Jake’s eyes look like a shattered windshield with the cracks rimmed in red. I’ve never seen him wearier. Trying to track down his friend’s killer of is taking one hell of a toll on him. “I’m still not sure what to make of this caper of yours, but I’m glad Max is going along for the ride,” he says.
Caper? I think with an inner smile. Who in hell uses that word nowadays?
Max arrives while I’m trying to come up with a suitable response. Like Papa and me, he’s dressed all in black and has a matching ski cap in hand. He looks us over, nods in approval, shakes hands all around, and faces Papa when he’s done. “Your timing sucks, Francesco.”
My father’s response is a blank look.
Max sits his ass on the corner of Jake’s desk. “Oktoberfest is over, and it’s too early for the Christmas markets. You wanna take me on any more European adventures, you gotta plan better is all I’m saying.”
Jake shakes his head with a bemused expression, then slaps a hand on his desk. “I’m coming with you as far as Bolingbrook.”
Bolingbrook?
“No need,” Max counters.
“Shut up, Max,” Jake says. “I arranged the rides and I’m tagging along.”
I can see that Max is pleased to have him along when he nods at Jake. So am I, even if his presence underscores the jeopardy Papa is in.
Jake’s desk phone rings before I can ask why we’re going to Bolingbrook. He listens briefly and then says, “Right. We’ll be right down.” He hangs up, pushes back from his desk, and gets to his feet. “Suit up, folks.”
Max pulls his ski cap on low over his forehead, so Papa and I do likewise. Then we troop out of the squad room after Jake, who leads us down a back stairwell.
“The fewer people who see us leave, the better,” he explains while he peers through a peephole in a door that must lead into the rear parking lot. Apparently satisfied with what he sees, he pushes the door open and motions us out.
Max leads and ducks into a Cedar Heights PD black-and-white cruiser. Papa and I pile in behind him, then Jake hops into the front passenger seat, slaps a hand on the dashboard, and says, “Let’s go.”
As we zip out of the parking lot, Jake tells the driver that we’re going to a bookstore and gives him the address on Berwyn. He told us upstairs that we’ll be switching vehicles. News of a bookstore stop comes as a surprise.
“We gonna score some girly magazines?” Max asks.
Jake snorts. “It’s a bookstore, Max, not the kinda place that sells your style of reading material.”
Max shrugs. “Whatever.”
“Do you know Zack Menzies?” Jake asks him.
“Sure,” Max replies, then does a double take. “Oh! This is his bookstore?”
“Yup.”
“Always wanted to visit.”
“You won’t be browsing the shelves tonight,” Jake says. “We’ll be going in the front door, hustling through the mysteries and police procedurals, then straight past the thriller section and out the back door.”
Max chuckles. “What? No romance section? No classic literature? No sports?”
“Maybe a sports book or two,” Jake allows. Then he turns to Papa and me. “Zack’s another old cop. Bought himself a little bookshop when they pensioned him off.”
The cruiser zooms along the damp streets without regard to posted speed limits, slicing through a steady drizzle and the haze wafting off the pavement as it evaporates. How is it that nights like this seem to swallow all light? It’s like driving without headlights.
“And here we are,” Jake says ten minutes later when the cruiser coasts to a stop under a streetlight. Zack’s Used Books is a little storefront establishment in a well-weathered block of them. A Closed sign hangs in the door window.
“There’s an unmarked panel van waiting in the alley out back,” Jake tells us before he opens the door. “Heads down and follow me. Don’t stop, don’t look around. Getting in and out of here is our riskiest move.” He hops out, takes a quick look up and down the street, then yanks the cruiser’s back door open. “Let’s go!”
I swallow and follow him across the sidewalk. A silent man in a fedora and raincoat stands beside the front door and swings it open for us. This is even more noir than the Brooks and Valenti temporary offices.
“Thanks, Zack,” Jake says without slowing. He leads us through the narrow aisles of the darkened store, which is illuminated by a handful of recessed lights with dimmers dialed almost all the way off. Either that, or Menzies found a bunch of two-watt light bulbs somewhere. The only sound breaking the ghostly silence is the squelching of our rubber soles on the polished hardwood floor. Tall shelves crammed with dusty-smelling books tower above us on either side, teetering ever so slightly as we hurry past them. The prospect of being buried beneath hundreds of books puts an extra pop in my step. I’m right on Jake’s tail when he steps into an alcove that houses another exterior door.
“Move your ass, Francesco,” Max grumbles from behind us.
Jake has a half smile on his face when his eyes meet mine. “Right into the van out there. Keep your head down. No stopping to gawk.” Then he peers through another peephole, shoves the crash bar to open the door, and waves us out.
With his warning that this is the riskiest part of the trip fresh in my mind, I hustle across the four-foot gap between the building and the waiting vehicle. When I plant my feet to stop outside the van’s open side door, my shoes slide on the slick pavement. “Shit!” I cry out as I crack my shin
