“Yeah, just dyin’ from all this excitement. How many cops does it take to rope one lowlife?”
Sosh and Crowley had both raised that point. But this was the hoity-toity part of town, the Gold Coast, and he didn’t need any mistakes. He wanted old hands like Sosh and Crowley on this.
“What, Crowley, you got somewhere better to be? I know your old lady isn’t home, ’cause she’s in the car with Sosh right now.”
“Well, then, Sosh won’t be getting no action, neither.”
It was freakin’ cold out here. Ten minutes out of the car and he felt the sting in his toes. “Hey, Fenton,” he said to his partner. “What do you call a clairvoyant midget who escapes police custody?”
He opened the passenger door and climbed into the warm SUV. Detective Fenton—Kate—shot him a sidelong glance.
“A small medium at large,” said Billy.
Sosh liked that one. Kate not so much.
“Hey.” Billy stiffened in his seat. “Two o’clock. Our first action.”
“Right.” Kate talked into her radio. “White male traveling northbound on Astor in a brown coat, brown cap.”
Katie, Billy thought to himself, always so intense, so keyed up. He’s the only person out here walking; they can probably spot him.
But he let it go. Telling Kate to calm down was like throwing a match on a pool of gasoline. “You got him, Crowley?”
“Aw, yeah. He’s smilin’ nice and pretty for the camera.”
“I know that guy,” said Fenton. “Right? That’s that guy from that show.”
“What show—”
“That show—that movie-critic thing … Front Row or something.”
“Right.” He’d seen it. The Front Row with … couldn’t place the name. “We should arrest him for that alone.”
“Yeah, it is—that’s him,” said Sosh. “Brady Wilson.”
They sat tight as the film critic waltzed up the steps of the brownstone. Before he pressed the buzzer, a man in a dark suit opened the door and ushered him in.
“Fancy,” said Crowley. “Do we think he’s here for business?”
“Definitely,” said Billy. “One guy owns all three floors. He claims to live there, but I haven’t seen any signs of anyone living there since I started sitting on it. Three floors, probably eight or ten bedrooms.”
“So this could be a real party we got going on.”
“Maybe we should call in Vice,” said Billy, knowing the reaction he’d receive.
“Fuck Vice,” said Katie. “This is ours.”
“Jesus Christ,” said Sosh. “Jesus H. Christ on a popsicle stick.”
“Talk to me, Sosh.”
“You’re never gonna believe who just walked past me. Crowley, you guys got video on this?”
“Roger that, we’ve got—holy mother of God.”
“Will you guys tell me already?”
Billy wished he had a high-powered scope. He wasn’t expecting this. He fished binoculars from the backseat and trained them on the steps of the brownstone as an elderly man trudged up toward the front door.
“Well, well, well,” said Billy. “If it isn’t His Excellency the Most Reverend Archbishop Michael Xavier Phelan.”
“Lord, he is not worthy; Lord, he is not worthy.”
Billy couldn’t decide if he was excited or disappointed. His partner, Kate, had made up her mind—she was all in. This had just become a heater case.
“Everyone take a breath,” said Billy. “He’s probably just going in to hear confession.”
A black SUV, not very different from the one Billy was in at the moment, pulled up at the curb outside the brownstone. The windows were tinted, as best as Billy could tell through binoculars in poor light. That was odd, because tinted windows were a no-no in this state, with only limited exceptions.
Exceptions such as vehicles that transport government officials.
Billy moved his binoculars down to the license plate, then back up.
“Oh, shit,” he said. “I better call the Wiz.”
“Why?” Kate asked, almost bouncing out of her seat.
Billy shook his head.
He said, “Because the mayor of Chicago just got out of that car.”
BILLY CLIMBED INTO the sedan a block away from his stakeout point. The car reeked of cigar smoke. Wizniewski carried that odor on him at all times.
The Wiz turned his round face toward Billy. “How many inside?”
