Page 17 of The Mafia's Broken Vows

This was not how I imagined my day in Chicago going. I arrived at the tower to find half a dozen fire trucks pulling out of the premises, and most of the Ecolab’s staff gathered at the fire assembly point on the front lawn. Apparently, a fire had started from a wastebasket and caught a desk or something.

What was most surprising, though, was the number of fire trucks that attended to such a small fire. Must be a Chicago thing because back home, the entire tower would have to be engulfed in flames to get that kind of fire response.

When after almost an hour of hanging around and no one could explain what we were still doing out on the lawn despite the fire having been contained, I marched into the lobby and demanded to either be allowed up there or have someone from Ecolab come down and speak to me.

I wonder if I look as miffed as I am, or if the woman, whose name badge reads Jenny, is just a naturally anxious person.

“I’m sure someone from the company will be able to give you an update soon,” Jenny says, then hurriedly picks up the phone blinking with an incoming call.

After about a minute of listening, Jenny finally puts the phone down. “Um, Miss O’Shea, I’m really sorry, but I’ve just been informed that Ecolab will remain shut for the rest of the week.”

I raise a disbelieving eyebrow. “Because of a wastebasket fire?”

She fidgets with a pen, her eyes avoiding mine. “Well, it’s not just that. I’ve been advised the entire floor is inaccessible as it is now flooded due to the, um, heroic efforts of the fire unit.” Jenny has the grace to look mortified. Quickly she adds, “Besides, there is to be a police investigation.”

I want to laugh and cry at the same time. Heroic efforts to put out a wastebasket fire? The whole floor flooded in a bid to put it out? It sounds like it’s the Chicago Fire Unit who need to be arrested to have their heads re-screwed on.

“So what now?” I snap angrily.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to reschedule,” she says, then shrinks back as if expecting me to explode.

I take a deep breath, trying to quell my rising irritation. “Reschedule? I flew all the way from Boston for this sample. It’s crucial that I get it today.”

She bites her lip, clearly flustered. “I understand that, but there’s nothing I can do right now. There’s no one up there to attend to you.”

The tea in my hand is no longer comforting; it’s just hot and annoying. “When can I return for it?”

“I’ll need to check with Ecolab logistics and maintenance,” she stammers. “But it could be weeks before that floor is cleared for operation again.”

“Weeks! I don’t have weeks.”

She looks about to cry, and I almost feel bad for yelling.

“Look,” I say, softening my tone, “I need that evidence as soon as possible. Is there any way you can get someone from Ecolab to give me an update?”

She nods vigorously. “I’ll email the logistics team first thing tomorrow and copy you in on it.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, though it doesn’t feel like a victory. Doug Harrison will be livid. He’ll somehow find a way to blame me for this. And I can’t even imagine what Jim Pearson will do to Doug.

I step outside the deserted lobby and pull my coat tighter against the biting autumn wind. Anxiety gnaws at me, each step heavier than the last. The evidence retrieval was supposed to be a simple task, but nothing about this trip is turning out simple.

I flag down a cab. “O’Hare Airport, please,” I tell the driver as I slide into the backseat and settle back against the worn leather.

He nods, merging into the flow of traffic. I close my eyes and sigh, pushing away the growing frustration.

We drive in silence for half an hour until traffic starts to build, gradually slowing us down to a crawl. And then it becomes a standstill.

The cab inches forward every few minutes, the driver fidgeting with the dashboard knobs, frantically changing radio stations as if searching for traffic updates.

Minutes slowly turn into an hour, dusk giving way to a moonless night, and we’ve barely moved. I lean forward, peering out through the windshield, seeing traffic stretch as far as the eye can see—a sea of red brake lights and honking cars.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

The driver shrugs. “No idea. Never seen it build this bad so quickly before.”

I check my watch for the hundredth time. At this rate, I’ll be lucky if I even make it to O’Hare by midnight. Maybe tomorrow’s flight. Maybe never.

I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching as people start abandoning their vehicles, slamming doors with excessive force before marching off to investigate the holdup. I briefly consider joining them but decide against it.

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