Everything had gone according to plan so far. He watched from a distance as the forensic team of two spent the better part of the morning on the roof of the laundromat. The planted evidence would tie up their time as well as the time of the detectives he saw scamper off and drive away. He was pretty sure he knew where they were headed, and he pulled out in traffic, several car lengths behind the pickup truck. That liquor store receipt was a great piece of evidence. When he’d picked it up off the sidewalk, he knew that the slip of paper was as good as gold. Bryce James, a neighborhood thug, had tossed it to the ground as he walked out with another lowlife, Kenyon Wright.
He parked along the curb across the street and had a bird’s-eye view of the entrance to A&M Cut Rate Liquor on East Sixty-Third Street. Seconds earlier, the two detectives had walked in. He’d chosen the liquor store simply because every building in that neighborhood had security cameras. Someone didn’t have to be an actuary to know that bars on the doors and windows almost guaranteed the neighborhood was rough, and cameras were not only necessary but a good probability. He was sure the detectives would want to see the counter footage for the date and time stamped on that receipt.
So while members of the Chicago police force busied themselves chasing dead-end clues, just as they did when they interrogated Carlton Blake, he’d move forward with the second stage of his plan to cripple the city.
His small bungalow wasn’t far away, only nine blocks from the liquor store and on the border of the Second and Seventh Districts. He parked on the driveway like he had for some time now. The car belonging to his wife was still in the garage, and it was a constant reminder of what fueled his rage. Inside the house, he turned left at the hallway and entered the second door on the right—his home office. With the computer powered up, he began his research.