Chapter 17
Ohio House Motel, 600 N. La Salle Drive
Yang ignored the dubious stain on the carpet near the bathroom-side of the motel bed and tossed back the covers to look for bed bugs.
As far as lodgings went, he had stayed in nicer. Much nicer, as a matter of fact. But the squat little motel in the middle of downtown Chicago, flanked on all sides by high-rise buildings, was the only place he had found that had agreed to let him pay in cash.
He had checked in under one of his many aliases, so that was not an issue. But it was always nice not to leave a money trail behind him when he did wet work.
As good as he was, and as good as his team back home was, a credit card was always linked to a bank account. A bank account was always linked to the person or entity that opened it. And even though that person was swathed in pseudonyms and protected behind copious firewalls, a good forensic accountant matched with a good hacker could almost always find the source they were looking for.
The Americans have the saying “follow the money” for a reason.
He was relieved to find the sheets clean and the pillows fluffy. After toeing out of his shoes and placing them neatly beside the bed, he climbed atop the mattress.
The ceiling was freshly painted. He could see the roller streaks in a few places. And even though he had drawn the curtains, the sun rose to the east and its light seeped beneath the drapery to puddle on the floor.
It had been a long night. And depending on what Bishop decided to do about Eliza Meadows, it may yet prove to be a long day.
As if thinking of the man conjured him, Yang’s burner buzzed in his pocket. He did not bother looking at the screen before answering. Only Bishop had the number.
Taking a page from Bishop’s book, he skipped the pleasantries. “Well?” he asked.
“Hell if I know.” Bishop sounded as tired as Yang felt. “My source has turned in for the night. I don’t know what’s happening in your neck of the woods or what, if anything, the agents on the case have to report.”
“Surely after Senator Chastain’s death they will be suspicious and want to move Eliza to a safe house. I can make my play when she is in transport.”
“Maybe,” Bishop allowed. “Or maybe they’ll wait to move her until they’re assured the Chastains didn’t go naturally. How did you kill the senator, by the way?” Bishop asked.
Yang smiled. “We all have our secrets and our sources. You and I both know we live longer by not revealing them.”
Bishop snorted. “Fair enough.” Then he returned them to their previous subject. “My bet is the feds leave Eliza at BKI for as long as possible. They hate having to expend resources to house and guard witnesses. And besides, if they’ve been to that damned compound, they’ll figure she’s plenty safe there.”
Yang had seen the Black Knights Incorporated property. The security was topnotch. A twenty-four-hour guard. Ten-foot-high brick walls topped by razor wire. More motion-sensor cameras than he could count. Plus…the men who worked there were armed to the teeth and trained within an inch of their lives in various and sundry ways to kill their enemies.
“Everything has a weakness,” Yang assured Bishop. “Even that compound. If you ask me to find it, I will.”
“I’ll know more tomorrow once my source checks in,” Bishop said with a weary sigh. Yang could hear the man turning on the shower. The spray through the phone sounded like rain on a tin roof. “In the meantime, I’ll start working on phase two. Given the events of the night, we need to add a few more breadcrumbs to the trails that lead to Chuck Reynolds.”
Bishop had determined Chuck Reynolds, the current senate minority leader, would be the obvious fall guy for the night’s nefarious activities. For one thing, Reynold’s was deep in the pockets of corporate lobbyists. For another thing, it’d been recently rumored he’d flown to a private island to rape an underage boy. But most importantly for their cause, John McClean had gotten his hands on the pièce de resistance, hard proof that Reynolds had made millions through insider trading.
Yes… if Bishop was good at anything, it was picking patsies.
Chuck Reynolds’s days as a free man had been numbered the minute Bishop caught wind that John McClean might suspect Bishop for being the mole inside the federal government.
That was the real reason McClean had called together the night’s guests. Not to share the proof he had on Reynolds, but to share his suspicions about Bishop.
Or at least that’s what Bishop had told Yang. But it occurred to him he had never asked Bishop how he had come to know about McClean’s suspicions.
Curiosity had him asking now, “How did you find out about tonight’s gathering? Senator McClean strikes me as the kind of man who…plays his cards close to his vest, as you Americans like to say.”
Yang heard his own words parroted back to him. “We all have our secrets and our sources, Yang. You and I both know we live longer by not revealing them.”
With that, the line went dead.
Yang stared into the bathroom. He should probably shower as well. But sleep beckoned.
Murder was tiring work.