Greed: A Detective John Lynch Thriller (35 page)

Hickman stepped between Lynch and Starshak. “Your people stumbled into and very nearly ruined a long-running and extremely sensitive federal investigation involving matters of national security that I am not at liberty to disclose at the moment. I might add, Captain, that you were told to stay away from this case, that it was a task force matter now.” Hickman was trying to be pedantic, but it wasn’t working because he was shivering. He was still in his shirtsleeves, and the temperature was in the fifties, a cold wind gusting into the garage from the east on and off.

“Membe Saturday,” Starshak said.

“What?” said Hickman.

“Refugee guy by the Stadium,” said Lynch. “We liked al Din for that, too. Nobody said anything about not clearing that case. Guess it wasn’t sexy enough for you Fed assholes to work it.”

Hickman shook his head, waved a hand. “Clearly that was connected. At any rate, I’m telling you now, this is a Federal matter. Transport your injured people, back your uniforms off to the street so they can control access to the garage, and get everybody else out of my crime scene.”

“Not gonna happen,” Starshak said. “Homicide is a state crime, not federal. And right now, all I’ve got is a multiple homicide. We haven’t even ID’d any of the victims yet, No way in hell I turn this over on your say so, especially since I got you on scene. Right now, you ain’t the US Attorney, Hickman. You’re a material witness. Maybe a suspect.”

Starshak turned to a nearby uniform. “Hardin, Wilson and Mr Expensive-tie, I-don’t-say-shit over there,” Starshak pointed at Lafitpour, who had come out the stairway door with Hickman and was standing by the wall, “link them up and process them.” Starshak poked a finger into Hickman’s chest. “And if this dick interferes, cuff his ass and run him in, too.”

“Cap,” Lynch said, “just so you know, Wilson and Hardin saved our asses.”

Starshak looked at Hardin, then at Wilson. “Well don’t this just get curiouser and curiouser.”

From above, Lynch heard the beat of a chopper getting louder, closer, then shutting down. Sounded like it landed on the roof. From below, the sound of more sirens, on the street, then some shouting. Starshak walked over to the wall, looked down at Washington Street.

“Mess of Feebs. Who called them?”

 

CHAPTER 93

 

Lynch watched a powerfully built older man walk down the ramp from six. One of the uniforms stopped him, but the guy just smiled handing the uniform a cell phone, the uniform listening for a second and then stepping aside, still holding the phone to his ear. The guy was at least sixty, probably more, looked like he could still throw a punch if the mood struck him. Expensive suit, spring weight camel hair coat. Guy looked like Brian Dennehy maybe ten or fifteen years back. He walked directly to Starshak.

“Captain Starshak, before you fuck things up to the point where I can’t unfuck them, perhaps you and I could have a word.”

Starshak ignored the guy and looked past him to the uniform who’d let him pass. The uniform looked back sheepishly, still holding the phone like he didn’t know what to do with it.

“Too busy playing Angry Birds to do your damn job?” Starshak barked. “Who is this hump and what is he doing in my crime scene?”

The cop opened his mouth and then closed it, didn’t know what to say. The Brian Dennehy guy took the phone from the cop’s hand.

“Actually, the phone’s mine,” the man said, handing the phone to Starshak. “And it’s for you.”

Starshak took it, listened, his face impassive. He listened for a long time. He never said anything. Then he handed the phone back to the big man and turned to address the cops.

“Listen up, people,” Starshak yelled. Everybody stopped, turned. Starshak pointed at the big man. “This guy’s name is Munroe. Don’t ask me who he works for, cause I don’t know. But I’ve heard from the chief, who’s heard from the mayor who, for all I know, has heard from the fucking President. Good work on al Din, that’s the word. Atta boys all around. Now we dumb-ass local yokels are supposed to step back and let the big boys do their jobs.”

“This is totally fucked,” said Lynch

“Tell me about it,” said Starshak.

“Will somebody get me a damn coat?” Hickman said, sounding whiny.

“Shut up,” said Munroe.

Lafitpour said nothing at all, standing to the side, not moving. He wasn’t asking anybody for a coat.

Bernstein walked over. The tech was done with him for now, ribs wrapped, left arm in a sling, bound tight to his chest, his ruined blazer and a raid jacket draped over his shoulders.

“What’s he doing here?” Bernstein asked, nodding toward Lafitpour.

