Fire and Ice (Buchanan-Renard #7)

Fire and Ice (Buchanan-Renard #7) Page 2

Bitterman nodded. “You’re right. Matt should take the photos…if he were still working here. He quit on me. Gave me his notice last night and told me he didn’t want to stick around this dump—his words, not mine—for two more weeks. He said it was a waste of his valuable time. That’s right…his valuable time. He cleared out his cubicle lickety split.” Bitterman waved his hands, one over the other, like a professional card dealer signaling to the ceiling cameras in a casino. “I don’t know if he has another job lined up. He told me he wanted to take important photos for important articles.”

Sophie hadn’t known Matt well. She’d only worked with him on a couple of stories, and both times he’d thrown a territorial tantrum.

“To be honest, he was a lousy photographer anyway,” Bitterman said. “Always cutting off the top of people’s heads, and besides, you’ve got a better camera than the Chronicle’s ancient one. I think Jimmy Olsen used one like it in that Superman movie. And those photos you took last month of the kitchen makeover were good, real good.”

“I’ll give it my best try,” she said. She was looking at his notes, trying to decipher his chicken scratches. “Sir, I can’t tell…when is the race?”

“Saturday.” He put a hand up to ward off any argument she wanted to give. “I know what you’re going to say. It’s short notice.”

She laughed. “Short notice? Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

He shrugged. “What can I tell you? It’s obvious we weren’t Harrington’s first choice…or second or third, I’m guessing. The guy just called.”

“I won’t have time to do much of a background check.”

“We’ve already got this Sunday locked in, so we won’t run it until next Sunday, and if Harrington turns out to be a wacko, it might even make for a more interesting article. You’re not going for the Pulitzer here. Do what you can, and if it doesn’t work out, if the guy really is a flake, we’ll run something else. Time’s a-wasting. Better get going.”

She was pulling the door closed behind her when he said, “You know the drill. Meet him in a public place, and better yet, take a friend with you. Be safe, not sorry.”

He always said those exact words to her whenever she left on an assignment. Be safe, not sorry. The ritual was actually comforting. Bitterman, she decided, had a duel personality. One minute he was barking orders like a mad Doberman, and the next he was playing the part of an overly protective mother hen. At least she thought that was how a mother would act. She didn’t have enough experience to know.

In her cubicle, Sophie typed “William Harrington” into a search engine and within seconds all sorts of information about him popped up on screen. The man had his own website, a blog, and would soon, according to his entry, have a video of himself on MySpace, YouTube, and Facebook. He’d written long essays on his childhood, his summers in Europe—which should have been interesting but weren’t—and on his fitness campaign.

Sophie wouldn’t have any trouble recognizing Harrington. There were dozens of photos of him on his website.

After making a few notes about his other 5K wins, she called him. He must have been waiting to hear from her because he answered on the first ring. Sophie thought it would take only a few minutes to set up a time and place to meet, but Harrington was a talker and kept her on the line for a good fifteen minutes before he finally got around to scheduling their interview.

“Of course you know the race is tomorrow, so we’ll have to meet tonight. I hope you’re a morning person because the 5K starts early, and you’ll want to be there, right? With a photographer,” he added in a rush. “The race is in Lincoln Park, so how about tonight we meet someplace around there?”

“How about Cosmo’s Pub?” she asked and gave him the address.

“I’ve never been to Cosmo’s. I go to more upscale restaurants. But that’s just a few blocks from where the race will start tomorrow. We could meet at seven. No, better make it six-thirty to give us more time. Does six-thirty work for you? I need to get to bed early. I want to be in top form tomorrow, especially since I’m going to be filmed.”

“Someone’s filming the race?”

“No, they’re going to film me running the race,” he corrected. “They’ll stay with me the whole way.”

“Do you plan to put the video on your website?”

“Of course.”

The man sounded serious. Who besides William Harrington would watch it? she wondered.

“So you’re paying someone to film the entire race?” she asked, still doubting.

He spoke at the same time. “Twenty-five wins is more than impressive, at least to some very important people it is. After the trial, there will be another video on my website, and that one will, no doubt, be just as impressive. Twenty-five wins is a huge accomplishment. Don’t you agree?”

