MICHAEL A. BLACK
WINDY CITY
KNIGHTS
LEISURE BOOKS NEW YORK CITY
For my first readers
Julie, J. Michael, and Len.
For my favorite editors
Debbie Brod and Mary P. Smith.
And to the memory of Officer Eric DeWit, M.P.D.
Rest in Peace, Brother.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Unwelcome Visitors
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Praise
Other Leisure books by Michael A. Black
Copyright
UNWELCOME VISITORS
I moved through the kitchen, scanning as I went. The place was in shambles. Papers and drawers dumped everywhere. I methodically checked each room, but found no one. Then I did the basement and upstairs. All empty, but definitely messed up. The room I’d been using for an office had been completely ransacked. My files lay scattered about on the floor. The drawers of my desk were all hanging open, their contents strewn about. My dresser drawers had been emptied out too. But nothing of obvious value seemed to be missing.
A professional burglar will go through a house looking for valuables in such a way that he wastes no movement. Going through a series of drawers, you save time by starting at the bottom, then leaving the drawer open and searching the next one above it. You don’t have to waste time closing them. And the back door had been pried open and not just kicked in. Less noticeable. The same way I would have done it. Little things, but they told me it was a pro.
But what the hell had he been after?
CHAPTER 1
Sure, Christmas comes but once a year, but really, who would want to go through it any more often? I pondered that and other such lofty matters, like old acquaintances best forgot, as I entered the ground floor stairwell and methodically climbed upward. Six floors, with twenty stairs between each one. Ten stairs to a flat landing, then ten more steps up on a diagonal stairway. That made one hundred twenty stairs to the top. Multiply that by four, and you have four hundred eighty—the number of steps I climbed every hour. Good leg training if nothing else. I thought about that as I pushed open the door and walked across the carpeted sixth-floor hallway.
It was the Wednesday after Christmas. The hotel was booked solid, but the halls were empty, except for numerous room-service trays left for house keeping to pick up. I strolled to the elevators and checked the vending machines, icemaker, and the ubiquitous Christmas decorations. A sagging tinsel garland drooped sadly from the top of the doorframe. I peeled the rest of it off and set it in the corner between the ice and pop machines, then went down the second corridor to the south stairwell. As I was descending to the fifth floor, I heard the desk call me on the radio.
“Ron, looks like the airport bus is arriving early,” Marsha, the manager-on-duty, told me. The husky resonance of her voice reinforced the image in my mind’s eye of her square face, short dark hair, and tomboyish walk. “In case you’re interested.”
“Roger that, babe,” I said, knowing that being called “babe” really bugged her. And I enjoyed bugging her. It was one of the few small pleasures I got working this gig. Besides trudging up and down stairways all night, that is. She had a way of scrutinizing me any time I was talking to some nice-looking girl. And afterward, she’d invariably come up with some smart-ass comment. Like she was jealous, but of whom I wasn’t quite sure.
But being a good manager-on-duty, she usually informed me of the comings and goings of various things, such as the shuttle bus to and from the airport, any VIP arrivals, and any problems in the two hotel bars.
The hotel was a six-story, two-wing structure with an adjacent office building on the other side. Security duties included doing door checks to both buildings periodically, and locking up at eleven. We were also expected to act as informal bouncers for the two bars during the week, when the regular bar security was off. Most of the security staff was composed of off-duty coppers. I was the only private investigator. Things usually went pretty smoothly, so there wasn’t much for me to do besides hike up and down the stairwells and shake doors. Like I said, good leg training. My friend, manager, and trainer, Chappie Oliver, approved.
“It’s ’bout time you got a regular job,” he’d said when I told him about it. “Something that’ll keep you off the streets at night, so you can get up early and run them extra miles.”
Chappie had grinned when he’d mentioned the running. He wanted me to do at least five miles every morning to get in shape for the title fight that I had coming up on January 12th. And I’d kept at it faithfully. I’d had two previous fights set for the World Heavyweight Full-contact Karate Championship, but both had been cancelled due to work emergencies. I knew that this would most likely be my last shot.
Marsha called me on the radio again.
“And what is it this time, my dear?” I asked.
“Looks like there’s some kind of problem in the piano bar.”
The piano bar was near the main entrance, three steps down from the ground-floor level. The bar area was recessed into the underside of the stairway that led to the upper levels. It had an angular counter, soft glowing lights, and extended partitions that allowed for a cozy atmosphere. We usually didn’t have too many problems in that one. The upstairs bar was bigger and catered to a younger, more boisterous crowd.
I hit the crash bar on the door and left the stairwell, hurrying down the aisle toward the elevators. No sense running down four more sets of stairs and being winded when I got there. Luckily, the elevator opened with the push of the button, and I got in and punched “one.” The rear wall of the shaft was transparent and looked out over the parking lot. On the other side of the glass, the night looked cold and dark, despite the yellow illumination of the parking lot lights. Piles of plowed snow sat in dirty bunches, forming a barricade-like perimeter around the rough black asphalt. I had the urge to go out there and take a couple of deep breaths of the frigid air before I hastened to the smoke-filled bar area.
