In truth, I didn’t know if I’d recognize the Chemist even if I was staring right at him. The only thing I remembered from my brief encounter with him in Records was the port-wine stain on his face, and his beard. Both were fake. Just like the eye patch.
If I ran into someone with a single distinctive feature, that might be our man. But if he went without a disguise, he could be anyone. Maybe even someone I’ve already met.
I stopped futzing with the bag and continued east on Washington. I sensed that the cab resumed pursuit, and then actually saw it peripherally as it came up on my right.
“Handoff, from a jogger, soon,” Unibrow said through the open backseat window.
Then the cab accelerated past and turned right on Wabash.
The cell phone rang. I connected after the first ring, wondering if the Chemist was going to go ballistic because he spotted the cab.
“Hello?”
A pause, then, “Go to the Art Institute and wait on the steps. You have four minutes.”
That was about four blocks away, one east and three south. I couldn’t make it in time by walking.
I began to jog.
Normally, a four-block jog wouldn’t even get me winded. But heat, exhaustion, sickness, and a forty-five-pound anchor all conspired to have me wheezing like an asthmatic after the first hundred yards. I kept up the pace, my eyes scanning the crowd ahead, looking for the police jogger who was going to hand off something to me. I hoped it was a cold beer.
The jogger, wily little devil, came up from behind after I turned onto Wabash. He ran past me with ease, not so much as a bump, and I almost didn’t think it was him until I thought to check my blazer pocket.
No beer. But he had left me a walkie-talkie and a wireless earpiece. I switched it on, leaving it at whatever frequency they’d set it at, and stuck the receiver/mike combo on my ear.
“This is Daniels,” I panted. “He told me to go to the Art Institute.”
“This is Reynolds, SRT.” It was Unibrow. “We know. Miller took a guess, and the cell phone the Chemist gave you is Tracey Hotham’s. We’re listening in, and we can ping your location. We’re also tracing his calls. It’s not as easy, because they’re being routed through a PC-one of those computer phone lines. It’s not the same phone he called you from initially. That was one of those pay-by-the-minute cells. We’re not getting anything from it. But we should have his new location in a few minutes.”
I didn’t waste any breath answering. The Art Institute was a block away, on my left, and I only had about a minute to get to it. I was sweating freely now, my shoulder beginning to ache from tugging the suitcase. The sidewalks were packed, and the citizens of Chicago paid me little attention as I ran. A few stepped aside. Most ignored me. None offered to give a struggling lady a hand. I passed the Prudential building, and saw the green lion sculptures in the distance, standing vigil on either side of the steps in front of the Art Institute, and then the phone rang.
“Daniels.”
“Now go to Buckingham Fountain. Stay on foot. You have seven minutes.”
“I need-”
I wanted to say more time, but the connection ended. The fountain was another three blocks north, and maybe three more blocks east. I couldn’t do six blocks in seven minutes, not as tired as I already was.
“Did you get that?” I said into my radio.
“Affirmative. We got a lock on the phone he’s calling from, and it doesn’t make sense.”
“Why not?” I huffed.
“It seems to be coming from Jason Alger’s house.”
The retired cop whose home had been turned into a death trap and whose fingers had been left in the fridge.
“We’re sending a team to check it out.”
“Bad idea. Last time-”
“We’ll be careful. But Alger is uptown. How did he get across town so fast?”
I made it to Jackson, and the light was against me, so I couldn’t cross. It would delay me, but I was grateful for the rest.
“Could have had a remote video camera planted at the Daley Center,” I said. “Or he was watching from a distance. Or maybe he’s forwarding his calls through Alger’s computer somehow.”
“Or maybe he has an accomplice.”
I didn’t like that possibility. Not at all. A guy on the corner next to me gave me a sideways glance, then resumed his cell phone conversation. Suddenly everyone on the street was a potential spy. Or a potential poisoner.
The light changed, and I put it into second gear and charged across the street, almost pulling off my arm when the suitcase wheels caught on the curb. I switched to my left hand, couldn’t find my rhythm, then switched back. I cut left on Van Buren into the cul-de-sac leading to Congress, and huffed and puffed up the bridge over the railroad tracks.
When I reached the apex, my legs, arm, and lungs were pudding. But I could see the Buckingham Fountain ahead, one of Chicago’s most recognizable landmarks, the center jet shooting a hundred and fifty feet into the air. When I got there, I was seriously considering jumping in to cool off. Or to slake my thirst.
Strangely, I was in the same part of Grant Park where my father bought me those three ice creams, years ago. Where were all the damn vendors now that I really needed one?
My phone rang, even though I hadn’t yet crossed Columbus.
“I’m almost there.”
“New destination. Navy Pier. Take Columbus to Grand Avenue on foot. You have fifteen minutes.”
Then he hung up. That little mother…
“Lieutenant, this is Reynolds. We have a team en route to Alger’s house.”
“Why? So you can shake his hand and congratulate him when he gets his money?”
That might have been harsh, considering the casualties they’d suffered, but I was exhausted and in a mood.
“We’re going to watch and wait. The mayor doesn’t want him picked up until we get the all clear. But you can be damn sure we won’t let him out of our sights.”
Reynolds sounded pissed, and I realized he didn’t like playing by these rules any more than I did. Maybe during their surveillance the Chemist might accidentally have his head blown off. The thought made me smile.
I paused for a moment in front of the giant fountain, the Windy City blowing a mist of its water onto my face. I had no idea how clean the water was, but it felt wonderful.
Navy Pier was a mile away, maybe a little more. To make it in fifteen minutes, I needed to haul ass. But something was bothering me. The Chemist liked to talk. Even after he sprayed me with TEPP, he stuck around for a bit to chat. But his last several phone calls had been abrupt, clipped. Either he was worried about being caught on the phone, or…
“Reynolds, what’s the number the Chemist is calling from?”
He read it to me.
“Have you tried calling it?”
“No. We don’t want to tip him off that we know.”
But I could call him back without letting on that I knew his number. I pressed *69. The phone rang ten times. No answer. I tried entering in the number Reynolds gave me. Another ten rings, no pickup.
Then I waited. If the Chemist thought he was being messed with, he’d call me back to scold me. But my phone didn’t ring.
“He’s not in the house,” I said. “He’s not watching me. He’s at the drop point already.”
“Are you sure?”
“Have your team do a thermal scan of the Alger house. I bet it’s empty.”
I knew I was right. But how could we use this to our advantage? I had fourteen minutes to make it to Navy Pier, and if I wasn’t being monitored, I could use that for something else. What could this extra time buy us?
“Get me transportation. The nearest cop in the area. And if Rossi is available, have him come along.”