Choked Up (12 page)

Halstad's posh private hospital had less security than the average elementary school. Still, finding Rory's informant wasn't going to be a slam dunk. An eighty-five-dollar flower arrangement with a bear and balloons and some chipper small talk was all it took to discover the children's ward was on the seventh floor and that Dr. Schaffer wasn't expected in for rounds until 1:30 p.m.

I spent a solid fifteen pretending to be on my cell in the waiting room, hanging around for a patsy. A ditzy blonde came toward me in white scrubs with a bright red-and-white-striped apron and a fist-sized explosion of ribbons pinned to her hair. She pushed a beige metal cart loaded with inexpensive toys, magazines, coloring books, and crayons.

I held the flowers in front of my face, took three quick steps, and crashed right into her cart.

“Omigod! I'm so sorry. Are you okay?” she gushed. “I soo didn't see you.”

I rubbed my leg, pouring it on. I winced. “No, no. My fault.”

“Is there anything I can do to help you? I could, like, deliver your flowers.”

“I wish,” I said. “I was supposed to bring these to some kid except I wrote down who they were from not who they're for. And if I don't deliver them, I'm totally fired.”

“I really shouldn't . . .” she said, even as she pulled a clipboard from the cart. “Um, what do you know about the patient?”

I tapped the balloon with a car on it. “Male. Teenager maybe? My boss wasn't sure if he'd be in the children's or adult wing.” I could tell by her face that wasn't enough. I stammered, “The sender's name has those weird letters, like Russian? Any patients with those?”

She flipped through the pages rapidly. “A bunch of boys over twelve. None with strange letters.”

“If I could just take a look—”

“Sorry, but that's soo not allowed.” With a sympathetic frown, she put the clipboard back in the cart pocket and moved away.

I rapped my knuckle against my forehead.
Think, Maisie. What would Rory—

“Miss! Wait.” I trotted after her down the hall.

She stopped.

“Is there a Seán Ó Rudaí on the list?”

The candy striper flipped through her clipboard and nodded vigorously, happy to be of service. “Room 714. How'd you ever remember?”

It's Irish for John Doe.
“The cart must've jarred it loose.”

 

I entered 714. The kid lay in the bed, sleeping. His arm was suspended in a sling, up and away from his body. Fifteen he might be, but with a man's growth of beard. Dr. Joy would be hard-pressed to keep him under wraps in Pediatrics for three days.

I set the flowers on the dresser, walked over to the bed, moved his Call button out of reach, and shook his leg.

His eyes flew open. With a spastic jerk he reached for the Call button, turning gray when he realized it was gone.

I raised a finger to my lips.

He nodded, eyes dull.

Mom called them “commodity eyes.” The look people get when they realize they can be bought and sold and for exactly how little.

“I am here to help you,” I said quietly. “But you must help me first.”

He nodded, not believing. “Are you police?”

“No. There are other people who want them brought to justice. Could you look at some pictures?”

He gave a twisted grimace and a head tic I interpreted as a nod. I pulled out my BOC iPhone. “Are any of these men the killers you told Detective McGrane about?”

“Detective McGrane saved me,” he said.

“I know.” I smiled. “He's one of the good guys. So am I.” I opened each of Edward's eleven photos separately. The kid identified Lukic Kraljić and Nicola Svetozar, two known hitters from Renko's gang. I showed him the remaining three photos and he picked out Stannis's lead gorilla, Nebojsa Ivanović, as a witness.

Rory said the kid could ID two. I was done.

The only photo I hadn't shown him was Stannis's. I didn't want to.

“Can you show me who hurt you?”

He glanced at his hand in the sling. “No.” Eyes wet, he rubbed at them with his good hand. “I did not see. Blindfold.”

“Okay,” I said as though I believed his elephantine lie and stood up. “Oh, one more.” I clicked on Stannis's photo and turned the phone to him.

The kid cringed and whipped his head wildly across the pillow. “No! Not him. Is not him! No!”

