Chicago's Most Wanted
by Speranza
Author's Notes: For author's notes please click HERE.
PART ONE
Damn that noise. Ray clicked off the tape recorder, took two quick paces to the window, and slammed the sash down. The howls and chants of the protesters subsided to a dull roar.
Ray scanned the crowd, which seemed to have grown some since he'd last checked. There were a couple of new signs, too, bobbing and weaving on the ends of sticks. A bunch of uniformed officers were quickly assembling barricades, trying to keep the entrance to the station clear—and fuck, there was that damn WCTV van again. Didn't those guys ever stop?
Ray groaned and turned around, bracing his ass back against the sill and rubbing idly at his eyes. "And if you have any suggestions for dealing with that, Fraser," he said with a sigh, "I'd just love to hear 'em."
Fraser was sitting quietly at the interrogation room table, head bowed, fingers laced in front of him. He was sitting up straight, as if good posture could somehow compensate for his casual clothes. "Um. Not at the moment, I'm afraid." He looked up and met Ray's eyes. "Ray, I am sorry. I am so very sorry."
Ray shook his head, moved away from the window, and dropped into his chair. "Let's just get this over with already. We gotta do it, let's do it. Where were we?" He reached over, snapped the tape recorder back on, and took a deep breath. "Third robbery. Samstel Corporation. Date, haul, disbursement. Date?"
Fraser's head dropped miserably. "The 14th of June."
"Haul?" Ray repeated mechanically.
"About...two million." Fraser stared intently at the metal table top. "Two million and forty-seven thousand, to be exact. The two million was in bearer bonds. The forty-seven thousand was in cash, from the lock box in the safe."
"And where's the cash now?" Ray asked for the record, even though he knew.
"The cash has been turned over to the authorities. The bonds..." Fraser trailed off, then collected himself and tried again. "The bonds are..." Fraser looked up and met Ray's eyes.
Ray groaned and slumped forward onto the table. "Christ, turn it off, turn it off..."
Fraser silently stretched out an arm and clicked off the tape recorder. He still had smudges of ink on his fingertips.
"What a mess, what a fucking mess..." Even through the double-paned glass Ray could hear the chanting from outside. Let! Him! Go! / He's! Our! Hee-ro!—which was annoying the first time he'd heard it, and was now on the verge of driving him postal.
"Ray. Ray, I'm sorry," Fraser said for what had to be the thirtieth time this half hour.
"You just have to be so damn good at everything, don't you?" Ray muttered into the table.
"Well," Fraser said tactfully, "you did catch me, Ray."
Ray lifted his head and glared at him. "You stole thirty-two million dollars, Fraser."
Fraser coughed and looked away. "Well—thirty-seven actually. And change. You missed about five million or so." Fraser flexed his tightly laced fingers a couple of times and bit nervously at the corner of his lower lip. "I was going to point that out, Ray, really. At a...well, at a more appropriate time."
Fraser flexed his fingers again, and Ray frowned. "Are you jonesing again?"
Fraser shook his head, but his knuckles were white. "No, I'm fine."
"You can smoke in here. If you need to." Ray sat up, pulled a pack of Marlboros from his pocket, and slid it across the table. "We let you do that before we take you out and shoot you."
Fraser shook his head again, more firmly this time. "Please. Let's just go on."
"You shouldn't stop cold turkey," Ray objected.
Fraser stared grimly down at his hands. "I started cold turkey."
Ray sighed. "You can't start cold turkey, Fraser; cold turkey is for stopping—"
"Ray," Fraser said, squeezing his eyes shut. "Please. Go on."
"I can't," Ray mumbled, surprising himself; he hadn't known he was going to say that. He launched himself out of his chair and began to pace. "I can't do this, Fraser. You wanna talk conflict of interest? I have got conflict of interest up the proverbial wazoo."
Fraser's eyes were open now; Fraser's head was moving slowly, tracking him back and forth across the narrow room. "Ray, you have to, it has to be you. I couldn't possibly confess to anyone else—"
Ray felt like punching the wall, would have punched the wall, except he might find a dead body or something, which would make this day even worse. "Talk to Huey. Talk to Welsh. Talk to anybody but me, here, Fraser—"
"It's your case, Ray," Fraser said quietly.
Ray wheeled on him and exploded, "I know it's my case—of course it's my case! Which is why I'm going to be fired and you're going to be deported—"
"Ray, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry—" Fraser whispered.
"—and we're all of us going to be sued to holy heaven and," Ray yelled, "and—and—and how on earth are we gonna tell the Little Sisters that we need that two million back?!"
PART TWO
"Seriously, it's a great idea," Ray insisted, banging on Welsh's desk for emphasis. "You know what Fraser's like: he's a wonder. Two days in a cell with Fraser and Carlo will be spilling his guts, I swear—if only just to get Fraser to shut up."
Welsh was already shaking his head. "I don't like the idea of using Constable Fraser for this. He's not CPD—"
"Which is why it's perfect," Ray interrupted. "Carlo knows everybody around here—we've all had our run-ins with the slimy little fuck. Except Fraser—Carlo doesn't know Fraser from Adam Bede. So we put Fraser in stripes, stick him in there—dollars to donuts Carlo tells him where Vito is. I'd bet my badge on it."
"I think you are just slightly underestimating the complexity of this situation," Welsh said pointedly. "For instance, Constable Fraser does not strike me as having any particular talent for undercover work."
Ray grinned and popped a toothpick into his mouth. "Thought of that already, got it all worked out. It's all about getting the right cover story, giving Fraser something to say that Fraser can say without not being Fraser. I got a whole scenario figured—trust me, it's perfect."
"Why don't we just pull in someone from another precinct?" Welsh insisted. "A pro, a professional—an American—"
Ray felt his head start to throb. "Because then I lose control of the case! This is my case, this is my case, I put in all the legwork on this one—or me and Fraser did, anyway. So why does some Johnny Come Lately get to swan in at the eleventh hour? Then later I got to sit through—what?—some sort of press conference where we talk about 'collaborative policing'—blah-blah and bite me. Just let me put Fraser in there and get the fuck through already." Ray could see Welsh waffling and went in for the kill. "I am this close, I am this close!—a couple more days and I could have Vito right in there with Carlo. Reuniting a family, makes me all sentimental inside, like a bad TV movie. And then the press conference says, 'The 2-7 has successfully brought down the Salmonelli brothers....'"
"All right. Christ. All right," Welsh said, blowing out a breath, and Ray threw a fist in the air and whirled around in a tight little circle. "Three days, Vecchio—Fraser goes in there for three days. And I had better not live to regret this—anything goes wrong, and it's your ass in the sling, you hear me?"
"Oh, come on!" Ray said, flinging his arms out. "Seriously! What could go wrong?"
Carlo Salmonelli shoved the headset of his Walkman down off his ears and around his neck. "That is your bed, okay?" He pointed at the cot across the cell, neatly made with its gray blanket and dingy white sheets. "So you just fucking stay there, all right? The rest of this cell is mine."
Fraser clutched his book to his chest and looked around from his vantage point near the cell door. "That doesn't seem quite fair."
"Life isn't fair." Carlo was slumped against the wall near the head of his cot, his face sullen and twisted into what seemed like a permanent scowl. He was a relatively young man, certainly younger than Fraser himself, but his unpleasant expression made him look older, and distorted what might have otherwise been pleasant features. "'Specially not in here, okay? Learn to live with it."
Fraser nodded slowly and crossed the small cell to his bed. "There is some merit to that position, I suppose." He sat down on the bed and then pushed himself backwards, until he was sitting, cross-legged, with his back to the wall. "Still," Fraser mused, "that phrase has broader implications than most people realize. Because life isn't fair, we sometimes get better than we deserve, do we not?"
Carlo's eyes narrowed. "First time in prison?"
Fraser showed him a smile. "No, I'm afraid this is a return visit for me."
"Huh." Carlo looked Fraser up and down. "You got money?"
"No," Fraser replied.
"Cigarettes?"
"I'm afraid not," Fraser replied. Carlo's face collapsed further into sullen disappointment, and so Fraser added: "They did, however, allow me to bring in a book from the outside. I confess I made my selection based on length as well as on quality." He reached into his lap and held up the thick, hardbound book. "Dante—and this volume has the entire trilogy, which is handy. Of course, I'd be happy to share...."
Carlo sighed and closed his eyes. "Great. So what are you in for?"
"Fraud," Fraser replied promptly, stifling a smile. Ray's plan really had been terribly clever. "Misrepresentation. Impersonation. In other words, I'm something of a con artist, I'm afraid."
Carlo opened one eye and peered narrowly at him. "Oh yeah?"
"Yes. They put me in prison because I'm an impostor. And something of a compulsive liar. I lie all the time, I lie constantly, I wouldn't know the truth if I fell over it. In fact," Fraser added, now allowing himself the luxury of a smile, "I could be lying to you right now." Which was, of course, strictly the truth—oh, clever Ray.
For the first time, Carlo looked genuinely interested. "So you swindle people?"
"In a manner of speaking, yes," Fraser admitted. "Certainly, I have tried to convince people that I am other than what I am."
"Were you any good?" Carlo asked.
"Oh, I was very good. I am very good. It's how I've managed to stay out of prison. I find that if you're good," Fraser added earnestly, "you generally don't go to prison."
"Yeah, so what went wrong this time?" Carlo sat up and leaned forward, his hands dangling between his bent knees. "You fuck up, or what?"
"No," Fraser sighed, "I'm afraid that I was set up. Framed by the police. They didn't have a shred of evidence against me, I assure you."
Carlo was nodding grimly. "Yeah, well, the cops are bastards."
"Well, they certainly don't mind putting innocent people into prison on occasion, that's for sure," Fraser said, and smiled at Carlo again.
"'La bufera infernal, che mai non resta, mena li spirti con la sua rapina; voltando e percotendo li molesta. Quando giungon—'"
"Wait," Carlo said, and Fraser looked up from the page. "Bufera? Is that wind?"
Fraser nodded. "Whirlwinds, more precisely—but yes. 'The infernal whirlwinds—'"
"'—which never rest,'" Carlo said softly, "'drive the ghosts before their'—uh..."
"'Violent power,'" Fraser finished, and then considered that for a moment. "It's a metaphor for lust, I believe."
"Racy shit there," Carlo said appreciatively. "I like it. Keep going."
"All right," Fraser said agreeably, and turned back to the book. "'Quando giungon davanti a la ruina, quivi le strida, il compianto, il lamento—'"
"Wait, hang on!" Carlo said, raising a hand. "What the fuck—that's not nice!"
Fraser coughed. "Well, no, it isn't—no. Dante's not very supportive of lust."
"But he's torturing those guys. And for what?" Carlo demanded.
"It only gets worse, I'm afraid. 'Intesi ch'a cosi fatto tormento enno dannati i peccator carnali, che la ragion sommettono al talento.'"
"'To torment were damned the carnal sinners, who put their reason second to lust,'" Carlo translated with satisfaction, and then he fell silent. "Still, though. Seems fucking unfair if you ask me."
"Well, it is a bit, yes." Fraser looked across the cell at Carlo, who was lying flat on his bunk, staring meditatively at the ceiling. "Should I go on?"
"Yeah. Sure. Hey," Carlo added, looking over at Fraser, "do you believe in ghosts?"
"Oh yes," Fraser replied firmly. "Absolutely."
Carlo propped himself up on his elbows. "What about hell? Do you believe in hell?"
Fraser thought about this for a moment or two. "I don't know," he said finally. "I'm not sure."
"Me neither," Carlo said, but he looked nervous.
The dinner siren began to blare at twenty minutes to six. Fraser winced at the noise, marked his place with a slip of paper, and set the book down. Five minutes later the automatic doors clicked open. The inmates stepped out of their cells and began drifting down the hallway toward the cafeteria.
The room was already crowded and loud with rough, male voices. Fraser picked up a metal tray and joined the line. A row of bored-looking men wearing masks and plastic gloves glopped various beige-colored foods onto his tray, but the meal seemed nutritious if not particularly appetizing.
Carlo waved him over, and Fraser gratefully accepted a seat at his table. He ate quietly, listening to the conversation of the other men, trying to get a sense of his fellow prisoners. Osserling was a medium security facility, so the most violent inmates were quartered elsewhere, but the men still seemed to run the gamut in terms of temperament. Some were sitting together peaceably, making quiet dinner conversation; others were more raucous, yelling and laughing. Some men didn't seem to be able to sit still at all, as if a live electrical current were surging through their bodies, jerking them around like aggressive puppets.
As Fraser was finishing his meal, Carlo nudged his arm and said: "Baseball tonight."
"Oh really?" Fraser asked. "Who's playing?"
"We are. It's a pick-up game—when it's hot like this they let us go out, play a little ball. Better than being trapped in this goddamned oven."
"Oh. Oh, I see. That sounds very pleasant." Fraser stood up, taking his tray with him. "But I need to make a telephone call first. I need to, um, call my brother."
Carlo nodded and took a swig out of a tin cup. "Well, the game's in Yard B. Ask someone in the rec room, they'll tell you where to go. Game starts at seven."
"I'll be there," Fraser said, just as the end of meal siren began to sound.
Ray swiped the phone off the breakfast counter on the first ring. "Yeah, yeah, I'll accept the charges," he told the operator and then quickly said: "Fraser? Is that you, are you there?"
Fraser's voice was oddly tinny, but he sounded all right otherwise. "Yes, I'm here and I'm fine, Ray."
"Okay, good. Good." Ray drifted across the living room and sat down on the sofa. "How's life on the inside?"
"Very nice," Fraser replied. "In fact, at the moment, it's something of a holiday."
Ray grinned and put his feet up on the coffee table; only Fraser would find prison life soft. "Oh yeah?"
"Well, I have a semi-private room with en suite toilet and a good book. I'm being adequately fed, I don't have to do any washing up, and I now have the choice between television, cards, or baseball." Ray could hear the smile in Fraser's voice. "In fact, I may not come back, Ray."