But Marsha’s voice came back on the radio with a sudden urgency as the elevator stopped at the first floor. “Ron, they need you at the piano bar right away.”
“What you got?” I asked, turning and moving down the hall.
“Looks like a man beating up a woman.”
Great, I thought. A domestic probably. The perfect end to a quiet night. I began a slow trot past the section of hotel offices. The piano bar was just on the other side of the winding staircase that led to the upstairs bar. As I drew close, a red-haired guy in a black leather jacket dragged a squirming blond girl up the three steps and moved toward the front exit. She was crying, and when he jerked her roughly, she screamed. He paused to pin both her arms behind her back, wrapping one arm around her waist. She kicked and flailed
with frantic desperation. Quickening my pace, I intercepted them before they got outside.
“You didn’t think I’d check out here and find you, did ya, bitch?” I heard him say. The guy’s voice was an angry rasp. “Now where they at?” He cocked his arm back, balling up his fist. The thought of his hand smacking into her flesh tightened my gut. Women, kids, and animals—none of them would get abused if I had anything to say about it. Moving forward, I grabbed his wrist.
“Isn’t she a little out of your weight class?” I said, just hoping that he’d take a swing at me so I could set him on his ass.
“Get your hands off me, asshole,” he growled.
“Hotel security, Red. What’s going on here?”
He straightened up and released the girl. She fell down, landing on her knees, her blond hair spilling forward, obscuring her face. The guy was almost as tall as I was, but a bit broader through the shoulders. He appeared to be in his early thirties with the bulky build of a weightlifter. His face had a smug look to it. I released his arm. It had felt solid and hard.
“Don’t you ever put your hands on me again,” he said, his finger jabbing out to poke my chest.
“Just tell me what’s going on, pal,” I said. Then, into my radio, “Marsha, call the cops.”
The mention of the police seemed to shake him.
“Hey,” Red said, hesitating. “No need for that.” He rotated his head slightly, as if trying to loosen his thick neck, then forced a grin. “It’s my girlfriend, man. She gets like this sometimes. Too much to drink. I didn’t want her to drive.”
The tension in him subdued, but I didn’t drop my guard. He was like a sharp spring that hadn’t uncoiled all the way.
“How ’bout it, Miss?” I said. “That what it’s about?”
“No, he ain’t my boyfriend,” she said, her hands wiping at her face. “I don’t even know him. Help me. Please help me.”
“Shut up,” the guy said. He reached down and seemed to effortlessly pick her up, squeezing her upper arms so hard that his fingers dug into her soft flesh. She raised up on her tiptoes. Then his mouth contorted into a half-smile. “Like I said, she gets like this sometimes.”
“It sounds like this is a bit more complicated,” I started to say. The woman twisted her head around as she struggled to get out of his grasp and I got a brief look at her face. Smooth, even features with a slender nose that ended with almost perfect symmetry. But the smeared lipstick made her mouth look like an open gash. Still, the faint glimmer of something akin to recognition hit me. Like someone you’ve met before, but couldn’t quite figure out where.
“Look, buddy, why don’t you just let her go for a minute?” I said.
The redhead’s face turned ugly again. “Awww, get the hell outta my way.”
He tried to push past me and I held out both hands to block him. Suddenly he shoved the woman violently and swung an overhand right at me. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her go down in a heap. Red’s punch was quick, but looping. I stepped back slightly and let it sail by me. Instead of following up with a left hook like I should have, I just pushed him and held up my open palms.
“I don’t want to hurt you, so back off,” I said.
“You? Hurt me?” he muttered, flashing an incredulous smirk as he moved forward with balled-up fists. “Now I’m gonna really kick your fucking ass.”
The corners of his mouth turned down and a glint of anger shone in his eyes. I smashed a round house kick to his left thigh as he stepped forward, then moved back. I didn’t want to go to the floor with the guy and mess up my good clothes. But I had no desire to get splattered with his blood either, if I busted him up. His pale face had the look of a born bleeder. Not to mention the risk of breaking my hands on his hard head. Chappie would love that with the fight so close.
No, better to just end it clean and fast, I thought.
I raised up my hands and let him lurch forward again, figuring he’d throw that same looping right. He didn’t disappoint me. This time I stepped inside and blocked it with my left, then drove a right into his gut. The air whooshed out of him, and he staggered back a step. I stepped in and hammered a left hook to the liver, then a right to the other side, and finished off by dipping one south of the border. The combination caused him to freeze, do a little stutter-step backward, then fold to the carpet. Body punches can do that to you. Not to mention the low blow.
