Free Trigger City by Sean Chercover Page B

to the stereo.
    Next up, Dylan’s Blood on the Tracks .
    The pain was dull enough that I could use my arm again, so I started packing books into cardboard boxes while listening to Bob get tangled up in blue. I hadn’t been in complete denial about my upcoming move and I’d actually bought packing boxes. But only a few were packed. I had less than six weeks to find a new place to live and I hadn’t even started looking in earnest.
    As I looked around the apartment, I realized that this place was part of the problem. My belongings were part of the problem. The back of the couch had loose threads where my cat used to sharpen his claws. The cat died seven years ago. And the old battered piano bench that served as a coffee table? I’d had that thing since college. I’d bought the big reading chair as a gift to myself, to mark my second year working as an investigative reporter at the Chicago Chronicle .
    They were relics of a closed chapter of my life—life before torture. Constant reminders of the man I used to be, and of what had been taken from me. I decided right then that I would make a clean break, leave all the relics behind and start from scratch in the new place. All I needed to pack were my books and CDs, my electronics, clothes, exercise equipment, and kitchen gear. Everything else could go in the Dumpster.
    Hell, moving would be a cinch.
    Feeling liberated by my decision, I went to the bedroom and packed a small suitcase and left the apartment. I walked a few blocks over to the Red Line and hopped on the northbound El, headed for a dead woman’s apartment where so far I’d been able to sleep without nightmares.

CHAPTER TEN
    E xcuse me, Mr. Dudgeon?”
    The man closed my office door behind him and strode toward my desk and stuck out his hand. “I’m Tim Dellitt. I’d like to hire you.” I stood and shook his hand and gestured to one of the client chairs and he sat and so did I.
    I guessed him in his early or midthirties. His blond hair was cut close to the scalp and he wore a precision-trimmed goatee and mustache. His suit was expensive.
    â€œI hate to turn away business, Mr. Dellitt, but I’m on an exclusive case and I won’t be available for another seven weeks. If you can wait that long—”
    â€œNo, I really can’t.”
    â€œWell, I am sorry.” I reached for my Rolodex. “I’d be happy to recommend another detective agency…”
    Tim Dellitt held up a hand. “Just out of curiosity then, what are your rates?”
    â€œDepends on the job. Eighty-five dollars an hour, it’s billed that way. Eight hundred is my daily rate.”
    â€œAnd I suppose you charge a premium for an exclusive assignment, like the one you’re on now, so I’m guessing you’re set to rake in…almost fifty, sixty grand in the next seven weeks.” He smiled and backed it up with a manly wink. “Am I right?”
    Subtlety was not this guy’s strong suit. I didn’t want to know what was.
    â€œMr. Dellitt, I think you’d better find yourself another detective—”
    â€œWait, hear me out. Now what if I told you I’m willing to go double what you’re making now. A hundred grand. All you gotta do is drop the case you’re on and work exclusively on my case for the next seven weeks instead.” He made it sound nice and friendly. “No wait, scratch that. I think I’ll need you for eight full weeks. But I’ll bump it up to one-twenty.” Big smile.
    â€œMr. Dellitt—”
    â€œYou didn’t even think about it.”
    â€œI don’t need to think about it, I already have a client.”
    Dellitt shrugged. “So your client will be upset. With a hundred and twenty thousand dollars staring you in the face, who cares? You can refund what he’s paid you so far and still come out way ahead.”
    We were approaching the tipping point. This thing might