“Okay. Let me see what I can find,” the guy said, tapping the keyboard.
“Kinda quiet tonight, huh?” Sam said, both detectives playing good cop.
“So they say,” the guy said in an offhand way. “I wouldn’t know. Just started.”
Sam caught Ed’s eye. Something wasn’t right about this setup. Ed let a smile flicker at the edges of his mouth. He agreed. The kid hadn’t asked how to spell the witness’s name.
Sam wandered away from the desk while the guy put on a show of clicking the mouse around and hammering at the keyboard. Sam let his eyes flicker around the room and took note of the eyeballs in the ceiling, little half spheres of black glass. He wondered who was watching the empty emergency room.
He pulled out his phone and dialed Tommy. There was no ring, just an odd squeal. He held his phone up so Ed could listen. “You ever heard this before?”
Ed shook his massive gray head slowly. “It’s not a bad signal.” He didn’t know much about cell phones, except that he had a cheap knockoff, and he had a lot of experience with lost calls. “Sounds like . . . interference.”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
Sam headed back to the front desk. The need for two good cops was over; it was time to see if a bad cop could accomplish anything. “You track our witness down yet?” he asked the guy behind the desk.
The guy furrowed his brow and feigned confusion. “Not yet. Are you sure you’ve got the right hospital? We’re sending a lot of patients over to Northwestern tonight.”
“And why is that?”
The guy pretending to be a nurse frowned. “What’s the nature of your business with Mr. Wycza, again?”
Sam fixed him with a dark stare. “What’s your fucking name, asshole?”
The guy stared right back. The frown was gone, replaced with an echo of Ed’s grin. Smooth and collected. Sam scared him about as much as the Tooth Fairy. “Why don’t I get my supervisor on the phone. See if he can’t help you more than I can.”
“Wouldn’t take much,” Sam said, knowing intimidation wasn’t going to work.
Ed popped Sam’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “The fuck’s he doing here?” he said, pointing with his chin at the elevators beyond the front desk, back in triage.
Lee Shea stepped through the elevator doors and headed for the back exit.
“Downright curious,” Sam said. He and Ed stepped around the desk and followed Lee.
The guy behind the desk said loudly, “Gentlemen! You can’t go back there.”
Sam and Ed ignored him.
“I’m calling my supervisor,” the guy threatened.
Sam called over his shoulder, “Please do. I’d like to have a word.”
Ed and Sam moved briskly and caught up to Lee; they flanked him, matching him stride for stride. Ed said, “Evening. Well, well. Mr. Cornelieus Shea.” A grin split his wide face.
Lee had had too much practice as a politician, with news cameras catching him at all hours of the day, to be caught looking guilty. A sincere, good-natured smile appeared, as easily as slipping on a pair of old socks. He stopped. “Hi, there. Can I help you?”
Sam bit his tongue, letting Ed do the talking.
Ed chuckled. “Us? No, no. Of course not. Just wanted to say hi. Seeing you here. How about that rat at City Hall yesterday, huh?”
Lee let puzzlement flash across his features. “I’m sorry, Mister . . . ?”
“Detective Jones.”
Lee stuck out his hand and shook Ed’s enthusiastically, then was on the move again. “I’m afraid we’ve never met. Always good to meet a member of Chicago’s law enforcement.”
Ed’s smile never left his face. Sam thought Ed could give Lee a run for his money in maintaining a friendly appearance. Ed released Lee’s hand but didn’t relent. “Yeah, that business at City Hall. Pretty crazy, huh?”
“City Hall’s a pretty crazy place sometimes.”
“Truth, my man, truth. But yeah, that rat that got loose. Bet that’s never happened before.”
“I wouldn’t know too much about that.”
“Well, what would you know?” Ed asked. Ed and Sam lengthened their strides and got ahead of him just for a brief second, then slowed down, pinning Lee between them.
Disbelief flickered across Lee’s face for just a split second, echoing his thoughts, but he got control and smiled again. “Like I said, I don’t know much. I got a call, saying a rodent was loose in the building. I deferred it to my supervisors and I have full confidence that they handled the situation as needed. Now, if you gentlemen don’t mind”—he checked his watch—“I’m afraid I’m late for a meeting.”
Ed and Sam blocked the door. Ed scraped his thumbnail through the stubble on his chin and said, “One quick question. See, we got a call earlier, saying that one of the guys, one of your employees, one of your employees who dealt with that rat yesterday, well, we got a call saying that he’s been admitted to this hospital this evening. Problem is, we can’t seem to find him.”
Lee said, “I’m sorry, I don’t know how I can help you. I don’t know anything about it.” He nodded back toward the nurses’ station. “You really should ask the hospital.”
Sam gave a smile of his own. It was more like the expression on a corpse of a primitive man who had been caught in an iceberg for a few thousand years. “Can I ask, what exactly is your business here tonight?”
Lee blinked. “I don’t see how that is any of your concern.” “We’re detectives.” Behind them, Sam heard the elevator doors open. “Everything related to our case is our concern, Mr. Shea.” Sam still didn’t want to turn around, still wanted to keep Lee pinned. He heard at least three, four men behind him.
Ed’s right hand fell. It was now a full half second closer to his revolver.
Lee noticed this; his expression went blank, unreadable.
“Gentlemen,” a harsh, brittle voice called out behind them.
“Federal law maintains than anyone within a restricted area will surrender identification immediately.”
“You haven’t answered my question,” Ed said to Lee and didn’t move.
Lee shrugged. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I don’t even know which employee responded to that call. Now, if you will excuse me, I am sure these gentlemen would like a word with you. Maybe, if you play nice, they’ll extend their professional courtesy and assist you with your case. Good night.” He gave a slight bow and turned away.
Sam glanced over his shoulder and saw four soldiers waiting.
Qween heard the cruiser well before the spotlight danced across her part of the shore. She had plenty of time to simply slide a little lower, hidden in a little alcove formed by a tumble of concrete slabs that had been tossed along the edge of Lake Michigan to stop the waves from tearing out any parts of the park along Lake Shore Drive.
She listened to the cops drive past, along the bike path, and enjoyed her own private view of Lake Michigan at night. The moon was behind her, off to the right, so she could see stars, something she couldn’t see from any of her hideouts downtown. Once in a while a feeling took hold, and she got to missing taking a long look at the night sky, so when she found a bottle, she would stash the cart, and spend the night two miles north, hiding out by the golf course.
The wind had died, and the air was growing hotter and stickier. She stretched out on the slab and listened to the water as it leisurely lapped at all the concrete and broken glass, hoping for a hint of wind. She closed her eyes for a moment.
A sound grew out across the lake, a droning storm of violence. Qween wanted to ignore it, wanted to pretend that it was part of her dreams. Eventually, though, she sat up and squinted at the horizon.
The turmoil took shape. Six or seven helicopters raced across the water, dropping in from the northeast. She counted at least three big fat ones, and four or five thin surrounding choppers. They roared overhead, low enough that she could see the outlines of guns or missiles or whatever the hell they were, and screamed across the golf course, passing over a nearly empty Lake Shore Drive, and climbed over the apartment buildings.