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.”

Crossroads, Part Four

We managed a few hours of sleep after the cops left. They took my statement, and Rachel’s. They didn’t tell us we were crazy, or dreaming. But they clearly thought they were wasting their time.

            Despite the coffee I managed to sleep until 8 a.m. Rachel twitched between the sheets, but she didn’t wake up as I took a quick shower and changed into fresh clothes. I poured my cereal, made fresh coffee, and checked out the news.

            BIZARRE HEIST AT MACY’S DEPARTMENT STORE ran the top headline.

            “A gang of thieves stole several thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry, including watches, rings, necklaces, and a silver letter opener worth $10,000,” was the story’s lead. The breathless reporter went on to write that Chicago Police, acting on an anonymous tip, showed up moments after the heist apparently went down. One security guard was wounded from a gunshot, but expected to recover.

            “I don’t know how they got in,” another security guard was quoted as saying. “Everything was locked. We take this very seriously.”

            My phone buzzed. Schaffer. “Good morning, detective—”

            “Screw that. We missed them by a few minutes.” Schaffer’s voice was hoarse. “I read the statement you made last night. Now tell me again. Everything.”

            I gulped some coffee and went through it all again—leaving out the part about me and Rachel being naked during Stepan’s visit. “He said it was a mob boss who lives in a penthouse downtown.”

            Schaffer grunted. “That’s got to be Henry Caldrone. Lives in the Hancock. Not exactly the penthouse, but a pretty nice place, the whole floor. We’ll have to warn him.”

            Great. “How will you explain it?”

            “I won’t. You will.”

I’ve confronted vampires, demons, and giant ninja chickens. A mob boss? I was nervous, but not as terrified as I expected.

            Schaffer stood at the door. I perched on a black leather couch, Rachel beside me.

She’d insisted on coming. “I’ve never met an Outfit guy before. This should be a nice change of pace.”

            Henry Caldrone was in his sixties, with steel gray hair and thick knuckles. He wore a gray cashmere sweater and Italian loafers. A young guy with black hair and a coal-black blazer sat a table behind him, playing games on his phone. Bodyguard? Probably. He glanced up once to check out Rachel, then went back to his phone.

A young woman in a very short skirt poured drinks. It was 11:30 in the morning.

            We were in the main living room of his apartment, which took up three-quarters of a high floor in the Hancock, the second-tallest building in Chicago after the Sears Tower—sorry, the Willis Tower now. Outside the window, waves on Lake Michigan rolled between sailboats on the white water.

            “Okay.” Caldrone sipped his scotch. “What’s going on? You know I’m always ready to cooperate with law enforcement.”

            Schaffer managed to keep a straight face. “We’ve been informed of a credible threat on your life. Probably late tonight or early tomorrow morning. We’re advising you to relocate someplace safe—”

            “Threat? From who?” He laughed. “I’m perfectly safe here, detective.”

            Schaffer sighed. “Jurgen?”

            I took a sip from the glass of water the young woman had poured. A slice of lemon gave it some tang. “My name’s Tom Jurgen, Mr. Caldrone. I’m a private detective. A man named Stepan Milos told me that two people, Ray Glick and Errol Jewell, plan to murder you tonight. It’s some kind of a contract hit. Here’s the thing . . .”

I took another gulp of water. “Stepan can get in anywhere. He can create a crossroads—which means he can teleport anywhere. They’re holding him and his girlfriend hostage. He robbed Rick’s Flaming Ribs two nights ago, and Macy’s last night. They can get in and out everywhere. You’re not safe here.”

            I’d looked up Caldrone before coming here. He’d been implicated in 23 murders, but never indicted, let alone convicted. Other Outfit leaders had gone to jail, but he was still standing—maybe the last one.

            But other groups were always jockeying for power. The street gangs, the Russian mob, and even some of the up-and-coming members of the Outfit, which wasn’t dead yet, and probably never would be. Where’s Mack Bolan when you need him?

            I waited for Caldrone’s laugh. Instead he took another sip of scotch and set his glass down. The young woman immediately poured more.

            Caldrone crossed his arms. “I have lots of enemies. That happens when you’re a successful businessman. But I;m not going anywhere. I didn’t get here by running away.”

            Schaffer rolled his eyes. “If you’re determined to stay, I can offer you police protection—”

            “Oh, god, yes!” Now Caldrone laughed. “Bring them all. But remember that I have legal firearms here, and I’m going to protect myself. Michael?”

