Greed: A Detective John Lynch Thriller

by Dan O'Shea

  CHAPTER 31

  Wilson and Hardin barely made it in the door of her condo. She turned to Hardin, clasped her hands behind his neck, her mouth covering his like it was the only way she could breathe. And then she was opening his shirt, and he was reaching for her belt. When he undid it, the weight of the S&W in the hip holster pulled her pants to the floor, the gun hitting the tile with a thunk, and Hardin said, “Jesus, I hope the safety is on.”

  Wilson pulled back for a moment – her eyes on his, sad all of a sudden and a little afraid – and he could see that this was no time for jokes, that she couldn’t take it, not if this didn’t mean to him what it meant to her.

  Then his own pants were dropping, and they were both just flesh. She was unfolding herself like a Cubist sculpture, all of her surfaces – thighs, crotch, stomach, chest, mouth – pressing against him desperately, like she wanted somehow for every square inch of her flesh to press against every square inch of his. He felt the naked admission of her hunger, and he remembered all the other women – a girl in high school, the Marine groupies outside Camp Lejeune, a couple of African girls, the Peace Corps volunteer in Lagos, the economics student from the Sorbonne who he imagined for a time he might have loved – and realized that he had been nude with women before but that he had never been naked. He had never surrendered his distance. He had made love from behind his mental battlements, like a sniper, and this time it would be hand-to-hand, mouth-to-mouth. This time it would cost him a piece of himself.

  Then they fell onto her bed, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, her feet pressing down onto his buttocks like hands, and she was already wet and hot and open and he was stripped of every pretense, any idea beyond this moment. He felt himself being drawn into her as if he could somehow spill not just his seed but his entire person into her, and he knew this was the beginning of a private religion. It was the moment in which they became each other’s gods.

  When they were finished, they both lay on their backs, separate, no longer touching. And then she rolled over, and she took his face in her hands, and she kissed him gently, but for a long time.

  “Last time you kissed me like that you were saying goodbye,” said Hardin.

  “I’m not going anywhere this time,” she said, rolling off the bed and standing up. “Just to the john.”

  Hardin watched her cross the room, the dim light leaking through the Venetian blinds, falling in stripes across her back like the contour lines on a map. Hardin held it in his mind, knowing what a perfect ass would look like if you ever mapped one. He felt the sheen of sweat drying on his skin. All of it turning in his mind, the perfect satisfaction of this moment, the lost years, her brother’s ghost.

  Then she came back to him, lying on the bed, no effort to cover her nakedness, her head on his shoulder like a part of him that had been missing his entire life.

  He’d told her all of it – Fenn, the blackballing, the diamonds, and everything else from all the lost years. And she told him. Hernandez never came for her. She was just another puta. Her parents had both died within a year, after Esteban. They never came back from that. She couldn’t stand to look at the town anymore. She got in her car one day, started west on 88, turned south on 35 at Des Moines. The car broke down in Wichita. She got a job waitressing, started taking classes at Wichita State, married a guy with a heating and air conditioning business. People couldn’t live without their AC in Wichita. She graduated with a Criminal Justice degree at WSU, hired on with the Wichita PD. Her husband felt emasculated having a cop for a wife, and the marriage came apart pretty quick, mostly because she really didn’t care. She was Jeanette Wilson by then, though. Five years later, she joined the DEA in Texas, three years there, lots of violence, too much violence, had been shipped up to Chicago two years ago.

  “You were probably supposed to tell them, huh?” said Hardin. “About Hernandez?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Any reason you didn’t?”

  A pause. “Options, I guess. I always figured there might come a day where things could go one way or the other. And if they went a certain way, maybe it would be better for me if a review board wasn’t pawing through my baggage.”

  “Pretty sure you’re supposed to tell them about me, too.”

  “Pretty sure.”

  He ran his hand across her face, brushing her hair aside. She kissed his palm.

  “So where do we go from here?” she asked.

  “South Pacific, Tahiti, in around there. Lots of places down there where my French papers will fit in good. Especially when I’ve got $15 million to go with them.”

  She ran her hand over his chest, it resting right over his heart, her fingers curling an uncurling through the hairs on his chest. “Beach bums, huh? Not going to get boring? After the Legion and everything?”

