Stirred (26 page)

QNB is also especially useful.

Luther used it to great effect after the bus incident.

Unfortunately, he’s down to his last tank, which is a shame, but the amount remaining will be more than sufficient to get the job done.

Perfect for certain circles in his epic masterpiece.

Also perfect for the upcoming festivities.

Luther checks the time on his iPhone, shivering as an anticipatory tingle of excitement shoots through him.

It isn’t sexual in nature. A better comparison might be of winters long past, the night before Christmas. He had a pleasant childhood, at least early on, and that euphoric
waiting for Santa
expectation was quite similar to what he’s feeling now.

He’s on the brink of unveiling something extraordinary.

Something life-changing.

It’s like the grand opening of a new store, or a summer blockbuster movie debut.

Except, of course, for the large number of people who will suffer and die.

But what Luther is doing is art, and no one ever said art is easy. He knows this firsthand. Knows that the best art is written with blood.

He smiles.

“It’s all for you, Jack,” he says, keeping his voice at a whisper so as not to disturb the dead.

April 2, 2:39 A.M.

M
y iPhone buzzed on my nightstand.

I opened my eyes and squinted at the screen, saw that I had a message.

I reached for my cell, read the text.

The natural law in naught is relevant.
Into the yellow of the Roe’s Eternal

The calling number was blocked, but this had to be Luther.

I guessed the passage was another snippet from
The Divine Comedy
, and a quick Google check confirmed it came from
Paradiso
.

Except
Roe’s Eternal
was supposed to be
Rose Eternal
.

I Googled “Chicago” plus “Roe’s”—

—and on the first page got this hit:

Hiram Roe owned the land that Rosehill Cemetery would be built upon. His farm was called Roe’s Hill because it was higher than the surrounding swampy land. Spelling errors turned the name
Roe’s Hill
to the name
Rosehill.

I checked the time, wide awake now: 2:39
A.M.

The fourth murder was supposed to happen at 3:10
A.M.
, in only a half hour, and Rosehill Cemetery was at least a fifteen-minute drive from the hotel.

Phin slept on the sofa, snoring softly.

I woke him yelling, “Phin! Get Herb and Harry!”

He shot straight up as if spring-loaded.

I scooted my large butt over to the edge of the bed and fought to squeeze into my newest pair of Keds.

“Luther sent me a text,” I said. “He’s at the Rosehill Cemetery.”

Phin instantly got on his phone and conveyed the news to Herb and Harry.

Then he came over and put a hand on my shoulder.

“Jack, you aren’t going anywhere.”

I met his loving gaze with venom. “Really, Phin? Trying to tell me what I can and can’t do again? How’d that work out for you last time?”

“Luther wants you there. This is a trap.”

I folded my arms over my chest, which made me even more aware of how pregnant I was because my boobs had gone up a full cup size, which made me even more irritated. “Damn it, Phin. Herb will call in every cop and Fed in three states. There won’t be a safer place to be in the world than that cemetery.”

“You don’t know what he’s planning.”

“And you didn’t see him do what I saw him do. I need to be there, Phin.”

His mouth formed a thin line, and he folded his arms as well.

I clenched my teeth. “It’s what I do. It’s who I am. You won’t ever change that. And if you loved me, you wouldn’t even try to.”

I forced myself to wait for his reaction. If he still insisted on keeping me in the hotel room, I’d knee him in the balls and mail his ring back to him, along with all of his stuff. Caring for me was one thing. Trying to control me was something I would never, ever accept.

Phin must have understood, because he slowly knelt down and fastened the Velcro strap on my left shoe.

“Promise me you won’t take any risks,” he said, staring up at me. “No unnecessary chances.”

“I’ll be fine,” I said. “Let’s
go
.”

We met the two cops on guard in the hallway just as McGlade was leaving his room, bleary-eyed, his suit rumpled, fly unzipped. His shoes—Italian loafers—were on the wrong feet.

“What kind of asshole kills someone at three in the morning?” he grumbled. “It’s psychotic.”

“I’m driving Jack,” Phin said. “You coming with us, or going by yourself?”

McGlade frowned. “My car isn’t charged. The hotel didn’t have a long enough extension cord. And why is Jack going?”

Rather than reply, I headed for the elevators with the men trailing behind me. Herb texted me, saying he was already en route.

My escorts took their own car.

I rode with the boys.

McGlade was uncharacteristically silent, until I realized he’d fallen asleep in the back seat.

We reached the cemetery at 2:58
A.M.
and found a police barricade already in place at the Ravenswood Avenue entrance. After parking on the street under a railroad viaduct, I met Herb at the front gate, a castellated Gothic structure built of pale stone that looked straight out of medieval times, complete with arches and turrets. It was the same color and style as Chicago’s famous Water Tower. In addition to five squad cars and SUVs, I counted two ambulances, three fire trucks, plus four unmarked government-issue sedans—the FBI. It was cold, the stinging wind a sign that winter wasn’t through with Chicago yet, and I wished I’d brought a warmer coat.

“Damn it, Jack, why are you here?” The first words out of Herb’s mouth.

I bit back my anger, forcing myself to accept that he, like Phin, was simply worried about me. Treating me like I was helpless, fragile, and incompetent was just their way of showing they cared.

“What if Luther is tracking me?” I asked, keeping calm. “Am I safer here, or back at the hotel, guarded by two men, while every other police officer in Illinois is here?”

“Fine. But you stay out here. There’s no way you’re going inside.”