“We’ve seen twelve people go in,” said Billy. “No two of them at the same time. Like it’s all synchronized, so nobody sees anyone else. As discreet as discreet gets. Seven of them we can’t ID. One of them is my suspect in the undergrad’s murder, the trader. One of them is this film critic who has a TV show, Brady Wilson. Another is a male black who Sosh’s partner says is some rapper named Chocolate Q.”
“The fuck does that stand for?”
Billy looked at the Wiz. “When I arrest him, I’ll ask him.”
Wizniewski rubbed his eyes. “And you’re sure about the archbishop?”
“Positive.”
“And the …” Wiz’s lips came together to make an m sound, but he couldn’t bring himself to say the word.
“It’s the mayor. No question. His security detail dropped him off but didn’t go inside. The car is parked down the block. How we doin’ on numbers?”
“I have ten uniforms ready to assist on my call,” said the Wiz.
Ten plus the six detectives should be enough.
“You don’t have to do this,” said Wizniewski. “You know that.”
He meant that Billy didn’t have to arrest everybody. He could do what he came there to do—arrest the suspect in the undergrad’s murder and avert his eyes to anything else.
You chickenshit. The Wiz was always thinking of tomorrow, always looking to climb the ladder, always playing office politics. This thing could fall either way, Billy realized. The police superintendent, after all, was appointed by the mayor. The supe might not be too happy about the mayor getting bagged; if the mayor went down, he might, too. Billy could get a gold star on his report card for this or he could see the effective end of his advancement in the department. And the Wiz could, too. This could be the best thing that ever happened to their careers or it could be the worst thing. A guy like the Wiz, always weighing the political consequences, avoided risks like this.
But Billy wasn’t wired the same way as the Wiz. He kept it simple. It came down to three words for him—Do your job. Any consideration beyond that made you lose your edge. It blurred your focus and made you less than the cop you were supposed to be.
Do your job. He had probable cause to believe a crime was in progress, and that was all that mattered.
“Are you calling me off?” Billy asked.
“No, no.” The Wiz drew a line in the air. “Absolutely not.”
Absolutely not, because that would be even worse for the Wiz, telling a detective not to investigate a crime because it involved a high-ranking public official. That could mean dismissal from the force, maybe even criminal charges. The Wiz was far too cautious a politician to ever let something like that go on his record.
“Everything you do from this moment on will be carefully scrutinized,” said the Wiz. “Reporters, BIA, the IG, defense lawyers—everyone’s gonna put you under a magnifying glass. You get that, right? I’m just saying it’s okay with me if you don’t wanna push this. If you wanna stick with the murder suspect and leave everything else alone. We’re not Vice cops. We don’t make a habit of arresting johns and hookers.”
Billy didn’t respond, just waited him out.
“You fuck this up,” said the Wiz, “it could be the last arrest you ever make. It could tarnish your father. And your sister. You could get into all kinds of hot water over this. You don’t need it, Billy. You got a bright future.”
When it was clear his speech was finished, Billy turned to the Wiz. “Can I go do my job now?”
The Wiz dismissed him with a scowl a
nd a wave of the hand.
Billy got out of the car into the sting of the cold air and headed for the brownstone.
BILLY AND HIS partner, Detective Kate Fenton, approached the black SUV parked by the corner, the one carrying the mayor’s security detail. Billy approached the driver’s-side door, his star in hand.
The tinted window rolled down. A burly middle-aged man turned toward the detectives as if annoyed.
“You’re parked in front of a fire hydrant,” said Billy.
“We’re security for the mayor.”
“That exempts you from traffic laws?”
The man thought about that answer for a minute. “You want we should move?”
“I want you and your team to step out of the car.”
“Why do we have to get out of the car?”
“You have to get out of the car,” said Billy, “because a police officer told you to.”
The back driver’s-side window rolled down. “I’m Ladis,” the man in the back said. “Former CPD.”
“Good. You can explain to your friends the importance of obeying a lawful police order.”