            The guy at the table stood up. “Yeah, Henry? Oh.” He pulled his blazer open—revealing a handgun in a shoulder holster.

            Schaffer stiffened. “I guess that’s your right. As long as we check his license for concealed carry. But he can’t just start shooting when our people are in the room.”

            “I’m a taxpayer. I expect protection.” Caldrone leaned forward. “Who is trying to kill me?”

            He was looking at me. I shook my head. “Glick and Jewell. I don’t know who hired them, and Stepan doesn’t know either. I’m only trying to help him, and his girlfriend. And you.”

            He smiled. “I’m grateful, Mr. Jurgen.”

            Michael sat down again. Schaffer relaxed. A little.

            Caldrone leaned back. “Bring your police, Detective Schaffer. I don’t want to die. But, as a favor . . .” He trained his eyes on me again, like a cat deciding whether a mouse was worth chasing. “I want you here too.”

            “Uhh . . .” I looked at Rachel. “Sure.”

            She kicked my ankle.

            “I’ll pay for your time, of course.” Caldrone smiled. “You’re a businessman, just like me.”

            Not just like him. But what could I say? “Thank you, sir.”

            “We’ll see you tonight, Mr. Caldrone. Thanks for your cooperation.” Schaffer patted my shoulder. “Let’s go.”

            In the elevator Rachel punched my ribs. “Are you crazy? You’re going to stake out a murder? I don’t even know you.”

            “You don’t really have to show up, Jurgen.” Schaffer watched the numbers descend over the door. “It’s against policy, anyway.”

            “I know.” I rubbed my side. “But I took the job—”

            “You haven’t even cashed her check!”

            “Yeah, but I was hired to find Stepan. Maybe this is the best way to do that.” I shrugged. “And then I can cash Jody’s check.”

            “And Caldrone’s check?” She shivered. “What was with that chick in the miniskirt, anyway? And don’t tell me you weren’t checking out her legs.”

            They were nice legs. “I’ll donate his check to charity.”

            “If you get out of it alive.” She looked up. We were close to the ground floor.

            I nodded. “I’ll sign it over to you the minute I get it.”

            “Fine.” The elevator doors opened. “Good thing you made leftovers yesterday.”

Crossroads, Part Five

At 11:30 that night I was kneeling inside Caldrone’s huge kitchen, my heart pounding as we waited for the attack.

            Schaffer was next to me, crouching behind a wIde granite-topped island with his back to a stainless steel dishwasher. We both wore Kevlar vests. Mine was strapped tight, and I had trouble breathing quietly, but this didn’t seem like the right time to complain.

 Two cops in full body armor hid inside the main living room behind the couch, shotguns ready.

I’d convinced Rachel to stay home, in case Stepan Milos or Jody Hopper showed up again with more information. “Fine.” She’d punched me. “Don’t expect me to give the eulogy at your funeral.” But she’d kissed me. So we were good.

Caldrone was in his bedroom, in pajamas and watching TV. “I’ve dealt with punks like this before,” he’d told Schaffer.

At least he’d sent his household away—his wife Marta, his bodyguard Michael, the miniskirted woman whose named turned out to be April, and his cooking staff, although they’d left snacks behind.

Caldrone had two sons who didn’t live here. He also had a small arsenal of handguns—all legally owned, apparently. He’d shown us licenses, but agreed to lock them up.

“You believe him?” I’d whispered to Schaffer.

He snorted.

Now we were waiting. I grabbed a mini-crab cake from the tray on the floor, and took a small sip of Perrier.

“Pace yourself.” Schaffer out a hand on my shoulder. “I had a 23-hour stakeout once. We could be here a long time.”

Yeah, thanks. I nodded. “Good thing I went to the bathroom earlier.”

He snorted. “Keep an empty bottle handy.”

We waited. Midnight. One o’clock. I restrained the urge to check my email or start playing games on my phone. Schaffer leaned back against the dishwasher, stretching his arms. I ate some more crab cakes. Caldrone’s cooking staff was good.

Schaffer nudged me. “Don’t fall asleep on me here.”

“Wha? Who?” I sat up. “Not asleep. Just . . . okay, thanks.”

“You shouldn’t be here.” He leaned his head from side to side, cracking his neck. “No matter what Caldrone says.”

