Savage Lover: Chapter 10

The first thing I do when I get home is start researching this cop.

It doesn’t take long to find him. Officer Logan Schultz, graduated from the academy in 2011, then bounced around the Bureau of Patrol for a while. Two years ago, he transferred to the Organized Crime Division.

That’s exactly what I expected. Organized Crime covers Vice, Narcotics, and Gang Investigations. All of my favorite things.

But I’m curious to know who this joker actually is.

Am I dealing with a Boy Scout? Or a classic crooked cop who wants to get his beak wet?

Now that’s a little trickier to tell. Officer Schultz has several complaints lodged against him, and he’s been investigated twice for misconduct. But as far as I can see, he’s only gotten in trouble for roughing up suspects, not taking bribes.

He’s received a couple of commendations, too. Most recently the Top Gun Arrest Award for recovering illegal firearms.

There’s a photo of him getting a medal pinned on his chest by a man with a long, crooked nose and thinning gray hair. The caption informs me that this is Chief Brodie. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen Brodie at those hoity-toity parties I was needling Schultz about. I don’t actually enjoy attending those—but it’s all part of securing power and influence in Chicago.

Lining up the dates on Schultz’s big case, I’m guessing he was involved in that raid on the Bratva last year—I hear they lost almost twenty million in high-quality Russian munitions.

So it looks like our boy is a real go-getter. Really making a splash in the Chicago PD.

I try to search his social media, looking for evidence of a wife, kids, girlfriend, or exploitable bad habits. It’s all buttoned up tight—no public profiles. Or maybe no profiles at all.

However, I do find an old news article from April 18th, 2005:

Well, well, well. It doesn’t take a bona fide detective to surmise that the “surviving son” is the new Officer Schultz. Or that his avenging angel routine is supposed to make up for Daddy catching a bullet in South Shore.

Interesting that the news article makes no mention of what Dad was doing driving around South Shore in plainclothes in the middle of the night. And I don’t see any follow-ups about catching the shooter.

I wonder if Schultz the Younger knows the answer to that little mystery.

Well, that’s his problem. I’ve got my own issue to contend with. Namely, how I’m going to rustle up some capital for the Steel Works development.

I’m going to need a lot of money. Not a couple million—serious coin.

Which might just mean going back to my roots.

Dante and I used to pull jobs together when I was a teenager. This was back before he joined the military. He was fucking wild then. Absolutely fearless.

And I was in a state of pure mania. Our mother had died. Our father was a wreck. I needed something, anything to grab hold of.

When Dante started planning jobs, I begged him to let me come along. At first, I was just the lookout or the driver. That progressed as Dante saw I had a talent for the work.

We robbed almost a dozen armored trucks while I was in high school, taking anywhere from $80,000 to $650K per hit.

I always stole the getaway cars. I could slip into a parking garage and roll out in a nice, unobtrusive sedan in less than ten minutes. Stealing from the airport long-term parking was best—nobody would even notice the car was gone. So there was little chance of it being reported as stolen while we were in the middle of the job.

For a getaway car, you want something with guts and speed, but also a low profile and dull color. Something that blends right into the surroundings. Four doors for easy in and out, and a big trunk to store the loot.

A Mercedes E-Class was always a good bet, or an older BMW. Even a Camry worked well.

We looked for Brinks drivers who were old and fat. Close to retirement and too tired to keep a lookout. No itchy young cowboys wearing combat pants, with visions of glory in their heads.

We liked the Brinks trucks. Regular routes, consistent security routines. We attacked them early in the morning when they’d service the ATMs, before the banks were actually open.

We’d drop the money off at a safe house. Then drive the getaway car out to the boonies, douse the interior in bleach, and set the whole thing ablaze.

Now, that was all good fun and good practice. But I’m going to need a much bigger payout than an armored truck can provide.

I’ve got to go right to the source.

Right to one of the largest vaults in the whole of Chicago. One that stores gold, diamonds, and undeclared cash for the city’s wealthiest citizens.

The vault owned by Raymond Page.

It’s right in the heart of the financial district, at the end of what they call the “LaSalle Canyon”—the long tunnel of skyscrapers that include the Board of Trade and the Chicago Fed.

Bella’s father doesn’t own the biggest bank, but Alliance sure as shit is the dirtiest. It’s like our own little Deutsche Bank, laundering money for oligarchs and helping the wealthy skirt the pesky regulations of international finance.

From what I hear, his records are more convoluted than a Navajo code, and about as factual as The Lord of the Rings. Which is all to say, I think I could steal a whole lot of money that nobody could track.

Now, the tricky part is that while Raymond Page might be crooked, he isn’t stupid. In fact, nobody is as paranoid as a criminal. Alliance Bank probably has one of the tightest security systems in the city.

But no system is perfect. There’s always a crack.

And I already know how I’m going to find it. Through Raymond’s baby girl, of course.