No One Left To Tell no-2

by Jordan Dane

  "Thank you, Detective. I appreciate your concern. I'll call if I think of anything."

  Father Antonio stood and shook their hands. Two other priests escorted the young man back to the rectory. She and Tony watched him walk away.

  "You thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?" She glanced toward her partner.

  "Depends on if you're thinking Starbucks and a Krispy Kreme would taste pretty good right now and that you'd like to get home before midnight. But if you're thinking that, I'd say we been partners too long," he bantered. When she narrowed her eyes, giving her best sarcastic look, he asked for clarification. "Enlighten me."

  "I was just thinking about that whole blood-dripping thing, and how he heard that. I think our good father had someone watching over him tonight." When Tony looked puzzled, she explained. "The vic's blood was still dripping. That means Father Antonio barely missed the killers making their renovation to St. Sebastian. I think that whatever made him late probably saved his life."

  Raising his eyebrows in agreement, he pursed his lips and nodded. "Interesting observation, Mackenzie. Well, you know what they say? He works in mysterious ways."

  "Maybe Father Antonio's guardian angel will bring us good luck." She punched Tony's arm affectionately. "Now let's go tackle some paperwork. With us talking to Fiona Dunhill tomorrow, I got a feeling a mountain of paper, stale coffee, and secondhand smoke from the bullpen is gonna seem like heaven."

  Even though false bravado tempered her voice, she knew enough to worry. Money and power were a deadly combination in the wrong hands.

  And Fiona Dunhill had both.

  CHAPTER 2

  Dunhill Estate

  Shoreview Historic District

  "Get a load of this place!" Tony gawked at the acres of pristine countryside. "They must have a riding mower."

  "People like this don't get their kicks from wrangling the trusty Toro. They hire it done," Raven teased.

  Her eyes on the rearview mirror, she made note of all the firepower carried by the armed guards at the imposing fortress at the front gate. Security personnel dressed in black uniforms commanded the precision of the military. Maybe more like well-paid mercenaries. But mission accomplished, the entrance to the Dunhill Estate was a battlement.

  Yet once inside the grounds, she found the view spectacular, despite the cold gray morning. Age-old oaks were rooted to the fertile soil, the expanse of their branches giving an air of timelessness. Slowly negotiating the curves of the asphalt drive in her police-issue burgundy Crown Vic, Raven marveled at the grand estate looming on the horizon—a white colonnade of southern charm with the backdrop of Lake Michigan.

  "This place is like a throwback to the late eighteen hundreds—and so close to the heart of Chicago. Amazing!" She widened her eyes in awe.

  They pulled up to the front tiled steps. Raven suddenly felt intimidated by the size and opulence of the manor. Tony must have felt it, too. He squirmed in his seat, crooking a finger between his neck and shirt collar.

  "I thought this clip-on tie wouldn't feel so tight around my neck, but my damned shirt collar is choking me."

  Raven fought to hide her amusement. Apparently, there were no secrets between her and Tony if he admitted owning a clip-on tie, much less had the nerve to actually wear it.

  "I know you're not comfortable, but you still look nice, partner." She grinned.

  When he stopped his fidgeting and returned a smile, his dark eyes softened. She knew his pale blue oxford button-down didn't fit anymore. And admittedly, his brown herringbone sport jacket, with its dated elbow patches, should have remained hidden in the back of his closet. But Tony was her partner, for better or worse. Today just happened to tip the scales on the side of worse.

  "You clean up good. But I miss your old man's Cubs hat." He winked.

  Most of last night, she'd debated what she'd wear to the Dunhill mansion. Her navy pantsuit hid all her usual accessories of gun, badge, and handcuffs. So function won out. For fashion's sake, she left the ankle-strapped .38 in her locker at work. This hour of the morning, a massive shoot-out seemed unlikely at the posh estate. And with the welcoming committee out front, she'd be severely outgunned.

  "Before we get in there, let's talk game plan, Raven. What did you find out about Fiona Dunhill?"

  She shifted her weight in the front seat and turned to her partner. "From what I've researched, Dunhill Corporation doesn't fund all this grandeur. That's just a smokescreen. The real money came from the illegal arms trading of Charles Dunhill, the late husband of Fiona."

