“Lawson knew about the bulbs. Is that why she was killed?”
Danielson put the gun and envelope back in his briefcase. “Do I bring in the scientist, or do we pull out the bracelets and head downtown?”
I floated a smile. “Bring her in.”
If Danielson was surprised, he didn’t show it. Instead, he snapped his briefcase shut and left the room. For a moment, I was left alone with my decision, which hadn’t really been much of one at all.
CHAPTER 4
Donnie Quin swung off Randolph’s restaurant row, cruised east on Washington, then south on Clinton. He looped past the Blue Line stop, under the highway, and headed north again on Jefferson. Three blocks later, he pulled over. There was a homeless man draped over the curb, facedown, near an overpass. Usually Donnie would keep driving, but this guy was lying in the street. Less than a half mile from Old Saint Pat’s, no less. Donnie shoved the envelope he’d gotten from the valet into his glove box, grabbed his flashlight, and walked across the street. The wind was raw, its greedy fingers tearing at his jacket.
“Hey.” Donnie nudged the bum with his nightstick. Nothing. Donnie ran his flashlight up and down the block. Not a soul in sight. He bent over the bum again.
“Hey, asshole.” This time Donnie put his size eleven and a half boots to good use in the man’s ribs. Still, the bum didn’t move. Fuck. The last time Donnie actually squatted was seventy pounds ago, and the kick in the ribs already had him winded. So the cop took his time, finally managing to take a knee beside the bum and roll him over. His face was fish-belly white, a thin tracing of blue around the lips. Donnie took off a glove and felt for a pulse. The bum was dead, which wasn’t the worst news in the world. Alive meant ambulances and follow-up interviews and all that bullshit. Dead meant a ride to the morgue, a couple of forms, and done. Where bums were concerned, dead was definitely better.
Donnie tugged the body into the dark recesses of the underpass and took another look around with his flashlight, this time checking the upper windows of the nearest apartment buildings. Everyone and his brother had a camera shoved up their ass these days, and Donnie didn’t need any of that shit. Fuck it, he could always say he was just looking for an ID.
Donnie checked the man’s hands and wrists first, then around his neck. People would be surprised at how many of these homeless fucks wear rings, watches, necklaces, every goddamn thing. This one, unfortunately, was clean. Donnie unzipped the red Bulls jacket the corpse was wearing. Donnie’s twelve-year-old loved the Bulls, but he wouldn’t love the smell of this coat. From inside the jacket, Donnie pulled out a couple of newspapers the departed had used for insulation against the cold. Then the cop found an inner pocket and a wad of cash, wrapped up in a piece of notebook paper and bound with a rubber band. Donnie gave the roll a quick count-all singles, maybe thirty dollars total. He slipped the money into a pocket and reached for his shoulder mike to call in the body. That was when he heard a noise.
“Chicago police.”
Donnie splashed light across some bushes at the far end of the underpass. He caught a glimpse of what looked like a green army jacket and a pair of red Converse sneakers. Someone was trying to stand and run. Donnie couldn’t have that. Not with all the cameras people had these days.
“Hold it right there. Police.”
Donnie got all two hundred eighty-four pounds moving as fast as he could in one direction, crashing across the street and belly flopping into the bushes. Whoever he was, the interloper’s face kissed Chicago cement. Donnie rode him into the gutter and gave him an asphalt face wash for good measure.
“Didn’t you hear me identify myself?”
The second bum was younger than the first, and in better shape only in the technical sense: he was alive and the other wasn’t.
“That your friend over there?” Donnie gripped the man with both fists and shook. Dark lines scored the man’s cheeks, and there was a hunger circling his lips. Even in the cold, Donnie could feel heat radiating from the man’s skin. He let the rough coat slip from his grasp.
The man dropped back into the loose gravel and exploded in a fit of coughing: huge, ragged bursts, hauled up wet from the lungs and leaving the man exhausted. Donnie took a step back. The bum uncovered his face and looked up at the cop. His grin was a red and sticky thing.
“I saw what you did to my friend. Dirty fucking cop.”
Donnie cracked the bum across the side of the head. His face snapped to the left and bounced off a frozen piece of rebar. Donnie plodded forward. His fingers found the man’s throat. Donnie lifted and squeezed. A pair of red Cons dangled in the early morning light.
“What did you say?”
Ropy lines of saliva hung from the man’s open mouth. Donnie put a fist over it. Then he pushed hard up against the cracked cement of the underpass. The bum’s eyes gripped him, and Donnie could feel the first stirrings of fear, irrational and unbidden, uncoiling inside. It was kill or be killed time. And somehow, the cop knew it.
He leaned into the job, closing off the man’s nose with his other hand and taking him to the ground. The man clawed at the cop’s back, and Donnie could hear his legs thrashing against the scatter of rocks and dirt. Yellow eyes danced in the half darkness, but Donnie didn’t waver. The scratching got weaker. The legs stopped moving. The eyes began to jitter and fade, losing focus before, finally, unthreading altogether. Donnie knelt over the man and felt his own heart slow. He didn’t know why he’d done it. Just that it was the right thing, maybe the best thing he’d ever done. He checked for vitals, a hint of breath. Then he brushed the man’s eyelids shut and dragged him over to join his companion.
Donnie radioed dispatch and told them he had two bodies for the morgue-apparently dead from natural causes. He waited in the warm cruiser for the coroner’s wagon. He was supposed to go out for beers after his shift, but figured he’d take a pass. Donnie had two more things to take care of. After that, he just wanted to go home and crawl into bed.
CHAPTER 5
Danielson walked back into the room without his briefcase. Trailing behind him were two women. Both in their mid-thirties. Both seriously scientific.
The first was maybe five seven, with long limbs and an athlete’s shoulders hidden under a lab coat. Her skin looked like coarsened marble, her hair black and cut loose to the shoulder. She had a large mouth, a square chin, and a nose that was probably longer than she liked. Her deep-set eyes were polished to a high shine and slid smoothly in my direction. She was sizing me up, whether for a drink or a specimen jar, I wasn’t sure. But she was sizing me up.
The second woman was maybe five three, round almost to the point of squat, with curly red hair and a face full of sun and freckles-the dubious look of someone who liked to camp. She had a mouth that moved, even when she wasn’t speaking, and her eyes were dangerously alive-two electric blueberries plopped in a couple saucers of heated milk.
I stood as the two settled. Danielson took a chair and waved his hands toward the women.
“Kelly, this is Dr. Ellen Brazile. She’s working with us on this.”
The taller of the two stood up. “I’m Dr. Brazile.” She pointed to the redhead. “This is my associate, Dr. Molly Carrolton.”
We shook hands all around. Danielson tapped his fingers on the table impatiently. When we were all seated again, Danielson flipped open his cell.
“Where are they?” he said and listened to whoever was on the other end. Then he grunted and hung up.
“We need to wait a minute.” Danielson talked to the two scientists as if they were the only other people in the room.