It took a moment, but all three men emerged from the car. Billy settled on the former cop, Ladis. “How do you contact the mayor? Or how does he contact you?”
Ladis didn’t like the question but reluctantly answered. “He hits the Pound key twice on his phone, or we do the same.”
“Who has that phone?”
Ladis looked at the others. “The three of us and the mayor.”
“Give me your phones. All three of them.”
“Can’t do that.”
Billy stepped closer to Ladis. “We’re taking down that brownstone,” he said. “And we don’t need anyone getting advance notice. Hand over the phones or I’ll arrest you for obstruction, failure to obey, and whatever else I can think of between now and when we pull you up to Area 2 with about a dozen reporters waiting.”
Ladis found that reasoning persuasive, so he and the others handed over their phones. A young officer in uniform jogged up to the SUV. Billy said, “This officer’s gonna stay with you in the car. He’s gonna be upset if any of you try to use any form of communication. Text, e-mail, phone call, anything at all. Just sit in the car and listen to the radio. You get me?”
“I get you,” said Ladis.
“And one more thing,” said Billy. “Lemme borrow your coat.”
Billy approached the brownstone and started up the stairs. He hit the buzzer and waited.
“Hello?” A voice through the intercom.
“Mayor’s security detail,” Billy said, making sure the emblem on his coat was front and center for any cameras that might be watching. “I need to talk to him.”
“The mayor isn’t here.”
“We drove him here, dumbass. I need to speak with him.”
The light in the foyer came on. A tall, wide man in a suit approached the door. There was a bulge in his jacket at the hip. He was armed. And he probably didn’t appreciate being called a dumbass.
The man opened the door slightly. “Why don’t you call him?” he said.
“See, that’s the problem,” Billy said as he leaned in and pushed the door fully open. He stepped forward and drove a quick jab into the man’s exposed throat. He expelled a wet choking noise before losing the capacity to make any noise at all.
“Green, green,” Billy called into the radio attached to his collar while simultaneously seizing the big man, throwing him up against the railing of the stairs and keeping the door propped open with his foot.
The other detectives, followed by blue suits, swarmed up the stairs.
“Keep your hands on the railing, feet apart,” said Billy before handing the big guy over to one of the uniforms. “He has a piece on his left hip.”
And a sore throat.
Billy led the way inside. The lighting was dim, and the air smelled of incense. A staircase led up to the second floor. Next to it was a door to what looked like a closet. The faint sound of music—a thumping bass—came from below.
“Crowley,” said Billy, “clear the main floor. Sosh—”
From behind a curtain straight ahead, a man emerged, holding a shotgun upright. Before Billy could yell Police—don’t move, Katie was on him. She braced the shotgun, kneed the guy in the balls, then, when the man bowed forward in pain, drove her other knee into his midsection. The man crumpled to the ground with nary a sound, Katie triumphantly holding the shotgun.
Well, there’s that.
Another man came through the curtain—this was like clowns in a circus car—and once again, before Billy could say anything, Katie swung the butt of the shotgun into the man’s face, knocking him backwards off his feet.
Don’t fuck with Katie.
Billy directed officers forward and upstairs. He walked over to the door by the staircase and opened it up. It was, in fact, a closet, but an odd one. There was no horizontal bar for hanging coats. Nothing on the floor. No hooks, even.
But the thumping bass was more audible.
Billy stepped into the closet, placed his hand against the back wall, and pushed. It gave immediately. A false wall. This was the door to the garden level.
Billy motioned for some uniforms to follow him. He took the stairs down to the lower level slowly, his gun raised, the music pounding between his ears.
Wondering, Did they hear the commotion upstairs?
But he thought not. It seemed like the place was soundproofed.
The music was loud, the female singer’s voice sultry, almost a moan over the pounding bass. Billy hit the bottom stair and spun, gun raised.
