The distractions forced me to train my focus forward, on the road, though my eyes continually shot into the rearview mirror to see what was happening behind me. Traffic was thick, and in the dark it was all headlights behind me. That helped when I was following Ramona Dillavou. She never could have made me for a tail. But apparently it hindered me, too, because I didn’t notice at the time that somebody was following me.
And the traffic hindered me now, too. I couldn’t make out the colors or even the makes of cars in my rearview mirror, much less see their occupants. But that was okay. There was more than one way to sniff out a tail.
Traffic behind me dissipated as I moved west and south, away from the Gold Coast, but it was still pretty heavy, giving my tail sufficient cover.
I wanted to go home. I wanted to pace around my town house, pour myself a stiff drink, and ponder why in God’s name my sister, Patti, would have been meeting with the manager of a brothel, presumably the guardian of the prized little black book.
But I couldn’t go home. Because I didn’t want my tail to stop following me. If he knew me—and he must have—then he knew where I lived. Once he saw me pull up to my building, he’d assume I was going in for the night. He’d keep his distance. He might even call it a night himself.
And I didn’t want him to call it a night. So I didn’t go home.
From Chicago Avenue, I turned right onto Damen and kept my car at an even speed. Damen probably wasn’t the best choice, because as I drove north, the area became crowded again, with restaurants and bars and some pretty high-end boutiques, too, once you got north of North Avenue. Fifteen years ago, this was the cool place to live, where the artists and hipsters hung out. That crowd was still here, but it had attracted more yuppies and even some families, people who could afford the sky-high property values.
But I didn’t care about the gentrification of Wicker Park or Bucktown at the moment. I was more interested in the sedan three cars behind me, which thus far had made every turn I had made. See, the route I’d taken was unusual. I’d started on Rush Street, going north, then done a loop to head south on State Street to Chicago Avenue, then I drove west to Damen, and now I was heading north again on Damen to Armitage, which was a mile north from where I originally started—my double-parked spot on Rush.
My route, in other words, made no sense. The guy who said that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line? That guy would’ve said I was an idiot. Why go to all that trouble to head south when I could have just kept going north from Tyson’s on Rush Street? I’d gone completely out of my way. Instead of a straight line, my route looked like a hump-backed serpent.
You know what I looked like? I looked like either (1) a tourist who didn’t know his way around Chicago or (2) someone who was trying to be surreptitious about his movements.
And my tail knew I wasn’t a tourist.
But the other benefit was that I could now say the same thing about the guy following me. The only reason for him to take this route was to tail me.
With my right hand on the steering wheel, I used my left to slip my piece out of my side holster, ejecting the magazine to check the clip. I had enough bullets. It usually only takes one.
Not that I planned on using it. I’m a lover, not a fighter. I’m a sweetheart of a guy. Confrontation is never my first choice. But sometimes you can’t avoid it. And a Boy Scout is always prepared.
I turned left off Damen onto Dickens, driving west again. We were in an area that still hadn’t decided if it was going to be upscale residential or semi-industrial. I drove another mile or so before I hung a right. Now I had three blocks of driving ahead of me, straight north on a quiet street, so I could see behind me pretty clearly.
There in the distance, a good city block behind me, the sedan made the same turn.
It was no coincidence. We’d left coincidence in the dust miles ago.
I pulled into an abandoned lot that, once upon a time, was home to a bank with a drive-in wing on the side. Some stray garbage was littered about. No reason—no good reason—for anyone to be here this time of night.
I pulled up next to the drive-through lane and stopped. I wanted to make sure that my tail had a good look at me. I put the car in park but kept it running. I fished through the glove compartment until I found an empty envelope.
The sedan drove past on the road. It slowed a bit as the driver, I assume, was trying to get a look at what I was doing. If he had any kind of a scope and could see into my car, he would probably think I was waiting for somebody.
The sedan drove on. He didn’t have much of a choice. He was too conspicuous, on a side street that wasn’t busy. With me sitting idly in an abandoned parking lot, he couldn’t stay where he was.
I scribbled a note on the envelope, took a photo of it with my phone so I wouldn’t forget the details, and got out of my car.
It was colder than a mother-in-law’s glare out here. The wind, in open space, came at me from all directions. I made a point of looking all around me, as though I were making sure that nobody was watching.
Then I walked over to the slot by the teller’s window and placed the envelope inside it.
I jogged back to my car and got in and drove out of the parking lot, back to the street I’d originally taken, but this time driving in the opposite direction, south.
“Your move,” I said, looking in my rearview mirror.
I drove a normal speed, my eyes glued to the mirror. I was more than two blocks down, almost at Dickens, and the car still hadn’t come out from wherever it was hiding to follow me.
That’s what I figured. He wasn’t going to follow me.
He was going to see what I had dropped in that teller’s slot.
Thirty-Five
I MADE a right onto Dickens, which is the direction my tail would expect me to take if I were going home. I lived about two miles from this spot, to the south and west.
But I wasn’t going home. I turned right on the next street and headed north, back to the abandoned bank, approaching it from the other side.
