Shoot 'Em Up (32 page)

“Let's keep going,” I said. “The drug raids. They've all been confidential informant tips. And only for Grieco stash houses. That's had to hurt.”

“So, how do the guns fit?”

“I think they fit exactly the way El Cid said they did. El Eje is trying to set them up. The ballistic reports should back us up. We need to talk to Sawyer. ASAP.”

“We're meeting with him tomorrow. It'll keep.”

I slipped my phone into my pocket and gathered the ice cream detritus. My half-eaten pint went into the freezer, while his empty one hit the trash.

“Maisie . . .” he warned. “Don't.”

I rinsed the spoons and put them in the dishwasher. “Don't what?”

“Call.”

“Who?”

Lee dug his wallet out of his back pocket, fished out a hundred-dollar bill, and smacked it on the table. “A hundred bucks says you were slinking off to call El Cid.”

“Oh . . . shut up. I'm going back to bed.” I went and got into bed, waiting forever for Lee to walk past my room before grabbing my phone and dialing.

“Señora Renko,” El Cid said. “Carlos and I were just talking about you.”

“All good, I hope.” But my flirting fell flat. El Cid wasn't someone I knew anymore. “Would you mind if I spoke with Carlos directly?”

“Why?”

“Please.” The hitch in my voice must have swayed him, because Carlos came on the line.

“Hello?”

“Carlos, I've come across some information that could be . . . misconstrued. I'm concerned that El Cid's objectivity may not be as it was.”

“Yes. An astute observation. What is it?”

“Photos of Raúl. With Mayor Coles. An ATF agent. And Cesar Garza.”

“Situation?”

“Drug and sex parties mostly.” I hesitated, not sure whether I was up for signing Raúl's death warrant. Although I was becoming more certain by the second that he was behind our hijack and kidnap. “Two parties prior to the assassination attempt. One post.”

“And you have seen these pictures with your own eyes ?”

“Yessir. It will be difficult for me to get copies, but not impossible.”

“I would appreciate that.”

“I'll do my best.”

“Thank you.” He disconnected.

I switched off the light and tiptoed into the kitchen. Lee had cleaned up.

On the table lay ten full-color prints of Raúl
in flagrante delicto,
paper-clipped with a Post-it:

 

The following day at the
Chicago Sentinel,
we went to present our evidence to Sawyer. But he had questions he wanted answered first.

“Gunther Nyx seems quite bullish on you entering the narcotics market.” Sawyer handed us each a folder. “Feeling the pressure from the U.S. Department of Justice, no doubt.”

“You think?” Lee paged through the report. “Chicago's the only U.S. city to rank in the top five for all four major drug categories. First for heroin, second for marijuana and cocaine, and fifth for methamphetamine.” He looked at me. “Nyx isn't going to let her go without a fight.”

Sawyer cocked his vulpine visage. “Any thoughts on this last assignment, Maisie?”

I didn't have enough left to play it cool. “To be honest, sir, I feel pretty damn lucky to be alive. My connections with Grieco and El Cid are as tight as they can be with known cocaine abusers, but they won't be the ones doing the deals.” My hands twisted in my lap. “And I don't want to be, either.”

“Yes.” Sawyer tapped a pen against his lip.

“However, I have no problem continuing Nyx's heroin distribution with Dafinest Johnson, aka Mr. Peanut, as long as Poppa Dozen is operating as go-between.”

“Interesting, wouldn't you agree, Lee?”

Lee shrugged.

“The man she feels safest dealing narcotics with is the same gentleman felon who blew the back of Juan Echeverría's head off with a Taurus 85 revolver to ‘save' our illustrious mayor.”

“Wait,” I said. “Lee, remember the other day? You were standing in the kitchen and Coles was on TV. What did you say?”

“Uh . . .” His face screwed up in thought. “He's such a self-righteous fuck he won't wear a vest after a goddamn assassination attempt?”

“That's it.” I hammered my finger on the tabletop. “That's the answer, right there.”

“What?”

“Where it started.” I grabbed my laptop from my messenger bag, booted it up, and typed
Coles Assassination Attempt
into the YouTube search bar. I played the video, then played it again.

