Porter nodded at Mulifax. “Can your magic phone tell us what’s inside that building?”
Nash answered. “I can tell you what’s not inside—the Four Monkey Killer. ’Cause he’s resting comfortably down at the morgue.” His gaze played up and down the street. “That brings me to the ten-thousand-dollar question. Why are we waiting on SWAT anyway? No killer means there’s nobody left to shoot at us.”
Porter shrugged. “Captain’s orders.”
“Did he say why he wanted SWAT to go in first?”
“He thinks this might be a trap. Leaving the book like that . . . that’s not like him. Something’s not right.”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
“Look at this.” Watson handed his phone to Porter. The browser window was open to a Wikipedia page. “They used to run bootleg booze out of here. There are secret tunnels running in and out of all these buildings.”
“He could have used those to get around here unseen.”
A green Honda Civic pulled up behind them. Clair Norton climbed out and ran low around the back of Porter’s Charger to Nash’s window. He rolled it down.
“See anything?” she asked, nodding toward the building.
“Nothing. It’s been quiet.”
“What about that white sedan?”
Porter had spotted the car when they arrived. A late-model Buick with a nice Bondo patch on the rear driver’s side fender. “No sign of the driver.”
Watson retrieved his phone from Porter. “Do you think he’s using the tunnels?”
“The bootleg tunnels?” Clair glanced out at the surrounding buildings, then returned her gaze to the car. “I worked a trafficking case on the East Side a few years back, and the perps used the old tunnels to get around. I heard the phone company expanded them to run cables way back, even created a rail system down there. They were able to get from the river to nearly the center of the city without breaking daylight. Some of the tunnels are wide enough for a truck to pass,” she explained. “You can get around the entire city if you know your way. It’s cold as a witch’s tit down there too—a few of the movie theaters downtown still use working air shafts to bring the cold air in from below to keep the theaters cool.”
“Can you get from A. Montgomery Ward Park to here?”
“I see where you’re going, Sam, but I doubt that would work,” Nash said. “He took her out of there in a car. If he had tried climbing down a storm drain with our girl in tow, I think somebody would have stopped him.”
Clair rolled her eyes. “You didn’t see that crew.”
Porter continued to brainstorm. “Okay, so he takes her in a car. Where next? A. Montgomery Ward Park is less than a block from the North Branch of the Chicago River. Can you enter the tunnel system from there with a car?”
Watson was tapping at his phone again. “I’m going to guess that you can, but I can’t find any detailed pictures. Makes sense, right? The builders would have wanted access from every major waterway. He could have disappeared underground with her and carried her here without the risk of being seen even if he made part of the trip on foot.”
“It’s possible he transported all the victims that way. That would explain how he got around the city for so long without a trace,” Nash added.
“So, she could be here,” Clair said softly.
“Yeah,” said Porter.
A dark blue van with TOMLINSON PLUMBING stenciled on the side in bright yellow letters crossed the intersection and pulled into the space directly behind the sedan.
“That our boys?” Porter asked.
“Yes, sir. Figured best to keep quiet.” Clair’s phone rang and she plucked it from her pocket and answered. She nodded several times, then: “Copy that, go in three.” She turned back to Nash and Porter. “Ready to gear up? We go in behind them. They’ll clear the building, then we follow on their six.”
Nash pointed his thumb at the back seat. “What about him?”
Porter turned back to the rearview mirror, eyeing Watson. “You’re not carrying, right?”
Watson shook his head. “No, sir.”
“Any chance you brought a vest?” Department policy prohibited anyone from entering a hot crime scene without a bulletproof vest.
“They’re not standard issue in my department.”
“Then I guess you’re waiting out here. Sorry, kid.”
Porter and Nash climbed from the car and walked around to the back. From the trunk, Porter retrieved two bulletproof vests, a shotgun, and a large Maglite. He handed the shotgun along with one of the vests to Nash and donned the other. Nash snapped open the shotgun, checking the breech that sealed the barrel back in place. Porter then pulled a nine-millimeter Beretta 92FS from beneath the spare tire and checked the magazine. A pull of the slide confirmed that one round readied the chamber.
“Backup piece?” Nash asked, checking his own gun, a Walther PPQ.
Porter nodded. “I haven’t seen the captain yet. He still has my department-issued.”
“Technically, you’re not back on the job yet. Probably best you don’t get yourself shot. Injured tagalong civilian carries much more paperwork than injured partner.”
“Glad you’ve got my back.”
Clair’s phone buzzed with a text message. “Go in ten seconds.” She pulled the slide on her Glock and chambered a round.
The Tomlinson Plumbing van rocked for a second, then the back doors swung open and men dressed in full riot gear began pouring out. The first two carried a large black metal ram, the others held AR-15 assault rifles at the ready. They moved in swift unison to the building.
Nash darted across the street after them, with Porter at his side and Clair on their heels.
The ram made quick work of the front doors—one hit and they were in. The padlock ripped from the metal frame and clattered to the ground, only to be kicked aside by booted feet as they rushed through. The men holding the ram fell to the side to allow the others to stream past, then they plucked their own rifles from their backs and went in behind them.
A concussion grenade detonated. Muted shouts of “Police!” and “Clear!” sounded as the team disappeared inside. Porter’s grip tightened on his Beretta as they crossed from the sunlit street to the black void of the building’s entrance.
“I can’t see shit in there,” Nash groused, staring inside.
“All the windows are sealed. It’s like a tomb,” Clair said.
Porter peered around the door frame. The light from the street seemed to pool inside the entrance, nothing more than a ten-by-ten square edged by the blackest of black. The shadows seemed to push back, forcing the light out.
He snapped on the Maglite and swept the beam over the interior, expecting a wide-open warehouse. Instead, the light played across a narrow entranceway of rotted wood. The acoustic-tile ceiling was crumbling, the plaster walls were chipped and cracked, and the floor was covered in the debris that had broken away over the years.
Porter heard the team deep inside the building, their boots pounding against the concrete as they swept room after room.
Then silence.
“You hear that?”
“Hear what?”