  “I’m willing to give it a try,” he said. “We can always look up the local DGSE guys; go sink a Greenpeace boat or something. If we get bored.”

  She didn’t say anything for a moment.

  “But after we kill Hernandez,” she said.

  “Right,” said Hardin. “After that.”

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 32

  In Starshak’s office the next morning, Lynch filled them in on Fenn, Ringwald, the scene at the hockey game.

  “Puts Fenn back on the front burner,” said Starshak.

  “Yeah,” said Lynch. “There’s more. Remember that gangster thing they filmed down on the south side maybe seven, eight years back? Cal Sag Channel?”

  Bernstein nodded. “One of Fenn’s first big pictures.”

  “Guess who’s listed as a script consultant,” Lynch said.

  Starshak snorted. “You’re gonna tell me Corsco, right?”

  Lynch nodded. “Word is Fenn and Corsco, they got pretty tight. With all the chicks hanging around Fenn, he’d get Corsco pussy, and Corsco would keep Fenn in coke.”

  “Nice symbiotic relationship,” said Bernstein

  “So maybe this Corsco thing with Hardin? Payback from Fenn out of that Africa bullshit?”

  Starshak shook his head. “Big shot celebrity like Fenn taking out a mob hit over some bad PR? Guy’s got to have serious snakes in his head to take that kind of risk.”

  Lynch shrugged. “Weird-ass shit for sure. You got something else that ties Corsco to Hardin, I’m all ears. But Hardin and Fenn, so far as we can tell, they’ve intersected exactly once and some famous crap happened. Now we got them in the same town at the same time again, and we’ve got crap happening again.”

  “Occam’s razor,” Bernstein said.

  Starshak gave him a blank look.

  “Occam was a medieval philosopher. He posited that the simplest explanation for any given set of facts is usually the best explanation, even if it seems unlikely. Hardin and Fenn have a history. Fenn’s got a reputation as a hot head. Fenn knows Corsco. Corsco made a play for Hardin.”

  “Just seems so fucking stupid,” Starshak said.

  “Imagine that,” Lynch said. “Hollywood types acting stupid.”

  Starshak grunted. “So check it out. Something else to rattle Corsco’s cage with anyway. Speaking of which, you talk to him on this South Shore business yet?”

  Lynch shook his head. “He’s ducking us. Lawyer says he’s out of town.”

  “OK, you brace Fenn,” said Starshak. “I’ll call Ringwald, put a boot up his ass, tell him he doesn’t get Corsco to show up soon, we’ll go for a subpoena.”

  “Another thing we haven’t thought enough about,” said Bernstein. “This second guy, Mr .22.”

  Starshak nodded again. “Ideas?”

  “Refugee makes it Africa,” said Lynch, “and that makes it Hardin. Except this guy is shooting everybody but Hardin.”

  “Which, if Hardin really has some diamonds, maybe makes it about the diamonds,” said Bernstein.

  “What do we know about those?” Starshak asked.

  “Checked on it a little,” said Bernstein. “The conflict diamond issue w
as way bigger ten, fifteen years back when the civil war in Liberia was still going good – how a lot of those guys got money for their weapons. Your mainstream diamond guys – De Beers, the Russians and whatnot – they put this certification system in place. Kimberley Certificates, to cut down on the black-market business. So if Hardin has uncertified diamonds, he’d have to work through an insider to get them into the system.”

  “Was Stein an insider?” Starshak asked.

  “His family started out in diamonds, back in New York. A lot of Jews in that business,” Bernstein said. “He’d know people.”

  “But how did Hardin know Stein?” asked Lynch.

  Bernstein shrugged. “Don’t know. Stein, he was real tight with Israel, traveled there a lot. Hardin, we know he was in the Middle East with the Marines. But we don’t know what he was up to for quite a while after that.”

  “So one way or another, Hardin got some rocks off of somebody,” said Starshak. “And this .22 guy, maybe he’s trying to get them back?”

  “Something’s still off,” said Lynch. “Hardin had just left Stein when Mr.22 showed up and popped him. And Hardin had just been down at South Shore when Mr .22 shows up there, pops another guy. He’s after Hardin, how come he’s following him around, shooting everybody else?”

  “Don’t know,” said Bernstein. “One other thing? On the diamonds? You’ve had Lebanese merchants all over Northern Africa for centuries, and they’ve always been active in the diamond business. Hezbollah, guys like that – a lot of them are out of Lebanon.”

