“Why would he do that?”
“Because I was a UC, too.”
Like it’s a fraternity, a bond. Carla pops out of her chair. It spins when she does so. Resting on her chair is one of the pills she’s been taking. Must have fallen out when she tried to hastily put them away as I walked into the station.
We break up our powwow. I walk over to her chair, scoop up the pill, and drop it in my pocket.
I have a right to know.
Just as a patrol officer, Officer Bostwick, rushes into the squad room.
“Detective Harney,” he says, “I think we got something on the tip line.”
Chapter 23
DAMIEN PEPPERS, a.k.a. Junior, stares at the ceiling with lifeless eyes, a gunshot wound to his forehead with stippling, suggesting it was close range. Of course it was close range. He was executed.
But not before he was tortured, shot once in each shoulder, once in each thigh.
“But why?” asks Carla. “For information or punishment?”
Neither of us knows yet. We don’t even know yet if Junior was responsible for the K-Town shooting. We know he’s Nation through and through, one of Jericho’s top “troopers,” or gunmen. Assassins. Jericho needed someone dead; Junior was one of his boys.
Kudos to Officer Joe Bostwick, overseeing the tip line, who listened to the woman calling in anonymously just a few minutes before six this morning. He got the name, ran his sheet, and realized it was credible. He passed it to me. Our team—Carla, Sosh, and I—headed straight over, while Mat Rodriguez rushed to the emergency judge for a search warrant just in case we needed it.
Nobody answered at the house, but Carla stood on a crate and peeked through a window and saw blood spatter and spent shell casings on the carpet. Exigent circumstances. We entered the front door at around the time the judge was signing the warrant.
They did more than shoot him. They made him hurt first. They did a number on his girlfriend, too. Evidence of sexual penetration, vaginal trauma, says the ME on the scene, before they put a bullet through her head, too. So to Carla’s question: Why?
Could be this was the Hustlers’ work. Andre Oliver learned that Junior was one of the shooters, or maybe just suspected it, and sent some boys over for a combination of retaliation and the extraction of information—information like who was in the car with Junior at K-Town.
Maybe. But I don’t think so. That would mean that “Sir Andre” violated his promise to me of a twenty-four-hour cease-fire. Not that I’d expect him to be honest. But I would expect him to be smart. I don’t see how it helps him to piss off the Special Operations Section. He could’ve waited twelve hours and done the same thing.
But who knows how people think? Maybe, against all reason, Andre thinks he has no choice but to retaliate, and he didn’t want Junior caught—he wanted him dead.
“No, this is Jericho cleaning up his own mess,” Carla says. “The extra gunshots and what they did to the girlfriend was to tell Junior that’s what you get for screwing up and killing a four-year-old.”
That’s where my money is, too.
The techies are working the scene now, lifting prints and pulling fibers, snapping photos and examining the victims. I take another look at the back door, where the entry was forced. They picked the lock and snapped the chain clean.
We step out onto the back staircase, where someone’s flagged a crushed cigarette butt by the door.
“You smell any cigarette smoke in there?”
Carla shakes her head no. “Faint smell of reefer, maybe. Didn’t see any packs of cigarettes, either.”
“Westbrook!” I call out.
Diane Westbrook, from Forensic Services, comes out from inside the house.
“Diane, bag this cigarette butt and run it over now. Upload a DNA sample onto the database. Maybe we get lucky with a match.”
“Got it,” she says.
“Diane,” I say, making sure we’re eye to eye. “This goes to the head of the line. Anyone has any doubts about that, you call me. I’ll have the supe on the phone within minutes. Head of the line, Diane. I have these results by lunch or someone’s gonna lose their job.”
“Roger that,” she says. “Believe it or not, I can be a bitch once in a while.”
“You, Diane? No.”
Soscia is standing by the sedan parked behind the house, Junior’s key ring dangling from his index finger. He’s already peeked in through the windows and seen nothing. He pops the trunk. Nothing of interest initially—a food wrapper, blanket, jumper cables.
