Windy City by Scott Simon

Author:Scott Simon [Simon, Scott]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-58836-794-5
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2009-08-14T04:00:00+00:00

The police superintendent of Chicago also waited, his blue coat folded into a side chair and drizzling onto the rug of the conference room that had been appropriated for Sunny's use. Chief Martinez turned at the sound of Sunny's approach and dipped his head slightly to signal Sgt. Gallaher to stay nearby.

“Don't dribble on the carpet, Matt,” Sunny told him. “They might charge a damage fee on my way out.”

“Two people are being held in connection with the death of the mayor,” Chief Martinez announced. Sunny drew in a small, stunned breath.

“It may amount to nothing. But …” said the chief. “They're both service people at Quattro's. The first goes by the name Carlos Ponce. He has also been Zambrano, Reyes, Rios, Contreras, Alomar, and Uribe.”

“I know those names….” said Sunny, and the police chief smiled curtly.

“Baseball players.”

“Ah yes. Well he's smart enough not to try to pass himself off as Ichuri Suzuki.”

“A real criminal mastermind,” the chief agreed. “We found him with a change of clothes and almost a thousand dollars packed in a laundry sack, hiding out in a garbage trough under Wacker—knowing that Streets and San wouldn't be through until Monday. He's wanted in Guanajuato, Hidalgo, and Mexico City. Drugs, smuggling, money laundering—the whole combo platter.”

Sunny shucked his own tan coat, spattered with snow and suddenly as heavy as a grocery sack, and held it out until a uniformed man took it in his arms.

“I'm glad you got him before he could run off with my daughters. Still, Matt, how do you go from any of that to something like this?”

“Someone could have threatened him with exposure,” the chief ventured. “‘Do this, we wipe your debt off the books.’ Or he could have a stash of doubloons waiting for him somewhere. He had proximity to the poison and the pizza. When word leaks, I'd rather have him locked up than at large.”

“Holding him on Mexican warrants?”

The chief nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Mexico City detectives arrive Monday. I told them that I know Sunday is a day for faith and family among we Mexicans. Their prisoner can enjoy the hospitality of a holding cell on North Larrabee until then.”

“Which gives your folks at the Eighteenth District—”

“—about forty hours.”

Sunny squirmed in a side chair, and knocked his muddy heels together before replying.

“Well, be hospitable indeed. And the other?”

“Kambiz Said. Twenty-six, and, conveniently for us, working on a counterfeit green card,” Chief Martinez explained. “He fled the restaurant, too, and when the mommy and daddy tracked him to a basement apartment on Kimball, they discovered that he is a frequent visitor to a white supremacist web site. Forty-something times in recent weeks.”

“His name sounds …”

“Iranian. By way of Jordan. The group in question is called the National Vanguard.” The police chief looked down at a cluster of printed pages, and seemed to trace words with an index finger. “Although they say: ‘Persons of Jewish descent, homosexuals or bisexuals, persons with a non-White spouse or sexual partner, or persons with more than an undetectable trace of non-White ancestry are specifically barred from National Vanguard membership.

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