"What about Carlo, how you doing with Carlo?" Ray asked.
"I'm doing well, I think. We appear to be bonding over a mutual love of classical Italian literature."
Ray burst out laughing. "Oh yeah, of course you are. Should've figured that. The classic Italian literature thing works every time—why didn't I think of that?"
"Is Dief all right?" Fraser asked.
"Dief is fine," Ray reported. "I called Turnbull to check—figured you'd ask."
"Thank you, Ray." Fraser sounded moved, and Ray was instantly glad he'd thought to do it. "And you—you're all right?"
"I'm fine, Fraser. I'm not in prison, remember?" Ray waved his hand around idly. "I'm here in my own home."
"I'd venture to say that I'm in a somewhat safer environment," Fraser replied.
"You got a point there." Ray put his feet back on the floor and bent forward, speaking intently into the phone. "Seriously—be careful, okay? Watch your back. It's always the ones you least expect, do not forget that."
"I won't. And I will be careful, Ray—I promise."
Ray felt oddly reluctant to hang up the phone, to sever their connection. "Call me tomorrow, all right?" he said finally. "Same time?"
"Same time," Fraser confirmed. "Yes, Ray. Certainly."
Fraser found his way to Exercise Yard B with little trouble. He pushed out the door into the cool night air and saw the brightly lit diamond, the players on the field, the men gathering on the bleachers. He took a seat behind the foul line and settled in to watch the game.
Quite by accident, Fraser caught a foul ball that had been hit in his direction. Gamely, he stood up and threw it back to the mound—and to his surprise, he was drafted to play third base at the beginning of the next inning. He put up a token protest, but apparently such mid-game replacements were common; two innings later, the other team tossed their first baseman and pulled another spectator off the sidelines to replace him.
Fraser tried to focus on playing well, and so the next time he really took account of his surroundings was when he was sent up to bat. Carlo was still sitting behind the foul line, and as Fraser watched, Carlo leaned over to say something to another man, then gestured toward him with his cigarette. And then the pitcher yelled something and Fraser turned his attention back to the game, getting into his stance and hefting his bat.
His first turn at bat, Fraser hit a triple; on his second attempt, he was directed by the pitcher to bunt, which he managed very creditably. Fraser handed off the bat and had nearly reached the makeshift dugout when he heard the shouting and saw that the catcher and the next batter were roughly shoving at each other.
He ran back across the field, reaching home plate just as the batter raised the bat, presumably to bash the catcher's head in. Fraser grabbed the man around the chest and heaved backwards, so that the bat sliced down harmlessly through empty air.
To his surprise, the batter shook him off and wheeled on him, red-faced and furious. "Fuck you! Whose side are you on, anyway?"
Fraser ducked away from the bat, which glanced off his shoulder. His own punch connected solidly, and the other man reeled, stumbled, and crashed down hard into the dirt.
The catcher took an aggressive step toward him. "So, what are you, a tough guy?" Fraser stepped backwards and raised his hands, attempting to placate. A circle of men—players and spectators both—began to form around them.
"I'm not interested in fighting you," Fraser said.
"Oh yeah?" the catcher retorted. "Well, I'm interested in kicking your ass." He lunged forward, fists raised; Fraser dodged the blow easily. But any possible retreat was blocked by the wall of men, who were now clearly interested in the outcome of the fight.
Reluctantly, Fraser took a deep breath and raised his fists.
The catcher was a big man, but his very bulk made him clumsy. Fraser circled him carefully, avoiding his blows and looking for a clean, clear opening. It didn't take long—the man was no boxer—and Fraser jabbed out with his fist in a clean uppercut to the jaw, knocking him out cold.
Fraser heard a murmur of approval from the crowd and turned around, relieved. A dark, grinning face and another pair of raised fists greeted him.
"Oh, come now," Fraser said and sighed. "This is just...." But the other man's grin merely grew wider, and the spectators pressed closer—apparently baseball wasn't the only sport where competitors could be instantly drawn from the sidelines.
"Really. I'm not interested in fighting you," Fraser insisted, moving slowly backwards as the man moved steadily forward. "Any of you," he added, looking around. "I cede the fight. I acknowledge you the winner. The match is yours."
A tall blond man with a sallow complexion laughed and shook his head. "Sorry, guy—it doesn't work that way," and then Fraser felt a pair of hands at his back, pushing him forward into the makeshift ring.
Fine, Fraser thought blindly. Fine, then. He raised his fists and took two quick steps forward, careful to keep his weight evenly balanced. It took three punches and a broken nose to wipe the grin off his opponent's face, and Fraser was breathing hard and sweating a little when he finally turned around. "All right—who's next?"
This time there was a bit more hesitation, and some whispered consultation, before a wiry, bald man stepped into the circle.
Fraser raised his fists. "Ready?"
The bald man showed him a vicious smile; he was missing a few teeth. "Are you ready?"
"Oh, I'm ready," Fraser replied firmly, and cracked his neck.
To his surprise, the bald man just lunged at him, grabbing him around the waist and toppling them both down into the dirt. Hardly Queensbury rules, but Fraser managed to roll them over and land a solid punch in the man's right eye just as he felt a hand pulling viciously on his hair. Out of nowhere, Fraser saw a glint of metal and heard someone yell, "Knife!"—
—and perhaps this was where community rules set in, because suddenly they were in a sea of bodies, and there were hands grabbing at him and grabbing at the bald man and pulling them apart, and Fraser was surrounded by striped arms and legs and some of them were blue—guards—uniforms—and he turned his head and—
His eyes hurt; the light was too bright. He squeezed his eyelids shut, twisted his face away, and abruptly the light clicked off. Carefully, he opened his eyes and saw a gray-haired man peering down at him curiously, the penlight still in his hand. "Are you all right, son?"
"I—yes, I think so." His tongue felt surprisingly thick in his mouth, and he swallowed a couple of times and tried to clear his throat.
"Do you know where you are?"
He looked around surreptitiously; saw the metal cart full of medical supplies, saw the nurse waiting for instructions at the foot of his bed. "In hospital?" he ventured.
The doctor smiled faintly. "Yes, but where?"
He tried to think; where was he? He realized he hadn't the faintest idea; his brain felt as thick as his tongue. It also seemed to be pounding, and gingerly he reached up. His fingertips made contact with the rough cotton bandage just as the doctor said, "You've taken a pretty nasty blow to the head. Baseball has been suspended pending investigation—which is a shame, really. It's not summer without baseball."
Baseball? Was he—a baseball player? Why on earth had he been playing baseball?
"Let's start with something simple," the doctor said genially. "Can you tell me your name?"
"Certainly, yes, of course," he said, and then realized with a pang of fear that he couldn't. "I'm— I—"
The doctor must have sensed his panic. "It's all right, don't worry—it's not unusual. There's often a period of disorientation after a concussion. I'm sure your memory will return any moment now." He picked a clipboard out of his lap, pulled a pen out of his breast pocket, and began scribbling notes.
"Where...am I?"
The doctor answered without looking up. "Osserling Penitentiary. You were knocked out in a yard fight—though apparently you took down four other inmates before somebody clocked you, so well done. Wish I'd had money on you."
The world went fuzzy with shock. Osserling Penitentiary? Fighting? Four other men? He felt totally disoriented, utterly lost. "Are you...sure?"
The doctor's head jerked up, and he was smiling. "Of course I'm sure."
"I'm in prison?" he repeated numbly. "What...what did I do?"
"I don't know," the doctor said, absently jotting down a last note. "I can pull your sheet if you like. Might be a good idea, in fact—jog the old memory." He signed his name with a flourish and hung the clipboard back on its hook. "I'm going to keep you here for the night," he added, standing up. "Under observation. Get a good night's sleep, and we'll see how you are in the morning."
"I—uh. All right."
"I'll get the nurse to bring you your records," the doctor said as he moved away to continue his rounds. "It should make for interesting bedtime reading."
And indeed it did. Apparently his name was Ben Fraser, and he'd been arrested for—dear God. Fraud. A string of burglaries. Resisting arrest. Assault on an officer. His head pounded, making it difficult to read the tiny computer print. Arrested last month, tried, sentenced to ten years at Osserling—ten years?! The paper grayed out momentarily in front of his face. Ten years. Inside for ten years? No freedom for ten years? Even with parole for good behavior he'd have to serve at least three—
—and dear God, how did he know that? How did he know that a ten year sentence could be commuted to three?
It was true, he realized; it must all be true. His name was Ben Fraser, he was a criminal, he was in prison.... He blinked a couple of times and stared down again at his rap sheet. Fraud. Burglary. Assault. Arresting officer: Ray Vecchio, 27th Precinct—and the name rang a faint bell.
Ray Vecchio. Familiar...a glimmer of a memory...who was Ray Vecchio?
The arresting officer, Ben reminded himself. It's right in front of your face, there in black and white. That's why you remember—you would remember someone like that, wouldn't you. Except he didn't quite remember Ray Vecchio—couldn't put a face to the name, couldn't remember being arrested, couldn't remember being tried or sentenced or anything much at all.
Ben put the rap sheet down on the bedside table, leaned back, and closed his eyes. He needed to calm down, relax, let his brain heal and his memories flood back to him. His name was Ben Fraser.... He was in Osserling Penitentiary.... He was a fraud and a burglar.... He was serving a ten year sentence.... He'd been arrested by Ray Vecchio...
...except that wasn't right somehow...
On the verge of falling asleep, he thought, stupidly: "Kowalski."
"So," the doctor said the next morning, "do you know who you are?"
Ben paused in the act of buttoning his shirt. "I'm Ben Fraser," he said, and it came off his tongue easily enough, like he'd been saying it all his life, which he supposed he had. "I'm serving a ten year sentence for burglary."
The doctor grinned at him and extended his hand. Ben took it and they shook. "Nice to meet you, Ben. I take it your memory's back?"
"It's coming back, I think." Ben frowned, trying to concentrate. "I remember some of yesterday...but just bits and flashes, really. I'm still sketchy on details." He finished buttoning his shirt and then looked up at the doctor with a frown: "Does the name Kowalski mean anything to you?"
The doctor tilted his head and considered this. "Stanley Kowalski?"
"Yes!" Ben said instantly, feeling his heart lift. Except—no, that was wrong. "No. Yes. No." It was right but it was wrong—but it was right somehow. "Who's Stanley Kowalski?"
"He's a character from A Streetcar Named Desire," the doctor replied with a wry grin. "I think you've scrambled your eggs a little, son. I'd spend most of today lying down if I were you."
Ben hesitated just inside his cell—dear God, these were close quarters, airless, stinking of disinfectant and urine. He felt a sudden horror at having to spend the day here...and then realized with surging dread that this would be the first of many days, the first day of thousands...
His cellmate looked up from his book. Dante, Ben noticed; apparently he'd been paired with the local intellectual. The man laid the book aside and greeted him. "Hey, you're back. How's the head?"
"It's...all right," Ben said carefully. "I—uh—I'm sorry, I've forgotten your name."
His cellmate barked out a laugh. "Whoa, hard knock there, huh?"
Ben crossed the narrow cell to his bunk. "Yes," he admitted, sitting down slowly. "It appears so."
"Still, though—you were great," his cellmate said with some enthusiasm. "You took out Kimball and Franklin and Jackson and Durnell before the bastards clubbed you. You got great fighting form." He raised his fists and took a couple of mock jabs at the air.
Ben could feel his headache coming back and closed his eyes. "I'm sorry—what's your name again?"
"Carlo," Carlo said. "Carlo Salmonelli."
"Carlo, yes, of course." Ben lay back on his cot and draped an arm over his eyes.
He heard the creak of metal springs as Carlo got up and came over. "Wow, you really don't remember nothing, huh?"
Ben moved his arm off his face and stared up at him. "Not a lot, no. And what I do remember isn't very encouraging. They tell me I've been sentenced to ten years."
"Hey, that's nothing," Carlo said, sitting down at the foot of the bed. "Me, I'm here for twenty—but I figure with good behavior, I can cut it down to seven. You'll be out in three if you watch yourself."
Three years...he couldn't stand to be caged up here for three years; he felt like the walls were closing in on him, like the stale air was choking him.
"I won't make it," Ben said quietly. "I'll go crazy."
Carlo shrugged. "Well, you ain't got much choice, pal, so you'd better chill out about it."
Ben felt anger rising up from deep within him. "Who says I don't have a choice?"
Carlo raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Uh—the guards, and their guns, and—"
Guards...guns...he could face down guards and guns, he knew he could. "I'm getting out of here," Ben said, sitting up abruptly.
Carlo rolled his eyes at him. "Whattaya gonna do, Ben—escape?"
"I bet I could," Ben said, narrowing his eyes.
"You said you were a con artist, not an escape artist."
"Maybe I lied," Ben said softly. "I lie a lot. I lie all the time—my rap sheet says so."
"Ben." Carlo shook his head sadly. "It ain't so easy, believe me. First you gotta get through that door—"
"Not a problem," Ben said.
"—past the guard at the end of the block—"
"Piece of cake," Ben said.
"—and then outside, over the wall, past the towers—" Carlo stopped suddenly and squinted at him. "You really think you can escape?"
"I'm sure of it," Ben replied. "The security here, as I remember it, strikes me as remarkably lax."
Carlo stared blankly at him for a moment, and then suddenly his face split into a warm grin that made him look ten years younger. "Hey, can I come?"
"Certainly," Ben replied. "Why not?"
Carlo laughed, reached into his shirt pocket, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. "Okay, so tell me the plan," he said, putting a cigarette into his mouth and lighting up. He extended the pack to Ben, who hesitated for a moment, then shrugged and took one. "How, where, when?"
"Today. At lunch." Ben took the lighter from Carlo's hand, flicked it, took a tentative puff, coughed. "We'll do it at lunch, right in the middle of the day, when things are most chaotic. Listen carefully: here's what we'll do..."
The bullpen went totally nuts around 1:00. Shots had been fired at the 34th Annual Mascots Convention, currently being held at the Chicago Hilton. Huey and Dewey, the first officers on the scene, had been unable to sort out the source of the trouble, and so had simply decided to arrest everybody they could lay their hands on.
