“Really?” Roxy grinned. “Cool.”
“No. It’s not cool. It’s the opposite of cool.”
“You think because I’m young I can’t handle myself?”
“No. I think because you’re young you can’t handle yourself as well as you think you can.”
Her grin disappeared.
“You know, you’re an inspiration to a lot of women in the department, Jack. It’s a shame that in person you’re such a bitch.”
I looked to Rick for support, but he’d taken an inordinate amount of interest in the bulletin board on the wall. Then I met Roxy’s glare. I wondered if I disliked her so much because she reminded me of me at that age.
No. I would have gotten along with me just fine. This girl was a Gen-X car accident waiting to happen. But we all have to learn sometime.
I took a deep breath. “Fine. You can do the press conference with me.”
“Are you serious?”
“I’m serious. But I’ll do most of the talking. And we need to go over everything beforehand. Rule one, think before you speak. Don’t repeat yourself or say um or uh a lot. Rule two, if you can’t answer a question, say no comment. Rule three, always appear in control. Reporters can sense fear, and they pounce on it.”
“I can do all that. How do I look?”
I gave her a once-over. “Do you have anything else to wear? That outfit is… cute, but it doesn’t look very professional.”
“Let me check my locker,” she said, and hurried off down the hall.
Rick nudged me. “Is this a good idea?”
“We’ve all got to learn sometime.”
“After this conference, how about lunch? I want to go over some points about the case.”
“Lunch? I’m going to need a few drinks.”
“We can do that. I need to check in with Washington and Quantico. I’ll probably miss the conference. Can I meet you someplace?”
What is it about physical beauty? If Rick were average looking, I would immediately take him up on lunch. But because he was handsome, I didn’t think I should spend any time with him outside of the office. It seemed like betraying Latham, even though we might be able to make some headway on the case.
It’s only lunch, I convinced myself.
So I named the place and the time.
What was the worst that could happen?
CHAPTER 16
THE CHEMIST WATCHES the press conference with a frown on his face. He hadn’t expected them to go public. Though this doesn’t alter the Plan in the least; the city has followed his trail of bread crumbs quicker than he’s expected.
They aren’t showing his letters. They admitted that they did receive letters, but say they’re keeping them under wraps to rule out bogus confessions. They also neglected to mention anything about his demands. Which means they’re planning on paying him.
This is disappointing. He expected the city to stall for at least a few days, or to take a hard-line stance and refuse to deal with terrorists. That would have given him a chance to indulge in a few more surprises before the big bang.
Still, maybe he can fit one or two more in before crunch time.
He sets his TiVo to record, and then wanders over to his closet to pick a disguise. He decides on business formal. A Jack Victor suit, wool, three-button, vented, dark blue with dark gray pinstripes. A white shirt. A power tie. He slicks his hair back with mousse, applies a liberal dose of Lagerfeld, and then puts on the distraction-an eye patch.
A check in the mirror shows him to be roguish, mysterious. And all the witnesses will remember is a well-dressed man with an eye patch.
Along with the jet injector, he brings along a tiny contact lens case, containing a few drops of extract of Tanghin. The Chemist doesn’t know if he’ll get close enough to use either, but he’s got the entire day free to try. Should be fun.
He considers taking the bus because parking will be terrible downtown, but with all the stops the bus makes, it will take twice as long. So he risks it and takes a car, one that can’t be traced to him anyway.
The television told him the press conference was live at the 26th District police station, and that’s where he heads. Traffic isn’t too bad for lunchtime, and he manages to snag a parking meter spot from someone pulling out, only three blocks from the precinct house. Even luckier, the meter still has an hour left on it.
Fate apparently wants him to kill a cop today.
He decides to leave the jet injector in the car. Getting this close to the police, he doesn’t want to be caught with it on him. That leaves only the Tanghin, but that should be more than enough.
He walks briskly, hoping to get there before everyone has left. There are still news vans parked in front, so that’s a good sign. A hot dog vendor is set up on the corner. He approaches the forlorn figure and orders one with the works.
“Thanks, buddy. Business has been terrible.”
The Chemist takes a bite of the red hot, smothering his grin with pickle relish. He considers poisoning this man’s stand. It’s the perfect location for it, right outside the police station. Cops probably eat here all the time.
Maybe later, when he comes back.
There’s a bench on the sidewalk with a good view of the front of the station. He sits down and eats leaning forward, so nothing drips on his suit. Ten minutes pass, and he orders another dog, to the eternal gratitude of the vendor.
“Bless you, guy. I got two kids. Wish this city wasn’t so chickenshit.”
“You’re not worried?” asks the Chemist.
“Hell, no. My food is fresh. No one will get sick off my dogs, that’s for sure.”
“Didn’t you hear the latest?” The Chemist feels ripples of excitement, talking about this topic. “One man is doing all of this. They call him the Chemist.”
“And if I ever met this Chemist, I’d bust him in the ass.”
“What if he snuck up on you, poisoned your food while you were talking with another customer?”
“You got a sick mind, you know that?”
“I’ve been told.”
The Chemist returns to his bench. After twenty minutes, he begins to wonder if he had gotten there too late and missed the mark, but like magic she walks out of the building. Alone. It’s almost a hundred yards away, but he recognizes the hair, and the gray jacket she wore on TV.
He takes some extra napkins from the hot dog vendor. Then he trails the cop from the opposite side of the street, staying parallel to her.
She walks two blocks, turns onto Michigan Avenue, and enters a well-known grill pub, a chain place where kitschy things are stuck to the walls and the bartenders dress in sports jerseys. If it’s like the others of its ilk, the interior will be crowded, smoky, with low lighting. Which is perfect.
Traffic is against him, so he has to wait for the light to change before he can cross the street. When he walks into the restaurant, it’s exactly as he expected. The cheerful hostess tells him it will be a half-hour wait for a table. He declines, heading for the bar.
The bar is packed too, but he sees the cop standing between several men, trying to get the bartender’s attention.
He moves in closer, getting to within a few feet. Up close, she seems smaller, less substantial, than she appeared on television.
“Dirty martini, up,” she orders.
My, my, my. Our city’s finest, drinking while on the clock. Still, who can blame her? It’s been a tough morning.
A stool opens up, and she goes to it, and then does something that proves to the Chemist that fate is truly on his side: She takes off her gray jacket, places it over the stool, and asks the bartender where the ladies’ room is.
He points over his shoulder, and she heads in that direction. A moment later, the bartender sets down her drink by her stool.
The Chemist doesn’t hesitate. He opens the lens case, palms it in his right hand, and approaches the bar. With his left hand he reaches over, snagging some cocktail napkins from the bartender’s side of the bar, and with his right he dumps the toxin into the drink.
Now it’s a really dirty martini, he muses.