Fractured (4 page)

“You don't get it. They've got a video of me visiting my father in prison, except I didn't. Somebody's setting me up but good. Before tomorrow they'll probably have me for breaking him out and then killing him.”

He shook his head. “Nobody would ever believe that.”

She grasped his shirt in her fist and glared at him. “You don't know that. I'm not exactly Ms. Popularity around here.”

“There's no evidence.”

“Yet. Give them time. I'm sure they'll be able to manufacture some.” Without another word, she got into her car and slammed the door.

Landry didn't know what was going on, but was bound and determined to figure it out with or without her help.

* * *

She got into her car and reached into the pocket of her jeans. Fingering the worn cloth, she struggled to conjure up a sense of peace. Her grandfather had always been the voice of reason, the calm in her stormy personality. Without his guidance, she struggled to keep an even keel.

What would she do now?

Accustomed to being labeled the loose cannon of the department, in the past she'd brushed off disparaging comments about her somewhat irrational behavior. But this was different. She'd never been accused of murder. Especially by a Fed who didn't know JACK. How dare he assume something that was total and complete BS without so much as batting an eye.

But she shouldn't have taken it out on Landry. None of this was his fault. Due to circumstances, he'd been sucked into her mess. Despite their differences, he'd stuck by her even when she'd screwed up in a big way. That didn't make him sane, but it did, in some weird, twisted way, endear him to her.

The last time they'd broken up it was because he'd told her he loved her. The weird part was he told her he believed she loved him, too. She told him he was delusional. Needless to say, that conversation hadn't gone too well. Things had been strained and uncomfortable since then, especially when he kept on insisting her refusal to admit her feelings was somehow tied up in the Ramirez fiasco.

She'd be a big enough person to admit she'd missed him. The stubborn part of her would say it was all about the great sex. But when she got real, she knew there was more to it.

When her grandfather died suddenly from a heart attack a couple of years ago, Landry was the person she'd called. He saw her weak and vulnerable and let her cry on his shoulder until she couldn't cry any more. He stuck with her through the ordeal, a rock at her side. After the funeral, they'd made love for the first time. At first, he resisted, not sure if that was what she really wanted. When he finally gave in, he'd been sweet and tender and held her tight until the next morning.

But that didn't mean she loved him. It only meant she shouldn't be such a bitch to him.

* * *

The logical starting point had to be Stateville. Sure, they'd probably stonewall her, but if she could pick up a whiff of something, it'd be worth it. Besides, there was the sympathy factor. While they might put up roadblocks on the phone, they'd be more likely to give an inch or two in person.

Isabella wondered if they'd let her talk to her dad's cellmate. It was a long shot, especially if the Feds had the place buttoned down tight, but it was definitely worth a try.

Besides, it was the only thing she had going right now.

The road to Stateville Prison wasn't exactly scenic. First, there was the long drive on the Stevenson Expressway going south, then the stop-and-go traffic for the eight-mile trip down Route 53.

Unlike a lot of places in and around Chicago that still felt the sting of segregation, the Romeoville area was an ethnic mix of Hispanic, African-American and white, and solidly blue collar. No fancy houses or sprawling estates. And like the rest of the country, the area had felt the pinch of the economy over the last couple of years. Many businesses had gone under leaving building shells. Strip malls were half-filled with stores, and fewer and fewer cars remained in the parking lots buying up goods and services.

With her mind preoccupied with questions, the fifty-minute trip passed by quicker than she'd anticipated. ‘Do not pick up hitchhikers' signs dotted the landscape as she got within a half mile or so of Stateville. No doubt, long ago when the prison was built, the area was in the middle of nowhere: a lonely stretch of land that connected the highway to Joliet. Now, as cities had sprawled in all directions, houses sprung up closer and closer to the walled facility.

On one side, railroad tracks hidden by clumps of trees followed the same path as the road. On the other side sat the prison.

Set back nearly a half mile from the road, the building could be missed if that eerie feeling didn't creep up your back. Famous criminals like John Wayne Gacy and Richard Speck had lived behind those walls for years before succumbing to death one way or another.

