He nodded, his face turning somber.
The perp had access to my handcuffs, to the county morgue, and to Colin's cell phone.
All signs pointed to the killer being a cop.
Unfortunately, this did little to narrow it down. Chicago had a police force of over seventeen thousand. I had eight hundred working out of my district, plus cops from the other districts came and went on a daily basis. So did cops from out of town, Feds, lawyers, and government officials.
Benedict seemed to sense my thoughts. 'Maybe we'll be able to narrow it down once we go through the complete phone log.'
'Who's Colin's carrier?'
'FoneCo. They want a subpoena before they release his records.'
'We can swing by the courthouse.'
Benedict probed his goatee with his tongue, seeking out stray calories.
'Should we put a team on Colin?'
I considered it. If Colin saw cops hanging around, he might freak out and try to run. Plus, who could I trust to put on him? What if I accidentally sent the killer?
'No. We should talk to the assistant State's Attorney first. Colin's court case is coming up.'
I didn't like driving away knowing that Colin was hiding something, but there wasn't much I could do about it. Coming to him with a deal might loosen his tongue.
'I hope it's not a bad cop, Jack.'
Me too. If cops were viewed as the enemy, the tenuous balance of power could shift. Laws would be broken out of contempt. Authority wouldn't be acknowledged. Police officers might even be attacked, or worse.
I closed my eyes, and tried not to think about rioting.
'We're probably wrong, Herb. It's probably not a cop at all.'
But deep down, I knew we were right.
Chapter 13
He watches them get into the sports car and pull away. That bitch Daniels, and her fat-ass partner, Herb Benedict.
He climbs out of his car and walks toward Colin Andrews's apartment.
He expected them to eventually find Andrews, but not this quickly.
No matter. He'll just jump ahead in the plan a little.
There's an empty plastic soda bottle next to the security door. He snatches it up and enters the building.
It's hot. Dark. He pulls a pair of latex gloves out of his front pocket, and they make a snapping sound. They're tight on his large, sweaty hands.
He has a slight headache, but the aspirin is keeping it under control. He's here for business, not pleasure.
But his arousal is apparent.
He knocks on Andrews's door.
'Chicago Police Department.'
Silence. He knocks again.
'Open the door, this is the police.'
'You ain't getting in without a warrant.'
A male voice. Scared.
'We have a warrant,' the killer lies.
'Slip it under the door.'
He looks left, then right. All clear.
Taking one step back, he sets his shoulder, and then charges the door.
The frame snaps like balsa wood. Colin Andrews sprawls backward, hands clutched to a bleeding nose. The killer enters and shuts the door, shoving it hard so it fits back into the splintered jamb.
'Colin? Who's there?'
He grins. A woman. He hadn't expected that.
This is gonna be fun.
Colin is on the floor, scrambling backward, eyes wide as dinner plates.
He considers kicking him, decides he doesn't want to get blood on his pants, and pulls out his throwaway piece: a 9mm Firestar that he liberated from the evidence locker at the same time he'd taken Colin's cell phone.
The gun presses against Colin's forehead.
'Ask her to join the party.'
Colin opens his mouth. No words come out.
