No One Left to Tell (14 page)

Dunhill Tower
Downtown Chicago

The Dunhill Corporation shadowed Michigan Avenue, a monolith in glass and granite acclaiming the amassed wealth of the family holdings. Raven had walked by it many times, never giving the notable family a thought. Standing at a crosswalk with her partner by her side, huddled with the masses, she burrowed into her overcoat. Her eyes fixed upon the gray morning sky, then trailed the height of the tower until it dissolved into the low-lying clouds.

Unlike her, Tony didn't appreciate the courtesy of being prompt. By her watch, it was five till eight and they were on foot, still a good five blocks away. Although, technically, they weren't late at this very minute, it would be inevitable nonetheless. In her mind, she imagined the unspoken judgment on Delacorte's face. The guy probably shot from his mother's womb precisely on time, right down to the split second.

"You're antsy this morning. What's up?" Tony asked. The light changed and they crossed the street.

"Nothing. We're gonna be late." She stuffed her hands into her pockets. "You know how much I hate that."

"Yeah. Kind of an endearing quality." He chuckled. "Just like I hope my procrastination is to you."

"Everything about you is endearing, partner. Now shut up and keep moving." She smiled. "I got my heart set on a big cup of joe. I bet Designer Boy has good taste in java."

The muffled sound of a cell phone summoned her. Reaching into a coat pocket, she answered the call, "Yeah. Mackenzie here." To listen, she plugged an ear with a finger, keeping pace with Tony.

"Hey Raven. Scott Farrell. We got an analysis off the GCMS, the trace evidence on the Blair case."

Raven was familiar with the acronym. The gas chromatograph mass spectrometer was a machine used to analyze material and trace evidence. She didn't have to understand how it worked, just that it did. True to his word, Farrell had promised a rush analysis and delivered. The man read through a litany of scientific particulars.

Interrupting him, Raven wanted to cut to the chase. "So, bottom line, what are we looking at, Scott?"

"Two main points. There was evidence of rust and paint on his hands, but what's interesting is the content of the paint. It was lead-based, indicating an older structure painted before 1978."

"An old building in Chicago? That should stand out, big time," she joked.

At the front entrance to the Dunhill Tower, Tony pushed through the revolving glass door, with her on his heels. Once inside, they stood amidst a lavish leather seating area, under the close scrutiny of the security staff at a circular kiosk.

"That's why they pay you the big bucks, Mac." Farrell laughed. "But remember I said there were two notable items. The second one may help make your job easier."

"I'm listening."

"The list of compounds I read off, we found them on his clothes and hands, but they boil down to one thing. Ammunition."

She took a moment to digest his assessment. "So we're looking for an older building perhaps used to store or make munitions?"

"That'd be my guess," he replied.

"Aren't some of those components considered controlled substances?" She asked, searching her memory. "Or some kind of hazardous waste?"

"Yeah, prior to a federal law enacted in the late seventies, treatment of ordnance waste wasn't tracked. Components used in explosives, as well as solvents and fuels, are reported more thoroughly now. But I know where you're headed. We have access to a property database that we could query on the munitions components, maybe get a hit on ownership of record. Since it's a fairly recent resource, I'm not sure we'll have luck on any buildings that old. It's gonna be a long shot."

"Well, you're talking to a Cubs fan. Long shots are what I do." She couldn't help but grin, thinking of her father. "Just give it your best. Maybe we'll get lucky. I'll check back with you."

"Give me an hour or two," he added. "Later, Mac."

"Thanks for pushing on this one." She ended the call and glanced at Tony, lowering her voice.

"Another coincidence just hit us broadside, my fine friend. Seems the trace evidence on Blair is related to munitions." She raised an eyebrow. "And with the Dunhills rumored to be involved with illegal arms trading, I think Fiona Dunhill is neck-deep in this, up to her cultured pearl necklace."

"You think Christian Delacorte is running interference for her?" he asked, anticipating her thoughts precisely.

Raven had kept her midnight rendezvous with Delacorte a secret from her partner. For what purpose, she didn't fully understand—not sure she really wanted to. But in light of this new information, she had to face facts.