Isabella didn't think it was the police officer in her that had her pondering all the despicable acts the men who inhabited this place had committed. Not that she necessarily believed in ghosts or other such nonsense, but there was no mistaking the sensation of pain and suffering that overwhelmed her as she made the turn into the long driveway.

A guard stopped her as she approached the gate, requesting identification. She pulled out her detective's badge along with CPD identification. He ushered her through without a second of hesitation. She parked in the spot marked ‘visitors' and made her way into the prison.

On this crisp autumn morning, several prisoners were working the grounds outside the brick fortress of a building. They tended the lawn and shrubbery along with the late-blooming flowers that had been planted. It seemed a bit of irony to ‘pretty up' a place that housed hardened criminals, but she supposed she had to consider the people that worked here. People who had the freedom to go home at night.

This was a maximum security prison. There had to be multiple bars, guards, reinforced doors and other things to keep the prisoners from getting out. So how did her father manage to make his way to freedom? She couldn't help but wonder if he had the same freedoms as the men working outside. Is that how he made his escape? Did he somehow stow away on the back of a landscape truck by hiding under a load of mulch or fertilizer?

She almost laughed at the lunacy of it. Almost.

“Detective Sanchez, what is your business at the prison?” The guard seemed older than he probably was, with a gun strapped to his side and a scowl on his face. Being in a constant state of alert probably did that to him.

“I'd like to talk to the warden, if possible.”

“That's by appointment only. Besides, only the assistant warden is in today.” He asked the question out of politeness, knowing all too well she didn't have an appointment. She could see the skepticism in his eyes as he gave her the once-over.

“Maybe the assistant warden could help me. If you could check to see if he has time, I'd appreciate it.”

“What is this in regard to?”

Tricky question. Should she be up-front, knowing they'd been stonewalling CPD, or should she go the path of least resistance? Even though it was contrary to her nature, she choose the latter.

“My father, Tyrone Samuels, was an inmate here and died recently. It had been a while since we'd spoken and I was hoping perhaps to talk to his cellmate to see…if…I don't know. To see if he could tell me anything about my father, like if he kept pictures of me…that kind of thing.” She gulped back the lie. “I know it's a little unusual, but I was hoping to get a sense of my father over the last twenty-five years or so.” Out of habit, she chewed on her lip.

“Wait here and I'll find out for you.”

At least he didn't give her an outright no. While she could still get shot down by the assistant warden, she hoped there'd be a breakdown of communication somewhere along the way so she could do a little snooping.

To her shock, the guard reappeared about five minutes later. “I've got the approval. Professional courtesy. Angus is out working the yard. We'll bring him in to speak with you.”

“If he's outside already, maybe I could talk to him there.” she whispered conspiratorially. “To be honest, this place kind of gives me the creeps.” And it lessened the possibility the conversation would be monitored.

He smiled. “Yeah, a lot of people feel that way.” After offering a small shrug, he added, “You get used to it after a while.” Even though he'd said the words, she got the distinct impression he'd never gotten used to working there.

Within minutes it had all been arranged. She walked back out the front door and into the bright sun. Yet another guard was waiting. With him was a man who had to be close to sixty. No doubt at one time he'd been a hardened criminal, but now the fight had left him.

The guard motioned toward a bench that had been placed between two large willow trees. “They're taking a break now anyway, so you two can sit there for about ten minutes or so.”

“That would be great. Thanks so much.”

The guard kept at a safe distance while she moved toward the bench. The man moved slowly, as if the ravages of age had caught up with him. It could have been illness, arthritis, or the beaten down nature of his existence. She thought about the life expectancy of a prison inmate and figured the statistics had to be dismal. Then again, that might not be a bad thing.

Finally, he reached her and sat down on the opposite end. He didn't seem to be the type of man who smiled easily and didn't disappoint on that account.

“You Tyrone's girl, the cop?”

She nodded, as words seemed stuck in her throat. “Yes. What can you tell me about him?”

