by Black, Regan
It didn't take long to spot Brian people-watching on a bench near the sky wheel. Taking the other end of the bench, he braced his elbows on his knees and waited for the former cop to share.
"That's some impressive makeup," Brian said.
Micky nodded, having expected the assumption and wanting to feed it to protect his anonymity. "I know some talented people," he replied. "So what have you got?"
"It seems the guy who did your friend, Sis, liked to keep trophies." Brian paused. "We might have closed the case earlier, but we kept getting leads pointing to the Reverend."
Micky was glad he'd put his scar side to Brian, it helped conceal the twitch that wanted to become a smile. "Haven't talked to that freak in long while. Why would he put a hit on me?"
"I'm not a fool, Micky. If he put any kind of serious hit on you, we can't find it and frankly he's not that subtle. Neither are you. You think my detectives can't trace an anonymous email?"
"Your detectives? Did you re-up?" He leaned back, completely amused by this flustered version of Brian. "I know for certain that whack-job put a hit on me. The contractor was inept and less than enthused. He's on my team now. Better retirement plan. And my systems are completely secure. Just ask your wife."
"Christ." Brian shook his head and got to his feet. "Come on. I'll buy you a dog and tell you the rest."
"You're such a thoughtful date."
"Shut it a minute and listen," he said as they walked. "Because we – they – were looking elsewhere, they missed the connection lying down in the morgue. Sis's killer was a John Doe until someone cataloging the personal effects connected an earring in the guy's effects as the earring missing from Sis when she, um..."
"Died," Micky finished. "So where'd they find this John Doe?"
"He was stinking up a hotel room on Michigan Avenue."
Micky tried to swallow the rush of excitement. "Have you been to the scene?"
"Not personally and I'm not giving you the name or address."
"Okay." Easy enough to find out on his own. "Got a reason?"
"It's an ongoing investigation."
"I didn't think he'd died of a guilty conscience." Another man might've missed Brian's flinch, but Micky had honed his observation skills to a better standard. "What?"
"When the body was found, suicide was the first, obvious conclusion."
"Before the earring," Micky said to himself. A cold knot of fear landed heavy in his gut. He tossed the remainder of his lunch in the trash and waited for the rest of the story.
"Mid-level professional on a sex holiday overcome with guilt is how it looked to the evidence crew. But the victim's prints came back as unknown. Very unknown."
"Military."
Brian nodded. "Don't get me started on that side of the investigation, but the pieces wouldn't fit in the right places until the earring broke it all open."
It seemed Brian was content to walk and contemplate, but Micky felt the wasted opportunity of every step. "So what's your opinion? Why did he take out Sis?"
"You were right about being in someone's crosshairs."
"Where does the investigation go now?"
"I think you're safe from the cops," Brian snapped. "This new direction leads away from you and your group."
"You can't think I'm involved." Micky looked closer at the people nearby, searching for signs of anyone working undercover.
"Oh, I think you're involved, I just don't know what to do about it."
This was getting too damn sticky. He shook his head. "Go back a second. Who did this guy in the hotel?"
"We don't have a clear lead. Yet. But why is the most confusing part. I'm sure he was a grinder, but he was staged in a way that makes me think another professional took him out. A guy like this? Hell, even on the slab in the morgue he was intimidating." Brian scrubbed at his face. "When we figure out why, we'll have a better line on who."
"Did the hotel have any visual record of this guy's stay?"
"Already recycled by the time we asked."
"No one went looking when he didn't check out on time?"
"I'm telling you the detectives thought of these angles. He extended his stay through the in-room computer."
Micky recognized the limit of Brian's patience as they neared the Pier's exit. "Thanks for letting me know the bastard is dead."
"Don't go looking to pin a medal on his killer."
"Hey," Micky smiled. "That's probably got nothing to do with me. Lover's tiff, professional disagreement. Maybe a way to thaw a hiring freeze. Times are tough."
"You're not funny."
He shrugged. Humor wasn't the point. "I won't be assisting the investigation or the search for the other killer."
"What a surprise." Brian studied him a moment longer than necessary. "Just don't throw them anymore false leads."
"Sure thing. Thanks for lunch." Micky turned toward the nearest taxi. If Brian had called in favors and ordered a tail, Micky meant to lose it immediately. He had a couple mules on Michigan who were probably up to speed on the dead guy already and he wanted to hear their take on it.
Sliding into the back of the car, he swiped his credit card through the reader. Requesting a circuit of Lakeshore Drive, he sat back to enjoy the ride. When he was sure none of Brian's old friends were following, he'd request a drive toward Michigan Avenue and the hotel.
* * *
Trina marveled at the elaborate camouflage of the neighborhood as she made her way from Micky's hideout to the el station. The bright fall sunshine didn't even seem to penetrate the cloak of decay and hopelessness the smuggler had crafted to guard his secrets.
Amazing really, she thought as she boarded the train. No sane person would think of disembarking here without a loaded weapon and battle ready tank. And yet, Micky's team came and went, raising no suspicion. After her first visit, she knew if snoopers or law enforcement got too close, Micky's security team responded with quiet efficiency. The thought wasn't much comfort as she changed trains.
