5
On Monday morning, after spending the weekend at the hideout in central Illinois, Dexter finally returned to Chicago.
Before leaving, he thoroughly wiped down the house for fingerprints, and he vacuumed for hairs, too. It was highly unlikely that the law would trace him to the place, but taking such precautions was second nature. Once a cop, always a cop.
The story of the missing prison transport van, guards, and inmate had been circulating on the news since Saturday. The reports featured a penitentiary mug shot in which he wore his beard. Although the cops had not formally announced a manhunt, the machinery would be revving up, and within a few more days—sooner if they discovered the sunken vehicle and its gruesome cargo—the machine would be rolling at full steam across the entire region.
It didn’t concern him. When the subject of escape inevitably came up in bullshit conversations with fellow inmates—inmates jawed about what they’d do if they broke free like regular folk talked about what they’d do with lottery jackpot winnings—he’d always said that if he got away, he would go to Brazil. He had no more intentions to flee to Brazil than he did the moon, but the gossipy inmates would do the job of spreading disinformation and muddling the cops’ search.
It was a clear, crisp morning. The Chevy Caprice, though ten years old, was in good condition, outfitted with a new set of tires.
He slipped on a cheap pair of sunglasses that he found clipped to the sun visor, and started the engine.
He tuned to a radio station that played music from the seventies, when music was music—unlike the bullshit that dominated radio airwaves today. He motored down the highway to the tunes of Earth, Wind, and Fire, Sly and the Family Stone, The Ohio Players, Parliament-Funkadelic, and other classic sounds. He sang along loudly to just about every song, sometimes flubbing the lyrics but pushing on anyway.
At a gas station, he refilled the tank. He had to go inside to pay with cash. A potbellied, hayseed cop was at the food counter getting his daily fix of free coffee and donuts. He glanced at Dexter, but it was the bland, appraising look that cops tended to give everyone.
Shortly before noon, the downtown Chicago skyline came into view on the horizon. Warm tears unexpectedly pushed at his eyes.
Goddamn, it felt good to be going home.
A half-hour later, he took the exit for Ninety-fifth Street, the major east-west road on the South Side. It wasn’t a direct route to his destination, but he wanted to drive around for a little while, immerse himself again in the city that had been his home for thirty-four of his thirty-eight years.
In spite of the cold weather—it was in the mid-thirties and the infamous hawk was out in full force—people were hanging out on street corners. They were most of them young brothers, in their late teens or twenties, clad in parkas and skully caps, talking shit and looking hard at everyone driving or walking past. They reminded him of inmates milling in the yard: grown men who had nothing productive to do with their time. The jagged skyline of downtown was visible in the hazy distance, but the business that took place within those towers was as meaningless to these men as constellations in the night sky, light years’ distant.
At one time or another, he had probably rousted a few of those brothers, or someone they knew. Good times.
He hit Forty-seventh Street, which took him to Bronzeville, an area once known as the “Black Metropolis” because of all the black movers and shakers who’d once lived in the neighborhood. By the time he had been born, the only movers and shakers around were the thugs who controlled the high-rise slums. The inevitable wave of gentrification had eventually demolished the projects, though, and single family homes and condos had been erected in their place.
The home in which he had lived before his bid in the joint was a one-story, brick, with three bedrooms, built in 1905. It stood along a row of similarly old, elegant properties flanked by skeletal, ice-encrusted trees.
He slowly cruised past the house. It was in good condition, the front yard mantled with snow.
In his so-called divorce, the judge had allowed him to keep the place, since he’d lived there long before he had married the bitch and she displayed no interest in taking the house anyway. As if she were so eager to sever her ties with him. It compounded the insult of her betrayal.
The home had long been paid off, and stood vacant. Javier had paid the property taxes each year and hired a lawn service to cut the grass during the summer months. He was a loyal partner.
Dexter circled around the block, checking for surveillance vehicles. He found none, which meant either that the manhunt had not yet progressed to the city—or, more likely, someone was off taking a lunch break.
He parked around the corner, under a gigantic oak. He rummaged in the duffel bag on the passenger seat, found the hammer he had taken from Javier’s hideout, and stuffed it inside his parka.
He also pocketed the Glock.
