Major Murdoch leafed through the folder in front of him, and I noticed it actually had Top Secret stamped in red on the front. “How about the background of that cop Alger?”

“He’s come up clean. Two Internal Affairs inquiries. Both shootings, both times he was cleared. We’re looking at his arrest record for anyone who might have a grudge, which is just about everyone he’d arrested in thirty years on the force. The severed fingers in the refrigerator have been confirmed as belonging to Alger, and we suspect he’s been killed.”

“Maybe he cut off his own fingers to fool us,” Roxy said.

No one said anything, but the stares she received made her shrink down in her chair.

“We’ve located the deli on Irving Park that the Chemist mentioned in his letter.” I thought of Latham, and my voice caught. I coughed into my hand to cover it. “We’ve got a Crime Scene Unit there, gathering evidence, questioning the staff. It’s going to take some time to sort through everything.”

“We don’t have time,” the super said. “This nut wants an answer in tomorrow’s paper. To make the early edition, I need to get the personal ad in today by noon.”

“Are we paying him?” I asked.

“I have received authorization to meet the Chemist’s demands. It should go without saying that mum is the word on this.” The super zeroed in on me. “We can say the city is under attack, we can name the businesses that have been hit, we can tie in Alger, but no word about the extortion.”

I mulled this over. That was probably why the city hadn’t outed the Chemist yesterday-they had been considering paying him off. If that got out, every loony with a Saturday Night Special would be moving to Chicago, trying to extort a few bucks.

“Who’s in charge of setting the trap to catch him if we decide to pay?” I asked.

“We are, Lieutenant. You can start figuring out how right after the press conference. Plan on it at ten a.m.”

The super adjourned the meeting, and both Roxy and Rick stuck to my shoulders, accompanying me to my office.

“You’re cute for a Fed,” Roxy said to him.

“I believe that looks are superficial, and it’s what’s inside that counts.”

Roxy batted fake eyelashes. “Are you saying you’d like to get inside of me?”

“Sorry. I don’t date women younger than the scotch I drink.”

Score points for Special Agent Rick.

“You should date Jack. She’s like in her fifties.”

And points lost for the new partner.

“Have you ever done a press conference before, Roxy?” I asked, making my voice conversational.

“Who? Me? No. I was on TV once, at the MTV spring break bash in Fort Lauderdale. I never saw it, though. My friends told me about it. I was pretty trashed.”

“I think you should sit this one out.”

“Why? Are you afraid I’ll steal your thunder?”

“No. I’m afraid you’ll say something stupid that will get me fired.”

Roxy tugged my elbow and stared me in the eye, petulant.

“I’m a detective third grade. I didn’t get this promotion by giving blow jobs. I busted my ass. You, of all people, should know how hard it is for a woman to be taken seriously in this sausage fest.”

I considered all the things I could say, about professionalism, and attitude, and image. Instead I said, “Chances are this lunatic watches the news. If we put an attractive woman up there, he could become fixated on you.”

“Really?” Roxy grinned. “Cool.”

“No. It’s not cool. It’s the opposite of cool.”

“You think because I’m young I can’t handle myself?”

“No. I think because you’re young you can’t handle yourself as well as you think you can.”

Her grin disappeared.

“You know, you’re an inspiration to a lot of women in the department, Jack. It’s a shame that in person you’re such a bitch.”

I looked to Rick for support, but he’d taken an inordinate amount of interest in the bulletin board on the wall. Then I met Roxy’s glare. I wondered if I disliked her so much because she reminded me of me at that age.

No. I would have gotten along with me just fine. This girl was a Gen-X car accident waiting to happen. But we all have to learn sometime.

I took a deep breath. “Fine. You can do the press conference with me.”

“Are you serious?”

“I’m serious. But I’ll do most of the talking. And we need to go over everything beforehand. Rule one, think before you speak. Don’t repeat yourself or say um or uh a lot. Rule two, if you can’t answer a question, say no comment. Rule three, always appear in control. Reporters can sense fear, and they pounce on it.”

“I can do all that. How do I look?”

I gave her a once-over. “Do you have anything else to wear? That outfit is… cute, but it doesn’t look very professional.”

“Let me check my locker,” she said, and hurried off down the hall.

Rick nudged me. “Is this a good idea?”

“We’ve all got to learn sometime.”

“After this conference, how about lunch? I want to go over some points about the case.”

“Lunch? I’m going to need a few drinks.”

“We can do that. I need to check in with Washington and Quantico. I’ll probably miss the conference. Can I meet you someplace?”

What is it about physical beauty? If Rick were average looking, I would immediately take him up on lunch. But because he was handsome, I didn’t think I should spend any time with him outside of the office. It seemed like betraying Latham, even though we might be able to make some headway on the case.

It’s only lunch, I convinced myself.

So I named the place and the time.

What was the worst that could happen?

THE CHEMIST WATCHES the press conference with a frown on his face. He hadn’t expected them to go public. Though this doesn’t alter the Plan in the least; the city has followed his trail of bread crumbs quicker than he’s expected.

They aren’t showing his letters. They admitted that they did receive letters, but say they’re keeping them under wraps to rule out bogus confessions. They also neglected to mention anything about his demands. Which means they’re planning on paying him.

This is disappointing. He expected the city to stall for at least a few days, or to take a hard-line stance and refuse to deal with terrorists. That would have given him a chance to indulge in a few more surprises before the big bang.

Still, maybe he can fit one or two more in before crunch time.

He sets his TiVo to record, and then wanders over to his closet to pick a disguise. He decides on business formal. A Jack Victor suit, wool, three-button, vented, dark blue with dark gray pinstripes. A white shirt. A power tie. He slicks his hair back with mousse, applies a liberal dose of Lagerfeld, and then puts on the distraction-an eye patch.

A check in the mirror shows him to be roguish, mysterious. And all the witnesses will remember is a well-dressed man with an eye patch.

Along with the jet injector, he brings along a tiny contact lens case, containing a few drops of extract of Tanghin. The Chemist doesn’t know if he’ll get close enough to use either, but he’s got the entire day free to try. Should be fun.

He considers taking the bus because parking will be terrible downtown, but with all the stops the bus makes, it will take twice as long. So he risks it and takes a car, one that can’t be traced to him anyway.

The television told him the press conference was live at the 26th District police station, and that’s where he heads. Traffic isn’t too bad for lunchtime, and he manages to snag a parking meter spot from someone pulling out, only three blocks from the precinct house. Even luckier, the meter still has an hour left on it.

Fate apparently wants him to kill a cop today.

He decides to leave the jet injector in the car. Getting this close to the police, he doesn’t want to be caught with it on him. That leaves only the Tanghin, but that should be more than enough.