owner’s name and address were protected from public view.
He tried a different path and did a Google search for David Mitchell Chicago and found a write-up published in Chicago Style about the journalist. The online magazine had interviewed Mitchell about his success with The Mitchell Wire and his recent move to the Gold Coast. In the article, Mitchell explained how much of a contrast his new apartment on Wells street was compared to his old loft in North Lawndale. “There’s a Starbucks on the first floor of my new place. There’s another coffee joint right across the street. I can see both from my balcony. As a journalist who has to jump on breaking stories at all hours, there’s no better place to live in the city.”
Perez did one more Web search. He typed his query Chicago Gold Coast Starbucks Wells and hit enter.
1233 North Wells Street was the result returned by the search engine.
Victor Perez grabbed his duffle bag, packed his Beretta, and donned his ski mask. He walked out of the room, past the senator who sat on the cold, dirty floor of his cell. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”
Chapter 23
“Got anything yet?” I asked Morgan as I walked over to his desk. Jami said she was going back to her workstation to catch up on interagency bulletins to look for any connections that we might be missing.
“I got into the United Center’s system and isolated the camera that you asked me to look at, but the kidnapper had his back to it. He was pulling a large black crate out of the doors, I’m guessing the senator’s body, and except for a quick glance to look around, we don’t have a good shot.”
Morgan stopped typing. “I’m going to look for another camera inside the arena that may have picked him up.”
“What about the building across the street? I asked you to look for something there, too.” He put his hands behind his head in frustration and leaned back in his chair.
“But you asked me to try to ID him from the arena’s cameras. Which one do you want?”
“Both. I want to know who these people are.” Morgan sat back up and repositioned his hands on the keyboard and began clicking away at it.
“Fine. I’ll work on the building across the street first.”
A few seconds later, Morgan turned around and looked at me for the first time since I had been standing there. “Anything else? Or are you going to stay here hovering over me the whole time?”
“Morgan, we have no other leads. I need you to find something.” He shook his head.
“Do you know what the FBI will do if they catch me snooping around in these feeds? Didn’t you just say they asked us not to interfere?” Jami walked back over as I responded.
“We’re not interfering,” I said and Morgan got back to work.
“What did we miss while we were gone?” I asked Jami.
“The media has basically the same information that we have. The story broke on The Mitchell Wire , that’s who everyone is referencing as the source.” I glanced back over at Morgan’s monitor; he had accessed the feed from the building across from the arena.
The camera was intended to monitor the office building’s parking lot, but by chance offered a panoramic view of the United Center’s staff parking area. We saw police lights flashing and FBI personnel walking the area. “Go back to ten minutes before eight and let’s start from there,” I said to Morgan and he rewound the feed and pressed play, jumping forward thirty seconds at a time until we saw activity on the screen.
The lot was empty, just as expected. Just before eight, we saw a man walking alongside the back of the building and stopped at a motorcycle. We couldn’t tell the make and model, but we saw him climb on and just sit there, like he was deciding if he would leave or not.
“Oh my God,” Jami said. Morgan and I turned around and looked at her. “When we split up and I was near the arena’s entrance, while I was talking with Debra Stewart, one of the off
He tried a different path and did a Google search for David Mitchell Chicago and found a write-up published in Chicago Style about the journalist. The online magazine had interviewed Mitchell about his success with The Mitchell Wire and his recent move to the Gold Coast. In the article, Mitchell explained how much of a contrast his new apartment on Wells street was compared to his old loft in North Lawndale. “There’s a Starbucks on the first floor of my new place. There’s another coffee joint right across the street. I can see both from my balcony. As a journalist who has to jump on breaking stories at all hours, there’s no better place to live in the city.”
Perez did one more Web search. He typed his query Chicago Gold Coast Starbucks Wells and hit enter.
1233 North Wells Street was the result returned by the search engine.
Victor Perez grabbed his duffle bag, packed his Beretta, and donned his ski mask. He walked out of the room, past the senator who sat on the cold, dirty floor of his cell. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”
Chapter 23
“Got anything yet?” I asked Morgan as I walked over to his desk. Jami said she was going back to her workstation to catch up on interagency bulletins to look for any connections that we might be missing.
“I got into the United Center’s system and isolated the camera that you asked me to look at, but the kidnapper had his back to it. He was pulling a large black crate out of the doors, I’m guessing the senator’s body, and except for a quick glance to look around, we don’t have a good shot.”
Morgan stopped typing. “I’m going to look for another camera inside the arena that may have picked him up.”
“What about the building across the street? I asked you to look for something there, too.” He put his hands behind his head in frustration and leaned back in his chair.
“But you asked me to try to ID him from the arena’s cameras. Which one do you want?”
“Both. I want to know who these people are.” Morgan sat back up and repositioned his hands on the keyboard and began clicking away at it.
“Fine. I’ll work on the building across the street first.”
A few seconds later, Morgan turned around and looked at me for the first time since I had been standing there. “Anything else? Or are you going to stay here hovering over me the whole time?”
“Morgan, we have no other leads. I need you to find something.” He shook his head.
“Do you know what the FBI will do if they catch me snooping around in these feeds? Didn’t you just say they asked us not to interfere?” Jami walked back over as I responded.
“We’re not interfering,” I said and Morgan got back to work.
“What did we miss while we were gone?” I asked Jami.
“The media has basically the same information that we have. The story broke on The Mitchell Wire , that’s who everyone is referencing as the source.” I glanced back over at Morgan’s monitor; he had accessed the feed from the building across from the arena.
The camera was intended to monitor the office building’s parking lot, but by chance offered a panoramic view of the United Center’s staff parking area. We saw police lights flashing and FBI personnel walking the area. “Go back to ten minutes before eight and let’s start from there,” I said to Morgan and he rewound the feed and pressed play, jumping forward thirty seconds at a time until we saw activity on the screen.
The lot was empty, just as expected. Just before eight, we saw a man walking alongside the back of the building and stopped at a motorcycle. We couldn’t tell the make and model, but we saw him climb on and just sit there, like he was deciding if he would leave or not.
“Oh my God,” Jami said. Morgan and I turned around and looked at her. “When we split up and I was near the arena’s entrance, while I was talking with Debra Stewart, one of the off
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