Greed: A Detective John Lynch Thriller

by Dan O'Shea

  Corsco didn’t give them shit, of course. Couldn’t, even if he wanted to. Corsco had no clue what was going on. Ringwald? Why? Over what? Sounded like a pro – .22s, close range. Lynch told him that much, probably trying to shake him up, which he had.

  One of the other families? But why Ringwald? Why give Corsco that kind of heads up if they were coming after him? Hernandez maybe, over this Hardin shit? But again, why the lawyer? And .22s weren’t Hernandez’s style. He’d have gone in with a chainsaw. This Hardin puke? Did he hear something; figure he could get information out of Ringwald?

  Too many fucking questions.

  But whatever the hell was going on, he had the cops up his ass like a big-fisted proctologist, which means they’d be digging hard at anything they could get their mitts on. And one of those things was Fenn. Fucking actor, should’ve known he’d have some kind of cocaine immunity.

  Type of thing he’d usually have Ringwald set up, but until he got a new shyster on the payroll, he’d have to use what he had. Took out his cell, called Franco. Franco was solid.

  “I need you on a plane to Kansas City,” Corsco said. “I want the Eagle on Fenn.”

  Franco didn’t say anything for a second, which Corsco understood. The Eagle made people nervous.

  “What kind of number can I give?” Franco finally asked. This was no time to be cheap. First of all, there weren’t a lot of hits, not in real life. Hit men were a movie thing. In the mob, mostly they were favors. Sure, you had some guys with the stomach for it, so maybe you used them more than others; maybe they got a little rep. But you didn’t have these shoot-the-balls-off-a-gnat, karate-master ninjas who charged six figures a pop that you saw in the movies.

  You just had the Eagle. And the Eagle wasn’t cheap.

  “Whatever it takes,” said Corsco. “But this has to be fast, a day, maybe two. Or no deal.”

  CHAPTER 67

  Munroe slid his keycard into the door to his suite at the Hilton. Had to make some calls, check some e-mails.

  As he stepped past the short wall that blocked off the bathroom and the closet from the rest of the suite, he saw Husam al Din sitting in the easy chair by the window, a silenced automatic steady in his lap. When a second passed and al Din hadn’t shot him yet, Munroe exhaled. Must be here to talk. Or at least to talk first.

  “If you would please remove your weapon, release the clip and then pull back the slide,” said al Din.

  Munroe took out his 9mm, dropped the clip and then jacked the round out of the chamber.

  “Drop it in the trash can please,” al Din said. Munroe did.

  “And the backup,” al Din said. “Inside of your left ankle, if my memory serves.”

  Munroe bent over, pulled out the .32, went through the same routine.

  Al Din nodded toward the desk. Munroe saw the extra Beretta that he kept in the nightstand broken down on the blotter.

  “My intentions are not hostile,” said al Din, “but I thought our conversation might go more smoothly if you weren’t focused on getting to one of your backup weapons during our conversation.”

  “Swell,” said Munroe. “You mind if I take a piss first?”

  “Be my guest. But I have also removed the weapon you had taped under the sink.”

  Munroe shrugged. “It was worth a shot. Still gotta piss though. At my age, my bladder doesn’t handle having guns pointed at me as well as it used to.”

  Al Din gestured toward the bathroom with the pistol. Munroe went to the john, came back, spun the desk chair around to face al Din and took a seat.

  “Enjoying Chicago?” Munroe asked. “Tried the pizza? Lots of good Italian joints out near the United Center.”

  Al Din smiled. “I wanted to talk about the boogeyman. Isn’t that what Bin Laden used to be? The Boogeyman?”

  “Boogeyman?”

  “Did I use the term incorrectly?”

  Munroe shook his head. “Just caught me by surprise. No, you used it perfectly. Guy’s been dead a while now, though. Why the sudden interest?”

  “I’m afraid someone else might be planning on making me your new one,” said al Din.

  Munroe snorted. “You’re good, buddy, but you’re getting kind of a big head, aren’t you? You’re not exactly a household name. A boogeyman has to be someone we can shake at the voters when we need to give them a good scare, has to be a known entity. You’re under the radar. And I thought you liked it that way.”

  “That may be about to change.”