“Don’t know,” Lynch said. “Hasn’t said a damn thing. No ID on him, don’t even have his name. And I get the feeling Joe Washington here likes it that way. But he’s awful damn quiet, that’s for sure. I guess the cat’s got his tongue.”

“Persian cat, I bet,” Bernstein said. He stepped up to Lafitpour, directly in front of him, got in his personal space, staring him down. “Bahram Lafitpour, Chicago’s mysterious wizard of Wall Street. What are you now? Second richest guy in town? Won’t do interviews, not even with the financial press, don’t like having your picture taken. And here you are, playing cops and robbers in your shirtsleeves.”

Lafitpour’s eyes flashed with anger, his jaw tightening.

“Careful, Slo-mo,” Starshak said. “I don’t think he’s used to the help talking to him that way.”

“Wait until I try it in Hebrew,” Bernstein said.

Lafitpour spat in Bernstein’s face. Starshak nudged Bernstein aside and drove a fist into Lafitpour’s gut, doubling him over for a second, but Lafitpour straightened quickly, glared at Starshak.

“I don’t give a shit what your connections in DC say,” Starshak said to Munroe. “A suspect spits on a cop, that’s assault. We don’t do assault.”

The Munroe guy chuckled a little shook his head. “You know what? You shut up too, Bernstein. Fucking Jews. Always too smart for your own good. You wonder why everybody’s pissed at you all the time.”

Bernstein turned toward Munroe. “Do I know you?”

“Nope,” said Munroe. “But I know everybody. Oh, and this guy?” He nodded toward Lafitpour. “He’s not here anyway.”

CHAPTER 94

 

An hour later, Munroe slid the Do Not Disturb sign aside and stuck the key card into the door at the low-end motel out on North Avenue. Card had been in al Din’s wallet. He’d left Hickman to ride herd on the FBI team that was processing the garage in the Loop. Little worried about Hickman. He was getting scared and whiny now that they had a little excrement on the fan blades.

Starshak, Lynch’s boss, he didn’t roll easy, raised quite a stink, trying to get Chicago guys to process the scene, saying the shootings were homicides, and homicides weren’t federal. Munroe had to make some more calls, push the Chicago PD brass to get a better leash on their people. He needed the locals all the way outside the tent on this thing. Fuckers were smarter than he thought, Bernstein putting an ID on Lafitpour; that was a free radical he didn’t need.

And Lynch, Munroe knew about Lynch from the whole cluster fuck the year before. That guy was like Joe Frazier, punch him in the head all day long and he was just going to keep coming, next thing you know you’ve busted your hand on his skull and while he works your body, cracking your ribs one at a time. Had Chicago PD on ice for now, but he knew they be picking at whatever they could pick at. Just needed to box this mess up, get a bow on it, and blow town.

Munroe pulled on a pair of latex gloves. He’d check the room first; decide what he wanted going into the official paperwork. And what he didn’t.

Two beds, shitty desk and chair, cheap dresser, Laptop on the desk, laptop bag on the floor by the chair. He’d be taking that, send it east, let the tech weenies out at NSA see what they could wring out of it. Al Din had a phone in his pocket, which was in Munroe’s pocket now. Put that in the same pouch. Nothing in the drawers. Underwear, socks, some shirts all neatly folded in the suitcase that lay open on the second bed. Three more phones in there, all the same make and model. Throwaways, probably, picked up at a 7-Eleven somewhere. Munroe powered them up one at a time, checked. No call history, no messages, no texts. Leave those for the Feebs; give them something to play with.

Bathroom. The usual shit, although the bottle of Acqua di Gio next to the sink went for something like seventy bucks. Looked like al Din’s tastes had gotten a little too refined for Sandland. Munroe was more of an Aqua Velva guy himself.

Closet. Pants and shirts, all ironed and hung up, couple of sport coats. Munroe checked the labels – Armani, Cardin, all high-end stuff. On the floor, next to a couple of pairs of expensive loafers, an aluminum case.

Munroe put the case on the bed, tried the latches. Locked. Bastard. Munroe pulled a leather case from his pocket, took out a couple narrow metal picks, had to fuck with the case for a minute. Out of practice. Didn’t do that much breaking and entering these days, not personally. Better than usual locks on the case, too. But the latches popped. First one, then the other. Munroe lifted the lid.

