I got in my car on Monday morning and accelerated onto Lake Shore Drive, heading south through traffic. You’d never know it by looking around, but it was against the law in Chicago to use a cell while you were driving. And with good reason. I almost hit an SUV or three as I flipped open my phone and wrestled a business card out of my wallet. It was red with yellow stars.
Hubert Russell’s machine picked up, but he cut in before I could leave a message.
“Hello?”
“Hubert.”
“I don’t know this number.”
“It’s Michael Kelly. The guy who asked to see the Chicago Fire records.”
“Mr. Kelly. Sorry, I don’t get a lot of calls I don’t recognize. What’s up?”
“I got a computer question for you.”
“Go ahead.”
“It’s actually more like a hacking question.”
“Even better.”
“You told me there wasn’t a computer made you couldn’t crack.”
“That’s right.”
“How’d you like to prove it?”
There was only a slight pause before Hubert came back over the line.
“I assume this is illegal.”
“You assume correctly,” I said. “It’s also for a good cause.”
“Why don’t you explain the cause and why it’s so good.”
So I did. Hubert told me he could help. Even better, he was willing.
“How soon could we do it?” I said.
“I got the software right here. Just need to load it up and we’re good to go.”
“That easy?”
“Scary as it sounds, yes.”
“You around today?”
“Sure, I’m around.”
I pulled up in front of the Chicago Historical Society. My watch had just pushed past nine.
“Hang tight, Hubert. I’ll call you back.”