  Munroe paused, considered that information. “So you guys were moving the diamonds for a reason. And you’re still in town, so that reason is local.”

  Al Din nodded.

  “Anything you care to talk about?”

  Al Din shrugged. “I thought first we could discuss the elasticity of loyalties.”

  “One of my favorite subjects,” said Munroe. “Getting a little disenchanted with Sandland? Looking for an upgrade?”

  “To paraphrase your American saying about baseball, terrorism has been very, very good to me. But I’m not sure that retirement in Waziristan is to my tastes. One of the dangers of operating in the West, I suppose, the seduction of comforts. The women, the food, the liquor.”

  “How you gonna keep ’em down on the farm once they’ve seen Par-ee? It’s our secret weapon. We pretty much brought down the Soviet Union with blue jeans. So, you’re looking to deal?”

  “Let’s call this an exploratory meeting. I’m wondering if a deal is possible. I’ve already killed several Americans on your soil this week, and we both know they aren’t my first.”

  “Blood under the bridge, old sport. You got a few things in your favor. First, there are maybe ten other people in the country who’ve seen your whole resume, and they’re all pretty pragmatic guys. The shit this week? Maybe your name’s been bandied about some, but it’s nothing we could take to court.”

  “I’m not worried about court,” al Din said. “I’m worried about SEAL Team Six.”

  “That’s my dog. It doesn’t bite unless I tell it to.”

  “And Mossad? Do you hold their leash, too?”

  Munroe smiled. “The Israelis can be a little intransigent, can’t they? But what they don’t know won’t hurt them.”

  “There’s not much they don’t know.”

  “Yeah, but they’re willing to pretend they don’t know a lot of shit, as long as we keep sending them a few billion dollars of aid every year. I wouldn’t plan on vacationing in Jerusalem, but as long as you don’t go rubbing their nose in anything, we can reach an accommodation.”

  “I’ve already been to Jerusalem,” said al Din.

  “I know. Off the ol’ bucket list, eh? So, you ready to talk turkey?”

  “Talk turkey? This phrase I do not know.”

  “Cut to the chase, get down to business. If you’re looking to switch teams, then I’m gonna need some details.”

  “Let’s say I’m ready to explore free agency. As I understand your American sports, switching teams comes down to money.”

  “Yeah,” said Munroe. “And we’re the Yankees. We got more money than the rest of the league put together. Plus, if you’ve been studying free agency, you’ve heard of collusion. You start trying to get a bidding war going, we’re going to whisper in a few ears and dry up your market. You deal with us or you don’t deal with anybody. So unless someone from the farm team over in Tehran has put a big number on the table, you’re not in a great negotiating position.”

  “The diamonds are worth $150 million. Hardin was looking to deal with Stein, so I suspect he’s now looking to deal with you. Ten percent on Hardin’s end, I imagine. Fifteen million dollars. I’ll take that.”

  Munroe shrugged. “Hardin’s already offered us the diamonds. And he actually has them. We pay him, we get to turn those around anyway we want and we come out way ahead on the deal. You don’t have any diamonds.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Maybe not ever.”

  “True. But I have something
more valuable. I have what the diamonds were paying for. Your media tells me America has spent nearly $4 trillion to avenge the three thousand killed on 9/11. How much will it have to spend to avenge ten times that many? Or twenty? Or more? And how much cheaper would it be to spend a fraction of that amount now to prevent those deaths? And to be able to bring to justice those who planned them?”

  Munroe just watched for a moment, tried to read al Din’s face, but he got nothing.

  “We’d spend a pretty penny,” he said. “But we’d need some proof.”

  Al Din smiled, nodded, sat quietly for a minute, then stood up. “I imagined so. Now that I know an accommodation is possible, I will provide some.”

  Al Din pulled a cell phone from his pocket. “I will call you on this when I am ready. Now, if you will turn the chair to the desk please, I’m afraid I need to take a minor precaution before I leave.”

  Munroe turned the chair around, heard al Din close in behind him, thought for a second about making some kind of move, then thought again. Even when he was a kid, he hadn’t been in al Din’s league, not at the rough stuff.

  “This is going to hurt, isn’t it?” Munroe asked.

