"And what if you can't do it?"
"I can do it. Trust me."
"He's a big guy."
"Size don't matter if you aim for the head. What's the pig's name?"
I noticed I was holding my breath.
"Hey man, if you want me to kill the guy, I got to know his name."
"It's Barry."
Herb and I looked at each other. There was only one Barry we knew on the job. I tried to make it fit, to picture the cop on my team as the one responsible for these atrocities.
"Barry what? Barry Houdini? Barry Flintstone? Barry Manilow? You gotta give me more than that."
Fuller had access to my office, and to Colin Andrews's phone. Fuller was angry I passed him over for promotion. Fuller kept butting into this investigation, offering to help.
"I don't want to say any more. I can't say any more. I'm sorry."
"You already said too much, you little squealer." McGlade's tone had become harsh, menacing. "Barry knew you'd try something. He sent me to take care of you."
Rushlo made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a yelp.
"Leave me alone!"
"Barry can't afford to keep you around."
"I'm sorry! Tell him I'm sorry!"
"Tell who you're sorry?"
"Fuller! Tell him I'd never betray him."
"Get him out of there," I told Herb, the phone already in my hand. We needed to find Barry Fuller, fast.
Before anyone else died.
Chapter 18
Barry Fuller cruises Irving Park Road. He's off duty, dressed in civvies and driving his SUV.
His headache is explosive.
The morning began on a bad note. Holly, his bitch of a wife, had some stupid complaint about the living room curtains. He told her, several times, to buy new curtains if she hated these, but she couldn't shut her goddamn mouth and kept yapping and yapping and finally he had to leave because if he didn't he would have gutted her right there.
He needs a substitute, fast. Normally, he'd drop in the station and use the computer to locate a neighborhood hooker. But the pain is so bad he's practically blind with it, and he needs relief ASAP.
Luckily, the streets are littered with disposables.
He tails a jogger for a block. Blonde, nice ass. She blends into the crowd, and he loses her.
Another woman. Business suit. High heels. He idles alongside, visualizing how to grab her. She walks into a coffee shop.
Fuller fidgets in his seat, sweating even though the air is cranked to the max. He turns down an alley, searching, scanning . . .
Finding.
She's walking out the rear door to her apartment building. Twenty-something, wearing flip-flops and a large T-shirt over bikini bottoms, a towel on her shoulder. Planning on walking to Oak Street Beach, just a few blocks away.
He guns the engine and hits her from behind.
She bounces off the front bumper, skids along the pavement face-first. Fuller jams the truck into park, jumps out.
"My God! Are you okay?" In case anyone is watching. There doesn't seem to be.
The woman is crying. Bloody. Scrapes on her palms and her face.
"We have to get you to a hospital."
He half helps/half yanks her into his truck, and then they're pulling out into traffic.
"What happened?" she moans.
Fuller hits her. Again. And again.
She slumps over in the seat.
He makes a left onto Clark Street, turns into Graceland Cemetery. It's one of Chicago's oldest, and largest, taking up an entire city block. Because of the heat, there are few visitors inside the gates.
"We're in luck," Fuller says. "It's dead."
The cemetery is green, sprawling, carefully kept. Winding roads, obscured by clusters of bushes and hundred-year-old oak trees, make sections of it seem like a forest preserve.
Plenty of room for privacy.
He pulls into an enclave and parks next to the large stone monument marking the grave of millionaire Marshall Field. Drags the woman out of the car, behind the tomb, rage building and head pounding and teeth grinding teeth so hard the enamel flakes off.
Fuller unleashes himself upon her, without a weapon, without checking for witnesses, without putting on the gloves he has in the front pocket of his jeans for this purpose. Punching, kicking, squeezing, grunting, sweating.
Fireworks go off behind his eyes, erasing the pain, wiping his brain clean.
When the fugue ends, Fuller is surprised to see he somehow pulled off the woman's arm.
Impressive. That takes a lot of strength.
He blinks, looks around. All clear. The only witness is the green, delicately robed statue, sitting high atop Field's monument. A copper smell taints the hot, woodsy air.
The grass, and his clothes, are soaked with blood and connective tissue. Fuller wonders if the woman might be still alive, goes to check her pulse, and stops himself when he realizes her head is turned completely backward.
He returns to his truck, opens up the hatch. Takes out a large sheet of plastic, a roll of duct tape, a gallon of blue windshield wiper fluid, and his gym bag.
It takes the whole bottle of cleaning fluid to get the red stuff off his skin, and he uses his socks to wipe himself clean. These get rolled up in the tarp, along with the girl, her arm, and his shirt, shoes, and pants.
His workout clothes are in the bag. They stink of sweat, but he puts them on.
Fuller loads the bundle into the back of the truck, gets behind the wheel, and leaves the cemetery.
Pain-free.
On Halsted Street he calls Rushlo.
The mortician doesn't pick up.
Alarms go off in Fuller's head. Rushlo always picks up. That's part of their deal. He turns the truck around, heading for Grand Avenue, for Rushlo's Funeral Home.
Another call.
No answer.
Fuller worries his thumbnail, tasting the sour bite of windshield washer fluid. Could they have found Rushlo already? What if they did?
Rushlo won't talk. He's sure of that. The guy is too scared of him.
But that might not matter. If Rushlo got picked up before disposing of the body, there might be trace evidence. Hair. Saliva.
Jack's earrings.
He told Rushlo to wipe off the prints. Had he done it?
Worry creeps up Barry's shoulders and crouches there.
He calls Rushlo again.
No answer.
He hangs a right onto Grand. Cops are everywhere.
Fuller does a U-turn, hitting the gas and making the tires squeal. In the rear of the truck, the body rolls and bumps against the hatch.
It's over. Time to leave the country.
Fuller's bank is ten minutes away. He parks at the curb, jogs inside the lobby. The security guard stops him.
"You need shoes to enter, sir."
Fuller looks down at his bare feet, sees some blood caked on his toenails. He digs his wallet out of his pocket and flashes tin.
"Police business. Get your rent-a-dick face outta mine or I'll beat your ass right here."
The guard gives him steely eyes, but backs down. Fuller uses his star to get to the front of the line.
"I need to open my security box. Now."
The clerk gets him some assistance, and Fuller is ushered off into the vault. They turn their keys in unison.
"I'll need a bag."
The clerk returns a few moments later with a paper sack, then leaves him alone. Fuller empties out the contents of the box: a 9mm Beretta and three extra clips, six grand in cash -- shakedowns from his patrolman days -- a forged passport in the name of Barry Eisler. He stuffs everything into the bag and exits the bank.
A meter maid is writing him a ticket.
"Sorry, sister. I'm on the job."
She eyes his feet, skeptical. He shows her his star, climbs into the truck, and peels away.
Mexico has tougher extradition laws, so Mexico it is. He spends a few minutes on the phone with an airline, reserves a seat on the next flight to Cancun. It leaves in three hours.
Just enough time to pack and take care of some important business.
Fuller doesn't want to get caught. He knows what happens to cops in prison. If they're on to him, they'll be staking out his house.