“Watch. There!” I pointed at the screen. “Coles raises his arms just before the gunman raises his gun. He knew. He knew it was coming.”

“Explains why his private security team demanded full control,” Lee said. “And why he hasn't worn a vest prior or since.”

“Easily illustrated, difficult to prove,” Sawyer said. “Flip to the ballistics report, please.”

The FN Herstal 5.7MK2 used in the assassination attempt matched the 5.7 lot and rounds that Carlos Grieco had presented to me. It also had the name of the patron saint of drug dealers, Jesús Malverde engraved inside the back strap.

The 5.7 used to shoot Cash, as well as other pistols recovered at other sites, had neither the back strap engraving nor were from the same stolen shipment.

Just as damning were the ballistic markers. The Grieco cartel's hand-loaded cartridges were a match to the assassination attempt, but the other shootings had used mass-produced 5.7 armor-piercing rounds acquired from Honduras.

“Excellent work.” A small, self-satisfied smile tipped Sawyer's lips. “Broady's in the vise. Theft and sale of explosive components to the El Eje cartel. Multiple federal offenses, falsified police reports, breaking ATF department policy.”

That didn't sound little.

“He'll never go to trial. Even with the
Fast and Furious
whitewash in the rearview mirror, it's virtually impossible for the ATF to survive the scandal of a special agent selling classified striker detonators for criminal enterprises abroad that could be used in Mexico, the United States, or God knows where.” Walt gave a cavalier flip of his wrist. “We'll sweat him for Coles.”

He stood up. “Time for the big guns. A third party not connected to the city of Chicago. A special federal prosecutor. Go get some lunch and be back here in two hours.”

* * *

Special Prosecutor Jon Gabriel was five-foot-nine, 165 pounds, with sandy brown hair, piercing eyes, and a short, tidy beard. He sat down, pulled out a legal pad and pen, and said, “Tell me everything you just told Walt.”

When we'd finished, he turned to Walt. “I'll take it from here. Baby steps and bread crumbs. I don't want these two anywhere near me until the trial.”

Guess that's our cue.
Lee and I looked at each other and got up. As we hit the door, we heard Gabriel say, “Broady may be a dirty cop, but he still knows how this goes down. And he's an independent witness.”

“You're going to start a probe?” Lee asked.

“Of course. Gonna see what we can shake free from the banana tree.”

* * *

Two days later, Lee and I sat at a Formica table in a tiny room ready to watch Special Prosecutor Gabriel sweat ATF Special Agent Ditch Broady via video feed.

Lee pulled a small Styrofoam cooler from beneath his chair. Inside it, an icy six-pack of Budweiser. He popped one and handed it to me.

“Jaysus, you're a prince of a guy,” I said.

“Don't you forget it.”

On-screen, Walt Sawyer and Special Prosecutor Jon Gabriel sat at a conference table talking quietly. Gabriel's massive goon, aka “Investigator Snyder,” waited inside the door, while a cameraman and stenographer had set up in the corner.

Ditch Broady entered the room knowing something was afoot. “How 'do, Walt?” He was a pretty cool customer, until he took in, per Gabriel's request, the long wall covered in the El Eje cartel's organizational chart and photos of their horrific handiwork.

Gabriel nodded at Investigator Snyder, who stepped forward and cuffed Broady behind his back with unexpected speed.

“Easy now, no need to—” Broady fell silent as the investigator patted him down, taking his piece and backup.

“Special Agent Broady, I'm Special Prosecutor Jon Gabriel with the Federal District Court. Take a seat, please.”

He did. Uncomfortably.

“You have two options. One, immediately lawyer up, forfeit pension, and proceed directly to prison.” Gabriel opened a folder and laid out the physical evidence of Broady's signature on the striker detonator requisitions, the Elmhurst destruction forms, and the capper—photos of the strikers from the cabin in Juárez and Carlos's Lincoln Navigator.

Ditch Broady turned to stone.

“Or two,” Gabriel said, “you give a full confession and signed affidavit, and we put you in Witness Protection. But to do that, you roll on someone influential.” Blank-faced, the special prosecutor folded his hands and waited.