I picked this location for a reason. Many moons ago, when I first made detective, we caught a pickpocket who was working this neighborhood. We had several complaints in the span of a single week, and it didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to quickly discover that the victims had one thing in common—the last thing they had done before their pockets were picked was withdraw money from the ATM at this bank. Not the drive-through window but the walk-up vestibule, encased in glass and locked in the evenings but open during the day.
The thing was, the thief didn’t just steal the victims’ wallets. He also went immediately to the closest ATM and emptied their bank accounts of the maximum amount the bank would allow for a single withdrawal.
How, I wondered, being the new, eager detective that I was, could the thief figure out the ATM password so quickly? Sure, maybe he had some sophisticated computer software, but this was several years ago, before that sort of thing was as rampant as it is today—and besides, he was using the ATM card within minutes, if not seconds, of the theft.
So I did a wee bit more detective work and realized that one end of the bank’s parking lot was bordered by trees. I decided to kill a bit of time in an unmarked vehicle down the street. It only took three hours until a white male, a teenager fitting the description of the suspect, climbed a tree and trained his binoculars on the ATM vestibule.
Well, I didn’t need to climb a tree tonight. Binoculars wouldn’t have hurt, but I didn’t have any. So I crawled over to the shrubs and kept low. The view of the teller’s slot was nice and clear. It was dark in the vacant lot, but if it was dark for me, it would be dark for him, too. He’d probably need a flashlight, and with any luck the light coming off it would give me enough illumination to see this asshole’s face.
The sedan that followed me here pulled up to the intersection where the bank was located. The guy probably wanted to wait a while to make sure nobody was around, to be confident that I had left fo
r good.
Then the car pulled into the parking lot and drove toward the teller window of the drive-up, just where I’d been. The car’s headlights shone into my face. That wouldn’t help. It would make things harder. But maybe he’d walk past the headlights, which would light him up nicely for me. All I needed to know was who he was, just a quick shot of his face.
The car stopped but kept running, the headlights still on.
“Come on,” I whispered.
The car door opened. The interior dome light came on, which would have been my chance to see his face, but those damn headlights blinded me. So I needed him to walk around the front of the car, passing by the headlights.
No luck. He went around the rear of the car. With headlights shining in my face and no other illumination in the parking lot, I couldn’t see much besides a figure—a figure bundled up in a heavy jacket and hat in the frigid evening air—heading over to the teller window.
I could hear just fine: the ka-thunk as the slot at the teller window opened and closed. Then a pause, while my new friend tried to read the note I had left.
“Flashlight,” I mumbled. “Flashlight.”
He used the glow from his phone to put some light on the note. But he was turned away, so the small amount of illumination from the phone didn’t give me anything. I could see the piece of paper in his hand, but whoever this person might be was hunched over, reading it. All I could get was a heavy jacket and some kind of a hat on his head.
Then the glow disappeared. Another ka-thunk as my newest, bestest buddy closed up the slot on the teller window.
Then he got back in the car. I tried to get a look inside, but the headlights were still hitting me head-on, and when the car turned and the headlights swept away from me, I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face.
I had my phone out, ready to hit the flashlight app so I could catch the license plate, but I couldn’t risk giving away my position. The sedan left the parking lot and drove away.
So I struck out.
But that was okay. I’d have another chance soon.
Still crouched in the bushes, I clicked on my phone and looked at the photograph I took of the note I left in the teller slot.
It said: Tomorrow, 6 p.m. Red Line, Jackson stop, northbound platform. Bring it with you.
The guy tailing me had read the note. That much I could see. If he was curious about me already—and he must have been—he’d be very interested indeed in finding out whom I was meeting with and what that person was going to bring along.
He’d be there. And this time I would see him coming.
“See you tomorrow night, my friend,” I said as the car disappeared from sight.
Thirty-Six
I SHOULD have gone home after that. I should have gone back to my town house and poured myself a stiff drink or six so I could think about the two questions I couldn’t get out of my mind.
What was my sister, Patti, doing talking to the manager of the brownstone brothel?
And who the hell was following me?
But I didn’t feel like making myself crazy just at that moment. So I went to the Hole in the Wall. It was full of cops and bunnies as usual. Most of them were well into their pints, which was fine with me. I didn’t need conversation. I just needed the white noise of the crowd, the heat and animation. A couple shots of bourbon wouldn’t hurt, either.
Detective Lanny Soscia—Sosh—was over in a corner, holding forth with a few of his buddies, probably going on about the Blackhawks’ second line, though I doubt anyone could understand half the words he was saying. He raised his pint in salute when he saw me, spilling some of the beer on his shirt. The best part was he didn’t even realize it.
No, the best part was that he’d be at his desk at eight sharp tomorrow morning, ready to go. Sosh was one of those cops who drank a lot to get through all the shit he saw on the job, but he always came back for more. They’d have to pry his badge out of his dying hand, even if they might have to pry a bottle of Budweiser out of the other.
I took a couple of shots of Maker’s Mark at the bar and then looked over the crowd. I heard a woman’s laugh, and it registered with me. I turned and saw Amy Lentini sitting at a high table with some guy. A good-looking guy, I noted, also noting that I felt a small knot form in my stomach.
