“Which means, what? A drop-off point? He’ll ask for the money in a big metal box and then swoop down in a helicopter carrying a big magnet?”
Rick grinned. “That’s what I was thinking.”
“We know all the tricks. Transmitters. Tracking devices. Exploding ink packs. Consecutive serial numbers. Coating the money with spy dust.”
“What’s spy dust?” Rick asked.
“An invisible powder that shows up under UV light.”
“You use that stuff?”
“No. I saw it on a TV show.”
We shared a laugh.
“I guess we won’t know what to do until we hear from him,” Rick said.
“Which should be tomorrow, once he reads the paper.”
I looked at my watch. Visiting hours at the hospital were until eight p.m. I needed to get going.
“Jack, you have something on your cheek.”
Rick did the mirror reflection thing, wiping his own cheek off. I wiped in the same spot.
“Did I get it?”
“No. Here.”
He reached for me, caressed my cheek, and our eyes locked and I couldn’t believe I fell for that stupid trick, but I didn’t pull away, even when he moved in and placed his lips against mine.
I didn’t kiss him back.
Well, not at first.
His lips were warm, soft, and when the tip of his tongue entered my mouth, something snapped in me and a little sigh escaped my throat and I put my hands behind his head and pressed his body against mine.
He grabbed me by my waist and picked me up out of the chair like I weighed nothing, and then his hands were on my ass and mine were on his ass and-damn, did he have a great ass.
As our mouths fought for better purchase, his hand came around my hips and undid my front button, or perhaps just tugged it off, and then his fingers touched the top of my panties and he was a few inches away from seeing how excited I really was. Then common sense overrode hormones and the World’s Worst Fiancée pushed him away.
“I… can’t,” I said between deep breaths.
“Sure you can. I bet you’re really good at it.”
I wanted him, but a small voice inside me said I was just using sex to cope with all of my problems. Then another small voice tried to convince me that there was nothing wrong with that, sex was a perfectly acceptable way to cope, and that voice was louder than the first. And then a third voice, louder than both of the others, reminded me about a boyfriend on a ventilator whom I was afraid to marry because I feared making mistakes.
And then it all made sense.
“I’m afraid to get married because I’m afraid I’ll screw it up,” I said, surprised at the self-realization. “So I’m subconsciously trying to sabotage that.”
Rick reached for me again, but I kept him at arm’s length.
“I… I fear failure,” I said to Rick. But it wasn’t really to Rick. It was more to myself. “So I’d rather cop out of a situation than take a chance. I mean, look at me, I’d rather sabotage a good thing instead of giving it a try.”
I stared at Rick, who somehow had his shirt open-had I done that?-revealing as nice a chest as I’d ever seen outside of a movie.
“I’m going to see my fiancé,” I told him.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. I’m really sure.”
Rick smiled. “He’s a very lucky man.”
I checked my pants button, and saw that he’d also gotten the zipper down. I zipped them back up, suddenly embarrassed.
“If it doesn’t work out…” Rick said, letting his voice trail off.
But I knew it would work out. I’d make sure it would work out. I loved Latham, and I’d do everything within my power to make our marriage succeed.
“We’re not going to happen,” I told Rick, pointing at him and me. “I’m sorry.”
Rick sighed, then buttoned up his shirt and left my office, closing the door behind him.
I adjusted my blouse and realized he had unhooked my bra as well. How the hell had he done that so fast?
The phone rang, and I knew deep in my heart that it was Latham, and he was conscious again, perhaps even well enough for me to screw his brains out.
But it wasn’t Latham. It was Hajek at the crime lab.
“I’m a genius, Lieutenant. A certifiable genius.”
“What happened?”
“I got the license number. And even better, I traced it.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning we’ve got the bastard’s address.”
CHAPTER 19
“WHAT’S THE ADDRESS?” I asked.
“Don’t you want to know how I did it?”
Hajek spoke with the same enthusiasm as a child showing off the construction paper snowflake he made in school.
“Give me the quick version.”
“JPEG compression didn’t work, and neither did resizing or noise reduction, so I used a program that could change the blur width by-”
“You’re a genius,” I said, interrupting. “What’s the address?”
“But changing the focus points wasn’t enough. I had to rearrange the pixels using-”
“The address, Scott.”
He sighed. “Vehicle belongs to a Tracey Hotham. Her apartment is on Thirty-first and Laramie in Cicero.”
“Did you run priors?”
“Of course. No records. I checked DMV, and her license had expired. So I tried Social Security, and found out Tracey died six years ago.”
“How?”
“I didn’t dig that deep. But you can ask her parents. According to 411, they’re still living at the Cicero address.”
Two scenarios came to me simultaneously. Maybe they no longer had the car, or maybe a member of Tracey’s family was the Chemist.
I yawned. Not from boredom-my lack of sleep was catching up with me. “Nice work, Scott.”
“Thanks. Maybe we could discuss it over dinner.”
“Sure. I’ll call you tomorrow, during dinner.”
I hung up, my fingers pressing the speed dial for Herb before my mind remembered he and I were no longer a team. I hit the disconnect button.
Abruptly, I felt very alone.
I could get in touch with Bains, have him assign me a new partner, but that wouldn’t happen today. I wasn’t even sure I wanted a new partner on this case. I didn’t like wearing a bull’s-eye, and didn’t want to hang one on anyone else.
Calling Rick wasn’t an option. I didn’t want to see him again unless I was wearing a suit of armor. I could try Scooterboy Buchbinder, but going solo was preferable to hearing him wax prolific about the World’s Largest Road Apple. Before leaving Willoughby’s, he had taken me aside and confessed that right before the unfortunate collision, he’d sworn the manure pile looked exactly like the Lincoln head on Mt. Rushmore.
“I keep seeing it. President Lincoln’s face, getting cleaved in half. And that haunting, squishing sound…”
The guy had issues. More than issues-he had a whole subscription.
So I had no choice. I’d be going stag to Cicero.
On my way to the car, I called the Cicero police, and was bounced around until I connected with a sergeant named Cooper.
“You think the Chemist lives in our burg?”
“I have no idea. As of now, the Hothams are persons of interest. It’s your jurisdiction, if you want someone there.”
“We’ll meet you at the apartment. You need a warrant?”
“I just want to ask some questions. Don’t…” I thought about walking into Alger’s house. “Have your people wait for me before they go in. This guy likes to set traps.”
And then I hopped in my car and headed for Cicero.
The drive only took fifteen minutes. Cicero bordered Chicago on the west, blending into it seamlessly. Mostly Hispanic, a population of around eighty thousand, middle class, blue collar, more like a neighborhood of Chicago than a distinct town.
Their patrol cars were black with silver accents, and there was one of them at the address when I arrived. It was empty.
On the drive over, I’d gotten a little sleepy. But this put me into full alert mode, complete with adrenaline sweat and a tug of nausea. They’d gone in without me.
I dug out my.38 and stared at the apartment building. Three stories, brick, dirty beige. Black wrought iron railing along the walkway, rusty and broken. Security windows on the first floor. Front door open a crack.