“Hello?”
Wolfgang would have known he was talking to an old white WASP by the tone of that word alone.
“Mr. Dudley, my name is Richard Greeley. I’m with the Wall Street Journal.”
“How the hell did you get this number?”
“I’m working on a story involving your company’s merger with Hawthorn and Co and was wondering if you had a comment on Horace Hawthorn’s drug problem. Will it be a consideration in the final negotiations?”
“Drug problem? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The Daily reported on it just this morning, Mr. Dudley. You are involved in final negotiations, are you not?”
The phone clicked off, and Wolfgang lowered it from his ear, shooting off a quick message to a contact labeled only as “E.”
Operation complete.
Less than a minute passed before a reply lit up the screen.
B&B. 3.
The Baker and Bean Café and Coffee Shop sat on the edge of downtown, close enough to Lake Michigan that the waterfront wind wafted away the smell of coffee and pastries, replacing it with an odor a lot more fishy and a lot less appetizing. Somebody probably thought it was a great idea to put a cutesy coffee joint this close to the water, but like most contrived attempts at “old-fashioned simplicity,” it didn’t really work.
Wolfgang was okay with that. He drank little coffee, and he wasn’t hungry anyway, so he didn’t have an appetite to be spoiled by the acrid odor of diesel fumes and fish guts. Nonetheless, he ordered a water because a man sitting alone in a coffee shop with no drink drew more attention than he wanted.
Edric arrived seventeen minutes late, which Wolfgang expected. Edric had probably been on scene for the better part of an hour but was willing to let Wolfgang sit by himself—exposed—long enough to flush out any possible assassins.
“It’s Chicago, Eddie,” Wolfgang said as the older man slipped up to the table with an oversized jacket draped over one shoulder. “Nobody is waiting to kill us.”
Edric sat down, allowing the coat to slide off his shoulder and into his lap, exposing a white cast encasing his right arm from his shoulder to his wrist. Wolfgang sat up, but Edric held up a cautioning finger.
“What have I told you about that?”
Wolfgang sighed and rolled his eyes. “Act. Never react.”
“That’s right. It should’ve been a red flag when I walked in here wearing a coat in early June. Why wasn’t it?”
“Because you’re my boss,” Wolfgang said. “And because I’m wearing a coat. Because people wear coats in Chicago all times of the year, and because I really don’t care. What happened to you, anyway?”
Edric waved his good arm dismissively as the server approached.
“What can I get you?” she asked, barely glancing at Edric as her gaze swept Wolfgang from ankle to forehead.
Wolfgang winked at her, a grin creeping across his face.
“Dark house roast,” Edric said, shooting Wolfgang a glare. “Black.”
She walked off, her hips swaying beneath her apron. Wolfgang followed those hips with his eyes until they disappeared behind the counter.
Edric snapped the fingers on his good hand. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Wolfgang shrugged, leaned back, and interlaced his fingers behind his head. “Based on my physiological reaction to that ass, I’d say all systems are fully operational. What’s wrong with you?”
Edric leaned back, rubbing his chin as his bandaged arm rested on his thigh. He stared Wolfgang down for a long moment, then sighed. “Debrief.”
Wolfgang closed his eyes and cocked his head until his neck crackled. “Hawthorn is a heroin addict, but he doesn’t know it, and he’s currently enjoying some aggressive withdrawals. I phoned a tip to the lead partner of the company out of Houston. When he sees Hawthorn sweating bullets today, he’ll connect the dots. At some point, the heroin in Hawthorn’s briefcase will be discovered, and the deal will collapse. Mission accomplished.” Wolfgang rattled off the answer in relaxed monotone, his gaze drifting back to the server about halfway through.
She set the coffee on the table and smiled at Wolfgang with a little scrunch of her nose—some kind of cutesy gesture, he supposed—then disappeared again.
Edric ignored the coffee and stared Wolfgang down. “Why heroin?”
“What?”
“Why did you select heroin?”
“Oh, you know. I’m using cocaine now, but I had some heroin in my sock drawer. Does it matter?”
Edric made a production of rubbing his eyes with his good hand. “Yes, it matters. Depending on the drug and how you sourced it, that could be a weakness in the operation—a hole that could be exploited if somebody started poking around. Unless, of course, you actually are taking drugs. . .”
“Are you kidding me? I’m not on drugs. What’s wrong with you? I bought the heroin off a dealer in Detroit. It’s not traceable. Hawthorn is a walking idiot, and nobody is going to question his addiction. Frankly, I’m surprised he wasn’t already using. My god, Edric. You get more suspicious all the time.”
Edric slowly tapped his finger on the table, still staring Wolfgang down. “What’s up with you, Wolf?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’re not . . . sharp. You’re not focused.”
“Sure I am.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Prove it.”
“Today. You took the bus to Hawthorn’s coffee shop. I was sitting two benches back, dressed as an old man with a cane, reading a novel. You never saw me.”
Wolfgang laughed. “The old man reading the novel was Asian. You should know that because you were sitting at the bus stop where he boarded, feeding pigeons out of a bread bag. Seriously, Edric. Maybe you’re losing focus.”
Edric continued tapping his finger, his stare unbroken.
Wolfgang sighed and threw up one hand. “What?”
“You’re bored, aren’t you?”
Wolfgang shook his head, then hesitated and shrugged. “Maybe a little.”
“You’re getting sloppy. Have been for weeks.”
“Maybe,” Wolfgang admitted.
“Why?”
Wolfgang searched for the server, then sighed. “It’s been three years, Edric. I guess . . . I don’t know. I just thought the work would be more exciting.”
“When I recruited you for SPIRE, I