“Not much. Tyrone kind of kept to himself. But I guess I was closer to him than pretty much anybody here.” He shook his head. “Shame the way he died. After all this time, to get stuck with a shiv like that and then bleed for a couple of hours before he was found.”

Of all the things she expected to hear, this wasn't one of them. How could her father have gotten stabbed in Stateville when he'd been shot in her apartment?

What was going on in this place?

Nothing he'd said made sense, but Isabella couldn't let him know. At least not if she hoped to find out more. “What do you mean?”

“Sorry, honey, I thought you knew.” Compassion filtered into his eyes for a brief second before his vacant stare returned. “Your father was caught in the middle of some nasty business going down here. Like usual, nobody's owning up to it. You'd think with the cameras they've got in this place they'd have it figured out by now. But if they do, they're not saying.” He somberly shook his head.

Her mind worked overtime trying to figure out what to say and how to say it. Unfortunately none of what filtered through made any sense. The prison and the FBI were in on some kind of cover-up. But why?

“Where did it happen?” She brought her fingers through her hair. “I think the police told me, but I can't remember the specifics. It was such a shock after all this time.”

“Let's see. That was two weeks ago Monday. Happened down by the laundry.” He gave her a wry smile. “A lot of bad stuff happens there.”

“I can imagine.” Two weeks? Her father had been out of this place for two weeks. How did that happen? And why did everyone here believe he'd been killed within these walls?

She had to wonder how pervasive that belief went. From her research it would have been the first successful prison escape from Stateville. The fictitious one chronicled in the
Fugitive
movie was just that: pure fiction. As far as she knew this place was impenetrable.

So her dad had inside help if he made it out. And for some reason, the cover-up went deep. The Feds must have thought she had somebody on the inside to get him out.

“Do you need to know anything else?” He grinned for the first time. “Normally I wouldn't talk to a cop, but with you I made an exception. Besides being as beautiful as the pictures your father kept and the stories he told, I owe it to Tyrone. I'd want him to give the same respect to my daughter if the situation were reversed.”

She gulped back a heaping dose of emotion. After not seeing or talking to him for twenty-five years, the idea that her dad bragged to others about her was sobering. Hell, even the fact that he knew so much about her life gave her pause.

“I appreciate that.” She fought hard to regain her detective's mojo. It had disappeared the minute she walked into this place. “Was my dad fighting with anybody inside? Anybody you know of who'd want to do him harm? Did he talk about anything that was upsetting him?” Even though she knew the truth, it was worthwhile to explore the prison dynamic.

“Me and Ty been here a long time. Guys come and go. Most leave us old-timers alone. That's why it shocked me he'd been killed. Usually the young guys get involved in that sort of thing. We'd already made our peace with where we'd landed.” He rubbed his chin. “But something had been on his mind for a while. He seemed uneasy, maybe nervous, couldn't say for sure. He wouldn't talk about it, though.”

She wanted to ask him about her alleged visits, but didn't want to give away her hand. The guard stepped in closer and she figured their time was about up. “I want to thank you for talking to me.”

“Your dad loved you very much.” He didn't say anything else, just stood and shuffled off to return to his duties.

His words brought about suppressed memories. ‘Love you, baby girl.' The feeling of her father's lips on her cheek and the warmth of his hug stung through her body, making her feel woozy. It wasn't until the guard touched her arm that she was able to shake off the sensation.

“Detective Sanchez.” He eyed her closely as if he wanted to say something but couldn't decide if he should or shouldn't. Finally, he spoke. “I'm sorry about your dad.” He gave her a tight smile. “This might sound strange considering the circumstances, but your dad was a nice guy.” He cleared his throat. “Things move slowly around here, but when we figure out who killed him, you can be sure he'll be brought to justice.”

The last thing she needed was some kind of love fest about her father right now. Sure, most people waxed nostalgic about the dead, but this was frickin' ridiculous. The guy was a murderer. Then again, they were all incorrigibles at this place. Maybe her father was just one of the better ones.

But there was something even more troubling in this guy's words. She was pretty darn good at spotting a liar. And he wasn't lying. He truly believed her father was killed in prison. She'd have to go up the chain of command to learn anything different. But would they tell her?

