DIRTY BLOND Read online

  Stepping carefully around the glass, he peered out at the back step. “Got a couple drops of blood here. Get a lab guy out here.”

  Moving around the spot, he stepped to the side of the stoop and studied the ground, the flashlight app illuminating the grass and shrubs. Just to the right of the stoop was an arborvitae bush. Peering down, he said, “Got a partial footprint. Some sort of tennis shoes, from the tread.”

  The rest of the yard was grass and a couple trees. He had no idea which way the shooter might have gone. He wandered around the yard, looking for more blood or footprints, but saw nothing. Based on the two spots of blood, Mary had probably just grazed him.

  Considering the range and Mary’s history as a cop, he thought this guy must be the luckiest SOB on the planet.

  Back in the house, Sandy told him she’d called a lab guy. “Mom, can you describe him?”

  “Hang on a second,” Derek said. He went to his laptop and brought up the files of the assassins and displayed the photographs, spreading them out. “Let me know if any of them are the intruder.”

  Margaret took the laptop and studied the pictures. She pointed. “Pretty sure it was him. A little older.”

  LeClare came around and looked at the photographs. He pointed to the woman who went by the name Cobra. “She’s hot. I’d do her.”

  “She’d snap you like a twig,” Derek said.

  “What a way to go.”

  “Uh-huh.” He turned to Mary. “Let’s hear a description.”

  “Well, there he is. But his hair was shorter. Still black. I’d guess thirties, although sometimes it’s hard to tell with Asians. Wiry. Probably, mmm, five-nine, five-ten. Black pants. Black sweatshirt. Gloves.”

  They talked it back and forth until the lab guy showed up, apparently a friend of Sandy’s. He collected the blood, prowled around the yard for a while, then left. Guy left shortly afterward, saying he had a party to get to.

  With Derek, Sandy and Mary remaining, he said, “You got any wood or cardboard? Patch up the window until you replace it?”

  “Got some junk in the garage,” Mary said.

  Derek went into the garage and found a couple cardboard boxes and a roll of Duct Tape. He picked up and threw away the broken glass and taped a slab of cardboard over the broken window.

  When he finished, he saw that Mary was drinking another bottle of beer. Not Heineken. “Want one?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” It was a Begyle Blonde, which he’d never heard of. Apparently it was a Chicago area microbrew. He liked it. Light. Smooth.

  Mary looked at him, taking a hit. “Why’d this assassin come here?”

  “He tried to kill me earlier today. He firebombed Sandy’s apartment. He was being thorough. He wasn’t looking for you. He was looking for her.”

  “Why’s he want you two dead?”

  Derek sipped his beer, waiting to see if Sandy had anything to say on the subject. When she didn’t respond, he said, “I’m going to assume the assassin got an order from whoever hired him to go after us.”

  “Which means it’s probably somebody we talked to,” Sandy said.

  “Or someone we talked to inadvertently let whoever hired this guy know we were actively investigating the case and doesn’t want us to.”

  “You guys need to watch your backs,” Margaret said.

  27

  Sandy

  Derek offered to take me back into the city, but I shook my head. I barely trusted my voice. I was angry. Maybe a little scared. Pissed off, oh yeah. This guy, assuming it was this assassin, and I was pretty sure it was, could have killed Mom. He’d taken a shot at Stillwater and it was a little bit of luck and really fast reflexes that saved his ass.

  He’d taken a shot at me and killed some kid by accident, unless it was this assassin making a statement and he’d set the kid on fire as a message: This could be you.

  Guy nodded, fist-bumped Mom, said to Stillwater, “Keep your pecker dry, G-Man,” and left, presumably to whatever fetish party he’d originally been headed.

  Stillwater studied the two of us. “You’re both grown-ups, both experienced, but you might want to consider staying somewhere else tonight.”

  “I’m going to be calling hospitals and clinics, seeing if someone came in with a gunshot wound,” I said. “And I need to talk to Mom in private for a while. And I need to make sure this whackjob doesn’t get it into his head to check up on Nathan. He’s probably fine in the hospital…” My voice faltered, because Nathan wasn’t fine. He was sick and he’d almost died already. The tears welled up in me and I didn’t know if I could fend them off.

  Stillwater squeezed my arm. “Hang in there, Sandy. We’ll get this guy. Are you going back to the hospital? I can drop you off.”

  “It’s too late for that. I’ll make a couple calls and get some sleep.”

  Stillwater nodded. “Want to meet at your office tomorrow at nine?”

  “Sure. You going back to question the mathematician?”

  Something flickered across the man’s face. “Yeah, well, that moment’s gone, I think. I’ll try her at her office sometime tomorrow. I’m going back to the hotel and getting some sleep.”

  He held out his hand to Mom. “Good to meet you, Mary. My pleasure.”

  She smirked and shook his hand. “This one I like, Sandy.”

  “You like Guy, too,” I pointed out.

  Mom laughed. “Under that weird exterior—“

  “Lies a pervert,” Stillwater said.

  “I don’t know the story,” I said, “but apparently Derek tossed Guy through a plate-glass window at some point.”

  Mom looked startled. “He said that. What did he do to deserve that?”

