The Dead Caller from Chicago

Forty-six

Though snow was falling heavily as I left the airport, I made good time because it was past midnight and almost everyone not intent on killing was off the streets. I stopped at the turret only long enough to grab Leo’s revolver before racing across town to slide to a stop down the block from the man’s house.

His was a working-class block, like Leo’s. The houses were dark, except for his, where a shadow moved behind a curtain. He was still home. He was in no panic to get away. I wanted to believe that was a good sign.

The nerves pulsing in my chest wanted me to act right away, to kick in the door, hunt him down, and press the gun barrel to his heart. It didn’t seem physically possible to wait.

My head reasoned louder. If I was right, Amanda was in that house, and he’d not harmed her, for fear of the bounty Wendell would put on his head. He’d be thinking he didn’t have to risk anything now. He’d gotten his big prize anonymously; no one would suspect him until after he left. He could be methodical, take his time to disappear perfectly so that he’d never be found.

Chances were, he’d go to work as usual and duck out at lunch to make the last calls to California, where it was still only the middle of the morning.

He’d learn, then, that a boulder had been dropped on his plan. Someone had told both lawyers only that person would have the painting. By then, I’d have grabbed Amanda, and she’d be safe.

The last light in the house snapped off. He’d gone to bed.

I sat in the cold, not daring to run the engine for heat because of the noise; shifting only to switch on the wiper to clear away the falling snow, or to seek the comfort of Leo’s revolver on the seat beside me.

I went over the plan, again and again. The layout of his house would be similar, if not identical, to Leo’s. I’d wait until he went to work; I’d break in; I’d grab her. It would be over.

At last the first of the dawn came, barely lightening the thick falling snow. I drove around to the alley entrance and stopped.

I called Wendell. “Your man is in place?”

“On Thompson Avenue, right where you said. Silver Honda Civic.”

“Time to call a bluff,” I said and went back to waiting.

Robinson drove his burgundy Escalade out of the alley at seven o’clock, his usual time. I started my engine and switched on my lights. He drove right past me but made no acknowledgment. I followed him all the way to city hall, turned around, and disappeared back into town.

He called a moment later. By then I was halfway back to his house.

“No need to follow me anymore, Elstrom. I haven’t seen anyone for quite some time.”

His voice was insistent and unnaturally high. He didn’t want me around when he took off, come lunchtime.

He must have gone crazy, the day before, waiting for me to quit tailing him so he could head downtown to Wendell’s garage, to put his plan in place. It had been a fine plan, too. He wasn’t going to risk exchanging Amanda for the painting at some prearranged place; he was going to make Wendell drive around with the painting and the cash until he was absolutely sure there were no trailing police. Only then would he call him, perhaps to tell him to pull over on some random dark street.

Except Robinson got even luckier than he’d dared to hope. He’d gone to Wendell’s garage downtown, to watch to make sure no GPS devices were being attached, or no cop was hanging around, set to ease down in the backseat when Wendell set off.

He was in the garage, watching, when Jarobi put the painting right into Wendell’s trunk. Watching when Wendell went upstairs to his office, to wait for a call, leaving the painting behind.

To a man skilled in working a jimmy bar, it must have looked like Christmas in that garage. Like yesterday, Robinson couldn’t afford to have me tailing him. Today, he was leaving town. Except now I was telling him he had a tail, offering up Wendell’s man as evidence, parked on Thompson Avenue. Robinson surprised me. “Red or black?” he asked softly.

“What?” I asked, trying to keep shock out of my voice.

“The car that’s tailing me: Is it red, or is it black?” Robinson was huffing, going up the stairs to a first-floor window to look out.

He really was being tailed. My mind darted back to the black Impala I’d seen along Thompson Avenue the day Jarobi had come to visit. Perhaps there’d been a red one, too. None of it made sense.

“It’s silver, Bruno, a Honda Civic,” I managed. “You can see it from city hall. It’s parked right on Thompson Avenue.”

“I see it,” he said. Wendell’s man was being obvious, as I’d asked. “But I don’t see your Jeep.”

“I’m tucked out of view.”

His next words came fast and high-pitched, “All this because of that damned Snarky not being more careful, stealing the painting?”

It was a slip, a mistake. We’d never discussed a painting. None of that mattered, though. My objective was Amanda.

“I thought Snark liked jewelry,” I said. “You never mentioned a painting.”

“Sure, sure; jewelry,” he fired back.

“Why don’t you go around back, to the police department, get protection?” I asked.

Of course he wouldn’t do that. He couldn’t dare.

“Stay put until lunchtime,” I said. “I’ll manage to get between you and him when you pull onto Thompson Avenue. We’ll figure something out then.”

I clicked him away as I drove up his alley.