From what she could tell so far, no way. Even their own employees were misguided about what happened, or were Oscar-caliber actors. Somehow she didn't think that was possible.

In the end, she said the only thing she could. “Thanks, I appreciate that.”

She walked back to her car and thought long and hard about where to go next.

* * *

“Hello.” She sounded distracted, like her mind was a million miles away. Fat chance she'd say anything to him, even if he had a good suspicion of what might be troubling her.

But to be honest, Landry was a little surprised she answered at all. After the scene outside the police station this morning, he figured she'd avoid him for a while. Could be a couple of hours, couple of days, couple of months. With Isabella, he never knew how long her avoidance would last. In the past whenever things got too close for comfort, she'd withdraw.

“I checked this morning. Your place isn't ready yet. You're more than welcome to spend the night with me again. In a strictly platonic sense, of course. Kinda like a sleepover.”

She laughed. “Yeah, that's you, Landry, a regular boy scout. But I think I'll check into a hotel. I don't want to overstay my welcome. Besides, a girl's gotta keep some secrets. Your place is much too small to do that.”

“Brings up a good point. Why'd you go to Stateville?” He might as well press her for some answers. Some people might believe he was a glutton for punishment. But sooner or later he kept hoping she might let him in. Even a little would be a victory of sorts.

“How—” She didn't bother to finish the question.

“A friend of my cousin works there. It's big news when a detective from Chicago shows up.” He chuckled in an effort to keep things light. “They don't get much action there with only murderers and serial killers for amusement.”

“Geez, you Taylors should go into the spy business. You have moles everywhere.” She blew out a breath. “Any news about Lou?” Not too surprisingly, she changed the subject.

Some things never changed. “I'm just getting to the station now. I'll let you know if I hear anything.”

“Thanks.”

“Are you sure you don't want to spend the night?” For some reason, he didn't want her out of his sight. Maybe he was still reeling from the shock of finding her in that alley. Maybe it was the simple fact that now that she was back in his life, he didn't want to let go. Maybe just like her, he was a bit of a control freak.

“I couldn't stand to see you scrunched up on the couch again. You looked like a big giant pretzel.”

“If you're feeling that bad, I guess we could share the bed. I promise to stay on my side.” It was hard to keep the smile off his face as he walked into the station to start his evening.

“Yeah, right. I've heard that one before. And then before I know it, your hands or other parts of your anatomy would wander over to my side.”

“Me? Never. I'm a boy scout, remember.” With the phone at his ear, he checked for messages in his mailbox. There was a note from Lieutenant Thomas asking him to stop by. Opening up his locker he threw it inside and pulled out his uniform.

She hesitated for a few seconds. Knowing her, he imagined she was chewing on her bottom lip contemplating the options. “I guess it will be easier if I come by your place.”

“I knew you were a slave to my charms.”

“Don't get cocky.”

“Around you? Not a chance.” He opted not to tell her about the note from the lieutenant. No sense getting her nervous for nothing. “See you later, roomie.”

“In your dreams.”

Landry had time before his shift so he changed into his uniform before he went into the lieutenant's office. He knocked on the door then pushed it open. While he figured there'd be some follow-up questions from last night, he wasn't too nervous about the prospect. At least until he saw the visitor sitting across the desk from the lieutenant.

“Have a seat, Taylor. Agent Malone and I were just talking about you.” Lieutenant Thomas motioned toward a vacant chair while a sinking sensation set up in Landry's gut.

This couldn't be good.

* * *

Out of leads and more confused than ever, Isabella had to get back to basics, and finding Lou was a good place to start. Besides, keeping her mind occupied would help her avoid thinking too long about that snippet of a memory that had surfaced a few moments ago.

Who were some of Lou's friends? He didn't have any that she'd seen except for …what was that guy's name?

Sergio.

She closed her eyes to bring up the image of the man she'd seen once. He'd been at the apartment a week or so ago. Mid-twenties, curly hair pulled back into a ponytail. While he avoided looking her in the eyes, the cop in her searched for gang tattoos on his exposed arms.

