DIRTY BLOND Page 2

  “Please,” he added. “It’s important.”

  #

  It was June and pleasant and there was restaurant with an outdoor terrace overlooking Congress about two blocks from police headquarters. Our little table with our multi-colored umbrella was next to the railing looking down on the street. If automobile exhaust and idling cars was your thing, you couldn’t beat the ambiance. After a quick perusal of the menu Stillwater ordered a Dirty Blond, some microbrew. I went with iced tea, all business.

  “So,” I said. “What’s the problem?”

  Leaning back, the better to show off the way his shoulders and chest stretched the Army T-shirt, Stillwater said, “As I’m sure you know, the Chemist was manufacturing botulin toxin from honey. The toxin was from a very specific strain of bacteria, and was identified as Type E.”

  “Yes.”

  “Three individuals who died were poisoned with Type B botulin toxin.”

  I blinked. “Meaning…”

  “Meaning I believe three people were poisoned by a copycat. Or something.”

  #

  The first person identified as dying from Type B was Itsunori Sato. “He ate at a diner—“

  I interrupted. “Molly’s, over in the Loop.”

  “Right. Seven other people were poisoned there.”

  “Was he some sort of dignitary? I remember when the army guy introduced himself—“

  “Wayne Astor?”

  “Right, from—“

  “Rid.”

  I had no idea what he was talking about. “Rid?”

  “Sorry,” Stillwater said. “Bit of jargon. USAMRIID. United States Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases. Those of us who’ve worked there tend to call it Rid.”

  “You’ve worked there? I thought you were Homeland.” Although I noted the Army Marathon T-shirt.

  “I am. My particular areas of expertise are biological and chemical terrorism and warfare. I used to be in the Army, among other things. Army Special Forces, but it’s been a long time. Anyway, Itsunori Sato was a dignitary, as you say, with Japan’s Ministry of Defense. He apparently ate at the diner, but he was poisoned with a different type of toxin. Which is odd, but we’ll get to that.”

  The waitress returned with our food, a club sandwich for me, a Caesar salad for Stillwater.

  “Second victim,” Stillwater said, “was Ken Maeda.”

  “Japanese.”

  He pointed his fork at me. “Head of a company in the city that makes medical lasers for eye surgery.”

  “Is there a connection between the two?” I asked.

  “You’re not eating your sandwich,” Stillwater said.

  “Are you my mother?”

  “Just concerned about your nutritional needs, Lieutenant.”

  “How touching. Is there a connection?”

  “Besides being poisoned by Type B botulin toxin and they are both Japanese? Not that I have figured out yet, but I only found out the information yesterday.”

  “Okay. Go on.”

  Stillwater ate some of his salad. “It’s also worth noting that we haven’t been able to locate where Ken Maeda was poisoned. At least not yet. There’s no indication he was at any of the locations where the Chemist spread his poison. That doesn’t mean he wasn’t. Some of those places were restaurants, delis, groceries, so it’s possible he got it eating with a friend or picked up a piece of fruit or something that traveled.”

  “But you don’t think so.”

  “No,” he said, finishing his Dirty Blond and raising a finger to the waitress for another.

  “So the third victim?”

  “Bill Stonewell.”

  I blinked. “I was expecting someone Japanese.”

  “Well, he’s not. He’s actually a mathematics professor at Northwestern University. Or was.”

  “Does he overlap with any of the Chemist’s poisoning sites?”

  “Not yet.”

  “But he was also killed with Type B botulin toxin?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “No.”

  I took another bite of my sandwich, which was pretty good. Stillwater was watching me closely, which under different circumstances would have been quite pleasant. Get a grip, Sandy. You’re almost engaged to a wonderful man.

  “So we’ve got a mystery,” I said.

  “I need your help.”

  “I’ll have to clear it with Captain Lane.”

  “I can handle that. Hang on.” He pulled a cell phone from his pocket and punched a button. “Jim?”

