Chicago Blue: A Red Riley Adventure

  Chicago Blue

  A Red Riley Adventure

  Stephanie Andrews

  2017 by Stephanie Andrews

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Piscataqua Press

  Visit the author at www.redrileybooks.com

  One

  Carter Blalock was having a bad day. When he saw me burst through the stairwell door and into the hallway, one side of his face seemed to droop, like he was suffering a mini-stroke of thwarted hope.

  He looked to the elevator door, but I was obviously closer. He reached toward his overcoat pocket, but realized that I had already drawn my service weapon. Instead he patted his pocket idly, like an absentminded old man looking for his glasses, or his car keys.

  “This isn’t my fault—“ he started to say, but I screamed at him from my position twenty feet away.

  “Shut up and don’t move!” I thumbed the radio on my shoulder without ever taking my eyes off him. “This is Riley. I have him on twenty two. Request immediate backup.”

  “Listen—“

  “Shut. UP!” I tried to make my voice deeper, tried to front some attitude so that he would stand still and keep his mouth shut. Apparently, I convinced him that I wasn’t in a listening mood, because with a slight shrug of his shoulders he feinted to his left and then jumped to his right through the nearest doorway.

  “Damn it!” I hollered, and without thinking pushed through the door after him before it could close, before I could consider what an idiotic move that was.

  It was a boardroom, of good size, and Blalock had already made it to the other side of the room, on the far side of a huge conference table. He must have slid across the top of it to have gotten to the other side so quickly. He wasn’t more than fifteen feet from me but I screamed at full volume anyway.

  “Freeze! Show me your hands. Now!” My words echoed around the empty boardroom.

  He raised his arms and the sleeves of his overcoat slid back, revealing a watch on his right wrist and a large, strange bracelet on his left. I say strange because it was metal, about four inches wide, and had a crystal embedded in it that was flashing a slow yellow light, like some sort of beacon. Like space age Game of Thrones mashup strange.

  “I told Ralston to hurry, but it’s too late,” he said to me, his voice calm but his hands shaking. “It’s not a bluff.”

  I had no idea who Ralston was. I only knew that I was sweeping floors twenty through twenty-three and Jarvitz was doing floors twenty-four and twenty-five, Baker the four floors below me. One of them would be here any minute. They’d cuff this guy while I kept my gun on him and then it would all be over and we’d all go have drinks until the adrenaline died down and I could go home to sleep.

  In one hand, I kept my gun level and pointed at his chest, while with the other I pushed my hair out of my face. I was trying to grow out my bangs, but strands kept escaping their clips.

  “There’s not much time,” he told me matter-of-factly, and looked to his left, down the long table, to the floor to ceiling windows at the end of the room. The drapes were open and from this height it was a pretty spectacular view of Lake Michigan, even at night. Or especially at night. Whatever.

  “We’ve got all the time in the world,” I told him, “so let’s just stay calm and we can work this thing out.”

  He looked at me with what seemed like pity, then glanced out the corner of his eye at the flashing yellow light on his wrist.

  “I’m trying to save your life,” he said, and then turned and ran for the window.

  It was one of those moments of clarity, when time slows down. I thought, “So he goes out the window. Less chance of a wrongful death suit. Not like I would be suspected of throwing a six foot, two-hundred-pound man through a window. The laws of physics being what they are, I’d have to be some sort of ninja assassin. A five foot six, freckled, red-headed ninja assassin. In ten years on the job I haven’t fired my weapon, why start now?”

  Time sped back up to its normal rate and I watched him launch himself full force at the center pane, then winced at the sound of his nose crunching as he bounced face first off the reinforced glass and crumpled to the floor. That had to hurt.

  I moved cautiously across the room, my weapon still trained on him, until I was five feet away. He groaned and rolled over. Blood was streaming from his nose onto his dress shirt. What kind of trouble was this guy in, that he would try to leap out a twenty-story window instead of face a few years in jail? That shirt was totally ruined.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but just then a small beep came from the bracelet on his wrist, and the yellow light turned to red and began to strobe faster.

  Blalock looked up at me with eyes full of dread and resignation and through his bloodied lips came one word: “Run.”

