Greed: A Detective John Lynch Thriller (39 page)

Lynch and Bernstein sat on a bench in the hall behind the briefing room where they were going to hold the press conference, both of them too drained, too tired anymore to fight any of it. The brass wanted the Chicago PD contingent on the dais, dress blues, front and center. Starshak had taken their keys, sent a unit to bring their uniforms down. Bernstein had to wear his jacket open because of the sling. Lynch couldn’t get the pants from the dress blues over the bandages on his thigh. Department press guy had them open the side seam up, the guy positively giddy with the results, saying that the two of them looked like that Spirit of ’76 painting, the bloodied patriots, Lynch telling the guy to get the fuck away from him.

Munroe stopped by, his camel hair coat on.

“Not staying for the show?” Lynch asked.

“TV? I don’t exist, remember. Besides, I’ve got to catch a plane to Nevada.”

“Vegas?” Lynch asked. “Haven’t gambled enough for one day? Or do you want to pick up a couple of hookers?”

“Hooker sounds good about now,” Munroe said. “But no. Other business.”

“Not Vegas,” Bernstein said. “Henderson. The air base.”

Munroe shook a finger at him like he was naughty.

“Henderson?” Lynch asked.

“They fly the drones out of there,” Bernstein said. “Pakistan, Afghanistan, Yemen, wherever. Every time you hear about some yahoo getting a Hellfire up his tail pipe, it’s some joystick jockey at Henderson pushing the button. While I was waiting for our show to kick off, I caught the crawl on bottom of the screen on CNN, something about the Mexican president jetting up to DC for emergency consultations. That has to be about the cartels. Come morning, I’m betting a few people south of the border are going to wake up dead.”

Munroe shook his head, smiled again. “Bernstein, you ever want to move up in the world, get in touch. Of course, I’d probably have to kill you some day. You do get on my nerves.”

“Get in touch?” Bernstein said. “How am I supposed to do that?”

Munroe just smiled again, turned and left.

A minute later, Hardin and Wilson walked down the hall. Hardin in some kind of military uniform, Wilson in a pants suit.

“Halloween?” Lynch asked Hardin.

“Foreign Legion duds. The French want to play up their end.”

“And they just keep a set at the consulate for emergencies?” Bernstein asked.

“Hell if I know,” Hardin said.

“DEA don’t have a monkey suit for you?” Lynch asked Wilson.

“I’ll stand by their damn podium, but they can’t make me say anything, and they can’t dress me up like a goddamn Barbie.”

Lynch just nodded. Wilson had more balls than the lot of them.

Hardin looked at Lynch. “Munroe said you need a favor.”

Lynch nodded, grunted up to his feet. Leg was really barking at him now. He hobbled a few yards down the hall, Hardin following, Lynch talking for a couple of minutes, Hardin nodding.

Hickman stuck his head out the door to the briefing room looking like somebody’d shot his puppy. He’d been bumped to the back row. The Secretary of Homeland Security was taking over MC duties, flew in from Washington to get his face in front of this operation which, evidently, had been his brainchild. That’s why the whole show got pushed back another couple of hours.

“OK,” Hickman said. “Let’s go.”

 

An hour later it was over. The DC crowd was hanging back, schmoozing the press. Lynch and Bernstein slid across the back of the room toward the side door.

Johnson was there, of course. She saw Lynch, excused herself, walked over.

She looked down at his leg, looked up.

“You OK?” she asked.

Lynch gave her a half smile. “You keep asking me that. I will be.”

She nodded, gave a weak smile back. “Me too, I guess.”

She held his eyes for a moment, then leaned forward, put her hand on his cheek for a moment, then left.

“You two through?” Bernstein asked.

Lynch just nodded.

CHAPTER 102

CHAPTER 102

 

Shamus Fenn was out of the ICU and in a private room at Northwestern, watching the press conference on TV, talking on the phone.

“You square things with Corsco?” Fenn asked. He was talking with Bernie Alger, his lawyer and agent.

“He hasn’t called back yet,” Alger said. “But we gotta talk about how to spin this coke deal. You were making progress with the whole abuse thing, so I’ve chatted up some of the high-profile TV shrink types, got a couple of them ready to give you a pass on the OD, chalk it up to some kind of post-traumatic stress. You’ll have to go on their shows, though. But we need to get our story straight on that, make sure we keep it all consistent.”