But underneath the floorboard, an AR-15.
Soscia lifts it out of the car like he’s holding the Holy Grail. The dozen or so cops, detectives, officers, and techies out here—everyone wants in on this—all but break out in applause.
“I’m gonna personally run this to Ballistics,” he says.
Carla and I watch Sosh drive away with the prize.
“Well, gee whiz, Harney,” she says, “your little stunt with Jericho may have worked.”
Chapter 24
BACK AT SOS, the house is buzzing with the news, an extra skip in everyone’s stride. We aren’t saying anything officially yet. Everyone thinks there was more than one person involved in the K-Town shooting. It would be hard to pull that off solo.
Which means there’s at least one other man at large.
Mat Rodriguez pulls paper from the database. The list of known associates of Junior Peppers reaches the double digits. We start cross-referencing, lining up addresses, and getting patrols ready.
And getting an affidavit ready for a warrant. We just need the name to fill in.
Superintendent Tristan Driscoll is camped in Wizniewski’s office, working on an official statement he’ll make, presumably taking complete credit for solving this case, if that’s what we’re about to do.
Reporters are camped out downstairs, having heard some murmurs about a suspect taken into custody.
Sosh calls in at ten o’clock. “Ballistics are a fuckin’ match!” he shouts.
“Match,” I mouth to Carla, who gives me a high five, the most animation she’s shown. So the AR-15 we found in Junior’s car was the one used in the K-Town shooting.
One down, at least one to go.
“Great—now get your ass back here,” I tell Sosh.
Carla and I break the news to Lieutenant Wizniewski and our favorite superintendent, Tristan Driscoll.
“And you’re confident there’s a second offender involved,” says the supe.
Carla takes that one. “Hard to imagine one person would drive up and open fire,” she says. “More likely, there was a driver and a second guy in the back seat.”
Driscoll nods. “And where are we on that?”
“Hopeful for a DNA match,” I say. I tell him about the discarded cigarette butt. “It looked fresh, and neither Junior nor his girlfriend appeared to be smokers.”
“A full DNA analysis could take a while,” Carla adds. “But submitting a sample to a database for a match, at least a preliminary match—we should have that soon. Enough for a warrant, at least.”
“So when am I releasing a statement?” he asks, which was clearly all he wanted to know. How quickly can he take credit for this?
“Prefer you hold it,” I say. “We’d prefer that the first our guy hears about it is when we’re knocking on his door.”
“I can only hold it so long.” He leans back in his chair. “The press is already hearing about a suspect in custody.”
“Hold it as long as you can,” I say. “And let me know when it’s going to drop.”
He raises an eyebrow. “I’m taking orders from you now, Detective?”
“Pretty please,” I say. “With sugar on top.”
“What Detective Harney means,” says Wizniewski, dressed today in a full suit and tie, I notice, “is he’d appreciate a heads-up, sir.”
I point to the Wiz. “That’s what I meant.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Diane Westbrook com
e bounding into the squad room.
“Excuse me,” I say.
We pop out of Wizniewski’s office. Diane is out of breath.
“We have a preliminary match,” she says. She looks at the printout in her hand. “Prince Valentine.”
“That an alias?”
“That’s his given name. Prince Allan Valentine. Got a sheet a mile long, including a juvie murder, agg batt, some drugs. Reputed member of the Imperial Gangster Nation.” She sings the last words, proud of herself.
“Diane, I could kiss you.” I nod to Carla, catch the eye of Rodriguez. “Mat, run the affidavit over to Judge Peters. We’re not screwing this up on a procedural.”
Diane walks over and confers with Mat while we read his rap sheet. Diane’s right. Violence and gangs all over. This is our guy.
“Gear up,” I say. “Let’s get a solve.”
Chapter 25
PRINCE VALENTINE lives on the far West Side, on the third floor of a yellow-brick apartment building in the middle of the block with an alley to the north. I don’t like alleys. Alleys cause problems. So we have a cruiser—driven by Officer Bostwick, who deserves to be in on this, along with three of his fellow patrolmen—blocking the alley a ways down, out of sight from Prince’s alley-side window but close enough to respond within seconds if we need it.
