I stared at the mark. Someone had cut off the others, and missed this one because it had been in an unobtrusive spot. Removing tattoos was symbolic, like stripping a gang-banger of his colors. Either his own gang did it because he betrayed them, or a rival gang did it to disrespect him.
There was also a third possibility: to keep Jensen’s identity hidden.
Mason’s search for Jensen in the National Crime Information Center records revealed a criminal record, until only a few years ago. The same for Caleb Ellison. It was highly doubtful they’d suddenly gone straight. Changing identities seemed a much better prospect.
“I have a few contacts in Detroit.” Holly stripped off her gloves and pulled a flip phone out of her front pocket. “Want me to see what I can figure out?”
At this point, I needed all the help I could get. “Be my guest.”
Holly trotted off, phone in hand. I pulled off my gloves and bellied up to the big slop sink, where I spent five minutes trying to get the stain out of my blouse.
“Jack! I got something!”
Holly had poked her head into the autopsy room.
“What?”
“Steve Jensen is using another name. I described him to the guy I talked to, and he pinned down an alias. A quick look at his record, and we got a list of associates, one of them named Caleb.”
“Caleb Ellison?”
“No. Caleb’s using an alias too. The guy you’re looking for is a redhead, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Caleb’s last known address is here in Chicago.”
I hurried over to Holly, the stain forgotten.
“What’s the address?”
Holly shook her head. “I want to go with you.”
“Holly, dammit, this is police business.”
“I got the information, I want to come with you.”
“No. Absolutely not.”
I felt eyes on the back of my neck. Blasky was staring at us, munching on a cruller. I took Holly into the cooler with me.
“Who did you call in the Detroit police to get this information?”
She played coy. “Who said I called the Detroit police? I’m a private investigator, remember? I have plenty of contacts.”
I pushed past her, walking out of the cooler, into the loading room. I could call the gang unit in Detroit, possibly get the same info Holly did, but I had no clue who to talk to, and no idea how long it would take.
“Jack…” Holly caught up, tugged on my sleeve. “Don’t be pissed. I just want to be a part of this.”
“You’re a civilian, Holly. I could lose my badge just for bringing you into the morgue.”
She made a pouty face.
“Come on, Jack. All I do is spy on cheating husbands, take pictures of fat guys trying to cheat insurance companies, and chase losers who jump bail. This is something real. Something important. Do you know how many times I heard Harry tell the story about the time he helped you nail Charles Kork?”
I ignored her, signing out, leaving the morgue.
“I have his address, Jack. I can back you up.”
“It doesn’t work that way, Holly. I need a warrant, cops on all the exits, the Feds want a piece; you being there could ruin the bust.”
“Fine. I’ll get him myself.”
She took off across the parking lot, walking at a brisk pace.
“Dammit, Holly! Don’t make me arrest you!”
She kept walking, but offered her opinion of my authority with a single finger.
I jogged up to her, grabbed her shoulder, and she spun around in a blur, spreading her feet in a tiger stance – her hands in underhanded fists, one foot in front of the other, heel off the ground as if cocked to go off. Without even thinking, I stepped back and fell into a back stance, my rear foot planted behind me, both arms parallel to my front thigh.
I tensed for her attack, but it didn’t come.
“You want to do this on pavement?” I said.
“I want to come with you.”
“You can’t. The last time a civilian came with me on a bust, it became a weekly TV series.”
The parking lot was dark, and I couldn’t read her eyes.
“Your choice, Jack. We do it together, or I do it alone.”
“Or I arrest you for withholding evidence and obstruction of justice.”
“You think you can? I’m bigger, younger, more experienced, and have a farther reach.”
“And if you lay a finger on me, you go to jail. That would mess up your wedding plans, wouldn’t it? Think, Holly. This isn’t the way.”
I hoped she’d back down, because she was right; I probably couldn’t beat her sparring. Which meant I’d have to shoot her.
Seconds ticked by. The night air cooled the sweat that had broken out on the back of my neck. I kept my muscles rigid, tense, fighting the adrenaline surge.
“He lives in Ravenswood,” Holly said.
“Where in Ravenswood?”
She came at me, bringing her rear foot up. I lifted my arms to block, but Holly didn’t kick. She ran past.
Holly reached the car five steps ahead of me, throwing open the door and grabbing her Vuitton carry-all. I managed to get my fingers around one handle of the bag, and Holly gripped my wrist and dropped to a knee, twisting my arm out at an angle and forcing my elbow to lock. I released the bag.
“I’ll call you when I get there.” She smiled and winked.
I swung my free fist around, but she shoved me back, onto my ass, and then sprinted down the street. By the time I got to my feet she’d ducked behind a building and disappeared.
This was what I got for trying to have friends.
I considered my options. I could call in the cavalry, but Holly was too smart to get picked up by a squad car. I could go home and let fate take its course; after all, I’d tried my best to stop her. Or I could head for Ravenswood and hope she would call.
Naturally, I headed for Ravenswood.
CHAPTER 36
JACK IS COMING. Alex knows.
An anticipatory smile creeps onto Alex’s face.
This is working out better than expected.
The smell from the basement wafts up through the floor. Alex ignores it, deciding what to do next.
The apartment is a mess. There are things to fix, things to do before Jack’s arrival.
This trap must be carefully set for it to work.
“Where shall I hide?”
Alex has seen the TV show, knows all about the time Charles hid in Jack’s closet and almost killed her.
There’s a closet in the living room that will be just perfect.
“In the closet. Second time’s a charm.”
The man enters the closet, knife in hand.
CHAPTER 37
I PARKED NEXT to a hydrant on Lincoln Avenue, just north of Montrose. Ravenswood covered about three hundred square blocks, and like many other Chicago neighborhoods was undergoing some extreme gentrification. Lured by affordable housing, rehabbers had been buying like crazy and slowly increasing the property value by rebuilding, remodeling, and repainting. The liquor stores and chop shops of years past were being replaced by Starbucks and Panera Bread franchises.
If Caleb Ellison resided in Ravenswood, he had thousands of houses, apartments, lofts, and condos to hide in.
Before I could dwell on how this case spiraled out of control, my cell rang.
“Hi, Jack. You alone?”
“Dammit, Holly. Where are you?”
“Where are you?”
“On Lincoln and Montrose.”
“You’re close. I’m on Bell Avenue and Argyle. I’m going into the house.”
“Holly, don’t…”
CLICK.
I jammed the car into gear and did a U-turn, racing east down Montrose, and then hanging an immediate left on Bell. Argyle was eight or nine blocks up. The area was dark, residential, all houses and apartments. Eighty-year-old oak and maple trees lined the sidewalks, parked cars lined the streets.
I got to the corner ninety seconds after receiving the call, and double-parked parallel to a Saab. I hopped out of the car and did a slow 360-degree look around.