With that, she spun on her heels and walked to her desk outside. Donovan watched her go, thinking thoughts he knew he shouldn’t be thinking, then turned and fired a dart toward that well-worn spot between Gunderson’s eyebrows.
Bull’s-eye.
A.J. Mosley had never met a cup of coffee he didn’t like, and today’s blend was particularly satisfying. A buddy from the Federal Public Defender’s Office in Honolulu had shipped him an entire case of Kona dry-processed beans that produced a full-bodied cup of perfection that went down oh-so-smooth, without even a hint of bitterness.
A.J. had sampled just about any bean you could think of, from the mild sweetness of the Sul de Minas crop, to the heavy acidity found only in Zimbabwe’s Chipinge region. He didn’t consider himself a connoisseur by any means-even a stale cup would do in a pinch-but he certainly knew what he liked. If it started with a C and ended with double E, chances were pretty good it would bring a smile to his face.
He was savoring a much needed second cup when the telephone on his desk bleeped.
He snatched up the receiver. “A.J.”
It was one of the division operators. “Got a call from a Ron Stallard at Chicago PD. Want me to transfer it?”
“Send it on over.”
After a couple of clicks, Stallard was on the line. A.J. had sent him a bag of the Kona and figured this was a thank-you call. “Hey, big guy, am I a god or what?”
“I’ll leave that to you and your flock to figure out. Got a situation you’ll definitely be interested in.”
“Yeah?” A.J. said. “What’s going on?”
“You sitting down?” Stallard’s voice was tight with excitement and A.J. knew this was something big.
“Come on, Ron, spit it out.”
“Strap your balls on, buddy boy. Guess which weasel just popped his head out of the hole?”
16
Half a city block was cordoned off. Chicago PD had been generous with the yellow tape, steering the press and any curious bystanders clear of the immediate area. A couple of police choppers hovered high overhead, keeping the sky clear of pesky newscopters and their telephoto lenses.
The only pedestrians who remained were the handful off the street who had directly witnessed the incident, and the busload of passengers who now waited on the sidewalk as police technicians scurried about both in and outside the bus.
Donovan and A.J. pulled in next to one of the half dozen patrol cars parked just outside the tape. Al Cleveland, a member of Donovan’s team, was there to greet them as they climbed out.
Donovan eyed the bus. “What are we looking at?”
Cleveland waved a hand toward the flurry of activity around them. “All I’ve been able to get so far is Gunderson snatched a schoolgirl.”
A.J. frowned. “Schoolgirl? What the hell’s he want with a schoolgirl?”
What indeed? Donovan thought. This wasn’t something you’d expect from a guy like Gunderson. His first public appearance in over a month and he snatches a kid? It didn’t make sense.
Then again, his wife, Sara, had been a schoolgirl when Gunderson had first come into her life. Maybe the sick son of a bitch was shopping for a replacement.
“Are we sure it’s our guy?”
“Witnesses recognized him from all the media coverage,” Cleveland said. “But don’t expect much cooperation from the CPD. They’re looking for the gold star on this one.”
“Who’re we talking to?”
“Fashion plate with the comb-over.” Cleveland gestured toward the sidewalk where a rumpled, balding plainclothes detective was interviewing a witness. It must’ve been fifty-six degrees out, with a windchill of God knew what, and the guy was sweating. “Name’s Fogerty.”
Donovan turned to A.J. “I thought Ron Stallard was in on this.”
A.J. shook his head. “Just a courtesy call. He warned me that we might run into a little resistance.”
Donovan sighed. “This should be a treat. You know the drill.”
He took his badge from his coat pocket, ducked under the yellow tape, and crossed the blacktop toward the sidewalk.
Lack of cooperation between branches of law enforcement seemed like a cliche reserved only for pulp novels and bad television, but nine times out of ten Donovan found it to be true. In his experience, cops both city and federal were a territorial bunch. What they hated most was some dildo trying to encroach on their jurisdiction.
Even within departments the competition for case control was stiff. Donovan had seen it time and again during his years on the local force. In the end, everyone followed the proper chain of command, but they rarely did it willingly or quietly. Add the invasion of outsiders like the ATF to the mix and the potential for verbal fireworks increased tenfold.
Like it or not, it was a reality that had to be dealt with. Donovan’s solution was to take command immediately. He approached the sweating cop, held up his badge. “Jack Donovan. You in charge here?”
The cop, Fogerty, was busy talking to an elderly witness in a Cubs cap. He looked up at the sound of Donovan’s voice, the sight of the badge provoking a weary sigh.
“Look,” he said, “I already told Agent Numbnuts your invitation’s rescinded. This is a city bus on city property. It ain’t your party.”
“It is when Gunderson’s the guest of honor.”
Fogerty turned toward him fully now. “Aren’t you the chuckleheads who lost him in the first place? Look me up when you get your head outta your ass.”
He was about to return to his witness when Donovan grabbed his meaty arm and pulled him off to the side.
“Hey, hey-what the fuck?” he squealed, wrenching the arm free.
Donovan nodded toward A.J. “You see my partner over there?” A.J. had his cell phone out and was busy punching a number. “Right now he’s dialing Chief Dearborn’s private line. In about two minutes your division commander’ll be getting a call wanting to know why one of his detectives is waving his dick at the senior member of a federal task force.”
Fogerty eyed him defiantly. “It’s a big dick. Maybe I like showing it off.”
“Good,” Donovan told him. “Because what we have here is a circle jerk whether you like it or…” He paused, his attention drawn away from Fogerty to a cluster of shell-shocked girls standing on the sidewalk just outside the bus. Each wore a white blouse, blue skirt, and matching cardigan.
A school uniform.
Bellanova Prep’s uniform.
He swiveled, stared at the bus, the destination placard like a swift, hard kick to the groin: Lincoln Park.
Oh, Jesus.
He turned back to Fogerty. “The girl Gunderson snatched-what was her name?”
“Look, you wanna observe, fine. But stay the hell out of my-”
A surge of adrenaline overtook Donovan. He grabbed Fogerty, swung him toward the nearest lamppost, and shoved him against it, hard. “What’s her fucking name?”
Fogerty’s eyes got big. He fumbled in his pocket and brought out his watch pad. “Uh, Jessica something…” He quickly leafed through it until he found what he was looking for. “Jessica Lynne-”
“Donovan,” Donovan said, knowing the answer before it had even passed Fogerty’s lips. He released Fogerty and stepped back, his knees weak. It was an effort to remain standing.
No. God, no.
Not Jessie.
