Bad Break: A Novel

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The newsroom is abuzz when I arrive this morning.

Bright Star had had to wait a day. I hadn't realized until my boast that it was after midnight, and there was no way the presses would be stopped to accommodate my story. But we'd held it offline on purpose till about 10 PM the following evening and queued it up for Page 1, above the fold.

The Daily Midway

Section A, State, National, International

July 19, 2020

By Blake Wilson

DETROIT –– Sources in Detroit tell the Daily Midway that a recent rash of suspected gang-related shootings in Chicago, as well as the apparent disappearance of young women associated with the victims, shooters, or both, is eerily similar to a string of crimes in that city in early 2019.

The common denominator, the sources say, is the apparent culprit: sex traffickers.

Investigators in Detroit say that the current Chicago spree is reminiscent of the seemingly random but likely intentional lack of pattern or obvious motive in their cases.

"I'm sorry, but if I parachuted in here without having ever seen or read anything previously about either case, I'd assume they were connected or certainly carried out by the same perpetrators," said Hugh Davies, a retired Detroit Metro police detective and consultant to the Wayne County-Livonia Joint Vice Task Force. "There are too many similarities, and while I know Chicago authorities have not had a major break, they should take comfort in knowing that they probably already have the culprits in their sights and might not know it yet."

It doesn't take long for the TV stations and radio talk show hosts to walk through the door I had opened and report as fact that whoever had lit up Detroit a year-and-a-half ago is responsible for what ails Chicago now.

The air is thick in the newsroom as everyone from Fleisch down to the rookie news assistants realizes that what I've been reporting runs deeper than a "common" turf war. Even as an incomplete shape, they know something's there.

I skip the Shangri La for once and stop by Azouzou, my favorite for Greek-influenced African dishes. I can't understand a word he says, but this joint has made me a huge fan of Berber Hezexi, a North African pop artist whose festive violin play is to his fans what Jimi Hendrix's guitar magic was to rock 'n roll diehards.

Halfway through Hezexi's hit Lawik Were Leman, I pause mid-bite. This is pleasant. I feel pleasant. No social pressures. No work-related fires to put out. It is fun to dine alone and take my time.

Of course, just thinking all of that probably jinxed me.

But, eight-thirty P.M. and all remains quiet.

Nine-fifteen, no disturbance in the force.

Nine-thirty, I've made it home, kicked off my shoes and stretched out on my couch in time for a rerun of a classic Law & Order.

Just as I begin to lecture Lucius about how I'm surprised that the killer almost got away with it, bzzzzz. Bzzz-bzzz. Bzzzzz. That familiar long-short-short-long vibrating pattern of my iPhone that isn't really living up to the terms of "Do Not Disturb" mode.

"Hate to bother you at home, bro. Nah, I'm lyin'. If I have to be out here, so do you! But you may want to meet me if you can. Ya hear? They hit another kid!

Fifteen minutes later, I'm on North Avenue, heading west in my Jeep. It's after hours. I don't need the paperwork hassle of signing out my usual company car. In "normal" traffic, getting to Allah would take me twenty minutes, max. But I get hung up by gawkers outside an emergency scene, surrounded by flashing lights and yellow tape.

The size of the crowd suggests it's something bad. I'm guessing the presence of multiple fire engines and one ladder truck means a house fire with fatalities. But I can't stop. If it's news, the paper will send out Jesse Francia, the night cops reporter. He may be the one person on staff who knows the streets and the streets know him! — as well as or better than me.

I rush into Jackson Park Hospital & Medical Center like a frantic relative looking for answers. Hopefully, the act will get me past security and the triage desk, since cell phone reception is atrocious in this place.

It works, to a degree. But I'm confronted by a nurse so petite she might well have justifiably called herself a little person. Little or not, she checked me like a rampaging hockey player, insisting she hadn't seen me earlier in the evening and demanding to know who my sick relative was that I needed to "lurk" around the ER.

I resent that. Creepy guys lurk. I am sneaking.

Thankfully, Allah rescues me before Nurse Ratched drop-kicks me back to the parking lot.

"Way to be discreet," he smirks, before jerking his head, indicating to follow.

I catch up quickly and match his pace.

"Y'all find Jimmy Hoffa or something?"

"What?!?!"

"I'm just trying to figure out the cloak and dagger stuff. I was halfway through a really good Law & Order episode."

Allah shakes his head and smirks again. "Just like real life, huh?"

I ignore him and we turn a corner, nearly bumping into a uniformed patrol officer.

"Sir, he's awake," she says, and my friend breaks into a trot.

"That's one reason for the cloak and dagger, as you put it," he calls over his shoulder. "The latest vic? He survived and pretty cleverly too. You're not gonna believe it!"

This alone is news enough, especially if the victim saw something that might identify his assailants and a motive. But there's more?

"What's the other reason," I ask. "For the spy works, I mean."

Allah slows his pace and puts on his somber face, smoothing his shirt, straightening his tie, even licking his fingertips and running them through his beard.

He turns and whispers to me, "Bigfoot is real! Pretty sure you just missed him."