AROUND SIX IN THE MORNING, he gave it up. His fingers ached, his head pounded, and it felt like someone had grabbed hold of his kidney and twisted. Tom rolled out of bed and tiptoed to the bathroom. He closed the door and started the shower, put one of the disposable packs in the coffeemaker. Thought better of it, and stuffed the second pack in as well.
In the shower he stood and let the water drench him, pounding off the top of his head in a soaking spray that hid the world and soothed some of the pain. It felt lovely, a quiet moment lost behind a curtain of water. The only thing that ruined it was having to hold his bandaged left hand up and away.
He reluctantly got out of the shower and awkwardly toweled off. At least there was a plan. He felt better for that. Maybe they had been greedy. Maybe they were in over their heads. But they were working together, sharing their strength, and they had a plan. It was something. He poured the coffee into two mugs and stepped into the room.
Anna lay nude atop sheets twisted like whipped egg whites. She smiled when he set a mug on the table. Tom picked up his cell phone and turned it on. The message indicator blinked, and he dialed his voice mail. A computerized voice told him he had four messages.
“This is Detective Halden. Give me a call back as soon as you can. We’re ready to go ahead with setting up this man who threatened you.” The cop rattled off his phone numbers. Tom sipped the coffee. Strong but lousy, which he supposed was better than weak but lousy. He punched a button to save the message and hear the next.
“Mr. Reed, Detective Halden. Please call me – we need to move.”
The next. “This is Christopher Halden again. I need you to call me back ASAP. Day or night. I mean it, Tom – as soon as possible. I’ll try your home line as well.”
The next, from this morning. A hang-up.
Shit. Tom closed the phone, rubbed his jaw. They’d gotten so caught up in their plans last night he’d forgotten all about the cop. “I’ve got a couple of messages from Halden.”
“Don’t call him.” Anna wriggled to a sitting position, stuffed a pillow behind her back. “We can’t talk to him now. If you accidentally say something that tips him off about Jack or the mall…”
“I have to call him eventually.”
“Once this is over. You can just tell him you changed your mind. That we talked it over, and you don’t want to act as bait. He’ll believe that. It must happen all the time, people backing out on identifying criminals.”
He thought about it, nodded. Pulled his pants from the edge of the chair and stepped into them, then stretched with his arms above his head, first one side, then the other, wincing at the pain in his kidneys. “You have your cell phone?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. I’ll call you as soon as I’m done.”
“Done?”
“Meeting the drug dealer.” Tom buckled his belt. “He wants to talk first.”
“I’m going with you.”
“Like hell you are.” He turned, stared at her. “You think I’m taking you into a meeting with a-”
“Jesus Christ.” She sat up, grabbed a pillow, and whipped it at him.
Tom ducked sideways, surprised. “What?”
“There you go again. Trying to protect me.”
“This isn’t me being a hero. I just don’t see any point in you being in this too.”
“I’m already in it, you arrogant shit. You think Jack or your drug dealer friend are going to cut me slack because I have breasts?” She shook her head. “The only one doing that is you.”
He opened his mouth, closed it. Stood with his hands spread. Finally he said, “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“I don’t want either of us hurt. And we went through this already. Last night.”
Tom turned, stared. The horizon was draped in gray, fat-bellied clouds hanging low. The skyline was bleak and faded, the top third of the Aon Center lost in mist. The commuter rush wouldn’t start in earnest for another hour, but the streets were already thick with taxis, the sidewalks dotted with tiny figures in skirts and suits. A spring morning like any other. Her voice came soft and low from behind. “Partners in crime. All or nothing.”
“Better get dressed,” he said. “We’ve got a long morning.”
17
THEIR FIRST YEAR IN CHICAGO they’d rented a cookie-cutter apartment in a high-rise on Clark a couple of blocks south of Diversey. It had primer-white walls and carpet that smelled of cigarettes. The view was of the building opposite or, if they stood on the back of the couch and leaned all the way against the window, an inch-wide sliver of lake. But the neighborhood was great, full of bars and noodle shops and bookstores. There was a hot dog place across the street called the Weiner Circle, where the women behind the counter cursed at you. When he remembered that year, Tom usually found himself smiling.
Which made it all the stranger to be back in the neighborhood. He glanced in his rearview for the hundredth time. There was no sign of Jack, no car matching his turns, speeding to keep pace when he ran yellow lights. Best he could tell, they weren’t being followed.
They followed Clark north another half mile, then he swung down a residential block and got lucky with a parking place. The morning was cool and alive with the promise of rain, not a pounding storm, but a steady drencher. He put his arm around Anna’s back as they stepped onto the sidewalk, and she moved a half step closer, her shoulder nestling into the crook of his arm.
The restaurant wasn’t what he’d expected. He’d anticipated a diner, faux wood and the smell of bacon grease. But the space was airy and bright, with colorful canvases over exposed brick. The water glasses had a slice of cucumber in them. As they’d discussed on the phone, Tom requested a four-top in the front, by the windows. A perky waitress passed them menus, set down a carafe of coffee, and asked if they wanted fresh-squeezed juice. Tom shook his head, his eyes on the other diners. At a table by the back wall, Andre sat with his hands on either side of an untouched plate of eggs. He smiled, predatory, wet lips parting to white teeth.
“That guy in the back. That’s the bodyguard. The one with the gun.” Tom kept his gaze on the man, saw no point in pretending. “I don’t know where the dealer is.”
As if in answer to his question, the front door opened in a jingle of bells. The man looked smaller than Tom remembered, slighter. A trim guy wearing an air of authority and a good suit. “Mr. and Mrs. Reed.” He sat opposite them, crossed his legs and smoothed the crease of his pant leg. “Good of you to come.”
Tom nodded.
“So. The situation. What time are you meeting him?”
“Ten.”
“Where?”
“Century Mall.”
The man tapped at his chin with one finger. His eyes were locked on Tom’s, seemed like they’d hardly blinked. “Why?”
“Because the mall is public. He said that way-”
“No, Mr. Reed.” The man leaned forward, spoke the syllable with great clarity and emphasis. “Why?”
“I don’t understand. Why what?”
“Why does Jack Witkowski want to meet? Day before last, you said you’d never heard of him. Fact, as I recall, you swore it.” A tiny tightening of the muscles around his eyes. “Were you lying to me, Mr. Reed?”
Tom felt a shiver of panic, but tried not to show it. “You know what? All this ‘Mr. Reed’ stuff is getting on my nerves. I feel like I’m in a Bond film. My name is Tom. This is Anna. What do we call you?”
The man cocked his head. Stared at Tom for a long moment. Then shrugged. “Don’t suppose it makes much difference. Malachi. Ain’t a name going to be of any use.”
“I’m just tired of thinking of you as ‘the man in the suit.’ ” Tom shook his head. “And no, I wasn’t lying to you.” He lifted his left hand from his lap, set it on the table. The exposed flesh was purple and hot. “Jack came to our house yesterday. He was looking for something, kept asking where it was, where had we put it. When I couldn’t answer…”