Now Ray found himself arguing with a man dressed as a giant moose. "I am the Chairman of the United Mascots Association," the moose declared.
"I don't give a fuck who you are," Ray retorted. "Tell it to your mother."
"This has all been a terrible mistake," the moose insisted. "We are not violent people—"
"Maybe you ain't, Moose-man, but Binky over there," Ray pointed at a giant kangaroo, "had a Glock semiautomatic in her pouch, and Fishy-Dude, Giant Bear, and Donkey Guy are all carrying unregistered handguns. Plus Chicken Lady just has a bad fucking attitude."
The moose sighed. "Yes, we know—we've sent her to Anger Management classes, but they don't seem to have had much of an effect."
"Yeah, well, I'm thinking about a field trip to KFC." The phone rang and Ray snatched it up. "Vecchio—what?"
"Detective Vecchio, this is Warden Judy Kramer down at Osserling—"
Ray frowned and put a finger into his other ear to block out some of the noise. "Yeah, what? Is something wrong?"
"You had asked me to report anything unusual regarding Constable Fraser—"
"Hey, Ray?" Dewey asked. "How would you handcuff a shark?"
"Shut up!" Ray yelled, and turned his back on the bullpen. "What's unusual? Is Fraser okay?
"Yes, I believe he's fine. He got into a fight last night—"
Ray felt his insides go cold. "Fight? Did you say fight?"
"—with some of the other prisoners, yes. It's all too common, I'm afraid."
Ray sank down slowly into his desk chair. "Is he all right?"
"He's fine, Detective. He's already been released from the hospital—"
"Hospital?" Ray repeated numbly.
"—and sent back to his cell. It was just a mild concussion, but I thought you'd want to know."
Ray felt his brain whirling: should he pull Fraser out of there? leave him? what kind of fight had Fraser gotten into? Mild concussion—what the fuck was a mild concussion? Could be anything or nothing. "Can you send someone to check on him?" Ray asked.
"Certainly," the warden replied. "He'll be at lunch, I imagine."
"Find him and get him to call me—here at the station. I'm gonna talk this over with my Lieutenant. You just find him, okay?" Ray slammed the phone into its cradle and shoved Mooseman out of the way.
"Ray, seriously," Dewey said despairingly, "how do you cuff a fin?"
Ray burst into Welsh's office and slammed the door behind him. "Fraser's hurt."
Welsh looked up, his broad face instantly creased with concern. "How hurt, where hurt?"
"Concussion, the warden says—and mild, but what the fuck does that mean?" Ray paced nervously in front of Welsh's desk. "Fuck, you were right. I should never have—should we pull him? You think we should pull him?"
Welsh raised his hands. "Vecchio, slow down," he said, "and tell me the story again."
Ray took a deep breath. "Warden Kramer called, said Fraser got into a fight, came out of it with a mild concussion. Bad enough to send him to the hospital, but he's out now and back in the general population. So what do we do?"
Welsh rubbed his forehead. "You talk to him?"
"They're gonna get him to call me," Ray said.
"Go wait for the call," Welsh said, reaching for his own phone. "I'll get the paperwork started—if you want to, we can pull him tonight."
Ben stood on line in the crowded cafeteria with Carlo right behind him. He waited until they were near the end of the line before turning and stumbling a bit, overturning his goop-laden tray onto Carlo's chest.
"Fuck!" Carlo yelled, and shoved his own tray hard at Ben. Mashed potatoes splattered onto his shirt. "What the hell is your problem?" Carlo shouted. "You retarded or something?"
Ben took a step backwards and murmured, "I'm terribly sorry," as he wiped gravy off his chin with the back of his hand.
The other prisoners gave them a wide berth as they stepped out of line toward the trash cans. They scraped their trays into the garbage and wiped globs of spilled food off themselves. Ben jerked his head toward the kitchen, and Carlo nodded once, quickly, shaking potatoes off his hands. Ben watched the pattern of traffic into and out of the kitchen, and when he was sure that all the workers were outside, he darted behind the counter and through the swing doors.
The kitchen was empty; Ben glanced around at the huge ovens with their blinking red lights and timers, at the row of sinks and the industrial dishwashers, and then spied the set of double doors. "Here, quickly," he whispered, and passed into the staff locker room, Carlo at his heels.
"Now! Hurry!" Ben reached for the hem of his prison uniform, pulled it up over his head, wriggled out of his pants. Beside him, Carlo was doing the same thing—and then they were re-dressing themselves rapidly, putting on kitchen scrubs and face masks and plastic gloves.
"The food service industry seems very interesting," Ben mused. "It must take military precision to get hundreds of people nutritiously fed on a regular basis—"
"What about these?" Carlo said in a low voice, picking up their discarded uniforms. "What do we do with these—they're a dead giveaway."
"Hmm." Ben glanced down at the row of lockers, all of which bore combination locks. There were no other obvious hiding places—and then Ben had an idea, and pulled the uniforms out of Carlo's hands. "Follow me," he said, and went back into the kitchen.
On the far side of the kitchen were stacks of large metal catering trays. Ben put two of them onto the counter, folded their uniforms neatly, and used them to line the bottoms. He then put on two oven mitts, went to the stove, and picked up a gigantic vat of pasta.
"What the hell are you doing?" Carlo whispered, watching Ben pour the pasta over the uniforms.
"Making tuna casserole," Ben replied evenly. He moved to the refrigerator, found a large canister of tuna, and ladled it carefully on top of the pasta. "Is there any cheese?"
"Cheese?" Carlo boggled. "Did you say cheese?"
"Yes, cheese," Ben confirmed. "We have carbohydrates, protein, cotton-nylon blend uniforms—a little fat and we'll have all the major food groups represented."
So Carlo found a block of cheese, and together they cut slices and layered them carefully on top. "Actually, that looks pretty good," Carlo said admiringly. "Tuna surprise. You're a lunatic, pal."
There was a frenzied beeping, and two food workers burst in through the swing doors and headed straight for the ovens. "Ah, perfect timing," Ben said, picking up one of the trays. Carlo followed his lead and picked up the other. The workers opened the oven doors and pulled out two steaming trays of mashed potatoes. "Leave the doors open, please," Ben directed, and he and Carlo slid the casseroles into place to cook.
"We're out of beans," one of the workers called to Ben as he backed out the door.
"Coming right up," Ben said, and smiled behind his protective mask.
"What the fuck is taking so long?" Ray demanded, waving away an obviously distressed beaver. "You're a prison—how long can it take to lay your hands on someone?"
"The guards are looking for him in the cafeteria," Warden Kramer said calmly. "You will have to be patient, Detective—we feed over five hundred inmates at a sitting, and there isn't assigned seating."
Ray sighed and shoved a nervous hand through his hair. "Can't you just page him?"
"We don't want to give the impression that we don't know where our inmates are at all times."
"But you don't know where your inmates are all times!" Ray yelled.
"Precisely," Warden Kramer agreed.
"Right, I am coming down there," Ray said, pulling his jacket off the back of his chair. "I am coming down there right now. You find him, you call me on my cell, you got that?"
"Beans?" Ben asked, extending his ladle. "Beans? Beans, for you, sir? The USDA recommends at least five cups of vegetables a day, so I advise you to take advantage."
"Ben," Carlo muttered under his breath; he was spooning out creamed carrots. "Look."
Ben looked up and noticed a number of guards circling through the cafeteria, obviously searching for someone. "Keep calm," Ben answered softly. "Act natural. Beans, sir?"
Ray's cell phone rang as he was speeding down the highway to Osserling; he grabbed it and fumbled it up to his ear. "Fraser?"
"No, this is Judy Kramer again, Detective. I'm just calling to tell you that we're going to conduct a roll-call when third-shift lunch is over; we're having a bit of trouble pulling the needle you want out of this particular haystack."
"For Christ's sake," Ray yelled, "have you searched the goddamned place? You said he had a concussion; he could be collapsed somewhere—"
"Impossible," Warden Kramer said firmly. "Certainly we allow our prisoners some freedom of movement—but not that much freedom of movement. The inmates of Constable Fraser's ward adhere strictly to schedule B. They're in their cells till 1:10; they have lunch from 1:20 until 2:00; they take exercise from 2:00 till 4:00—"
Ray clicked the phone off, dropped it onto the seat beside him, and floored it.
The siren marking the end of lunch went off at 2:00 precisely, and suddenly a number of guards appeared at the cafeteria door with megaphones. "PLEASE PRESENT YOURSELVES FOR INSPECTION. ALL INMATES LINE UP AGAINST THE FAR WALL." The room erupted with loud groans, hisses, and boos, punctuated by shouted profanities.
Carlo shot Ben a look, but Ben just calmly continued to scrape food into the garbage cans. "Ben?"
"Hush," Ben said quietly.
"ALL INMATES LINE UP AGAINST THE FAR WALL," the guards repeated. "NOW! THE SOONER YOU LINE UP, THE SOONER WE CAN ALL GET OUT OF HERE."
"I wonder what the fuck is going on?" a worker muttered. "Christ, I hate this job."
Ben lifted his head. "Have you considered unionizing?"
Carlo joined the group which was ferrying catering trays back into the kitchen while Ben applied himself to scrubbing the counters with steel wool. He watched as the inmates slowly formed themselves into a line and began to shuffle past two guards, who seemed to be checking off their names on a clipboard. Behind him, the kitchen staff were moving efficiently, dispensing with the remains of lunch and getting the kitchen ready for the dinner shift. One worker brought out a mop and bucket, and Ben nodded and began to wash down the floor.
Suddenly the cafeteria door opened and a blond man in a leather jacket appeared, looking tense and vaguely dangerous. As Ben watched, the man began to make his way down the line, looking each prisoner hard in the face. Ben felt his heart start to pound and he stared down at the floor, working the mop more intently. He knew that man. He knew that man. How did he know that man?
"What the fuck!" Ben looked up helplessly, knowing the voice, not knowing how he knew the voice. The man had reached the end of the line and had apparently not discovered the prisoner for whom he was searching—now he flung his arms up in the air, clearly on the verge of exploding in sheer frustration. One of the inmates chose this inopportune moment to chortle—and suddenly the man in the leather jacket had him up against the wall, forearm braced against his throat. "You think this is funny? I don't think this is fucking funny, here, asshole!"
"Ben." Ben looked over, and saw Carlo standing just outside the doors to the kitchen. "C'mon."
"I'm not done yet," Ben replied, dunking his mop back into the bucket.
"Oh, for fuck's sake!" Carlo said in a frantic whisper. "Are you out of your mind?"
"Well begun is half done." Ben sped up, moving the mop back and forth rapidly across the floor, watching as the dangerous man stormed back to the front of the line and started arguing with a well-dressed woman in a navy blue suit.
"Ben, come on!" Carlo begged. Ben nodded, put the mop carefully into the bucket, and followed Carlo back through the swing doors into the kitchen.
The other members of the staff were loading the dishwashers, or pulling off their masks and aprons; a few were shrugging on their jackets and heading off in various directions.
Ben moved to the center of the kitchen, cleared his throat, and announced to nobody in particular: "We're going to go unload the van."
Carlo stepped close and muttered out of the side of his mouth, "What van?"
"Oh, there'll be a van," Ben replied with perfect confidence. "There always is. Follow me." He headed for a door on the far side of the kitchen and then stopped as a voice called out, "Hey you!—wait!"
"Fuck—run! run!" Carlo whispered, shoving hard at his back.
Ben just turned around and asked: "Yes?"
A man took a few steps toward them and said, "You'll need the keys." He reached into his pocket, pulled out a set of keys, and tossed them over. Carlo stared, dumbfounded, as Ben reached up and gracefully snatched them out of the air.
"Thank you kindly," Ben said, and proceeded through the door.
The next room was itself a large refrigerator; the room beyond that was an industrial-sized pantry. The fourth wall of the pantry was a corrugated metal gate; Ben strode over, studied it for a moment, and then reached out and flipped an electrical switch. Slowly, with a grinding, rumbling noise, the gate rolled up; beyond it was a garage and a large white van marked, "Bruno's Meat Products."
"You see?" Ben said triumphantly.
Carlo was already running toward it, hopping up into the driver's side. Ben crossed and got in on the passenger's side, and then dropped the keys into Carlo's outstretched palm. Carlo shoved the key into the ignition and turned, beaming as the engine roared into life. With a squeal of tires, he aimed the van toward the garage's exit.
"Carlo," Ben said reprovingly. "Slow down. Take it easy."
Carlo glanced over at him and made a face. "You ever see how these guys drive?" he retorted. "They all drive like they're escaping from somewhere."
Ben considered this for a moment and then nodded. "I take your point."
Carlo drove the van down the road toward the prison gates. "Pull up there," Ben directed, pointing at the guard booth. Carlo clutched the wheel tightly and nodded; his face and knuckles were white. Carlo brought them to a slow stop and rolled down his window. A guard leaned out of the booth and said, "ID?"
"Uh," Carlo sputtered, "um—" but Ben calmly reached across the cab, flipped down the driver's side visor, and pulled out a laminated pass. Carlo took it between his sweaty fingers and passed it over to the guard, who looked at it for half a second before handing it back. And then, before them, the iron gate slowly swung open—and Carlo shifted the van into drive and put pedal to the metal.
"How the fuck did you know that?" Carlo yelled, once they were clear and on the street. "What fucking psychic planet do you come from?"
Ben crossed his arms and stared irritably out the passenger side window. "You might say 'Congratulations, Ben,' or 'I knew you could do it, Ben,' or even 'We made it, Ben'—"
"Congratulations, I knew you could do it, we made it—and how the fuck did you know that pass would be there?" Carlo demanded.
Ben sighed and shook his head. "I find," he said, turning back to look at Carlo, "that you can never underestimate people when it comes to laziness and stupidity. Add in the stultifying dullness of workday routine and you're as near to a sure thing as makes no difference."