  "Yeah, kinda remember him from the old days. To tell you the truth, I was kinda surprised a socialite like Fiona Dunhill would've taken over the business after her old man's murder. Crime families run by women are so rare, but I guess it's not unheard of," Tony reflected. He turned his gaze toward the front door. "And she's evidently doing a damned fine job of it."

  "But she's still involved with that dirty little business, Tony. Or maybe she's just turned a blind eye to it." Furrowing her brow, she corrected herself. "Actually, from what I've read, she took that side of the business and went underground, laundering the dirty money with the legitimate end of her investments."

  Raven's life had been about order and the law. So a woman like Fiona Dunhill didn't add up in her book. But she knew her partner would temper her strong tendency toward black and white. Tony was far more pragmatic, better able to tolerate the gray in their world.

  "I'll give her this, the woman's a total contradiction. And she's pretty shrewd, not being caught and all. Hard to track that kind of money trail." He shook his head.

  "So, what else do we want out of this visit?" Raven prompted.

  "You heard the chief—quick and by the book. Kind of pie in the sky to think we can bring her down on all her illegal activities, no matter how tempting that might be. But we've got a murder to solve." Reaching for the door handle, Tony looked concerned. "I just hope she doesn't erect any major roadblocks."

  Raven stepped from the car and slammed the door. She felt the thrill of the chase as she caught Tony's eye, but butterflies the size of vultures were cavorting in the pit of her stomach.

  "Come on, partner. Game face on. We're crossing the line."

  In the hallway of the second floor, Fiona gazed at her reflection in the ornate gold-framed mirror. The same dark green eyes stared back, but the intensity of youth was long gone. Or maybe her tired expression had more to do with the news she'd heard from the guards at the front gate. Two police detectives were now in the parlor, waiting for her.

  "We are not punished for our sins, but by them," she muttered.

  Short, auburn hair streaked with gray framed her face. Mindlessly, she tugged at its strands. Her once-flawless complexion looked pale in this light, without the blush of youth. She'd grown accustomed to the deepening lines on her face. But this morning, they were more pronounced and showed every one of her fifty-four years. While her socialite friends were being jabbed with syringes of Botox or scheduling discreet facelifts, she had been determined to live with every crease. She would accept her penance with grace.

  "Time to face the music."

  With her hand sliding along the banister, Fiona took her time coming down the steps. Her pale blue silk ensemble clung to her body. The fitted material made her feel manacled. She kept her eyes on the open door to the parlor, near the front entry. A young woman sat on the divan by the hearth. Her shoulder-length, jet-black hair reflected an aura of crimson with the fire crackling behind her. Even in profile, the young detective was most attractive. A dark-skinned man in khaki pants and brown sport coat paced in front of her, adjusting his tie and collar with a finger. At the base of the staircase, she raised her chin and drew back her shoulders, donning the persona of her public life.

  "To what do I owe this pleasure, Detectives?" Fiona breezed into the room.

  "Good morning, Mrs. Dunhill. I'm Detective Tony Rodriguez and this is Detective Raven Mackenzie." Both held their badges for her inspection. "We're in
vestigating—"

  "Before we get started, may I offer you coffee or tea?" she interrupted, with a casual smile. Without waiting for a reply, she turned toward her attendant standing inside the door. "Benjamin. Please bring in a coffee service and some pastry for our guests. I'll have my usual Earl Grey tea. Thank you."

  When the manservant left the room, Fiona seated herself in a brocade wingback chair and adjusted her dress hem over her knees. Detective Rodriguez relaxed enough to sit next to his partner on the davenport. The warm glow of the fire flickered on their expectant faces.

  "Sorry to interrupt. Please continue."

  The male detective spoke. "I'm afraid I've got some disturbing news. We're investigating a murder. And the victim was one of your security people, Mickey Blair. His body was found last night at St. Sebastian's, a local church in downtown Chicago."

  She fought to keep the look of shock from her face, but she was certain she failed. She would have to do better.