  He listened for a moment. “I need to clear a Chicago homicide detective, Lieutenant Sandy Beach … yeah, I know.” He rolled his eyes. “Her captain, Lane … yes. Thanks.”

  Stillwater hung up. “It’ll be taken care of.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Jim Johnston.”

  I stared at Stillwater. “Secretary of Homeland Security James Johnston?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You just call him up and call him Jim?”

  “Yeah.”

  This guy had some juice. “And you’re on a first-name basis.”

  “We’ve known each other a long time. I served under him in the Army. He recruited me to Homeland. I answer directly to him. I’m a troubleshooter, basically. I tag along with the HMRU if they’re doing something interesting, but otherwise I go where Jim sends me or if something catches my attention.”

  “And this caught your attention.”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Okay,” I said. “What do you want to do next?”

  “Finish my lunch.”

  3

  Ronin

  The Ronin had been studying the Makatashi Building off and on for several days. The security was tight. The Makatashi Corporation did enough government work, both in the U.S., Japan and with other countries to make sure that people who came and went were signed in at the front desk, photographed surreptitiously and entered into a database and provided an ID badge with an RFID tracking strip.

  None of that was insurmountable, but it put him at risk. Much of his success came because he was creative and because he had managed to remain unidentified and unobserved during his career.

  Getting into the building he could manage. Doing it without being photographed and dropped into a database would be difficult. As it was, the area around the building was rife with CCTV cameras. He was aware of them and did his best to keep his profile low. He behaved inconspicuously, and changed his clothing and appearance enough that he would not raise any suspicions.

  The bigger problem was that Ichiro Makatashi rarely left the building. He ate meals prepared by a private chef in his penthouse apartment or with his senior officers and board members in the boardroom. He did not, as far as the Ronin had been able to determine, have a girlfriend, mistress, or interest in hookers. Nor did Ichiro Makatashi seem to have an interest in the Chicago nightlife, day life, or anything else.

  The man worked. When he traveled, which he did often, he did so in a private jet, usually in the company’s Gulfstream G650, which was reserved just for him, or in one of the company’s three Gulfstream G450s. When he was in the jet, he worked. When he was in his building, he worked.

  The man did not get out much.

  The Ronin considered the possibility of shooting Makatashi in his limo as he traveled to the airport. It was more public and risky than he would prefer and had a lot of associated risks. Still, he had cracked Makatashi’s computer system two days ago, no small feat considering the sophistication of the company’s software gurus.

  The Ronin had access to Makatashi’s calendar.

  The man did not plan to travel anywhere for a week. His schedule was booked solid.

  And the assignment was quite specific. Makatashi needed to be dead in three days.

  There was a meeting schedule
d on the third day that Makatashi must absolutely not make.

  As the Ronin strolled by the building, this time with a lightweight leather jacket, a trilby and mirrored sunglasses, and carrying a black leather briefcase, he saw a limousine pull into the underground parking garage of the Makatashi Building.

  That was a possibility, he thought.

  4

  Derek

  The Japanese Consulate was located on the eleventh floor of the Olympia Centre on Michigan Avenue. Derek held up his ID and told the woman at the front desk that he and Lieutenant Beach wished to discuss the death of Itsunori Sato. To his surprise, the woman, who was a middle-aged Japanese woman who spoke impeccable English and wore a business suit he suspected cost more than his motorcycle, said, “I will check with Mr. Watanabe. He’s the Consulate General. Please have a seat.”

  They sat in leather chairs in front of a glass end table with glossy magazines. She disappeared for a moment. Lieutenant Beach glanced at him. “We’re going straight to the top?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Does that seem a little odd to you?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never dealt with the Japanese Consulate in Chicago before. You?”

  “No. Never.”

  The woman reappeared and said, “Mr. Watanabe will see you now. Follow me, please.”