Christian Delacorte was anything but an ally.

"Could be, partner," she speculated, shrugging out of her coat. "I think we should call on Mrs. Dunhill while we're here. And my gut tells me we should stick close to Delacorte. Whether he knows more than he's letting on, I don't know. But the man might be worth the effort." She stared across the room, her eyes not settling on anything in particular, lost in thought.

"Worth the effort?" Tony questioned, humor coloring his expression.

Her partner had an annoying habit
of actually
listening. Had she said he'd be worth the effort? Delacorte had definitely gotten under her skin. Would it take a radical surgical procedure to remove the two-hundred-pound growth? If only it were that simple.

Tony waited for an answer. To cover up her faux pas, she replied, "I think we should stick close to the guy. That's all I'm sayin'. And given the arrangements today, I've got an idea on how we can do that."

Christian discovered the Giles Avenue property belonged to a division of Dunhill Corporation. By all accounts in the company files, the old armory was a historic site, abandoned long ago. So why did Mickey have the address written on a notepad at his home? Like playing a game of connect-the-dots, a link between Mickey and Fiona had been made with one easy stroke. The thought disturbed him, especially without Fiona here to explain the reason.

Now where would this lead him? All he could think about was checking out the old building. But one thing loomed on his horizon before he left on his personal errand—Detective Raven Mackenzie.

Swiveling his desk chair, he stood and walked toward the large picture window across his office. A console table had been set up with a coffee service and a modest serving of fruit and pastries for the visitors he expected. The thought of food turned his stomach, but the coffee was another story. Christian refilled his third cup of coffee since arriving at six. Slowly, he sipped the dark, pungent brew, letting the steam rise to his lips. A fog drifted off the lake, clouding the view. It tinged his somber mood with the blues. Adrift in the haze, his eyes probed the gloom as if he waited for an answer to emerge. No such luck.

His phone rang, pulling him from his funk. He glanced at his watch. Ten after eight. He suspected his guests from CPD had arrived, exhibiting their propensity for tardiness. Reaching his desk, he read the caller ID display—lobby security.

"Yes?" he answered.

"Mr. Delacorte. Burke here. You have two guests from the Chicago Police here to see you. They have an appointment?"

"Yes, send them to my office. Their appointment is with Human Resources, but I'll see them first. Give me ten minutes with them, then have someone from HR come to escort them."

After he hung up, a strange feeling gripped him. The dark eyes of Raven Mackenzie dominated his thoughts, along with the memory of her velvet touch against his belly. He found himself anxious to see her. With a slight shake of his head, he glared at the closed door to his office, chastising his foolishness.

"Damn it, Delacorte. You've got work to do."

The executive offices of the Dunhill Tower were beautifully appointed. Endless corridors were lined in plush rugs, adding texture and warmth to the lofty ornate ceilings, dripping with extravagant chandeliers. Framed in gold, massive canvases hung low on paneled walls, with subtle lighting to accentuate the vivid oils. The heady scent of fresh exotic flowers teased her senses, their elaborate arrangements surpassing the elegance of distinctive porcelain vases. Raven had never seen such fine decor.

She attempted to look nonchalant, but Tony gave them
both
away, openly gawking with his mouth open.

"
Ay
,
Dios mio,
Raven. Check this place out. If I worked here, I'd wanna bring in a mattress, stay awhile." Tony spun around, absorbing the ambience with all the finesse of a ball-peen hammer. "If Delacorte doesn't turn out to be a heartless, cold-blooded killer, you think he might hire me for his security team—that is, when I get ready to retire from the life?"

"And why would you be so picky as to exclude a murderer from your future employment prospects?" she joked.

"Excellent point, Mac. Maybe I shouldn't limit my potential."

Interrupting Tony's delusions, the receptionist greeted them. "Good morning, Detectives. May I take your coats?"

The young, petite brunette flashed a brilliant smile as they handed over their garments. "Mr. Delacorte is expecting you. Right this way." Stylishly dressed, the woman ushered them to a suite toward the right. "We have coffee and pastries inside, compliments of Dunhill. Have a nice day."

