“Anything about a wife or kids?”
“Nope.”
“Address?”
“Roscoe Village, on Belmont.”
She gave me the numbers, and I wrote them down.
“Nothing on Addison?”
“Nope.”
“Can you give me his vitals?”
Jack ran through his birth date, social security number, mother's maiden name, and some other choice info cops are privy to.
“You coming this Monday?” she asked when the litany ended. “I finally bought my own cue.”
“A Balabushka?”
“A custom stick on my salary? More like Wal-Mart.”
“I'll try to make it. Thanks, Jack.”
“Take care, Phin.”
I tucked the Glock into my pants, pocketed my set of master keys and a pair of S & W handcuffs, and hit the street. It was cool for July, in the low seventies, the sun screened by clouds or smog or both. I grabbed some sweet and sour chicken at a local shop, and then spent an hour at a place on Cermak filling out paperwork. When I finished, I hopped in a cab and took it to Roscoe Village.
Lyle's apartment had a security door, which I opened on the fourth try. One of my first acts as a criminal had been to rob a locksmith, earning me a set of sixty master keys. They opened ninety percent of the locks in the US. It was much easier than learning how to use picks and tension wrenches, which is something I didn't have the time to learn anyway.
The halls were empty, befitting midday. I found Lyle's apartment number and knocked twice, holding my pistol behind my back.
No answer.
I got through this door on the second try, set the security chain so no one could pop in on me, and began my search.
In the living room were six double DVD recorders, all which seemed to be running. In a box next to the TV were a hundred plastic clamshell boxes, and a spindle of blank recordable DVD-Rs. In the corner of the room were three digital camcorders and a PC. I powered up the computer, spent ten minutes trying to get his password, then gave up and turned it off.
The kitchen revealed a smorgasbord of junk food—he had enough sugar in here to put an elephant into a diabetic coma. On the counter, next to the phone, was a receipt for a glazier, the total more than five hundred bucks. Stuck to the fridge with a banana-shaped magnet was a picture of Lyle drinking a beer. I put the picture in my pocket.
In the bedroom, I found an extensive collection of porno DVDs. Bondage, watersports, S/M, D/s, extreme spanking, and even a kink new to me; latex vacuum mummification. All legal.
I found his illegal stuff in a padlocked trunk, in the back of the bedroom closet. The lock opened with the seventh key I tried.
Child porn. Movies with titles like “See Billy Cry” and “Maxie's Birthday Surprise.” Some of the covers had pictures.
I tried not to look.
There were also a few other illegal movies, along with a bag full of cash. Over twenty grand worth.
I took the money, locked the trunk back up, and left the apartment.
Satisfied that I knew who I was dealing with, I bided my time until 10pm.
Then I could finish the job.
#
As promised, Lyle had left the door open for me.
The house was dark and quiet, just like the neighborhood. I walked down Christiana and up the porch stairs without encountering a soul. Once inside, I locked the door behind me and held my breath, listening for sounds of life.
Nothing.
The lights were on in the living room, and I held my Glock before me and did a quick search of the first floor. The furnishings leaned towards the feminine side; pink drapes and flower patterns on the couch. On the end table, copies of Glamour and Cosmo. In the kitchen, a half-eaten container of lowfat yogurt sat on the counter, a spoon alongside it. I checked the back door, found it locked, and then crept over to the staircase.
The stairs were carpeted, but they squeaked with my weight. I paused after every two steps, ears open. I didn't hear a damn thing.
The second floor revealed an empty bathroom, an empty guest room, and a bedroom.
The bedroom was occupied.
A woman was tied to the bed, naked and spread-eagled. She was white, late twenties, her blond hair tangled up in the red leather ball gag buckled around her mouth. Leather straps around her ankles and wrists twisted around the four bedposts. Her eyes were wide with terror, and she screamed when she saw me, the sound lost in her throat.
There was a note next to her head.
Give it to her. And leave the gag in, or she'll wake the neighbors.
The room was unusually well-lit. Besides the ceiling light, there were lamps on either side of the bed, one in the corner next to the mirrored closet, and an extra work-light—the portable kind that clips to things—attached to the bed canopy.
“Hello,” I said to the woman.
She screamed again.
“Shh. I'll be with you in just a minute.”
I took two steps backwards, toward the closet, and then spun around, facing the mirrored sliding door. My free hand pulled back the handle while my business hand jammed the Glock into the closet, into the chest of Lyle Tibbits.
Lyle yelped, dropping the camcorder and trying to push me away. I brought the gun up and clipped him in the teeth with the butt.
He fell forward, spitting blood and enamel. I gave him another chop on the back of the head, and he ate the floor.
“Dontkillmedontkillme!”
I put my foot on his neck and applied some weight, glancing back to check the rest of the closet. Empty. The mirror was one-way, and I could see the bed through the door's glass. The original mirror rested against the rear wall.
“Who is she, Lyle?”
He yelled something, the carpet muffling his words. I eased up some of the pressure from my foot.
“I just met her last week!”
“She's not your wife.”
“No! She's just some chick I'm dating!”
“And you hired me to rape and kill her so you could videotape it. I saw the other films back at your apartment. Does snuff sell for more than kiddie porn?”
Lyle wiggled, trying to crane his neck around to look at me.
“It's worth a fortune! I'll cut you in, man! It's enough money for both of us!”
I glanced at the woman, tied up on the bed.
“How much money?” I asked.
“I've got over half a mil in advance orders! We'll be rich, man!”
“That's a lot of money, Lyle. But I'm not greedy. I don't need that much.”
“How much do you want? Name the price!”
“You're worth eighty grand to me.”
“Eighty grand? No problem! I can—”
I knelt on his back, cutting off his breath. Pressing the Glock to the back of his head, I yanked the handcuffs out of my pocket.
“Put your left hand behind your back, Lyle.”
He complied. I yanked his arm back in a submission hold, slapped on the cuffs, then climbed off.
“Let's go into the bathroom, Lyle.”
I was a bit too eager helping him to his feet, because I hyper-extended his arm and felt it snap at the elbow.
Lyle howled loud enough to hurt my ears, and I gave his broken arm a twist and told him to shut the hell up. In the bathroom, I chained him to the drainage pipe under the sink, then I went back into the bedroom.
“You're safe,” I told the woman. “No one can hurt you now. I'm going to call the police. Are you okay to talk to them?”
She nodded, frantic. I took off her gag.
“He was gonna kill me.”
“I know.” I picked up the phone next to the bedside and dialed 911, then placed it on the bed next to her mouth.
I walked out of the room as she began talking.
#
I was in a drugged haze when Jack called on my cell.
“Missed you on Monday.”
“Sorry. Been busy.”
“Remember that guy you called me about? Lyle Tibbits? He got picked up a few days ago.”