  “Not now,” al Din said. “But later, yes. I will offer some information for you to consider before our next conversation. A name. You may consider that name to be my bona fides. Bona fides, am I using the term correctly?”

  “Depends on the name.”

  “Dr Mark Heinz.”

  Oh shit, Munroe thought, just before al Din hit him behind the ear with the butt of his pistol and the lights went out.

  CHAPTER 68

  Lynch was headed out of the squad room, headed home, when he heard the phone ring back at his desk.

  “Slo-mo, wanna grab that? Let me know if I need to turn my ass around?”

  Bernstein picked up the phone, listened for a moment, hung up.

  “Woman down at the desk looking for you, Magnus?”

  “From the shelter,” Lynch said. “I’ll talk to her on my way out.”

  Kate Magnus was standing by the desk when Lynch came down, same windbreaker on over a heavy cable-knit sweater. Colder tonight.

  “Ms Magnus,” Lynch said.

  “I thought we’d settled on Kate to ease your confusion. At least you didn’t call me Sister this time.”

  “I try not to make the same mistake three times,” Lynch said. “What can I do for you?”

  “I talked to Momolu. A couple of times, actually, before he’d say anything. I lost your card, with the number, but I remembered the address. I live a few streets over. I was on my way home. So, it appears, are you.”

  “Not a problem. I keep funny hours. Do you want to come upstairs and talk, or can I get buy you a cup of coffee somewhere?”

  “Coffee detective? I’m Scottish. And I really am not a nun. If you want to buy me a real drink.”

  “A real drink sounds good,” said Lynch.

  “You’re a little famous, you know.” Magnus, with a double Laphroaig, neat.

  “My girlfriend’s famous,” Lynch said.

  “More famous maybe. But I remember all of that from last year. Right after I got here from Liberia. You were on the news several times. Your arm has healed?”

  “Yeah,” Lynch said. “It’s fine.”

  “You’re not happy with the famous part? Isn’t that the American ambition?”

  “I’m a lousy American,” said Lynch. “I like ObamaCare. I think taxes are too low, even mine.”

  Magnus made what passed for a smile, took a sip of her drink. “I’m not used to it here yet. Not sure I’m going to be.”

  “Take some getting used to, I imagine, after Africa. Where was home originally? Scotland?”

  “Aberdeen. Jesus seemed less complicated when I was a child. And the sisters were the only ones I knew that weren’t pregnant and married off to some drunk by 19. Thought I’d be one of them. Mostly am, I guess.”

  Lynch took a pull on his bourbon, quiet for a minute. “I am sorry,” he said, “about Membe.”

  She nodded.

  “Momolu knew this al Din?” Lynch asked.

  She nodded. “A gunman, an enforcer I suppose is the term. Some diamonds had been stolen. Not one or two by the miners, but a shipment of them. Al Din came and killed several people, Lebanese mostly. Men that Momolu thinks were responsible for moving the diamonds. Not just the men, their families too.”

  “Killed a family here, too. Last night.”

  “My God,” Magnus said. “Why?”

  “Don’t know. Lawyer named Ringwald, his wife, their son and daughter. Ringwald was the mouthpiece for Tony Corsco. He’s the mob boss around here.”

  “And he killed Membe? And that Stein man?”

  “And a few others. It’s about diamonds somehow. Maybe something more. Some funny types from DC have horned in on things, using us as gofers, so there’s more going on. And whatever that is, they’re welcome to it. But al Din’s a killer, and he’s killing people here. Not gonna have that.”

  “Is Momolu safe?”

  “Can’t think al Din’s got any reason to go after him, probably doesn’t even know he’s there. I wouldn’t take Momolu on any field trips until this is over.”

  Magnus finished her drink, set the glass down, stared down into it for a minute.

  “I knew a girl in Scotland, a friend. My best friend, I guess. She was 16. She took up with this guy, older guy, worked the oil rigs. He had money, most guys didn’t. He’d come in off his shift, they’d be out on the rigs for a couple of weeks, and everything would be great. Trips into Glasgow, all that. But he’d drink, and then he’d beat her. And then he killed her. And I thought it was the times or the drink. And then Africa, and everyone was killing everyone, and I thought it was just Africa.”

