Dateline: Atlantis (9 page)

“I may be a reporter who never had a chance to talk to you when you were on Roosevelt Street,” Amaryllis says, letting all the broad Chicago twang back into her usually manicured voice. As Alvarez fiddles with his desktop toys, he clears his throat as she continues. “Remember Amy Quigley from the
Trib?
The Johnson murders? The jokey cover-up that even the D.A. wasn't buying?”

Alvarez looks as if he's been dealt a blow to the solar plexus and shifts his gaze between the door and his dignified new guest, Wright. He remembers her, all right. She was a plucky, but anonymous, reporter who used to get the run-around from Chicago P.D., and Alvarez had been one of the worst obfuscators.

“Good. You recall it all. I work for him now.” She gestures to a beaming Wright, who clearly is enjoying this sideshow. “And we would like our photographer back.”

Never had this tactic worked so flawlessly in Amaryllis' career. Cops generally treat female reporters with disdain, but
tough talk often earns a bit of grudging respect. Now, with Wright at her side, Amaryllis sees a cop crack before her eyes. Inside, she folds like taffy, unable to keep up the rough exterior much longer.

Wright, who never has seen her work like a tough cookie before, gapes like a guy who's discovered Nessie. He snuggles in his chair with a smug smile.

“Yes, Garret Lucas,” Alvarez says, still coughing, unable to meet Amaryllis' eyes. “He was found at the University of Chicago in a storage closet. Unconscious and drugged. Don't worry. He's staying in a private room at St. Joseph's Hospital. Nice lake view.” The phone rings and Alvarez jumps as if it's an animal about to attack him. “Olga!” he yells, “Take my calls!” The phone goes silent.

“Superintendent Alvarez.” Wright's voice jars this peaceful break. “Of course, we want to see Garret Lucas as soon as possible. But we must know how he got here and what condition he was in when your officers found him. This is incredibly distressing to our entire newspaper staff.”

“What? They didn't tell you in L.A.?” Alvarez's eyes are bulging with a conflicting range of emotions. “They should have… that darn…let me get the file…,” he picks up the phone and dials, muttering “I can't believe it,” then barks an order to some unfortunate underling. Within several uncomfortable seconds, the mysterious Olga, cool in an icy, Russian way, swishes into the room with a thin file folder. She leaves without disturbing the light dust on the superintendent's vast oak desk.

“Here. Here,” Alvarez pages like a madman through the police reports, looking for details. “There was a call to our Hyde Park precinct from a janitor at the University of Chicago. He'd been hearing odd noises in the hall off of a concert facility. Our unit on call, Sergeant O'Reilly and Lieutenant Wilson, found a man bound and gagged.” He hands them a picture of a man they barely recognize, zoned out by tranquilizers, and lying on a dirty closet floor.

“Garret. My God,” Wright says, grabbing for his handkerchief and pressing it to his eyebrows. Amaryllis is lost in the image of her friend trussed like a helpless animal.

“Yes, he was identified as Garret Lucas, a photographer from Los Angeles. Although his wallet was gone, he gave us his Social Security number and it checked out with LAPD.” He pauses and flicks a tight tongue over chapped lips. “They were supposed to have told you all this.”

“And they didn't,” Wright says, tensing his hands in his lap.

“I know, I suspected that…that's why I'm looking…ah, here. Our officers reported that Lucas has no memory of coming to this city, just a vague idea of being put into a small jet. While Lieutenant Wilson made arrangements for Lucas to be taken to a hospital, Sergeant O'Reilly got the report that Lucas was on the missing persons list.”

The top cop drones on about police procedures until Amaryllis is ready to explode from the sheer input of minutia. It has been amusing to see this top dog become an obsequious boot-licker, but this tiresome gamesmanship is on her nerves. She thwacks her notebook on her lap, stopping the superintendent in mid-sentence. Both men gaze up with large eyes, as she steadies her focus, commanding attention.

“However,” she says in her most level, rational voice. “The FBI now has jurisdiction.”