“I’m just glad you’re here with me, detective.” I took another swig of Perrier.

“Just don’t do anything stupid. You know what Sharpe’s like when she’s pissed.”

I nodded. “All too well.”

“Uh, Schaffer?” A low voice came through the radio mounted on his shoulder. “I think we’ve got some action here.”

Schaffer lurched up. “Stay behind me, Jurgen.”

I grabbed one last crab cake and stood up, my legs half-asleep from sitting down too long. “Yeah. Way far back.”

In the center of the living room the blazing silver light swirled around, bigger than I’d ever seen it before. It knocked over the table next to Caldrone’s chair, and threw off sparks that sank to the plush carpet, burning black before they could start a fire.

Then the sizzling light evaporated, leaving three people inside its aura: Glick, Jewell, and Stephan Milos.

“All right.” Glick rocked on his feet as he yanked his handgun from his jacket. “Let’s go find him.”

Jewell nodded. “And then get out of here—”

“FREEZE, ASSHOLES!” The two armored cops rose up from behind the couch, their shotguns poised.

Stepan jumped back, his arms high. “I’m unarmed! They made me do it! Don’t shoot me!”

“Drop your weapons.” Schaffer held his Glock with two hands. “No one has to get hurt here."

They froze for a moment. Then Glick twisted around. “You asshole! You sold us out?” He pointed his handgun at Stepan.

Schaffer fired. Two shots. Glick dropped to the carpet, groaning.

Jewell knelt, hands over his head. “All right, all right! I give up! I surrender!”

Then Caldrone was in the room, wearing a red silk bathrobe, a small snubnosed handgun in his fist. “Is everything under control?”

“Please put down your weapon, sir.” It was one of the armored police. “I think we’ve got this handled.”

Caldrone let his arm sink and dropped his weapon. But he stared at Jewell. “Tell your friends. You don’t come into my house. Let them know.”

He turned and walked away.

I followed Schaffer into the living room. Stepan was on his knees too, and one of the cops was frisking him. “Stepan? It’s me. Tom Jurgen. Where’s your girlfriend?”

“I don’t . . . I don’t . . .” He closed his eyes. “Sorry. I have to do it—”

Another silver streak rose toward the ceiling, whirling around his body. He looked up, his arms trembling, and then the fiery column burst—more sparks across the carpet as it faded away.

Schaffer was on his radio. “We have a wounded man who needs immediate assistance! Another suspect in custody!” One of the cops was cuffing Jewell. Glick moaned on the floor, still bleeding. The other cop had a first-aid kit hanging from his hip. He started trying stop the bleeding.

My phone vibrated in my pants. Schaffer glared at me. I shrugged and answered. “Rach?”

“They were just here.” She was breathless. “Stepan and his girlfriend. But they’re gone. But he left a key.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Just . . . ‘Thanks.’”

I sighed. Maybe it was too much to expect him to stick around for the trials. “Okay. Thanks for—”

            “Are you okay, you idiot?” Her shout pounded my ear. “I’m sitting here waiting for you to—”

            “I’m fine. I’m . . . fine.” I looked at Glick on the floor. “We stopped it. The cops have them. I guess I can cash that check now.”

            “Are they going to let you come home soon?”

            The door burst open as an EMT team came through the door. Schaffer pointed. “Here. He’s been shot. By me.”

            I sagged against a cabinet. “I don’t know.”

I got home around dawn. Rachel was snoozing on the couch. I grabbed a Coke from the fridge and sat down next to her, resting a hand on her arm.

            She shot up. “What happened?”

            I told her everything. The hours waiting in the kitchen, the crab cakes, the Perrier—then the crossroads, and Schaffer shooting Glick. And Stepan vanishing.

            “Yeah, well, he showed up here. At least I had clothes on this time.” She pointed a finger. “There’s the key.”

            It sat on the table in front of the couch. I picked it up.

            Rachel slugged my shoulder. “Don’t you dare.”

            I dropped it. “I don’t even know how. I just ought to give it back to Dr. Hanisch.”

            “Yeah.” Rachel stood and stretched. “Can we go to bed now? I’ve got work in the morning. Oh wait, it is morning.” She sat down again. “This is all your fault.”

            I put my arm around her shoulder. “Did they say anything else?”

            “Something about going to Cabo.” Rachel snuggled against my neck. “We should go there sometime.”

            “Sure.” I patted her arm. “Soon.”

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