He went back to the house on foot. Snow and ice crackled under his boots. There was light traffic, no police cruisers.
He crossed the walkway that led to the front door and marched around the side of the house, to the back. A brown, two-car garage stood behind the house, bracketed by snow.
A thermometer was affixed beside the garage door, in the same position where he’d mounted it several years ago. He peeled off his gloves and opened the concealed slot at the base.
A key dropped into his palm.
The key fit the back door. He pushed open the door and stepped into the kitchen.
It was like going back in time. All the furniture was still there, though cobwebs draped the lights and dust covered the counters. Amazingly, the bitch had left with nothing but the clothes on her back.
Most important, the Turkish travertine floor tiles he’d installed were still in place, as was the refrigerator. It was unplugged, but occupied the wall niche for which it was intended.
Uncharacteristically, his pulse had begun to race.
Before going farther, however, he drew his Glock and searched the house. Squatters were always a potential problem in vacant properties.
The house was clear. It was tempting to linger in the various rooms and reflect on old times, but he quickly went back to the kitchen.
He grabbed the sides of the refrigerator and dragged it out of its wall slot, until he had hauled it completely clear of the space. A black oil drip mat lay on the floor where the refrigerator had stood, ostensibly to protect the tiles.
The presence of the mat was an encouraging sign. But his pulse still raced.
He knelt, peeled away the mat, and tossed it aside. He withdrew the hammer from his coat and used the hooked end to loosen the stone tile in the upper right corner.
Once that piece was free, he began to remove the tiles surrounding it, gradually exposing the concrete slab on which the house had been constructed.
A gray, fireproof safe had been sunk in the concrete. It was about two feet long, twenty inches wide, and one foot deep.
At the sight of it, he smiled.
He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his gloved hand, and carefully spun through the combination. He turned the lever and raised the heavy hinged lid.
“No,” he said, breathless.
The box was empty.
One point seven million dollars, in rubber-banded denominations of twenties, fifties, and hundreds, had been stored in the safe, and now it was gone.
6
Price Electronics operated out of a brick storefront on Main Street in Fairburn, sitting alongside a row of businesses that included a pizzeria, an antiques shop, a hardware store, and an Internet café. Part of a historic commercial district, the one- to three-story buildings had been constructed in a range of styles, from Italianate to Neoclassical, and most included awnings that contributed to the downtown street’s nostalgic vibe.
Joshua pulled his Ford Explorer into a parking slot in front of the electronics shop, grabbed his laptop off the seat, and headed inside. A bell above the door chimed at his entrance.
The shelves were packed with electronics from almost floor to ceiling. Except for the computers, the items for sale were mostly cutting-edge gadgets and arcane parts, the purposes of which eluded Joshua. Heavy metal played on the instore stereo.
Tim Price, the proprietor of the business and a friend of Joshua’s since high school, sat behind the long glass counter typing furiously on a BlackBerry, a messy mop of brown hair obscuring his face. Tattoos webbed his gangly arms— colorful renderings of dragons, griffins, and more otherworldly imagery.
Tim drove a custom-painted purple Chrysler PT Cruiser that continued the fantastical theme, sword-bearing warriors, gruesome orcs, long-bearded wizards, and slavering giant monsters adorning the body, like a mobile advertisement for
Dungeons & Dragons.
During their high school days, Tim had been a hardcore role-player and probably would have spent his days playing as a grown man if not for the shop.
Tim looked up, rose from his chair. He was nearly as tall as Joshua. He wore a white T-shirt with the slogan,
ANIMALS TASTE GOOD
, beneath which were shapes of fish, chicken, cattle, and pigs.
“Big Jay,” Tim said. They slapped hands.
“Nice shirt,” Joshua said.
“I’ve already offended one customer today. Some vegan
guy.”
“Don’t you ever worry that wearing shirts like that might
cost you business?”
He shrugged. “Screw ’em if they can’t take a joke.” Although Tim had earned an electrical engineering degree from Georgia Tech, he’d worked in the shop all his life.
His grandfather had launched the store in the seventies and
passed it down to his father, who had then given it to Tim
about five years ago. They specialized in the sort of obscure
consumer electronics that only tech junkies cared about, and
a large part of their business was doing repairs.