  "Mickey Blair, you say? In security?" Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat to disguise her mistake. "I'm not sure I recall the name, but I have a large number of people under my employ at Dunhill Corporation." As she suspected, her past had come calling, not a welcome visitor.

  "We'll need access to Mr. Blair's duties and his personnel records, anything to give us a clear picture of him. Who can help with that type of information?" he asked, flipping open a notepad.

  Detective Rodriguez commandeered the conversation, but the young female detective captured her interest. Raven Mackenzie sat, her eyes fixed on Fiona's every move. Even returning her stare, she couldn't shake the young woman's dark eyes. They hadn't faltered for an instant—unnerving. But intimidation would turn the tables.

  "Dunhill records are confidential, and as for his duties, that is certainly off-limits."

  For the first time, the young female detective spoke. "Why would you fight us on a murder investigation of one of your employees? Especially if you aren't familiar with the man or his duties, as you say."

  Detective Mackenzie was too clever for her own good. Rigid in her chair, Fiona clenched her jaw and took a breath before speaking. A potential solution came to mind.

  "Perhaps I didn't make myself clear. Certainly I would like to get to the bottom of this. But unless I can be assured you're working with one of my own people in this investigation, without limitation, then my full cooperation shall never be granted."

  Turning two detectives loose to pry into her dealings with Mickey Blair was unthinkable. Without question, she trusted only one person to look out for her interests. Yet she couldn't picture him working with the police, under any circumstances. She'd have to do some pretty fast talking to convince him to do her bidding. And he'd have to set aside his animosity for law enforcement. But she knew he would be her only hope.

  "A court order would be required, making your efforts an uphill battle. And the head of my security would conduct his own private investigation, completely autonomous to your endeavor." She kept her face stoic, a payoff from living a life in charge. "And I may not be in the mood to share."

  An awkward void in conversation filled the room. Only the steady crackle of the blaze persisted. Fiona pressed, "Now that I've conveyed my meaning adequately, I assure you, it is far better to work in concert with me than against my wishes. So do we have ourselves a bargain?"

  "Do we have a choice?" Detective Mackenzie's resentment was unmistakable.

  "None, actually. I'm glad you've seen the light. I'm sure your delightful Chief Markham will be most happy. He and I have known one another for years." She reminded them of the political pressure she wielded.

  Breaking the stalemate, Benjamin entered the room with a silver tray, setting down the coffee and tea service on the table in front of the detectives. "Is there anything else, madam?"

  "Everything looks lovely, Benjamin. Thank you. Detectives, please. Join me." In a peace offering, Fiona extended her hand, then reached for her cup of tea. Detective Rodriguez poured some coffee, with his partner eventually following his lead.

  "So who is our new comrade in arms?" Detective Mackenzie asked, stirring a spot of cream into her coffee. "And he'd better like long hours and lousy coffee. We can't use an eight-to-fiver."

  "Christian Delacorte is head of Dunhill Security, and I can assure you he is strictly twenty-four/seven. I wouldn't have it any other way. He's more like family. And as for his cultivated taste in coffee, I'm sure you'll find he doesn't compromise."

  "Great! Nothing like breaking in a rookie. So where can we find Juan Valdez, connoisseur of Java?" The young woman's wit amused her partner. The man nearly choked on his coffee. But Fiona suspected her security head would find difficulty tolerating it. Especially given the fact Raven Mackenzie carried a badge.

  "I am certain at this hour, Christian is working off some steam with his men. He won't be pleased with his new assignment. So I'll have to finesse his cooperation. Maybe even order him to work with you, if it comes to it."

  Seeing a spark of hope in Detective Mackenzie's eye, Fiona interceded, "Before you ask the obvious, Detective. Let me clarify. If Christian chooses not to take this assignment, I won't force him. But you won't get my cooperation, either."

  "But you're his boss. Ordering is what bosses do. Only they call it delegating or a paradigm shift in responsibility—whatever the new corporate buzzword," Raven asserted.

  "Let's just say that Christian is his own man. And I trust him implicitly. He always has my best interest at heart. He's been a part of this family since he was a boy of ten. But you should be aware he has a past where law enforcement is concerned, I'm afraid."

