Shaken (Jacqueline Jack Daniels Mysteries) [Plus Bonus Content] Page 31

  The light ahead of me turned red, but I blew through it anyway, narrowly missing a sideswipe by an overeager bus driver.

  “Recline your seat,” I told him, swerving around the bus. The Cadillac was long out of sight, but I knew where the storage place was. Worst case, we’d get there two, maybe three minutes behind him.

  Herb pulled the lever and his seat immediately snapped backward. “I can see the siren,” he said. “I think I can reach it.”

  He made a strange grunting sound, sort of like an elephant trumpeting, as he stretched behind me for the light. I turned into oncoming traffic to pass some idiot driving the speed limit and following the rules of the road.

  “Got it.” Herb blew out a big breath. “Whew. Got any Gatorade?”

  “Now sit up and attach it to my roof,” I said, inching the Nova up to forty-five.

  “Sit what now?”

  “Up, Herb. Haven’t you ever watched those shows about those morbidly obese people who haven’t gotten out of bed in five years?”

  “Those shows make me hungry.”

  Herb had the siren cradled in his prodigious lap. I had ten white knuckles on the steering wheel and couldn’t pull them off to help him.

  “Come on, partner,” I urged. “Crank down the window—”

  “You have manual windows? When was this car made, during the Depression?”

  “—and stick the cherry on my roof. You can do it.”

  There was heaving. Grunting. Swearing. And labored, strangled breathing which—if witnessed by a doctor—would have resulted in the crash cart being wheeled over, stat. But somehow Herb managed to get that window open.

  “Good work. Now sit up and stick it on the roof.”

  “You’re driving too fast. I can’t get the seat up.”

  “Come on, Herb. You can do this. Say it. Believe it.”

  “Okay.”

  “You can do this.”

  “I can do this.”

  “You got it.”

  “I got it.”

  “You’re the man.”

  “I. Am. The man.”

  Herb held the cherry out the window, then immediately dropped it outside. I checked my rearview and watched it bounce off the street, where it splintered into a million little red and blue pieces.

  “I owe you a siren,” Herb said.

  I frowned. “I never even got to try it.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll call Starsky and Hutch and get you a new one.”

  I turned onto Fullerton, seeing that Dalton’s Cadillac was already parked across from the storage place. I hit the brakes right next to the building.

  “Put in your earpiece,” I told Herb, screwing my Bluetooth into my ear. “Guard the exit unless I call for help.”

  Herb managed to sit up and he nodded, reaching for his pocket. I exited the car and ran into the storage building. The same watchman was there, feet up on his small desk, eyeballs sewn onto the TV screen. I banged on his bulletproof glass.

  “Police. Buzz me in.”

  “Got a warrant?” he asked, not bothering to look at me.

  “Open the goddamn door, pinhead!”

  He buzzed me in. I hurried to the elevator, saw it was on the third floor. Once again I trudged up the stairs, tugging out my Colt, feeling a weird sort of déjà vu that wasn’t déjà vu at all because I had actually done this before, earlier today.

  “Where are you?” Herb, in my ear.

  “Coming up on the third floor,” I said, taking the stairs two at a time. “Check out his car. See if there’s anything in it. Be discreet.”

  By discreet I meant don’t get caught inside without a warrant.

  I stopped at the doorway, crouched, and went through low. First I looked left, and saw John Dalton standing four yards away, hands at his sides, looking at me. His expression was neutral, his stance relaxed. I kept my gun aimed at the floor.

  “Hello, Lieutenant,” he said. “I’ve been expecting you.”

  I straightened up to my full height, then walked slowly to him. “Open your jacket, Mr. Dalton. Slowly.”

  “I just came to clear out my storage locker before leaving the country,” he said, unbuttoning his suit coat and opening it up. Then he turned in a full circle. “I’m unarmed.”

  “Coat pocket,” I said. “A bulge. Reach in and take it out with two fingers.”

  “As you wish.” He stuck his thumb and index finger into his jacket and slowly removed a microcassette recorder. I could see the tiny wheel turning. “I thought we should record our conversation, for posterity.”