“You want some more?” I asked.
Red shook his head, gasping for breath. Two of the young bellmen, who had been off to the side watching, dragged him to one of the big cushiony lobby chairs. Somewhere in all of this I’d dropped my radio. One of the hotel kids reached down and picked it up. I glanced around at the faces of the people in the lobby. Their expressions seemed to be a combination of fascination and fear. Like they’d just witnessed a clashing between two big jungle cats.
“Man, that was awesome, Ron,” one of the kids said, handing me my radio. The other was helping the blonde to her feet now. She struggled to steady herself, obviously tanked to the gills. After taking in a deep breath then exhaling half of it, she said, “Wow, you are pretty terrific.” Something seemed to click for her too as she looked up at me. She squinted slightly, then said, “You…” The space between her eyebrows creased slightly.
“Don’t I know you?” I asked.
“Why, would you like to?” she said, stumbling forward into my arms. Her breath had that heavy, sickeningly sweet smell of fine booze. “My name’s Paula. What’s yours?”
I think it was hearing her say the name that did it. Or maybe it was seeing her up close, even though she looked a lot different than she had twelve years ago. Either way, it was like getting struck by lightning. The blond hair threw me, too, and her nose was a little different than I’d remembered it. Her skin looked flawless and her cheekbones were more pronounced. But the expression, the quizzical glance…that hadn’t changed. And somehow, it even made her look younger for an instant, bringing back the vision that I’d tucked away somewhere in the back of my memory, so long ago.
“Paula?” I said. “Paula Kittermann?”
“Yeah,” she said slowly. The space between her eyebrows furrowed again. “Who are you?”
“It’s Ron. Ron Shade.”
She jerked back and stared at me, then smiled and put both her arms around my neck, hugging me close, whispering, “Oh, Ron. It’s so good to see you.” She pressed her soft body tightly against me.
I didn’t know if I should hold her, or what. I raised my arms, but they sort of just hovered there awkwardly, before finally settling around her.
Marsha, who had come from behind the desk to check on things, came walking over. The smirk was already spreading across her boyish face, and her head canted slightly with that familiar, patronizing little lilt.
“A friend of yours?” she asked, flashing the cynical smile that she did so well. “Or just another recent conquest?”
“No,” I said. “Believe it or not, we’re old friends.”
“Well, hero,” Marsha said. “What’s your pleasure? You want me to cancel the cops? And George is on the phone.”
“Tell him I’ll call him right back,” I said, casting a quick look around to make sure my buddy Red wasn’t coming off the mat for Round Two. But by the time I got Paula’s arms untangled from around my neck and helped her over to the front desk, the redheaded guy had disappeared. I asked one of the bellmen if he’d seen him.
“Man, I don’t know, Ron,” the kid said. “I was too busy watching you and the babe.” He nodded toward Paula.
She was dressed to kill. A tight-fitting black skirt showed the contour of her hips and the shape of her thighs. Her jacket was dark leather, and under it her purple silk blouse was unbuttoned, showing the edge of a black lace bra.
“So you want me to cancel the cops or not?” Marsha asked.
I looked around again, scanning the area once more for Red, but he seemed to have vanished into the crowd. Figuring maybe he’d snuck up int
o the upstairs bar, I sent the two bellmen looking for him and told Marsha I’d talk to the coppers when they got there. I didn’t want Red going over to the station later and swearing out a battery complaint on me. This way my version would already be on record, and I had Paula here in case she wanted to press charges too.
Marsha handed me the phone across the counter. “It’s George. I called him back for you. You can thank me later.”
I smiled at her and grunted into the phone.
“What’s the matter? You sound winded,” George asked.
“I was in a hurry to take your phone call,” I said.
“Yeah, right.”
“Actually,” I said, taking a deep breath, “I had to mix it up with a guy.”
“What?”
“Just a minor problem in the bar.”
“Oh, great,” George said. Although his regular job was a detective in Violent Crimes, Area One, he and his partner had started the fledgling security company for which I was sort of a silent third partner. “You didn’t go busting anything up, did you?”
“Ain’t you even going to ask if I got hurt?”
“Nah, I’m only interested in the important stuff,” he said. “Like did you bust anything that I’m going to have to pay for?”
“Everything’s fine,” I said. I took another deep breath, feeling my respiration edging back to normal.
“Well, anyway, buddy,” George continued, “I just wanted to remind you about that interview tomorrow morning. Don’t be late now. Me and Doug are counting on you to make a good impression. This guy could send a lot of work our way.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” When I’d been growing up, George had always been an inspiration to me. Sort of an unofficial big brother, even though he’d been friends with my older brother, Tom. Now we were closer than family.
“I’ll try not to let you down, Big Guy,” I said, seeing the oscillation of the red-and-blue lights through the front doors. “Look, I got to go talk to the cops. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Windy City Knights Page 1
