“For you, Tracey,” he says aloud. But there’s no joy in his words.

That’s okay. The joy will come later.

It takes him thirty seconds to put everything into his new bag, and then he drops the yellow suitcase back into the water, where it slowly sinks. Getting out of the dry suit is like wrestling with an inner tube, but he manages, tucking it into the nylon bag atop his loot. Wearing only a bathing suit, he slings the bag over his bare shoulder and walks down the pier, to the sidewalk, and into the parking lot, where his car awaits.

After locking the nylon bag in the trunk, he starts the car, waits for the light, and pulls onto Monroe.

He makes a few random turns, watching his mirrors. When he’s sure no one is following him, he reattaches the battery to his buy-and-go cell phone and calls the good lieutenant.

“Daniels.”

“Hello, Jack.”

“Is it you this time, or another recording?”

He smiles. She thinks she’s so clever. If that’s the case, why is he the one with two mil in his trunk?

“It’s me. And it’s also the last time you’ll be hearing from me. You kept your end of the deal, and I’m keeping mine. Today, a prominent Chicagoan is getting married. I helped out with the refreshments. If you don’t intercept them in time, the reception will be really dead.”

He had planned on saying that, but it isn’t as funny out loud than it had been in his mind.

“Whose wedding is it?” Jack asks.

“That’s for you to figure out. Better hurry; you only have a few hours.”

“And that’s it, then? You’re done terrorizing the city?”

“Rest assured that I’ll never poison anyone again.”

“I think you’re lying.”

He smiles. “Believe what you like. I did what I set out to do. Now I’m going to disappear. Think of me, next time you go out to eat.”

“You’re a monster.”

“Good-bye, Lieutenant. I hope I showed you a good time. I had a blast.”

He separates the battery from the phone, and tosses it in the backseat to dispose of later. He would like to feel a sense of accomplishment, of completion, but there is still much to do. The wedding reception is in a few hours, and he wants to be there to watch the show.

Supermarkets and restaurants are easy to sabotage. A reception is difficult. It requires a lot of work, and more than a little luck. But it can be done, if you know how.

Two weeks before the event, call the banquet hall, speak to the banquet service manager, and ask if he would like to switch liquor distributors. Some chitchat will get you the name of the distributor they’re currently using, and even the day of the week they deliver.

Next, wait around the back entrance of the hall for the distributor to show up. Tail him during his route until you have a chance to kill him-many toxins can imitate heart attacks. Then take a look at his invoice clipboard until you find the weekly liquor order for the hall. Make a copy of it. Also make copies of his keys, and take a look in back at how the liquor orders are packaged. Then return everything where you found it. Someone will discover the driver and the truck eventually.

On delivery day, wait for the new driver at an early stop in his route. When he dollies in the boxes of alcohol, he leaves the truck unattended. Use your keys to get into the back of the truck, and substitute your order for the hall’s order. It might not be exactly the same, but who cares? They might make some exchanges when they check the invoice, but enough of the tampered alcohol will get through.

The Chemist finished this last step early this morning. He also noticed that on the banquet hall marquee, there are two receptions scheduled for the day. Fortunately, he poisoned enough alcohol to kill everyone at both weddings. He also tampered with a dozen two-liter bottles of soda, using the jet injector and a tiny dot of superglue to plug the hole so the CO2 wouldn’t escape. Non-drinkers and the kiddies shouldn’t miss out on the fun.

It’s possible that the police will stop it in time. But that’s okay. As much work as this has been to set up, it’s just a diversion.

The real show hasn’t even started yet.

CHAPTER 31

REYNOLDS PICKED ME UP in the cab after I walked back to Streeter.

“Maybe we should stop by the ER,” he suggested.

“It’s just a fat lip,” I told him, except I said fab lib. I handed him back the SIG and his radio.

“What next, Lieutenant?”

“We need to stop a wedding reception. Know of any big shots getting married today?”

He didn’t need to answer. SWAT guys didn’t read the society column.

Which gave me an idea.

I called information, got the number for the Tribune, and had the front desk connect me to Twyla Biddle, a reporter who did a column about celebrities. I’d never spoken with Twyla directly, but I’d been in her column a few times, mostly in connection with a TV show I’d done some consulting for against my better judgment.

“Lieutenant! Thanks for calling. What have you got for me? Something juicy, I hope.”

Twyla had a deep whiskey and cigarette voice, like Marge’s sisters on The Simpsons.

“Maybe. I need to know what famous Chicagoans are getting married today.”

“Why? What have you heard?”

“Just rumors and innuendo.”

“I make a living on rumors and innuendo. Spill it.”

“Give me a list, and if it pans out, you’ll get the scoop.”

Did reporters even use the word scoop? If they didn’t, Twyla didn’t call me on it.

“Well, the wedding of the week has to be Maurice Williams.”

“Who is that?”

“Former Chicago Cub. All-Star catcher. Abs you could eat a six-course meal off of, and believe me, you’d want to lick the plate when you finished.”

“Who else?”

“William Kent. Owns a lot of real estate, including the Krueger Building. His daughter is getting married tonight. And how could I forget Corndog Watkins? Chicago blues legend, marrying a woman forty-five years younger than he is. Reception is tonight at Buddy Guy’s Legends.”

I was writing all of this down in the margins of a Time magazine-no one in the cab had any paper.

“Anyone else?”

“Those are the majors.”

“No one political?”

“Not that I’m aware of. Hold on, I’m at my computer. Let me search through the marriage announcements for tomorrow’s issue.” I faintly heard fingers hitting keys, at a much faster rate than mine ever could. “Let’s see, he’s a nobody, she’s a nobody, she’s a nobody, he’s a nobody, he’s a-wait. The Bains and Harlow wedding. Jeremy Bains is the son of a police captain.”

I’d completely spaced that out. Captain Bains wasn’t at the Daley Center today because his son was getting married. Two weeks ago someone at the District had taken up a fund to buy a gift, a chafing dish or something equally useful.

“That’s all?”

“All that matter.”

“Thanks, Twyla. If I get anything, I’ll let you know.”

“So how are things with you, Lieutenant? Still dating that hunky accountant?”

I wondered how she knew, but I suppose it was her job to know.

“We’re engaged. He proposed a few days ago.”

“Congratulations! And how is that famous PI friend of yours, the one missing his hand?”

“It’s still missing.”

“And how is-”

“I gotta run, Twyla. Thanks again.”

“Take care, sweetheart.”

I ended the call and wondered if I’d see my name in next week’s column. And if I did, if I would save it. I’m not much for collecting things. I didn’t even have any pictures of my first wedding. We hadn’t bothered to hire a photographer. The wedding might have failed, but I still regretted having no pictures of me in my dress, and regretted it on a semi-regular basis.

“Congratulations on the engagement,” Reynolds told me. “Though I have to admit, I was hoping you were single.”