“Get that guy in from LA, what’s his ass, the shrink I’ve been seeing. I’ll play it out with him, and then we’ll get him to make a statement,” Fenn said.

“Yeah, OK. You’re clear on the Chicago end. They aren’t moving ahead with any charges. So you’re good there. Only free radical is this Hardin fuck.”

“What I hear, he’s got enough problems,” said Fenn.

They talked for a bit, working out their PR strategy. Suddenly Fenn stiffened in his bed, bumped the volume up on the TV. They were marching everyone out for the press conference. Saw that Lynch fuck and his partner. And next to them, Hardin.

Fenn listened, dropped the phone to the bed after a minute. From what Corsco had told him, Hardin was dead or was going to be. Now he was a hero.

“Shamus?” Alger said. “Shame? You there?”

Fuck, Fenn thought. Fuck fuck fuck fuck.

 

Starshak and Lynch stood in the back row. The room the Feds were using for their press conference was hot as hell, seeing as they had an overflow crowd, every damn network and cable outlet trying to cram a crew in, dozens of light rigs baking everybody. They’d rushed the show, getting it out just in time for 10pm news, getting the first draft out in front of everybody before the media had a chance to start developing theories. They were slapping a national security Band-Aid over the whole deal. It was a good way to keep anybody from taking too close a peak at the forensics or details, because God knows some of that was going to smell funny.

Hardin and Wilson were in the front row with the stars, the Secretary of Homeland Security spinning Hardin’s history – decorated US Marine, decorated veteran of the Foreign Legion chased out of his own country by the scourge of drugs, a living symbol of the world’s united front against the forces of darkness. Way the story went now, Hardin was a DGSE asset working with the CIA and Wilson was deep-cover DEA.

Everybody said their lines, everybody took their bows. Fade to black.

 

Fenn sat slack-jawed watching the end of the press conference, then he called Alger back.

“You catch that shit?” Alger asked.

“This Hardin, he’s like the French James Bond. You think he doesn’t know? We gotta do something.”

“Do what?” Alger said.

“I dunno,” said Fenn. “I dunno.”

 

 

CHAPTER 103

 

7.30am. Lynch picked up Hardin and they drove north on Michigan.

“Michigan Avenue still looks the same anyway,” said Hardin.

“Lived here all my life,” Lynch said. “Everything changes, you don’t really notice, until you look up one day and it’s a whole different world. Gotta be strange for you, back after all this time.”

“Haven’t had a chance for much sightseeing,” Hardin said. “But it’s weird. I mean I stopped into one of these Super Wal-Mart’s with Wilson? I saw more consumer goods in fifteen minutes than I’ve seen in the last fifteen years. Twelve different kinds of electric toothbrushes.”

“You counted them?”

Hardin shrugged. “I was curious.”

“Mean anything?”

“What do I know?” Hardin said. “It’s too much shit, though. I mean all that crap in Wal-Mart, then Corsco’s guys, they drag me down to the old US Steel site, and there’s nothing there, just busted concrete and weeds. Too much of one thing, not enough of the other. Something’s not right.”

“You work it out, drop me a postcard,” Lynch said.

Lynch pulled into a reserved slot near the ER entrance at Northwestern, turned to Hardin.

“Sure you’re OK with this?”

“Little shit tried to get me killed. I’m good to go.”

CHAPTER 104

 

The Eagle was working the phone, working some sources, running the meter on Corsco, another ten Gs promised out this morning chasing info.

Got to Northwestern at 7.00, wanted to do a quick recon, be set up, ready to go at 8.00 on the dot. But they’d moved the target. He wasn’t in his room, wasn’t in the ICU at all. Did the guy die? That would be handy. Take credit for it anyway, tell Corsco to pay up. Corsco would. They always did. They knew the other option.

“OK, thanks.” Closed the phone.

Fenn wasn’t dead, he was getting better. They’d moved him to nine, private room.

The Eagle looked up the floor plan on the smart phone. Layout was almost identical, even better maybe. Fenn was a couple doors closer to the good staircase and almost straight across from the elevator. A couple minutes to eight now, employees coming in, others getting ready to leave. Perfect conditions. No time for a walk through.

