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“Let’s go up to my apartment. I have everything spread out in the kitchen, along with my humming laptop.”
“Lead the way.”
Fifteen minutes later, Hutch was studying Claire’s drawings, his forehead creased in concentration.
“I haven’t worked the organized crime squads,” he said. “But a couple of my buddies have. These are definitely Russian gang symbols.”
“I looked up the meanings,” Casey replied, pointing at her computer monitor. “The birds flying over the horizon are a symbol of freedom. The sailing ship on the shooter’s right forearm means he’s a roamer. And the bull is a sign of cruelty and rage.”
“Not just cruelty and rage. The bull’s the symbol of a hitman, the guy who does all the dirty work.” Hutch angled his head toward Casey. “Are you sure you don’t want to tell me what this case is about? Confidentiality or not, it sounds too dangerous. You’re talking about major criminal enterprise here.”
Casey sighed. “I wish I could. This case is snowballing into something much bigger than I ever anticipated. But all I can share with you is a theoretical overview. And not just because of FI’s confidentiality agreement, since I’m fairly sure our clients are desperate enough to have me expand the role of our discreet FBI agent to help solve this thing.”
“Then let me guess. You’re going to be weaving in and out of what’s legal to get this case solved.” Hutch rubbed the back of his neck, scowling as he did. “That’s what worries me here, Case. And that’s not my ethical integrity talking. It’s my fear for your safety. If you’re dealing with the Russian mob, you’re in way over your heads. Marc is the only one of your team members who’s remotely trained to handle this.”
Casey couldn’t deny what Hutch was saying. She played the situation out in her mind and came to a decision.
“I’m going to take two steps toward containing this. First, I’m going to get our clients’ permission to more fully open up to you. I won’t tell you any of the details of our investigation that would compromise you or force you to cross a line. Second, I will tell you now that this whole Russian crime angle just came into the picture today. If it turns out to be a key factor in the puzzle, I’ll have Patrick arrange for security detail for each of us. I won’t put my team in danger.”
“Not just your team. You.”
Casey smiled, reaching out to entwine her fingers with Hutch’s. “I’m part of the team. So, yes, me, too. Don’t worry. You and I are finally creating an ‘us.’ It’s the wrong time to put my life in jeopardy.”
That last part didn’t please Hutch at all. “There’s never a right time to put your life in jeopardy.”
“I’ll remind you of that when it’s your ass on the line, Agent Hutchinson.”
Hutch didn’t contradict Casey, but the look in his eyes was pure guard dog. “Touché. Then I guess we’ll have to keep each other in line.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Patrick was at his home watching TV with Adele when his phone rang.
He glanced at the number and then answered the call ASAP. “Something happening, John?”
John Nickels was one of the best and most trusted security guards Patrick hired to assist him. He had a solid bunch of guys he contacted on an ongoing basis. They consisted of retired FBI agents and police officers, all experts in their field, all selected by Patrick, all of whom reported directly to him.
Tonight, John was the security detail watching Shannon, and Joseph Buzak, another of Patrick’s A-plus guys, was watching Lisa and Miles.
“Shannon’s at the Upper Montclair Starbucks,” John said without preamble. “There’s additional activity in the area. Not the usual sedan that follows her around. A new van that smacks of more than just surveillance. I don’t know what they’ve got in there, but I’m getting a bad feeling.”
Patrick’s spine straightened. “Then move in and have a cup of coffee with her. Keep her calm, keep her safe. I’m on my way.”
Chicago, Illinois
Ryan had parked on a side street where he could monitor Otter’s progress. Marc was perched beside him in the back of the van, watching as Ryan’s program superimposed the cell phone tower signal strength data on a Google map of the downtown Chicago business district. The program drew three intersecting circles on the map.
“You might be a genius, but I know what that is,” Marc said. “A Venn diagram. I learned it in grade school. You were still in diapers.”
Ryan rolled his eyes. “Except I’m doing this with formulas and algorithms, not chalk and erasers.” He continued to watch and concentrate.
A few minutes later, he punched the air in mock salute, yelling, “Yes!” at the same time.
That didn’t particularly impress Marc—not yet. He’d seen and heard this ritual many times from Ryan. Sometimes it was a major breakthrough, and other times it was just ego celebration.
“So, what does your primal chest-thumping mean this time?”
“It means I’ve tracked Jim’s key contact to within half a block, and, judging by the buildings I can see in Google Earth, it’s down to one building. Number one twenty-five South Wacker, near West Adams St. Let me see what Google has on the building.”
