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The following day, after a night of heavy rain, the sky turned blue. Chicago had finally shaken off its gloomy weather, and the morning sun felt fresh.
Ethan climbed the stairs feeling renewed and ran into Burgess.
—Hey.
He raised his coffee cup and said:
—Good morning. Your administrative leave ended that quickly?
She was wearing the black patrol uniform. The collar of her light blue shirt was turned up, and her ponytail had been gathered into a bun at the back of her head, swaying with her movements.
—Yeah, good morning.
Burgess's eyes clouded for a moment, and she nodded quickly.
They both tried to step aside for the other, but happened to move left at the same time, nearly colliding.
Ethan moved to the right, and she followed him.
—Why don't you go first?
He smiled and gestured with his hand.
—No need.
Burgess also stopped and pointed to one side.
—Can we talk?
She had intended to speak with Ethan anyway, so she might as well say a few words now.
—No problem.
Knowing that she wanted to talk about what had happened that night, Ethan shrugged indifferently.
The two of them walked one after the other toward a corner of the station lobby.
That was Platt's territory, and she noticed the scene immediately, watching them from the corner of her eye.
—Listen.
Burgess clasped her hands together, her fists trembling uncontrollably.
—I'm really sorry about what happened a few days ago.
—I shouldn't have done that. It was very unprofessional of me.
—I hope we can put it behind us, and that Sergeant Voight doesn't find out. I don't want to lose my chance to join Intelligence.
Remembering the passionate kiss from that night, Ethan did not mind at all.
—It's fine. Relax. I don't blame you. With someone as charming as me, anyone would lose control a little.
The joke helped Burgess relax considerably.
A smile returned to her face, and she nodded quickly.
—Then let's pretend nothing happened. What do you say?
—No problem.
Ethan smiled and held out his hand.
Burgess looked at the long, clean hand in front of her and quickly shook it.
—Let's stay friends.
—As you wish.
Ethan shook her hand.
—Don't overthink it. That night was simply a beautiful misunderstanding.
Releasing her hand, Ethan turned and headed upstairs.
As he passed the front desk, he smiled and tapped the counter.
—Good morning, Sergeant —he said casually.
Watching Ethan walk away, Burgess pursed her lips and unconsciously rubbed her hand.
A few seconds later, her gaze shifted, and she jumped. Platt was standing behind the front desk with her head tilted, staring at her without expression.
Burgess's mind began racing, and she immediately forced a smile and approached.
—Good morning, Sergeant... —Burgess said, forcing a smile that was far too wide—. You look incredibly radiant this morning.
Platt did not blink. She did not smile. She did not even pretend to accept the compliment.
The lie had been so clumsy it almost deserved a fine.
—Uh-huh —she replied dryly.
Burgess held the smile for another second, but it began to collapse at the edges.
—Just saying.
—Of course —Platt said.
An awkward silence followed.
Burgess opened her mouth, ready to improvise something else, but Platt beat her to it. Without taking her eyes off her, she pushed the collection jar on the counter with one finger and then tapped it twice with her pen.
Tap. Tap.
Burgess looked down at the can.
—Oh. That. Yes. I was just looking for that.
Burgess quickly searched her pockets, grateful for an excuse to look anywhere except at Platt. She pulled out a handful of coins, a crumpled receipt, and two five-dollar bills.
—Let me see... —she murmured, counting quickly—. All right, this should be enough.
She dropped the bills into the can and nudged it slightly toward Platt, as though that settled the matter.
Platt lowered her gaze to the money. Then she looked at Burgess.
Without changing expression, she extended her hand and pushed the donation jar back toward her.
—Please.
Burgess stared at her.
—Seriously?
Platt tilted her head slightly.
—You want me to pretend I didn't see anything? Then it's going to cost you more than ten dollars, Officer Burgess.
Burgess puffed out her cheeks, defeated before she had even begun. She looked at the jar, then at Platt, and finally sighed in resignation.
—This is extortion.
Reluctantly, Burgess pulled out another ten-dollar bill, held it between her fingers for a moment as though saying goodbye, and dropped it into the can.
—That was my lunch money.
Platt finally nodded in satisfaction and put on her glasses.
—Hmph.
Burgess made a subtle pout and then rubbed her stomach sadly as she walked away.
Behind the front desk, Platt watched her ponytail sway gracefully, a complicated expression on her face.
After a moment, she looked up toward the second floor.
—Well, at least things are going to get interesting.
Second floor.
Ethan turned on his computer and propped his feet on the desk.
Remembering what had just happened, he shook his head with a smile.
He opened a bag of snacks, lightly bouncing his boots.
The chips crunched immediately, and he soon felt someone staring at him.
Reluctantly, he grabbed a bag of chips and threw it hard.
—Yes!
A surprised whisper came from Erin, seated diagonally across from him, followed by the sound of crunching.
With no urgent cases, the day passed unusually quietly.
Ten minutes later, Hank came out of his office quickly.
—Everybody get ready. We've got a case.
The car sped through Highland Park and soon arrived at First Bank. By then, patrol officers had already secured the scene.
Seeing the ambulance parked in front of the building, Ethan immediately understood why Intelligence had been called. There were victims. Too many for a simple robbery. Normally, a case like this would have been handled by a detective unit, but something about the scene had clearly escalated beyond the ordinary.
The unit entered the bank through a side door and descended a broad staircase into the basement, where the vault was spread across two levels.
Police tape stretched across the iron gate protecting the entrance.