  "A criminal record?" The young woman's eyes flared.

  "No, Detective, nothing so mundane. And I won't be talking out of school. Not about that. He is a deeply private man." Images of Christian emerged in Fiona's mind, flashes of him as a child and the man he'd grown to be. "You'll discover his nature soon enough. I've had the pleasure of getting to know him better over the past twenty-five years, and he's still a fascinating puzzle."

  "You said he was blowing off steam. Where is he? The spa? The tennis court, maybe?"

  Taking a sip of her tea, Fiona hid her enjoyment of Detective Mackenzie's assumption. She ignored the implication that Christian was a kept man.

  "I shall escort you to the war room, so you can see how he amuses himself with a few of his men. Christian constructed it for his use, and named it appropriately. I have to warn you. He's not expecting you. I'll have to convince him to do my bidding. But I can be most persuasive."

  "Yes, ma'am, we can attest to that." Detective Rodriguez nodded.

  "Persevere, Detectives, and he'll cooperate when he's ready." Fiona stood, allowing them to set down their coffee cups. "Follow me."

  "This way, Detectives." Mrs. Dunhill directed them with a wave of a hand. Her genteel voice echoed down the long corridor.

  Oversized tapestries and ornately framed oil paintings adorned paneled walls on the second floor. Raven hadn't seen anything like it. The extravagance took her breath away, but the theme displayed in each piece disturbed her. Ancient battles and death were forever frozen in time. The art of warfare commemorated in exquisite colors and gilded frames, as in a museum.

  "Charming. Who did the art selection? Attila the Hun?" Raven muttered to her partner, but her hostess must have heard.

  "Christian selected each piece. Once you see the war room, you will understand completely. He has a sense of humor, albeit black as coal." Mrs. Dunhill had been reserved until now. But when the woman raised a corner of her lip into a quick show of cordiality, Raven got the distinct impression Christian Delacorte had earned her respect.

  "After you." Their escort smiled and held a small door open to usher them inside. Built into the wall at the end of the hallway, the door's dimensions were dwarfed in comparison to the grandeur of the rest of the manor.

  "Why do I feel like Alice looking down a rabbit hole?" Raven whispered as she stepped across
the isolated portal.

  "And Fiona Dunhill is beginning to look an awful lot like the Cheshire cat," Tony mused. "Minus the furry striped tail. I hope."

  Once inside the strange room, Raven's eyes adjusted to the murkiness of dimmed recessed lighting. Steps descended along four rows of stadium-style seats. A focal point of the room was the wide window down front. And a cavernous antechamber lay below, just beyond the glass. A door on the left connected to stairs leading to the floor of the gymnasiumlike chamber. Raven saw the interior of the larger room strewn with barricades, hulls of old cars, and walls of sandbags, looking like a war-ravaged village.

  "This is our observation room. Please take a seat in the front row, Detectives. It looks like we haven't missed much." Mrs. Dunhill's voice was mixed with pride and fascination.

  Faint voices sounded on the overhead speakers within the confined space. Drawing her attention to the floor below, a group of uniformed men circled a shirtless man, clad only in his black uniform pants and military-style boots. The group seemed oblivious to their presence. One of the five men blindfolded the man in the center. With a hood placed over his head, he looked like he would face a firing squad, minus the last smoke. His tanned muscular torso glistened with sweat, but the others looked well-rested. Their uniforms were impeccably creased. What had this poor man been put through before she'd entered the room? He must have drawn the short straw and would pay for his bad luck.

  Transmitted over the speakers above, a guard's voice penetrated the quiet space of the observation deck. "If you're ready, lights out."

  After a nod from the hooded man, the overhead light extinguished. Blackness filled the large chamber. Raven couldn't see a thing below. Her hands tightened on the armrest. Edging forward, she peered through the dark.

  "I'm turning out the lights here as well, but the glass is equipped for night vision. You'll be able to see everything, just like the guards. Only they'll be wearing night-vision goggles," Mrs. Dunhill explained. "The window is a mirror into the chamber. They can't see us, but we can see them."