  Maybe it was that look in his eyes, or the urgency of the blinking light, but I took him at his word. I turned on my heel and took two steps toward the door before I tripped over the plastic carpet protector and fell headfirst into the fancy high-backed chair at the head of the table. The chair rolled with my momentum, skidded and spun halfway, dragging me around. Jarvitz’s surprised face appeared in the doorway just as Blalock exploeded. An enormous wave of force and sound struck the back of my chair, propelling me up into the air and then down, face first into the solid, unforgiving oak of the boardroom table and beyond it into utter blackness.

  Two

  I awoke in a bed that was clearly a hospital bed. The light was harsh and white. I blinked until I could see, more or less, and noticed my captain sitting in the chair next to my bed. He looked at me and shook his head.

  “Red,” he said, “you’re alive.”

  He didn’t sound that thrilled about it.

  I closed my eyes and drifted away.

  Three

  The day I left the hospital was also the day of Jarvitz’s funeral. I thought about going, but Cap just shook his head and looked at me like I had no sense.

  “That,” he said, “is a horrible idea.”

  So instead I went home to my apartment, where I found everything just where I had left it a week ago when I had gone out on my shift. I lived alone, no pets, no nearby relatives, so I don’t know what I was expecting. Get well flowers, placed on the dining room table by a resourceful delivery person with a knack for picking locks? Casseroles outside my door? I felt nostalgic for the days of landline answering machines with the little red digital numbers telling you how many calls you had while you were out. My iPhone, which had not survived the blast, was telling no tales. I had talked to my mother, sort of, on the hospital phone, and my friend Ruby, so I don’t really know who else would have called me. Maybe “The Guys?”

  I dropped my keys in the dish on the little side table in the hall, then looked around my kitchen. The plants needed water. A lonely ant made his way across the kitchen counter, dragging a crumb. There were a few dirty dishes in the sink, but luckily none of them had sprouted any mold. Yet.

  In my bedroom, I eased slowly out of my coat and looked at myself in the mirror above my dresser. Besides the purple bruises that still showed around my eyes, and the shaved area of my head above my right ear—twenty-seven stiches—I looked pretty normal. My nose was still the Riley Special, but it seemed to point slightly to the left now in a way that it hadn’t before the accident. The incident? The … Oh hell.

  I was captivated by my reflection, my injuries made me look remarkable and scary. Usually, I was amazingly mundane. My hair was naturally red. Freckles punctuated my pale skin. I got chosen for plainclothes work a lot because I could spend all day walking through a mall or a college campus and no one would ever look twice at me. I had a pretty good body,
because I worked hard not to be one of those cops that can barely get out of the cruiser without help. I was medium height, with medium breasts, medium ass. Medium, medium, medium. The Guys never asked me out because, they said, I was “One of The Guys,” and that would be weird. Though it never stopped them hitting on Amanda Arsenault. Or Vicky in forensics.

  Well, if I was one of the guys, why hadn’t any of them come to see me in the hospital? I know. Jarvitz. I get it. Somehow it was my fault for not warning him the room was about to explode. I was just feeling sorry for myself.

  I looked around the bedroom and felt depressed. Apart from a framed Art Institute poster, which I still loved, everything in here seemed a decade old. Old CDs stacked next to my stereo: Green Day, Moby, Gwen Stefani, Destiny’s Child. I didn’t buy CDs anymore, of course, I just downloaded tracks, but my taste hadn’t changed much. In my closet, jeans, chinos, t-shirts, blouses in muted colors. In some ways, I felt that after my Dad died, after I joined the force, I just stopped seeking out new things, new experiences, and life became a grind.

  Did I mention I was feeling sorry for myself? I did? Okay.

  I changed, slowly and stiffly, into my red one-piece bathing suit and then eased into some sweats and took a towel from the closet. My apartment building had an indoor pool, and swimming was my preferred way to work out. Since I could barely walk, I figured a leisurely float might be just the thing.

