Hickman got up, buttoned his jacket. “Gentlemen, I didn’t come here to argue the point with you. I just thought I would do you the courtesy of informing you in person. Given the sensitive national security issues involved, the Stein case, the South Shore murders, the Downers Grove shootings, the Ringwald murders and anything having to do with Hardin, Wilson or Hernandez, all of that is all being taken over by a federal task force under my personal direction. Of course, we still need and value Chicago PD assistance, and your contributions on these matters to date will be both officially recognized and richly rewarded. But henceforward, you are to act in this matter only on my orders.”

“Practiced that speech all the way over here, didn’t you?” Starshak said.

“This has been cleared all the way up through the commissioner. But feel free to check if you want to rock the boat.” Hickman smiled.

“Think I’ll skip the boat rocking,” Bernstein said. “I feel a little sea sick already.”

Hickman left.

“You heard the man,” Starshak said. “Pretty much clears your desks for you, so go find something to do with yourselves.”

“Cubs are playing this afternoon,” Lynch said. “Want us to get up to Addison, direct traffic or something?”

Starshak shook his head. “Hickman said the Stein case, the South Shore thing, Downers Grove, Ringwald, and anything having to do with Hardin, Wilson, or Hernandez. I was thinking the Membe Saturday case. I didn’t hear that mentioned. Did you hear that mentioned?”

“No, come to think of it,” Bernstein said, smiling.

“You got anybody you like for that?” Starshak asked.

“Yeah, actually I do,” Lynch said.

“So go get him. But quietly. No BOLOs. And wipe the damn smile off your face, Bernstein. You look like a girl.”

CHAPTER 74

The tech guy called Lynch. He’d found a clean shot of al Din coming out of a Starbucks on Madison a couple days back. Lynch and Bernstein went down to check it out.

“Guy’s good,” the tech guy said. “Knows where the cameras are. Watch this series. He’s coming out the door, has that hat down, his head angled to the side, no way we get a match. As he clears that frame, he turns, walking sort of backwards, like he’s eyeballing the window display there, so the exterior cam gets nothing. But he misses this couple coming up on him, the guy is on his phone, not looking, he and al Din bump pretty hard, al Din’s hat comes off and he has to face front. That’s where we got the hit.”

“He looks pissed,” Lynch said.

“Can we trace him from that location?” asks Bernstein.

The tech guy nodded. “Yeah, because now I know that hat.” Punches some keys, pulling up street shots, al Din heading north on Michigan, head down, hat low, no angle on his face. “He grabs a cab at Congress.”

“Get a number on the cab?” Lynch asked.

Tech guy shook his head. “Bad angle. Plus it’s rush hour, so we got a gaggle of pedestrians in the shot waiting for the light to change. Blocks the view.”

“How about a time stamp?” Lynch asked.

“Sure,” the guy said.

Lynch looked at Bernstein. Might be enough.

CHAPTER 75

Lynch called the cab company, gave them the time and location of the pick-up and they tracked down the driver. Guy named Jackson. Dispatch told him he was on his way in from O’Hare, headed for the Drake. Lynch and Bernstein drove over, met him out front.

Lynch showed Jackson al Din’s picture. “You picked this guy up a couple days back. Recognize him?”

Jackson shrugged, scrunched his face up. “Man, you got any idea how many fares I pick up each day?”

“Day before yesterday, 5.17pm, Congress and Michigan. That help?”

Jackson took a look at the picture again. “Yeah, OK, maybe a little. I got stuck on a lot of short hops up and down Michigan for a bit there. I mean daytime, you know? You get the MILFs in from the North Shore, don’t wanna walk three blocks, so they flag you down just to take ’em from the 900 shops up to Water Tower. And then they tip you like nothing. Couple of them got in, wanted the Art Institute, some kind of after-hours charity deal, so I drop them and I see this guy in a suit, nice hat, carrying a bag. I’m thinking maybe an airport run. Then the son of a bitch asks me to drop him at Union Station. Dickhead can’t walk half a mile? I dropped the guy, ran his card. Got stuck with another local jump from there.”

“He paid with a card?” Bernstein said.

“Yeah,” Jackson said. “Don’t go asking me the name or nothing, though, OK? But that time of day, from the Art Institute to Union, figure maybe five, ten minutes? Call dispatch, they can patch you through to whoever keeps up with that shit. You got my cab number, you got the time, shouldn’t be hard to run down a receipt.”

“Thanks,” Lynch said. “That’s major. That’s a real help.”

“So, you guys you take me out of circulation here, you cost me my spot in the cab queue. Do I get something for my time? Some kind of solid citizen reward?”

Lynch gave him a twenty and his card, wrote his cell on the back. “You get pulled over on some bullshit, you have the uniform call me. I’m not talking a DUI or anything, but you get nailed for ten over on the way out to the airport, hanging in one of the bike lanes or something, I’ll get you some rhythm.”

Jackson gave him a big smile. “You an OK dude, for a police. That’s fucking gold to me, baby.”

Jackson got back in his cab. Lynch held up his badge, yelled up to the guy in the monkey suit that was calling the cabs up. “This guy’s next.” Monkey suit guy waved Jackson up, bumping him ahead of half a dozen waiting taxis. Driver at the head of the line leaned out his window, yelling at monkey suit in an Indian accent. Monkey suit just pointed back at Lynch.

As Lynch and Bernstein climbed into their Crown Vic, the Indian cabbie held his arm out the window, flipping them the bird.

“Another Angry Bird,” Bernstein said.

The cab company accounting guy ran down the charge receipt, turned up an American Express card belonging to Ricardo Orendain, guy had been at the Fairmont for a few days, but he’d checked out yesterday afternoon, then used the same card a couple hours later when he dropped a rental back at the Hertz lot at O’Hare.

Lynch and Bernstein drove to the airport. A skinny white kid with bad skin was on the Hertz lot, checking cars in. Manager said he would have been the one on duty when al Din brought the car back. Lynch showed him al Din’s picture.

“I don’t look at anybody, you know?” the kid said. “I mean I scan the code on the car, take a quick look, make sure there’s no dents or anything, check the gas, then I print out their bill, they sign for it, and they grab the shuttle over to the terminal.”

“So you don’t remember this guy?”

Kid just shook his head. “It says I checked him in, then I checked him in.”

Lynch turned to Bernstein. “What’s al Din’s play here? He’s been pretty mobile, so he needs a car. Unless he’s blowing town.”

“Yeah,” said Bernstein. “But he rented this car the day of that Downers Grove thing. And we know he’s been in town longer than that. So he’s switched rides before. Just being careful. Maybe something spooked him.”

Lynch turned to the kid. “How do you get to the other rental places?”

Kid shrugged. “We got the bus that takes you back to the terminal. Avis, all the rest of them, they got their own buses, too. You get back to the terminal, you could hop a bus to any of the rental lots.”

“Thanks,” Lynch said. He and Bernstein headed for their car.

“If al Din’s at the terminal playing musical buses, what do you want to bet we’ve got all that on video?” Bernstein said.