  Stillwater shook his head. “I think that’s a story for a different day. I’d better get going. I need a few hours sleep and I need to write up some notes and send out some emails before I can do that. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  And he took off.

  I turned to Mom. “I’d like you to go somewhere else for a while.”

  “I’m not staying at a hotel and I’m not being chased out of my own home.”

  “Our own home, Mom. For whatever reason, a real assassin, not some crazy, presumably, but someone who kills people professionally, has decided I’m better off dead. And he had two shots today and it was probably just dumb luck that I got off unscathed. But somebody did die in the process.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.” Her jaw was set in a way I knew too well, sometimes seeing it in my own mirror. Parents! What a pain in the ass!

  “Fine, Mom. I know better than to argue. Keep your gun on you. Loaded. Ready. And don’t shoot me by accident.”

  “Don’t worry, Sandy. If I shoot you, it won’t be by accident.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’ve got to check on Nathan.”

  The desk nurse said he was stable and asleep. They thought he’d probably turned the corner and would be recovering. I assured them I would check in tomorrow. Then I called the head of security at the hospital, who I’d met several times recently, and explained that I wanted more security at Nathan’s room. He understood and cooperated. I hoped he wasn’t just blowing smoke.

  28

  Derek

  It was about two in the morning when Derek made it back to the Sheraton, letting the valet take the rental. He swiped the keycard and pushed into the hotel room. The lights were off, and he could see lights out the window along the curve of Lake Michigan’s darkness beyond.

  Reaching for the light switch, he froze.

  “Come on in,” a woman’s voice spoke.

  He lunged forward, sliding to the floor while simultaneously reaching for his gun.

  A lamp flicked on near the window.

  It was the Japanese woman. She sat in the chair by the window with a gun held steady on him.

  “You’re very fast. I already saw that at the L station
. I don’t intend to shoot you,” she said. “But don’t give me a reason to. Set the gun on the floor. Stand up, hands on top of your head.”

  The need for a split-second decision. “You’re Kobura,” he said.

  “Very good. Now. The gun.”

  If she’d wanted him dead, she probably would have shot him the minute he went through the door.

  He hoped.

  Setting the Colt on the floor, he stood up, hands on top of his head.

  “Walk over to the window.”

  He did.

  She slid out of the chair, hooked his gun off the floor and set it on the desk.

  “Have a seat,” she said. “Over there.” She sat down again, his gun on the table next to her.

  “Hands down?”

  “Yes. Unless you have a second gun or another weapon. Do you?”

  “Want to search me?”

  “I don’t want to get that close to you, even if I’m armed. My sources indicate you’re very resourceful and very skilled up close. I just want to talk.”

  “Been here long?” He let his hands drop into his lap. He kept his feet spread in order to give himself leverage to get out of the chair in a hurry if he needed to, doubting it would be fast enough.

  “Actually, yes. A couple hours.”

  “Help yourself to the mini-bar?”

  She smiled. “No. Good idea, though.”

  Derek studied her, wondering if he should have jumped right back out the door and run. Second-guessing. Maybe off his game.

  He trusted his instincts. But questioned them anyway. He didn’t doubt that she’d searched everything while she waited. His phone and his laptop and briefcase were with him. Right now, here in the room, too. Not such a good thing if she decided to take them, although both were encrypted.

  “You were at the L station,” he said.

  “Following you. I saw Ronin push you in front of the train. I’m impressed you survived.”

  “I’m rather surprised I did too. Is that his name? His, what, code name? Ronin?”

  She nodded.

  “And yours is Kobura.”

  She laughed. It was a pleasant enough laugh, light, seemingly honest. “I’ve heard that one. Cobra. I kind of like it.”

  “Maybe I should call you Anne.”

  Her face froze for just a moment.

  “Trained by the French, I read,” Derek said.

  She dipped her head. “So I am on your radar.”

  “Your file came up. Why are you here in Chicago?”

  He wondered if she was working with Ronin. She didn’t act like it, but “act” might be the key word. Why was she here? If the plan was to kill him, why not just do it? In his experience, talking to the victims was for movies, a way for the scriptwriter to drag out the suspense or explain motive.

  In his experience with real-life killers — he supposed he was one himself — you just pulled the trigger if your intention was to kill someone. What did they have to say? Why chat?

  So why did she want to talk?

  “I was hired to be here.”

  “To do what?”

  “Find out who killed some people and, if possible, stop him from doing it again.”

  “Who hired you?”

  “That would simplify things, wouldn’t it? Let’s just say an interested party.”

  “I’m going to rule out the university. Academics mostly take part in character assassination. So that likely means the Japanese government, which I doubt because you’re only part Japanese. So that narrows it down to Maeda Photonics. Unless I’m missing someone.”

  “It’s possible you are missing someone.”

  “Makatashi Corporation.”

  “Perhaps you’re not missing someone.”

  “So Makatashi hired you?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  He couldn’t tell from her evasion if she’d actually been hired by Makatashi. He couldn’t rule out somebody at Maeda Photonics. “Why are we talking here?”

  “You may have information that can help me. I may have information that can help you.”

