Jenn searched my face for a clue as to what was in there. I shrugged. "You might as well look," I said. "So you know where things are going."
She walked slowly into the bathroom. Said, "Holy shit," too, and came out looking pale. Ryan, on the other hand, went straight to the phone book provided by the hotel and flipped through the Yellow Pages section.
"What are you looking for?" I asked.
"Sporting goods," he said.
CHAPTER 44
"If he comes back with a chainsaw," Jenn said, "I'm out of here."
"The only thing you can predict about Dante Ryan is that he's unpredictable. Listen, I'm sorry if the drive down was a pain."
"Don't be," she said. "It was a hoot."
"You're kidding."
"Apart from the smoking, the leg-groping and the team-switching bullshit, he's a lot more fun than PC guys who trip over themselves trying to be more sensitive than thou around a gay woman. But don't tell him that."
"My lips are sealed."
"While he's gone," Jenn said, "did you want to get yourself X-rayed?"
"No. What's done is done. I have some codeine. And a lot of ill will toward Simon Birk. That ought to get me through the day."
"Let's see your hands."
We sat opposite each other on the edges of the double beds and she slowly unwrapped the gauze.
"Uck," she said.
"Spoken like a true professional."
My palms were angry and raw, as if they'd been flayed. My left hand shook when I tried to extend the fingers that had been hit by a bolt. Jenn picked up the phone and punched in a number, waited, then said, "Hi, babe."
As a nurse practitioner, Sierra Lyons had more advanced training and credentials than Nola Johnson. Jenn told her about me, listened, asked a few questions, listened some more, made a kissy noise into the phone and hung up.
"What did she say?"
"That you should get X-rays."
"What else?"
Jenn reached into her purse. "And take these as needed." She took out a sample pack of OxyContin. Made Tylenol 3s look like pikers. The clouds parted, rays of sunshine streamed through, a chorus of angels sang. And I hadn't even taken one yet.
"Sierra said to leave your hands unwrapped for now. Let the air get to them."
"Remind me to take you both to dinner when we get home."
"X-rays might be cheaper," she said. She popped out two pills for me and got me some water. "Before you get kooky, you want to tell me your war plan?"
"You're assuming I have one."
"My bad."
"What I have right now is more a vision than a plan."
"Go on."
"The vision is Simon Birk on his knees, begging to tell us everything. What happened to Glenn and Sterling. What happened to Maya Cantor. What happened to his wife."
"Does the vision tell you how we get him there?"
"No. But if past experience is worth anything, Ryan will have something to do with it." We both had to laugh when he got back. He carried a goalie stick in one hand; the other was pulling a massive nylon bag on a wheeled frame, the kind goalies use to lug their oversized equipment. He wore a Chicago Blackhawks sweater with the name Kane and the number 88 on the back and sleeves. A Hawks cap covered his dark hair.
"Anyone sees me with this," he said, "they'll tell the cops Patrick Kane did it."
"And he seemed like such a nice kid," I said.
"How long has she been in the tub?" he asked.
"Eight, nine hours by now."
"Shit. She's going to be close to maximum stiffness," he said. "You might want to turn on the TV."
He went into the bathroom with the hockey bag. Was in there for close to half an hour, grunting and groaning like a man with dysentery. If only that had been the case: what was really going on in there was more painful to think about. Jenn kept thumbing up the volume on the remote. We could still hear the sounds of Ryan's exertion. At one point we heard a bone break. We both jumped off the beds. More volume on the TV, until someone pounded on the wall in the next room.
Then Ryan called, "A little help here?"
I held out my hands, glistening with ointment, for Jenn to see. She gulped and turned pale, even by her Estonian standards, and walked to the bathroom as if a hangman awaited her.
I lowered the volume. The pounding in the next room stopped. Then I heard both of them grunting. A zipper being closed in fits and starts. And finally Ryan's voice saying, "Got it."
The water ran, then Jenn came out drying her face with a towel. Ryan followed her, pulling the bag, singing, "Mama, don't let your babies grow up to be goalies."
I told him he was a sick individual. He didn't argue the point. He just sighed and said, "I'm here less than an hour and already I got a body to dispose of. Fucking stereotyped or what?" Jenn packed all of my things into my suitcase for me then left the room with Ryan's gun case. Five minutes later, Ryan left, carrying the hockey sticks and pulling the equipment bag behind him, whistling the old theme song to Hockey Night in Canada. I waited another five minutes then went down to the lobby to check out. No way we were staying in the Hilton another night, not after the attack of the homicidal housekeeper.
"Was everything all right?" the concierge asked.
"Fine," I said.
"Would you like to fill out an evaluation card?" he asked. "It will help us tailor our services to better suit your needs in the future."
"My experience was unforgettable," I said. "Let's just leave it at that." Ryan dropped us at a Holiday Inn Express just north of the Loop and went off to lose the woman's corpse. "Lucky for me they got a lake and a river and a whole lot of buildings going up. I should be back in a couple of hours."
I booked two rooms. When we were settled in, all gear stowed, I called Avi Stern's office on my cellphone. He answered yes to my first three questions: he was free this evening; he owned a mini-recorder, which he used to dictate letters for transcription; and he wanted to see justice done in the matter of Simon Birk.
The only negative response came when I asked if he owned a gun or had any experience in handling one.
"What are you getting me into?" he moaned.
I told him we'd keep him posted as the plan unfolded, and that we'd do our best to keep him from being arrested, shot or disbarred.
If he found comfort in that, he kept it to himself. I called Nola Johnson, thanked her for the help she'd provided the night before, and asked for Gabriel Cross's home number. His wife answered and said he was still at work. I gave her my name and asked her to pass along a message if he called in: to leave when his shift was over and not hang around on any beams tonight.
"He still does that, eh?"
"Yes."
"You'd think he spends enough time up there as it is."
"I guess."
"Wish he'd take me up there sometime," she said. "I never get out of the city." Unable to grip a pencil, I traced an outline of the Birkshire Millennium Skyline site for Jenn with my finger. I had her mark the entrance and the trailer that would house any security at night. I showed her the side of the building where the hoist went up, what the unfinished floor at the top was like. I provided notes about the lighting, the wind, the footing.
Ryan came back about two hours later. The shins of his pants were dusty. He went straight into the bathroom and spent five minutes washing up.
When he got out he said, "Anyone going to ask me where I dumped her? No? Good. Saves me the trouble of telling you it's none of your business."
He opened his metal case and showed us the guns he had brought, including his personal favourite, a Glock 20, and the Beretta we'd confiscated from the thug in our office.
"If we have to shoot anyone, I suggest we use the Beretta. If the ownership can be traced to anyone, it'll be to the scumbag who lost it. Anyone lets an unarmed guy take away his gun deserves whatever he gets."