by Mary Stone
Leaves crunched beneath Joseph’s dress shoes as he strode up the crumbling sidewalk. The wraparound porch was a patchwork of different types of wood, each mismatched board reminiscent of a hasty repair to keep the entire structure from collapsing.
A sliver of light pierced through the gap between a set of heavy curtains that covered the picture window next to a broken bench. Creaks of protest accompanied his footsteps, and he gritted his teeth.
If I fall through this damn floor, I’m going to burn this entire house to the ground.
To his relief, he made it to the doorway without incident. Pulling open the rusted screen door, he rapped his knuckles against the sturdy wooden surface—the only sturdy surface on the house’s exterior. The Leónes couldn’t call this dump a safe house if the damn door didn’t shut.
With a couple faint clicks as locks were disengaged, the door swung inward to reveal a man only a couple inches shorter than Joseph.
“Evening. Come on in.” The glow of a distant lamp gave Joe Dalessio’s dark brown hair a reddish tinge as he nodded and waved Joseph inside.
The sleeves of Dalessio’s dress shirt had been rolled up to the elbow, exposing forearms toned by years of competitive boxing. Though Joseph had witnessed Leóne-run underground fights, he’d never had the opportunity to watch one of Joe’s matches.
From what he’d been told, Joe was a sight to behold in the ring. Too bad this wasn’t the ring. Joseph straightened his black suit jacket as he crossed the threshold. “Is anyone else here other than you and Ulmer?”
“Why you asking?” Joe twisted a series of deadbolts into place before turning around to face Joseph. The sneer on Joe’s face matched the annoyance in the capo’s tone.
“I don’t like surprises,” Joseph answered sharply. His day had been tiring enough, and his patience was running thin. If this was going to be a round of twenty questions, he might just forget his promise to play nice.
After a moment of silence, Joe tilted his head toward the living room. “What do you need to talk to him about?”
Joseph gritted his teeth. Another fucking question. He stared at Joe, debating on how he wanted to reply while running scenarios through his head. Explaining to Brian or Stan why he had to take out a Leóne capo would be an uncomfortable conversation to have.
He hadn’t planned to stay long, anyway. Get in. Get the job done. Get out. He could manage a few more pleasantries if that meant this visit ended quickly.
Faking amusement, Joseph pasted a smile on his face and chuckled. “No need for all the tension. I just need to ask him about the inmate he hired to kill Carlo Enrico.” He peered past the foyer to the slat of light spilling through an open doorway.
“All right. He’s alone in there,” Joe replied with a note of curiosity. “Make it quick.”
The tarnished hardwood was sturdy beneath Joseph’s feet. Based on the smooth, beige drywall, the inside of the house was far better maintained than the exterior.
A pair of light blue eyes flicked away from a television screen as Joseph stepped into the wide doorway. With his five o’clock shadow and full head of caramel brown hair, dark wash jeans, and gray hoodie, Russel Ulmer looked like a normal guy.
They always did.
Joseph’s brother’s abuser had kept his rust-colored hair in a military-style cut, while his clothes were a casual mix of plaid button-downs and jeans. Everyone who met him saw Sawyer Kastner as an upbeat, energetic, and gregarious man.
Joseph pinned Russel with a scrutinizing stare, and the awkward spell of silence wasn’t broken until Dalessio crossed into the living area.
Dalessio pointed to Joseph. “This is a friend. He’s got something to ask you about the guy you recruited to kill Carlo Enrico.”
Russel’s eyes flicked back and forth between Dalessio and Joseph. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Okay. Um…what do you want to know?”
With an outstretched hand, Joseph beckoned for Russel to leave his comfortable post in the center of a gray sectional. “Come on, Ulmer. It was a long drive over here, and I could use something to drink. Walk with me, talk with me.”
As he pushed to his feet, Russel nodded. “Yeah, okay.”
From the corner of his eye, Joseph watched as Joe Dalessio strolled to the edge of the couch.
