“Not nothing,” Starshak said. “You did manage to piss him off. I got a call from the deputy chief, who got a call from the chief, who got a call from the mayor. Eddie telling them you all but accused him of being a mob guy and a drug dealer.”

“That’s bullshit,” said Lynch.

“Course it is,” said Starshak. “Still like to keep it off our shoes, though.”

“I got nothing left to rattle his cage about, so I guess we’re OK there,” Lynch said. “What’s with the lab? Still ain’t got ballistics.”

“Called while you were out,” Starshak said. “Guy wants you to stop down.”

A lab tech named Pfundstein met Lynch by the elevators. Pfundstein looked about thirteen, wearing glasses that probably weighed as much as he did.

“I’m sorry to take so long with the results, detective, but I’ve been having some trouble with this one.”

“Slug went through her sternum and her spine and dug into a piece of oak,” Lynch said. “Figured it was pretty fucked up.”

“Oh, it is. Fucked up, I mean.” Pfundstein pushing his glasses up his nose. “If you were hoping to be able to match this to a weapon, forget it. I’ve got the metallurgy for you, and it’s not your garden variety stuff, so that might help a little.”

“So what was the trouble?”

“Even as messed up as the slug is, it should still have marks, right? I mean it’s like fingerprints. Lots of times you get partials. Maybe not enough for a match, but at least you get something. This slug? Nothing. Can’t tell you the number of grooves. Can’t tell you left twist, right twist. Nothing.”

“So what? Smooth-bore weapon of some kind?”

“At that range? Hard to see it. I’m thinking maybe it was saboted.”

“What’s that?”

“Take a bullet. You coat it with something like cellulose, some kind of resin maybe. Coating picks up the spin from the rifling, so your slug stays accurate, but the coating burns off, both in the barrel and in flight. Only way I can think we get a slug with no marks at all.”

“Sounds a little James Bond. This happen much?”

 CHAPTER 22 – CHICAGO

Jose Villanueva drove up to Sacred Heart. The church had one of those Saturday evening masses where you could get the thing out of the way, sleep in Sunday. Or be ready for the Bears game, whatever. Anyway, the chink bitch wanted the job done tonight. Villanueva figured he’d do the mass, get a look at the layout. Grab a bulletin, too. Make sure that nothing was going on in the church later, that he didn’t break in in the middle of an all-night novena or something.

He sat in the middle about halfway back. He could see the confessionals on the east wall. The pews were laid out in a sort of semicircle, so only the ones on his far right had their backs straight to the confessionals. After that, they started curving away. Camera should be on the bottom of the last pew in that far right section.

Confessional layout was pretty basic. Two sets of three doors. Middle door for the priest, doors on either side for people to come in, spill the beans on themselves. Middle door on the second set of three had a little name plate over it, so Villanueva figured he’d check that set first. Could be they brought a priest in from one of the other parishes to help with confessions, but figured the parish guy was here every time.

He’d walked past the vestibule on the south side on his way in, recognizing it from the news. That was where Eddie Marslovak’s mom got it. Bad set up, though. Easy to see from the street, streetlight at the end of the walk. He’d come in to mass through the main door, but that sucked, too. No cover at all. Also, it was a big-ass door, maybe ten feet high, three or four inches thick. Couple of locks on it that he could see, one of them some real old fucker that he’d have to fiddle with some because he was pretty sure he hadn’t worked one like that before.

After mass, he walked out the vestibule and looped around the building, cutting up the narrow walk that ran around the north end of the church. Not a lot of room between the north end and the bungalow behind it. People in the bungalow had planted a tall hedge at the back of their property. No leaves yet, so it wouldn’t be much help if he had a flashlight on, but there should be enough ambient light to see.

A set of cement stairs ran down parallel to the walk to a door into the basement of the church. Villanueva took a quick peek up and down the walk. Nobody looking. He took the stairs. Fairly deep basement, twelve steps down. Stairs forming a dark well. Villanueva figured he could use a penlight down here no problem. Nobody’d see that unless they were right on top of him. Standard metal security door, wire mesh embedded in the window. Schlage lock. Rinky-dink residential alarm he could bypass in about twenty seconds with a pocket knife and a couple alligator clips. Getting up into the church ought to be easy once he got into the basement.

Back in the car, Villanueva ran down what he’d need. Just the small set of picks. Christ, he could do a Schlage in his sleep. Wear the black Adidas warm-ups. He could park a couple blocks up, jog around the neighborhood a little, make sure everything looked cool. Do the job around 10.00, maybe 10.30. Funny how people thought 3am was the best time to break in somewhere. Everybody looks suspicious at 3am. Ten o’clock, people are still out, walking their dogs or whatever. Still some background noise, some traffic.

CHAPTER 23 – SCHAUMBURG, ILLINOIS

Lynch and Johnson were in the middle of what Lynch figured was their tenth circuit of the Ikea store in Schaumburg, Johnson showing him all sorts of end tables and shelves and shit she thought would look good in her place. She had good taste, little quirky maybe.

“So this is your idea of fun, huh?” Lynch said.

“You’re forgetting, Lynch, I’m not a Chicago girl. I grew up in white-bread country, home of the largest mall in America. This isn’t the main event, though. We’re going over to Woodfield next, walk the mall, maybe see a movie.” She’d called him just after he got back from Marslovak’s office, told him it was her turn to take him out.

“Jesus. We gonna eat bad pizza in the food court?”

“Bet your ass.”

“Chick flick?”

“Yep.”

“We gonna at least sit in the back so I can feel you up?”

“That’s the idea,” she said.

Halfway through some movie about some young, good-looking chick dying of cancer, Lynch caught himself smiling. Christ. He was having fun. Sitting through a bad movie, wandering through a mall, out in the freakin’ suburbs, and he was having fun.

Johnson sniffled next to him. “I need your hanky,” she whispered.

“Don’t have one.”

“What kind of man takes a girl to a movie like this and doesn’t bring a hanky?”

“Sorry, out of practice.”

Johnson nudged her head into his shoulder, and he put his arm around her head. He slid his hand down, gave her breast a little squeeze. She slapped his hand.

“I’m trying to watch the movie,” she said.

A minute later, Lynch felt her hand rubbing his thigh.

“Thought you were watching the movie,” he said.

“I am,” she said, “but you’re not.”

Lynch smiling again. God, this was fun.

After the movie, Johnson drove to one of the restaurants ringing the mall. Houlihans, TGIF, Chili’s, Lynch couldn’t remember without looking at the little plastic dessert menu. Bennigans.

“I know this will sound stupid, but this place reminds me of home,” Johnson said.

“Why? Your dad like to make up stupid names for drinks?”

Johnson laughed. “Just growing up. Out with my friends, we’d always end up in some place like this, you know? Talk about who was going out with who and how far they were going. Just comfortable, that’s all.”

They just sat for a while. Lynch was drinking a black and tan, which he’d had to let stand for five minutes before it got any separation, but still, a black and tan. Johnson was having some drink named after a cartoon character. Nice they could just sit, drink, play a little footsie, nobody feeling like they had to talk all the time.