Well, shit, I thought. Fair play to her. She could have her pick of the litter. She probably had guys crawling out of the woodwork to ask her out.
I had to admit I had underestimated her. She was smart as hell, and apparently she brought some credentials to the job. A former federal prosecutor; a high-profile takedown of a US senator in Wisconsin. And she twisted me up like a pretzel when we did a mock cross-examination.
Watch that one, I reminded myself. Watch that one closely.
She caught my eye and froze for a moment. I nodded to her.
She gave me the finger. Then smiled. I felt something lift. Something that usually got me in trouble.
The guy she was with had sandy brown hair and a thick neck and shoulders—your basic high school homecoming king–varsity letterman guy who had done just fine in the professional world flashing that smile, knotting that tie just so, timing that joke perfectly. He probably secretly wore ladies’ undergarments and still sucked his thumb when he curled up with his teddy bear at night.
That wasn’t fair. I didn’t even know the guy. He could be totally different from that. For all I knew, he snuck out at night to screw barnyard animals.
And what the hell was my problem, by the way? What did I care what Amy Lentini did in her spare time? If she wanted to gallivant around with some eye candy who has the IQ of a tree stump, who’s to tell her no? Certainly not I, I told myself as I downed my third shot of bourbon and asked for a fourth. I didn’t care about Amy Lentini. Nope. Not one bit.
Then I saw Lieutenant Mike Goldberger moving my way. I felt a rush of relief. Goldie was my port in the storm. Everybody needs one. I needed one right now, in fact.
Goldie liked to have a cocktail now and then, sure, but that’s not why he came to the Hole. He came here because this was where everybody talked, especially after too many pints of Guinness. He liked to lie low, say very little, gently prod the conversation forward, as if he were just being polite when in fact he was collecting and filing every piece of data. He knew more things about more cops than anybody I knew.
“How’s things?” he asked, leaning against the bar, telling the bartender he’d have the same shot of Maker’s Mark I was having.
I repositioned myself, turning away from the crowd and toward the bartender. I moved my head toward Goldie and held my words for a moment. He sensed I had something to say. He knew me well. He leaned a bit in my direction.
But how much to tell him? I didn’t want him or anyone else to know about Patti visiting with Ramona Dillavou. Patti was my problem. She was my twin sister. She didn’t need to go on anybody’s official radar. No, I wasn’t going to mention that part.
As if on cue, my sister, Patti, walked through the front door.
No, I decided: whatever Patti was up to, it would be my problem only.
But the part about my being followed? Goldie could help me with that.
“I think I have a shadow,” I said. “I need your help tomorrow.”
Goldie lifted the shot glass and drained the bourbon, signaled the barkeep for another, then pulled out a twenty from his roll and dropped it on the counter.
“Call me,” he said, correctly reasoning that the conversation would require too much detail for a chat at the bar. He took the next shot, downed it, and walked away without another word.
I looked back at Amy’s table. The guy sitting next to her put his arm around the back of her chair. She didn’t seem to mind. I felt something burn inside me. Maybe it was the bourbon in my throat. Yeah, probably that was it.
I heard someone start up with my name, then the chant. Har-ney! Har-ney! I didn’t really feel like doing a few at the mike, but I didn’t have anything better
to do, and my friend Stewart would probably appreciate a little stand-up tomorrow morning when he checked our Facebook page.
I passed Amy on my way to the stage, giving her the finger and a quick wink.
Thirty-Seven
“A GUY walks into a confessional,” said Billy, standing on the stage at the Hole. “He tells the priest, ‘I just had the wildest sex of my life tonight. I met these three prostitutes…’”
Patti moved through the crowd as her brother did his thing. She spotted the prosecutor Amy Lentini, the one going after Billy. There was a guy with her. A drop-dead handsome man. Well, weren’t they the perfect couple—the gorgeous Italian beauty and the Calvin Klein model.
“‘We had sex all night,’ he tells the priest. ‘We tried every position. At one point, I was hanging from the chandelier…’”
But Amy didn’t seem interested in her well-coiffed beau. No: with her chin propped on her fists, her eyes were on Billy. Patti had seen that look before. The expression that went well beyond just listening to a stand-up comic and enjoying the humor. The flicker in her eyes that meant a lot more than simply thinking a comedian was humorous.
Sure, Patti had seen that look before. She’d seen it on Kate.
“‘We used chains and whips; we dressed up in costumes; I played a prison warden and a doctor…’”
The male-model boyfriend glanced over at Amy, then up at the stage, then back to Amy. He saw it, too, the way Amy looked momentarily lost, transfixed on Billy. He said something to her. She nodded vaguely in his direction. Then he got off his chair, grabbed his coat, and headed for the exit. Amy didn’t seem to notice.
“So finally the priest says, ‘Okay, okay, I get the point—you had wild, kinky sex all night. So now you want absolution?’ The man says, ‘Oh, no, Father—I’m not Catholic. I don’t even believe in God.’ The priest says, ‘Then why did you tell me all this?’ The man says, ‘Are you kidding, Father? I’m telling everybody!’”