CHAPTER 31
The cabbie dropped me at a Starbucks on Madison, just east of the United Center. It took the better part of an hour to figure out the eavesdropping device on Danielson’s laptop. After that, I sat like a virtual fly on the wall, reading the increasingly frantic message traffic between Chicago and DC. I wasn’t able to get it all, but there was enough to give me an idea of how things might go down over the next twelve hours.
It was almost six before someone in Homeland got smart and shut down Danielson’s link. I snapped his laptop shut and told the kid pouring cappuccinos she might want to close up early. She said her boss would be mad. I told her I was a cop, and she should pay attention to what I was telling her. Then I left.
The smart move would have been to take my own advice. Flag a cab, hook up with Rachel and the pup, lay low, and watch the whole thing unfold from a distance. Instead, I headed west. I’d bought a burner phone after I left my apartment and used it to leave Rachel a message and the number. Then I tried Rita Alvarez, but got no answer. So I shut the phone down and walked.
The news had been getting increasingly grim. At noon, WGN reported a possible Legionnaires’ outbreak on the West Side. Then E. coli. Or bad water. By midafternoon, it was an unfolding health crisis, with at least ten dead, another dozen sick, and Cook County Hospital at the epicenter. Still no mention of a bioweapon, but they were warming to the idea. Wilson had spoken with reporters for the first time about an hour ago outside Cook. I was a half block from the place when I pulled out the card the mayor had given me and dialed up Mark Rissman.
“It’s Kelly. I need to talk to him.”
“He’s busy.”
“Tell him I spoke with Danielson today. He gave me a piece of paper with the mayor’s name on it, and an address.”
I read off the address.
A pause. “Why would the mayor care?”
“Just give him the message. And get back to me.”
Twenty minutes later, my phone chirped. Ten minutes after that, a car picked me up. I slipped into the backseat. Rissman was beside me. Vince Rodriguez was driving.
“Pull up here.”
Rissman pointed to a high-rise of maybe a dozen stories called Colonial Tower. Colonial was one of Wilson’s TIF adventures. A high-end development built ten years back with taxpayer dollars by the mayor’s patronage pals. Now the slush fund was dry, the cronies in jail, and Colonial cast in the role of ghost town. I looked up at the smooth black monolith, its windows reflecting back the night in a kaleidoscope of whites, reds, and greens.
“What’s he doing in there?” I said.
Rissman responded by making a move to get out of the car. When I didn’t try to stop him, he stopped himself. “What are you trying to implicate the mayor in?”
“What makes you think I’m trying to implicate him in anything?”
“What’s at the address you gave me?”
“You know what’s there.”
“It’s a grocery store.”
“Owned by a Korean named Lee. There was also a double homicide there last night.”
Rissman glanced toward the front seat, but Rodriguez didn’t flinch. “And what would any of that have to do with the mayor? Or the situation on the West Side?”
“Actually, I was hoping you could tell me.”
Rissman’s eyes sketched his contempt in sharp, quick strokes. “You’re not smart enough for this, Kelly.”
“Stupidity has always been my strength.”
The mayor’s man reached for the latch again. This time he got out of the car, shoved his hands in his pockets, and trudged toward the Colonial’s revolving doors. Rodriguez raised his eyes to the rearview mirror.
“Is it enough to ruin my career? Or is your heart set on getting me a cell next to yours?”
“Come on,” I said. “The mayor’s gonna love us.”
CHAPTER 32
Room 1406 was the penthouse in the Colonial Tower complex. Rissman pulled out a key card and slid it through a slot by the door. The first room was a foyer, shut off from the rest of the suite by a thick plastic sheet that ran floor to ceiling with a zippered entrance cut into one side. A machine similar to the one I’d seen in the subway breathed away in one corner, its hoses running like viscera through the plastic wall and deeper into the unit.
“That’s a HEPA filtration device,” I said. “Helps to create a negative pressure environment.” Rodriguez looked like he wanted to open a window and let me take the express, fourteen stories down.
“Wait here.” Rissman slid the zipper open and disappeared inside the bubble. After a minute or so, he returned.
“Kelly alone. And don’t touch anything.”
We walked through a second layer of polyurethane and into a bedroom with a wall full of floor-to-ceiling windows. In one corner of the room were a camera on a tripod and a spray of television lights, set up around a shiny wooden chair and artificial fireplace. In the other corner was the mayor of Chicago, sitting on a sofa, clad from head to toe in a white mask and NBC suit.
“Kelly, sit down.”
Wilson’s face was covered by a shaded visor, which, truth be told, was very much an improvement. He gestured with a gloved hand, and I took a seat.
“Can’t drink a Diet Coke in these things.” Wilson pointed to a can of soda and glass full of ice on the table in front of him. “Who the fuck designs something so you can’t drink a Diet Coke?”
I looked behind me to see if Rissman might have a response. That’s when I realized I was alone.
“He’ll be back in a second,” Wilson said. “Here he is now.”
Rissman slipped back into the room and gave his boss a thumbs-up.
“You sure?”
“Yes, sir.”
Wilson grunted and pulled off the mask. His face looked like a boiled piece of Sunday beef, with imprints from the mask running down both cheeks. The mayor grabbed the can of Diet Coke and drank.
“Fucking thing’s hot as hell, too.”
“Why did you take it off?” I said.
Wilson nodded toward Rissman. “They set up some sort of biosensor bullshit. Mark checks them every hour. Makes sure the room is clean.”
“If the room’s clean, why wear the suit in the first place?”
“Why?”
I nodded.
“ ’Cuz I’m not an asshole. That’s why.”
“You like to have a backup plan?”
“You know someone like me who doesn’t?”
“I don’t know anyone like you, Mr. Mayor.”
“Fucking right.”
There was a knock on the door. A woman with a countenance that was just short of desperate stuck her head in. She carried a tray full of square sponges, brown brushes, and flesh-colored powders.
“Mr. Mayor, I need to do your face.”
Wilson checked his watch. “What time are we on, Mark?”
“Not sure yet, sir.”