The unmistakable reek of urine filled the room.

His face crumpled in a combination of fear and humiliation. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

“We're done.” I put the phone away and laid a hand on his shoulder. “You are very brave. Thank you.”

 

I rode the elevator down to the lobby wearing the prickly undershirt of a guilty conscience. Poor kid. I went back to the hospital gift shop. The woman behind the register smiled at me. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah. Got anything for a teenager?”

I left ten minutes and two $150 cash cards later, while a loaded Kindle Fire, headphones, and app card were en route to Seán Ó Rudaí in room 714.

I didn't feel any better.

 

I texted Edward from the bike.

 

Edward:
Pass it on to Danny straightaway.

 

I called.

She answered immediately. “Danny Kaplan, go ahead.”

“I have a witness to at least two of the four homicide cases the BOC appropriated from Homicide.”

“Oh?”

“A kid. He's hurt. In Halstad Hospital under a fake name.”

“Seán Ó Rudaí. Room 714,” I said. “He'll be there a day or two at most.”

“Bring it along to Thursday's debrief.”

“But he'll be gone by Monday. Don't you want eyes on him?”

“Thursday debrief.” She hung up.

I jabbed my phone off, crammed on my helmet, and jumped on the kick-starter, twisting the throttle. The beast growled to life. I drove back to Hank's far too fast, upset and dissatisfied.

Hank and Rory were eating pizza in the great room. A Sox game played on the big screen. The cement coffee table was covered in empty bottles of Coors and cane sugar Coke. “Hey, Snap,” Rory called, “where yeh been?”

“Hi,” I said to Hank, who winked. “Man”—I shot my brother a sideways look—“Thor sure took a hammer to your face last night. Oh wait, that was just his hand.”

“Very funny, Florence Nightingale.” Rory tossed a pizza crust into the box. “An ice pack never crossed your mind?”

“Looks like she could have used one herself,” Hank said, in a horribly nonchalant voice.

My hand flew to my chin.
Shoot!

“Yeah, about that . . .” Rory cracked open another Coors. “An out-of-uniform misdemeanor battery or an in-uniform felony?”

“Ran into a door. Just another day in the life of a parking enforcement agent.” I took a slice of pepperoni and perched on the couch arm next to Hank. “How's
your
uniform, Rory?” My brother was wearing a pair of Hank's sweatpants and a T-shirt.

“Jaysus.” Rory shook his head. “My shirt's fecked. I bled out like a stuck pig.”

“A dirty shirt's not all you've got to worry about.” I circled my hand in the direction of his face.

“Ha! Me battered mug'll give hope to the Homicide rooks that something excitin' can happen on the job.”

A faint mechanical hum started. It sounded like a furnace/AC fan, but was actually a setting on Hank's alarm system. He hit the remote and a small corner on the TV screen showed the front gate. Flynn's red Ford F-150. Hank tapped the remote. The gate started to open, the picture disappearing off the screen.

Rory stood up and drained his beer. “Thanks for letting me sleep it off, yeh?”

“Sure.” Hank stood and walked him out.

Still sitting on the broad arm of the couch, I laid my head on the back, face to the ceiling, eyes closed. The door opened and closed. I felt Hank's face over mine. “I'm beat,” I said.

Silence.

I opened my eyes and stared into his, upside down. It didn't make him look any less angry. “You took the Indian,” he said softly. “Unescorted.”

“Work. It was crazy . . .” The words died in my throat.

“No. Mant is crazy. Understand?”

I nodded.

He ran an index finger across my bruised chin. “I don't like you getting knocked around, Slim.”

“That makes two of us.” I didn't think Ragnar ratted me out. Still, Hank gave away less than a professional magician.

“Time to quit.” He let that sink in, coming around to loom over me properly. “Open a gym. Raise Rottweilers. Go to law school.”

