The smarter move was to follow her and hope she led us to my friends. Which should work… unless they were already dead and in her trunk.
“This is car 88. We’re west on Van Buren, turning north onto La Salle.”
“Keep your distance, car 88. I don’t want her spooked.”
“Roger that.”
The light changed. I stayed the course, weaving in and out of the sparse traffic. In the rearview, I noticed the Feebies’ sedan, stuck to my bumper as if I were towing them.
“Dailey, Coursey, if you’re on this frequency, loosen up the tail. You’re crawling up my muffler.”
They must have heard me, because they pulled back to almost half a car length.
“Suspect just passed Wacker Drive, continuing on present course.”
I was coming up on West Chicago Avenue. Less than ten blocks away from Holly. I turned left on Chicago. I’d try to flank her by running parallel on Dearborn, two blocks over.
“Suspect has stopped at the corner of La Salle and Kinzie.”
I passed Clark, and pulled up to a fire hydrant on Chicago and Dearborn to wait.
“This is car 88. We’re still on La Salle, coming up on Washington. Suspect is still on Kinzie.”
A honk, behind me. Then several more. I looked in the mirror, and saw the Feebies were parked in the middle of the street, blocking traffic. This didn’t go over well with the long line of commuters forming behind them.
“We’re approaching Wacker Drive. Suspect is still stopped on Kinzie, one block ahead. Please advise.”
“Hold position. Wait for her to move.”
More honking, along with several colorful suggestions that perhaps the Feds might move their car. I watched in the rearview as a motorist actually stepped out of his vehicle and walked up to the Feebies, in a manner that made the vintage newsreels of a ranting Hitler seem genteel.
“Suspect is still holding at Kinzie, please advise.”
Shit.
“Approach with caution, 88. If suspect is still in the car, pass her without stopping.”
“Roger that.”
Now Dailey was out of the car, showing the angry motorist his ID. The motorist responded by showing Dailey one of his fingers.
“We’re approaching Kinzie, and see a black Ford Mustang parked alongside the street. No driver. Over.”
Double shit.
I pulled out into traffic, made a U-turn, and headed back to La Salle. This time I floored it, wincing from the pain in my right ankle, which had swollen enough to break my shoe strap. I blew the light on La Salle, jerked the wheel hard to the left to avoid a collision, and raced toward Holly, nine blocks to go.
“You’re looking for a white woman, mid-thirties, long black hair, a hundred and thirty pounds, very attractive. She might be wearing a white dress, but she’s probably in street clothes. She has ID in the name of Holly Frakes.”
Eight blocks. A green light, and I sailed through, easing the car up to forty-five.
“No one within sight matches that description. My partner will search on foot. Over.”
Seven blocks. I chanced a quick look in my mirror and saw I’d lost the Feebies. Maybe they’d been torn apart by angry motorists.
“Awaiting okay to approach the Mustang, over.”
“Hold, 88. I’ll be right there.”
I flew past Ohio street, then had to slam on the brakes to avoid rear-ending a bus that pulled in front of me. My ankle screamed at my decision, but the rest of my body was grateful not to have died. I swung into oncoming traffic, passed the CTA, and slowed down when I got to Hubbard, keeping my eyes open for Holly.
I didn’t see her, but I saw Harry’s Mustang parked along Kinzie. I pulled in behind it and limped over. When I looked inside, I understood why Holly had fled.
“Dammit, McGlade!”
Harry, in all of his disposable income wisdom, liked gadgets so much he not only purchased a LoJack, he also had a police scanner, mounted under his dash.
Holly had heard our entire radio conversation.
Triple shit with pink sugar on top.
I turned a full circle, my gaze drifting upward to the sky, cursing my failure. If I’d only maintained radio silence. Hell, if I’d only looked a little closer at Holly during the time I’d spent with her. Of course she was a killer. I should have known it from the start. Who else would have married McGlade?
Stupid, annoying, obnoxious, repulsive Harry McGlade.
God, I hoped he was okay.
CHAPTER 45
PHINEAS TROUTT WIPES his nose on his shoulder. The blood has slowed to a trickle.
He’s not sure how long ago Holly left. An hour, maybe ninety minutes. She worked on McGlade for what seemed like an eternity, until the poor son of a bitch passed out.
Phin lives in a seedy part of Chicago. He’s met pushers and bangers and hookers and pimps and johns and murderers, but he’s never seen anything as cold-blooded as Holly. She isn’t human.
For his part, McGlade had been pretty stoic through the ordeal. He screamed, for sure, but there was no begging or pleading.
There will be, though. Nobody can take that kind of agony for an extended period.
Phin wonders if McGlade has gone into shock. Might not be a bad thing. At least he’d be beyond the pain.
“How you doing, Harry?”
McGlade moans. “Got any aspirin?”
“Other pair of pants.”
“Nuts.”
Phin has to ask. His imagination has been running wild. “How’s the hand, Harry?”
“Doesn’t hurt much, because there’s not much left to hurt. Hope my screaming didn’t disturb you.”
“Actually, you interrupted my nap. Try to keep it down next time.”
“I’ll try. Sorry about that.”
He admires Harry’s guts. His respect for the private eye goes up a few notches.
“The hand the worst of it?”
“This damn rusty nail thing in my leg hurts worse. Dirty as hell. I can feel the tetanus, surging through my veins. Though I guess dying of tetanus might not be a bad thing right about now.”
Phin understands pain. He understands it more than most people. When there’s nothing else to focus on, pain can become all-consuming. Crippling. The psychological aspects of it are just as bad as the neurological effects.
If he keeps Harry talking, maybe the pain won’t be so bad.
“So your full name is Harrison Harold McGlade?”
“Yeah.”
“Your parents named you Harry Harry?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s pretty funny, don’t you think?”
“This from a guy named Phineas Troutt.”
McGlade’s voice is getting weaker. Phin can hear the strain.
“At least I don’t have to piss anymore,” McGlade says. “When she cut off my thumb, I wet my pants.”
Phin has to grin at that.
“Nothing to be ashamed of, Harry Harry.”
“All you dry pants guys say that.”
“Maybe it’s a good thing. There’s ammonia in urine. Maybe you disinfected that rusty nail puncture.”
“Didn’t reach. I was pointing in the other direction.”
A minute passes.
“I can see my fingers,” Harry says.
“How’s that?”
“They’re on the floor in front of me. Think a doctor can reattach them?”
To burned flesh? Phin doubts it. But he says, “Sure.”
“Assuming we get out of here.”
“I’m working on it.”
Listening to a man having his fingers removed and the stumps cauterized with a blowtorch can galvanize a person into action. Damage to himself be damned, Phin begins to twist his wrists in their binding. The wire is thin, and bites into his flesh.