"We're out," Carlo declared suddenly, as if he'd only just processed that. "Ben, we're out! We're free!" He burst out laughing and drummed his palms wildly against the steering wheel.
Ben found himself smiling back; Carlo's joy was contagious. "Yes, so it seems."
"We gotta ditch this van. We gotta find a phone. I gotta call my brother," Carlo said rapidly, and then he turned to Ben and said, "C'mon, we'll go see Vito. He'll help us out—you'll like him, he's real smart."
"I do not believe this. I do not fucking believe this." Ray braced his palms against the wall of Warden Kramer's office and let his head fall forward—and then suddenly he raised a fist and started punching hard against the plaster.
"Detective, I just can't explain it," Judy Kramer moaned.
Ray reeled backwards, sucked on his bruised knuckles, and then pointed an accusing finger at her. "You lost a prisoner! A person! A cop! It ain't like losing a pencil, lady—we are talking about a full-sized Canadian Mountie—"
There was a knock on the door, and a guard stepped in, hat in hand. "Warden? All prisoners accounted for—except Benton Fraser and Carlo Salmonelli."
"Salmonelli?" Ray said, instantly turning. "Salmonelli's gone?"
The guard nodded grimly. "Yeah. And, uh—one of the kitchen staff has reported a van missing. They would appear to have—escaped."
Warden Kramer slowly rose to her feet. "Escaped?"
"Escaped?" Ray repeated. "Carlo Salmonelli has escaped?" Suddenly he was at the desk, snatching the telephone receiver up, and dialing furiously. "This is Vecchio," he said a moment later. "I need an APB on Carlo Salmonelli—now! right fucking now! And tell them to be careful—he is armed, he is dangerous, and he has got a cop as a hostage."
"Vito!"
"Carlo!"
The two brothers rushed into each other's arms and hugged tightly; Ben hovered awkwardly by the door, embarrassed by the overt display of affection. Finally Vito pulled back, gave his brother a loud kiss on the cheek, and smacked him hard in the head.
"Vito," Carlo said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. "This is Ben Fraser—he helped me escape."
Ben took a few, tentative steps into the room, put on his friendliest expression, and extended his hand. The elder Salmonelli brother stared at him, looked him pointedly up and down, and then grabbed him and pulled him into a bear hug.
Ben stiffened as Vito attempted to squeeze the life out of him. "You bring me my brother back," Vito murmured into his ear. "You're like family to me now."
Ben felt like his lungs were collapsing under the pressure. "You—don't have to kiss me," he managed.
Vito pulled back, barked out a laugh, and smacked him in the head hard enough to make his ears ring. "I like you, Ben," Vito declared, and Ben found himself wondering exactly how Vito treated people he didn't like. "Tell me about yourself. Who are your people? You got a gang?"
"I, um, don't really remember," Ben admitted.
"What about your brother?" Carlo asked him.
Ben frowned. "I have a brother?"
Carlo turned to look at Vito. "He got a head wound."
"It happens," Vito said prosaically.
"I don't think I have a brother. I don't think I have a gang, either," Ben added. "There was certainly no mention of a gang on my rap sheet. And I don't seem to strike myself as the gang type. So I suspect I was something of an independent operative."
"Gotcha," Vito said, nodding. "Well, hang around for a while. I got a little gang here, maybe you like it. Maybe you just never found the right gang, you know?"
Ben considered this. "Certainly that's possible."
"You never know till you try," Carlo said.
"Detective, do you know the old expression: 'A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush?'"
"Do not quote aphorisms at me. I cannot handle aphorisms right now."
"You wanted both Salmonelli brothers. Now you have no Salmonelli brothers. You are short two Salmonelli brothers and one Mountie."
Ray jerked his head up. "It's still my case, right?"
"Yeah, it's your case." Welsh sighed and leaned against the filing cabinet behind Ray's desk. "I mean, who else would want this mess?"
"It's my case because that bastard kidnapped my partner!" Ray leapt out of his chair and tried to stare Welsh down. "I don't know how or why but that's what he did! Somehow he made Fraser out for a cop and took him hostage."
Welsh nodded sympathetically. "You interview the kitchen staff?"
"Yeah." Ray made a face and turned away.
"So what do they say?" Welsh pressed.
"They say nothing—they say he was a model employee." Ray sat down in his chair again and rubbed at his eyes. "They didn't see a weapon but that don't mean there wasn't one. And they say it was Carlo who was all anxious to get out of there—"
"What about prints?" Welsh interrupted.
"Prints, yeah—in the van, not in the kitchen. They were wearing gloves in the kitchen. So we got prints in the van—so what? They tell us nothing, just that Fraser was there which we knew already, big deal."
Welsh nodded, considering this. "Where was the van found?"
"Downtown, parked under the el—they could've gone anywhere from there." Ray swiveled in his chair and stared down at his desktop: pictures of the van, inside and out, statements from the kitchen staff. He couldn't meet Welsh's eyes. "What if they kill him? Carlo's out, probably with Vito by now—they don't need a hostage no more..."
"Detective, I think you're underestimating Constable Fraser." Ray looked up and Welsh nodded at him reassuringly. "The guy is no great shakes at undercover work, I grant you, but he is still pretty damn capable. I don't see how Carlo kidnapped Fraser without Fraser in some way going along with it—"
"But he had a concussion," Ray protested, wanting Welsh to explain that away too.
"Still," Welsh replied. "I'd put Fraser with a concussion up against three of most people. Probably Fraser realized that when Carlo got out he'd go straight to Vito. And that was his job, right? To find Vito." Ray nodded miserably. "Fraser knows you want Vito Salmonelli—so I bet he's out there getting him for you. Probably bring him back to you with a bow on his head—"
The phone rang and Ray snatched it up. "Yeah, Vecchio. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Yeah—thanks for calling." He hung up and stared up at Welsh with a frown.
"What?" Welsh demanded.
"They just found Fraser's prison uniform in tonight's tuna casserole." Ray braced his elbows on his desk and shoved his hands up through his hair. "I think I'm gonna have to rethink this."
Ray read the official report of Fraser's fight with growing fury. They claimed that Fraser had been out of control, had savagely attacked other prisoners—and that they'd been compelled to use force to subdue him.
Which was bullshit. Total fucking bullshit. Dollars to donuts the bastards had been watching—probably had a nice little kitty going, betting pocket money on who would win. And then something had gone wrong and they'd waded in and busted heads.
He'd worried about putting Fraser in with the criminals; he hadn't even thought about the fucking guards....
Fraser had been brought to the hospital, totally unconscious, at a quarter to ten. The doctor on the night shift—Abramson—had diagnosed a concussion and bandaged Fraser's head. Fraser had regained consciousness shortly before midnight, but had been confused and disoriented—
"Night, Vecchio!" Huey called from the door to the bullpen. Ray looked over and raised a hand.
—and suffering from short term memory loss. The patient had evinced surprise upon being informed that he was an inmate at Osserling Penitentiary. The patient appeared to have no recollection of the events leading up to his concussion.
The patient was kept overnight for observation.
The next morning's notes were more reassuring. The patient was easily able to recall his name, current location, and prison sentence. The patient could now remember details of the previous evening's altercation. The patient's memory appeared to be returning at a normal rate.
Patient released back into the general population.
Ray frowned, picked up the phone, and called the hospital at Osserling, only to be told that Dr. Abramson would not be arriving until half-past nine.
Ray called again at a quarter to ten, but was told that Dr. Abramson was making his rounds, and would call him back as soon as he could.
Ray called again at ten-thirty, but was told him that there had been a stabbing, and that Abramson was in emergency surgery. Could the doctor call him back?
Finally, the phone rang and Ray grabbed for it. "Ray Vecchio."
"Vecchio, go home," Welsh said tiredly. "Get some sleep. It's past midnight already."
Ray groaned and closed his eyes. "Look, I'm just waiting for—"
"Whatever you're waiting for, it'll wait till morning," Welsh said firmly, and then he sighed and muttered: "Christ, I knew you'd still be there—you're such a stubborn fuck sometimes. Detective, listen to me and hear me well. If you are not out of there in five minutes, I'm sending someone up to escort you home."
Ray sighed. "All right, all right. I'm leaving, I'm going...."
"I mean it, Detective. I am calling the front desk. There will be a uniform up there in five minutes—so you had better be gone."
"I got him into this," Ray said, clutching the receiver tightly. "I gotta get him out—and I got nothing here, I got absolutely nothing."
"Tomorrow," Welsh said firmly. "Work on it tomorrow."
"Yeah, okay," Ray said, and hung up.
The next morning, Ray called Osserling from home. "Look, I gotta talk to this guy. I mean, I really need to talk to this guy. It's important."
"I'm sorry, Detective," the nurse said apologetically, "but I am not able to give out the home phone numbers of anyone on our staff. It's a security issue, as I'm sure you—"
"Gimme the warden," Ray interrupted. "Now." He waited as the nurse put him through to Warden Kramer, and then demanded: "Now, look, lady—you lost my Mountie, so you're gonna find me this Abramson guy. I need to talk to him, like yesterday."
Warden Kramer sighed and then said: "All right, Detective. Just hold on." She put Ray on hold and— Raindrops keep falling on my head....but that doesn't mean my eyes will soon be turning red....cryin's not for me....no!.... I'm never gonna stop the rain by complainin'—The line clicked and Judy Kramer said: "Detective? It's apparently his golf day."
"Christ, I hate that song," Ray moaned. "So where does the bastard play?"
Doctor Abramson apparently had a prompt 9:00 a.m. tee-off time. Ray ran down onto the green and flashed his badge at a fat guy in a visor. "Sir, I need your vehicle. Police business." Ray climbed into the driver's seat, muttered, "Nice pants," and headed pell mell down the course.
Unfortunately, 'pell mell' in a golf cart was maybe 20 miles an hour, so it took him almost fifteen minutes to catch up with Abramson and his cronies somewhere near the fourth hole.
"Hey! Stop!" Ray yelled, wishing he had a siren on this thing. The four elderly men stopped, turned, and Ray slammed hard on the brakes, nearly flipping the cart over. "Which one of you is Abramson?"
One of the men stepped forward, smiling pleasantly. "That would be me. And you are?"
Ray flashed his badge. "Ray Vecchio, Chicago P.D. Get in the cart, sir—we're gonna take a little ride."
Ray pulled over into a grove of trees, switched the engine off, and wheeled on Abramson. "Okay, look—I need some more information from you about Benton Fraser."
Abramson's face creased into a thoughtful frown. "Benton Fraser? You'll have to refresh..."
"At the prison," Ray said. "Osserling. Couple of nights ago."
Abramson shook his head. "I see many patients at the—"
"Guy with a concussion, lost his memory—"
"Hmm..." Abramson mused.
Ray slammed his hand hard against the steering wheel. "Guy! Lost his memory! Got hit in the head—which is at least an excuse—"
Abramson's face cleared. "Oh yes. Ben Fraser. I remember him perfectly well—the fighter."
Ray took offense on Fraser's behalf. "Fraser ain't a fighter."
"He was brought in for fighting," Abramson pointed out. "He was out cold when they brought him in, but he recovered rather rapidly. He must have a very hard head."
Ray shrugged, admitting the truth of this. "He does, yeah."
"He was a little fuzzy at first, but I had the nurse print out his rap sheet so he could review it. Sometimes it just takes as little as that—he seemed very much better in the morning."
"So he knew who he was?" Ray asked.
"Oh yes," Dr. Abramson assured him.
"You're sure about that?" Ray pressed. "I mean, you're positive he didn't have—like—amnesia or anything?"
"Certainly not." Dr. Abramson seemed offended at the very idea. "I wouldn't have released a patient with amnesia. Ben Fraser was perfectly clear about who and where he was. By morning, he was lucid, and his memory appeared to be returning rapidly."
"Appeared. To be. Returning," Ray repeated. "So it had not yet returned?"
"He had the basic building blocks," Abramson explained defensively. "It's not like in the movies, Detective—memory doesn't return all in a rush. The patient begins to remember things, and starts to work what he knows into reasonable patterns. It's like reweaving a tapestry that's gotten a few holes punched through it. And Ben Fraser's memory was clearly knitting together. In fact," Abramson added, "it was evident to me that he was already sifting through his memories, putting them back into the correct order."
Ray's eyes narrowed. "Oh yeah? How so?"
"Well, think about all the memories that you have. People you know, places you've been, life experiences—but also movies you've seen, books you've read, stories you've been told by somebody else. If suddenly all those memories are radically rearranged—say, by a blow to the head—you'd have to sort them out again, wouldn't you? Did this actually happen to me, or did someone tell me about it? I remember a man called Sherlock Holmes—do I know him, or is he a fictional character? We have to remember not only what we know, but the context within which—"
"So Fraser was doing this?" Ray interrupted. "Talking about Sherlock Holmes?"
"Well, no. Ben Fraser's literary taste seemed to run more in the Tennessee Williams-type direction." Ray felt the bottom fall out of his stomach. Abramson continued: "He seemed to think that he actually knew someone called—"
"Stanley Kowalski." Ray closed his eyes and slumped back in his seat, hands going up to cover his face.
"Why, yes," Abramson said, sounding surprised. "Precisely so! How on earth did you—?"
"What did you tell him?" Ray murmured behind his hands.
"Well, I disabused him of the notion, of course. Tried to help him clarify the line between reality and fiction—"
Ray dropped his hands. "Reality in terms of the rap sheet?"
"Exactly," Abramson said with a smile.
"Oh boy," Ray said.
"Okay, so look," Vito said, spreading the blueprint out on top of the card table. "We enter here, go through this hallway and stop here. The night guard should be sitting right here and—"
"Pardon me," Ben ventured, and Vito, Carlo, Pietro and Little Ricky raised their heads to stare at him. Ben was discomfited by the sudden attention, and nervously took a drag on his cigarette.
Vito smiled at him, but the smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "You got something to add, here, Benny?"
"Well, just that..." Ben coughed politely and leaned forward. "It seems to me that if we enter here instead of here," he said, gesturing toward the map with his lit cigarette, "then we avoid the guard entirely, do we not?"