The law school crack nettled. My family's continual rant, it was enough to pop my lower lip like a sullen teenager, just like he knew it would. His mouth hovered an inch above mine. “Or stay home.” He slid a hand up my T-shirt. “Housewife by day . . .”

Ooh. The
w
word . . .
“Mercenary's moll by night?”

He raised his head and looked at me, fingers drumming against my ribs. When he finally spoke, his voice was easy, silky with promise. “Rest up. We're going out tonight.”

 

I took a final look in the closet mirror and dropped my robe. My hair was styled in a high teased-twist with thick side-swept bangs. Flawless makeup with a double set of fake lashes. I shimmied into a midnight blue Herve Leger long-sleeved bandage dress with a flared hem and stepped into nude satin mules. I felt a rush of coltish, flirtatious energy as I walked into the bedroom.

Shirtless, wearing black dress pants and Bally loafers, Hank came out of the bathroom rubbing aftershave into his throat. He hadn't shaved. His two-day full-face scruff had ramped into day three, at odds with his close-cropped dark hair.

“Going for the ‘hot Jesus' look, are we?”

He came in close. “Don't like it?”

There's nothing about you I don't like.
“I wouldn't say that.”

He laughed and nuzzled his chin up underneath my jaw. “Vi prefers I look a little less . . . military.”

“And more Mobster? Maybe if you gained thirty pounds and didn't shower for a month.”

“Cute. Keep a lid on it tonight.” He pressed his fingers against my lips. “Vi doesn't have a sense of humor.” He dropped his hand and walked into the closet.

I stared after him.
What?

Hank had taken harsh and exacting measures to ensure I was not part of his working life. Jeff Mant was an anomaly that was eating him alive. But introducing me to Violetta Veteratti?

My stomach flip-flopped.
Really?

This was a more serious step in our relationship than the night he brought me home and asked me to stay.

He returned in a slim-fitting silvery Givenchy shirt, pulling on a black sports coat.

“What?” I said, “No matching shiny tie to complete the
Goodfellas
ensemble?”

“That”—he dropped an index finger on the tip of my nose—“is exactly what I'm talking about.”

 

Giorgio's was a rat hole in an alley wall. Inside, the décor wasn't throwback, it just hadn't changed in seventy years. The sharp tang of garlic was mellowed slightly by cigar smoke.

Only two tables in the tiny restaurant were occupied. Three men in cheap dark suits sat at the small square closest to the door drinking Sambuca.

A powerhouse of a guy with short, slicked-back hair and Satan's goatee got to his feet.

“Jimmy the Wolf,” Hank said out of the side of his mouth. He stepped out to meet him palms-up.

The Wolf frisked him, not shying away from the groin, not missing the ankles. Finished, he moved toward me.

“Not a chance, Jimmy,” Hank said. “Give him your bag, doll.”

I handed the Wolf my clutch and watched him paw through its meager contents. BOC iPhone, headphones, lipstick, compact, and wallet. He handed it back. “She's not going back.”

“Okay.” Hank shrugged and without a look at me, strode toward the only other occupied table in Giorgio's.

The six men at the rear corner round turned as Hank approached, and I got a good long look at the woman at the center of the action.

Violetta Veteratti. Attractive in a callous, mannish way. Her thick shoulder-length hair, colored an expensive shade of blond, her only nod to femininity.

“Over there.” Jimmy the Wolf bump-walked me to an empty table. I sat down and pulled out my iPhone.

He snapped his fingers in my face. “No calls. No texts. No pictures.”

“Music okay?”

He grunted and took the chair across from me.

I put on my earbuds.
Let's see how high-tech the BOC really is.
I monkeyed with the headphone jack and activated the enhanced surveillance microphone so I could hear Hank's conversation. I set the phone on the table and smiled at Jimmy the Wolf, whose eyes never left my chest.

I tried not to jump as Vi's nasal purr reverberated in my ears. “Look who's here, fellas. Tall, dark, and sonuvabitch.” She gave a sly yip of laughter. “How you doin', Bannon?”