Ethan saw the bodies as soon as he approached.
Two people lay motionless inside while the forensic team worked around them, taking photographs, marking evidence, and collecting samples with methodical care.
—Detective —one of the patrol officers called when he saw him approach.
—Thanks.
Ethan took the disposable gloves the officer offered beside the iron gate. The others did the same and, one by one, ducked beneath the police tape.
The vault smelled of cold metal, gunpowder, and fresh blood.
Ethan pulled on the gloves as he surveyed the scene. Then he nodded toward the entrance.
Hank turned to Halstead and Erin.
—You two talk to the first patrol officers who arrived. I want to know who called, what time they came in, and whether anyone touched anything before they locked down the scene.
—Understood —Erin replied, pushing Jay forward.
The two of them quickly got to work.
Ethan approached the bodies and crouched beside them. All of them wore security uniforms, and each had been shot twice cleanly in the chest. Their weapons were still holstered. They had not been able to defend themselves because everything had happened too quickly, or because they had not expected to be shot.
Blood spread across the tiled floor, staining a large area red.
—Doesn't look like they tried to defend themselves —Ethan said, crouching beside one of the bodies—. Their weapons are still in their holsters.
He turned his head to look at the others observing the scene behind him.
—Either they were in on it and didn't expect to be shot... or it all happened too fast and caught them by surprise.
His gaze returned to the victims.
—Either way, whoever did this knew exactly when to strike.
Beside the bodies stood the open vault door. It did not take a genius to understand what had happened.
Ethan shook his head and stood. After passing through the nearly three-foot-thick vault doorway, they found two more bodies lying on the floor inside.
He looked around.
The vault was like a small maze. The interior space had been divided by walls covered with dense rows of safe-deposit boxes.
—The robbers moved very quickly, and they must have known the layout extremely well.
—You think they had inside help?
Hank looked at the bodies on the floor and asked in a grim voice.
—Very likely.
Halstead and Erin approached a few seconds later. Jay carried his open notebook in one hand, his gaze still fixed on his notes.
—The bank had five security guards in total —he reported—. Four dead and one wounded. Two were posted at the main entrance, another covered access to the stairwell, and the two here guarded the basement.
Hank turned his head toward Erin.
—What did they take?
—Eight million dollars in cash.
—The money arrived a week ago from different branches and was supposed to be transferred to the Federal Reserve on LaSalle for destruction —Erin explained, lightly tapping her notebook with her pen—. This bank was only a temporary storage point. In a couple of days, they were going to load it into an armored truck.
—And the wounded guard? —Hank asked—. We need to ask him some questions.
—The surviving guard is named Lukas Perko —Halstead interjected, pointing to one side—. He was also the one who had the access codes to the vault.
He checked his notebook once more.
—And there's another guard, Miguel Gonzales. He was in the rear office when everything happened.
—All right —Hank said, looking at Erin and Halstead—. You two find Gonzales.
Then he gestured toward Ethan.
—We'll talk to Perko.
Everyone nodded and dispersed.
Following the direction Halstead had indicated, Ethan and Hank turned the corner, passed the vault wall, and found a white man sitting against the wall on a small stool.
The paramedics were treating him.
His shirt and chest were soaked in blood. His face was pale and twisted with pain, and sweat ran down his temples.
—Perko? —Ethan asked.
The man nodded with effort.
Ethan looked at the paramedic.
—What's his condition?
—Penetrating wound to the left shoulder —she replied, pulling aside some of the blood-soaked fabric to reveal the bullet hole—. He's losing blood, but he's still conscious.
—Thank you —Ethan said—. Can we have a minute?
The paramedic looked at him seriously.
—One minute. Then he has to go to the hospital.
When the medical staff moved far enough away, Ethan crouched in front of Perko.
—I'm Detective Morgan. This is Sergeant Voight. I need you to focus. What did you see?
Perko moistened his lips, breathing with difficulty.
—There were four of them... four people. Black hoodies, masks.
—Weapons?
—Rifles —Perko said, breathing heavily—. M16s, or something like that. I don't know. They came in shooting. Everything happened too fast.
He tried to snap his fingers, but the movement pulled at the wound, and a grimace of pain crossed his face.
—No warning. No one had time to react.
Hank frowned.
—Where were you?
—In the bathroom —Perko replied, gritting his teeth against the pain—. I heard the commotion and ran out. One of them saw me. There was gunfire. It felt like someone hit me in the shoulder with a hammer, and I fell to the floor.
Ethan tilted his head slightly.
—Sounds like you got lucky. They thought you were dead.
—Maybe —Perko murmured, somewhat embarrassed—. It's not that I didn't think about fighting back, but... you saw what they did.
—I'm not blaming you —Ethan said, writing in his notebook—. Anything else? Height, build, skin color?
Perko took a deep breath, trying to organize his memories.
—They were wearing masks, but I could see their necks. I'm sure they were Black men.
—All of them?
—Yes. All four.
—Height?
—I didn't get a good look. Average build. Like ordinary people.
Sweat once again slid down his forehead. Perko closed his eyes for a moment, exhausted.
—I already told you everything I know. I need to go to the hospital.
Ethan closed the notebook and raised a hand toward the paramedics.
—Thank you.
The medical staff immediately returned. They placed Perko on a stretcher and hurried him toward the exit.
Hank watched him leave, his hands buried in his pockets.
—What do you think?
Ethan did not answer immediately.
—More or less convincing, but I still have my doubts —he finally said—. Let's see the other one first.