Choked Up (8 page)

“It's clean,” he said. “Where we headed?”

“Hank's.”

He waited until I got inside the car and closed the door. I waved and he started for the truck.

My key jammed partway in the ignition. I pulled it out. A small piece of wire stuck out of the starter.

My vision dimmed at the edges, hand shot to the door handle.

I flared my fingers and slowly returned my left hand to the steering wheel. With my right, I thumbed the flashlight app on my phone and took a closer look.

A piece of paper was wrapped around the wire protruding from the starter. A message on a semi-straightened paper clip. My chest inflated as I sucked in a deep breath of relief. If the Gap tee–wearing Jeff Mant wanted to kill me, he wouldn't have left a note.

I pressed my head against the headrest, wriggled the wire from the ignition, and unrolled the note. Handwritten on a scrap of newsprint with the day's date was the warning,
I don't like women in black underwear.

What the . . .
what?

Ragnar followed me out of the parking lot. I drove home, a patch of greasy fear-sweat slicking between my shoulder blades. “I don't like women in black underwear,” I mimicked in a whiny voice. “Like that's supposed to be scary? Choose a color every woman in America wears and say ‘don't'? Why not nude? Why not white? Whatev.”

It took two miles until I peeked inside my shirt to see what color bra I was wearing. Black.
Great.
The fear-sweat oozed down my spine.

The longer I drove, the more I saw the brilliance of Mant's threat. A poetic storm of pervy promise and violent undertones.

I needed a shower. Desperately.

No way was I going to mention this to Hank, who, I was certain, had already taken steps far beyond Ragnar to corral Jeff Mant. Even so, he'd put me under house arrest. And that couldn't happen. I could just imagine the conversation:
“Um, Ms. Kaplan? Mr. Sawyer? One of my mercenary boyfriend's ex-partners is trying to kill me to screw with him, so I'm gonna take a few days off the case. Please promote me to field agent.”

What was I really getting so wound and bound about, anyway? A note in my ignition? Mant had had all day to break into my car. Hell, you could score the
Tribune
at 4:00 a.m. from any newsstand. He probably got up early, planted it, and lay around watching soaps all day, letting his creep factor do all the heavy lifting.

Unfortunately, true sociopaths were always jonesing for calculated violence. They thrive on premeditated crimes with controllable risks.

I pulled into Hank's driveway and stopped. A thick-muscled white guy held up a hand. Five-foot-nine, 185 pounds, he had fierce tatts, a pair of night vision goggles around his neck, side arm, and a black Belgian Malinois on a leash.

I glanced back at Ragnar, who threw me a salute and drove off.

Apparently Man-with-a-Dog was A-okay. I rolled down the window. “Hiya.”

“Miss McGrane? I'm Chris Ledoux. This is Havoc. We came on duty before Mr. Bannon left this evening. If you have any . . . ah . . . trouble—”

“Just part my lips and scream?”

Chris frowned. “I was going to say flash the lights.” He scanned the area behind me. “But that'll work. Close the garage door, please, before you get out of the car.”

He and Havoc stepped out of the way. I pulled in the garage and breathed a sigh of relief as the door lowered behind me.

I went in the house. Stoli beckoned from the bar freezer. I threw a couple ice cubes into a lowball glass and didn't stop pouring until it hit the rim. My first hefty slug went down like water. I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand and saw the note on the counter.

I took another swallow, pulled out my juiced-up iPhone, and sent Danny Kaplan the video and stills of the Drag Queen stealing the Lexus.

Vodka can do a lot of wonderful things, but erasing the stink of your own fear isn't one of them. I finished my drink, stripped down, and took a shower.

I spent twenty minutes under the stream trying not to think about Jeff Mant. Which was actually far more pleasant than thinking about all the things I wasn't telling Hank.

Afterward, wrapped up in a fluffy white bamboo-cotton towel, I went into my closet, put on one of Hank's T-shirts and opened the dresser drawer for some underpants. A third of my underwear was black.