The sound of a delicate, high-pitched violin found its way to her ear, from speakers well-hidden. Classical music gave an air of serenity to the workplace.
All of it, so civil.

The woman pushed open the massive door to Christian's office. As they entered, she announced, "Your guests are here. Anything else I can get you, Mr. Delacorte?"

"No, Denise. That's all. Thanks for indulging me this morning."

"My pleasure, Christian." The use of his first name, coupled with the inviting look in her eyes, told Raven that Christian had indeed been her pleasure.

Only another woman would recognize the coy move. Yet Delacorte appeared oblivious to her blatant flirtations. Raven knew his affairs were none of her business. Instead, she drank in the sight of him like she'd been wandering the desert for days without water.

Dressed in an elegant navy suit, pale blue shirt, and a tasteful tie in red silk print, Christian Delacorte stole her breath.
A constant habit.
Accentuating his tall, lean stature, the drape of his suit fit his body perfectly. The subtlety of his cologne embraced her. And as a welcome bonus, the feel of his skin teased her sense of touch, reminding her she'd taken liberties with him last night. She fought to hide a smile as she approached him.

Would he acknowledge his little escapade of breaking and entering into Mickey Blair's place last night in front of Tony? Raven didn't have to think about that for long. He'd be a fool to admit he'd broken the law. One thing was very certain—Christian Delacorte would never be mistaken for a fool.

Drawing closer, Raven noticed the pale blue of his shirt tinted his green eyes to a blend of deep azure. She'd always believed such perfection would be unattainable, featured only on exotic magazine covers using enhanced photographic techniques. Yet here stood living proof she'd been wrong.

Only the ever-present sadness in his expression reminded her his life was anything but perfect. Christian communicated all this in an instant. But perhaps she read too much into him again—a dangerous yet tantalizing addiction with a man like Delacorte.

He caught her eye and held her gaze long enough to communicate a special recognition. Then the flash was gone. Christian reverted to business as usual.

"Good morning, Detectives." He shook hands with them both, then offered, "I hope you like the coffee and feel free to enjoy the fruit and pastries. Someone from HR will be here shortly to escort you to your morning appointment."

Tony served himself a pastry and filled a china cup with coffee, looking back over his shoulder at his host. "Well, we appreciate your hospitality; the spread looks great. But before we head over to HR, we'd like to see Mrs. Dunhill, to thank her personally."

"Oh, no need for thanks, Detective Rodriguez. I assure you." Christian's face was unreadable.

"No, we insist." Raven asked. "Is she in today?"

His eyes fixed on her. "Actually, I'm not sure. I left the estate early, I didn't discuss her itinerary for the day."

"My, isn't that unusual, for the head of security to be out of the loop?"

If she hadn't been watching intently, she might've missed the subtle change in his expression. Playing cagey with Delacorte felt like challenging a grand chess master.

"That was more of a rhetorical question—just a general observation. I'm sure Fiona Dunhill is in very capable hands." She'd intended to make a point, but his sentiments shone on his face. Her insincere attempt to make amends fell flat.

"Are you always this obsessed with expressing your gratitude, Detective Mackenzie?" His eyes demanded an answer. "That question is not rhetorical. I'm quite interested in understanding the proper etiquette for coffee and cheese Danish."

Brick by brick, Christian erected a wall between them, using sarcasm for mortar. And she had only herself to thank for initiating the verbal tussle.

"We may have some questions to ask her." Loaded with nerve, she implied a skepticism for his version of the truth.

"You
may
have some questions? My, isn't that unusual for a detective to be so ambiguous. I haven't known you for very long, but aren't you a bit more direct?" Definitely on the assault, Delacorte found high ground and intended to hold it.

"Then how's this for direct. We want to talk to Mrs. Dunhill. How can we find her?" She folded her arms and stepped closer.

"Try her cell phone. I'm sure she'll be happy to make arrangements with you when you speak to her." Walking to his desk, Christian pulled open a drawer. He wrote on the back of a small card. "My business card. Her private cell phone number is on the back." Rejoining her, he handed over the card, along with a heaping dose of cynicism. "Please be discreet with the use of it."

"Discreet? I can do discreet." She qualified, "Or a fair facsimile."