  Starshak rubbed his face with both hands for a minute, blew out a long breath. “So we got Stein, who’s tight with Israel. We got maybe some terrorist types, who don’t like Israel. And got this Hardin guy with a big hole in his history.”

  “Yep,” said Bernstein.

  A little pause.

  “That philosophy razor of yours, you got anyway to shave this down?”

  Bernstein shook his head.

  CHAPTER 33

  It was Corsco’s lawyer’s office, but Tony Corsco sat behind the desk, leaving Ringwald, and this Munroe guy to take the guest chairs. Ringwald had called him at 7am, sounding a little panicked, insisting he take a meeting with this Munroe fuck. OK, so he was here. But Ringwald was a pussy. Good lawyer, but a pussy. No way was Corsco showing his ass for this Munroe, whoever he was.

  “I’ll be blunt,” Corsco started, wanting to get the first word in, wanting this guy back on his heels. “I’m not used to being summoned to meetings, not on this short notice, and certainly not with your disrespectful attitude, but my lawyer strongly advised that we speak, so I’m here. However, I am a busy man. Whatever your business is, get to it directly.”

  Munroe turned to talk to Ringwald. “I gave you a number to call. Did you check me out?”

  “Yes,” Ringwald said.

  “Then fill this asshole in. I don’t much care for his attitude, either. And I’m not the one with his dick in the wringer.”

  Corsco’s face reddened and he started to rise from his chair, but Ringwald held up a hand.

  “Tony, he’s from the government, well sort of the government.”

  “The Feds?” said Corsco. “Is there a warrant?”

  Ringwald shook his head. “Not the Feds. The intelligence side of things.”

  Corsco looked puzzled. “What? CIA? NSA? What?”

  “His role appears to be, eh, unofficial. But you need to listen to him. Please.”

  Munroe finally turned to face Corsco, who was still half standing, his hands on the desk. “I solve problems. I’m not FBI, I’m not NSA, I’m not Agency. I’m not anybody. But I can have anybody I want – Justice, IRS, name it – so far up your ass so fast that you’ll think you’re back in the prison showers. Or I can make one phone call and you’ll be gone by morning. Not just dead. Gone. Jimmy Hoffa gone. I don’t send dumb-ass goombahs like you sent after Hardin, I send Navy SEALs. Now sit the fuck down and listen to me, because this is not a negotiation.”

  Corsco sat.

  “What’s your business with Nick Hardin?”

  Corsco forced a smile. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Munroe just nodded and took out his cell phone, hit send, put the phone on speaker and set it on the desk. A voice answered.

  “It’s for you,” Munroe said to Corsco.

  A voice on the phone, sounding a little panicked. “Tony? Do what he wants. Whatever he wants. Do that, you’re OK. Don’t, then we’re all against you, all the families. I shit you not, Tony. You want no part of this guy. We’ve dealt with him before.”

  “Carmelo?” Corsco said, puzzled.

  “Just do what he wants.”

  Munroe reached out and killed the connection and put the phone back in his pocket.

  “What’s your business with Nick Hardin?” Munroe repeated.

  Corsco looked at Ringwald. “I’m supposed to stick my head in a noose for this guy, Gerry? That’s what you’re telling me?”

  “I have, eh, assurances that Mr Munroe’s involvement is of an, eh, entirely extrajudicial nature. There are no legal ramifications attached to this conversation.”

  “Extrajudicial,” Munroe said. “I like that. So, Hardin?”

  Corsco opened and closed his mouth a couple of times. “A favor for a friend,” he said, finally.

  In one smooth motion, Munroe reached inside his coat, pulled out his small, flat Walther, the suppressor already attached, leveled it across the desk and fired, the pistol making a soft bark, the round smacking into the leather of the high-backed chair just to the right of Corsco’s neck, so close that it left a crease in the padded shoulder of his suit.

  “Jesus!” Corsco gasped.

  “I got no time for twenty questions,” Munroe said. “So I’ll ask one. Guess how many times I can shoot you from here without hitting anything vital?”

  Corsco’s eyes went wide. “Fenn! Shamus Fenn! Fenn wanted Hardin whacked over that Africa business!”

