Blown Away (8 page)

Chicago
December, 1969

“What are you doing, Daddy?” said Brady Kepp, padding into the kitchen. He loved being with his father, and it was just the two of them till Mommy came back from the store.

“Finishing my model airplane,” Dwight Kepp answered, dabbing paint on the gossamer wings of the World War I biplane. “This is what your grandfather flew against Kaiser Bill.”

“What's a Kaiser Bill?” Brady asked, walking to the table where his father worked.

“He's a who, not a what,” Dwight corrected. “Way back before you were born, Kaiser Bill was the leader of a country we now call Germany.” He tousled Brady's hair, happy to encourage his son's interest in history. He was a helluva smart kid for four! “His subjects loved him because he was very strong and took good care of them.”

“He sounds like you, Daddy,” Brady said. “Maybe you're a kaiser, too!”

“Thank you, son. That's a nice compliment,” Dwight said, touched. Brady beamed and took the chair next to Daddy, careful not to touch anything.

Dwight went back to the biplane, humming. He'd been detailing this one for six months, having found model building the perfect relaxation from long days of selling insurance. His job was to correct the negative thinking of those who didn't want his policies—make the ignorant understand what was good for them. Something at which he was so gifted, he'd been promoted to senior vice president, “with much more to follow if you keep up those numbers,” his boss had promised with a hearty thump on the back. He made good money, owned a nice house in one of Chicago's best neighborhoods, married a beautiful woman who understood he was the head of the family and what he said went. Better yet, she bore him a strong boy who worshipped his old man. Other than the fact that she couldn't give him more sons—those damnable butchers at the hospital!—life was good. “Hand me that yellow paint, would you, buddy?” he said. “Just one more detail to paint and we can put this in the display case.”

“Sure, Daddy!” Brady enthused. He picked up the open tube and thrust it Daddy's way. A bright snake squirted from its round mouth, marking the top wing with a fat, runny squiggle.

“Son of a bitch!” Dwight roared, leaping to his feet. He pinched the mess with tissue, which only smeared it further. His thumb punched through the gossamer. Furious, he turned on his wide-eyed son. “You idiot! You ruined it!” he raged. “Why aren't you more careful?”

“I'm sorry!” Brady blubbered. His tummy was sick. Daddy worked so hard providing nice things for him and Mommy. This was an awful thing to do to him. “It was an accident! I didn't mean to hurt the airplane, honest I didn't. No, Daddy, not the belt! Not again! It hurts too much!”

“Maybe this will teach you to be more careful with my things,” Dwight said, spread-eagling Brady across the ruined project, ripping down his footed pajamas, and flailing his buttocks with his thick leather trouser belt. Brady screeched, and Dwight put his face to the boy's ear. “No son of mine cries while being corrected,” he warned. “Shut your little mouth, and take it like a man.”

“Yes, Daddy,” Brady whimpered.

Tuesday, 2:44
A.M
.
Fifty-one hours till Emily's birthday

“Patrol Unit Five is back in service,” Emily radioed her dispatcher buddy Jodi. She tapped the last drop of coffee on her tongue. Shivered violently. At three in the morning the overcooked roll-call brew was a violent slush of acid and caffeine. She normally avoided it. But she was so zonked from the adrenaline blasts of the past twenty-one hours, she choked it down. “I'm heading back downtown.”

“Affirmative, Patrol Five,” Jodi replied. “Stand by for mail.”

Emily arched an eyebrow. She'd just filed her paperwork from the hospital run and hadn't even left the parking lot behind the station.

JUST FIVE HOURS TO GO, read the car's cellular computer. STAY SAFE.

