Crossroads, Part Three

Back home, after alerting Hanisch—who wasn’t happy about the prospect of a police visit—and getting a cup of coffee, I looked up Glick and Jewell on the internet.

            They’d been Stepan’s partners in the robbery that sent him to jail.

            Jewell went to Shawnee Correctional Center, a medium security state prison. But Glick had been sent to Menard—where Clyde Hanish was doing four years for assault.

            That was it. The connection between all of them. I only wished Rachel was here to observe my stunning investigative work.  

            Stepan had been sent to Vandalia, where Clyde Hanisch was doing time for check forging. When Clyde got out, he almost immediately went back to prison for assault—a bar fight, according to what I could find. He went to Menard—not the main prison, but a medium security unit. Glick was serving his time there.

            I called Schaffer, told him what I’d learned, and waited for his grateful thanks. He just  grunted. “We would have gotten there. But—okay, thanks.”

            I felt deflated. “Have you talked to Dr. Hanisch yet?”

            “On the phone. He wasn’t happy, but he confirmed everything you said. I still don’t know if I believe any of this, but Anita tells me you’re honest enough. And she’s seen some things she wouldn’t tell me about.”

            “Yeah.” Vampires, demons, and the like. “Well, glad to help.”

            Rachel came in from a client meeting. “What’s new? And what’s for dinner?”

            “I figured it out. Sort of.” I told her about the connections I’d found.

            “That’s great.” She kissed my cheek. “So, dinner?”

            So much for my triumph. Anyway, it was my night to cook. “There’s always spaghetti.”

            “Again? Try something different, lover.” She pulled her laptop from her shoulder bag and sank into the chair by her desk.

            “I’ll check the internet for recipes. How’d your meeting go?”

            “Great! I have two new projects.” She fired up her desktop computer. “So are you done with this case or what?”

            “Maybe.” I checked the time. 4:32. “I’ve got a few background checks to run. Then I’ll think about dinner.”

            “Pizza doesn’t count.”

            “Darn.”

I managed a decent quiche with enough for leftovers. After dinner we binged a few episodes of “The Good Place,” then went to bed.

            There’d been some adjustments when we moved in together. I couldn’t use the dining room table as a desk anymore, but we had a second bedroom for a shared office. That had its own issues, of course, between phone calls, which radio station to listen to, and when not to interrupt each other’s work.

            But least we slept well together.

            But getting woken up at 2:00 by another blinding flash of light was something else.

            Rachel sat up, rubbing her eyes. “Not again?”

            This time it was Stepan Milos. He wore a black T-shirt and jeans, and his feet were bare. Like Jody Hopper, he staggered and leaned against the bed, gasping and dizzy.

            I reached for my boxers while Rachel pulled the covers up to her neck. Yeah, it was that kind of night. “What’s going on?”

            “T-tonight.” He coughed. “Three o’clock. Macy’s. They’re going to grab all the jewelry they can. But that’s not the thing. Tomorrow night . . .” He swallowed. “They’re going to kill someone.”

            “Who?”

            Stepan shook his head. “I don’t know. But it’s a mob boss. They’re getting paid for a hit. He lives in a penthouse downtown. I’ll find out more tomorrow, but I won’t have time—”

            Rachel slammed a fist on the mattress. “Why the hell don’t you just teleport you and your girlfriend out of there?” The sheet over her chest fell. “Oops.”

            “I don’t have the key!” He opened his hands, showing us his sweaty palms. “I can do it without the key, but it takes more energy, and then the key pulls me b-back. Come on, you’ve got to do something! Please!”

            Then he disappeared again with another snap of lightning.

            Rachel pushed the covers back and stood up. “I hope that asshole didn’t see anything.”

            “Yeah.” I ran my hands through my hair, then dug my wallet from the drawer to find Schaffer’s card. “I mean, me too.”

            Rachel snorted. “You didn’t see his eyes. As scared as he was, they zoomed right into place on my—you know.”

            “Sorry.” I punched in Schaffer’s number—and got voice mail, of course. Fortunately he recited a number for the night duty desk.

            I gritted my teeth and called. Rachel sat next to me.

            “Chicago Police, Detective Hansen.” The voice was surprisingly calm.

            “My name’s Tom Jurgen. I got this number from Detective Schaffer. I’m a private detective, and we were talking today about a case—two robbers named Glick and Jewell. They’re going to Macy’s tonight at 3 a.m. to steal some jewelry.”

            “Oh-kay.” I heard tapping on a keyboard. “Do they have someone inside to let them in? How do you know about this?”

            I swallowed. “They can teleport. I told Schaffer all about it. They’ll go in, smash the glass, take everything they can grab, and then make a crossroads to leave. But that’s not all. Tomorrow night they’re planning a hit. A murder.”

            A long pause. “Okay. I’ve got Schaffer’s report. And a note from Detective Sharpe. Damn.” He grunted. “I’m sending a unit to the store. And another one to you. Give me your address.”

            After that we hung up. “Better get dressed. We’ve got cops coming.”

            Rachel groaned. “I’ll make some coffee.”