Broady sighed. “Door number two.”

“Read him his rights,” Gabriel said.

Investigator Snyder did, carefully enunciating every word. He unlocked one cuff, so Broady could move his arms forward, and relatched the cuff. Gabriel pushed a Miranda form and pen in front of Broady, who signed awkwardly, steel handcuffs clinking.

“Well?” Gabriel said.

Broady pretended to think. “I can give you Cesar Garza.”

The special prosecutor's mouth set in a firm line. “Strike one.”

“I don't know,” Broady hedged, eyes darting around the room. “Raúl Grieco.”

“Strike two,” Gabriel said.

Unmoved by Broady's distress, Sawyer leaned a casual arm over the back of his chair. “Coles, Ditch. We want Talbott Cottle Coles. I suggest you start talking.”

And Broady did.

Lee turned the monitor down. “What's that all over your face?”

I touched my cheeks. “What?”

“That chipmunk grin.”

I shook my head, bashful. “It's stupid.”

“C'mon.”

“I finally feel like a cop. For, like, the first time.”

“You're killing me.” Lee groaned and ran a hand over his eyes. “Slowly.”

I pointed at the screen.

Broady finally picked up a pen and signed the confession and affidavit. Investigator Snyder pulled him to his feet and spun him toward the door before Broady's signature had dried.

“Hey!” Broady said. “What gives? We cut a deal.”

“That's right,” said the special prosecutor. “We did. You no longer have any ties to the state of Illinois. You belong to the U.S. Department of Justice. And as such, we need you accessible at all times while we build our case.” Gabriel turned to Investigator Snyder. “Get him out of here.”

We watched as Investigator Snyder led Broady off to parts unknown forever. Sitting there, we finished our beers, laughing at the sheer inanity and desperation of Broady and the half-assed state of the world.

A rap sounded on the door.

Special Prosecutor Gabriel stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He glanced at the video feed, then to us. “Satisfied?”

We nodded, instantly solemn.

“Then get the hell out of here. You two have plenty of paperwork to fill out.” He shut the door smartly behind him.

“Ready, State's Witness Number Seventeen-ten?” I asked.

“Roger that, State's Witness Number Twenty-one-twenty-four,” Lee answered.

We rode the cavernous freight elevator down to the loading dock, then hiked the block and a half to his Mustang. Lee popped the doors and we got in, eyes locking as we slammed our seat belts home at the same time.

“Gee . . . Is that . . . all there is?” I said.

“We got a solid week of connect-the-dots paperwork, but . . . yeah.” He rubbed the back of his jaw. “Isn't it enough?”

“Sure.” I tried to play it straight, but my giggle-cough ruined the effect. “It's plenty.”

We laughed all the way back to Stannis's penthouse.

Lee knocked on the bedroom door and opened it without waiting for an answer. “Hockey game tonight, Bae, and I'm feeling hat-tricky.” He leaned against the jamb. “Come watch me. I'll buy you all the beer you can drink.”

“Aww. And I was feeling so thirsty.” I zipped up the garment bag over my Monday work outfit. “Can't. Busy.”

“Doing what?” Lee folded his arms across his chest, looking like a recipe for disaster. One I would not be cooking tonight. “Where are you going?”

“Home, Lee. I'm going home to Hank's.”

“Why?”

“I need a weekend off.” I jammed my underwear into the gym bag. “And so do you. Have a party. Go crazy. I'll help you clean up when I get back.”

“You haven't heard from the guy in two months.”

Lee's voice went flinty. “Is Bannon back?”

“No.”

“So you're going there to do, what? Sit in the dark, eat ice cream, and bawl your head off?”

He looked brawny and angry and . . . sad.

I didn't trust him, didn't trust myself.

“Lee . . .” I said, careful to keep the bed between us. “I'm wildly attracted to you. You're funny and handsome and smart and sexy. But . . .” I had to force the words out. “I'm in love with Hank.”

A cold light glinted in Lee's eyes. “Sure you are.”

“Even if I wasn't, which I am, I respect him too much to sleep with someone else before our relationship is over.”

“Hard to break up when he's not around.”

“Please, don't . . .”