  Munroe’s turn to be surprised. “The actor?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s Fenn got to do with the diamonds?”

  “What diamonds?”

  “You said the Africa business.”

  “That Darfur thing. Hardin punched Fenn out, it got on all the news shows, comedians ragging on him, nearly crashed his career.”

  Corsco and Munroe looked at each other across the desk for a moment. Munroe remembered the Darfur thing. Just never imagined it had anything to do with this.

  “What diamonds?” Corsco asked.

  “Diamonds?” said Munroe. “Who said anything about diamonds?” Munroe slipped the pistol back inside his jacket. “OK, here’s the deal. You guys work for me now – and by guys, I mean your whole organization. First thing, get Fenn under control. There are major issues at play here, gentlemen. Great men in important places are thinking big thoughts. In the end, there will be one story. I’ll get you your lines if you’re cast for a part. But I don’t need some punch-drunk actor pissing on my narrative. Fenn’s your problem, you solve him. But if Fenn fucks up my play, I’m charging it to your account.”

  Munroe took a cell phone out of his pocket, put it on Corsco’s desk.

  “That rings,” Munroe said, “it’s me. And you answer it. I don’t care if you’re throwing a hump into the missus, you climb off and say hello. And there’s one number on speed dial – mine. I want a line on this Hardin. This is not optional. There is no Plan B. You found him once, find him again. I don’t get some kind of useful intel out of you, then maybe you’re dead, or maybe I just send a tape of you confessing to putting a hit on Hardin to the DA.”

  Munroe got up, headed for the door.

  “Tape?” Ringwald said. “DA? You said this was off the record.”

  Munroe pulled a small digital recorder from his pocket and wiggled it at the two men. “I lied,” he said. “I do that sometimes.”

  CHAPTER 34

  The crew for Fenn’s picture had sta
ked out the vacant lot on Wells between Randolph and Washington – a mess of trailers parked there with semis loading and off-loading all day, fucking up traffic, a chain-link fence up around the lot to keep the rubberneckers out. Lynch badged the guy at the gate, him and Bernstein getting shunted to some gofer. Kid made half a dozen calls on his hand-held, finally took them over to a trailer to see Fenn.

  “Shamus Fenn,” said Fenn, getting up off the couch along the far wall, his hand out, wearing a pair of chinos and a dago-T, guy obviously spending some time on the weights. Half smile, just a regular guy. “What can I do for you fellas?”

  Lynch caught the look from Bernstein. Fenn was playing it all wrong, playing it cool. Cops come to see you and you don’t know what it’s about, you should be nervous.

  “I’m Detective Lynch. This is Detective Bernstein. We’re working a homicide. A few of them, actually.” Leave it there for a second, see where Fenn went.

  Fenn turned his palms up. “I’m not following you here, guys. Somebody I know?”

  Bernstein took a picture of Hardin from his pocket, screen grab off the Oprah video, handed it to Fenn. “Know this guy?”

  Fenn took the picture in both hands, flopped down on the couch, head falling forward, elbows on his knees, picture dangling from his hand.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I know him. Nick Hardin. He’s dead?”

  “We don’t know. He’s missing.”

  Fenn blew out a breath. “Look, you guys obviously know what went down with him and me or you wouldn’t be here. But I really don’t know what to tell you. I haven’t seen Hardin since, well -” Fenn held up the picture “- since this.”

  “Yeah,” Lynch said, “we saw the clip on Oprah, you and Hardin. And now both of you are in town. Curious, you know?”

  Fenn nodded for a long time, not like he’s agreeing with Lynch but like he’s agreeing with some conversation in his head.

  “I can see you guys coming to talk to me,” Fenn said. “But I really got nothing for you. Honest to God, last time I saw Fenn, he was busting my nose. And I had it coming.” A sigh, a pause. “Look, you guys, you got real jobs, so I don’t expect you’re keeping up with People magazine, don’t know what you’ve heard about me lately. I’ve been a dick most of my life. I’m trying to get in front of that now. The shit I pulled on Hardin, back in Darfur? What can I say? I took the spotlight off the benefit there. God knows what that cost the poor SOBs in support. And this Hardin guy? He lost his gig over my shit. Seemed like a stand-up guy. If he ended up in something desperate, I mean on account of me, then I gotta carry that too, you know?”