Emily nodded gratefully. Everyone was looking out for her. She and her shotgun rider, who felt lousy from flu but came to work, anyway, started the shift by breaking up a bar fight. She split a thumbnail and purpled a bicep but made four arrests. They rolled into a shoutathon among husband, wife, and teenage son, which they defused with stern warnings. Then her rider's sweating got so heavy, Emily took him to the Edward Hospital emergency room. A replacement wasn't immediately available—everyone not out sick was handling a 911—so the shift commander reassigned her to the downtown business district, the quietest sector this time of night. Emily cruised the empty streets, looking for open doors and windows. The shift commander made her check in every ten minutes. Branch drove by three times, Annie twice. Marty phoned from a stakeout. “I'm bored, Detective,” he'd said. “How about you?”

“Yep,” she'd said.

“Keep it up,” he'd said.

She clicked her microphone twice—“Thanks, Jodi”—and typed a quick reply—“I'll bring you guys doughnuts if you don't tell Cross.” She put the black-and-white in gear and drove out of the lot, feeling for the lump at the base of her skull. Handcuff key firmly attached. And since she'd “dressed” her neck in the locker room, that was where she'd do it each and every time. Silly, she supposed, this superstition about continuing routines where she began them. But she bowed to its comfort nonetheless. Smiling at how Marty might react to this bit of voodoo, she finger-combed her thick hair in place, turned east at Safety Town, and sped toward downtown. Halfway there, a siren burped from a side street. Emily looked over to see Annie Bates waving “over here.” She pulled window to window, rolled hers down.

“Hubby dropped off some real coffee,” Annie said, handing over a commuter cup of French roast. “I figured you could use some about now.”

“God, yes!” Emily drank deep. “Oh, that's good. Reward that man handsomely.”

“I always do,” Annie said with a wink. “How are you holding up?”

“I'm gonna die from boredom, not the Unsub.”

Annie reached across the gap to pat her elbow. “That's the spirit! We'll turn you into a SWAT yet.” They gossiped about who was genuinely sick and who was faking for free time off. Then Emily asked as casually as she could manage, “You know Martin Benedetti, right?”

“Marty? Yeah, sure. Good guy. Smart, funny, best pitcher their softball team ever had till his shoulder got funky.” Annie managed the NPD team and knew talent. “The troops like him. He goes out of his way to mentor the few women the sheriff deigns to hire. Has an MBA from the University of Chicago yet puts away beer and bratwurst like any regular Joe. Why?”

Emily drank some more. “I met him this morning at the cemetery,” she said, licking her lips. “He treated me square, and I wondered if he's like that with everyone.”

Annie's face lit up. “You slut! You like him!”

“No, no,” Emily protested, waving her hands. “Nothing like that.”

“Don't lie to me, girly,” Annie said, delighted. “Your eyes sparked when you said his name.”

Emily sighed. “So is he…available?”

Annie scratched her blond ringlets. “Off my radar since he quit softball. He
was
married, that I know for sure. Probably divorced by now. Most of the old-timers are. I can sniff around.”

Emily nodded. “Discreetly, please. I don't know yet if I want to pursue this.”

Annie punched her arm. “Why not? You're a great catch. Besides, you really need to get laid.” She cackled as Emily rolled her eyes, then grabbed the radio mike. “Patrol Eleven. Go ahead.”

“Respond to a disturbance,” Jodi said. “Sunny Acres Retirement Village, Unit 722.”

Annie blew raspberries into the mike. “Those two at it again?”

“Apparently. Neighbors report shouting and glass breaking.”

“Understood. I'll be there in seven minutes.” Then, to Emily, “He's always honked off about something, and she won't take his crap. The dishes pay the price.” She shook her head in wonder. “They're eighty-nine years old. Why aren't they in bed, with their teeth in a glass?”

Emily laughed and put her car in gear.

“We'll catch up later. I want all the juicy details about you and Marty,” Annie said. “Consider it payment for drinkable coffee.” She flipped on her roof lights and accelerated for the Far Southeast Side. Emily drove the remaining half mile to Washington and Jefferson, the heart of downtown, which was deader than the proverbial doornail at 2:59:59.

