Slice

BUCKHEAD STATION

Back inside the cop shop, Eichord stared at his messages. The first pink call-back note was from the task force, and he tried to place it but all the lines were busy. It would only be more corroboration of the obvious now. The next one was a call to the 312 area code. He dialed it and asked for the extension number specified.

“This is Jack Eichord in Buckhead, returning a long-distance call,” he told the male voice that answered.

“Just a second, please."

He waited.

“Jack Eichord?"

“Speaking."

“Can you hear me okay?"

“Yeah. I can hear you fine. Who is this?"

“Having one helluva time hearing you.” There was an earsplitting burst of static on the line.

“In Chicago. You remember me?"

“I'm sorry your voice cut out just then.” Jeezus. The fucking telephones. It was like living in a goddamn war zone. “I didn't hear you just when you answered me. Who is this please?"

“Scheige in Chicago. Remember?” A little pause as Eichord tried to place the name. “We worked together when you were on loan to the Eighteenth on the Kasikoff case."

“Oh, hell yes. I'm sorry. Sure. How ya doin'?"

“Good. I'm outta the West Erie substation now. Listen I [STATIC] know if Lee told you about me calling him?"

“Sorry. The phones cut out again."

“Yeah. We have problems with the telephone system here. Anyway, I didn't know if James Lee got that message to you about me calling him. I Just heard about it, man. Very sorry. Helluva thing."

“Thanks. No. I didn't get the message, I guess.” He glanced through the stack of notes as he spoke.

“Well"—Jack could hear a sizzle down the line like bacon frying—"I think we had a tip on this Bunkowski. A fuckin’ HYPE came in here trying to sell it to us—how he'd seen him right after you killed him and so on. We didn't give it any credence naturally, but now, I mean, I saw the new circular and the sheets on those killings and I put two and two together. It looks like it was on the square, you know?"

“Yeah. Hey, Scheige, I appreciate it. But I gotta get going on something here, so was that all you needed?"

“Sure. I just thought you might want to know.” Eichord realized how rude he was being and how abrupt he must sound. No point in being a horse's butt and telling Scheige it was too late to be telling him what he already knew.

“Hey, I really appreciate your call. Might be a big help to us. That's good policework, Scheige—thanks."

“No sweat,” he said, and they rang off.

Eichord took a very deep breath and stared at the cursed telephone hoping no more bad news would come across it, searching for his ear, working its way into his head. If only the madman wouldn't kill again as he had only the day before with that fucking .22, if only hell had ice water. If only elephants could fly.

The next phone conversation was in an elliptical sort of doublespeak between Jack and a federal marshal, confirming the brief rites that would be conducted for the immediate family early in the morning. Neither Donna nor Bev Tuny would be allowed to attend, for security purposes. Only Peg, her son, Dana Tuny, and Jack, with a couple of marshals riding shotgun. It'd be a very fast graveside service, what the funeral home guys privately call a “peekaboo,” and then back into hiding for the family. The latest word he'd had from Peggy was that there'd been a problem in getting her husband's family in China flown here in time for the service. Jack had never fully understood—either the brother had tried to board without his passport, or somebody else had used the wrong passport, but there'd been some problem. The Chinese contingent might not be on hand. As if that mattered to Jimmie...