Diamond White: A Red Riley Adventure #2 (Red Riley Adventures)

by Stephanie Andrews

  “I didn’t push the button though, that was not part of my job.”

  “Wow. Moral relativism, much?”

  “Things are dire, Riley. I need those diamonds.”

  “I need information,” I countered.

  “About Jared Dexter? I can do that.”

  “And about Antonio Negron.”

  “No, Riley,” her voice hissed down the line. “How do you even know that name?”

  “Not important,” I said. “But I seem to have hit a nerve.” The woman with the jogger bent over it and straightened up, holding an amorphous bundle of blankets to her chest. I assumed there was a kid in there somewhere.

  “Forget you know that name, Riley. Trust me. You will wish you had never heard it.”

  “Is that who you work for?”

  “Not on purpose.”

  “Is he your boss?”

  “Nobody is my boss.”

  “Is he your dad? Dad issues.”

  Selena groaned on the other end.

  “Disgusting. No, he is gross. And Mexican.”

  “You’re not Mexican?”

  “Of course not. Do I sound Mexican?”

  “Ah…”

  “I am from Chile! Isla Grande!”

  “Okay, okay,” I said.

  “Mexican. Ha!”

  “Can we get back on track here?”

  “You don’t want to get involved with Negron.”

  “Oh, you’re my friend, now. Little sister?”

  There was silence for a minute.

  “Never mind, Riley. You can have what you want. Everything I know.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow. I need to put it all on a thumb for you.”

  “Make it Friday,” I said. “Millennium Park again. This time during the day. Lots of people around. Make sure I can see you, and I’ll find you. Noontime.”

  “I don’t like the sound of it, Riley. I show up, nothing but police. How do I know you’ll keep your word?”

  “I’m a ghost. I don’t exist. I don’t want the police around any more than you do. Besides, it’s not like the police could ever catch you.”

  “You’re right,” she said.

  Flattery will get you everywhere.

  Fifteen

  Valerie Archer was proceeded into the room by a large man in a black suit. He flicked on a few lights and walked swiftly through the living room and into the kitchen. Nothing. He moved into the bedroom, checked under the bed, got back to his feet with a soft groan, and then checked the closet.

  “All clear, Miss Archer.”

  “Thank you, Stuart, that will be all.”

  “Yes ma’am, we’ll be on the street all night.”

  She closed the door and locked it behind him. Her apartment was surprisingly small, for the Chief Operating Officer of Farnham, one of the biggest phone and data providers in the country. She likely had a house outside the city somewhere, and probably a classy little vacation home in Colorado, or the Bahamas.

  At thirty years old she was a wunderkind, handpicked by Ferris Farnham to be his second-in-command. She was self-assured, almost regal, with deep brown skin and short, tightly curled hair. Her business suit was well-tailored to show off her shape without flaunting, and her jewelry was simple yet expensive.

  She took the suit coat off and laid it over the back of the chair, stretching her arms above her head and then messaging her neck.

  I was surprised at the high level of personal security, but then again, the whole escapade with the bombs was only three months ago. To me, it felt like a lifetime, since so much in my life had changed. I really was a different person now, in so many ways. For Archer it was probably still very fresh, and though the villain, Aldo Frances, had been apprehended, I could understand why those in powerful positions at Farnham would still be taking precautions.

  As she moved into the kitchen and opened the fridge, I slipped out from behind the full-length drapes in the living room and crept up behind her. She was leaning over slightly, staring blankly at the shelves of food and drink, lost for a moment.

  I felt bad: there was no easy way to do this, so like ripping a Band-Aid off, I did it quickly. I stepped my right leg between Archer’s from behind, clamped my right hand over her mouth, and snaked my left hand up under her left arm and behind her neck in a quick half nelson. She tried to scream, but no sound came out. She tried to kick, but I kicked her right foot out to the side, throwing off her leverage. She tried to reach behind her head for my hair, but my short haircut gave her nothing to snag.