Take the elevator; be ready with the gun when the door opened. If there was a cop at the door, take him, go straight in, nail Fenn, then hit the stairs. The cop going down would draw some eyeballs, so it might get ugly, but if the guy was down the hall chatting up the nurses again, maybe get in and out without anybody seeing a thing. So roll the dice. That’s why you get the big bucks.

CHAPTER 105

 

The city still had a uniform outside Fenn’s door, patrolman Lynch had worked with before. “Hey, Lynch,” the guy said. “Figured you’d be sleeping in, maybe lining up an agent for your book deal.”

Lynch gave a little snort. “Yeah. Listen, I have to talk with Fenn for a few. You get any breakfast yet?”

“No,” the uniform said.

“Why don’t you run down and grab something. I’ll be here a bit.”

The uniform looked at Hardin. “This guy with you?”

Lynch nodded.

“Cool. See you in a few.” The uniform got up from his chair, headed for the elevators.

 

Fenn was on his cell when Lynch and Hardin walked in to the room.

“Tell ‘em they can have the exclusive if–” Fenn saw Hardin and his jaw locked open.

Lynch could hear the voice on the other end of the call. “You there Shame? Shame?”

“Tell them you have to go,” Lynch said.

“I have to go,” said Fenn.

“Tell them you’ll call them back,” Lynch said.

“I’ll call you back,” said Fenn.

“These aren’t the droids you’re looking for,” said Hardin.

“What?” said Fenn.

“Hang up the fucking phone,” said Lynch.

Fenn hung up.

“How’ve you been, Shamus?” Hardin asked, walking around to the other side of the bed. “Long time.”

Lynch stepped to the side, leaned on the wall in the corner by the door. Fenn sat in the bed, unmoving.

“You OK?” Lynch asked. “Need the doctor? Having some kind of flashback here?”

Finally Fenn spoke. “You can’t bring him in here. For Christ’s sake, you’re supposed to be protecting me.”

“From what?” Lynch asked. “Hardin? Why would you need protection from Hardin? He’s a freakin’ hero.”

“I just, I mean, you know, Africa. I kind of screwed him up over there.”

“Water under the bridge, buddy,” Hardin said. “No, it’s the contract with Corsco I’ve got the real problem with.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Fenn said.

“That’s fine,” said Hardin. “Thing is, I’ve got this policy. Nobody gets to try to kill me twice. If you’ve been paying attention the last day or so, then you know I got to a drug lord and an international terrorist. You gotta ask yourself how much trouble I’m gonna have getting to you. Hell, Corsco damn near took you out with a hooker and a bag of coke.”

“Are you threatening me? Lynch, you hearing this?”

Lynch wiggled a finger up near his ear. “Been a lot of shooting lately. Hearing’s a little iffy. Thing is, I did hear this.” Hardin pulled the digital recorder from his pocket, pressed play.

Corsco’s voice.
“Fenn! Shamus Fenn! Fenn wanted Hardin whacked over that Africa business!”

A different voice.
“The actor?”

Corsco’s voice.
“Yeah.”

Lynch clicked off the recorder. “There’s more, but that’s the gist of it.”

Fenn shaking his head. “No, no, no.”

“You gotta understand your position here,” Lynch said. “With the tape, and Hardin testifying, we got you and Corsco. We don’t need to deal with anybody. But I don’t want you. You’re nothing. You’re just another Hollywood piece of shit. I want Corsco. I want him nailed down and bleeding from every extremity. I get you on top of Hardin, then it’s a lock. And I’ve already greased the skids on your deal. You roll, you walk. You don’t, then I take my chances with what I got. And maybe you end up in the pen, too. That’ll be something to see.
People
’s Sexiest Man Alive on the yard with the big swinging dicks.”

“What do you figure, Lynch?” Hardin asked. “Cute guy like Shamus here, all the brothers lining up for a shot at him, I say two weeks before you could rent his asshole out for off-street parking.” Hardin turned to Fenn. “But, Shame, the other thing is this. Even if you beat it, pull an OJ and get some jury to suspend disbelief, then you still got me. So basically, you roll or you die.”

“I need my lawyer,” Fenn said. “I gotta talk to him.”

“You want to talk to somebody,” Lynch said, “then I got a stenographer and a video guy waiting downstairs. You wanna fuck around with your lawyer, then I’m done.”