comes to anything, I’ll let you know.” He leaned back. “Head out to Sheridan.”
“Sure thing,” Halden said. But he hadn’t. Hell, he hadn’t even called to ask Victor to cover for him. Instead he’d picked up the phone and dialed his old partner, Lawrence Tully, and invited him out for dinner.
The bartendress set up his whiskey and Halden knocked it down, then nodded for another.
Tully was twenty minutes late, but entered big, cracking jokes with the hostess, clapping Halden on the shoulder. Tully was a bear of a man, red-faced and balding; his chins had chins. “Chris Halden, you skinny prick. What does Marie see in you?”
“Jesus, Larry. Running your own company agrees with you, huh?”
“You betcha.” The man turned sideways and slapped his belly. “I almost pity you for picking up the check.”
The hostess led them to a table, dropped leather-bound menus. A guy in a vest plinked at a piano in the back corner. The air was buttery and dim. Halden ordered another round, Bud and Beam times two, and they each got a steak – Tully’s a porterhouse with melted Gorgonzola, for Christ’s sake – a baked potato, and a Caesar. Over the meal they caught up, bullshitting about their days riding a beat. It wasn’t until Tully took the last bite, set his napkin on his plate, and leaned back with a satisfied sigh that Halden got down to it, asked what he’d found out about the Reeds.
“They got a rich uncle recently died?”
“What do you mean?”
Tully sipped his beer, said, “You were right, they came into money.”
Halden felt his pulse quicken, fought to keep a straight face. “Tell me.”
“I called a friend of mine at Citibank. They just paid down a Visa to the tune of something like fifteen grand.”
Fifteen grand. He remembered the innocent faces they’d both pulled when he’d come back to their house the second time, how they acted offended at the mere suggestion that they might steal something. People. Shit. “And there’s no question about it? I mean, your source is solid?”
“Fuck you, Chris.”
“Tully-”
The big man leaned forward. “I’m in the information business. That’s what I do. I work for Michigan Avenue law firms. I work for the State’s Attorney. Hell, Homeland Security too, not that that makes me unique, money they throw around these days. You call up a favor, now you ask if I know my business?”
Halden put his hands up in surrender. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m on bended knee, okay?”
“All right.” He leaned back, still sounding miffed. “You want the paperwork?”
“Anything you got.”
The big man reached into his bag, took out a manila folder, passed it across. “Not much else to see. They’ve got a mortgage runs a little higher than it should, some debt. A couple of parking tickets. They both work downtown.” He shrugged. “Pretty normal, other than the Visa.”
Halden thanked his old partner and made nice by ordering dessert and a round of single malt. But the whole time, his mind was racing and his fingers were tingling. When a theory came together, look out, man. Best feeling in the world.