Greed: A Detective John Lynch Thriller

by Dan O'Shea

  Lynch nodded. “That’s what I thought. Might still be what I think. But diamonds tie into this somehow, West African diamonds. And the man in the picture might work for the people who control those.”

  “You mean Hezbollah.”

  Lynch’s eyebrows went up, she saw that.

  “It’s not a secret, Detective, not if you’ve lived over there.”

  “Yeah,” Lynch said. “Hezbollah or maybe friends of theirs.”

  “So Stein’s murder was political.”

  “I don’t know,” said Lynch.

  She was quiet again, the gate in the fence between them still closed.

  “If this is something from Africa, are my other residents safe here?” she asked.

  “I think so,” Lynch said. “It bothered me a little when I thought about it, Membe getting shot like that. Even if he saw the guy, so what? Just another guy getting into a car. But if he knew him, recognized him for some reason, then it makes sense. So I still think it was just bad luck, bad timing. No reason for the guy to come back after anyone else. Just bad luck, but bad luck that goes back to Africa.”

  “That’s the worst kind of luck,” Magnus said. She opened the gate, let Lynch in, said something in a language Lynch didn’t know, called the men over.

  “What do you want to know?” she asked Lynch.

  He took the picture from his jacket pocket, unfolded it and handed it to her. “Just if they know this man, and, if so, from where.”

  She looked at the picture a moment, then turned it so the men could see, translating, probably a couple of times, Lynch figured, because it seemed like she stopped, then started again in what sounded like another language. None of the men said anything, but one of them, the big man Magnus had to stand down last time Lynch was here, knew. Lynch could tell. He saw the man’s eyes widen for just a blink, and then the man looked away, looking at anything but Lynch. The men all muttered, some shaking their heads.

  Magnus said something else to them and they returned to the garden, the big man moving as far from Lynch as he could get.

  “They all say no,” she said.

  “But the big one knows him,” Lynch said.

  “Probably.”

  “Is he from the same area as Membe?”

  “Yes.”

  “OK,” Lynch said. “I’m not going to push him on it now. For now, it confirms what I figured. The shooter recognized Membe. But talk to the big guy. See what he knows. If you can get something from him, let me know. I don’t want to jam him up. But I need what he knows.”

  “Momolu,” Magnus said, some edge behind that. “The big guy has a name. His name is Momolu.”

  Lynch paused, took that in. “Look, I know you think nobody gives a shit, and you probably got good reason. You can believe this or not, but Membe and Stein, they’re the same in my book. You kill somebody in my town, if I can make you answer for it, then I do.”

  Both of them quiet for a minute, Lynch looking up the street. The kid who’d run between the buildings when Lynch pulled up was back, sitting on a stoop now. Waiting for Lynch to leave so he could give his crew the all clear.

  “Alright,” Magnus said. “I didn’t mean to be rude. But yes. I have reason.”

  Lynch nodded. “How long you had the drug market going on up the street?”

  “A few months. Used to be over on Monroe, but they’ve moved it a block north.”

  “Last thing you need,” Lynch said. “Weather’s getting nice, your guys are going to want to get outside some, aren’t going to know the neighborhood, know the code. Somebody flashes a sign at them and they wave back wrong, things could get bad. Don’t need some drive-by bullshit or anything.”

  “Are you going to clean up the drug trade detective, so we can do our gardening?”

  “Can’t clean it up,” Lynch said. “But I bet I can move it a couple of blocks.”

  “And the people on the block you move it to, do they deserve it any more than we do?”

  Lynch let out a long exhale. “Look, I do what I can where I can, OK?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “And thank you.”

  Lynch nodded. She went to hand the photo back to him.

  “Keep it,” he said. “Might help when you talk to Mobulo.”

  “Momolu,” Magnus said, but at least she was smiling a little this time.

  “Momolu,” said Lynch. “Hey, I’m trying.”

  “Yes detective, I do believe you are.”

  Lynch turned to open the gate.

  “Notre Dame d’Afrique,” Magnus said.

  Lynch turned back. “What?”

  “The church in the background in your picture. It’s in Algiers.”

  “Thanks,” Lynch said, wondering to himself why he had to hear that from her.