  She looked up at him. He was expecting tears, but there weren’t any.

  “It’s everywhere, isn’t?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “And there’s never a reason, is there?”

  “Never a good one.”

  CHAPTER 69

  Late that night, the Eagle sat with Franco in the back of a six-passenger Citation on the way to Chicago. The plane added five figures to Corsco’s bill, but that was Corsco’s problem. A private plane meant no security, no screwing around trying to get weapons on the other end. It meant getting in when you wanted, getting out when you wanted. Usually the Eagle drove, unless the job was overseas, but Corsco sent this goombah out, wanted a secured target hit on two days’ notice because he cocked up some dumb-ass DIY job. Hookers and a bag of coke? Jesus. Amateurs.

  Plans for Northwestern Hospital scrolled across the laptop. The Eagle had bought everything – floor plans, wiring, HVAC. That was another couple Gs on Corsco’s tab. Worked hospitals before. Hospitals were good, especially big ones like this – mess of buildings, lots of floors. Lots of people coming and going, lots of elevators, lots of stairs, lots of exits. The target was under police guard, though, that would complicate things. But the target had been in for four days, comatose supposedly, no real threat to anyone right now. Security’s guard would be down. Probably one cop watching the room. Still, the hospital would have its own security, and some of them would be off-duty cops.

  At least Corsco didn’t want cute. No air bubble in the IV line, no smothering with a pillow. That made things simpler. Quick hit and run. Probably the .32 with the heavy suppressor. Made the pistol bulky, but it would be bagged up in the special rig, catch the brass and everything. No problem there. Get in the room, shut the door, five rounds center mass. You’d have to be right outside the door to hear it, and you’d have had to have heard a light pistol with a heavy suppressor before to know what it was. Target was medically fragile already; one round close to anything vital should be enough. Pride in the work, though. All five rounds would be right on target. Two rounds for the cop if that was necessary, enough to make sure he went down for the duration. Didn’t need him dead. Better if he wasn’t. That left fi
ve rounds in the clip just in case.

  Northwestern was wired up, all the camera locations on the blueprints. So what? Cameras everywhere these days. Still, you study the placements then you know which side of the hall to walk on to give them a bad angle. Put the high lifts in a pair of loafers, those would add a few inches. The gray wig probably. People weren’t suspicious of old people. Those silicon cheek inserts with bite wings, add weight to the face, mess with the telemetry if anyone was running any facial recognition stuff, wear the fat vest under the shirt, look forty pounds heavier. A hat. Pick up a Cubs hat somewhere, seemed like the right look for plugging a loser like Fenn.

  Get a sweater, something easy to slip on over the rest of the get up, something easy to take off, a cardigan, something like that. Something bright, a solid color, say yellow. It was spring, yellow was a spring color. Give anybody that catches the action something easy to remember. The way it worked with witnesses, you give them one, big flashy detail, they seize on that. So if anybody pulls their shit together quick enough to call security, they’d tell them look to look for the yellow sweater. Security’d ask the usual stuff – height, weight and such, and the witness would be all “I dunno, it happened so fast. But a yellow sweater. I remember that.” Dump the cardigan in the stairwell, and boom, you’re invisible.

  From the blueprints, three possible exit strategies. Closest stairs were to the right, but that meant walking right past the nurses’ station. Guy’s in a coma in ICU, so they’d have him wired up to monitors. Things would start beeping as soon as the target got plugged, nurses would be moving. Take the other stairs to the left, at the end of the hall. Pass the elevator on the way. If the door happens to open just then, cool. Hop on, ride it up or down, didn’t matter. Long shot on the elevator though, so the real plan was the left stairs. Target was on the seventh floor, no cameras in the stairwells. Dump the cardigan and the wig in the stairwell. Pop out of the stairs on five, got a bathroom two doors down. Grab a stall, shed the shirt, the fat vest, the pants, yank the lifts out of the shoes, spit out the bite wings. Wear scrubs under everything. Less than a minute, then step out of the bathroom and bingo, you’re just another employee heading home on shift change. Pictures on the website showed the housekeeping staff in dark blue scrubs, so get some of those. Google up the uniform store closest to Northwestern, they’d have everything in stock.