  Derek and Lieutenant Beach found themselves in a corner office with a kickass view down Michigan Avenue. Masaharu Watanabe was a slim man with wire-rimmed glasses, thinning gray hair, and a pointed chin. He looked sort of like an Asian elf. He stood in front of his desk when they came through the door and the woman made full introductions in a formal way that Derek thought must be Japanese in nature.

  Or something, he thought.

  Although he had never dealt with the Japanese specifically, he had some experience with consuls and ambassadors from a number of different countries, including the U.S., Panama, Iraq, and various Slavic republics. Not a single one of them came out from behind their desk and none of them had acted even superficially glad to see him.

  Then again, a lot of people felt that way when Derek came knocking on their door. He rarely brought good news.

  “Dr. Stillwater. Lieutenant Beach. A pleasure to meet you. Please, have a seat. Can I get you a beverage? Perhaps tea? Coffee? A soft drink? Water?”

  “Coffee would be excellent, thank you,” Derek said. Beach declined.

  Watanabe nodded to the woman, who disappeared. The consul gestured them into an ensemble of chairs and a sofa around yet another glass coffee table. No glossy magazines. No fingerprints. How do you keep a glass coffee table that clean? They took the sofa and Watanabe perched on the edge of the chair. He seemed to be waiting expectantly for something.

  Beach said, “We’re here to discuss the death of—“

  Watanabe raised one hand in a “wait” gesture. Derek saw the way the lieutenant bristled, but he didn’t think Watanabe was stalling because she was a woman. He suspected there was some sort of protocol behavior going on here. Or maybe something else.

  Derek said, “It is a very pleasant day.”

  Watanabe nodded. “Very pleasant. I enjoy Chicago in the summer. Are you from Chicago, Dr. Stillwater?”

  “I actually live in Baltimore.”

  “A very nice city. The Chesapeake Bay is very beautiful.”

  “It is,” Derek said. “As is Lake Michigan. I live on a boat on the Chesapeake Bay.”

  “That sounds lovely,” Watanabe said.

  Beach shifted uncomfortably in her chair. Derek flashed her a small smile, hoping she would get the idea to just go with it.

  “It is. How about you, Lieutenant?” Derek said. “Do you live here in the city?”

  It seemed to catch her off guard. She opened her mouth to speak, swallowed, and said, “Yes. I’ve lived in Chicago my entire life.”

  “How long,” Derek said, “have you been in Chicago, Mr. Watanabe?”

  “Two years. It is a beautiful city.”

  Derek tried to keep a pleasant expression on his face as Watanabe killed time, but Lieutenant Beach didn’t. The scowl on her attractive face made her look like she was about to shoot someone.

  Watanabe’s assistant or secretary or whatever she was appeared with a silver tray. On the tray were two carafes and three china cups and saucers. There was sugar and milk and cream and honey.

  She set the tray down in front of Watanabe with a slight bow and left the room. Beach leaned forward to say something, but Derek reached out and rested a hand on her wrist with a slight shake of his head. The way she snapped her head around almost made Derek laugh. He thought she was really bright, and everything he’d heard and read about her suggested she was not just a good cop, but probably a great cop, but he didn’t think patience in social situations was one of her strengths.

  He could relate. It wasn’t one of his either. But he had a sense that Watanabe was setting the tone. He also thought Watanabe was stalling.

  Watanabe held up the coffee cup and poured the coffee himself. “Cream? Sugar?”

  “Black will be fine. Thank you.”

  Watanabe nodded and handed Derek the mug. Derek held it in his hands and waited. Watanabe looked at Beach. “Are you certain you do not wish a drink, Lieutenant?”

  “I’m certain,” she said, voice clipped.

  Yup, Derek thought. Losing her patience.

  Watanabe carefully poured himself a cup of tea and just as carefully added honey to it. Watanabe held his glass and took a sip. Derek followed suit and sipped his coffee.

  He blinked. It was damn near the best cup of coffee he had ever tasted. He wanted to jump up on the chair and shout, “Boy, Hallelujah!” Instead he said, “This coffee is excellent.”