  And it was. I returned to my apartment after an hour in the pool, and took a long, hot shower. Feeling much better, I dressed in gym shorts and my Veruca Salt T-shirt, then sat down at the dining room table to sort through a week’s worth of mail. Most of it was junk, but then I came across an envelope with the departmental letterhead on it. Curious, I opened it right away.

  What the…? Suspended? By mail? What a bunch of assholes. It looked as if I had been suspended for 60 days while the incident of April 26th was being investigated. With half pay. I was required to stay in Chicago for the two months, as I would be required to be available to answer questions concerning the explosion when the board needed me to. I would be required to check in with my captain once a week. Three requireds in one paragraph. Don’t they own a thesaurus?

  I have to admit, I was tired of being a cop. I had probably considered quitting at least once a week for the last three years. Go to law school, go to art school. I don’t know. Go somewhere, but inertia always set in and the weeks just went by. That said, it still stung to be unceremoniously dealt with by mail.

  I picked up my new phone and called Ruby.

  “Who is this?!” She said immediately, suspicion and annoyance mixing into her Czech accent. Ruby had lived in the US since she was six, but still managed to talk as if she had just arrived.

  “Ruby, it’s me, Kay.”

  “This is not your number.”

  “It is now, new phone.”

  “You can keep your old number, you know, just because you have a new phone you don’t need a new number.”

  “But my old phone was an iPhone, and my new phone is one of these other things.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Yes, well, that’s not why I’m calling. I’m calling because what the hell?”

  “Are you in pain?

  “No,” I said, and sighed. I pinched the bridge of my nose, but that just made little shooting pains run through my skull. I looked at the hosta that sat in a big pot below the window. It looked like I felt, thought it would only take a little water to perk the plant back up. Those things are impossible to kill, which is why my apartment was full of them. “Well yes, a bit, but that’s not what I mean. I mean I’m totally suspended.”

  “I know, that was like a week ago.”

  “I only just got to my mail.”

  “They told you by mail?” Ruby snorted. “That is very lame, no?”

  “Yes. Ruby, what’s going on?”

  Ruby Martynek was a former beat cop who now worked in the administrative offices. After a few years on the force she had torn ligaments in her knee and opted for a desk job. She was one of my few friends in the department, or anywhere really, and she had a great nose for news. All the important stuff came across her desk, and she managed to absorb it all without ever seeming to be nosy.

  “This Blalock guy, he is a big time financial guy, head of IllCom.”

  “Then what the hell was he doing in the Farnham Tower? Aren’t they sworn enemies? Some sort of corporate espionage?”

  “Nobody knows. And they blame you for that.”

  “What? That’s nuts. It’s not like I exploded him. Or caused him to explode. Or whatever.”

  “Yes, but now there is no one left to answer any questions.”

  “But I didn’t explode him!”

  “Plus Jarvitz.”

  “Right.” I fell silent.

  “Listen, honey. None of this was your fault. It will all get straightened out. You’ll see. Meantime, enjoy your vacation, relax, recover.”

  “It’s not a vacation, it’s a suspension!”

  “Potato,” said Ruby. “Potahtoh.”

  “Let me know anything you hear, okay?”

  “Tomato, tomahtoh.”

  “Uh huh. I’m hanging up.”

  “Na shledanou.”

  “Goodbye.”

  Four

  Carter Blalock. Seemed I had some time on my hands, so I thought I’d look into Carter Blalock. A normal person might take a double dose of their prescribed painkillers and lay on the couch watching Titanic, again, but I was too stirred up by the suspension. I couldn’t relax, and I had questions that I wanted answered.

  I can’t say that I had ever really loved being a cop. For some people, it’s a way of life. They’d rather be in their cruiser than anywhere else in the world, and most of them were doing the job for all the right reasons. I sort of fell into it, and never quite climbed out. Certainly, other things called to me. I had wanted to be a lawyer, I had expected to be a lawyer, but that hadn’t worked out. I also liked art, and history, and reading.

