With a conscious effort, Banner lowered her gaze to take in the ground level. The great and the good of the party were gathering in their hundreds. The quality of their suits marking them apart from the federal agents and security personnel, who were almost as numerous. Although she was technically no longer on the task force, none of the agents had raised an eyebrow at her presence. If they knew she wasn’t supposed to be there, they hadn’t let on. Paxon was there and had told her Edwards was at HQ with Donaldson, coordinating things centrally. Banner hoped that would continue.
For once, it looked as though the task force had sufficient manpower, at least in theory. Chicago was virtually on lockdown tonight. The JRTC was one of the high-priority locations, of course, but it was far from the only one. The FBI had their own countersniper teams on rooftops overlooking another six focal sites throughout the city. The Chicago PD’s overtime budget was being maxed out tonight, and police departments from as far afield as Philadelphia had sent over reinforcements to help out. Spot-checks of vehicles were ongoing, and seven and a half miles of downtown Chicago had closed down.
All of this for one man.
Except, that wasn’t the whole truth, was it? The road closures and the extra police and the state-of-the-art riot gear weren’t for Wardell. Nobody Banner had spoken to had said it out loud, but it was clear that the authorities were focusing on another danger. It was like Randall had said: People were scared, tense, waiting for things to come to a head. Nowhere more so than right here in Chicago. The town was a pressure cooker, and they were trying to keep the lid on with brute force.
The fact that Wardell hadn’t struck since Hatcher’s house gave credence to the belief that he was headed back to Chicago. The media knew it; the public knew it; the FBI and the cops knew it. This time, Blake’s hunch was in step with popular opinion. Although nobody had come out and said it was a sure thing, the broad consensus had allowed them to scale down their contingency presences in other states and had enabled them to bring the bulk of resources to bear on the city. Donaldson had been interviewed on television the previous night, making the case that Caleb Wardell was just another symptom demonstrating the need to roll back budget cuts to domestic law enforcement. And based on the number of federal wing tips in evidence on the ground tonight, it felt to Banner as though his pleas were having an immediate effect.
A large stage had been erected on the north side of the atrium. At midnight, Governor Randall would make a speech, either to claim victory or to concede defeat. Watching the people gathering, Banner wondered if any of them could have guessed the man they had voted for might be dead within six months — or six hours.
A local band who had recently had a fair-to-middling-sized national radio hit were currently playing the stage. Later, the lineup was scheduled to include various minor celebrities and party bigwigs. The organizers had already had a few cancellations, and Banner wondered how many more they would get due to unforeseen diary clashes. It didn’t take Banner’s inside knowledge of the case to know that this rally was a strong potential target, and not everyone shared Randall’s desire to place themselves literally in the spotlight this night.
She squinted into the distance in the direction Blake had headed a couple of minutes before. He’d received another text message and gone to make a call. That meant he hadn’t had time to explain why he was suddenly so interested in the dead of the FBI. Did he think there was some revenge angle on the events of the past week? And if so, how exactly would that tie in with Wardell?
“Banner.”
She turned at the sound of her name and saw Dave Edwards pushing through a knot of crowd on his way toward her. Shit. A tall guy with close-cropped hair in a pinstripe suit looking aggrieved at being bumped out of the way opened his mouth and then shut it reluctantly when the lady he was with put her hand on his arm and gave him a cold stare. Oblivious, Edwards carried on his way. Banner blinked, sure she was mistaken, but no — he was actually smiling at her.
“I thought you were taking a couple of days,” he said.
She pointed at the stage. “I’m here for the band.”
“Sure,” he said. “How’s it going?”
“Fine,” she said warily, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Had he spoken to Donaldson? “You?”
“Good, good,” he said, and it dawned on Banner that he really wasn’t going to yell at her or order her off the scene. Perhaps he was just happy that Blake wasn’t around anymore. No, it was more than that. He seemed… cheerful.
“You see Donaldson on the news last night?” he asked.
“I caught the end of it.”
“I know. Great, wasn’t it?”
That was the moment when the atmosphere on the floor changed. The civilians wouldn’t have noticed anything, but to Banner and Edwards it was obvious in the way hands jumped to ear pieces and radios. Edwards was reaching for his phone as it rang.
He located it, said his name and listened, said, “Okay,” and hung up.
“What’s happening?” Banner asked.
“A nine-one-one call. Caucasian male — six one, two hundred pounds — with a gun at the Art Institute in Grant Park.”
“That’s four blocks south of here,” Banner said.
A nearby cop’s radio crackled: “Shots fired at Grant Park scene; repeat shots fired.”
Banner’s stomach tightened. Shit. Was this it? Another curveball? More random victims?
“Looks like this is the genuine article,” Edwards said. “Let’s go, Banner.”
Banner followed Edwards at a run, heading for the nearest idling cop car. As she moved, she scanned the crowd again for Blake. There was no sign of him. She’d have to call him on the way to the scene and hope that Edwards didn’t realize whom she was calling.
71
Somebody’s been digging.
Somebody had indeed been digging, and I was beginning to get a picture of who and why. The voice at the other end of the line belonged to an acquaintance of mine in the CIA. The type of acquaintance who specializes in noticing suspicious patterns and unusual requests. The type of acquaintance who owes me.
“From time to time, administrators sometimes accept bribes to search the open personnel database,” he explained. “It’s usually difficult to identify, because thousands of records are accessed legitimately every day. But certain names are flagged, because we want to know when somebody runs a search for that name. Carter Blake is one such flagged name.”
“I’m honored,” I said.
“Don’t be. It’s not necessarily a compliment. We hauled the administrator in. He was like a rabbit in headlights, admitted everything before we’d asked him to take a seat. Sounds like it was your standard fishing expedition, trying to get some intel on you. Needless to say, he came up with zilch.”
“And who was doing the fishing?”
“His name’s Mike Whitford. He’s a reporter for the Chicago Tribune.”
“Whitford,” I repeated. “He’s the guy Wardell contacted.”
“Could be it’s just background.”
“No,” I said. “I don’t like the timing. Right after I had my chat with Wardell.” I thought about it for a second. “Did Whitford ask your guy to search for intel on anybody other than me?”