"He's got a camera," Vito retorted.
"Yeah, he's got a camera!" Carlo repeated. "He'll see us with the camera!"
"Yes, I understand that," Ben said patiently, "but certainly it would be easier, and safer, to disable the security system than to risk an encounter with the guard. Besides, if we get caught—not that we will, but it behooves us to plan for every eventuality—we're then facing a simple burglary charge, uncomplicated with any crimes against persons."
Vito peered narrowly at him. "Disable the security system how?"
"Well," Ben said, contemplating the map, "I'd say that we'd have to cut wires here, here, and here. It's a three person job, but if we're even remotely synchronized, the guard should be unable to locate the source of the system failure. He'll have to go investigate—"
"Yeah, and then he comes after us," Vito growled.
"No, I doubt that," Ben said, shaking his head. "The logical place for him to start his investigation would be at the electricity closet—here, on the second floor. If the scale of this map is at all accurate, it should take the guard, oh, at least fourteen minutes just to—"
"Listen, Benny," Vito said, straightening up. "I appreciate that you want to contribute to this enterprise. Really, it sounds like you got some very promising ideas—so A for initiative, okay? But I'm running this gang, here. I've been running this gang for seven years. The way a gang works, I tell you what to do and you shut up and do it. Capisce?"
Ben bit his lip and then nodded, once, briskly. "Si, io capisco. Scuzi. Io non voglio lagnarsi—"
"So don't," Vito snapped. "Now let's go through it again, okay? We enter here, and we go down this hallway and stop here..."
Ray called Welsh on his cell from the GTO. "Okay, so I got good news and I got bad news. Which you want first?"
The line was quiet for a moment as Welsh thought it over. "Gimme the good news," he said finally.
"Fraser's probably not dead."
"Well, that is good news," Welsh agreed.
"Yeah, I thought so, too."
Welsh's voice grew suspicious. "So what's the bad news?"
"He may not know who he is," Ray told him. "When he got hit on the head, they refreshed his memory based on his rap sheet. He may have bought his own press."
"Wait a minute," Welsh interrupted. "You're saying Constable Fraser might believe—"
"He might, yeah. Which figures, see? Picture you're Fraser—Mr. Great Outdoors, Mr. Wide Open Spaces. And picture you wake up in the hospital and someone tells you that you're gonna be in jail for the next ten years for a bunch of crimes you can't remember committing. What would you do?"
Welsh's sighed loudly into the phone. "Try to escape."
"Correctamundo," Ray agreed. "And if you're Fraser, you can actually do it. I mean, face it, Lieutenant—that tuna casserole thing just smells like Fraser."
Welsh sounded confused. "You're saying that Fraser smells like—?"
"I'm saying it's a Fraser kind of plan!" Ray yelled. "Diabolical and nutritious! Fraser thinks he's innocent and that the cops are after him. So he's laying low— which is why we can't find him. He don't want to be found!"
"Oh boy," Welsh muttered.
"That's what I said," Ray said. "Thing is, we really gotta be hoping now that he's still with Carlo and Vito. Because if he ain't—if he's hightailed it off to Rio de Janeiro or somewhere—"
Welsh groaned. "We'll never find him."
"You got it," Ray said. "Listen, I'm gonna go talk to some people I know, try to find out the word on the street. I got Carlo once—I just gotta get the bastard again and hope that Fraser's still with him. Otherwise we are in deep, deep doo-doo here."
"Detective," Welsh said, "you are eloquence incarnate."
"Benny?"
Ben stopped at the door, and turned around. Pietro and Little Ricky darted past him out the door, and Carlo looked nervously from Ben to his brother before stepping out and pulling the door shut behind him.
Ben cleared his throat. "Yes, Vito?"
Vito waved him closer. "C'mere."
Ben approached the card table warily, not knowing what to expect.
"Listen to me," Vito said quietly. "I know you ain't been in a gang before, so I am gonna cut you some slack here on account of your inexperience. But you do not ever—ever—contradict my authority again. Do you understand that, or are we gonna have problems?"
Ben opened his mouth to answer, but Vito cut him off: "Cause I would hate to have problems with you. You being like family to me and all."
"I..." Ben felt irritation rising within him—what had he done besides suggest improvements to Vito's scheme? Vito smiled thinly at him and shifted his body, letting his jacket fall open and giving Ben an excellent view of the large gun holstered under his left armpit. Ben took a deep breath and managed to keep his face and voice neutral. "I don't think we'll have any further problems, Vito."
"Good." Vito smiled warmly at him, and then reached out and smacked him hard in the head. "Because I like you, Benny—really, I do. Go make yourself a sandwich."
Ray went into the deli and approached the counter. "Gimme...uh...a pack of Marlboros."
The man at the register nodded, reached up, and tossed a red box onto the counter. "Three seventy five."
Ray looked quickly from left to right and then leaned forward. "Can you talk, Sammy?"
Sammy nodded and dropped his voice to a whisper. "Yeah, I got a minute."
"Carlo Salmonelli," Ray prompted.
"Escaped from prison," Sammy murmured. "Nobody was workin' yesterday—Vito took the day off to celebrate. Was like a federal holiday around here."
"So Carlo's back with Vito?" Ray murmured back.
Sammy jerked a nod at him. "Yeah, so they say. And today, all of a sudden, Pietro Denati and Ricky Kazinski crawl out of the sewer. Everybody's jockeying for position—because now that Carlo's back, Vito might drop the small stuff and go back to big time robbery."
"Sammy, listen," Ray said urgently. "Carlo escaped with somebody else. Another inmate. You hear anything about that?" Sammy shook his head. "New member of the gang?" Ray pressed. "Strange face nobody recognizes?" Sammy shook his head again. "Okay, look—you hear anything about that—anything—you call me right away, okay? Day or night."
"Okay, Ray, sure," Sammy said agreeably. "That'll be three seventy five."
Ben was getting ready for bed when he heard a knock at the door. "Come in?"
The bedroom door opened and Carlo came in, carrying a brown paper bag. "Hey, it's just me. Can we talk for a minute?"
"Certainly, Carlo." Ben gestured for him to sit down. "Please..."
Carlo sat down on the bed with the paper bag in his lap; he looked ill at ease. "So listen. Vito means well, okay? I just want you to know that. Vito's like—really, really smart, way smarter than me. He plans all our heists and he never gets caught."
"But you were caught, Carlo," Ben said quietly. "Your last robbery—you were caught and arrested and sentenced to twenty years in prison..."
Carlo was instantly defensive. "Hey, that was my fault, okay? I fucked up. That had nothing to do with Vito—that was about me being an idiot, which just happens sometimes."
"Still." Ben looked away. "If Vito would simply plan his crimes with a little more care..."
"You don't say nothing about my brother, okay?" Carlo yelled, jabbing a finger at him. "He is doing you a favor by letting you into this gang. Don't get me wrong, Ben—I like you, I respect you, you got me outta prison which I ain't never gonna forget. But you are broke, pal—and your cut outta this heist is gonna be nearly a hundred grand, so I think you should shut the fuck up about my brother."
"Yes, all right," Ben said, raising a hand to rub at his aching temple. "I take your point, Carlo, and I apologize. Certainly someone has to be in charge, I accept that. I'm just...not used to being in a gang, I suppose."
"Yeah, that's what Vito said—see, I told you he was smart." Carlo opened the paper bag and dumped its contents out over the bed—handguns, all shapes and sizes. "Here—I don't know what you use."
Ben frowned and stared down at the guns.
"Pick one you like," Carlo said, and then he looked up at Ben and added: "You're good with guns, no?"
Ben's headache grew worse, and he rubbed hard at his temple again. "I—yes," he said, surprised to find that this was the truth. "I'm—familiar with a variety of firearms." He selected a pistol, checked the chamber, and then flicked it shut. "I'll have this one, thank you."
"No problem," Carlo said, gathering the other weapons together and putting them back into the bag. "Now go to bed, get some sleep. We got a big day tomorrow."
Ray stared up through the darkness at the ceiling over his bed, watching the blur of lights as the occasional car drove by on the street below. He couldn't sleep—but he just had to sleep, he needed to have his brain fresh and working for tomorrow. He groaned, shifted, rolled onto his stomach and pulled the pillow over his head. Sleep. He needed to sleep.
Fraser was out there, somewhere; he was probably sleeping too, or trying to. Ray hoped that Fraser was sleeping in a nice comfortable bed, and not, like, tied up on the floor in somebody's basement, or on a Greyhound bus heading for Mexico. It seemed wrong, really, really wrong, that he didn't know where Fraser was right this second. He felt like he had a right to know, that it was his right to know where Fraser was...
Ray squirmed again and his t-shirt rucked up uncomfortably beneath him. Everything was uncomfortable: the sheets and blankets were all tangled, the pillow was hot, his shorts were riding up—and he rolled again, lay flat on his back, and wrapped his arms around his head.
His tiny bedroom had never seemed so big; his entire life had never seemed so empty.
"It looks like something might be cooking," Ray reported to Welsh the next day. "Nobody knows for sure, but the Salmonelli brothers don't seem to be wasting any time getting back on the horse."
"What about Constable Fraser?" Welsh asked. "Is Fraser with them?"
"Nobody knows nothing," Ray sighed. "He could be with them, he could be gone. I just sent a description to the airport, in case he tries to leave the country—"
"What about the Canadians, you tell the Canadians?" Welsh asked.
Ray blew out a long breath. "Um. Not exactly."
Welsh raised his eyebrows. "Not exactly?"
"I notified the border patrol—told them that if Constable Fraser tried to cross they should detain him and call us. Told them we got an important message for him."
"What about Inspector Thatcher?"
"Uh." Ray scratched at the stubble on his jaw. "Do I have to tell Inspector Thatcher?"
"Constable Fraser is missing, Detective. He's been missing for three days—don't you think we should mention that?"
"Okay, but follow me here," Ray argued. "Far as Thatcher knows, Fraser's working undercover with us. And as far as we know, that's still the truth, right? I mean, all this stuff about Fraser's memory—it's all hypothetical. It could be just what you said—Fraser escaped with Carlo in order to catch Vito and bring him in. They could all turn up at any minute."
"From your mouth to God's ears," Welsh muttered. "But it don't look like it's going that way."
"I would just hate to misinform the Canadian Consulate, sir," Ray said earnestly. "I mean, that would just be bad. To worry those poor people for nothing. Could set U.S.-Canadian relations back fifty years—"
Welsh sighed and shook his head. "You're afraid of the Ice Queen."
Ray looked away. "Terrified, yeah," he admitted.
"All right, Vecchio," Welsh relented. "We'll keep it quiet for the moment. Until we're sure about what's going on."
"God bless you, sir."
"Everybody ready?" Vito whispered.
It was hard to see him in the dark; it was hard to see everybody, as a matter of fact. The black clothes they were wearing sucked up all the light—and in the darkness of the van, all that was visible were the whites of their eyes and the glow of reflected light on their faces. Even that disappeared as, one by one, Carlo, Pietro, and Little Ricky pulled on their black masks. Ben took a deep breath and followed suit.
"Everybody ready?" Vito repeated.
"Ready," they mumbled in unison.
"Let's go!" Vito flung the back doors of the van open and instantly they were running the few feet to the west door of the Illinois Brokerage building. Everyone stepped back as Little Ricky jimmied the revolving door with a dangerous looking steel implement—and then they were revolving through, one by one, stepping into the high ceilinged west lobby.
Ben, as the newest member of the gang, had been assigned the position of lookout—and look out he did, keeping a few paces behind the other men as they headed down the south corridor to dispense with the guard. Little Ricky reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, silver ball-bearing, and with a quick glance at the others he rolled it down the corridor like it was the world's smallest bowling ball. The sound of steel against the granite floor was loud in the silence—and when the guard appeared at the end of the hallway Vito and Carlo were ready for him, grabbing him by the arms and holding a gun to his head.
Pietro pulled a roll of duct tape out of his bag. He quickly slapped a piece over the struggling guard's mouth, taped his wrists together, and threw him to the floor.
"Go!" Vito yelled at Carlo and Pietro, and the two men hurried past the front desk and disappeared up the corridor on the other side of the building.
Ben noticed a light flickering on the guard's console and ran toward the desk, gun drawn. The label underneath the flashing light said, simply, "SILENT ALARM."
Ben looked up at Vito. "We've got to abort—now!"
Vito turned toward him, his entire body projecting fury. "What? We can't, we—"
"He's set off the alarm," Ben explained—and already, dimly, he could hear the sound of faraway sirens. "The police are already on their way."
Enraged, Vito pulled his gun, whirled on the trussed guard, and aimed between his eyes.
"No!" Ben yelled; and in an instant he had grabbed Vito's arm and yanked it upwards—the shot was deafening in the huge atrium. Vito roared and tried to shove Ben to the floor—but Ben simply pulled the gun out of his hand, flipped it around, and whacked him hard in the head with it. Vito stumbled back against the marble wall but didn't fall—he just crouched there, staring at Ben, outraged and shocked.
Slowly Ben revolved the gun in his hand and pointed it at Vito's head. "Now," Ben said quietly, "you will please listen to me."
"So now you know what I know," Ray told Diefenbaker, "though I'd appreciate it if we could keep this between ourselves. I'm not ready to tell the Canadians. The human Canadians," he added quickly. "You know."
Dief barked at him and Ray sighed and scratched first Dief's head, and then his own. "Yeah, I know I don't come off real good in this story. But I swear to you, I just was not expecting—"
His cell phone rang and Ray yanked it out of his jacket. "Vecchio! What?"
"Where are you?" Welsh asked.
"I'm at the Consulate—I just wanted to bring Diefenbaker up to speed," Ray explained. "What's up?"
"Alarm's gone off at Illinois Brokerage. I asked dispatch to notify me if anything unusual happened at a bank or a securities firm or—"
"I'm on my way," Ray said instantly.
"Don't get your hopes up," Welsh cautioned him. "It's probably nothing."