  I glanced quickly at Dalton’s right, saw his storage locker, 312, was open. I approached, my weapon still out, my senses all on high alert. As I got nearer, I was able to peer inside his rental unit.

  “His car is locked,” Herb said. “Don’t see anything inside. Also, two men just pulled up in a Mercedes.”

  “You look a bit high-strung, Lieutenant,” Dalton said. “I assure you, there’s nothing to fear. At least, not at the moment.”

  Looking into the storage unit, it appeared empty. No…not empty. There was something small resting in the middle of the bare floor.

  “You have my permission to go in and take whatever you want,” Dalton said. “It’s for you anyway. A parting gift, of a sort.”

  I took him up on his invitation, walking into the locker. On the floor was a cheap digital watch, the kind with a black plastic band sold in drugstores, and a white envelope. I holstered my gun and dug two latex gloves out of my jacket pocket. Keeping an eye on Dalton, I pulled on the gloves and reached for the watch.

  “The men are going into the building, Jack,” Herb said. “Want me to follow?”

  “Run their plates,” I said, squinting at the watch display. Instead of showing the time, the gray LCD was counting down from twenty-four hours and thirty-six minutes.

  24:36:19…24:36:18…

  “What happens when this reaches zero?” I asked.

  “Don’t ticking clocks just make everything more dramatic?”

  “Answer the question, John.”

  “Open the envelope, Jack.”

  Inside was a color photograph. It showed a boy, Caucasian, perhaps twelve years old. A close-up, his whole face filling the shot. He had brown hair, brown eyes, and looked like a million other kids. His lips were curled up in a small, private smile, as if he had a joke he wanted to tell.

  “Who is this?” I asked, staring over at Dalton.

  “What would you do, Lieutenant, if you knew how much time you had left? If you knew, to the very second? What would your final thoughts be before saying goodbye?”

  I felt myself going from jittery to cold. “What are you telling me?”

  “I’m saying that we can only be here for so long. For some, it could be years before we leave. For others, it could be just over twenty-four and a half hours.”

  I turned the photo over. On the back, in black marker, was written:

  “What have you done here, John?”

  “I’m leaving the country tomorrow. There are over one thousand storage facilities in Chicago, and another thousand in the surrounding suburbs. Good hunting, Jack.”

  The elevator dinged behind me. Two men in suits got out. I put my hand on my holster.

  “Who are these guys, Herb?”

  “Still checking their plates,” he answered.

  I watched the men spot us and begin to walk over. Their suits were tailored, expensive. They didn’t seem to be carrying.

  “Are you saying, John, that this child only has twenty-four hours left to live?” I asked, watching the new arrivals.

  “My client is saying no such thing,” one of the men said.

  “Car belongs to a lawyer, Jack,” Herb buzzed in my ear. “Name is Simon Bradstreet.”

  I knew of Simon Bradstreet. He defended all the big mobsters in Chicago.

  “I invited Mr. Bradstreet here to make sure my rights and personal freedoms weren’t violated,” Dalton said. “The Chicago Police Depart
ment has a nasty reputation for coercion. I know you aren’t the type to beat a confession out of a suspect, Lieutenant, but one never knows how do-gooders will react when children are involved.”

  “Want me to come up, Jack?” Herb said.

  I thought it through. Dalton hadn’t actually said he’d abducted a child, or that the child was in danger. He’d carefully chosen his words, and he’d recorded our entire exchange. I had no evidence to arrest him, and I couldn’t question him without his consent.

  But at the same time, I couldn’t let this bastard leave if he had a child locked in a storage facility somewhere. What I needed was to stall.

  “It’s great of you coming out to this part of town at the request of a client,” I said. “But this isn’t the best neighborhood. Both of you are driving such nice cars. I’d hate to see them vandalized. Tires slashed. That sort of thing.”

  “Are you threatening to slash our tires?” Bradstreet said. He barked a fake laugh, his chubby face jiggling.

  “I’m doing no such thing,” I said, speaking slowly. “And how could I, since I’m here talking to you? All I’m saying is it would be unfortunate if it happened.”

  “Are we done here?” Bradstreet said.