The long, rectangular living room ended in an arched doorway that led to a formal dining area, and beyond that, the kitchen. A few picture windows, their frames dusty and splintered, were covered by drapes the same color as the night sky. The overstuffed gray couch and a television took up one half of the room, and the section on the other side of the doorway was home to a couple armchairs and a card table.
“Come on. Kitchen’s back this way.” Joseph gestured to the arched doorway as Russel fell in at his side.
They’d only taken three steps when Joseph stopped short and clamped his hand around Russel’s throat.
Tightening his grasp, Joseph slammed Russel into the wood paneling with as much strength as he could muster. Boards cracked from the weight of the blow, and all the air exploded from Russel’s lungs in a single, heavy breath.
Dalessio cursed loudly, but Joseph ignored him.
Eyes bulging, Russel wheezed as he desperately tried to take a breath. He clawed at the fabric of Joseph’s sleeve, trying to pry away the hand cutting off his airway.
Joseph didn’t loosen his grip. He leaned his weight into his hand, further pinning Russel against the wall.
The man’s throat shifted beneath Joseph’s palm, and the first tears slid down his cheeks. As his eyelids squeezed shut, Joseph loosened his grasp for a split-second, enough to allow the man a breath of air before tightening it again.
“Open your eyes,” Joseph growled from between clenched teeth. “Fucking open ‘em, Russel.”
His damp eyelashes fluttered as he blinked away the tears.
“Good.” Joseph clamped his free hand down over the man’s Adam’s apple. “Now, look at me.”
Cartilage crunched under the force of Joseph’s grip, and Russel let out a gurgle as his eyes closed again.
And again, Joseph relaxed his grip just long enough to slam him into the wall.
“Keep those eyes open, dammit!”
With another feeble attempt to scratch Joseph’s arms, Russel’s bloodshot eyes met Joseph’s. His lips moved, but only a tiny squeak came out.
But he didn’t close his eyes.
Joseph leaned his weight against Russel’s ruined throat. Even as another round of tears spilled down Russel’s cheeks, Joseph’s stare didn’t waver. “Good. Just like that, Russel. I like to watch the light go out.”
Confusion and betrayal in Russel’s expression mingled with fear as his nails clawed at the wall, at Joseph’s suit jacket, at his own throat. Joseph peered into the depths of abject terror that filled those blue orbs, reveling in the man’s helplessness.
The unbridled panic dulled as the sparks of fear were washed away by the flat blue hue of Russel’s irises. Just before the man’s lids fluttered closed for the last time, the final ember fizzled out of existence.
As Joseph released his iron grip, Russel’s body slumped into a graceless heap. For good measure and to work out his lingering aggression, Joseph gave Russel’s neck a good stomp. The satisfying crunch as his heel connected with bone brought a smile to his face. That bastard wouldn’t be harming any more innocents.
“What the hell was that?” Joe Dalessio yelled.
Joseph spun around to meet the mobster’s incredulous glare. With a derisive snort, he brushed off the front of his jacket. “He was a loose end.”
Dalessio threw both arms out to his sides. “A little heads-up would have been good!”
Forgetting his promise to play nice, Joseph narrowed his eyes and leveled an index finger at Dalessio. “I don’t want to hear that from you, you got it? Not when your shithead cousin was running a kiddie porn ring in the basement of one of your warehouses.”
“Who the hell do you think you’re ta
lking to?” Joe’s hand cocked back to strike.
“Touch me, you sorry sonofabitch, and I will make sure it is the last move you make.” Joseph’s tone brooked no arguments. “I bailed your dumb ass out once, but test my patience, and I will bury you.”
Dalessio’s arm trembled, but even as rage burned in his eyes, he made the smart choice and let his arm drop. With a step back, Joe shook his head. “I didn’t know what my idiot cousin was up to.” His posture relaxed as rage was extinguished by disappointment. “None of us knew about that. Not me, not Emilio. No one!”
The capo’s nonthreatening stance was a clear sign he had gotten the message to stop acting like an entitled prick, but Joseph didn’t believe the story Joe was trying to feed him, not for a second.
