“Homeland wants to lock me up.”
I was sitting in a sandwich shop two blocks from my apartment. The waitress brought me a coffee. I poured in some cream and sugar. Rachel Swenson built her wall of silence at the other end of the line.
“Did you hear me, Rach?”
“I heard you. They must have a good reason.”
“I need you to do something. Actually, it’s a couple of things. You’re gonna need to do them right now. And you’re gonna need to pack a bag.”
I took a sip of coffee and winced at what was pouring out of the receiver. When she’d finished, I told Rachel my plan.
A little over an hour later, I parked on my street in a car I’d grabbed from a Rent-A-Wreck on Irving Park. The rain had stopped as quickly as it started. The promise of more hung heavy in the air. Up the block, a couple of federal agents sat in front of my building in a black sedan. Subtle fellas, these guys.
One of them had just returned from a snack run to Potbelly’s Subs when Rachel’s Audi pulled to the curb. I wasn’t sure if they didn’t know who she was or just hadn’t seen a woman in a while, but there were a lot of napkins and wax paper flying as she stepped out of her car. Rachel took her time, letting herself into my building with her set of keys. My guys were on their cell phones now, shaking their heads and talking to their pals downtown. At worst, they’d take a picture and download it to someone who would recognize Rachel as my friend and, more important, as a sitting federal judge. The phone buzzed on the seat next to me. Rachel’s number flashed on the screen.
“I’m inside.”
“Thanks.”
“Pup’s happy to see me.”
“Great.”
“Anything else you need?”
“Just what I told you.”
“I’m not leaving town, Michael.”
“If you wait even another hour, it might not be so easy.”
“What is this about?”
“You probably have a pretty good idea.”
No response.
“Do you trust me, Rach?”
“Yes.”
“Get Mags and get out of the city.”
“I saw the car out front.”
“There’s another guy in the alley watching my back door.”
“Are they waiting for you?”
“Yes. I don’t think they’ll bother you-at least not right now. If they do, just tell them we arranged last week for you to pick up the dog.”
“And I don’t know where you are?”
“You won’t. Now go. And take care of the pup.”
Rachel cut the line. She wasn’t happy, but I didn’t really give a damn. Getting her out of town might be overkill. I didn’t give a damn about that either. A minute later, the judge walked out of my building, Maggie on a leash and wagging her tail. I watched the feds. They watched Rachel but sat tight. She got in her car and left. I pulled around the block and parked. I slipped on a Cubs hat I’d bought at a Walgreens and got out.
My building is a classic Chicago six-flat, with a single entrance and three units running off either side of the center staircase. The back of the building has two sets of stairs. The one on the north services my apartment and dumps out into the alley that was currently inhabited by a fed eating a sub in his car. The other empties onto a quiet Lakeview street called Cornelia Avenue.
I walked down Cornelia, pushed open a black iron gate, and took a look. From where I stood, the guy in the alley couldn’t see me. Halfway up the stairs, he wouldn’t miss me. If he was paying attention, that is. I didn’t have time to think about any of that, which is sometimes a good thing. I pulled the hat down low, hiked up the stairs and found the key my neighbor kept to his apartment under a smiling stone Buddha. Then I opened his back door and stepped inside.
My neighbor was a Kenyon music grad, soon-to-be rock star, and current bike messenger named Mikey Sanders. I’d knocked on his door one day because I thought he was doing strange things to his cat. Mikey explained that was music I was hearing. Then he offered me a beer and introduced me to Andrew Bird’s Bowl of Fire. Today, the apartment was quiet. The cat drifted out of the shadows and rubbed against my ankles. I crept down a short hallway to Mikey’s front door and looked through the peephole at an empty stairwell. I cracked the door, sneaked across the stairwell, and let myself into my apartment. The only sound came from a clock ticking in the kitchen. I stayed close to the wall and away from the front windows until I got to the back of the apartment. Here the shades were pulled tight; the room, dark. I took out a small flashlight, sat down at my desk, and reached for a bottom drawer full of papers. I’d gotten the thing halfway open when I felt the blade at my throat and a voice I didn’t expect sitting just inside my ear.