  “Shhh,” I said into her ear as I steered her out of the kitchen and into the bedroom. I kept our forward momentum going until her knees hit the end of the mattress and we both fell forward onto the bed. She made a quick move to throw me off, and she was strong, but I had all the leverage and I used it, pushing her face into the bedding. I removed my right hand from her mouth and snagged her right wrist as she tried to hit me, pulling it up between her shoulder blades as I sat on her lower back, releasing her from the half nelson at the same time.

  “Don’t scream,” I warned. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

  She continued to thrash, but didn’t scream. She must have realized that security was five floors down and across the street, sitting in a Ford Taurus and eating knishes from a bag. I levered her right arm a little higher up her back until I was sure it would be painful, and she began to settle down.

  It was dark in the room, but I had cased it earlier. I knew there were two bedside tables and that neither held a gun. I knew there was a dresser full of very nice clothes, and a walk-in closet with more of the same. The connected bathroom had all the regular things, but of a higher quality than most, as well as a man’s razor, but since it was electric I didn’t feel very threatened by it. Still, it reminded me that her boyfriend was a security expert and about fifty pounds heavier than me. I better make this quick.

  I jumped off her back and the bed in one quick move, stepping to the bedroom door and closing it, I turned back toward her and leaned firmly against the only exit. I flicked on a switch next to the door that turned on the two bedside lamps.

  Valerie Archer had rolled over on her back and was just sitting up when the lights came on. She rubbed her neck with her left hand while rotating her right shoulder around to get the feeling back into it.

  “What the hell do you want!” she growled, as I stepped away from the door and closer to the light.

  “I need your help,” I told her. She looked at me in confusion for a second, at my hair and my face, and then as recognition dawned her big, brown eyes grew wide.

  “You’re…”

  “Yup.”

  “But you…”

  “Died?” I offered helpfully.

  “But they found your…”

  “Fingers?” I said, cheerily, waving at her with my left hand.

  Her eyes caught what was missing, and her expression changed from wonder to revulsion.

  “Oh, that’s disgusting!”

  “Thanks!”

  “That you would do that, for money—”

  “It wasn’t quite like that.”

  She stood up and took a step toward me. I assumed a ready stance, but she didn’t seem like she was preparing to spring at me.

  “What was it like?” she asked.

  “Well Frances had me wher—”

  “No,” she said, pointing at my hand. “What was it like to cut your own fingers off?”

  Strange question.

  “Actually, I had a friend do it for me. And it hurt like hell; in fact I passed out from the pain. But, I had been expecting to lose my whole hand, so, in a way, I was psyched.”

  “And the five million dollars?”

  “Blown up, just like you saw on the news.”

  “I bet,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “You were exonerated. Why haven’t you come forward?”

  “I’ve found I can be more useful as a ghost,” I answered truthfully. “My heart was never really in it as a
cop.”

  “I know what you mean,” she said ruefully.

  “Success not all it’s cracked up to be?” It was my turn to raise an eyebrow, so I did.

  “You can say that again. Some days reinventing myself sounds pretty good.” She shook herself out of her thoughts. “But you helped Farnham, and you probably saved my life. You said you needed help, and I’ve got company coming soon.”

  Right. I told her about our effort to damage the flow of guns coming into the city, about our potential identification of the source, all without giving away too many details.

  “Well,” she said when I finished. “I’m impressed. You weren’t kidding when you said you were trying to do more good as a ghost.” She looked thoughtful. “I’m from that neighborhood, you know. Lawndale.”

  “Really?” I couldn’t contain my surprise.

  She looked down at her expensive clothes and laughed. “I know, right?” And then she looked sad. “You’re doing more for my family than I am.”

  “Well, wanna help?”

  “Of course. I’ll call you the minute I find something out.”

  “Actually, I’m trying to stay off the radar, but here is the number for my associate, Ms. Park.” I threw her the piece of paper, which was wrapped around a bundle of bills.

  “What’s this?” she asked, confused. “You don’t have to pay me.”