“None of you knew? You thought a farm that grows corn and soybeans turned that kind of profit? Believe me, I know how much kiddie porn sells for, and it’s a hell of a lot more than crops!”
Dalessio hissed with disgust as he scrubbed his hands over his face. “I figured he was moonlighting, but I also figured he was having them mule drugs or cut coke in their downtime. Not…that.” He spat the final word like a poison. “Believe me, I’d have had a few things to say to Alton if that Fed bitch hadn’t killed him. She’s the same bitch who took down Emilio. Only a matter of time before she pisses off the wrong guy, and—”
As the hairs prickled along the back of Joseph’s neck, he snapped up a hand. “No. None of you are going to touch her. If you do.” He tapped himself on the chest. “I’ll gut you with my bare hands, understood?”
A muscle twitched in Dalessio’s jaw, but he didn’t speak.
With another step away from Russel’s corpse, Joseph straightened his suit jacket. “You and your people have a hell of a lot more on your plate than just one federal agent. Your cousin had a fourth guy in his little kiddie porn show. A CPD detective.”
The strain on Dalessio’s face vanished as his eyes widened. “What? A cop?”
“Yes. A cop. And that ‘Fed bitch’ you mentioned, well, she’s looking for him.” Joseph used all the patronizing snark he could muster. “So, I suggest you and your people start doing the same. Because the ‘Fed bitch’ is very, very good at what she does, and if she gets to him first.” He scoffed, knowing full well what she was capable of and that they deserved every last bit of the retribution she could bring down on them. “My guess is she’ll take him down, along with another chunk of the Leóne family.”
“Shit.” Dalessio shoved a hand through his hair. “I don’t know who the hell it could have been.”
“Figure it out.” Joseph tightened his black tie. “And when you find him, may I offer a suggestion?”
Dalessio’s expression was a mix of incredulous curiosity. “What?”
“Kill him.” For emphasis, Joseph drew a line along his throat with an index finger. “Because if you don’t, and if that ‘Fed bitch’ finds him, you’re going to be up shit creek without a paddle. And this time.” He paused in the doorway. “Don’t expect me or The Shark to bail your asses out. This is a business relationship, and lately, you all haven’t been holding up your end of the bargain.”
Joseph didn’t wait for a response before he turned to make his way to the front door.
Maybe he couldn’t rid himself of the Leónes, but he could make damn sure they knew who was running this show.
22
As Amelia slowed to a stop at a red light, she glanced to the manila folder in the passenger seat—the result of her sleepless night.
Though she’d only gotten four hours of shut-eye, she was impressed that she’d managed any. Aside from peering out her curtains and checking the deadbolt every twenty minutes, she’d dedicated her restless night to researching the old Portelli case.
Alex’s request that she review the pending murder charges against his lieutenant, Gabriel Badoni, had taken a back seat to finding the corrections officer responsible for Carlo Enrico’s death. Now that the prime suspect was in the wind, however, the murdered inmate’s case had ground to a halt.
She hoped the end of the investigation meant she could return to the shoebox-sized office with Zane and the new agent from Public Corruption. At least while she was there, she’d be away from Joseph Larson.
Not that she could avoid him forever. Or even for an entire day.
No. I’ve got work to do. I’m not thinking about that asshole right now.
Amelia tightened her grasp on the steering wheel and forced her attention back to the road. The sun had barely crested the horizon, and traffic was mercifully light.
Rather than the field office, her first stop of the day was the CPD building that had been home to Ian Strausbaugh. Before leaving her apartment, Amelia had called the murdered cop’s precinct’s captain to recite the phony reason for the FBI’s involvement in the investigation.
Well, the explanation was only partly phony.
She was part of the Bureau’s Organized Crime Division, and she was interested in reviewing the Strausbaugh murder for potential Leóne involvement.
She’d just left off the part where the victim—the detective—was the Leóne involvement.
During her late-night research session, Amelia had noticed that Ian and his partner had a disproportionate number of Leóne-related cases in their jackets. Her first thought was that the men might have been assigned to the Leónes like Amelia and Zane had been, but when she looked through the files a second time, a new pattern had emerged.