  Back in the car Lynch called a contact in gang crimes, guy that knew the West Wide.

  “It’s Lynch. Listen, you got somebody running a street market on Madison just north of Oakley. Find out who and tell them that block’s off limits. Tell ’em to move their act a couple blocks west or I’m going to make them a hobby.”

  Wouldn’t stop anything, Lynch knew that. But they’d move.

  CHAPTER 55

  Hardin woke to the smell of gun solvent. Wilson sat cross-legged on the floor in just her panties and a camisole. She had newspaper spread on the rug; one of the Berettas Hardin had taken off Corsco’s guys broken down, the slide off, the recoil spring out. She was running a bore brush through the barrel. She looked up.

  “It’s after nine, you slug. This what time you tough Legion punks roll out of the rack?”

  “Late night,” he said. “Someone was draining my vital essence.”

  She held up the rag from her cleaning kit. It was covered with dark splotches. “You gotta start stealing guns off a better class of thugs,” she said. “These are a mess.”

  “Good in the sack and the little woman is cleaning my guns,” said Hardin. “I think I’ll keep her.”

  “Careful sport. My .40 is already cleaned, locked, and loaded.”

  Hardin picked up the remote, flicked on the TV, switched to WGN for the Chicago news. He caught a follow up on the Downers Grove shootings, but still nothing on them.

  “You look through that paper before you started?”

  She nodded. “Nothing. Also called a guy back at the Chicago office – don’t worry, I used a throwaway and I called him at home on his cell. He was making some strange noises about how I wasn’t in this too deep yet, and I should call Jablonski and all this could still get worked out.”

  “Weird.”

  “Yeah,” said Wilson. “We should be all over the news by now. It’s like they don’t want to catch us.”

  “Sounds like someone still wants to deal. Guess I better call Fouche.”

  “You sure you can trust this guy?” asked Wilson.

  Hardin shrugged. “If I can’t, we’re fucked. Unless you know somebody who can move a pound and a half of illegal diamonds.”

  Wilson set the barrel back in the slide, pressed the spring in place, slid the assembly back on the frame, worked the trigger to check the action, then snapped the magazine into the well. She got up, stretched, the camisole riding up and revealing an abdomen as flat and hard as a piece of slate.

  “We gotta think this through,” she said. “This Fouche, he’s the guy you called before?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Somebody ratted you out, and it’s not a very long chain.”

  “We’re running out of options here. We don’t cash out, we’ll be running on fumes pretty quick.”

  “Something’s fucked here. I’ve been on the other side of hunts like this. We should be all over the news. Hell, we should be caught by now. Somebody needs to keep this on the QT, which means we’ve got some kind of leverage we haven’t figured out yet.”

  Hardin thought a minute. “Give me a place to stand,” he said, “and I will move the world.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?


  “Archimedes, Greek guy. He was big on leverage.”

  Wilson snagged a pair of boxers out of the open suitcase on the floor next to her and threw them at the bed.

  “Leave the Greeks out of this, smartass, it’s complicated enough. Now get your ass dressed and buy me breakfast. Then we’ll go lever shopping.”

  CHAPTER 56

  “Shut the fuck up,” said Starshak. Lynch and Bernstein were in his office with Corsco and Ringwald. Ringwald had been whining about Lynch insisting they come in to the station, not being willing to talk at Ringwald’s office. “Corsco’s a crook; you’re the mouthpiece that chose to make a living sucking up to him. This ain’t a courtroom; you’re not on tape, so save it. We been trying to talk to this piece of shit for five days, you guys giving us the song and dance, now you’re whining cause we don’t show our ass for you?”

  Corsco reached over, patted the top of Ringwald’s thigh. “It’s alright, Gerry. We know to expect a certain amount of abuse from these gentlemen.” Corsco was a trim, tall man, dark hair graying on the sides. Expensive suit, expensive shirt, expensive tie.

  Corsco raised his eyebrows, looked around the room. “I assume you have some questions for me?”

  “Shamus Fenn,” said Lynch.

  “A fine actor,” said Corsco.

  “Know him?” Lynch asked.

  “We’ve met. I advised him and his company when they were filming in town a few years ago.”

  “Which film was that?” Lynch asked.