Joshua placed his notebook computer on the counter. “I’ve been having issues getting connected to the Inter
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net,” he said. “Rachel’s laptop works fine, so I know the problem is with my machine.”
Tim raised the laptop’s lid.
“Wireless connection?”
“Yeah, you set it up at my house, remember.”
“That’s right.” Tim snapped his fingers. “I’ll run some diagnostics. You might’ve inadvertently downloaded spyware or a virus, corrupted some files. That crap’s all over the Web these days, dude.”
“I can’t do much work until it’s fixed. When can you get to it?”
Tim checked his watch. There was an image of Mickey Mouse on the watch face.
“Mickey Mouse?” Joshua asked.
“He kicks ass.” Tim’s face was serious.
“Mickey Mouse?” Joshua asked again.
Tim broke into a grin. “You got me. Conversation piece. You noticed, didn’t you?”
“You’re a weirdo.”
“So? I know my shit. You can be as weird as you want if you’re good at your job. Einstein was eccentric, but we celebrate his genius.”
“The only one who celebrates your genius is you.”
Tim gave him the finger.
“Anyway, dude, I’ll have an answer for you on this by four. How’s that?”
“That’s cool. I’m about to go have lunch with Eddie.”
“You didn’t invite me. Is it a black thing or something?”
Joshua laughed. “We’ve invited you to lunch plenty of times, but we can’t ever get you out of this shop.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, Josh, I’m the only employee. I can’t leave.”
“Hire some help then.”
“I don’t trust anyone else to know what they’re doing. I’ve got a family legacy to live up to here.”
“Sounds like a personal problem to me.”
“Man, get out of here before I decide to start charging you for all the work I do.”
7
Joshua and Eddie met for lunch at the Busy Bee Café in the West End, an older area of Atlanta that included the Atlanta University Center—colleges such as Spelman, Morehouse, Morris Brown, and Clark Atlanta. Eddie was an assistant football coach at Clark, and lived in the neighborhood. When he and Joshua met for lunch, the popular soul food joint was usually the chosen spot.
Around half-past noon, the restaurant was packed with college students, school faculty, cops, and business people. The air was redolent with the savory aromas of fried chicken, pork chops, mac-and-cheese, and other southern specialties that guaranteed a coronary if you weren’t careful to exercise moderation.
The décor was simple: brown vinyl booths, narrow tables, a long counter, and walls plastered with dining awards and signed photos of celebrities and politicians. You didn’t go there for the ambience. The food was the main draw.
A waitress with a short, neatly trimmed Afro took their orders: fried chicken, collard greens, and candied yams for Eddie; a fried catfish sandwich and fries for Joshua. Both of them requested glasses of sweet tea.
“I don’t know how you can eat here every week and stay so thin,” Joshua said. “I have to watch myself.”
“It’s genetic.” Eddie patted his flat stomach. “Like my pops. That man’s been eating fried chicken and pork chops three times a week for his whole life and he still only weighs a buck fifty. Blood pressure’s getting too damn high, though.”
“Nothing that tastes good is ever good for you, seems like.”
The waitress delivered their iced teas. Eddie picked up the glass and took a long sip.
“So, has something happened since I saw you last night, man?” Eddie asked. “Or did you just want the pleasure of my company?”
Joshua smiled wryly. He couldn’t fool Eddie with small talk. They had been friends for far too long.
“I don’t know how to put this,” Joshua said. “But do you ever get the feeling that you never truly know someone?”
“All the time. Ariel shocks the hell outta me with something at least once a week.” Eddie grinned with evident satisfaction. “Welcome to married life—finally.”
“I know, you think I’ve been living in some wedded-bliss dream world for the past six months—and maybe I have,” Joshua said. “But I think this is something different.”
“What do you mean?”
Joshua pushed up his glasses on the bridge of his nose. “You can’t tell anyone what I’m going to tell you. This stays between me and you.”
“ ’Course.”
“I think Rachel’s got some secrets. About her past. Stuff she’s never told me about and doesn’t want to tell me about.”
“Don’t we all?” Eddie shrugged. “Damn, I thought you were gonna say something serious.”
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