Carla, Soscia, Rodriguez, and I sit in the Taurus, curbed down the street, waiting. Someone could’ve made us already. Our “unmarked” vehicles don’t fool anyone who knows what they’re doing, and this is a neighborhood that’s seen plenty of crime. I’m pretty sure we broke up a drug deal on our drive here, four guys standing on a sidewalk, scattering as we approached.
“No roof access,” Sosh says. “Fire escape’s half falling off the building. The ladder to the roof is swinging on one hinge.”
Mat has the warrant. I had a pretty good sense we could’ve gone in without one, but better to be careful, a case like this, all the attention it’ll get. And the time to wait didn’t cost us. We had patrols watching his house within five minutes of getting those DNA results from Forensics.
“Don’t knock and announce,” Sosh says.
“We’re gonna knock and announce,” I say.
“Better we surprise him.”
“Yeah, if you’re last through the door, like you’ll be. How about if you’re first, Captain Courage?”
“Fine,” Sosh says. “You wanna use Betsy? I’ll go fuckin’ first.”
“Mierda, it’s like I’ve got two more children,” Carla interrupts. “Harney’s lead, so we freakin’ knock and announce. Next time, we’ll do what you want, Soscia. I promise.”
“There,” I say. “Let’s go.” We get out into the blazing heat of high noon and hustle up the sidewalk as a woman walks out the front door of the apartment building. “Excuse me, ma’am,” I say, meeting her as she comes down the porch steps. My shield is already dangling from a lanyard, but I hold it and show it to her. “Help us get through that front door, would you?”
The woman, middle-aged and tired, dressed in a waitress outfit, looks up from her purse and sizes us up, one eyebrow lifting. “Is there gonna be trouble?” she asks.
“No, ma’am. Just a routine inspection. Not your apartment, of course.”
“Mm-hmm.” She eyes the battering ram Sosh is holding at his side, which he named Betsy after his first wife. She walks back up the steps, finds the right key on an impressive ring, and lets us through the outside door.
Carla radios to Bostwick to watch the alley; we’re heading up. We take the stairs as gently as four people can take stairs that creak and moan with every step. No matter. As we hit the third floor—the top floor—we hear music, some poppy dance stuff.
“Prince Valentine? Chicago police detectives.” I stand to the side and pound on the door.
Footfalls from within the apartment. The probation reports say Prince lives alone. No children, no spouse.
“Just wanna ask you some questions, Prince!”
My three partners have their guns drawn but down while I stand at the door.
“Hang on,” he calls out from within the apartment, yelling over the music.
Then more noise: a whining noise, then a crash of wood on wood, then a body in motion, feet pounding. But not on the floor.
I draw my weapon and wave to Sosh, already hoisting Betsy.
“Fuckin’ told ya,” he murmurs.
Chapter 26
SOSH RAMS Betsy against the door. The door splinters, but the hit wasn’t square, so it busted the door but not the lock. Sosh cusses and rears back, slams the ram against the door with more violence, this time hitting the target, busting through the lock, the door swinging open.
I go through first, shouting “Police!” into the empty apartment. Turn to my right, the bedroom window, closed and secure. To my left: a ladder, coming down from the ceiling. He has roof access from inside the apartment. And a head start.
Carla calling in to Bostwick, “He’s on the roof!”
I bound up the ladder, pause before popping my head through the open skylight, then peek out. Yep, a big head start.
I jump onto the gravel roof.
“He’s got a weapon!” Carla relays. Someone on the ground must’ve seen it.
Prince Valentine is in full sprint, heading south toward the other end of the building. I call out “Police!” again, as if that wasn’t the whole reason he’s running. “We just want to talk to you!” I yell, as I hold my weapon down, running as fast as I can, which is not as fast as Prince can.
