Don Pendleton - Chicago Vendetta

“So in all those cases,” Rusch said, “the perpetrators knew these were all employees of the police department. They knew their habits and their neighborhoods, and they knew about otherwise highly confidential police operations.”

“Okay, fair enough,” Johnny conceded. “But what makes the department think it’s an insider or mole responsible?”

“The victims. As you know, Rich Walburn was a computer forensics investigator. Kendra James was a security operations dispatcher.”

“And Iggy and Mick were both on the warrant squad,” Hillman added. “ All of these individuals have regular access to the same information because they all worked out of this building, so we’re convinced our mole is here .”

“And the powers that be decided to take someone who has the experience in gathering intelligence, transfer them to IA, and give the insider a boost in confidence nobody’s onto him. Or her.” He looked at Rusch. “Nothing personal.”

She inclined her head. “Fair enough. Everyone’s a suspect at this point, Mr. Gray.”

Hillman scoffed. “Lakea’s not a suspect. I’ve worked with her for years. She comes from a family of cops, and there’s no way this is in her character.”

“And obviously CPD has reason to think you’re above reproach,” Johnny observed. “Otherwise they wouldn’t have transferred you to IA and made such a show of it, to boot.”

“Smart, Gray,” Hillman replied. “You’ve a good head on your shoulders. But you don’t know shit about law enforcement in Chicago. No offense. The blue line here is solid, probably not like anywhere you else you’ve ever been. If someone inside is dirty, it won’t be easy to flush them out, and especially not for an outsider, despite whatever skills you claim to possess.”

Johnny forced a grin. “Maybe not. But I have something that might be of interest to you, something you might not yet even possess.”

“And that is?” Rusch asked, arching an eyebrow.

“A lead,” Johnny said.

* * *

Hillman and Rusch sat a vigilant post in their unmarked squad car in a darkened corner of a parking lot. One of them had an eye on the entrance to the grocery store at all times, determined not to miss their quarry. Parked close by in his rental was Gray, who was keeping his own sort of vigil, despite being told it was against policy to allow him on the team. They agreed to share information, but go their separate ways. Hillman and Rusch knew the private investigator wouldn’t listen, and his presence confirmed it.

“So what do you think?” Hillman asked as he looked out the passenger window at Gray’s car and sighed.

“About what?” Rusch replied, never taking her eyes from the store. “Gray?”

“Yeah.”

“I think...” She paused to lick her lips. “I think the guy’s truly looking out for our best interests while trying to find his friend’s killer. I’d be doing the same thing.”

Hillman looked at his partner askance. “Really? I got just the opposite sense after he told us about his lead but refused to give us any idea where the information came from. And how does he get information so fast?”

“I don’t know. It’s just something in my gut. Call it instinct.” Rusch looked over at Gray’s car, too. “He just seems like a straight shooter. There’s something kind of no-nonsense about him.”

“He’s a private dick,” Hillman replied. “Not one of us.”

“Hold up,” Rusch told him. “There he is.”

A thirtysomething Latino male in a leather jacket emerged. He had a canvas satchel in his grip, and his head moved as if mounted on a swivel. Rusch and Hillman remained still. Any sudden movement or attempt to obfuscate their positions inside the car now would just draw unwanted attention. The man didn’t appear to spot them, or if he had, he didn’t give any sign of it.

Hillman whipped out his cell phone and called Gray. When he answered, the detective said, “Even though you’re not supposed to be here, that’s our guy who just came out. Leather jacket and dark hair, climbing into that silver Toyota.”

* * *

Johnny listened carefully, then acknowledgd Hillman’s intel and disconnected.

Neither of the detectives had been eager to pursue his theory that a young decorated narcotics officer named Javier Esparza could be the mole. Johnny couldn’t blame them, as it didn’t make much sense to him, either. But the fact remained that Esparza had some pretty interesting facets to his personal life. For one thing he had a single younger sister with a checking account on which he was an authorized signer. Despite her unemployed status, Esparza’s sister managed to deposit five thousand in cash into the account every week. Esparza also drove a silver Toyota Avalon that wasn’t registered in his name. The car title was free and clear, and the corresponding insurance and sales agreement for the vehicle had been executed in the name of Omeco Industries, which had the earmarks of a shell corporation based on the data Johnny had received from Aaron Kurtzman at the Farm.

Johnny watched as Esparza climbed behind the wheel of his car and left the parking lot, then drummed his fingers against the steering wheel as he waited to see what Hillman and Rusch would do. Finally the lights came on and their vehicle rolled forward to tail Esparza. Johnny started the engine of his vehicle and fell into line behind the detectives, keeping a distance of a few car lengths at all times. Fortunately, they were on the back side of rush hour, so there were enough vehicles in play to make a tail possible.

* * *

“So, what do you think was in the satchel?” Hillman asked.

“It certainly wasn’t groceries,” Rusch replied with a shrug. “But if I had to guess, I’d say cash. Lots of it.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of, too,” Hillman replied. “You know, Gray could be right and Esparza is our guy after all. But maybe he had nothing to do with what happened to Mick and Iggy. Maybe he’s just on the take.”

“Good old-fashioned dirty is better?” Rusch asked in surprise.

“I’m not saying that,” Hillman said tersely, wincing as he rubbed at his stiff neck. “But I’d rather bust the guy doing something like that than think he was responsible for the deaths of fellow police officers. Frankly, this whole thing sucks. It’s not like we don’t have enough to worry about out there. We got the damn courts and press breathing down our necks and crying brutality every time we look at a perp cross-eyed.

“Now we add the recent uptick in violence, wrongful deaths that are going both ways, while we’re out here putting our asses on the line for what amounts to shitty pay. After what happened to Mick and Iggy, I just don’t know what to think anymore, Lakea. Sometimes I wonder if it would be better to just hang it up and do something else.”

“What something else?” Rusch replied with a snort. “You love being a cop, Chuck. Don’t deny it.”

“I don’t. But don’t you ever think about a change?”

The city lights flickered in her eyes as she braked for a red light and then turned her head to meet his gaze. “I do. But then I think of all the good I’m doing, and all the times that might have gone wrong if I hadn’t just happened to be in the right place at the wrong time. And I figure that’s reward enough.”

As soon as the light changed and cars began to move, Esparza abruptly crossed two lanes of traffic in the intersection to make a right-hand turn onto North Morgan Street. Several angry drivers leaned on their horns while one made a bit of a stronger gesture out the window in true Windy City fashion. There was no way for Rusch to get over, but she noticed Gray had dropped back far enough so that he could adjust.