Frowning, Lee rubbed the back of his neck and leaned against the doorjamb. “You really are a good girl,” he said softly.

“Yeah.” My vocal cords knotted together. “I am.”

He pushed off the jamb and came toward me, not stopping until our chests were touching. “I'm a good guy.”

My lips curled in a sad smile. “Lee—”

He put his mouth to my ear. His breath made me shiver. “Right now you need to think that Bannon's not a bad guy. But he is. And that's okay. You're a smart girl. You'll figure it out.”

Lee's mouth, hot and soft, edged with the faint rasp of scruff, slid down my jaw from my ear to my chin.

My lips parted.

His mouth hovered above mine. “Because I've got all the time in the world.” He flicked his tongue across my upper lip, then turned and went down the hall without a second look.

I licked my lip.

* * *

I drove home to Hank's with a headache and a heartache. Just because Lee was coming in hard and fast and uninvited, hurting him was never something I signed on for.

Ragnar's janky blue pickup truck waited in Hank's driveway. I turned in, heart dancing.

For once I wasn't in trouble.

While it was possible Hank had heard from Vi that I was trying to get Stannis's band back together, it was far more likely he'd ticked somebody off. And he wanted me safe.

I pulled the Hellcat into the garage stall, took my Kimber out of the holster, and slipped it into my purse. Grinning bigger than I knew my mouth could go, I swiped on a coat of lip gloss. I got out of the car and trotted to the front of the house.

Ragnar swung open the door of the pickup and stepped out. His beefy, six-foot-seven frame and shaggy, shoulder-length hair was pure Viking.

“Hiya, Ragnar!” I threw him a chipper salute.

He raised a palm, face blank. Not happy, not sad. I somehow had the strange sensation he was furious. It seemed to superheat the air between us.

I couldn't think of anything that would make him angry, except for having to babysit me again. Which absurdly pleased me to no end.

My little black heart skipped a beat.

Ragnar stared at me for a long while, his stormy blue eyes boring into mine. He gave a slight bob of his head, and his hair fell in front of one side of his face. From behind his back, he brought out a thick, brown expanding legal folder with a red cloth tie.

We stood there, locked in a silent, motionless moment. My hands hung at my sides, Ragnar's arm extended, statue-still.

I stepped forward and took the folder. “Thank you, Randolph.” My use of his Christian name surprised us both.

He pressed a massive hand against my cheek, then turned and walked stiffly to his truck. He got in and the truck growled to life. I watched him drive away, irrationally expecting him to turn around and ask to come in for a beer.

The folder was smooth and heavy in my hands. Awash with the feeling that I didn't want to bring whatever was inside into the house, I undid the tie and slipped my hand inside. A card read:

 

 

 

The corner of my mouth quirked up.
Rudyard Kipling
. Always Kipling. Because Hank believed what moved you should be remembered.

And I remembered.

Light-headed and fuzzy from missing him, my knees went soft. I dropped down onto the slate landing. Setting the card aside, I reached into the folder and pulled out a binder-clipped stack of credit cards.

On top of the stack was an Illinois driver's license with my picture, Hank's address, and the name
Maisie Bannon
.

The six debit/credit cards each bore the foil name stamp:
Maisie Bannon
.

I slid out the thick sheaf of papers. The cover sheet was a notarized legal document. Breath coming in short pants, I skimmed the text until I read:

I turned the page.

Hank Kimball Bannon and Maisie Moira McGrane's marriage license.

Backdated to the first night we spent together.

Blood pulsed in my ears. I rifled through the stack of documents. The deed to the house, titles to the cars, bank accounts, financials. Everything in my name.

I shook my head hard and returned the entire contents to the file. Smoothly, neatly tying up the cloth tapes.

I got up and turned to go inside. The cardboard file flew from my nerveless fingers and skittered across the sidewalk.

I stood staring at it.

But I couldn't seem to make myself.

If.

I covered my eyes. And heard him. Impossibly.

His deep bass reverberating in my chest, his voice inside my head. “
If you can fill the unforgiving minute. With sixty seconds' worth of distance run—
”

I felt so full of him I was sure my heart would burst.

I dropped my hands.

And ran.