The case was lined with stiff black foam, six identical slots cut into it. Five of the slots were empty. In the sixth, Munroe saw a flat black metal tube with a couple of buttons on it. Pretty sure he knew what that was.

The little fucker had deployed the other five, probably some kind of failsafe play. If Munroe made a move on him, al Din could set them off. Or maybe just a safety net, make sure, when he came in, that he had a hole card, something to play if he didn’t think Munroe was honoring the deal. Or maybe he was gonna jack them up for more cash.

The why didn’t matter. Munroe had five devices in the wild that he needed to find ASAP.

He pulled out his phone dialed a number, gave the guy on the other end the address and room number. “I need a runner here soonest. Then get on the phone to Fort Dix, find out the closest Level 3 biohazard lab we’ve got around here, one we can use on the QT. I got a device I needed eyeballed yesterday.”

“Got it,” said the voice. “Anything else?”

Munroe had an uncomfortable thought. Al Din had a phone on him. Gotta figure, if the devices were his failsafe, then he could set them off remotely. That scene in the garage? Did al Din have time to push a button?

“Yeah. Monitor the emergency channels.” Munroe thought through parameters. They’d been tracking al Din as best they could ever since Munroe got the call in Saigon. Fucker’d been everywhere. “Following counties: Cook, Lake, DuPage, Kane, Will, Kendall. Tap their public health systems, too. You start hearing anything unusual, anybody calling CDC for advice, anything like that, I need to know.”

Munroe ended the call, packed al Din’s computer into the laptop bag and closed the metal case. Did a quick scan. Fuck, power cord had come loose from the computer, plugged in under the desk, lying on the floor. Feebs find that, they’re going to start asking about the missing computer. Munroe bent down, yanked the cord, stuffed it in the bag. There was a single knock on the door. Munroe slipped out his Walther, cracked the door. Small guy in motorcycle leathers, Kawasaki Ninja in the spot behind him, next to Munroe’s car, black helmet on the seat.

“I’m your runner,” he said.

Munroe gave him the packages, called Hickman, told him the Feebs could toss the room now, looked at his watch. Not quite 11am. Long day already, and it just got a hell of a lot longer.

 

 

 

CHAPTER 95

 

The Eagle was in the stairwell at Northwestern Memorial, coming down from eight to seven. Nudged the door open just a fraction of an inch to make sure it was unlocked. It was. Supposed to be unlocked in hospitals, but needed to make sure there was no exception due to the security around the target.

Been on the floor earlier, sticking to the far end, past the nurse’s station. The cop was leaning on the desk, chatting up a blonde who was doing some charts. See where he was tomorrow, then make the call whether to come from the right or the left. Liked the layout, the way the nurse’s station was tucked in to an alcove, the seats facing away from the target’s room.

Already been down the other stairwell, the exit stairwell. Nice little gap under the stairs at the bottom of each flight, space enough to dump the sweater and wig. Be a while before anyone found those. A little variety on the scrubs, but the dark blue was dominant, so go with that.

Nothing more to see here. Time to do a little shopping.

CHAPTER 96

 

Starshak followed the ambulance to the ER, Bernstein riding with him. Took a while for the docs to finish up with Lynch, stitches on the outside of his thigh from a few inches below his hip damn near to his knee, his whole thigh wrapped in bandages. Starshak on the phone a lot while the docs worked. The brass, DA, review board, seemed like pretty much anybody from any federal agency anywhere that felt like calling him.

Bernstein got X-rays: did in fact have a cracked rib. Not much to do for that. Nurse wrapped him back up.

When they were done, Starshak drove them to Bernstein’s place first, Bernstein grabbing a sweater he could work his arm into. Then they headed to Lynch’s condo, Lynch pulled on an old BC sweatsuit, the only thing he could fit over his thigh.

Then the three of them sat at Lynch’s kitchen table.

“You guys OK?” Starshak asked. Bernstein nodded, said nothing.

“Just a scratch,” Lynch said.

“Big fucking scratch,” said Starshak.

“Yeah,” said Lynch.

“That wasn’t what I was asking.”

“I know.”

The three of them quiet for a while.

“Never been shot at before,” Bernstein said. “Never shot at anybody.” He sounded a little hollow.

“You did good,” Lynch said.

“Right,” said Bernstein. “Took a round in my iPhone, emptied my clip, I think I got one guy in the calf.”