Be nice, Jack.
“What’s the situation?”

“We’ve got more than fifty cops here, plus Feebies. Hostage negotiator en route, in case Luther has grabbed someone. All exits blocked. Downside—Rosehill is big. Three hundred and fifty acres, including a massive mausoleum in the southwest quadrant. We’re searching it section by section, and it’s going to take hours.”

“Any sign of forced entry?”

“No. Gates were all locked. If he’s in there, he broke through the fence or hid inside before the cemetery closed for the evening.”

“And what time was that?”

“This main entrance, five
P.M.
All others at four.”

My cell buzzed. I glanced at the screen.

Blocked call.

“It’s him,” I said.

I answered.

“Hello, Jack.” Luther’s voice. “I just sent you a picture.”

On cue, my iPhone buzzed, indicating a text message. I clicked on it and saw a photo.

Life is because God is, infinite, indestructible, and eternal.
ROBERT E. FRANKS
Sept 19. 1909 – May 22. 1924

Herb leaned in over my shoulder to look.

“The place is surrounded, Luther,” I said. “Give up or you’ll die here.”

“We all have to die sometime, Jack. And this is a lovely place for it. Green, peaceful, some nice scenery. You should come in. I have no intention of killing you today. But you and you alone can save others, if you’re fast enough. Here one must leave behind all hesitation; here every cowardice must meet its death.”

I guessed that last line was more
Divine Comedy
.

“I’ll pass,” I said. “But I’ll be sure to drop in and say hello when you’re locked up in Cook County, being traded for cigarettes.”

“Suit yourself. I don’t have a Dante quote for that, but Burke should suffice. How about: ‘All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.’ Have fun sitting on the sidelines, watching men die, knowing you could have prevented it.”

The call ended.

A cold wind whipped through my hair, stinging my scalp. The trees beyond the gate rustled in the breeze, and I realized I’d been unconsciously rubbing my belly. I took my hand away.

“Is the SRT here?” I asked Herb, not liking the sound of Luther’s threat.

“Yeah.”

“The bomb squad?”

“We have several K9 units, some trained in explosives.”

“Find that grave,” I said, but as the words left my mouth I realized I didn’t want Herb to be the one looking for it. I believed Luther. Though I knew he was nothing more than a sick, disturbed man, part of me worried he somehow had the power to kill everyone here. I’d faced so many monsters in my career, but none scared me as much as Luther.

He was the boogeyman.

“Is there overnight security?” I asked.

“Yeah, but it’s not extensive. Pretty much just a guy driving around. He hasn’t reported in.”

I glanced beyond the gate into a pool of darkness. “Where are the lights?” I asked.

“No lights inside.”

“Caretakers?”

“There was a groundskeeper. Guy named Willie. Tom talked to him a few minutes ago.”

“Groundskeeper Willie?” I asked.

Herb shrugged.

Detective Tom Mankowicz approached with his partner, Roy Lewis, a bald guy who looked a lot like the boxer Marvin Haggler.

“Hey, Lieut,” Roy said, the smile on his face reaching his eyes. “Terrible situation, but good to see you.”

“We need to find the gravesite of Robert E. Franks,” I said. “Tell the teams in the field.”

“Won’t be easy.” Tom rubbed his chin. “There are a quarter million people buried here.”

“There’s got to be some sort of grave map or database.”

“Got the family service counselor for the cemetery on the way here, but it’ll be a few minutes.”

“What about that groundskeeper?”

Rob and Tom looked around, and then pointed to a man leaning against the stone entrance, watching everything going on with wide eyes. As we approached, I noted he was tall, with a pot belly that rivaled mine, short red hair, and a pointy Bob Hope nose.

“Mr. Kneppel, we need to know the location of a certain grave. Robert E. Franks.”

Kneppel’s wide eyes got wider, and when he spoke, he flashed a gold tooth. “Bobby Franks?” His voice was hoarse. “Uh…we’re not supposed to give out the location of that particular gravesite.”

Bobby Franks. That was a name I recognized. He was one of the most famous murder victims of all time. Back in 1924, it had been nationwide news, called the crime of the century. Two teenage law students named Leopold and Loeb had murdered the thirteen-year-old boy just to see if they could get away with it. His death was nothing more than an intellectual exercise. But they’d inadvertently left evidence alongside the body and were defended by the most famous lawyer of the day and probably all time, Clarence Darrow. Darrow didn’t get them off, but he was successful in avoiding the death penalty, which the public had demanded. It made sense why the cemetery wasn’t public about the grave’s location—it could draw unwanted attention to a place whose purpose was to provide a quiet venue for the living to visit and mourn the dead.

“It’s okay, Mr. Kneppel,” Herb said. “We’re the police.”

“Oh. Yeah. I guess it’ll be okay. He’s in the Jacob Franks mausoleum. The paths are all labeled.”

Willie mentioned an intersection, and Herb immediately spoke into his lapel mike, repeating the caretaker’s words.

Then he, Roy, and Tom headed for the cemetery entrance.

“Guys!” I called.

They stopped and turned back to face me.

“Let SRT handle this one,” I said. “With K9 support and explosives experts.”

“Seriously?” Herb said.

“I’ve got a bad feeling, Herb.”

“We talking cop intuition? Or…” He let his voice trail off, and I got the full meaning of his insinuation. Was I off my game? Had the stress, the preeclampsia, the baby, and Luther muddled my thinking and made me overreact?