  “I have a question for your client, before you go.”

  “Mr. Dalton isn’t answering any questions.”

  “I think he’ll want to answer this one.” I turned to Dalton. “Do you believe in evil, John?”

  “I said, Mr. Dalton is not—”

  Dalton held up his hand, shushing his lawyer. “Evil, Jack? In what sense do you mean?”

  “I had this question posed to me years ago, when I was a cadet. Which is true evil? Someone who enjoys committing evil acts? Or someone who commits evil acts for monetary gain?”

  Dalton made a steeple out of his fingers. “Let me tell you a story. About two men. They both worked for…let’s call it a company. One of these men enjoyed committing evil acts. He enjoyed it a great deal. So much so that the only way to ever stop him from doing it was to put him away forever, or kill him. The other man, he learned early in life that killing was something he was good at. But he never had any passion for it. In fact, he never had much passion for anything. This lack of emotion, however, made him very good at what he did. Smart. Careful. Deliberate. Because he knew that once emotion got involved, mistakes could be made.”

  “What happened to these two men?” I asked.

  “You know what happened to the first one. As for the second one, we won’t truly know what happens for at least twenty-four more hours.”

  He turned to leave. “But which one is more evil, John?”

  Dalton glanced at me over his shoulder. “There’s no good or evil, Jack. Each of us is the hero in the movie of our life. The only difference is that some of us are better at justifying our actions to ourselves, while others beat themselves up for every mistake they make.”

  The trio walked away. And there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

  Chapter 6

  I hung up my cell phone and watched the cab pull up. Dalton and his associates climbed in. Good old Herb had slashed the tires of Dalton’s Caddy and the Benz, based on my not-so-subtle suggestion, in an effort to keep them on the scene and buy some time while I called Libby Hellmann, the state’s attorney.

  Our efforts had bought us five minutes, and they were for naught. Hellmann had agreed with my original assessment; we had absolutely no evidence, and no probable cause, which meant we couldn’t get paper on Dalton. No search warrant. No arrest.

  Deep down, I knew Dalton had a child in a storage locker somewhere. A child who was running out of time. And there wasn’t anything I could do. Even if I’d tried the loose-wire/vigilante-cop route and attempted to beat a confession out of Dalton, his lawyers showing up had squelched that plan. Not that it was ever a plan to begin with. I was pragmatic about following rules when confronted by a greater good, but unlike Mr. K I had no stomach for hurting people.

  The only minor victory we scored was the look on the lawyer’s face when he saw the flat tires. When he went up to Herb, spouting off about suing and calling superiors, my partner told them a story about a roving band of tire-slashing thugs who had a vendetta against luxury cars, which was why my Nova was spared. When asked why he didn’t do anything to stop it, Herb replied, “I asked my lawyer, and he advised me not to.”

  I truly did love the man, in that brotherly/sisterly way.

  “Follow the cab?” he asked. “Or break into his car?”

  I considered it. On one hand, if we chased Dalton, he surely wouldn’t lead us anywhere helpful. On the other, he wouldn’t leave his car with us if there was anything important or incriminating in it. But we couldn’t afford to miss that chance.

  “Both,” I decided. “Hurry up. There’s a lock pick in my trunk.”

  I hit the button and Herb gracelessly extracted himself from my vehicle, pulling out my lock pick—a one gallon plastic milk jug filled with concrete—just as the cab was pulling away. I took off after Dalton, then pressed the button on my earpiece to keep in touch with Herb. After two rings, he picked up.

  “Ms. Daniels, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I think this milk has gone bad.”

  “It’s gone very bad,” I said, smirking. “You may have to arrest it for B&E. Call me back if you find anything. I can have a car pick you up.”

  I heard the CRUNCH of breaking safety glass, and the whine of the car alarm. I killed the phone, then used the radio mic to call Tom Mankowski, the detective on my team.

  “Car five-five-niner, this is Lewis.”

  Roy Lewis was Tom’s partner. “Hey, Roy, it’s Jack Daniels. Tom keeping you in the loop?”

  “He don’t tell me shit. Plus the dude’s drunk all the time, on the take, and dealing crack to underprivileged schoolchildren. Plus he has erectile dysfunction.”