“You sick fuck,” I said out loud, “it's my underwear.” But my voice sounded scared to my own ears, and that set my freak off. In a spastic frenzy, I separated all my black underwear and buried it in the bottom drawer under a couple of Hank's old sweatshirts.

My BOC iPhone buzzed with an incoming text. I ran into the bedroom to answer it.

 

Danny Kaplan:
Is that all the evidence you collected today?

Danny Kaplan:
One tow truck?

Danny Kaplan:
I see. No need to send in piecemeal. Bring what you have to debrief Thursday 5:00 p.m. sharp.

 

I shut off the phone.
Gee, Danny. There's this guy named Jeff I'd love to set you up with.

 

The sound of the garage door woke me at 2:15 a.m. I listened further and heard nothing, which was normal. Hank moved with the stealth of a big cat. I rolled onto my stomach and dozed off.

Hank slid in next to me and pulled me into his chest. I nestled into the hard warmth of him. “Mmm.”

“Rough road ahead,” he said.

“Oh? I'll make sure to buckle up.”

“Mant's a killer, Maisie. He's contacted a pal, looking for a fast money job. He knows I'm back now.” Hank tightened his hold. “I'm not taking any chances. You'll have a shadow for the next few days.” He gently nipped my ear, his warm breath sending a shiver through me. “I'll be working nights.”

Thursday after work I was as skittish as a toy poodle in the rain. Ragnar drove me to the BOC's super-spy headquarters at Silverthorn Estates. At 4:59 p.m. I knocked twice on Kaplan's office door. It clicked open and I entered the room.

Walt Sawyer and Danny Kaplan sat across the sleek conference table, piles of files stacked between them and one open chair for me. “Maisie.” Sawyer stood and held out a hand. “How are you finding the BOC?”

Uh-oh.
I shook his hand and took a seat. “Very fine, sir.”

As always, the pair of them were dressed to the nines. Which made my navy poly-blend uniform feel a little itchier. Kaplan picked up a folder and handed it across to him. “This is one of Ms. McGrane's pieces of evidence.”

“The Lexus was stolen?” he said.

“Yes.” Kaplan nodded. “Have you any more to share with us, Maisie?”

“Yes, ma'am.” I pulled a black binder from my bag. “I'm afraid I didn't realize the debrief was with you, as well, sir, so I only made one copy.” I handed the binder across to him. He flipped through the photos in plastic sleeves. “Of the thirty-seven photographed tows,” I said, “I think it's safe to assume forty percent have been stolen.”

Kaplan leaned back in her chair. “Assumption is the mother of all fuckups.” Sawyer handed her the binder. She flipped through it, set it down, and folded her thin arms across her chest. “How?”

“How what?” I said.

“How did you manage this? In three days?”

I cleared my throat.
Time to fly with the eagles or scratch with the chickens.
“I told my supervisor that my police officer brother believed cars were being towed illegally.”

“You did what?” Kaplan's cheeks went taut. “On whose authority?”

“Uh . . . my own?” I turned to Sawyer. His cognac-colored eyes gave away nothing. “She in turn offered it as an incentive program to the rest of the Parking Enforcement Agents.”

“Go on,” Danny said.

“Each PEA who turns in a time and date-stamped set of photos receives ten dollars cash. I figured we could pull the city impound records and immediately remove legal tows, and whatever is left is potentially part of the stolen car ring.”

“How are you paying for this?” Kaplan snapped.

“Mr. Dunne gave me fifteen hundred dollars of petty cash.”

“You see, Danny?” Sawyer said. “She's done what we've asked. And better and more efficiently than we could have wished.” A slow, sly smile spread across his face. “Maisie, you've shown the initiative of an A player. Maintain this level of intensity and you'll be a field agent in no time.”

I blushed in the glow of his praise. He had that charisma, the kind that gets someone twenty years younger wondering how he'd be in the sack. No wonder Mom liked him. And from the daggers my new boss was shooting at me, maybe Kaplan did, too.

Her nostrils pinched white in irritation. “What happens when your supervisor confronts your brother? What then?”