Nothing. But nowadays the gang members had gotten smarter. They'd put their markings in areas that weren't visible. Sometimes they'd put them on the sides of their fingers, sometimes on torsos that remained hidden unless they wanted to expose their affiliation.

That day she'd seen him he'd worn all black without the contrasting gold of the Kings or the blue of the Aces. That didn't necessarily mean anything, especially if he knew Lou lived in the same building as a cop.

She had asked Lou about the guy later, but he hadn't been overflowing with information. He'd only told her Sergio had been a work acquaintance and that they'd both gotten laid off at the same time. Not much to go on.

Maybe if she stopped by Schmidt Packaging, Lou's former employer, she might glean a little more information. Most people had a tendency to be cooperative when a cop came around to ask questions.

Schmidt Packaging was in a brick warehouse similar to the ones that surrounded it. She circled the block a couple of times to scope it out. The loading dock was housed in back. A trickle of trucks lined up to get their packages loaded by able-bodied men and women.

She pulled into a spot marked for visitors and went through the front door. A woman sat at a desk behind what looked like heavy-duty bullet-proof glass answering phones. Isabella spotted others working inside, mostly females, in cubicle-like structures. It looked pretty busy for someplace that fairly recently had to lay off workers.

For the first time she wondered if Lou had been honest with her. A slow creep worked up her spine, but she squashed it.

After getting a break from the phone answering, the woman clicked on a sound system in order to communicate. “Can I help you?”

She flipped out her badge. “Detective Sanchez. I'd like to speak with someone in charge.”

“May I ask what this is regarding?”

She shrugged as nonchalantly as possible. “Just a few questions about some burglaries in the neighborhood.”

A slight fabrication. But there had to be at least some burglaries going on within an eight-square-block area of this place.

Besides, she'd learned long ago if she threw out a carrot, it would pique curiosity. From that comes open doors. Naturally they'd wonder why they hadn't heard about the burglaries, if there was something they could do to prevent it, or only to hear the gossip. The reasoning didn't matter; it all worked to her advantage.

“I'll get Mr. Schmidt for you.”

The top dog. Excellent. “Thank you. I appreciate that.” Isabella didn't sit down in one of the chairs for a couple of reasons: For one, she didn't expect she'd be kept waiting very long. For another, she had too much adrenaline to sit right now.

The woman behind the window spoke. “Mr. Schmidt will see you now. I'll buzz you in.”

The woman flicked something behind the desk that unlocked the door. Isabella pulled at the flip handle and was surprised at the strength of it. The door was made of solid steel with one of those reinforced door latches that could withstand anything but a missile attack.

Why did a packaging company need all this protection? Bulletproof glass in the reception area, steel reinforced doors and, from what she could tell, a state-of-the-art alarm system.

Sure, this was not one of the best neighborhoods in Chicago, but there were areas a lot worse. Maybe the owner was a little paranoid, maybe they had some unfortunate incidents in the past, or maybe there was something more to it.

“Right this way, Detective Sanchez.” The woman led her through a series of cubicles to a corner office on the right-hand side.

The man behind a large mahogany desk pulled off reading glasses and stood. His hand was outstretched and gripped hers in a firm shake. “Jonathan Schmidt.”

Probably closer to sixty than fifty if the preponderance of grey hair and lines on his face were an indicator. A couple of photographs of a wife and some grown children, maybe grandchildren, were displayed along the credenza behind his desk.

Because she knew he'd be on edge if she didn't sit down, she took one of the brown leather chairs in front of his desk and tried not to fidget. She was always at the top of her game when pacing, but she needed to keep Mr. Schmidt loose and cooperative and a detective stalking around his office would no doubt have a deleterious effect.

“I didn't know about any burglaries in the neighborhood, Detective Sanchez. Where were they?” He had a pen and paper in hand to jot down notes, which was pretty unusual for an everyday Joe kind of guy. There was an off chance he had a law degree, which would make him more tuned into the details, or he might be the meticulous sort.