"Nothing my ass," Ray retorted. "It's Vito—I'm sure of it."
Ben ran full speed up the east hallway, following the increasingly loud sounds of banging and muttered Italian curses. He darted through a series of interlocking doors until he found Carlo and Pietro, who were struggling to unlock a massive steel door.
"Mission aborted!" Ben said breathlessly. "On your feet—now!"
Pietro grunted and shoved a steel implement harder against the lock. "Just give me a few more minutes—"
Ben shook his head. "We don't have a few minutes. The police are—"
"Shit, fuck, goddamn!" Carlo yelled, beating his fist against the door. "We haven't gotten any money yet!"
"Get away from the door," Ben ordered.
"What?" Carlo repeated, not moving.
"Get away. From the door," Ben repeated; and when neither of them moved, he pulled his gun and fired into the air above their heads. They jumped, shocked at the sudden noise, and leapt away from the door. Ben lowered his gun and fired a bullet into the elaborate combination lock, which exploded outwards.
"That doesn't help!" Pietro shouted at him.
"It helps if you know electronics," Ben said; and then he was yanking wires from the smoking ruin of the lock system, stripping and twisting and making sparks. The door suddenly clicked open, and Ben grabbed the handle and turned—and then they were all in there, grabbing everything they could get their hands on and stuffing it into Pietro's black bag.
The sirens were now unbearably loud—and Ben heard the faint screech of tires as the police pulled into the lot. "Now!" he yelled. "Come on!" Ben swiped the black bag off the floor and swung it over his shoulder.
"Hey!" Pietro protested. "That's mine!"
"I'm sorry," Ben said firmly, adjusting the strap. "Not anymore. Please follow me if you want to stay out of prison."
The GTO turned into the parking lot of Illinois Brokerage on two wheels—and nearly collided with the black van that was careening out of it. Ray jerked the wheel to the right and thus narrowly missed colliding head-on with the van and the two police cars which were in hot pursuit, lights flashing and sirens blaring. Ray cut the wheel hard and turned the GTO around, taking up the chase.
The van sped furiously down the service road toward the highway, the police cars slowly catching up. Ray, bringing up the rear, stared as one of the van's back doors flew open and a black-clad arm holding a gun was extended outwards—and then bang! and bang! and bang!—and one of the police cars in front of him veered wildly and crashed into the other, which went flying off the road and into the concrete sound barrier that separated the service road from the highway. Ray jammed his foot on the brakes to avoid crashing into the car in front of him, frantically turning the wheel left! left! left! He sailed around the disabled police cars, leaving skid marks on the asphalt, but by the time he could work back up to speed the van was gone, gone, totally fucking gone.
Ben sat back against the side wall of the speeding van, Pietro's bag in his lap, and pulled his mask off. He was overheated and vaguely sweaty; he felt flushed with excitement and keyed up with adrenaline and anger.
"That," Ben said, breathlessly, "was one of the greatest displays of incompetence I have ever had the misfortune to witness."
Vito ripped his own mask off and glared at Ben, enraged. "Don't you ever—"
Ben raised his gun and pointed it at Vito, who instantly shut up.
"As I was saying," Ben continued evenly, "that was incredibly incompetent. First of all," he said, turning to look at Little Ricky, "why on earth would you break in through a revolving door? Didn't it occur to you that we might need to leave in a hurry? And you," Ben added, turning to look at Pietro, who was driving the van. "You're trying to open a sophisticated combination lock with a hammer and chisel. Kindly join us here in the twentieth century, if you please. And Vito—honestly! You have to anticipate that any reasonably competent guard would trigger the alarm before investigating a strange noise. And why were we interfering with the guard when it's so much simpler to disable his cameras? Under your magnificent leadership, we'd all be in the custody of the police right now, facing felony murder charges."
"Are you finished?" Vito growled at him.
"No," Ben answered, narrowing his eyes. "But I'd be happy to entertain a rebuttal."
"Don't bother," Carlo said quietly; he'd pulled off his mask and was staring dejectedly at the floor of the van. "He's right, Vito."
Vito's head jerked around to stare at his brother. "What did you say?"
Carlo looked up. "I said he's right. That was a disaster. It's a miracle they didn't catch us—and felony murder is twenty-five years to life." Carlo looked away again, perhaps not wanting to meet his brother's eyes. "I'm thirty-three years old, Vito. I've already spent six years in prison, and I just got sentenced to another twenty. And okay, maybe it'd only have been seven, but that still would make me forty when I got out. Twenty-five years...." Carlo shook his head slowly. "I don't want to spend the best years of my life in prison, Vito."
"Carlo..." Vito's voice was pleading. "What are you saying?"
Ben transferred the gun from his right to his left hand, still training it on Vito, and then reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out his cigarettes. "I've learned quite a lot about being in a gang these last few days," Ben said, jerking the pack up and catching a cigarette in his mouth. "It's been most instructive. As I understand it, the way a gang works is—I tell you what to do and you do it." Ben flicked his lighter, lit his cigarette, and inhaled. "Capisce?"
Vito looked at Carlo, looked at Little Ricky—but they both looked away. Vito turned back to Ben, teeth clenched. "You had better think twice about this, Benny. You had really better think twice..."
Ben smiled and flicked the safety off the gun. "My name," he said, "is Benton."
Ray propped his feet up on his desk and rewound the footage from the security camera for the seventh time. He then played it again in slow motion, gesturing at it with the remote control. "Okay, that's Vito," he told Welsh, "no question but that's Vito. The paunch and the psychotic body language just give it away."
"Yeah, right, I see that," Welsh muttered, rubbing his forehead. "He was gonna shoot the guard."
"Looks like it, yeah. Except then this guy—" Ray raised the remote control and paused the tape, "—stops him."
Welsh stared at the tape and then began nodding slowly. "You're thinking Fraser?"
"I don't know," Ray admitted. "Could be—the body type is right. Guy stops the murder, yeah—but then he bashes Vito on the head and starts giving orders. Watch this."
Ray let the tape roll again, and they watched as the man finished giving instructions and then disappeared down the east corridor.
"Camera picks him up againnnn...here," Ray murmured, and then the tape cut to a different room and they watched the man blow the lock apart and hotwire the door. "And see, this is where I'm just not sure. Is that Fraser? I dunno."
"Fraser had trouble stealing Milk Duds," Welsh noted grimly. "I don't see him robbing banks."
"No, me neither," Ray said. He squinted and leaned forward a bit to peer at the tape. "But still, you know..."
"...it does kinda look like Fraser," Welsh sighed.
Ray looked up. "Yeah, it does, don't it?"
"Yeah."
"Fuck."
"Yeah."
"Maybe it's like...you know." Ray waved the remote control around. "That thing."
"What thing?" Welsh demanded.
"Patty Hearst. Stockholm Syndrome."
Welsh's eyebrows flew up. "Stockholm Syndrome?"
"Yeah," Ray said, nodding. "Ain't that the thing where you take somebody hostage and they go over to the other side and become gun-toting lunatics?"
Welsh frowned. "Yeah, but—"
Ray flung his arms toward the television screen. "So what would you call that?"
Welsh thought about it for a moment and then said, reluctantly: "Stockholm Syndrome."
"My genius is legend," Ray said.
"All right, everybody pay attention," Benton said, spreading the blueprint out on top of the card table. "Vito and I will enter here, on the south side of the building. Carlo and Pietro will come in through the garage, and they will break into the janitor's closet here. Now according to this map, which I have obtained from Chicago Gas and Electric, disabling the electrical system will give us precisely nine minutes before the emergency generators kick in." Benton raised his head: "Everybody with me so far?"
Carlo and Pietro nodded. Vito muttered, "Why do I have to go in with you?"
"Because," Benton answered, narrowing his eyes, "I keep my friends close... and my enemies closer."
Vito crossed his arms over his chest and looked away.
"What about me, what am I doing?" Little Ricky asked eagerly.
"You will be in the van. You will be given a precise timetable—you will fetch Carlo and Pietro outside the garage at precisely twenty minutes to three, and then you will swing around and meet us at the back door of the building at precisely 2:52 A.M."
"Can I have one of those cool radio headsets?" Little Ricky asked.
"Yes," Benton said, nodding. "You may have a cool radio headset."
Little Ricky beamed. "Excellent!"
"They are indeed. Now," Benton said, spreading open another blueprint, "the moment the power goes off, Vito and I will proceed to the fifth floor via Staircase B. The firm of Carter, Phillips, and Thompson will be making a six million dollar deposit to the First National Bank of Costa Rica on Monday—"
"Six million dollars?" Carlo repeated, seeming shocked.
"Four flights of stairs?" Vito groaned.
Benton looked at Vito sharply. "You could do with dropping a few pounds. And yes, Carlo—our target is that six million dollar deposit. I don't think we should take the risk for any less. That last heist was...was....p-pathetic," Benton stuttered; suddenly his brain was pounding, and he raised a shaking hand to his head. "We only netted...uh...three hundred thousand dollars. Which is...n-nothing. Especially if you're going to...t-tithe."
"Tithe?" Carlo repeated. "Did you say—tithe?"
"Yes." Benton took a deep breath, and shook his head to clear it.
Pietro frowned. "What does that mean—tithe?"
"It means giving money away," Vito growled. "He wants to give our fucking money away."
"Really?" Pietro looked at Benton.
"Really, yes," Benton confirmed with a nod.
"But what about us?" Pietro asked petulantly.
"If we want more money, we'll just steal some," Benton said irritably. "We're thieves. That's what we do."
"But Ben," Little Ricky protested. "The point of stealing is not to have to work so hard!"
"Hard work is good for the soul," Benton said firmly.
"You see?!" Vito nearly yelled. "I told you this guy was a nut!"
In a flash, Benton had reached into his holster and whipped out his gun. "Please do not contradict my authority, Vito. I would hate to have problems with you, really I would."
Vito raised his hands and stepped back. "All right, all right, all right—Jesus! You have become a touchy little fucker, Ben—do you know that?"
"It was really very strange," Debra Tolland said, laughing and shaking her head. "Wonderful, of course—but really too good to be true."
Ray nodded grimly and bent over to examine the pile of bills on her desk. "Well, you know what they say—if it seems too good to be true, it probably is."
"You simply can't imagine how I felt when I opened our donation box and saw all that money! At first I thought I was seeing things." She reached down and picked up two giant handfuls of crumpled green dollars. "But then I touched it and it was real! And then I thought—oh, some kind benefactor has decided to help us! Because we've been so desperately in need of funds..."
The dark-suited man standing behind Ray coughed discreetly into his fist. "Well, I am sorry, ma'am—but that money is the property of Illinois Brokerage."
Debra Tolland looked pleadingly at Ray. "Is that really true? Is it really stolen money?"
"Yeah, it is—I'm really, really sorry," Ray said, giving her shoulder a small, comforting squeeze. "The serial numbers match."
"Oh," Debra Tolland said quietly. "Yes. I see."
"However," Ray added, wheeling on the dark-suited man, "I seem to remember you guys yelling and screaming about offering a reward. I mean, didn't you?"
The man looked suddenly nervous. "I—uh—we did have a thought about—uh. Yeah. We did."
Debra Tolland beamed and clapped her hands. "You can make out the check to the New Hope Soup Kitchen."
The man looked uncomfortably at Ray Kowalski. "We said, what—five thousand?"
Ray scowled at him. "You said ten."
"And remember," Debra Tolland said joyously, "it's all tax deductible!"
"What do you think of these?" Benton asked Carlo in a quiet voice. Carlo peered down through the glass case at the micro-transmitters, the tiny fitted earpieces, the miniature microphones.
"They're really nice," Carlo murmured. "But they're kind of expensive, no?"
"You can't do a good job without the proper equipment," Benton countered.
"Sir is absolutely correct!" The salesman came over, rubbing his hands. "And this system is well worth the money! It's our very finest model! Two years ago it was classified, top-secret, government technology. We've since sold this particular system to a number of different companies—because it's so lightweight, you see? Plus it's guaranteed to work at considerable distances—"
"We'll take it," Benton interrupted, and reached for his wallet.
"Sir has excellent taste."
Carrying their bags, Benton and Carlo walked down the street toward the car. And then suddenly Ben stopped and drifted over toward a shop window.
Carlo turned and backtracked a few paces. "Ben?"
"Hm?" Ben glanced over at Carlo and then back up at the window.
Carlo tried to follow Ben's gaze. "Whatcha looking at?"
Ben raised his hand and pointed. Carlo saw the black leather jacket—it was chained to its gold hanger at the back of the window, looking thick and dark and buttery soft. "What do you think?" Benton asked, looking slightly embarrassed.
Carlo grinned and slapped him on the back. "Ben, I think it's you."
Ray did a shocked doubletake. "Uh—did you just say six million?"
Ted Carter, managing partner of Carter, Phillips, and Thompson, nodded grimly. "That's right, Detective. Six million dollars in cash—oh, this was no amateur job here, believe me. They knew precisely what they were looking for; we didn't even know the money was missing until an hour ago—"
"What the hell were you doing with six million dollars in cash?" Ray demanded.
Carter looked sort of embarrassed. "We were investing it for one of our clients," he explained, "whose securities had recently matured. The vagaries of international business meant that we could not effect the transfer of funds over the weekend, and for a number of complicated reasons we decided to liquidate the entire amount and—"
Ray pursed his lips. Complicated reasons, sure—the only reason to put that kind of money into cash was to do something you really shouldn't be doing, like getting a larger profit by bringing hard American currency into some foreign country. "Where exactly was this money supposed to go?"
Carter looked away. "First National Bank of Costa Rica."
"So what was the investment—stripping the rain forest?" Ray demanded. "Harvesting the shells of giant turtles—"
Carted glared pompously at him, his fat neck turning red. "I assure you we were pursuing a perfectly legitimate investment strategy—"
"—with six million in cold hard cash. Uh-huh, sure," Ray said, narrowing his eyes.