The lighting was dim, a purplish glow. A stripper pole in the center of the room, a lithe, naked woman working it, upside down, her legs interlocked around the shiny steel beam. Around her on all sides, women in various stages of undress or erotic costumes—naughty nurse, Catholic schoolgirl, dominatrix—and men, some in costumes, all of them wearing masks of some kind to obscure their faces.
Caught up in their fantasies, nobody noticed him right away. The bartender, at three o’clock, was the first one, and he was a threat, obscured behind a small bar.
“Police—don’t move!” Billy shouted, his gun trained on the bartender. The bartender showed his hands as Billy shuffled toward him.
And then it was chaos—Billy’s team behind him, shouting commands, forcing everyone to the floor. The participants had nowhere to go; their only exit was cut off by the police, and none of them was in a position to challenge the authority of a half dozen cops with firearms trained on them.
Billy counted six men. Twelve had entered the brownstone.
“Crowley, how we doin’?” he called into his radio.
“Main level clear. Fenton took care of the only two goons.”
“Sosh, the top floor?”
“All clear. Only one up here’s the manager.”
Twelve men had entered the brownstone, not including the three oafs they had subdued. They weren’t upstairs or on the main floor. So where were they?
Then he noticed another door in the corner of the room.
BILLY PUSHED THE door open. It was thick, as was the wall—more soundproofing, he figured. It would make sense for a sex club … or whatever the hell this was.
He walked into a long hallway with three doors on each side.
Six more men to find, six bedrooms.
He signaled Sosh, Katie, and some uniforms into the hallway, everyone taking a door. Everyone with guns drawn, the detectives with their stars hanging from their necks.
Billy gave a nod, and all at once, six members of the Chicago Police Department kicked in six different doors.
“Police—don’t move!” Billy said, entering a dark room illuminated only by the glow of the street lamp outside. He saw movement on a bed. He flicked on the light and yelled his command again. Two people scrambling to cover themselves, naked, the man on top of the woman. But unarmed. They posed no threat, other than to their own dignity.
> The woman looked young. Very young. Possibly underage.
The man was three times her age.
“On the floor! Both of you! Facedown on the floor.”
They complied. Billy cuffed the man behind his back. “Miss, how old are you?”
“Twenty-two,” she said, her voice shaky.
He didn’t really want to, but he cuffed her as well. “You’re twenty-two like I’m the king of Spain. And you, sir, what’s your name?”
“What?”
“What is your name, sir?”
“My name is … John Barnes.”
Billy squatted down next to him. “John Barnes, you say?”
“Yes … yes.”
“Okay. My mistake. For a minute there I thought you were Archbishop Phelan. But this city’s highest-ranking member of my church wouldn’t be soliciting a prostitute. Especially one who, it seems to me, is underage. Because that’s worse than a prostitution beef. That’s statutory rape.”
“Oh, no. Oh, God. Oh, God, help me …”
“Yeah, so good thing you’re John Barnes instead.”
Billy backed up and peeked out into the hallway. By now it was filled with police. He motioned over a uniform to secure his room.
Detective Soscia, stepping out of another room, nodded to Billy. “The mayor wants to speak with the man in charge,” he said, a smile spreading across his face.
Billy popped his head inside. The mayor, Francis Delaney, was sitting upright against the bed, a sheet wrapped around his waist, his hands cuffed behind him, what remained of the hair atop his head sticking nearly straight up. His ruddy complexion was flushed, maybe from the sex but more likely from the humiliation that was quickly enveloping him.
“You’re the detective in charge?” the mayor asked.
“I am.”
“Could you close the door?”
Billy shrugged. “I could, but I won’t. You already had your jollies tonight. And no offense, but you’re not my type.”
The mayor didn’t see the humor in Billy’s remark. “This is … this is a sensitive situation.”
“For one of us it is.”
“Well—I was wondering if I could get any consideration here.”
“Consideration? I consider you a moron for putting your job in jeopardy for some cheap thrills. I consider you a selfish asswipe for betraying the people who elected you. Will that do it?”