“He'll cover for me.”

“Allowing for that possibility, which is a stretch—”

“Oh Danny.” Sawyer chuckled. “What you don't know about the Irish!”

“Allowing for that possibility,” she continued, “what do you plan on telling your brother when he confronts you?”

“Since I can't find a way onto the force, I've decided to become an investigative journalist.” I blinked in surprise. The lie came out of my mouth so smoothly it felt as though I'd planned it months in advance.

“She's a natural, Danny.”

“I'll defer to your judgment.” Kaplan slid a stack of files in front of me. “The latest on rakija-drinking cowboys of the Slajic Clan and Stannislav ‘The Bull' Renko. Have you seen him again?”

“Stannis?” I asked. “No, ma'am.”

“Good,” she said. “The last thing we need is for Renko to get caught up in some bullshit two-bit bust.”

“Isn't it better if he has a record?”

“Not in Chicago.” Sawyer shook his head. “That's the rub for Special Unit. Corruption is rampant and pervasive within the CPD. A flag, or ‘leader,' in the system alerts the opportunists within.” He smiled coldly. “The BOC, you see, is in the unpleasant position of needing our criminals to be clever enough to fly below the radar, and yet rash enough to get caught.”

I nodded, feeling like a minor leaguer.

Sawyer glanced at his watch. “Get whatever you need from Edward Dunne, Maisie. And keep up the good work.”

 

I left Kaplan's office with a whopper-sized smile on my face. I took the file back to my glass cube desk and called Leticia.

“Yo, McGrane. I'll be outta cash by the end of the day. Six more in my e-mail already.”

“No sweat. I'll drop off a dozen cards tomorrow.”

“Twelve hundred bucks? Where's the CPD getting the drink to piss away that kind of scratch?”

“They're prepared to pay you, too.”

“Fuck you, McGrane.” She chortled. “This my civic duty. You got a timeline on when I can break my story?”

Time to put the brakes on.
“Leticia, it's going to take several months of these pictures to compile definitive proof.”

“Harumph.” She tapped her nails on the phone. “Well, if you ain't callin' to give me congratulatory greetings an' the green light, then what you want?”

“To switch to night shift.”

“Slow your roll, McGrane. You transfer to night, you ain't never gettin' back on days.”

“I don't mean permanently.”
But I will if I have to. Once Walt Sawyer sees what I can really do, I'll burn this goddamn uniform in effigy.
“Isn't someone short on vacation or anything?” I prodded. “My guy's working nights for the next couple of weeks. It'd make my life a helluva lot easier to work the same hours, you know?”

“I hear you. God gave 'em a snake so they gotta act the worm.” She heaved a sigh. “You're gonna lose a day of pay. Night shift works extended hours. Four days on and four off.”

That was even better than I could have hoped. “So, is it a go?”

“I'll have you up tomorrow night.”

“Thanks.” I hung up.

Initiative taken.
I pulled Stannislav Renko's file and went through the case notes again. The guy brought new meaning to the word
clubber
. The only area he avoided was Boystown. No surprise there. Eastern Europeans were about as pro-gay as the average Muslim mullah.

The trick would be finding him.

 

“You switched shifts?” Hank's face went completely blank.

“Yeah,” I said. “I thought it'd be nice for us to have the days together.”

He rubbed the back of his head. A sure sign he wasn't thrilled. Instead he said, “Sounds fun.” The phone in his office started ringing. He got up, pulled his cell from his pocket, and slid it across the counter. “Call Ragnar, let him know.”

Wow. That was way easier than I thought it would be.
I called my shadow.

“Are you outta your fucking mind?” Ragnar said. “Night shift? Jesus-fucking-Christ, why does Bannon let you do this fucking job anyway?”

“Excuse me?”

“Mant's a goddamn menace. You know that. And now you're gonna just serve yourself up?” He scoffed. “It takes weeks to get into the rhythm of working nights. Which means you'll be tired and making bad fucking decisions every goddamn minute.”