“Hullo, Vi.”

“What's with the tagalong?” she said. “Fuck your way through models and movie stars to end up banging angel bait?” The men at the table laughed. “Bring her over.”

“Later.” Hank held out his hand and tipped his head toward the opposite corner. “Shall we?”

“You wanna talk?” Vi leaned back in her chair and made a show of crossing her legs. “Talk.”

The Wolf's hand shot out over my phone. He tipped it, read the screen: Gorillaz “To Binge.” He shrugged and set it down.

I closed my eyes and swayed from side to side in my chair.

“I'm out,” Hank said.

The temperature of the room dropped to freezing.

Incredulity popped Vi's voice into the stratosphere. “What?”

The Wolf glanced back over a broad shoulder.

“You said the contract was sewn up tight,” Hank said.

“It was. It is!”

“Your stringer bled out on my goddamn Dodge and your brother, Eddie, let Mant out of the cage.” His voice turned to ice. “So, tell me again how we're cool.”

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Vi said, loud enough to hear without the headphones.

“Not the sap running interference for you.”

“Like hell you're not.” She kicked back her chair and stood up. Vi's cheeks went scarlet. “You're out when I say so.” Her hand cracked across his cheek like a whip.

Hank caught her wrist and jerked her forward. He reached down, grabbed a knife off a plate, and slapped it into her palm. “Try this next time, sister. It's faster.”

He let go. Vi stumbled backward into her seat. “Goddamn you, Bannon.”

Hank turned and walked away.

Vi shouted at his back. “This isn't over!”

The Wolf was on his feet, moving to intercept him, me tight on his heels.

Hank shook his head. “Not today, Jimmy.”

The Wolf hesitated, considering, and let him pass.

Hank took me by the elbow. “Let's bounce.”

 

Firmly ensconced in a booth at Blackie's, I waited as long as I could. Until the waiter deposited the second round of Stoli martinis. “Kind of not what I thought you had in mind when you said I'd meet Vi.”

“Turned on a dime, tonight. Christ. Jimmy?” Hank shook his head in disbelief. “Playing the muscle?”

He grazed my cheek with the back of his hand. “You were perfect.”

I tried not to grin like an idiot and failed. “Big-picture time, then? Broad strokes?”

“Why not?” Hank ran a hand over his mouth and cursed softly. “Vi and Eddie were tight. Real tight. Until Eddie started ‘chasing the dragon.' ”

So my brothers were right. Eddie V. had gone from recreational drug user to balls-out
Scarface
-level addict.

Hank bent over his drink, a lank of dark hair fell across his forehead. “Vi pitched me the contract. Said whether he knew it or not, Eddie needed a cool head to represent New York.” He shrugged. “I got the blessing.”

From the Don.
The hair raised on the back of my neck.
Jaysus crimeny. And I'm in bed with the Bureau of Organized Crime.

“Belarus?” I guessed. “Is that the contract?”

Hank's gray eyes narrowed slightly. “Yes.”

I rubbed my arms. For once, I didn't want to hear any more.

“Chilly?”

“No. A little tired, is all.”

But Hank wanted to talk. “Eddie didn't like Vi going around him or me getting the nod, so he let Mant off the leash.” Hank's eyes turned to steel. “Mant signed his own warrant the day he laid hands on you.”

“And Vi?”

“She's trying to protect Eddie or take his place. Doesn't matter. The stringer's proof she wasn't straight with me.” He leaned back and raised his glass. “I'm out.”

“Just like that? The contract's over?”

“What?” He laughed, deep and warm. “Sugar Pop, my contract's not with Vi, and it sure as hell isn't with Eddie.”

Cripes. You're working for the fucking Don.
“So when does it end?”

“When it ends.” Something changed in his face. The lines eased at the corner of his mouth. A strange light glinted in his pale eyes. “Everything's gonna be fine.” He grinned.

And it would be.

Because he could tell me the moon was a flashlight, and I'd run out for batteries.