“What was that?” she gasped as a deep-pitched explosion shook her windows. A dozen burglar alarms erupted. She stuck her head out, looked around. Stars twinkled, so it wasn't thunder. Plane crash? Train derailment? The radio burped, and she turned up the volume.

“All units, be advised,” Jodi announced as fire sirens from neighboring communities wailed. “Explosion at Neuqua Valley High School. Fire department responding Code 3.” Lights, sirens, ignore the speed limit. “Stand by for assignments.”

Emily slapped the dashboard. With its diving pools, recording studios, and boutique gymnasiums, Neuqua High was the most luxurious public school in America, resembling the dungeon she'd attended in Chicago as much as The Four Seasons looked like Motel 6. Maybe the crew replacing the school's natural-gas mains over the past few weeks had nicked one, and it ignited. “How serious?” she radioed.

“Patrol Five, switch to tactical channel two.”

It was the shift commander, a good guy who'd led the cheers in her “Bambi” escapade. Emily switched to the encrypted special-operations frequency. “Patrol Five on tac two,” she said, champing to get moving. “Where do you want me?”

“Sorry, Emily, no fire for you. We've got to cover 911s and this fire till State Police backups arrive from Chicago. We're shifting to emergency plan Charlie.” A drawn-out mutter. “Till further notice, we respond only to dire emergencies. You'll handle calls north of 75th Street. Patrol Fourteen will handle calls south of 75th. Understood?”

“Aw, Lieutenant, I'd rather work the fire.”

“Understood?”

“Ten-Four,” Emily said. She flipped back to the general patrol channel. “Dispatch, I'm at Washington and Jefferson,” she radioed. “Anything you want me to do?”

“Continue routine patrol—Ah, stand by.”

Emily clicked to the fire frequencies as she waited, flooding the car with sirens, horns, and firefighters shouting over the roar of the American LaFrance diesels under their rubber feet. “Looks like a nuke went off!” one yelled. “Mobilize reserves, off-duties, and mutual aid! Everything!” Emily craned her head to the southwest sky. The inferno jiggled and erupted over the downtown streetlights. She could practically smell charring blackboards, hear the bell tower jangling in cindered collapse.

“Patrol Five, respond to disturbance,” Jodi crackled. “Nichols Library, main parking lot. Neighbors report naked man screaming.”

Emily raised an eyebrow—
dire emergencies only?
—and pushed transmit. “I'm on it.”

“Patrol Five, meet me on tac two.” Shift commander again.

“Go.”

“Patrol Fourteen is responding to a multiple injury crash,” he said. “I'm sending Sergeant Bates to back you up. She's responding to your location Code 13.”

The last two words jolted her like a cattle prod. Code 13 was shorthand for “cop in mortal danger, death imminent.” Why would a weenie-wagger rate Code 13? “Copy that transmission,” she said, covering her anxiety with copspeak. “Can you advise particulars?”

“Subject is screaming your name,” he replied.

Emily's fingers sought the reassurance of her Glock. “Hope you're paying attention out there, Marty,” she murmured. Then, into the microphone, “ETA thirty seconds.”

“Scout it out, but take no action till your backups arrive,” he ordered. “Annie's en route, and a sheriff's car is breaking away from a stakeout.”

I guess he
was
listening!
“Understood,” Emily responded as she laid a black ribbon of Goodyear on Jefferson Avenue, roof flashers licking downtown with red and blue tongues. She crested the hill at Eagle Street and saw the subject baying at the full moon.

With
a full moon.

“You're gonna love this, Marty,” she muttered, looking for weapons as she barreled into the lot. None. Nowhere to hide them, anyway. As Daddy used to say, the young man was “nekked as a jaybird.” Her floodlight lit up his pale body—skater hair, narrow chest, muscled legs, no wrinkles, shriveled johnson—as she skidded to a halt. She popped out, leading with her Glock. “Police!” she barked. “Put your hands on top of your head!”