Alvarez practically jumps out of his desk chair to run for another file on an office shelf. This one had been waiting for Wright and Amaryllis all along. “Yes, yes,” the police superintendent mutters, scrambling through more paperwork with his busy fingers. Clearly, there's been a tussle about who's minding the store in this case. Chicago P.D. plays nice with the feds, but they don't like being bossed, either. It's a delicate balance and Alvarez—new to his job—appears careful not to tip it.

“You see,” the superintendent says, throwing up his hands in desperation, unable to find the papers that exonerate him from blame. “L.A. doesn't want this,” he says, eyes flashing a rare
hint of candor. “And the FBI, they are working with us now. I guess they figure the perps are based here.”

“Where may we find my employee?” Wright's voice quakes a bit. He's lying about Garret's job status, but his emotion is true. He cares about the photog's welfare, and he's tired of wasting time on petty details.

“He's in Room 1708-A,” Alvarez says, writing down the address of St. Joseph's on a large pad of paper. Deflated, he hands it over to Wright. Amaryllis knows the look. Cops hate it when the feds get the final word. “We think he's fine, but the FBI is convinced he was sedated by an unusual drug—something that may help locate the offenders.”

Amaryllis stands and Wright follows her lead. Alvarez hands them two business cards: Frank Fellows and Alicia Target, Federal Bureau of Investigation, domestic crimes unit. These will be their contacts.

“I'll call ahead and make sure the hospital lets you in pronto,” the superintendent says. They blow out of the office into the blaring mid-day traffic, each drifting in a private, silent monologue, avoiding the other's eyes. Amaryllis can't get the idea out of her mind that a black Ford is following their cab, but every time she turns around, it fades into the bumper-to-bumper morass that is Loop traffic.

#

Extra-large sized Garret nearly flows out of his standard hospital bed. His arms, one still hooked up to an IV tube and the other grasping a television remote control, spill off the edges. His slippered feet hang a couple inches from the ends of the cot. The sight of Wright must have given him a shock of adrenaline for he drops the remote, while trying to brush his unwashed hair back into order.

Amaryllis waves at Garret while Wright takes command of the situation. He paces the perimeter of the tiny room, looks at charts, and mumbles questions into Garret's ear. Garret just nods.

A nurse, who stands as rooted to the room as most of the furniture, fiddles with the contents of the IV sack and blocks Amaryllis' attempts to get near the bed. A tag on the door to the private room holds a discreet but damning FBI case number, and a federal agent leans on the wall next to the door.

“Either the beds are shrinking or you're on steroids,” Amaryllis says to Garrett. Although she's trying to joke, her eyes are perilously close to tearing up. Since she can't hug her photographer friend, she gives him another wave. He returns the gesture.

“No private rooms had an extra-long bed,” Garret explains. There's a stony silence as Wright continues to pace. The nurse and the agent are making this little reunion as uncomfortable as possible. Amaryllis, feeling gargantuan in the tiny room at only five-foot-seven, tries to press herself against a wall and gazes at the lakeshore view. Her mind drifts. The clouds have broken, and bright sunlight teases the tops of the small waves pushing onto icy breakwaters. There's plenty of light and no snow. Just a frozen crust around the beach's edge.
Chicago. Sun and ice.

It had been a day of brilliant light and sweeping wind chills when she first arrived at the Peterson Avenue home. Fresh from Florida, where she lived only a few years, but long enough to become acclimated to tropical weather, she thought the sun assured a balmy day. But the frowning caseworker lady insisted she wear sweaters and a puffed-up duck down jacket. When she stepped into that famous wind, she thought all the air had stopped forever in her lungs. The savage chill was so brutal she closed her eyes in pain.
The birds. The squirrels. The cats. How do they live?

And then she was in an overheated hallway and into Aunt Freya's arms.

“You're home, darling. You're home.” The lilac-smelling lady said over and over as she wound off scarves and pulled at
buttons and sweaters. “You're in your new home, little Amy, and you'll never have to worry again.”

