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“I have some thoughts about that,” I said. “Text me when you have updates.”
We hung up and I thumbed through my contacts. My next call was not going to be to someone on speed dial, nor would it be to someone who wanted to hear from me. I hoped she would pick up anyway. As the phone on the other end rang, I walked to the front of the hallway and stared at my closed office door. Red had been in there for more than five minutes and I was 2 percent worried she might have found something interesting.
My callee answered her phone and I returned to the kitchen.
“Mr. Prescott, why are you calling my personal cell phone?” Captain LeBeque of the Chicago PD asked. “How do you even have my personal number?”
“Good morning to you, too, LeBeque. You gave me your personal number after the Clark Street incident,” I said, referring to a situation involving a distraught vet wielding a gun a couple of months ago where Bennet and I had stepped in to defuse the situation. “And I’m calling because we can help each other out. Cop to cop.”
She sighed her annoyance. “You were never a cop in my house, just an applicant who wasted way too much of my time. Speaking of which, I don’t have time to do you any favors today.”
She had never quite forgiven me for applying for a position at the department when I’d moved here two years ago, then taking Bennet’s job offer instead. If she’d hired me faster, I might be working for her. Instead, I told her the same thing I’d told her many times before. “We’re both better off with me outside your department. And if it makes it any better, think of this call as me doing you a favor. If it doesn’t make it better, I can skip straight to the begging, because I really need your help.”
“I know I’m going to regret this.” The background noise on her end died down, and I could picture her walking into her office and closing the door behind her. “What do you need?”
“It’s what I have. Information on two men who were at the hotel last night and who, apparently, were not caught up in the police drag net.”
“And they should have been?”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure they should,” I said.
“The FBI has claimed the case, so you really should pass this information along to them.”
Except the FBI wouldn’t send out patrol cars. “That’s not my fault,” I said. “The murder vic had a security clearance and a recent history of mental health issues. It was only a matter of time before they swooped in.”
“Not disputing it,” LeBeque said. “However, not my circus, not my monkeys.”
“But if you were to scoop up these thugs and offer them to the FBI field office on a silver platter, the feds might owe you one.”
She sighed again, this time very loudly. I assumed it was to express her ever-expanding annoyance with me. “And with nothing to charge them with, they’ll walk right on out of here and disappear into the wind, and when that word gets out, I’ll be up to my ass in fed enemies.”
That was LeBeque, always anticipating the worst. Meanwhile, my sleepless night spent watching over a concussion patient was catching up with me, and I was seriously regretting dumping out half a cup of perfectly good coffee.
“How about this?” I said. “You can arrest these yahoos on reckless driving and reckless endangerment. That gives you a reason to hold them long enough to entice the feds.”
“This reckless driving and endangerment is happening right now?” she asked.
I heard the change in her voice. I blinked and let out a slow breath, relieved. “No, but I have it on good authority that it will in about fifteen minutes.”
“All right, Mr. Prescott, you’ve piqued my interest,” Le Beque said. “Tell me more.”
* * *
I stoppedoutside my office door. Red had been in there a hell of a long time given how little discoverable information she would be able to access. Then again, she was still concussed and tired, and by now was probably frustrated that I lived my life with as little a paper trail as possible.
I opened the office door and caught a glimpse of her ass, which was no less spectacular in my sweatpants as it had been in her dress, as she leaned over a useless pile of papers on my desk. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I asked, although I knew damn well she was looking for information on me, and probably a way to contact her team as well.
She turned slowly to face me. I crossed my arms over my chest and frowned at her.
“I want to know where I am.” She glowered at me, but her disdain seemed forced. “And frankly, who I’m with.”
“You’re with exactly who I said you’re with,” I told her. “I haven’t lied to you.” Misled her here and there, let her go on a wild goose chase to keep her occupied while Bennet got me up to speed. But not outright lied.
“But you haven’t told me much, either.”
Fair enough, but we could discuss that later. Red’s enemies were breathing down our necks and I wanted to be packed and waiting in the parking garage the minute the panel van Taylor was procuring for us drove into the parking garage. “We don’t have time for this.” I stepped to the right and motioned to the open office door. “You don’t trust me, leave now. But fair warning: your friends from last night are outside and downloading blueprints for this building as we speak.”
She stumbled backward and leaned against my desk. “A Carbonados team is going to breach the building?” She took quick, shallow breaths. She was scared, but that was okay. Fear can lead to avoiding stupid risks. “How much time do we have?”