A jaunty grin broke across the boy's whitewashed features. “Emily?”

“Put your hands on your head!”

“You
are
Emily!” the kid cried. “You're the one I'm supposed to talk to!”

“Put your hands on your head!” she bellowed, each word distinct in case the kid was stoned. No good—he bounced and wriggled like a puppy. “Sir, if you don't obey my orders, I'll get in my car and run you over.”

His stubby fingers wove together and grabbed his head. “I'm unarmed!” the kid shouted, squinting against the eye-busting glare. “I'm just supposed to talk to you!”

“We'll get to that in a minute,” Emily replied. “First you need to get on your knees.”

“On the asphalt?” the kid complained. “Aw, shit, c'mon, it's full of gravel!”

“On your knees. Now.”

He complied.

“Very good,” Emily said. “Now lie facedown, and clasp your hands behind your back.”

“All right.” Then in a muffled voice, “Then can we talk, Emily?”

“Absolutely.” She shuffle-stepped to ensure she didn't lose her balance. Forget the Unsub. If she fell on top of a naked guy, she'd never hear the end of it. “I'm going to handcuff you,” she said when close enough. “Don't fight me, OK?”

“God no!” the kid squealed, and she whiffed the stale beer.
Phew!
This guy didn't want to fight. He had to take a leak! “I'm just supposed to deliver a message, Emily. The dude said taking off my clothes was part of it. I'm not a pervert, you know.” It seemed important she acknowledge that, so she made appropriate murmurs. “Do whatever, Emily. I won't fight.”

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate it,” she said, cuffing his bony wrists behind his back and his ankles to each other. She bunny-hopped him to the car, locked him in the caged backseat. “Situation is under control, dispatch,” she reported. “Tell backups to slow down.”

“All units, cancel Code 13,” Jodi said. A moment later, “Patrol Five, what did I tell you about waiting for help?”

“Sorry, sir, couldn't be helped,” Emily said. “The subject insisted on surrendering.” She glanced around the lot, saw movement. “Civilians are gathering. I didn't want them endangered if the subject changed his mind and ran. So I double-cuffed and locked him in my unit.”

“Understood, Five. Sounds like the correct call. But we'll review your actions later.”

Which meant he agreed but would chew her out, anyway, make sure it got around. He needed to wave that flag for anyone who might be tempted, for less credible reasons, to “misinterpret” his orders.

She could live with that.

“So what's this all about, kid?” Emily asked. “Some kind of fraternity stunt?”

He shook his head. “I was watching the Bulls game at the Lantern. You know, the downtown tavern?”

She nodded.

“This old dude walked up and says hello.”

“Old?”

“Ancient. At least forty.”

Hey! Wait till
you're
two days away!
“What'd this man look like?”

“A dude,” the kid said, shrugging. “You know.”

“I don't know. I wasn't there. Was he white?”

“Uh-huh, he—”

“Tall?”

“Yeah, pretty big, I guess—”

“How was he dressed?”

“I need to tell you the message, OK?” the kid said. “It's part of his deal.”

“All right, but hurry it up.”

He nodded. “Me and the dude are talking sports. He buys a round. Cool. Then asks if I'd do him a favor. He's buying, so I said, ‘Yo, dude, if I can.'” He paused.

“And?” Emily prompted.

“Says he's planning a birthday joke for his girl. If I help, he'll pay me five hundred.”

Emily blinked. “Dollars?”

“I thought he was yankin' my chain, too,” the kid said. “Then he shows me the wad. I put down my beer and say, ‘For that kinda dough, who do I gotta kill?' Dude laughs, says naw, his girl's a Naperville cop, and he wants to deliver her birthday card in a way she'll never forget. He's willing to pay 'cause the deal's pretty loopy.”

“Tell me exactly what he wanted you to do.”

“Get here at 3
A.M
. Ditch my clothes and scream your name. When you show up, hand you the envelope and say, ‘Happy Birthday, Bambi!'”