Running the Boston marathon was impressive, and finishing that race was definitely an accomplishment. But a 5K? Not so much. Sophie kept her opinion to herself, though, because she didn’t want to squelch his enthusiasm or antagonize him. Harrington had an ego the size of Illinois, but he was polite and eager and seemed harmless enough.

Getting him to stop talking about himself proved to be a challenge, and time was slipping away. It was already after three.

“What did you mean when you said there will be another video after the trial? What trial?”

“I’ve been invited to join the Alpha Project. It’s very exclusive,” he boasted. “Only the fittest are asked, and I plan to break a record with this race. I’m going to shave off a couple of minutes. Bring a stopwatch if you don’t believe me.”

When he finally took a breath, she blurted, “So much to talk about tonight. I’ll see you at six-thirty. Bye now.”

He was still talking as she disconnected the call. She quickly gathered her things and raced around the cubicles to get to the elevator. In her hurry she nearly ran headfirst into a delivery man wheeling a dolly with yet more crates of Kelly’s Root Beer. She pointed the way to Bitterman’s office.

JOURNAL ENTRY 2

CHICAGO

We’re ready to head north. After years of studying the arctic wolves in captivity, Brandon and Kirk will finally be able to observe these glorious animals in their natural habitat. Eric and I are novices, but our excitement matches theirs. If everything goes as planned, we’ll know much more about the socialization of this subspecies as well as their adaptation to their environment, which is what I’m most interested in.

Not looking forward to the cold, but the information we’ll be able to contribute to the scientific community about these mysterious creatures will be worth any personal sacrifices we may have to make.

Who knows? We might become famous.

TWO

ALL HE WANTED WAS A CHEESEBURGER.

Agent Jack MacAlister had just completed a grueling two-day undercover assignment in one of Chicago’s toughest neighborhoods, and he was tired and dirty and hungry. The last thing he needed as he walked into the burger joint was to interrupt an armed robbery.

With a single shot through the center of the heart, Jack’s bullet propelled the man backward, away from the teenage girl he was holding hostage, and slammed him into the wall. A single stream of blood oozed down the perp’s dirty T-shirt.

Jack didn’t have to kill the other one. A couple of swift moves, and he was able to disarm the guy and get him facedown on the floor. He held him there with a foot on the back of his neck.

Outside, Jack’s partner, Alec Buchanan, heard the gunshot. Drawing his weapon as he deftly slid over the hood of his car, Alec raced to the door. Inside the restaurant, bedlam had erupted. The teenage girl was screaming at the top of her lungs and backing away from Jack. When she turned and saw Alec—though it didn’t seem humanly possible—her screams got even louder. It was apparent that she was as terrified of them as she had been of the men who would have killed her.

Jack held up his badge. “FBI!” he shouted. “You’re okay now. You can stop screaming. You too, ma’am,” he added to the nearly hysterical woman fanning herself with a limp napkin and bouncing up and down as though she were doing some sort of manic jumping jacks.

Alec dug his badge out of his pocket and held it up as he made his way over to his partner. He squatted down next to the dead body. “Nice shot,” he remarked when he saw where the bullet had penetrated.

“Didn’t have a choice,” Jack replied quietly, so only Alec would hear. The man he was holding down started squirming. “You get up, and I’m just gonna mow you down again.”

Alec put his foot down hard on the base of the man’s spine to get him to stop moving.

Three police cars, sirens blaring, screeched to a stop in the parking lot. To keep from getting riddled with bullets, Jack and Alec continued to hold up their badges. Since the two of them had just been doing undercover work, with their greasy long hair and scraggly beards, they looked more like deranged killers than agents of the FBI.

“Don’t you want to know what happened?” Jack asked Alec as he tilted his head toward the man he’d killed.

“I figured he didn’t get your order right.”

“He was hopped up on something. God only knows what. He was gonna kill the girl, no question.” He glanced down and shifted his stance so that more of his weight pressed on the captive. “This guy’s eyes are so dilated they look like saucers.”

Alec noticed another teenager holding up his cell phone. He wondered how long the kid had been taking video. Muttering an expletive, he turned his back on the teenager and said, “We just blew our cover. How much you want to bet we’re on the Internet within the hour?”