  “Cal Sag Channel,” said Corsco.

  “Advised on what?”

  Corsco smiled, paused. “Verisimilitude.”

  “Strange,” said Bernstein. “All these years you tell us you’re not a mobster, yet when Hollywood needs someone to vet their gangster movie, you’re the guy they call.”

  Corsco shrugged. “I am a simple businessman. If entertainers want to pay for my opinions, well as the saying goes, this is a free country, right?” He turned to Ringwald, eyebrows raised.

  “A free country so long as we are vigilant against abuses by the authorities,” Ringwald said.

  “But you do know Fenn?” said Lynch.

  Corsco nodded.

  “Talk to him much? I mean since your Hollywood days?”

  “From time to time,” said Corsco.

  “In the last few weeks?” Lynch asked.

  “I knew he was in town. I called to say hello. I was saddened to hear of his, well, his health crisis.”

  “Ever hear of Nick Hardin?” asked Starshak.

  Corsco smiled again. “As chagrined as I am to admit it, I did catch the little episode on Oprah.”

  “So you know he had a beef with Fenn?”

  Corsco nodded.

  “And then a couple of your shooters make a run at him.”

  Ringwald put his hand up. “First of all, characterizing these gentlemen as ‘shooters’ and as ‘his’ assumes facts not in evidence.”

  Corsco patted Ringwald’s leg again.

  “Did I know these gentlemen? Yes. They have assisted me with security matters from time to time. But are they employees of mine? No. They are… I suppose independent contractors would be the word. Now, because I do have interests in certain industries in which the criminal element sometimes dabbles, I do hear things. And as a gesture of good faith, I will tell you this. It is my understanding that this Hardin has a personal dispute with one of the major Mexican drug lords. In fact, I believe there was an event in the suburbs a few days ago that demonstrates that. I can only suppose that Mr DeGetano and Mr Garbanzo, being security contractors, were pursuing Hardin for Hernandez.”

  “Convenient for you, isn’t it?” said Lynch.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “This Hernandez turning up.”

  “Not very convenient for Mr Garbanzo or Mr DeGetano.”

  Lynch nodded. “Ever hear of Bobby Lee?”

  Corsco shrugged.

  Lynch pulled Lee’s photo from a file, slid it across the desk.

  “How long has he been hacking the city’s surveillance network for you?” asked Lynch.

  Corsco and Ringwald stood simultaneously. “This meeting is over,” said Ringwald.

  “We’re into Lee’s system,” said Lynch. “Just thought you should know.”

  “I said this meeting is over, Detective,” Ringwald repeated. Corsco and Ringwald left the office.

  “Sure you should have given them that, about Lee?” Starshak asked.

  “Not like they can get into Lee’s system now, change anything,” Lynch said. “Maybe they panic, make a move to cover their asses on something we don’t know about yet. The more shook up they are, the better.”

  In the back seat of Corsco’s caddy, Corsco turned to Ringwald.

  “Two questions, Gerry. First, what might Lee have that could point to us? Second, why isn’t Fenn dead yet?”

  Ringwald didn’t answer, just nodded. The questions weren’t rhetorical exactly, he just didn’t have answers. The caddy pulled into Corsco’s building, dropped Ringwald at his car. He headed home.

  CHAPTER 57

  The Wilson cunt was Sandoval’s sister. Hernandez knew that as soon as he saw her. And he could have killed her easily, years ago. Why hadn’t he? Just another puta, that’s why. Just another warm, wet hole that caught his brother’s eye.

  The kid hanging from the engine hoist was moaning again. Miko knew. He’d seen Hernandez like this before, and he knew. Until the boss blew off his rage, he wouldn’t be able to focus. So he’d talked to the head of the LK crew, got a name. Just a street dealer, dropout who ran a couple corners in Aurora near one of the high schools. But he’d gotten a little greedy. They all skimmed something – almost couldn’t trust them if they didn’t. But they had to know where the line was. This kid had crossed it. Maybe only put a toe over it really, kind of thing usually you just throw a scare into him. But the boss needed a punching bag, so the kid’s wrists were cuffed together, the cuffs over the hook for the engine hoist, the hoist holding him a couple feet off the floor. The LK crew was lined up in the back, bearing witness.

