Chapter 1

Chapter 1—Christmas morn on the bank

of the Chicago River

4:58 a.m., Sunday, December 25

Christmas morning—five a.m. The sun had not yet attempted to peek over Lake Michigan.
And it was snowing. While winter storms surprise no one in Chicago, this was a particularly frigid snow, driven by an incredibly stiff westerly—the sort generally reserved for late January or February.
The wind-fractured flakes jetted past Jack Handler more horizontal than vertical, then bounced along the concrete Riverwalk like miniature snowballs.
The inclement weather did not, however, present a problem to Jack. In fact, he embraced it. The fierce storm suggested he would have no company as he wound up this job.
“What could be better?” he thought.
Carrying an oversized and plastic-lined leather briefcase, he briskly made his way east along the north side of the Chicago River, less than a mile from Lake Michigan.
Just as he reached a pre-selected point along the water’s edge, he turned toward the river. Gripping a support post with his right hand, he swung the heavy case up and rested it on the railing. Then, with a single motion, he unlatched the case and dumped out of it a solid block of ice. Using his thumb, he retained a brown plastic bag that he had wrapped around the ice so that it would not stick to the case.
Once the bag had separated from the ice, he quickly gathered it up and tucked it back in the case.
The water was several feet below the walkway, so the heavy chunk made a loud splashing sound when it landed. Initially disappearing beneath the surface, the little iceberg bobbed up to the surface almost immediately. Only an inch or so showed above the water, but it was enough to reflect the snow-muted lights of the city as it began floating downstream.
Jack hesitated a moment, took a deep breath, snapped the large brown case closed, then resumed his walk eastward.
He had chosen this specific spot nearly a week earlier. In fact, he had barely checked into a nearby hotel when he took this exact trek along the river, searching out camera and light locations. He knew that while he could not totally avoid scrutiny, he did need to find the most appropriate place to discard the package—a point that would pose minimal threat from surveillance or excessive lighting.
On his earlier trip, he had also verified that the usually slow-moving current at this specific location was relatively swift. That would insure his deposit would be swept steadily along.
Initially he questioned whether or not the Chicago River would work for him. Theoretically, it might seem that a better choice would have been a river that flowed into a large body of water, as opposed to away from one. But such is not the case with this river—at least not anymore.
Thanks to a series of man-made canals, the Chicago River’s course was altered back in the late 1800s so that it flowed westward, away from Lake Michigan. The project had been undertaken to block the flow of industrial waste into Lake Michigan, because the big lake served as the city’s water supply.
When Jack initially developed his plan, he painstakingly considered all the ramifications associated with the river’s slow westward flow. He finally concluded that convenient accessibility, and size, outweighed any negative factors. Then, when he found a spot on the river where the current was relatively fast, he knew that the Chicago River would work perfectly.
“Too bad they all don’t go this well,” he thought as he glanced backward, checking to be sure that the ice had successfully begun its journey downstream. He had some concern that the hard west wind might actually blow the ice eastward, against the current. But that did not happen. Jack then smiled slightly, turned his face away from the river, and continued walking. “That’s a cool one hundred and fifty grand.”
Jack walked a little farther, and then stopped abruptly. He extended his left arm, exposing a vintage gold Rolex—a gift from his wife on their third anniversary. He held it up to a dim light he encountered about one hundred and fifty feet up river. He then turned around quickly (as though remembering something he had forgotten), and headed back toward Michigan Avenue. He had worked through the night, and he was spent—perhaps too tired, he thought, to rest well. Nevertheless, he knew that he had to try to get some sleep. He did, after all, have a plane to catch out of O’Hare at one p.m.
It was not until he had nearly reached Michigan Avenue that he realized just how cold he was. His thinly lined tan windbreaker did not block the sub-zero wind-chill gusts. Perhaps he was just too exhausted, and his body had begun to shut down. Or maybe it was because he now walked directly into the teeth of the wind. Whatever the case, Jack lowered his head, pulled the brim of his Cubs baseball cap down so it would not fly off, and held it there with his left hand to block the pelting snow from his squinting eyes. Lengthening his Asics’ stride just a bit, he forced a glance up to the stairs that led to the bridge over the river, then pointed himself in the direction of his hotel, which was on the south bank.
Just as he approached the revolving door leading into the lobby, he was startled when his phone began to vibrate. “Who could be calling me this early in the morning?” Jack wondered. Very few people knew his cell number.