Whenever Ian and his partner took over a Leóne investigation, the outcome was almost always exoneration of the accused or failure to pursue criminal charges due to a lack of evidence. She might have written the dispositions off as incompetence or circumstance, but the two men had a high arrest and conviction rate otherwise.
Amelia didn’t have to stretch her imagination to picture the detectives as friends of the Leóne family.
However, if they were aligned with the Leónes, then there was enough to establish motive for a D’Amato lieutenant, like Gabriel, to execute one of them.
And right now, motive was the only part of the Strausbaugh case that made a lick of sense.
The alleged murder weapon, a Glock nine-millimeter, was the same handgun that had been used to kill Gerard Portelli in self-defense three years earlier. Alex’s lieutenant, Gabriel, had registered the handgun with the state of Illinois, and he’d obtained a permit to carry a concealed weapon.
It made no sense for Gabriel to use his own personal weapon to murder a Chicago Police detective. Not to mention, the Glock had been kept under lock and key in the CPD’s evidence locker.
Did they think Gabriel had pulled a James Bond and snuck into the precinct right under the noses of fifty or more detectives?
No. More than likely, the assumption was that a dirty cop had retrieved the nine-mil and returned it to Gabriel. However, Alex had said himself that the D’Amatos didn’t have many friends in the area around Strausbaugh’s precinct.
No matter how little sense the entire scenario made to Amelia, physical evidence was still king. Juries loved physical evidence, and she was sure a competent prosecutor could play down all the holes in the story.
Motive, ballistics, and Gabriel’s lack of an alibi would outshine circumstantial evidence on any day of the week.
Shaking off the contemplation, she pulled into a vacant parking stall beside a black and white police cruiser. Her thoughts had been so focused on Ian Strausbaugh’s murder that she could scarcely remember the drive.
Manila folder in one hand, paper cup of coffee in the other, she looked to where her smartphone rested in the cupholder. Glancing from the coffee to the folder, she elbowed the driver’s side door closed with a thud that reverberated through the parking garage.
No one would miss her for a couple hours. Plus, this way, she could completely ignore Joseph Larson while she was here.
As she set off for the stairwell, the faint echo of another person’s footsteps drew her attention to the adjacent
row of parked cars.
Leopard print handbag slung over one shoulder, neat mini braids pulled back in a low ponytail, Natasha Reyman looked as put together as the first time Amelia had met her. All except for her eyes. Amelia recognized the tired and rundown pair of bags weighing Natasha’s expression down.
Amelia cleared her throat to get Reyman’s attention.
Recognition brightened Natasha’s face as her gaze fell on Amelia. “Agent…” she stopped short and tapped her temple, “Storm. Agent Storm, good morning. Sorry, it’s still early. It’s a little hard to remember names at this hour.”
Amelia couldn’t agree more. She fell into step, walking alongside the taller woman. “No worries. I expect that at quarter after seven.”
As Natasha pulled open the door to the stairs, she flashed Amelia a curious look. “Speaking of, what brings you out to our neck of the woods so early in the day?”
Amelia waited for the detective to step onto the landing before she replied. “Well, as luck would have it, I was actually here to talk to you about the case you’re working on. I called the precinct captain and explained the whole thing.”
“Oh.” Natasha blinked a couple times and shook her head as if she were clearing the early morning dust from her thoughts.
Amelia could relate. If she hadn’t been up since five drinking coffee and researching Ian and his partner, she’d be slogging through consciousness just like the CPD detective. “Sorry for the late notice. My…colleague and I were just working on an urgent investigation, so I didn’t have the time to give much forewarning.”
“Okay, right, sure.” Natasha chuckled. “Believe me, I know how that goes, especially lately. So, you’re here about the murder of Detective Strausbaugh? Why’s the FBI interested in that?”
When they reached the ground floor, Amelia pried open one of the glass doors. “I’m following up on it to look for any potential Leóne family involvement. After the Kankakee County farm, we’re keeping a closer eye on the Leónes and their activities.”