  “It’s three thousand dollars,” I said, looking at my feet. “I stole it from you when I was on the run.”

  She threw her head back and laughed, getting there quickly.

  “You were busing tables at The Drake! I don’t even remember what you looked like.”

  “No one ever does.”

  She shook her head. “You’re an odd one, Riley. You give me back three thousand dollars, but you keep the five million.”

  “Yeah, about that.” I opened the bedroom door, and we both walked back out to the kitchen. “I’m pretty sure it all blew up in the explosion at my apartment, but if it didn’t, let’s just say it’s being used to make the city a better place.”

  “Listen,” she said, “don’t worry about it. It was worth four million dollars just to have Aldo Frances behind bars.”

  “And the other million?” I asked perplexed.

  “That was just for watching you make Ferris Farnham look like the arrogant ass that he is, right in his own office.” She grinned. “I can’t thank you enough.”

  “My pleasure,” I smiled.

  Sixteen

  The next day, I finally met Mrs. Right. She had a duplex on Roscoe, in the western part of the city. It was across the street from a Catholic school and a few doors down from Chopin Park, where I could run and work out.

  She was an elderly lady who lived on the first floor with three cats, five thousand framed pictures of her grandchildren, and too much furniture. She was maybe seventy-five or eighty; ever since spending time with Uncle Elgort, I had been trying not to just think of anyone over seventy as “old.” It was prejudicial, just throwing everyone into one big group, when they were as varied and deserving of individual attention as anyone else. I still don’t like little kids, though. One step at a time.

  As she served me tea, we sat in her impossibly old-fashioned living room, hemmed in on all sides by side tables, antique lamps, and easy chairs. On a stand in the corner was a 19” television, the old tube kind, that was as deep as it was tall and wide. I hadn’t seen one of those in years.

  “Many visitors, Miss McKay?” She asked, setting a china cup down next to me.

  “Hmm?” I startled, distracted by all the bric-a-brac.

  “I asked if you intend to have many visitors.” She sat down opposite me, and instantly one of the cats, a black shorthaired one, was in her lap.

  “Oh, no. Not me,” I said shyly. “Well, maybe my cousin, Georgette once in a while, when she’s visiting the city.”

  “Boyfriends?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I don’t mean to pry, dear, it’s just that my last tenants…they seemed so…normal when they first moved in. The young man had smart clothes and a crewcut. I thought perhaps he had been in the service. But…”

  I leaned forward, like I was interested in hearing a juicy tale.

  “Noise all hours. People coming and going. Motorcycles!” she said in a scandalized voice.

  “Well,” I said hastily. “I don’t even have a car.” Mental note: park Gromet down the street. “What happened to them?”

  “They left in the middle of the night, owing six months’ rent.”

  I gasped. “No!”

  “Yes, they did. Just left all their belongings, furniture—if you could call it that—clothes, even. I’ve made an appointment with some movers next week to come and clear the whole place out.”

  I liked the neighborhood. It was residential, and no one would ever think to look for an international woman of mystery like myself there. I liked Mrs. Right. I was tired of hunting around. And I didn’t have any furniture.

  “I’ll tell you what, Mrs. Right. I’ll make you a deal: I’ll pay you up front for six months, and you can just leave everything in the apartment. I’ll get rid of anything I can’t use. But, I get to move in right away, I need a place to live, starting tonight.”

  “Okay, my dear. It’s a deal.” She shooed the cat off her lap and stood up slowly. “Let me at least lend you some clean sheets.”

  “Thank you,” I said, setting down the cup and saucer and rising to my feet. “And to answer your question, I do have a gentleman friend who may visit once in a while. But he’s very well behaved, and he’s going to love you; he’s a fan of antiques.”

  She turned and looked at me with an alarmed expression.

  “The furniture!” I said hastily. “I didn’t mean you. He likes antique furniture.”