Jack shrugged. “The job was done today anyway.”

Jack and Alec stepped aside as the police swarmed through the door.

The first officer knelt beside the body. “It’s Jessup,” he called to the others.

A couple of policemen came closer to take a look. “Son of a gun,” one of them said. “Never thought he’d be taken down.”

“Who’s Jessup?” Jack asked.

The officer kneeling on the floor looked up. “A major drug supplier. We’ve been trying to stop him for years. Looks like he started sampling some of his own stuff.”

Paramedics walked in with stretchers, and soon the tiny burger joint was crowded.

Jack leaned against the counter and turned to Alec. “You still hungry?”

Alec picked up a laminated menu. “I could eat.”

Three hours later, after filing reports and turning the case over to the police, they were finally on their way back to headquarters. The second they walked inside, they were told to report to the office of the special agent in charge. No surprise there. She had already texted them. Three little words that spoke volumes: My office. Now.

Margaret Don’t-Ever-Call-Me-Maggie Pittman sat behind her massive desk. A group of agents had formed a semicircle behind her, all of them intently watching her computer screen.

“Look who’s decided to join us,” she drawled in her Arkansas twang. “Agent Hot Stuff and his sidekick Agent Hot Shot.”

“YouTube?” Alec asked.

In unison every agent in the room nodded.

“That’s enough now,” Pittman dismissed the crowd around her desk. “You’ve all had your fun. Get back to work while I talk to the movie stars.” Had she been smiling, her comment would have been funny. “Gentlemen, step over here. Agent MacAlister, perhaps you can tell me what’s happening here.” She pointed to the monitor.

Damn. The kid had gotten it all. Jack winced when he saw himself leaning against the hood of Alec’s car. One ankle was crossed over the other, and he was devouring his cheeseburger while the paramedics were rolling the body bag past him.

“Do you know what this looks like, Agent? I’ll tell you. You kill a man, karate chop and tae kwon do the hell out of another man to put him down, and then you enjoy a nice cheeseburger while you take in the afternoon sun, acting like none of it affects you one little bit. That’s what it looks like.”

Jack thought she was finished. “In my defense—”

“Now we know it’s all in a day’s work, and we can’t let it get to us, but the public doesn’t necessarily understand that, Agent, and they expect us to be…sensitive. Yes, I said sensitive, Agent Buchanan. They don’t want us to be cavalier or blasé after we gun down someone.”

Sensitive? Jack thought. Was she serious? She couldn’t be, could she? Since Alec had worked with Special Agent in Charge Pittman longer than he had, Jack looked at him to see his reaction. No help there. Alec was stone-faced.

“What would you consider appropriate behavior, ma’am?” Jack asked.

She squinted at him. “I’ll tell you what isn’t appropriate. Eating a damned cheeseburger while they’re carting a corpse past you.”

He had a feeling she wasn’t finished. He was right.

“Sit down, both of you. I’m tired of cranking my neck back.”

She waited until both men were seated facing her from across the desk, then said, “Now today is an interesting exception. The higher-ups aren’t going to be happy when they see this video.” She sighed and then said, “They’ve probably already seen it. However, the public, at least the public looking at this video, have turned you two into rock stars.”

“Rock stars?” Alec said

“That’s crazy,” Jack said at the same time.

“That’s right, rock stars. So far, this little video has had over two thousand visitors and counting. Hopefully, once you two clean up and get rid of the long hair and beards, you won’t be recognizable to your fan club.”

Jack groaned. “Fan club? You’ve got to be kidding.”

Pittman glared at him. “Do I look like I’m kidding, Agent MacAlister?”

Having caught on that she liked to answer her own questions, Jack didn’t respond.

“No, I don’t kid,” she snapped. “The media are another story. They’ll try to interview you, and we don’t want that, do we?”

She hesitated a good ten seconds before answering. “No, we don’t. Fortunately, you had already finished your last assignment, and of course there won’t be any more undercover work for a long, long time. Until this situation blows over and the public finds something else to get all worked up about, you two are going to keep a low profile. Got that? A low, low profile. In fact, I think it would be a good idea if you both took some vacation time.”