  Two things kept me on the force. One, admittedly, was inertia. I was still young enough to go and get my law degree. I could probably get some decent financial aid to make that happen, but every time I got serious about it, something pulled me back, and I lost my momentum. The other thing was my strong sense of justice. I hate, hate, to see people getting away with things. At the same time, I hate to see people getting a raw deal because they don’t have the education or the money to properly defend themselves. Being a beat cop let me play mediator. If I thought someone needed a second chance, I could look the other way. If I thought someone was taking advantage, I didn’t mind stepping in and making things a little more difficult for them. These scenarios paly out daily when you are patrolling a city like Chicago.

  Lately, however, the rise in shootings, though not in my part of the city, was giving me pause. Add to that a feeling that the higher-ups in the department didn’t necessarily have my back, and I was seriously thinking once again of quitting. In fact, just a few weeks ago I had gone once more to Northwestern to pick up enrollment information.

  All that said, however, the suspension rankled. I might want to quit, but I wasn’t going to do it under a cloud. It seemed the worst sort of expediency to decide that my behavior was suspect simply because I had failed to stop the explosion. I wanted to get to the bottom of this.

  I threw my laptop in my satchel and took the bus downtown. I went into The Creamery, my favorite coffee place. It had lots of old, mismatched furniture and served coffee in miscellaneous mugs collected over the years. I didn’t like the new ultra-modern places, with stainless steel, or even copper tabletops and overly artful lighting. I had been getting my coffee there every morning for about six months when one day a few weeks ago I just said, “The Usual.” The barista was a tall black guy named Oren who worked most every morning—baristo?—and he gave me a look that indicated that he had no idea who I was or what my regular drink was. It was depressing, but par for the cours
e. I thought about changing coffee shops, but I knew it wasn’t his fault.

  Oren was there today and I ordered a large dark roast with cream only. I found a table in one corner and pulled out my laptop. I fired it up, grimacing at the Chicago Police logo that always came up first thing. When I entered my password I was greeted with an error message: user name or password is incorrect. I typed it again, and then again to make sure I hadn’t made an error. After the third time the message read: Security lockout, please contact system administrator.

  Damn it, when they said suspended, they really meant it. I was completely locked out. I couldn’t even get to a browser to try and find a wi-fi signal. I pulled out my phone, but it had a tiny little screen, and by the time I found my way to Google my head was already splitting. I took off the Cubs hat I was wearing to massage my temple, but instantly felt self-conscious about my shaved head and the white gauze bandages. The remnants of two black eyes was off-putting enough, I didn’t want to scare everyone.

  I put the cap back on and took out my medicine bottle, looking around furtively at the other patrons to see if anyone was watching the crazy woman taking drugs. I thumbed two tablets into my mouth and washed them down with a gulp of molten lava that scalded my throat. Damn, they brew it hot here. I wondered briefly if they would let me back into the hospital if I asked nicely, because things out here were just not going well.

  I decided to go to the library and get on the computers there, but when I stood up I felt a bit dizzy. Suddenly, the idea of going to the library every time I needed the internet seemed too much of a struggle; I needed another solution. I sat back down and finished my coffee.

  Twenty minutes later I left The Creamery feeling marginally better. The drugs must have kicked in. I also had a new idea: Marty. I fished around in my satchel, looking for his business card. The bag was an old leather one that my Dad had given me when I went to college, and I still used it every day when I wasn’t on duty. It looked like the kind of bag an important old barrister would carry as he entered the courtroom, and this wasn’t by accident. Nothing my Dad did was ever by accident. I hadn’t cleaned it out since I got it, more than a decade ago, and now I started cursing as I stuck my fingers in all the various interior pockets. One had something sticky in it, but luckily the next pocket had old Kleenex in it, which I used to wipe my fingers off. Finally, I found a little stash of business cards that I had collected from random people over the years. I searched through them until I found one for Martin Martynek. “Technology Acquired, Inc.” Marty had once told me that he could get any kind of computer or phone I needed, if I ever needed one, and fast. At the time I had wondered: Why would I ever need one fast? But today seemed like the day. The address was only a few blocks away. I was surprised by the Lake Shore Drive address, as it seemed a little upscale for Ruby’s nephew, but I decided to head that way. It made sense to get my own laptop, but if it was only going to be for a few weeks then I didn’t want to spend a lot of money. If it turned out to be longer, I could always trade up.