  The apartment was hilarious. First of all, their idea of “furniture” was a mattress on the floor, an old couch with one of the cushions missing, and a folding table and two folding chairs. For ambiance, there was a giant Fear City poster on one wall, an old eighties-style boom box on the floor, and for some reason the hardwood floor had been painted flat black. In the kitchen I found two plates, five pint glasses, and some mismatched silverware. The refrigerator was running, but I slammed it shut immediately after peeking in. That was going to be an all-day project.

  I had more luck in the bedroom, where, heaped on the floor, was a pile of his and hers black clothing. It didn’t smell great, but there was a laundry in the basement. Even better, there were half a dozen pairs of leather boots, three of them in my size, including some really awesome Belleville combat boots. Yes, I had a million dollars buried in a steel suitcase in the backyard of Ruby’s cottage, but scoring free boots is scoring free boots.

  In the back of the closet I found two tool chests. One contained a well-maintained set of mechanics tools—our previous tenant was either an auto mechanic or hoped one day to be—and the other contained bolt cutters, a hack saw, a drill and other tools that I associated with disassembly, destruction, and perhaps theft of personal property.

  I put the rose-patterned sheets that Mrs. Right had given me on the mattress, found my toothbrush and toothpaste in my satchel, and brushed.

  It was early, but I climbed in bed anyway, lying back and staring at the ceiling, thinking of Nick. I had a breakfast meeting with Uncle Elgort in the morning, and I was hoping Nick would be there. I thought about my mixed feelings: I wanted to keep it cool and unattached, but at the same time I wanted more, always more, every time I was with him.

  I held up my left hand in front of my face in the dim glow of the streetlight (there were no shades or curtains, of course). As always, I imagined my missing fingers, back where they belonged. In the distance, I heard the sound of a baseball game; they must be playing under the lights. I was once again visited by the knowledge that no one in the world knew where I was. It was bittersweet. When my hand got too heavy to hold up, I let it fall and closed my eyes.

  Seventee
n

  The address I had for the breakfast meeting took me to a fancy Polish restaurant on Belmont. As I parked my bike and took off my helmet, I heard a wolf whistle, and looked quickly to my left. In front of the Progressive Truck Driving School, a man smoking a cigarette was leering at me. Nice. Guess the place wasn’t actually as progressive as its name. Still, smoking and whistling at the same time, that’s a talent that will land him a really excellent wife.

  I ignored my new suitor and pushed on the door to the restaurant, even though the sign said, “Closed.” I took off my coat and hung it on a hook in the foyer, stopping to straighten my long black wig in the mirror.

  A small, older woman startled me, appearing at my side like a whisper, and I followed as she led me wordlessly into the main dining room. All the lights were out except at the back, where a long table was lit with an overhead chandelier.

  Seated at the table were Uncle Elgort, Don, Nicky (with a smile and a raised eyebrow), Alden Earl, and two men I had never seen before. One I immediately pegged as a cop, just from his posture and expression. He was about forty-five with brown hair and a bit of a paunch. The other man looked to be in his twenties, possibly Latino. He was well dressed, but it looked uncomfortable on him, and I could see red irritation around his neck from shaving very recently. The table was immaculately set with a clean white tablecloth and linens.

  Elgort rose as I approached, and I gave him a quick hug before taking an empty seat straight across from Nick.

  “This is Georgette Wrigley,” he said to the table, “an associate of mine, and a civil rights lawyer.”

  Captain Earl, sitting across from me next to Nick, gave me a quizzical look—he clearly recognized me from the other night—but said nothing about my name change from McKay to Wrigley.

  “This,” Elgort continued, indicating the middle-aged man, “is Al Hanson. He’s with the Fourth District. He’s heading up an anti-gun task force called GRAD—Gun Recovery and Disposal.” Al gave me a curt nod.

  “And this,” said Elgort, with a gesture toward the younger man, “is Jorge Alvarez. He is one of the leaders of Latin Pride.”

  “Gay rights?” I asked. Alvarez immediately scowled at me.

  “They’re a street gang,” growled Hanson, with obvious disdain. This attracted the attention of Alvarez, who swiveled his scowl toward the cop.