Trapped

NINE

The abandoned NTX chemical plant sat in a large decrepit lot on the south side not far from the Chicago River.

David Tennon could smell the river in the air, mixed with the grime and grit of over a century's worth of industry, a subtle sort of toxic fume that permeated the city like a second skin.

He stared out the window of his personal vehicle that was parked in the lot, squinting against the setting sun to see the miles of warehouses that populated this part of the south.

Most were abandoned. Tennon imagined the history here, the dreams. Once upon a time these places teemed with immigrants and black people. Tennon thought about his people migrating up from the south, Chicago a beacon of promise for jobs, working the rail yards, the meatpacking and steel plants all over the south side.

Then those jobs left but the black people didn't. And that was when Tennon worked the streets. Same during the months of protests after the toxic waste spill in the late seventies. He didn't like to think about that time any more than he already had to for this case. He was a few years on the job back then, and like so much with police work, the protests had meant long hours, odd shifts, forced overtime. So many of those early years, trying to make a name for himself on the street, put a few notches on his belt making arrests and doing undercover work, had come at the price of his family. He had missed a good chunk of his kids' early years in the name of his career. That was time he could never get back.

His wife had almost left him back then. More than once.

Tennon looked at his watch, willing himself to stop re-opening old wounds. It was a few minutes to five. He wondered what this was all about and if he could mark it down as overtime when he got into work tonight.

A fancy black BMW rolled into the lot. Tennon shook his head. The vehicle pulled even with his passenger side.

Tennon leaned over and rolled down his passenger window while Harvey McKenna rolled down his driver's.

McKenna called over. "Detective!"

Tennon called back: "I can tell you never drove a patrol car. Pull around my other side so we can actually talk."

"Oh, yes, yes, of course."

McKenna maneuvered around so that both the cars' driver's sides were facing each other. Tennon finally got a good look at the man as they shook hands, McKenna's gold Rolex gleaming on his wrist beneath fancy cufflinks.

He was young, early to mid-thirties, very handsome, and even sitting down Tennon could tell he was tall. He wore a perfectly tailored suit which included a vest. His parted blonde hair was coiffed like a good ol' boy with not a strand out of place. And his smile flashed perfect teeth that matched an eager and firm handshake.

"Harvey McKenna, Harvey McKenna, nice to meet you. I appreciate this, Detective, I really do." He sounded like your best friend who only wanted to help you, but if Tennon had to guess, it masked a sense of self-importance and entitlement. McKenna was persistent, and used to getting what he wanted, where he wanted.

Which prompted Tennon's first question: "Why here, Mr. McKenna? I have two sons, both of whom do the occasional after-school activity, which in this instance included today. It was not fun driving to pick them up, then back home, then out here. But I do it because my wife does a lot already and hates my job enough as it is, plus third shift allows for it."

McKenna lifted a coffee mug that had a heat sleeve with a label for an expensive downtown café. "I'm sorry," he said, though Tennon could tell he didn't much care. "Peace offering. It's good coffee, I promise. Cream and sugar in there."