A looming man, long and lean as a skeleton, but with a charming, eye-twinkling smile, looked over Aunt Freya's shoulder. He looked a bit like dad and simply smiled.
Saving an orphan child. It must be an honor. Maybe I'm something of a prize.
But the eight-year-old girl knew that wasn't true, for when she closed her eyes, all she could see was the last questioning look on her mother's face.

“Need anything before we go?” Mom's voice trailed away.
Now, I need everything.

The nurse's nasal voice rockets everyone to attention as she announces Mr. Lucas' lunch time. She shoots Amaryllis a glance that's meant as a challenge, but she's already stood up to the city's top policeman, and she is not about to let some bossy nurse get in her way.

“I've got a lot of questions for Garret,” she says and pops open her notebook.

“Oh, Amy,” Garret groans.

“What did you do to him?” the nurse says, rushing over to inspect his arm. She grabs for a pulse.

“No, no,” Garret says, shaking the nurse off. “I'm just sick of questions.”

“These are good questions,” Amaryllis says with a wink. She lowers her voice. “God, are we happy to see you again.”

“No shit,” Wright chimes in. Both Garret and Amaryllis gape in wonder at the sight of their boss uttering a swear word. Then all faces turn back to Garret—even the nurse's ugly mug—all looking for an explanation.

“Okay, okay,” Garret says, flipping off
The Jerry Springer Show
. Amaryllis still can hear it playing down the hallways. “At least, you guys deserve to know. Because those spooks insist on security, she ain't gonna leave,” he jerks a thumb at the nurse. The woman scowls but pushes against the wall, and becomes as inanimate as the IV stand.

“First…” Amaryllis coaches. She inches closer to Garret and sees that he's not been roughed up. There are only a few bruises on his arm. But with several days' growth of beard and dark circles under his eyes, he looks exhausted.

“First, I came back to my hovel and dropped my load,” Garret says, looking at Wright with a mixture of suspicion and interest. “I pulled out all my rolls and digital chips and threw everything into a big plastic bag. Then I went out to get the film processed ASAP.”

He readjusts himself in the bed, pressing a button to raise the backrest to a more comfortable position and gets ready for a monologue. Clearly, he's been through this before.

“As I was considering zipping through the drive-through lane for some fast food, a black minivan deliberately bumped me from behind on Van Nuys Boulevard. I knew about this scam and mentally took down the license plate: LOGOS 5. But the van kept at it and eventually sideswiped me so I had to move to the inner lane,” Garret says. “I looked at the people inside and they were intense. There were about four guys with trucker hats and beards. I don't know how, but I could tell they weren't from around L.A. They looked tough. Redneck types.

“I figured I would outgun them with the accelerator, but, man, did I misjudge that. The van forced me off onto the shoulder and we skidded to a stop. Three guys popped out of the van in broad daylight. They worked their way into my back hatch-back and passenger door. And I had locked the doors, so they must have had some pro training. They were fast.

“Then a guy with a low voice told me to hand over the photo bag. He was carrying one of those small assault rifles, an Uzi, I think, although I don't know guns. So, I did as I was told, although I wasn't so sure that they'd go ahead and kill me anyway. Then they told me to drive home. The minivan kept pace with me. When I got home and the guys patted down my pockets, found my wallet and keys and frogwalked me into the van. They tied my hands and feet and then the lights went out.”

Wright jingles some change in his pocket. “So I suppose that's when they entered your apartment. They probably thought you had more you were holding back.” Amaryllis, writing as fast as she can, senses Wright's gaze on her. “I wonder why Carlos didn't see that?”

“Carlos takes breaks just like any other man,” Garret said, waving the objection away. “Should I go on?”

Amaryllis and Wright nod, so Garret clears his throat and continues in a voice shorn of emotion.

“When I came to, I was aware of being in a vehicle of some kind and we were jerking and jolting along bumpy side roads. Then I felt that rhythmic thud of reflective lights under the wheels, so we were on a freeway. Someone in the front seat was talking in an English accent.”