Loyalty from the criminal class wasn't easy to foster and yet somehow Joel – Micky – had done it. He'd gathered a vast array of people and pointed them toward a singular purpose, becoming the most connected and most powerful smuggler in town.
It couldn't all be rumor-based as he'd implied. At some point a businessman had to deliver on products or threats or he didn't get anywhere. But his people didn't act like frightened pawns or thugs with delusions of climbing to the top of the criminal order. They acted like a family.
It shouldn't irritate her, but it did. Worse, spending time in the warehouse made her feel like that lost little kid again. She'd had more than enough of being a freak. She'd spent her childhood as an outcast, always living on the fringe of real friendships.
Now, by choice, she had an independent life as a professional on her own terms, going where and when she pleased. An independent person didn't need a warehouse of people impersonating a family just to please a criminal. Shrugging a battered backpack over her shoulder, she squeezed through the doors at the last second to reach the platform.
If Micky's neighborhood looked threatening, she knew the area waiting at the bottom of the metal stairs promised more immediate and serious physical risk. The grit and grime were real here, not fabricated or nurtured for effect.
Her booted feet hit the pavement and she felt the locals put the target on her back before she'd gone two paces. No protective detail lurked in disguise; she was on her own in Crayland's corner of the world. She indulged a moment, thinking about how he'd freak, and how she'd kill him, if he recognized her.
Knowing her blue eyes would flare a warning to anyone who looked, she'd muted them with brown contacts and hidden her red head under a wig of dark, dull, messy hair. Having trained herself to blend in with her surroundings, to meld with the worlds of her various targets, she'd never yet played the strung out junkie role. There was plenty of inspiration around, so she mimicked the defeated posture and desperate expressions as the people needing a fix moved cl
oser to their preferred dealers.
As expected, the street signs were absent or vandalized, so her research habit paid off as she shuffled her way closer to Crayland's corner.
From researching Montalbano she knew Crayland was an important weapon in his arsenal. Dealing drugs kept cash rolling in no matter what happened with the defense contracts on the legitimate side of his resume.
Trina paused, her back to a brick wall as she watched exchange after exchange, getting a feel for Crayland's rhythm of dealing. He didn't waste time. Sharp movements and sharper eyes were constantly assessing his prey and the general area. She'd checked his record and knew he hadn't been busted in over a year. There might be more money in territories like Dakota's, but there was a certain immunity here. The police had apparently given up on this bleak pocket of Chicago.
Just as she moved forward, a familiar face crossed to Crayland. Chloe, the bratty girl from Micky's team. The girl was clearly familiar to Crayland too. He smiled broadly and opened his arms for a hug. A hug?
Dread clutched Trina's stomach at the sight of a trusted mule with Micky's enemy. She didn't worry about being recognized, but it was sickening to watch Chloe schmooze so easily with the likes of Crayland. She felt the whip of temper, driving her to act, but she held firm. Being smart meant taking a full assessment.
The bitch was one fine actress, spouting the party line and touting the benefits of Micky's place. Yet here she was, crooning over the nickel bag he personally placed in her hands, before he tucked her under his arm. Didn't she know what he was doing? How could she not? Talk about a conflict of interest.
Chloe wasn't naïve like April. No, she was more of a bully like Crayland, except at the moment, she looked too blissfully content to dish out any sort of insult or badgering. More questions than answers raced through Trina's mind about possible romantic involvement, Micky's definite recon and security skills, and entrapment. Was it considered it entrapment between two crime bosses? Didn't matter. She had a decision to make: observe or intervene?
Trina observed because it suited her schedule and she wasn't inclined to save Chloe from herself. If the gossip at the warehouse was true, Chloe's occasional pot use was increasing. No intervention was scheduled since getting high softened her iron-clad bitch routine. She certainly looked friendly enough now, not just with Crayland, but with everyone in sight.
Interesting.
Trina felt the dealer watching her. Time to move. Shuffling around the corner, she searched out a better place to watch him work his customers. She had that sense of deja vu when she crept through the gaping door into the dreary shell of an old apartment building, but this time the junkies were real.
She picked her way around humans and debris, until she found a room overlooking Crayland's operating corner. Chloe was leaving and Trina wanted to gag when she caught the girl blowing kisses. Something was seriously off with Chloe and after a few minutes, it was clear she wasn't the only one. No one haggled with Crayland, every customer was agreeable, even affable.
Double checking to be sure she was the only lucid person nearby, she fished a new camera out of the tattered backpack and captured some pictures. Positively sickening how they gazed at him with admiration and gratitude. No question he wasn't selling pure weed, but how could she find out what he was he adding in?
The enhancement had to be connected to Montalbano somehow. Not just by way of an order. Crayland was more than dumb muscle. Trina recalled her notes regarding Montalbano's efforts to break into the military 'supplement' game. Some other medical genius had beaten him to it, but his labs were still fully funded.
Now that Chloe had the product, Trina didn't see the sense in wasting her own money. She'd just pinch a little when she got back to the warehouse. Or convince Micky to deal with it. Carefully avoiding Crayland's corner, she returned to the el platform and headed to her next appointment.
