“You around here much?” I asked.
“A bit. It’s a good spot here with people passing.” His speech was stammered. “Get a few good tips. Enough to eat a Potbelly sub some days. They’re my favorite.”
“I bet the residents of that building toss a few bills your way. That must help.”
“The residents?” He turned, coughed, and then spat on the ground. “They don’t help out in any way. They’re the worst with all that flashy money—why do they deserve it more than me? I worked hard. I fought for our country. I risked my life for their freedom. And what do they give me? Nothing. Just cold nasty stares. Pricks.”
“Right.” I nodded. “So, I guess the security guard has asked you to move along a few times? Not a good look for the building, I suppose.”
“Only the day security guard. He’s the worst. He kicked me last week. Solid boot right into my ribs, but the night security guard is a good guy. He’s a young kid, but a big guy with anger issues. You can see him simmering most of the time, but he’s been nice to me. He even brings me some food if he can. Says he likes looking after the little guy.”
“You’ve seen the night security guard angry?”
“Yeah, just once, but I wouldn’t want to see it again. He was talking to me, about midnight, and some drunken idiot yells at him. The guy was all dressed up with a rich watch and a nice suit. The guard told him to move along, but the guy didn’t listen, and he came over and pushed the guard. Well, that was it. The anger exploded out of him and he slammed the rich guy into the ground. Lots of blood.” The homeless man smiled. “Cops came and asked me about it the next day. I said it was self-defense, and the guard didn’t have anything to answer for.”
It was all starting to fall into place. I thanked the man for his time, wished him well, and then walked back towards my truck. A parking enforcement officer approached, studying my parking job on the edge of the sidewalk. I looked at my watch, almost 7:30pm, and wondered why he was still working this late. I walked towards the officer and stood in his personal space, towering over him. He went to say something, but I stared at him and shook my head. He turned and continued walking, checking the next car.
Leaning against my truck, I removed my phone and called Casey. “Casey, I need your help with some information. You up to it?”
“I can’t leave the hospital yet, but if it’s information you need, then I’m up to it. I’ve got access to my laptop and I can hook it up to the hospital’s Wi-Fi.”
“I need Robbie McAdams’ address.”
“Robbie McAdams?” Casey answered. “Why do you need his address?”
“He quit his job this morning. Didn’t even give the owner five minutes’ notice.” I looked up to the penthouse floor of the Five-Five. “And get this—all those pictures that he drew on the walls, all those pencil drawings, they were of a man fighting vultures.”
“Vultures?” Casey questioned. “Which is what DiMarco called the lawyers.”
“Exactly.”
“You think Robbie’s a suspect? What’s his motive? Why would he be on a vindictive quest against lawyers?” Casey asked. “Wait. He said his stepfather was a lawyer. Maybe there’s a link?”
“Look into it.” I said. “But I need to find him first. Before he left, Robbie wiped all the video files, and blocked the access to all the old security cameras. The security manager couldn’t even open Robbie’s employment file.”
“Give me five minutes.”
Casey ended the call. Even though she was still in the hospital, I could count on her skills. I looked up and down the street, leaning against the door of my truck. People stared at my parking job, but I ignored them. I saw a police car turn into the street, a block away, but it was stuck in slow moving traffic. No doubt that little parking enforcement officer called them. I walked around my truck, opened the door, and started the engine, rolling down the street into the backed up traffic.
Casey located the information. Within five minutes, she called me back with his address. “Robbie lives on South Miller St, in a basement apartment in Pilsen. I’ll send you the address via text, but I can tell you right now that it doesn’t look classy. It’d be a cheap address.”
“I’m going to pay a visit to Robbie.” I hung up the phone and dropped my beast back a gear, screeching through the street, listening to braking cars behind me. The cops were a block back, stuck in traffic, and even with sirens, they weren’t going to bother me.
I took the turn off to the underground network of roads under Downtown. Most people knew about Lower Wacker Drive, the network of roads under the city made famous by Hollywood movies such as the Blues Brothers or The Dark Knight, but I wanted to go down one level more. Lower Lower Wacker drive was an