Benton Fraser, black leather satchel slung over the shoulder of his black leather jacket, strode purposefully through the lobby of the Chicago Hilton to the reception desk. He had his share of their latest robbery—five thousand dollars—tucked away in his wallet, and he supposed that five thousand dollars would be enough for him to be able to rent the penthouse suite, at least for a while.
He'd be happy for a bit of privacy. Carlo and Vito were like family, but—well—perhaps a bit too much like family, really.
He waited patiently while a man dressed as a giant moose attempted to resolve some sort of issue with the beleaguered-looking concierge. "Don't you know who I am?" the moose demanded. "I am the Chairman of the United Mascots Association—"
"I'm sorry, sir," the concierge said firmly. "That's simply not our policy—next, please!"
Benton smiled pleasantly as the concierge waved him over, but the moose rather stubbornly refused to give way. "You don't understand," the moose insisted. "My credit is excellent—and I have been compelled by circumstances beyond my control to raise bail for a number of my colleagues—"
The concierge ignored him. "Sir," he said, addressing Benton, "how may I help you?"
"I have a reservation," Benton explained politely. "The name is Kowalski—Benton Kowalski."
The concierge instantly brightened. "Oh, yes, sir. The penthouse suite, sir." He turned and searched for the key in the great mahogany cabinet behind him.
"I wouldn't stay here if I were you," the moose said with some bitterness. "The service is dreadful."
Benton considered him thoughtfully. "You know—your antlers are quite the wrong size."
The man raised a self-conscious hand to his head. "Are they?"
"Oh yes. Much too small. Unless you're a female moose," Benton added quickly. "In which case I most sincerely apologize."
"Here you are, sir," the concierge said, handing him a key. "I'll have the bellhop escort you up to your suite..."
"That won't be necessary," Benton said with a smile. "I'm sure I can find my way."
This was not going to be fun. Ray could see that right away—this was not going to be fun at all. The kids in the playground all had bright new uniforms, and their white sneakers hadn't even had a chance to get scuffed up yet. Inside the building, a group of workers were up on ladders—they were spackling, painting, making what even Ray could see were desperately needed improvements.
"Ah, Detective," Sister Mary Louise said, crossing the hallway and extending a plump hand to him from the folds of her large black habit. "Sister Beatrice said that you had something you wanted to discuss with me."
"I, uh, yeah," Ray said nervously; he hated talking to nuns, it made him feel like he was in some Japanese monster movie, being attacked by giant but benevolent penguins. "Um. We heard a rumor," he began, and suddenly there was a horrible banging noise from overhead.
"Oh, don't mind that," Sister Mary Louise said, taking his arm. "They're just fixing the roof. Let's go into my office."
She guided him gently across the hallway into her office and shut the door behind them. "Now tell me how I can help you."
Ray shuffled from foot to foot. "We, uh, heard a rumor that the orphanage had just come into some money...."
Sister Mary Louise's lined face instantly brightened. "Yes, isn't it wonderful? I've been praying so hard—and anyone who says prayers aren't answered just does not understand the ways of the Lord. God works in very mysterious ways, Detective—oh, he was just the loveliest young man: so polite, so charming, so—"
Ray swallowed hard. "I have to tell you, Sister—that money might be stolen."
"Stolen?" Sister Mary Louise's face clouded momentarily, and then cleared. "Oh, no, Detective, that's not possible. Believe me, if you'd met the young man in question, you'd just know that—"
"Sister, I would love to meet the young man in question," Ray said urgently. "Could you maybe give me a description?"
Sister Mary Louise stared at him for a moment, and there was a flash of something in her eyes. And then she was raising a hand to her head, her face the very picture of confusion. "Well, now, let me see....he was um...short...and um....a bit on the heavy side...with, uh....bright red hair."
Ray ground the heel of his hand into his right eye. "Any distinguishing marks?"
"Um, no. Yes!" she amended quickly. "He had a mole! A rather unfortunate mole! Right here!—above his eyebrow!" Sister Mary Louise pointed at her own, deeply wrinkled forehead. "I noticed it particularly."
Ray sighed. "Great. Thanks."
There was a knock at the door and Sister Mary Louise practically rushed away from him to answer it. A young man wearing the orphanage uniform stood there. "I'm sorry to bother you, Sister—but the painters want to ask you something."
"Oh, yes," Sister Mary Louise replied instantly. "Of course." She turned back to Ray and said, "You understand, don't you, Detective?"
"Oh yeah," Ray said quietly. "I understand perfectly, Sister."
"Oh, and this is Billy," Sister Mary added, looking up at the boy proudly. "Billy's one of our most stellar students. He'll be going to Yale in the fall."
"She said he was a short, fat redhead with a mole," Ray said, slumping back against the closed door to Welsh's office.
"Sounds just like Fraser," Welsh deadpanned. "What's the problem?"
"No, no, no—" Ray whined, letting himself list sideways, "—don't you see? She's a nun—she's a shitty liar! Fraser's tall; she says he's short. Fraser's dark; she says he's a redhead. Fraser's built; she's says he's dumpy. Fraser's beautiful; she gives him a big fat ugly mole right in the middle of his face—"
Welsh raised an eyebrow. "Fraser's beautiful?"
"That woman gave me a description of the Anti-Fraser," Ray finished, ignoring the interruption. "She couldn't have described anyone who looks less like Fraser if she'd tried, which is exactly what she damn well did. Which is how we know it's Fraser—QED. Nobody else could look so much not like Fraser—"
"That ain't gonna hold up in court, Vecchio," Welsh objected. "You're gonna accuse a nun of perjury? I don't think so."
"I know, I know..." Ray groaned.
"What about the serial numbers? Did the serial numbers match?"
"Get this," Ray said, crossing his arms. "Carter, Phillips, and Thompson claim that they lost the serial numbers. Whoops!"
Welsh frowned. "What do you make of that?"
"I make that they didn't record them in the first place," Ray said flatly. "They were gonna do something dirty with that money—and they didn't want it to be tracked."
"So then there's no way to connect it to the orphanage money," Welsh mused.
"Nope," Ray agreed, "and you know what? Just serves those slimy bastards right."
"Now this should be a very simple robbery." Benton slowly looked around the card table at the members of his gang. "So simple, in fact, that it will require only three of us—myself, Carlo, and Little Ricky, I think. You've gotten very good with that headset," he added, smiling at Little Ricky. "Plus you're becoming a wonderfully defensive driver."
Little Ricky blushed and looked down at the floor.
"So where does this leave the rest of us?" Pietro demanded.
"Don't worry," Benton assured him. "Everyone still gets an equal share."
"Yeah, a crummy five thousand dollars," Vito muttered. "I mean, our total haul is now something close to seven million—where's the rest of it?"
"Vito, you've made ten thousand dollars in less than a week. At that rate, your yearly income will be something in the area of four hundred and eighty thousand dollars. Only four percent of Americans make more than a hundred thousand a year. I advise you to count your blessings and file a tax return." Benton cleared his throat. "Now, as I was saying, this should be a very simple matter if we just stay focused and organized. It's not a very big target—we're looking at about two million dollars in bearer bonds—but the Samstel Corporation's security is a disaster, partly because they refuse to pay the union wages required by decent security firms..."
Ray's phone rang at about four o'clock in the morning, scaring the shit out of him. He kicked the sheets from around his legs, fumbled for his glasses on the nightstand, and stumbled into the living room in his boxer shorts and t-shirt.
"Yes? Yeah? Hello?" Ray said, fumbling the cordless phone to his ear.
"Ray? It's Sammy."
"Sammy? Sammy who? Oh Sammy—yeah, yeah—talk to me." Ray collapsed down onto the sofa.
"You said you wanted to know if I heard anything about a new guy in the Salmonelli gang," Sammy said cautiously.
"Yeah," Ray said quickly. "What'd you hear?"
"That there's a new guy in the Salmonelli gang."
"Yeah, I know that, Sammy." Ray shook his head. "What else have you heard?"
"Word on the street is that the new guy has taken over," Sammy told him. "Vito's apparently furious, but Carlo's behind him, and Little Ricky apparently thinks that he's God or something."
Ray propped himself up on his elbow. "Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. Apparently the new guy's pretty talented—has an eye for a safe heist and a real talent for organization. Ricky feels like he's finally getting some on-the-job training. And Carlo—all he wants is a safe, steady income. Cause see, he's got this girl, Gina—"
"Gina?" Ray repeated.
"Gina, yeah. Carlo's just nuts about her, but the burglary business is always a little hand-to-mouth, you know?"
Ray made sympathetic noises.
"But he's feeling like maybe now he can make a commitment. So he's happy as a clam—behind the new guy a hundred percent. Even Pietro's apparently coming around. The only problem is Vito."
Ray sat up and frowned at the floor. "Vito's not happy about being ousted, huh?"
"Nope," Sammy agreed. "I mean, he ain't saying nothing about it—he's like being the big man, pretending it was all his idea to get the new guy. But the thing is, Ray—he's talked to some people, you know?"
"No," Ray retorted, "I don't know. Talked to some people—how?"
Sammy gave a significant-sounding cough. "I mean, he talked to people. Talked to people...."
"Ohmigod," Ray whispered. "You mean a hit? He wants the new guy whacked?"
"I didn't say that," Sammy said instantly. "You said that. I did not say that."
"Sammy, for Christ's sake," Ray yelled, "did he make the contract?!"
"Not yet—not that I've heard," Sammy replied. "Cause see, nobody's seen the new guy yet—nobody besides Carlo and Pietro and Little Ricky. Nobody's gonna set a price until they know what they're dealing with. But Vito is talking to people..."
"Sammy, you listen to me. There is cash and prizes and a trip to the Bahamas in it for you if you let me know the second Vito makes a contract! You hear me?" Ray pounded his fist hard against the sofa arm. "And if you help me find the new guy, I will personally buy you a fucking car, your choice of model."
"Okay, Ray. I will do my best," Sammy said, and then he added: "I like the Hyundai, you like the Hyundai?"
"Take a left," Benton said to Little Ricky, and Little Ricky nodded and instantly turned the van to the left. "Let me know when we get to Michigan Avenue."
Carlo was sitting on the floor of the van counting the money. "We taking a detour, Ben?"
"Yes, I think so," Benton agreed, sitting down next to him. "How much do we have?"
Carlo grinned up at him. "Two million in bearer bonds, like you said—and forty-seven thousand in cash from the lockbox."
"Oh, that's wonderful," Benton said enthusiastically. "Very convenient. We can make payroll out of the cash, and still have extra money left for expenses."
Carlo nodded, stripped five thousand off the top, and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. "I think I'm gonna buy Gina a ring. One of them nice, round-cut diamonds—big as the moon."
Benton smiled at him. "That sounds lovely. I'm sure she'll be very happy."
"We're coming up on Michigan!" Little Ricky called back to him.
"Take a right on Michigan," Benton called back, "and then go until you reach St. Andrew's."
"What you got planned for the two million?" Carlo asked curiously.
"The Little Sisters of the Poor provide a number of services for substance abusers out of the church basement at St. Andrew's," Benton explained to him. "Recently, however, their funding has been cut—largely due to the controversy about providing clean needles to addicts."
Carlo nodded slowly. "Two million bucks buys a lot of needles, Ben."
"Well, it's not just needles. They provide beds, food, medical care, counseling, job placement—"
"Hey." Carlo raised his palms. "I'm not complaining here, okay?"
Benton stared at him for a moment and then nodded slowly.
"'Mal dare e mal tener lo mondo pulcro ha tolto loro, e posti a questa zuffa,'" Carlo said, and smiled shyly. "Have I got it right?"
Benton smiled back at him. "You've got it, Carlo. Exactly right."
"What the hell does that mean?" Little Ricky asked, glancing back over his shoulder. "I'm Polish."
Carlo burst out laughing. "It's about hell, Ricky—that's exactly the point."
"'Bad giving and bad keeping have deprived them of loveliness and sent them to scuffling,'" Benton translated.
"It's about being greedy," Carlo added in clarification. "Fourth level of hell."
"Canto seven," Benton said, and smiled at him.
Ray burst into Welsh's office and slammed the door behind him. "We may have just caught a break."
Welsh looked up quickly. "Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah. Look at this." Ray slammed an 8 X 10 photograph down on Welsh's desk; Welsh looked down at it. It was blurry, yeah, but it was pretty clearly Benton Fraser's face.
"The Samstel Corporation's security is for shit," Ray explained. "Which is why the robbers practically strolled in and out. But here's the thing—because the bastards were so cheap, they just threw these store-bought cameras up. They weren't all connected, you see? So Fraser and his guys, they cut the wires and all, but a couple of the cheap cameras just kept on rolling."
Welsh nodded grimly. "So now we've got proof that Fraser's involved in the robberies."
Ray felt suddenly sick. "Well, uh—yeah. Yeah. I mean I hadn't really—yeah."
Welsh looked up at him. "You know what this means."
Ray swallowed hard. "Uh—what does this mean?"
"It's time to talk to the Canadians."
Ray went still for a moment and then whirled and started kicking violently at Welsh's file cabinet. "Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck!"
"Be brave, Detective," Welsh said somberly. "It is a far, far better thing that you do than you have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that you go to, than you have ever known."
"Somebody pass the snow?" Carlo asked, and Pietro reached over and handed him the small, crystal bowl of parmesan. "Thanks, Petey. So Ben—you got any ideas about our next heist?"
Benton quickly sucked up his forkful of spaghetti, and then wiped sauce off his lips with his napkin . "Yes, actually. I think we'll hit the Boorman Corporation next. Possibly on Thursday, weather permitting."
"What's the target?" Pietro asked.
"Diamonds," Benton replied. "They'll be getting a shipment of South African diamonds on Wednesday night. I was hoping that Carlo might find a way to broker them though his jeweler—"
"Oh yeah," Carlo said, breezily, waving his fork. "Not a problem." He turned his head and caught Vito glaring at him. "Vito, will you just lighten up? Life is good, okay?" Vito grimly reached for the bread basket, and ripped a piece off the end of the loaf. Carlo shook his head and looked back at Benton. "What kind of numbers we talking about?"