  I heard Tom say “asshole” in the background, then, “What’s up, Lieut? I haven’t confirmed Dalton’s property in Cape Verde, but I did find his flight. He’s taking United out of O’Hare on August ninth, two fifteen p.m.”

  I checked the current time, and the digital watch countdown. That coincided exactly with the time running out.

  “I need you to arrange for a round-the-clock on John Dalton, sixty-one years of age, residing at 1300 North Lake Shore Drive. Three teams, eight-hour shifts.”

  “Roger that. Where is the suspect now?”

  “In a yellow cab, just turned off of Clybourn, heading west on Diversey. I also need you to assemble a team and start calling every self-storage facility in Chicago, checking to see who’s renting unit 515. If it’s John Dalton, John Smith, John Doe, or anything cute, get me immediately. I’ll be in touch. Out.”

  I cut off, then called home base. “Dispatch, this is Lieutenant Daniels out of the two-six. I need a car to rendezvous with me en route.” I gave them my make, model, and plate number, as well as the upcoming intersection. Less than a minute later, a black-and-white pulled up alongside me. I read their car number off their front fender and got them on the mic.

  “Car seven-six-three-seven, I need a photo taken to Scott Hajek at the crime lab. Complete workup, plus run the pic through missing persons. Grab it at the next stop.”

  We all came to a red light at Western, Dalton’s cab right ahead of me, the patrol car on my side. A uniform—a young black woman who couldn’t have been older than twenty-one—hopped out of the passenger seat and hurried to my window as I lowered it.

  “It’s really an honor to meet you, Lieutenant.”

  I checked her nametag. Graves. “Thanks for the assist, Officer Graves. I need this at the lab ASAP. Hit the lights.”

  “Roger that, Lieutenant.” Graves held out an evidence bag, and I dropped the envelope inside. Before she ran off, Graves hesitated.

  “Did you need something, Officer?”

  “I just wanted to say I’ve been following your career since I was a little girl. You’re the reason I became a cop, Li
eutenant.”

  I was flattered, of course, but I played the hard-ass like I was supposed to. “Don’t blame me for your unhappiness, Officer. Now move it or I’ll have you busted down to traffic duty.”

  Her smile was sudden and dazzling. “Yes, ma’am,” she said, then nodded and ran back to her patrol car. I wondered if I was ever that young and eager, anxious to make my mark, and decided I couldn’t have been. The light turned green, and I followed the cab up to a club called Spill, which I knew from a case I had a long time ago. It was a known Outfit property, and it reminded me of a man I remembered from my early days in Homicide, a former mob enforcer.

  I double-parked and watch the trio exit the cab. Dalton waved at me before going inside. My earpiece rang, and I picked up.

  “Daniels.”

  “Car was clean, Jack. Not even an owner’s manual in the glove compartment.”

  “I’m at Spill, Herb. Up for a shot of tequila?”

  “I don’t think I’m ready for tequila yet. But a beer would work.”

  “Need a ride?”

  “I’ll cab it.”

  “See you in a bit.”

  I hung up, parked in front of a hydrant, and headed into Chicago’s biggest mob bar to see what trouble I could cause.

  Chapter 7

  With the clock ticking down on the unknown boy’s life, I walked into Spill, wondering what more I could do to find him. My mind was filled with awful scenarios of what would happen when the timer reached zero. Was the boy in a storage locker in some sort of sealed container, with his air running out? Or maybe some terrible machine would turn on automatically, bringing death? Or did he have a rope around his neck, standing on a slowly melting block of ice?

  I shook my head, forcing away the images, and stepped into the club. It used to be the nightspot in the city, trendy and hip and A-list. A lot had changed since the last time I’d been in here. Gone were the smoke and the thumping house music and the line around the block. Spill had gone from popular to passé, the dance floor covered with a few lonely pool tables, the once-mighty bar reduced to serving fried pub grub and boilermakers to aging wiseguys. That’s where I found Dalton and his lawyer cronies, sitting on stools at the bar. I parked myself at the other end, watching them glance at me and then huddle in private conversation.