“It’ll take a little while to set up.”
“How long?”
“An hour, if we move.”
“We might not have an hour. If Harry and Phin are somewhere near Busse Woods, she could be with them right now.”
Doing God knows what to them.
A
LEX KORK, WHO
now uses the name Holly Frakes, pulls Harry’s Mustang into the warehouse parking lot. She discovered the place a few days ago, and it’s one of the reasons she insisted on getting married at that stupid forest preserve. Though Alex is a strong girl, hauling a two-hundred-pound man around is hard work, and takes a long time. Privacy is essential.
Here she has plenty of privacy.
This entire area, for several square miles, is industrial. Factories, warehouses, and shipping yards. This building is currently between tenants. And since it’s Sunday night, there isn’t a single person anywhere near here.
It’s the perfect place to kill someone slowly.
Alex gets out and opens the garage door. She pulls the car inside the loading dock, parks, and closes the door behind her.
This next part is going to be fun.
“Holly? Holly! Holy shit, it’s you! Thank God you’re here, baby! I have to piss so bad the change in my pockets is floating.”
Alex approaches Harry and Phin, both still securely wired to the heavy frame metal chairs. They’re back to back, a few feet apart, and the chairs have been bolted to docking anchors in the concrete floor.
No way of escape, no matter how hard they struggle.
“Hi, Harry.”
Alex sits on his lap and grinds on him, playfully. She curls a finger in his hair and twists a lock.
“Quit screwing around, Holly. Grab those pliers off the table and untwist these wires.”
“Pliers? Sure.” Alex giggles. “Just a second.”
She leaves Harry’s lap and circles the table, smiling at all the wonderful toys.
“How did you find us, Holly?” Phin tries to turn his head around to see, but can’t.
“Easy. I just followed my heart. Nothing could keep me from the man I love. My precious husband.” Alex picks up a tool. “How about this one, dear?”
“What are those? Tin snips? Yeah, that oughta work. Bring them around to my hands, baby.”
“Or how about this one?” Alex picks up something older, something she knows very well.
“What the hell is that? A hairbrush? Can’t you do that later?”
“It’s not a hairbrush, Harry. Not anymore. Instead of bristles, it has rusty nails sticking through the end. Father used it on me, when I was bad.”
McGlade makes a face. “You’re not making sense, Holly.”
Moment of truth time. Alex gets close. She wants to gaze into his eyes when she tells him.
“My father’s name is Bud Kork.”
“I thought your last name was Frakes.”
“Kork, Harry. Doesn’t the name sound familiar?”
“Kork? Yeah, Charles Kork was that psycho that I . . .”
McGlade stops talking. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. His eyes become comically wide.
“That psycho was my older brother, Harry. The only man I ever loved.”
Harry’s face twists from confusion to mirth.
“This is a joke, right? You’re getting me back for that time I accidentally used the rear entrance. I told you, baby. It was dark. I was working by feel.”
“Why do you think I always turned out the lights when we had sex, Harry?”
McGlade doesn’t answer.
“Scars, Harry. Along my back. I had a lot of plastic surgery, but it still doesn’t look right. Want to see?”
“Not really. Scars freak me out.”
Alex plants her feet, rears back, and slams the hairbrush onto McGlade’s thigh. The nails penetrate a good inch, anchoring themselves into bone.
McGlade screams like a train whistle.
Alex basks in his pain, his fear. It’s like sunlight on her face. That single scream is worth all of the time she invested, all of the gropes she endured. To finally have this man all to herself, for her to enjoy, is simply delicious.
As McGlade sobs, Alex walks over to Phin. His eyes are cold, emotionless.
He’s going to be fun to break.
“What’s the matter, Phin?” Alex pouts. She caresses his chin and runs her hand over the back of his head. “Don’t you like me anymore?”
“I was wondering why you married McGlade. Now it makes perfect sense.”
Alex brings her face to within inches of his.
“I married him for revenge.”
“You married him because you’re out of your fucking mind.”
The smile leaves her face. Alex steps back, centers herself, and finger-strikes Phin in the abdomen. The blow forces air out of Phin’s lungs, and he grunts in pain.
“You had a hand in it too. You helped Jack and Harry find my brother. I’m going to make you pay for that, Phin.”
“I want a divorce!” screams Harry McGlade.
Alex gives Phin a kiss on his forehead, then turns her attention back to Harry.
“You have to remind me, my dear husband. What are you again? Left-handed, or right-handed?”
Harry spits on her.
“I’m glad I made you sign that prenup, you crazy psycho bitch!”
“I think you’re a righty. Let’s start with that one, then.”
She lowers the tin snips to the fingers on McGlade’s right hand. Puts the pincers around his middle finger.
“Don’t worry, Harry. You won’t bleed to death. That’s why I bought the blowtorch.”
Snip.
Harry’s screams are like candy.
T
HE DOOR GAVE
on my third kick, and I twisted my ankle badly enough to bring tears to my eyes.
Special Agent Dailey and Special Agent Coursey waited in the hallway, citing statutes about breaking and entering, illegal search and seizure, speaking without raising my hand, etc.
I didn’t think Harry would mind, considering I was trying to save his life.
McGlade used to live in Hyde Park, in a little rat hole apartment. Since hitting it big with
Fatal Autonomy,
he’d moved to a penthouse on the GC—the Gold Coast. Heated garage. Twenty-four-hour doorman. And a damn good front door, which I hurt myself getting through.
The condo dripped opulence, which isn’t to say it was attractive or tasteful. Harry decorated like a child-king rules a country—with enthusiasm, but no intelligence.