She wanted to give a joyful shout when the sparkling financial district came into view through the scratched el train windows. All the morning's contemplation was just too depressing. Nothing made her feel alive and in charge like bold action and cold logic.
If she pulled off this stunt, Joel – Micky – had a better chance of surviving the next attempt to take him out. She wasn't about to examine her reasoning, this was purely a gut call after the recent headlines.
Logic, logic, logic, she thought, leaving the train and descending the stairs with the crowd. She let her head come up and put a spring in her step. Blending here, before she changed clothes, meant selling her look as a quirky 'artiste' rather than a lost junkie looking for a pocket to pick. She ducked into an alley, heading for the service entrance of the restaurant that anchored the nearest glittering high rise. Scooting through the kitchen to the employee's area, she brushed the wig, verified the contacts, and completed her transformation with a conservative suit and heels. At the mirror, she took stock of the new look and smiled at her success. She'd created the resemblance she wanted and might actually pass for Dakota's sister, eager to seize the reins and offer a fresh direction to the 'board of enforcers'. Stuffing all her previous failures in mass illusion into a mental box, she locked it and gave herself a pep talk.
It wasn't like she was really going to impress a big crowd, needing them all to see a movement or her physical features exactly the same way at a specific moment. No, this was more about attitude and calling a bluff. Two things she'd never expected to count as strengths. She wrapped herself in that untouchable confidence and left the restaurant, ignoring the curious looks.
Dakota's gang was knee deep in the feeding frenzy she'd set in motion. Taking out the boss tended to send the wannabes scrambling for a bigger slice of control. And while she'd suspected from the first that the crime bosses had come to some tenuous agreement to take out Slick Micky, she had not expected Montalbano to try and fill the hole she'd created by killing Dakota.
The territories, expertise and styles differed, but apparently the lust for power was universal.
Dakota had dressed in the right clothes, maintained the right address, and attended the right functions, earning the grudging respect of the financial community. Everyone knew he was dirty, but they all wanted to play. Just like she'd told Joel, people didn't care where the money came from as long as you tossed a little their way. Dakota had been a serious patron of the arts using money he collected in drug deals and extortion services carried out by his lieutenants.
Montalbano wasn't ignored by the law, precisely, but everyone knew he was generally above it, thanks to a family tree full of mob bosses and a talent for legal tap dancing. Taking him down was going to be tricky. A simple assassination wouldn't work. Even if she tossed light on the small, convoluted knot that linked his legitimate defense enterprises with Crayland's street gang, odds were good he'd beat the rap.
The way she'd read the headlines, Montalbano had sicced Crayland on the middle ranks of Dakota's scattered in-fighters. A few of Dakota's men had been picked up for petty, trumped up complaints, and the media credited all of it to anonymous tips. Anyone with street sense understood the potential risk and significant reward if Montalbano gained control of Dakota's people, but she wasn't sure law enforcement would make the connection in time to stop it.
She didn't lie to herself. 'In time' meant in time to protect Micky now. It still caused an odd little glitch in her stomach to realize she wanted to help a man who'd lied to her and prided himself on a business she didn't believe in.
Pulling her thoughts away from any softer emotions, determined to get this done and get out of town before she reached the point of no return, she strolled down the block and into Dakota's building.
Her first test came unexpectedly at the building's reception desk. The psychiatrist she'd drugged to gain access to Dakota's private offices gave her a long look while he waited for the elevator. She let him take his visual inventory, returning the favor until his cheeks went pink. Counting it a success, she asked for a visitor's pass to Dakota's floor.
> "That's restricted, ma'am. By invitation only."
She smiled, but it was nothing close to friendly. "Well, give Mr. Walker a call," she insisted, dropping the name of Dakota's second in command. "And get busy on that pass. I'm on a schedule."
The receptionist remained stoic despite Trina's attitude, but she moved to comply. Or call security. Trina prepared for either option.
"Whom shall I announce?"
"Ms. Dakota."
The receptionist's poise cracked and her eyes widened. "Of course."
So she had nailed the family resemblance. For one peripheral person. It wasn't big, but it was a start.
Chapter Nineteen
Micky had no trouble identifying the hotel in question, or gaining access to the room still sealed by bright crime scene tape. With his mules back on their routes, gossip flowed freely and this time he was grateful for it. Getting past the official barrier simply meant applying a bit of his natural charm. Now, if he only knew what he hoped to find.
Might have been smarter to hack into the evidence database or the morgue from the safety of his warehouse, but his gut insisted there was something here that wouldn't translate in reports or holograms. But was it something that led to Trina or away from her?
He didn't like this need to confirm or deny her story about taking out Sis's killer. It was bogus. Had to be. Trina wasn't supposed to be a bad ass. She was supposed to be a bittersweet memory of calmer days long gone.
And yet, she was here, back in Chicago and tied to at least one incident of harassing his business. He needed to pin down how she'd wound up on the docks and still had nothing to do with the sabotage that hadn't actually been sabotage. Did paranoia cause headaches? He pressed his hands to his temples and took a breath. Maybe her timing was just that awful. Nah. Maybe he was just that afraid, in some deep insecure corner of his mind, that she'd carefully planned it.