"Well," Benton said, considering this, "of course that all depends on how honest your jeweler is. But certainly we should accept no less than five."
"Which will be bringing our total haul up to over thirteen million dollars," Vito growled, "of which we've each seen what? Twenty grand apiece?"
"Vito, shut the fuck up, will you?" Carlo muttered.
Vito suddenly pounded his fist onto the table, sending the plates and glasses and silverware lurching and clattering. "No, I will not shut up!" Vito yelled, jumping to his feet. "I don't know what the fuck you've done to brainwash my brother," he added, pointing an accusing finger at Benton's face, "but I have just about had it with you and your bullshit schemes!"
Benton calmly put his fork down. "Vito, I know that transitions can be difficult—"
Vito whipped his gun out of his holster and pointed it at Benton's head. "You want a difficult transition? I'll give you a difficult transition—"
With a loud scrape of chairs, Carlo, Pietro, and Little Ricky were all on their feet, guns trained on Vito. Benton leaned forward, put his elbows on the table, and continued talking placidly: "As I say, change can be very, very stressful—I'm well aware of that. So I'm going to take that into consideration in evaluating this situation. Because we're like family, Vito, aren't we?"
"Yeah, Vito," Carlo said quietly. "Aren't we?"
Vito looked around at the three pistols, and then slowly reholstered his own gun. "Yeah," he muttered. "We're like family all right."
Benton smiled and nodded. "Of course we are. And what family doesn't have its little problems? And meals can be specific focal points of tension. Please," he added, gesturing. "Sit down. I'd hate for you to miss the spumoni."
"Oh, I love spumoni," Pietro said brightly.
"So do I," Benton agreed.
Ray sat in his chair and cringed while the Ice Queen stormed around the office, waving her arms and doing a pretty creditable imitation of a Fury.
"Are you saying that Constable Fraser has amnesia?" Thatcher demanded.
"Uh—yeah. Or Stockholm Syndrome. Maybe both."
"And that he's robbing banks?" Thatcher demanded. "With a gang?"
"Uh—yeah. Banks, securities firms, various corporations—"
"And you didn't see fit to tell me?" Thatcher demanded.
"Well, uh—we weren't entirely sure of the facts of the situation until—"
"Do you have any idea how embarrassing this is going to be for the Canadian government if this comes out?" Thatcher demanded. "That we have a renegade Mountie who has embarked on a major crime spree?"
"Hey," Ray protested. "Nobody's gonna come out of this smelling like a rose, lady. Least of all me."
Thatcher flung herself back into her desk chair, and put both her fists on the desk. "I always knew there was something not quite right with Constable Fraser. His psychological profile intimated that he could snap at any time. But this! I never imagined anything like this. You have to find him, Vecchio!"
Ray rolled his eyes and slapped his forehead. "Find him! Oh, hey, thanks—I hadn't thought of that! I've been playing air hockey in the basement!"
"This is not a situation that calls for levity," Thatcher said tightly.
"No, that's right!" Ray leapt to his feet and jabbed his finger at her. "This is a situation that calls for a little fucking international cooperation, okay? I am looking for him! I am trying to keep this quiet! I am doing as much damage control as I possibly can! I am informing you out of courtesy—"
They were interrupted by a meek little cough from the doorway. "Um, excuse me, sir," Constable Turnbull said; both Ray and Thatcher turned to glare at him.
"What is it, Constable?" Thatcher said from between clenched teeth. "Can't you see I'm in the middle of something?"
"Yes, but—today's paper has arrived," Turnbull said brightly, extending it to her.
"Put. It. Down. On. The. Table." Thatcher looked like she was barely keeping herself in control. "I. Will. Read. It. Later."
Turnbull's face fell; he looked like he might cry. "Yes, but—you see, sir—"
Ray strode over and grabbed the paper out of his hand. "Oh, fuck," he muttered.
Thatcher got to her feet. "What?"
Ray held the paper up so she could see it. "CHICAGO'S MOST WANTED," the headline blared, and then the subtitle: "Does Chicago Have Its Own Robin Hood?"
Underneath was the blurry photograph of Fraser.
"Oh dear," Benton said, frowning down at the newspaper.
"Yeah, that's what I said," Carlo agreed nervously.
Benton dropped the paper on to the table, shook his head, and took a deep drag from his cigarette. "That's really a most unflattering picture."
"Ben, they're on to us!" Carlo nearly yelled. "What the hell are we gonna do?"
Benton looked up at him, surprised. "Carlo, they've been 'on to us', as you so charmingly put it, for some time. The police know that you and I have escaped from prison. The police are well aware of the robberies we've committed. The police are no doubt looking for us as we speak, and have probably been looking for us for some time. Nothing's changed. In fact," Benton added with a smile, "I believe that the police generally find media attention to be a hindrance rather than a help. And really, photograph aside, the article is quite flattering."
Carlo frowned and sat down next to him. "You think so? You think we're all right?"
"Of course we're all right," Benton assured him. "We proceed as usual."
The station was a madhouse when Ray pulled the GTO into the lot. The courtyard was thronged with reporters—who all ran for the car when they saw him, crowding him and shoving their microphones in his face.
"Detective, is it true?"
"Who is Robin Hood?"
"Can you confirm or deny the—"
"Are all the robberies related?"
"—story reported in this morning's Tribune?"
"Are you in charge of the case?"
"How long have the police known about—"
"Is this related to the recent wave of charitable donations?"
"Are the men in fact merry?"
"No comment!" Ray yelled, pushing his way through them and heading doggedly for the station door. A uniformed officer held it open for him, and blocked the reporters from following him inside.
The scene inside the station wasn't much better—he found himself surrounded by people the minute he walked through the door to the bullpen.
"Ray, is it true?" Frannie demanded. "Is that really Fraser?"
"Is Fraser missing?" Huey asked. "I thought he was just undercover."
"Boy, you really fucked up this time, didn't you?" Dewey said with a smirk.
"Or is he undercover? Is this a sting? You can tell me," Huey said.
"Cause it sure looks like Fraser," Frannie insisted. "And I'd know Fraser anywhere—"
Welsh came to his rescue, booming from the door to his office. "PEOPLE!" he yelled and everyone stopped talking and looked at him. "The official word on this is NO COMMENT! You are under the strictest of orders not to discuss, confer, or speculate about this with anyone. The strictest orders—is that understood?"
"Yeah," Dewey muttered. "We understand." He shot a mean grin at Ray and whispered under his breath, "Heh. You are in trouuuu-ble..."
Ray sneered at him. "Oh, fuck off, Dewey."
"Vecchio—in my office! The rest of you—get to work!"
Benton rappelled quickly through the darkness down the side of the Boorman building; Pietro and Carlo were there to catch him in their arms at the bottom, settling him onto his feet and rapidly detaching the huge, metal climbing hooks and nylon cords from the leather harness he wore around his waist and chest.
Benton raised his hand to his ear and pulled the microphone toward his lips. "Now would be a good time, Ricky," and instantly the black van zoomed around the corner and screeched to a stop. Vito flung the back doors open and they all leapt in.
"Didja get 'em?" Vito asked.
"Yes, of course." Benton reached into a pouch on his belt and pulled out a small black velvet sack. Vito extended his hand, and Benton overturned a cascade of glittering diamonds into his palm.
"Oooh," Little Ricky said.
"Ahhh," Pietro said.
"Pretty," Carlo added.
"Yeah, and who the fuck gets 'em, huh?" Vito asked, staring down at his palm.
"I thought we might make a little donation to the battered women's shelter over on Jackson Avenue. After all," Benton said with a smile, "diamonds are said to be a girl's best friend."
"I'm sorry, Detective," Lisa Robertson said, though she didn't seem the slightest bit sorry. "I didn't see who brought us the money, though we're certainly grateful for it." She folded her hands on the desk in front of her and stared at them thoughtfully for a moment before looking up at Ray again. "Do you really think it's Robin Hood?"
"I dunno," Ray said with a shrug. "It fits the pattern, though. There's a robbery, and there's a donation. This time it was you guys."
"Will we have to give the money back?" Lisa asked quietly.
"I dunno that either," Ray said honestly. "Depends if we can connect the money to the diamonds that were stolen. At the moment, all this is correlation, not connection, do you follow me?" Lisa Robertson nodded slowly. "I mean," Ray added, "it's possible that the donations are not connected to the robberies. Not really possible—but legal possible, okay? So we're obligated to investigate, but we can't take the money away from you unless we can prove that it wasn't a genuine charitable donation."
"I understand, Detective," Lisa said, and then she showed him a faint smile. "I hope you don't mind me saying that I hope you fail to make such a connection."
"Yeah," Ray said with a sigh. "There's a lot of that goin' around right now. Listen, is there anybody here who might have seen something last night?"
"We have over fifteen hundred women and children currently living in our shelter," Lisa said, and Ray felt sort of shocked at the number. "You're certainly free to ask around."
"Thanks," Ray said, getting up and flipping his notebook closed. "I'll do that."
He let himself out of the administrative offices and wandered around the shelter, making inquiries. The women were generally pleasant enough to him until they learned who he was and what he wanted—and then Ray could practically see their faces closing down, growing shuttered and defensive.
Ray turned to leave and found his way blocked by a tall, redheaded woman. Ray winced and took a step back—the woman's face was badly bruised, her left eye swollen so terribly that Ray doubted she could see out of it at all. He'd seen boxers who hadn't looked as bad as this.
"Whose side are you on, anyway?" she said softly, glaring at him through her one good eye. "Now you guys come out of the woodwork—and why? Because somebody might have stolen some money—yeah, sure, if it's money, the cops are all over it. Where were you guys when we needed you, huh? And now you want us to help you put this man in prison? You ought to be ashamed of yourself...."
Ray looked away and mumbled, "That isn't fair."
"I couldn't agree with you more," the woman said, and moved aside to let him pass.
ILLINOIS BROKERAGE, Ray wrote in block capitals, and then drew a box around it.
CARTER, PHILLIPS, AND THOMPSON.
THE SAMSTEL CORPORATION.
THE BOORMAN CORPORATION.
There had to be a pattern. He had enough information to find a pattern. Where was the pattern?
Cash, Cash, Bonds, Diamonds...
Local Bank, International Financiers, Trading House, Diamond Exporters....
Ray propped his head on his elbow and stared hard at the paper. There just had to be a pattern here. They were all pretty rich companies. And they were all local companies, headquartered here in Chicago. Which was nicely ironic, when you thought about it, considering how they were now funding a bunch of local charities...
Ray rubbed a palm over his hair idly, and then got up from his desk to follow a hunch.
Benton sat on the front stoop of the Salmonelli house, smoking and watching the kids playing stickball down the street. He heard the screen door bang open behind him, and then Carlo came and sat down next to him, patting his pockets for a light.
Benton reached into the pocket of his black leather jacket, pulled out a lighter, and lit Carlo's cigarette.
"Thanks," Carlo said, inhaling. "Nice day, huh?"
"It's a beautiful day," Benton agreed.
"Yeah," Carlo said, watching the kids play. "Vito and me—we grew up not far from here. We used to play stickball just like them kids—it's a nice neighborhood. Friendly-like. I'm thinkin', you know, if things keep going good like they are, maybe I'll buy a little house around here, set up shop with Gina, have a couple of kids of my own."
"That sounds ideal," Benton agreed, taking a drag off his own cigarette.
"What about you," Carlo asked, "you ever think about getting hitched, having kids?"
Benton thought about that for a moment, and then shook his head slowly. "No. I don't think I'm wired that way."
"Oh." Carlo suddenly squirmed uncomfortably and looked away. "Well, hey, it ain't for everyone. Different strokes for different folks, right?"
"Absolutely," Benton agreed, tossing his cigarette into the street. "I'm going back to the Hilton," he added, getting up off the stoop. "I'm going to take a nap and perhaps have a bath. You do the same—I'll need you to be on your toes, tonight, Carlo. This one might be a bit tricky, and Vito's been...well, you know."
Carlo nodded grimly. "Don't you worry, Ben. I'll take care of Vito, no problem."
Benton nodded. "All right. I'll meet you back here at midnight."
Ray sauntered into Welsh's office, shut the door, and leaned back against it, grinning triumphantly. "I," he announced to Welsh, "have got it."
Welsh settled back in his seat, hands gripping the arms of his chair. "Well, I just hope you're not contagious."
"What have I told you about my genius?" Ray demanded.
"That it's legendary," Welsh sighed. "I must be reading the wrong legends."
Ray pushed himself off the door and laid a piece of paper on the desk in front of Welsh. "I spent the whole day at the library. Just take a look at that."
Welsh leaned forward to look. It was a photocopy of a page from Fortune Magazine, a list headed: THE CHICAGO HUNDRED. Ray had stroked through a few lines in blue highlighter:
6) Carter, Phillips, and Thompson 9) The Samstel Corporation 14) The Boorman Corporation
"So whattya think of them apples, huh?" Grinning, Ray slouched happily in the chair in front of Welsh's desk and hooked one long leg over its arm.
"Great," Welsh said, dryly. "There's only a hundred companies on this list, Vecchio. Really narrows it down—good job."
Ray's grin grew wider. "It does, yeah. Take a look at number one."
Welsh glanced down at the list. "Chicago CityCorp," he read, and then looked back up at Ray.
"'Proud Sponsors of the Chicago Special Olympics.'. Gimme number two."
"Merritt Sampson," Welsh read.
"'Merrit Sampson Reminds YOU To Get A Mammogram Every Six Months.' Well, not you, sir, but—gimme the next one."
"Intellicorp," Welsh read.
"AIDS Walk," Ray replied. "Keep going."
"Sirrus Broadcasting."
"Muscular Dystrophy."
"Lanning and Price."
"Chicago Bookmobile."
Welsh narrowed his eyes at Ray. "Carter, Phillips, and Thompson."
"Bupkis," Ray said with a feral grin. "Absolutely fucking bupkis." He swung his leg back onto the floor and leaned forward, hands dangling between his knees. "Interesting, no?" <