“He’s down on the West Side. Working the perimeter, like the rest of the Chicago PD.” Rita pushed her plate away and leaned her forearms on the table. “All right, Michael, you got me. What does my dead Korean have to do with Homeland Security?”
“Vince and I found ten thousand body bags in Lee’s cellar.”
Rita tilted her head. “Why didn’t I hear about the bags earlier?”
“Because I didn’t know what it meant. You had a legman for the Outfit trailing you around town, and I don’t want to owe Rodriguez a girlfriend.”
“Fine, fine.” Like any good reporter, she knew better than to hold a grudge. Especially when there was nothing to be gained. “So, what does it mean?”
“Danielson thought the body bags were ordered by someone who knew about the release. Someone looking to make a quick buck. That’s why he gave me the address.”
Rita had her briefcase up on the table and two files open. “Nothing like that ever came through any of the county paperwork I’ve seen. Here, take a look.”
I shook my head. “I believe you. No one’s gonna buy ten thousand body bags and run it through a county contract. This was a side deal for Lee. Black market. Still, whoever ordered the bags must have known about the release.”
“Probably, but not necessarily.”
I took a sip of my coffee. “How do you feel about squeezing Rissman?”
Rita shook her head. “I told you. Rissman’s a small-time guy.”
“We know he’s dirty.”
“Dirty, yes. But there’s no way he’s hooked up in anything like this.”
“You sure?”
“I can’t see it. And if he is, what makes you think he’d roll over? Not based on what you’ve told me.”
The reporter was right. “We’re gonna need to dig a little, Rita.”
“Where?”
“You said Lee spread the hospital supply work out among a few small companies, but you couldn’t find the money behind it?”
“That’s right.”
“Push a little harder. Creditors, lenders. Mention your investigation. If you have to, tell them there might be a connection to the pathogen release. See if anyone gets nervous.”
“That’s a pretty hard push.”
“You want the story or not?”
“Of course I want the story. I just don’t think any of this is connected… ”
“Don’t think. Just follow the information. First thing we learn in PI school.”
“You can really be a jerk sometimes.”
“Will you do it?”
“I’ll make some calls.”
“When?”
“I’ve got a story to file today. I’ll hit it tomorrow morning.”
“Good.”
“If it does turn out to be anything… ”
“The story’s yours.”
“Including the drugs.”
“You’re gonna have to talk to Vince about that.”
Rita stood up. “I’ll call you.”
I touched the back of her hand. “There’s one more thing we need to consider.”
“What’s that?”
“I like to think of it as a shortcut.”
Rita sighed and sat back down.
CHAPTER 46
The girl in the yellow dress smiled at me from under her umbrella. I smiled back. Beside her, blue letters stretched across the sloped pitch of a white roof: MORTON SALT WHEN IT RAINS IT POURS
Morton’s processing shed took up a good chunk of the thirteen hundred block of North Elston Avenue. Tracks ran out on either side, and silver railcars stood on sidings, their hoppers filled with salt. I put the girl with the umbrella in my rearview mirror and turned off Elston onto Blackhawk Street. Rita Alvarez hadn’t said a word on the ride over.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“What’s the problem?”
“Tell me how this works again.”
“The way I see it?”
She glanced over. “Is there any other?”
“The Korean needed muscle. No way he runs all that dope in and out of the West Side without it.”
“That’s how he kept the Fours in line?”
“For a while, yeah, that’s what I’m guessing.”
“Guessing?”
“We’ll know soon enough.”
I pulled Rita’s car into a long, narrow lot. It ran north along the Chicago River, shielded from traffic by the hulking Morton Salt plant. There were a couple of truck rigs parked there, a long metal shed, and, in the exact middle of the lot, a black Cadillac. The vehicle’s windows were tinted, its engine running.
Chili Davis was the first to exit. The little man had a large shiner and a chip the size of Napoleon on his shoulder. Chili wanted to even the score by putting a bullet in me. Or maybe three.
The next guy who got out wasn’t so complex. Or small. His name was Johnny Apple. Johnny killed people using a gun, his bare hands, and the occasional Hefty bag. Vinny DeLuca liked to save Johnny for intimate jobs. When only the best would do.
Himself came last. The only remaining link to Alphonse Capone was folded up in a black coat and flat cap. In the small space between the two, a thick round cigar chugged a steady stream of white smoke.
Johnny and Chili stopped about ten feet from us and flared to either side. DeLuca dropped the cigar to the ground and stepped on it with the toe of his shoe.
“Hate those things.” He looked out at Rita from under the brim of his cap and stretched a smile across his face. “Vincent DeLuca.”
I felt Rita’s skin crawl right off her bones and run down Blackhawk. But the reporter hung tough and offered her hand.
“Rita Alvarez.”
DeLuca pressed lips the color of slate to the back of Rita’s hand. “Kelly says we have something to talk about. For me, it’s a chance to meet my favorite reporter in the city. The best, right, Chili?”
Chili Davis was keeping the burn on me, his finger on the trigger of the. 40-cal he had in his pocket.
“He doesn’t say much.” DeLuca laughed and looked at Johnny Apple, who laughed. “You and Chili, Kelly. What are we going to do?”
“I told you. It wasn’t anything personal.”
DeLuca nodded and gestured. Chili came forward, and the old man tucked an arm in his. “I explained this to Chili. Now it’s over.”
Chili extended a hand. I didn’t believe any of it but shook anyway. DeLuca seemed happy. “Good. Now we can talk.”
“It’s about a Korean named Jae Lee,” I said.