  Watanabe beamed. “I am pleased you like it.”

  “Can we please discuss the death of Itsuro Sato now?” Beach asked.

  “Certainly,” Watanabe said.

  “You really should try the coffee,” Derek said.

  The look she gave him could have cut steel.

  The woman came in and handed Watanabe a folded piece of paper. He read it, set it down and said, “I’m very sorry, Lieutenant Beach, for the delay. Doctor Stillwater, your name rang a bell. We, Japan, I mean, owe you several great debts, I believe.”

  “Oh?” Derek said.

  Beach said, “Could we please cut to the chase. What’s going on?”

  The Consul General waved a hand toward Derek. “A couple years ago Dr. Stillwater pursued a terrorist in Detroit who had ties to Aum Shinryko.”

  Beach said, “They’re the guys who released sarin gas on the Tokyo subway, right?”

  “Just so,” Watanabe said. “Also, Dr. Stillwater was … involved with the G8 Summit events.”

  In which terrorists infiltrated the G8 Summit in Colorado Springs and held twenty world leaders hostage. Including the Prime Minister of Japan.

  Derek was grateful for Watanabe’s discretion. He was more than a little involved. So Watanabe’s assistant had run a background check on the two of them. That explained the heel-dragging.

  “Perhaps,” Derek said, “we can talk about Mr. Sato.”

  “Of course. It was a tragedy, of course, that he would be eating at a diner that the Chemist attacked.”

  “Did he eat there alone?” Beach asked.

  “I don’t believe so. I think he was meeting several people there. I’m not sure who.”

  “Did he travel with someone?”

  Beach taking over the interview gave Derek a little breathing room to study Watanabe. He decided that the Consul General wasn’t lying outright, but he was being very cautious. He didn’t know if that was intentional, because he was avoiding something, or if it was just a matter of course. In his experience, when you dealt with politicians and government officials, there were at least ten different levels of behavior, six or seven of them bullshit.

&
nbsp; “I would have to check, but I believe he went with one of the consulate staff.”

  “Could you check that right now?” Beach asked.

  “A moment,” Watanabe said. He stood up, picked up the phone on his desk and spoke in rapid Japanese. He hung up the telephone and returned. “Perhaps you can tell me why the Chicago Police Department and the Department of Homeland Security are interested in one death out of so many?”

  Well it’s about time, Derek thought. He explained.

  The color seemed to drain from Watanabe’s face. He swallowed hard, started to speak, hesitated, cleared his throat and tried again. “What does this mean?”

  “I suspect Mr. Sato was murdered by someone other than the Chemist,” Derek said.

  “What are the names of the other two victims?”

  Derek looked over at Beach, who seemed to be thinking that over. In a straightforward criminal investigation, he didn’t think they would provide that information to someone they were questioning, but in this case he thought they might need to. Beach seemed to be thinking the same thing. Finally, she said, “Why was Mr. Sato here, Mr. Watanabe?”

  “Mr. Sato was with the Ministry of Defense.”

  They knew that. It didn’t answer the question. Derek said, “Why would someone with the Ministry of Defense of Japan come to Chicago?”

  “There are many Japanese companies here,” Watanabe said. “And the U.S. Navy has a base on Lake Michigan.”

  Derek thought it was a training and recruiting center, though, and was hard-pressed to understand why someone from the Japanese MoD would want to visit there. “Do you know specifically why he was in Chicago?”

  “I will need to check on that.”

  Uh-huh. “Please do.”

  The assistant walked back in and handed the Consul General another piece of paper. He read it and nodded. “Of course. Mr. Sato was at lunch with Yoshiki Mori.”

  “Was he poisoned as well?” Beach asked.

  “No, no. I believe only Mr. Sato from the group was poisoned.”

  “May we speak with Yoshiki Mori?” Derek asked.

  “And what is his job here?” Beach said.

  “Mr. Mori is not available at the moment, but I can provide his phone number. Just a moment, please.”