Bad Break: A Novel

Chapter Forty-Seven

"Isn't that that reporter for the Midway?"

Guttfeld nodded and pulled the gear lever into place, careful to remain at least four car lengths behind.

Six minutes have passed since I first noticed her or him or them, but we've only made it about eight blocks —thirds of a mile or so— thanks to red lights at two intersections.

I resolve to gun it and try to lose them at the next green light. We're on the near south side of the city, moving north, closer with each block to downtown.

If I can make it another four or five blocks traffic will begin to thicken, and there'll even be more pedestrians out and about — likely strolling to microbreweries from Rum Runner's Hill, a neighborhood of duplexes and old factories-turned-loft apartments that served as a dividing line between downtown and the city's struggling network of southside neighborhoods.

After what seems like an hour, but is in reality just forty-three seconds, the red light turns, and I stomp the accelerator as though it just insulted my mother.

I should have lurched forward, but time stopped, resuming in a flash, as my head jerked violently to the right, toward the passenger side of my truck. For the second time in my life, I'd just been hit by another vehicle at an intersection — blindsided they call it with good reason.

They tell you on airplanes just prior to a crash or rough landing that you should lean forward, tuck your head between your knees, and hold on for dear life. There are no such instructions for a vehicle rollover. So, as much as I can, I skip the first two steps and go right to the hold-on-for-dear-life part as I roll...and roll. After two revolutions, I feel my stomach heave.

No fear of death by smushing. Instead, I was momentarily worried that my body would be found in the wreckage in an unflattering position, like with my pants around my ankles, butt exposed and man parts shriveled as though I'd just stepped out of a three-day-long cold shower.

###

At that exact moment, Sgt. Trevor Backstrom was slinking sheepishly into Voracious, the steak house that was often number two on the "upscale" lounge rotation that Dr. Tannery Freeman tended to follow.

And it was with great curiosity that Freeman, fresh off a twenty-four-hour shift in the Emergency Room of the Barrington West Level-Five Trauma Center, watched a lumbering grizzly bear in bib overalls and a bright red tee-shirt shuffle towards him.

The giant man, who was well-known in the police department for eschewing alcohol and public social settings — unless work required him to be adjacent to both, paused next to every occupied table he passed to either nod hello or apologize for bumping elbows or knocking cell phones off the edge of tables with his considerable girth. He was decidedly less comfortable at Voracious than he had been that night at the Satin Room.

"How did you know I was here?"

Backstrom pulled out a chair opposite Freeman and sat, not waiting for an invitation.

"I need to know where our boy is," he said, in his best attempt at a low tone. The only way it might have worked as a whisper is if he had been talking on the runway of a very busy airport.

The two men peered at each other for a solid minute before the big cop caved and gave more detail.

"I figured out some stuff, and we need to talk," he said nervously. "I, uh, know y'all are tight. So I'm assuming I can trust you. So, uh, see, that missing girl – the one we spotted on the DL in the Satin Room? – I might know what happened to her."

Freeman nearly lept from his seat, suddenly full of zeal.

"Well, damn! Call the police then!"

He held up a hand immediately, acknowledging the ridiculousness of his demand.

"So, what do we do?"

Now it was time for Backstrom to nod, but he wasn't exasperated.

"You got time to take a ride? We can find your boy later. This first step can't wait."