  “I’m sure you do, but you won’t tell me who hired you.”

  She shrugged. “I tried to follow the Ronin. He lost me.”

  “Tailing someone in real life is kind of tough, isn’t it?”

  “Depends. I was doing pretty well following you.”

  “In truth, I wasn’t trying to lose anybody. Or even really looking for a tail, although given today’s events, I think I’ll try harder in the future.”

  “Given what I know of you, I suggest a little more operational security on a day-to-day basis would be a good idea in general. You probably have a lot of enemies.”

  “Hard to live your life as if there’s always someone ready to kill you.”

  She shrugged again. “If you’re in Ronin’s crosshairs you should start. Just some friendly advice.”

  “So you came here to give me professional advice?”

  “I want to know what you know.”

  It was Derek’s turn to shrug. “Someone, apparently this guy, Ronin, used the Chemist’s killing spree as a cover to kill a couple people. Turns out they’re connected to a Japanese company that probably has some funding from the DoD and the Japanese government, a mathematician who did some work for them, and the Makatashi Corporation, which has the manufacturing contract.”

  “You’ve made the connection. Or most of it.”

  “Presumably the whole deal has been set back or possibly even completely derailed by these murders.”

  “Maybe.”

  “So who hired Ronin?”

  “I don’t know. Although I have some ideas.”

  “Give me a hint,” Derek said.

  “There were three other companies in competition for this project. Raytheon, Lockheed Martin, and DynaCorp.”

  “That narrows it down to, what, a few hundred thousand people?”

  “Let’s assume for now that whoever hired him is pretty high up in these companies.”

  “I didn’t think it would be the janitor,” Derek said.

  “And had some idea how to hire a Japanese assassin.”

  “Google?”

  She shrugged. “And either has contacts in Homeland Security or the Chicago PD to know enough about your investigation to be concerned.”

  That gave him pause.

  “If it’s CPD,” he said, “I’m not sure it narrows it down much.”

  “Look at the timeline. Talk to Beach.”

  “And get back to you, presumably.”

  She got up from the chair. “Have you learned anything else useful? Anything I don’t know?”

  “Probably.”

  “That you haven’t told me.”

  “He got shot tonight.”

  She stopped moving. “What?”

  “You want to sit back down? It’s been a busy night. I’m not sure how useful it is, but if we’re sharing information, this might be of interest. You know, timelines and all that.”

  She sat back down. “I’m listening.”

  29

  Ronin

  The Ronin was pissed. He was certain he had been followed—briefly—in Chicago. He was also certain he had managed to lose the tail. He didn’t know who the tail was. He didn’t know if it was someone intentionally following him or following Stillwater.

  If someone was following Stillwater, who?

  And why?

  But that wasn’t why he was pissed. He was pissed because he had been shot.

  He wasn’t sure who had shot him, but it appeared to be the cop’s mother.

  She had fired at him two or three times and he’d gotten clipped on the shoulder close to his neck. Two inches to the left and he’d be dead, a bullet to the throat or the head.

  After running to his car, making sure he wasn’t being followed,
he drove sedately to a nearby grocery store, found a parking spot as far from the lights as he could, and parked. Pulling off his jacket, he peeled off his shirt. Even in the dim light he could see that he was still bleeding and the shirt was wet with blood.

  He fingered the wound. The bullet had torn a chunk out of his trapezius and it hurt like a sonofabitch. He wadded up the shirt and pressed it onto his neck, pulled the jacket back on to keep it in place.

  He drove to a convenience store, went in and bought some bandages and alcohol, and a bottle of Extra Strength Motrin, which he figured he was going to need in the morning. As an added thought, he pointed to a bottle of Jack Daniels. The clerk handed it to him without comment and without asking for ID.

  Forty-five minutes later he was in his hotel room, studying the wound in the mirror.

  The Ronin was born Takezo Yoshiaki. His father was a salaryman, his mother the owner of a small flower shop. He didn’t remember much of his mother, who died when he was seven. He remembered her black hair and the perfume of the flower shop, the beautiful arrangements she put together. He remembered the refrigerator where the flowers were kept after his mother bought them from the nursery, the condensation misting the glass, making the multi-colored petals a blurry watercolor.

  The wound was deeper than he had initially thought. Bracing himself, he took a handful of rubbing alcohol and splashed it on the groove in his trap.

  Pain shot through him, blinding. He gasped, clutching the sink, bent over. After a moment, the searing pain passed and was left with the thudding ache of the wound itself. Blood still pulsed from it, though it was thickening and slowing.

  Taking out a wad of gauze, he pressed it onto the wound. It quickly spread scarlet. He added another layer of gauze, then another. And another.

  He taped it in place, went back into the living room and awkwardly opened the whiskey bottle and filled half of a plastic cup.

  Sitting in the armchair, he sat shirtless facing the window, staring out at the Chicago lights and sipped the Jack.

  The client would not be happy. Which was not really his concern. The Americans had a phrase for this. It came out of their military.

  Mission creep.

  He had been hired to do a specific series of jobs. It was convenient that The Chemist had started his killing spree. He could have killed his targets in any number of ways, but had chosen to use botulin toxin. It had given him great cover.