“And what situation is that?”
He coughed. “I have three dead men in an art gallery in the West Loop.”
“Which has what to do with Jones?”
I knew what the answer was before the words were even out of his mouth. There could be no question, not really. The FBI only came looking for me, to me, for one reason.
“We believe it’s Craig Hartley,” Adair announced, and everyone in the room turned to look at me.
I read it on the faces of the new guys, the surprise and then shock that turned fast to sympathy. They all felt bad for me, and even if they didn’t know the whole story—and how could they, only my most inner circle did—still, they were sorry. Because when you had a serial killer kidnap and torture you and then pay you house calls and save your life… it was weird and twisty, and there was a blurring of good and evil there.
In the beginning, when Hartley had put a kitchen knife into my side, a singular emotion could be dredged up when his name was spoken, and that was fear. But over the years, as he had escaped from prison and found his way back to me twice, now what could be fished from the depths of my soul was still panic and dread, but also humiliation, gratitude, and rapport. So when Adair spoke, the jolt of terror was followed almost instantly by resignation.
“Believe or know?” Kage growled.
“We know,” Adair said before turning quickly, grabbing Kowalski’s garbage can, and vomiting, I was guessing, both his breakfast and morning coffee.
I turned to look at Kage, who looked over his shoulder at Prescott. “You might need to start this morning without Jones.”
IT WAS a field trip, but not everyone went. Kage was sending Becker in his place, and since Ian was the new liaison, he was going, which was good since, one way or another, he was going with me. Before I could follow Ian out of the room, Kage called me over.
Stepping in front of him, I was surprised when he took hold of my shoulder.
“Listen, make sure you let Kohn talk to any reporters that are there. If you have to vomit, do it like Adair and not at the scene, and if the Feds or anyone gives you any trouble, sic Doyle on them because that’s what he’s there to do, corral the interagency bullshit.”
“Yessir,” I agreed, smiling slightly over the vomit part. Leave it to Kage to remind me of something ordinary like throwing up to somehow inject normalcy. I appreciated it more than I could say.
He nodded and tipped his head toward the door.
“Thank you, sir,” I said and pivoted and darted to catch up to Ian.
I could tell, as I walked out of the office, that some of the guys were unsure about me. It was weird, I would guess, to be that close to someone they’d read about or even seen on the news. My name had been in print in conjunction with Hartley a lot over the years. The Wikipedia entry on him had my marshal picture, and while the whole thing with Hartley cutting out my rib wasn’t in there because it was not common knowledge, there was still the part about him kidnapping and torturing me. There were also some lurid bits about what he’d done to the women he’d killed, as well as Special Agent Wojno, and his picture from the FBI Most Wanted list. The fact that he had eluded the FBI on a number of occasions was also in there, and the opinion that, while dangerous, he was not a rampaging psychopath.
The men I rode the elevator down with cast surreptitious glances at me, wanting, I knew, to ask about Hartley. I had been asked about Hartley since he first became a suspect and was still unsure how to answer. The big question, why I was still alive, was one I certainly had no response for. Only Hartley could say. But as I stood there silently, back against the cold steel as we descended toward the parking garage, I could feel how thick the tension was around me. Adair himself was eying me warily.
“Listen, Jones, it should only be you coming with us. This is an FBI inves—”
“You heard Kage,” Becker interrupted. “You get me and Doyle, Kohn, and four others, and that’s how this is gonna go. If you don’t like it, you can have your boss call mine, and maybe Jones will—”
“Yeah, all right,” Adair agreed with a grunt, clearly annoyed. “Just don’t turn this thing into a circus.”
“That’s hysterical, coming from you,” Ian retorted, his voice a sarcastic drawl. “You’re the ones who shared what happened to your agents with the press before Thanksgiving last year. That was fuckin’ brilliant.”
Becker bumped Ian, and he crossed his arms and exhaled sharply. Apparently the new liaison needed to calm the hell down. Ryan and Dorsey were there to show Rodriguez and Brodie, the new guys Kage sent with us, how we ran things, and both of them were suddenly staring forward, trying not to make eye contact with Ian. I understood. If it were me, I wouldn’t have wanted to deal with him either. He looked like he was ready to tear someone’s head off, the way his jaw was set, clenched with the muscle working in his right cheek, how flat and cold his eyes had gone, and the rigid battle stance. The whole soldier mantle was drawn tight around him, and he was bristling with seething menace.