“Week or so back, far as we can tell. Guy had a ranch down near Santa Fe. Looks like he fell off a horse, hit his head on a rock. That’s the local ME’s take, anyway.”
“Got a reason we don’t like it?”
“Got an accidental death featuring a guy on the bad bugs list the same week you’re looking for some kind of Muslim mischief, so there’s that. Also, this ranch of his, it’s not like Ted Turner’s place or anything, but this thing had to set him back some. And the house he built, at first glance, that wasn’t cheap. Maybe he made a killing in the pharma game, I don’t know, we haven’t taken his books apart yet. But this guy, he came into some serious dough somewhere, and it wasn’t his pension from Fort Dix. Just feels like he’s worth a sniff.”
That was the free radical in this thing – what did the ragheads plan to do with the money once they got it? But, if what they had planned had anything to do with this Heinz character, and if he was already dead, then things might be further along than Munroe thought. Because if Heinz didn’t fall off a horse, somebody’d just given him the loose-end treatment.
“Get somebody down to New Mexico,” Munroe said. “See what they got. The autopsy especially. I need to know if this guy really fell off a horse. And talk to the AG; get whatever kind of Patriot Act mojo you need to turn this Heinz fucker inside out. I want a line on every cent this guy’s ever made or spent. And look up his Fort Dix buddies; see what his deal was down there.”
Time to make a decision here. Shut down this Hardin play and put the full court press on al Din in case something bigger was already in motion, or stick with the plan?
But al Din wasn’t acting like he was running a terror op. The Stein shooting, the business down on the South Shore? Everything pointed at him chasing the diamonds. If he had what he needed to complete his op, he wouldn’t be putting his head up like that, wouldn’t be chasing Hardin around.
Besides, al Din had been in town for a week. If he had come to Chicago to start an epidemic, then Munroe wouldn’t even be here now. The boys in the biohazard suits would be here filling body bags. Munroe would be somewhere else filling up more with whoever was responsible.
So, for now, he’d stick with the Hardin play. Worst case, and he was wrong? Then he’d run with the same story, but this time, instead of tying Iran, the cartels and Al Qaeda to a financing deal and a couple of murders, he’d tie them to a city full of dead people. Screw a long weekend with drones and the SEALs. Sure, he’d decapitate the cartels, but he’d also get Washington to pull the trigger on invading Iran and carpet-bombing Waziristan.
So, either way, several thousand potential civilian corpses aside, it was a win-win.
CHAPTER 40
“He gonna be able to talk to us any time soon?” Lynch was checking with the doctor at Northwestern. In the background, Fenn was laid out on an ER gurney, tubes running in and out of him, ventilator pumping away.
“You’ll be lucky if he ever talks to anybody,” the doctor replied. “Him just staying alive is touch-and-go right now. Then we have to see how much brain function he has left. Going to be a few days, anyway.”
“Looked like he’d been snorting,” Lynch said. He’d seen the rim of powder on Fenn’s nostril. “Don’t see ODs off that usually.”
“With the stuff they brought in with him, you would,” said the doc. “Absolutely pure. If he’s used to tooting street junk, I’m not surprised this shorted him out.”
“OK,” Lynch said. Something to think about. “Gonna leave a uniform. Not sure this was accidental. Also, once the word gets out, you’re gonna have press up the wazoo.”
The doc shrugged. “Not my problem. They’ll have him admitted or down in the morgue by then.”
Lynch called McCord, who was processing Fenn’s room. “Got anything?”
“Been drinking, it looks like,” McCord said. “Got through half a bottle of Knob Creek, so that would help him along.”
“Was he alone up there?”
“Fucking hotel room,” McCord answered. “We’ll dust it, but we’ll get a million prints. He was nude when they found him. If he croaks we can check and see if he got his rocks off anytime recently. Bernstein’s talking with the security guys, but no cameras in the hallways up here, so the best we’ll get is maybe some lobby traffic.”
“Tell Bernstein to have IT run all the faces against anything with Corsco’s name on it,” said Lynch.
“Will do.”
Before Lynch could even put the phone back, it buzzed again. Starshak.
“Yeah?” Lynch answered.
“You guys done there?” Starshak said.
“Close,” said Lynch. “Not much to go on. You got somebody from public affairs teed up? Gonna be a shit storm.”
“Yeah. Got a mouthpiece on the way down. Fill him in. Then you and Bernstein get your asses down to the Federal Building. We have a meeting. Very mysterious.”
CHAPTER 41
Seephus Jones leaned against the window of the commuter train, half awake. Up past three laying pipe with one of his baby mamas, this commuter crime shit killing him. Meant he was moving up in the world, though.
Seephus wasn’t wearing his usual. Had a pair of Dockers on, polo shirt tucked in, pants all the way up like some white fucker or goddamn Obama or something. No bling. Stupid computer backpack thing. Course the bag had a kilo brick of blow in it, delivery for the dudes out in Aurora. That and his nine.
Delivery thing was Hernandez’s idea, that’s what his crew boss told him. Stick some brother in a tricked-out sled, baggy ass jeans, have him drive out to white Irish land with his lid on sideways, tags hanging off it, he was just asking to have some Bubba cop from Naperville popping his trunk just for styling on his roadway. Also, Seephus had to admit, most of the brothers weren’t exactly Rules of the Road types, fucking stoplights and shit. Get too many busts coming out of traffic stops.
So Hernandez says get some of the more dependable dudes, guys got a future, dress ’em up all Cosby-like, stick ’em on the train – mix ’em right in with the commuters. Contact in Aurora picks ’em up at the station, they hook up with the LK dudes – guys that handle distribution for the western burbs – and pack the cash in the bag, hop back on the train downtown. Hernandez wanted them on the train early, reverse commuter runs, that way they got the most traffic to mix in with.
Like having a fucking job, though. Up at goddamn seven in the fucking morning.
But Seephus was cool with it. Meant the crew boss thought he was a player. Meant he got to meet the out-of-town crews, build out his network. Might even mean Hernandez knew his name.
Seephus knew one way to get on Hernandez’s screen for sure – find this Hardin fuck.
Crew boss, he’d passed the picture around, let everybody know this was a major fucking deal. Didn’t say what it was about, just that Hernandez wanted this fucker bad, and that any brother played a part in that, he gonna be one happy nigger. So Seephus had studied the picture good. He was good with faces. Little game he played on the train, watching the people get on and off, trying to remember who goes where. Like the guy up two seat on his right? Guy with that buzz cut white guys like when they start going bald, always got the iPod buds in his ears, always got the laptop open? Got on every morning in LaGrange. Got off at Route 59. Always had a Starbucks cup.
Little tired for it today, though, just leaning on the window, watching the word slide by. Wished he could sleep on the train like he seen so many people do, but he figured he nods off, somebody pinches his bag, he’d end up sleeping on a slab down at the ME’s for good.
And then he saw Hardin.
Hardin was going stir crazy. Spent all the previous day in the damn condo. Him and Wilson eating all their meals take out, couldn’t even get out, take a run, nothing. Made sense, all the people looking for him, but it was sawing on his nerves. Switched on the TV, switched it off again. Did another hundred pushups. Had to get out tonight, make his deal with Lafitpour. That should be scaring the shit out of him; instead, he was looking forward to it.