  Hernandez picked up the bat again. He’d started with the kid’s legs, but those were pretty well pulped now. And Hernandez’s head was clearing, most of the poison sweated out. The kid was conscious again, looking at him, face streaked with dirt and sweat and tears. Hernandez felt something like shame, just for a moment – he knew the kid wasn’t that far out of line, knew what Miko was doing – and then just pity.

  “Jefe,” the kid blubbered. “Please, Jefe–”

  Enough, thought Hernandez. End this here. Hernandez drew the bat straight back over his head, all the way back until he felt the fat end tap his back, and then snapped it down hard onto the crown of the kid’s skull. Heard that crunching, slushy sound he knew too well. The kid hung limp from the chain, blood coming from his ears, his eyes, his nose. Hernandez dropped the bat to the floor, turned and walked from the garage, out into the parking lot, waited while Miko came around and opened his door, sat in the back of the new Mercedes the local crew had provided. Miko got in the front and started to drive.

  “Thank you, Miko,” Hernandez said.

  “De nada, Jefe.”

  “Let’s get to work on Sandoval. We find the bitch, we find them both.”

  “Wilson, Jefe,” said Miko.

  “Whoever gets to bury her can decide what name to put on the stone. Just find me that bitch.”

  CHAPTER 58

  “Downers Grove, Illinois, my friends. Downers Grove, Illinois.” Hardin and Wilson were driving back south through Wisconsin, north of Milwaukee, Hardin poking around the radio dial, looking for something to listen to. The town name caught his attention. One of those right-wing radio hosts, the guy who liked to dress like a Nazi on his book covers.

  “That’s not Juárez, people. That’s not Tijuana. That’s not even El Paso or Nogales or some other border town. That’s a real nice place. I’ve been there. Folks like you, real Americans, church-going peopl
e, just trying to raise their families, hoping they can still make their house payments and pay their kids’ tuition after Washington’s through picking their pockets. Folks who are living by the rules. This isn’t some slum, these aren’t bottom feeders, these aren’t the miscreant offspring of some welfare queen who’s cranking out kids with every brother on the block to pad her government check. These are honest, hardworking, patriotic Americans. And now they’ve got the drug gangs turning their quiet little burg into a free-fire zone. If you don’t get it yet, let me spell it out for you. I don’t care where you are right now. I don’t care what you paid for your home, trying to move away from this kind of stuff. If this can happen in Downers Grove, Illinois, then it can happen anywhere.

  “And I wish it was just about the drugs, people, I really do. I’m hearing things. I have sources. You know I have sources. There are people inside the wire on this, honest folks like you and me who still know what the flag means, people still in the belly of the beast – that bloated, voracious Leviathan we call a government – and they get word out to me when they can. And you want to know what I’m hearing people? Are you sitting down? Are you ready for this? It wasn’t just the drugs. This was a Mexican drug king having a dispute with Al Qaeda over money. That’s right. The two greatest threats to our Republic are teaming up. So the next time you hear some bleeding heart talking about immigration reform, you better ask yourself just who they want to let over our borders. You think dope is the only thing they might carry across our joke of a border? How about a chemical weapon? How about a dirty bomb? How about a real live nuke?

  “It’s time to get real, people. You are at war, and the enemy is bringing the battle to you. And every one of those people who violated our trust, who wiped their feet on the Statue of Liberty by sneaking in the back door when all they had to do was ring the bell like our ancestors did, well every last one of them has always been nothing but just another criminal, just another lazy punk who won’t do the work to follow the rules. Sure, they always could have been the slime bag outside your kids’ school, the one trying to get your children to throw away their lives for a nose full of crap. But now they may just be something more. Every last one of them could be Al Qaeda’s trigger finger. Every last one of them could be the bastard with his finger on the switch that’s going to turn one of our gleaming alabaster cities into a radioactive crater. That’s right, people, that poncho might just as well be a burqa. And if this doesn’t have your attention, if this doesn’t have you ready to take your country back from the liberals and the apologists and the diversity freaks and the live-and-let-live, let’s legalize-every-damn-thing hippies, then I don’t know what will. Back after this word.”