The carpet was deep, expensive. While the furniture all screamed wealth, the styles were confused. An art deco table breakfront. A colonial dining room set. Art nouveau chairs and a rococo sofa. And beanbags. Lots of multicolored beanbags.
The walls displayed pricey-looking paintings and drawings: oils, watercolors, acrylics, pencils. Some postmodern, some minimalist, some classical. The only common theme was their subject: naked women.
A plasma TV was the centerpiece of the most hi-tech entertainment center I’d ever seen, boasting stacks upon stacks of blinking stereo and video equipment. It was like Harry had gone into a Sharper Image store and said, “I’ll take everything.”
The place was clean, to the point of fastidiousness. Unusual for Harry. I’d had the unfortunate displeasure of visiting his last apartment, which was like a landfill, only roomier.
I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. Holly/Alex had spent some time here. I doubted she’d left any clues; Holly was too smart for that. But I had no other leads, and I had to do something. Waiting around my office for another videotape to arrive wasn’t in my game plan.
The kitchen was larger than my whole apartment. Copper pots hanging from a rack on the ceiling. A center island with a six-burner stove and a grill. A microwave large enough to defrost a whole pig.
“You find anything?”
One of the Feebies, calling from the hallway.
“Some pictures,” I yelled. “Hoover in a cocktail dress.”
The kitchen let out into a hallway. I limped into the bedroom first. A king-sized bed dominated the room, dead-center. On the right side of the bed was a control panel. I had no desire to find out what it controlled.
The next room was all shelves containing videos and DVDs, many of them still unopened in their plastic wrappers. The room after that was a spare bedroom, which looked unused. Lastly, at the end of the hall was a closed door that had a plaque on it that said
Spy Room.
The spy room contained electrical gadgetry, and a lot of it. Infrared cameras. Listening devices. Night-vision goggles. A biohazard suit. Plus a large collection of remote control cars, helicopters, and airplanes.
I had no idea McGlade was such a techno-geek.
“Lieutenant Daniels! The police are here.”
I followed the voice back out into the hall, and indeed four of Chicago’s finest were surrounding the Feebies.
Which made sense. If Harry loved electronics this much, he probably had a silent burglar alarm. I hadn’t seen the arming panel when I came in, but I hadn’t been looking for it.
We coddled the cops, who were willing to overlook the criminal breaking and entering but still had to file a report in case Mr. McGlade wanted to press charges. I also arranged for the door to be fixed, so no one could walk in and steal all of Harry’s goodies. And he had lots of goodies.
“Are either of you car buffs?” I asked the Feebies in the elevator going down.
“I know a few things,” said Dailey. Or maybe it was Coursey.
“How much is a 1967 Mustang worth?”
“Depends on the mileage, the condition, and the model.”
“Assume everything is mint or rebuilt.”
“Maybe forty or fifty thousand. If a lot of custom work had been done on it, maybe more.”
Harry loved his car. He’s had it for as long as I’ve known him. If he pimped out his condo like that, he would have also pimped out his ride. And if he pimped out his ride, he’d want to protect it.
Back in my humble Nova, I radioed in a stolen vehicle—Harry’s Mustang. Then I gave my location and requested for any nearby squad cars equipped with LoJack tracking equipment to give me a holler if they got a ping.
Chicago adopted LoJack a few years ago. The LoJack company sold transmitters that were hidden in cars. If a car was stolen, a police report automatically activated the transmitter, which emitted a silent radio signal, revealing its location using global positioning satellites.
LoJack helped us locate stolen cars. I was betting Harry had one in his Mustang, and I was also betting that Holly had taken his car rather than a cab, which meant we might be able to track her right to Harry and Phin’s location.
Lots of betting involved with this plan.
“Roger, Lieutenant. This is car 88, just received confirm on LoJack, have the vehicle moving north on La Salle, just passing Adams. Over.”
Sometimes betting pays off.
“What’s your twenty, car 88?”
“South on Columbus, east of Randolph.”
I was on La Salle and North Avenue, about two miles away.
“Car 88, maintain pursuit but do not engage. Repeat, do not engage. We don’t want to spook her.”
I kicked my car into gear and headed south on La Salle, hoping the Feebies had the good sense to turn on their scanner and follow at an inconspicuous pace. Which, knowing them, was hoping a lot.
“Suspect is at Washington, continuing north on La Salle.”
I stopped at a red light on Division, squelching the urge to blow through it and set a new land speed record. Holly would recognize my car. I needed to remain calm and focused, keeping a safe distance.
Arresting her was the wrong move. Holly wouldn’t give up Phin and Harry’s location, even with physical persuasion. Though I was having a hard time reconciling the calculating murderer with the woman I’d spent most of yesterday with, I knew Holly would die before telling me where they were. She was too competitive, her desire to win too strong. She wouldn’t take losing well.
The smarter move was to follow her and hope she led us to my friends. Which should work . . . unless they were already dead and in her trunk.
“This is car 88. We’re west on Van Buren, turning north onto La Salle.”
“Keep your distance, car 88. I don’t want her spooked.”
“Roger that.”
The light changed. I stayed the course, weaving in and out of the sparse traffic. In the rearview, I noticed the Feebies’ sedan, stuck to my bumper as if I were towing them.
“Dailey, Coursey, if you’re on this frequency, loosen up the tail. You’re crawling up my muffler.”
They must have heard me, because they pulled back to almost half a car length.
“Suspect just passed Wacker Drive, continuing on present course.”
I was coming up on West Chicago Avenue. Less than ten blocks away from Holly. I turned left on Chicago. I’d try to flank her by running parallel on Dearborn, two blocks over.