He doesn’t break stride as he runs toward the other end of the roof. What’s his play here? Any second, he’s going to have to stop, turn around, his brain overtaking his instinct to run, and realize he has nowhere to go. I have to be ready when he realizes that.
But he doesn’t stop. He jumps off the ledge, like a long jumper, hands and legs making wide circles, and disappears from sight.
What the—
I keep running, and I see him. He jumped onto the neighbors’ roof, a two-story building. He’s coming out of his landing now, recovering, jumping to his feet and running again.
I don’t think. I don’t stop. Knowing that it might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. I holster my weapon as I speed up, moving as fast as my legs will take me, plant my foot on the ledge, sail into the air, a narrow alley beneath me—that sickening feeling of being airborne with nothing but a hard alley pavement three stories below—and land hard on the other roof, fifteen feet below, my weight pitching forward, my hands scraping against blacktop and a thin layer of pebbles. Flat on my stomach. The wind knocked out of me. I look up, see the suspect slow down, pivot, and turn to his left, past an AC condenser and toward a small roofed enclosure.
He had an escape planned out. He’s going to go through a door down into the building.
I get to my feet, draw my weapon, and jog in the direction he fled. I clear a wide circle to improve my angle and keep my weapon up, just in case—
He pops out from behind the condenser, a one-handed grip on his weapon, aiming it where he expects me to be, to my left, quickly adjusting but giving me that split second of time—
A flash from his weapon as I rip off one, two, three shots, a force hitting my torso so hard that I’m thrust backward, falling to my back, a blue sky, the sun hitting my eyes.
A sound behind me, a body landing, scrambling. “Harney! You okay?” Carla sweeps past me, her weapon trained forward. “You okay?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. I roll to my side, see Carla move toward the suspect, lying motionless on the ground. She approaches him with caution, kicks the weapon far from his body, reaches down, and feels for his pulse.
Another body landing on the roof behind me. “Suspect is down!” Rodriguez calls. “Officer is down!”
Chapter 27
BY THE time I sit up, my legs out in front of me, the roof of the building next door to Prince Valentine’s apartment is littered with uniformed officers. Carla has holstered her
weapon and walks over to me. “We need to get you to an emergency room,” she says.
I shake my head. I’m fine. I put three bullets into Prince’s chest; he put one in my ribs. I was wearing a bulletproof vest; he wasn’t. I’m alive; he’s dead.
“Anything hurt?” she asks.
“Only when I breathe.” An old joke, but I’m not kidding. Ribs aren’t broken, though, just a little sore. I also hit my head pretty hard on the fall and got a good ringer to show for it.
The aftershock is just now hitting me, the adrenaline rush, as I consider in hindsight what happened so fast at the time.
Starting with the beginning: if we’d surprised him, rammed the door without notice, Prince Valentine would probably still be alive.
Soscia appears on the roof, the last of our four-person team. He wipes his sleeve against his forehead. It’s only then I become aware of the intense heat, the sun on my face.
He comes over, stops, appraises me, nods his head. “Welcome back to the force, Detective Harney.”
“You took the stairs, I see.”
“Don’t want to overextend myself,” he says. “Doctor said to cut down on roof jumping.”
Sosh was the last one through Prince’s door—his weapon wasn’t drawn because he used the battering ram—and the last one in secures the apartment. Not that Sosh would have been able to clear that alleyway space between the two buildings anyway. If he’d tried, we’d have two officers down, one of them on the pavement of the alley.
Sosh squats down, looks me in the eyes, cups a hand around my neck. I swear I catch some mist in his eyes. The guy’s a teddy bear at heart.
“You did good here, Billy. Real good.”
I’m not sure that’s true. “If we surprised him, like you said—”
“You don’t know what woulda happened.” An emphatic shake of the head. “Guy could’ve had the gun on him. Probably did. We surprise, he starts blasting at us inside the tiny apartment. Instead, you gave him time to run. Shit, the guy was probably hopped up anyway after the shooting drew so much attention.”
The Red Book Page 7
