The Governor's Wife Read Online Free Page B

Toronto.”
    “And the kid?”
    “Who knows? Could be just some lousy parents who like to steal cars. Could be they were looking to sell the kid.”
    “Black market?”
    “We’re seeing a lot more of it. Word is they might be running an operation out of Chicago. Anyway, the kid was cute as hell. Latino. A news crew got a shot of him as we pulled him out of the trunk. Bingo. Fucking story blows up. All of a sudden I got five cameras looking for another shot of the kid. We shipped him off to the NICU at Northwestern Memorial, then held a press conference.” Rodriguez rattled the ice cubes in his glass and studied me under the barroom light. “You all right?”
    “Never better.”
    “Have you seen her?”
    “Seen who?”
    Rodriguez shook his head and glanced again at the TV. “Hey, can you put on the news? WGN.”
    The bartender came over with a remote and changed the channel.
    “Thanks.” Rodriguez turned back to me. “You want to talk? Or you just gonna stew in it?”
    “It” was a woman named Rachel Swenson. She was a federal judge and had been my girlfriend until she sold me out to the feds. We’d tried to put it back together a couple of times over the past year and almost got there…until we wound up making everything worse. Now there was nothing left but hurt. And hope. That was the thing that got you in the end. The hope.
    “Think I’m gonna stew,” I said.
    “Course you are. What else would you do? So…and I know I’m gonna regret this…why did you call me down here?”
    “I’ve got a new client.”
    “I’m thrilled for you.”
    “I don’t know his name.”
    “Really?”
    I took out my phone and pulled up the e-mail that had hired me. Rodriguez read it once, then read it again before sliding the phone back across the bar.
    “I knew I shouldn’t have come.”
    —
    “Raymond Perry?”
    “Told you it was interesting.”
    We’d taken our conversation to a booth. The TV was still on, but my cop friend had lost interest in himself.
    “How long has it been since he skipped out?”
    “Two years,” I said.
    “Feels more like ten. Last I heard they’d spotted him on an island somewhere.”
    “He’s been ‘seen’ in the West Indies. Before that it was Paris, British Columbia, and Bangkok. All in the past year and a half.”
    “Our own little Whitey Bulger.”
    “More like a ghost.”
    “You ever meet him?”
    “Once. At Kustok’s wake.”
    Walter Kustok was a Chicago cop. He’d been on the job less than six months when he knocked on the front door of a South Side bungalow. An estranged husband fired three times through the closed door and killed Kustok where he stood.
    “What did you think?” Rodriguez said.
    “Ray came in by himself. No limo, no entourage, no speech. Just paid his respects to the family. Then he went to the bar and drank with Kustok’s buddies until close.”
    “I heard about that.”
    “He was a politician, but I liked Ray. At least that night I did.”
    Rodriguez grunted and took a sip of his bourbon. “Who’s dropping all the cash to find him?”
    “Don’t know.”
    “Did they deposit the first hundred?”
    “It’s sitting in an account with my name on it.”
    “You touched any of it?”
    I shook my head.
    “You gonna?”
    “Why, you need a loan?”
    The detective fed me a grin. “Depends on what you want me to do.”
    “I was thinking you could get someone in Financial Crimes to put a trace on the account.”
    “As it happens, I have someone down there who owes me a favor. Thing is, these people aren’t likely to have left any tracks.”
    “I know, but I figure it’s worth a shot.”
    Rodriguez shrugged, then sat up in his seat. “There we are. Hey, turn it up.”
    The bartender hit the volume, and we watched as Rodriguez stood behind his boss who was droning on about how the baby they’d found was healthy. No ID as of yet, but the Chicago PD was working on it.
    “I look like a fat fuck,” Rodriguez said.
    “I heard TV does that to