He was younger than I’d expected, perhaps not even fifty. He wore a top-of-the-line Brooks Brothers suit, button-down shirt, dark tie, rimless glasses. His jet-black hair was emphatically slicked back, with no attempt made to disguise the fact it was receding.
He made no effort to stand up and did not offer his hand. There was a thick file on his desk.
I stood at the doorway for a moment. The unsmiling agent who’d brought me up stepped back into the corridor, carefully closing the door behind him.
“Donaldson,” I said, by way of hello.
“That’s right. Blake, isn’t it? You got here faster than I’d expected.”
“Traffic was light.”
“First time in Chicago?”
“First time in a long time.”
Donaldson leaned forward in his chair and put his hands on the desk, as if to signal we had successfully negotiated the small-talk portion of the meeting. I took the hint. “So, you need to find somebody.”
He paused a moment, as though reluctant to go further. “This information cannot leave this office.”
“It’s okay. I’m not on Twitter.”
He didn’t smile. “Do you know who Caleb Wardell is?”
The name was familiar, even though I hadn’t followed the original case particularly closely. If you attain a certain level of celebrity, your name kind of seeps into the mass consciousness. “Of course,” I said. “The sniper. But he’s in jail, right?”
Donaldson said nothing.
“I see.”
“He escaped from a prisoner transport van this morning. It looks like there was some kind of ambush, possibly Mob related. Wardell was caught up in it and managed to get loose.”
“And you want that situation rectified before anybody finds out.”
“In a nutshell.”
“Can I ask a question?”
“Of course.”
“Who recommended me?”
Donaldson’s lips widened a quarter inch on each side of his mouth. I took it for his attempt at a smile. “Let’s just say it was the kind of recommendation that’s unwise to turn down.”
“But you don’t have to like it.”
He sighed and stood up, placing both palms on the desk. “Look. Don’t get me wrong. I can use all the help that’s available. We’re putting together a task force, and it’s been suggested that you have certain specialized talents that might do some good, whether my people like it or not. And chances are, they’re not going like it.”
“That’s okay. I have extensive experience with not being liked.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I’m bringing the task force leads in for a briefing in an hour. Do you think you can help us?”
I nodded slowly. “You’re aware of my terms?”
“I believe payment has already been discussed with your… agent.”
“Yes, but I have three rules before I take a job,” I said.
“I’m listening.”
“Number one: You pay me half up front, half when I catch your man. Number two: I work alone. I won’t be coming into the office nine to five. I won’t be joining the team for beers once we put this guy back inside. If you’re buying me, you’re buying an additional resource; that’s all.”
“And number three?”
“Number three is that if you’re paying me to catch your guy, you’re paying me to do it my way. My way is whatever works best. Sometimes it’s entirely legal, sometimes not. What I need from you is an assurance that any reasonable steps I need to take in the course of my work that may be in technical violation of the law will not result in you going after me.”
Donaldson’s mouth was open to interrupt, but I held up a hand.
“I’ll let you decide what’s reasonable. I’m not asking for a blank check here.”
His brow creased and he looked away from me, out the window. I walked forward five paces and took the seat in front of the desk. “It’s a great view,” I said, just to fill the silence.
“It’s a great city, Mr. Blake.”
“Spiritual home of the Bureau, right? This is where Hoover got started.”
Donaldson turned back to me. “You know your history. Mr. Hoover built us up from nothing.”
“And Mr. Dillinger helped him along a little too, of course.”
His face was totally impassive. I couldn’t tell if he was amused or offended. I extended my right hand across the desk. He looked at my hand as though he were a bomb disposal expert working on a type of device he hadn’t seen before. “I decide what’s reasonable?”
“That’s what I said.”
Donaldson studied me for a moment. Then he reached out and shook my hand. “Welcome aboard.”
4
Despite her best efforts, Special Agent Elaine Banner was late.
The call had come in just after eight o’clock, summoning her to an emergency meeting with the SAC at nine sharp. That meant she’d been forced to leave ten minutes into the first PTA meeting she’d managed to attend all year. Another discarded obligation, another letdown for Annie. She didn’t suppose this one would register as high on the scale as the time she’d had to fly to Indianapolis on Annie’s birthday, but she knew the small disappointments added up all the same. The guilt was a constant, nagging presence. Banner had actually thought it would be easier once Mark moved out, but that illusion hadn’t survived long.
There was one slender compensation for her lousy work — life balance: Her abrupt departure had not attracted the usual smug head tilts and smiles from the other mothers. They all knew what she did for a living, and she knew they’d all read the feature that had appeared in the Times last year, after the Markow case. Even as she hustled out the door, she sensed her departure send a frisson of vicarious excitement through the classroom: Annie’s FBI-agent mom leaving abruptly following an urgent phone call.
After that, all that lay between Annie’s school and the Chicago headquarters of the Federal Bureau of Investigation was a city of three million in the midst of rush hour. All things considered, Banner thought as she pushed through the opaque glass conference room doors, five minutes late was respectable.
The room was bright, spacious, and sparsely furnished. Just a long boardroom table, some chairs, and a coffee machine in the far corner. There were four men already in the room: two spaced apart with their backs to the door, two sitting closer together on the other side of the table. She recognized the latter pair as Assistant Special Agent in Charge Dave Edwards and the SAC himself: Walter F. Donaldson. They were mismatched. Edwards was sixty, heavyset, wore a cheap suit, and was sweating despite the season. Donaldson, though he had seniority, was younger and dressed with style and care.
The two men on her side of the table had turned to look at her as she entered. She didn’t recognize the guy sitting farthest from the door, but the one closest to her was Steve Castle. Damn. Castle was in his late forties, but despite the gray streaks in his hair, he could pass for a decade younger. The look on his face said that he didn’t think five minutes late was at all respectable.
“Sorry I’m late,” Banner said, taking the seat nearest the door.
Edwards and Donaldson murmured pleasantries; Castle looked at her in stony silence. The fourth man smiled briefly, but with warmth. He looked… nondescript was the word, she supposed. Average height, average build, dark hair, a clean shave. Good-looking, she guessed, but nothing special. The kind of guy you’d find it difficult to provide a distinguishing description of if you had to. He wore a nice suit but no tie, so she knew he wasn’t Bureau, if nothing else.