Blood Score

by Jordan Dane

  “Good evening, Mr. Chandler.” A familiar voice greeted him, and a hand helped him from the taxi.

  “Thank you, Joseph. Have you seen Ms. Davenport this evening?”

  “No, sir. Is there something wrong?”

  “No, nothing. We had dinner plans, but she didn’t show. No big deal.” He forced a smile. “Good night.”

  “Have a good night’s rest, sir.”

  Ethan unfolded his cane as he stood on the curb and didn’t bother to explain more about why he’d asked about Olivia. The doorman guided him through the front entrance and left him alone in the lobby. On instinct, he counted the steps toward the private elevator that would take him to the flat he owned.

  He secured his deadbolt and folded his cane to set it on a console table near his front door, along with his wallet, keys, and watch. Ethan didn’t need a cane in his own home. He wandered to the bar and poured himself a small glass of Macallan single malt Scotch. After he took a hefty gulp, the alcohol burned all the way down and warmed his chest.

  But before the liquor mellowed him, his edginess came back in a rush. He turned and felt a strange presence in the room, a heaviness of deadened sound where he didn’t expect it.

  “Anyone there?”

  The sensation lingered in haunting fashion, until it faded to an underlying white noise. A clock ticked on the wall. His utilities hummed, and he heard a faint sound of music coming from a neighbor. Now nothing appeared out of the ordinary, which made him feel foolish. His jumpiness had more to do with Livie and why he’d stirred the interest of a rogue cameraman.

  Livie. His Livie. He felt the weight of her absence.

  Ethan shook his head and finished his scotch before he wandered into his bedroom suite. He shrugged out of his jacket and hung it over a chair near his closet. He unbuttoned his dress shirt, pulled the tail of it from his slacks, and turned on the water.

  A long hot shower. That’s what he needed.

  Naked, he walked into his stall and lifted his face toward the hot stream to let the spray hit him. He stood under the showerhead and breathed in the steam, letting the hot water trail down his chest and back before he grabbed the body wash. Once again, his thoughts turned to Livie and the mystery photographer that had become more than a troubling nuisance.

  Something didn’t feel right.

  ***

  From a small hole above Ethan, a tiny fiber optic camera clicked to transmit its feed to another location and within minutes, Tim McFarland settled onto a sofa and licked his lips. Waiting. He had Ethan Chandler to himself—recorded in the privacy of the violinist’s home. Nothing happened there without him knowing it.

  Nothing.

  At first his craving for the world class musician had been prurient, a compulsion he had to satisfy in secret, as he had done with other young men who lived in his building. Serving on the residents’ board, he received listings of property closings and had volunteered at key times to gain access to the private residences of those he took special interest in to do final inspections or play a role as the welcoming committee. All volunteer time, of course. He made sure that when it counted, he’d have time alone to wire his own surveillance gear as part of his appreciation package.

  But it didn’t take long for Ethan Chandler to become his whole world. The violinist had earned his total devotion. The boy had unleashed Tim to become what he was always meant to be.

  In a very private room, he fixed his gaze on his small screen, captivated by Ethan in the shower—his favorite location feed to record. The young man had interesting sexual desires that fascinated him, but as soapsuds slid off the musician’s muscular shoulders and down his taut belly, Tim watched with sweat trickling down his brow. In the dark of his special room, the one he shared with Ethan, he felt the power surge within him. Here he had control. He could do whatever he wanted. The sound of his breathing grew louder and filled the dark room, masked only by the ethereal strains of the violinist’s music, as he built to a crescendo of his own.

  In his mind Tim McFarland conjured what he’d do to Ethan—what he would do again and again—if he could.

  Chapter 3

  South Chicago – 11:35 p.m.

  Angelica Ramirez thought of a million other places she’d rather be, but considering she had a personal stake in coming, she had no choice—not if she wanted to find Gabriel Cronan.

  She stood under a red glow of flickering neon and filled her lungs with the last breath of night air before she went inside an old brick building at the end of a shadowy alley. She’d gotten word to use the back entrance only. Although she had an idea what to expect inside, she dreaded it. She slipped off her wedding ring to improve her chances of getting in and put it in the pocket of her jeans.

  Two men stopped her before she reached the door. A baldheaded man with no neck in a tight black tee grabbed the door handle before she did. Muffled shouts erupted inside, and baldy’s clone closed ranks and crossed his meaty arms. They made a beef wall inked with tattoo graffiti.

  “You sure you want in here, sweet cheeks?”

  “Yeah, I’m addicted to belching.” She raised an eyebrow. “And ball scratching is a real turn on.”

  One guy snorted a laugh. The other shrugged and said, “In that case, have at ‘er. We got a target rich environment.”

  The two bouncers exchanged smirks and let her pass, no doubt dismissing her as harmless window dressing. She guessed the steroid twins were the first line of defense if cops showed, but given the location in the dark alley, uniforms weren’t likely to get nosey.

  She pushed through the back door, and the pungent tang of cigar smoke, beer, and body odor hit her in a heated rush. Her clothes would be a magnet for every foul smell, and her skin already felt gritty. Her perfume and shampooed hair would go down for the count in no time, but she’d come for a reason.

  Angelica kept her dark eyes focused dead ahead and ignored the ogling stares, whistles, and obscene noises as she dodged beefy biceps and beer guts. She put her wedding ring back on to improve her odds of being left alone. Even though she wasn’t the only woman, she wondered who would come to this shit hole for a hook up with Mr. Right, unless their idea of romance involved money exchanging hands. All any woman would find here were Mr. Right Now and his good friend, Mr. Do Me. The direct descendants of Neanderthal man were en masse and under the influence of liquid courage with a double shot of testosterone. Her being outnumbered should have made her nervous except for one thing.

  Her Sig Sauer gave her a sense of entitlement. She wore a 9-mil Sig P239 in a pancake holster attached to her belt, hidden under her jean jacket. She felt the weight of her equalizer at the small of her back as she made her way into the main arena and searched the agitated crowd. Men yelled and waved wads of cash into the smoke-filled air, upping the stakes for the fight below. Few noticed her now. All eyes were on the brawlers inside the wire-meshed cage.

  Two men pummeled each other with bare knuckles, their chests slick with sweat and blood. Marquess of Queensberry rules got checked at the door. The underground fight club had taken over an old deserted boxing ring near the Dan Ryan Expressway. Organizers rotated events to undisclosed locations and told only those in the know.

  Angelica had her reason to know.

  She walked through the bleacher stairs and scanned the crowd, probing the animated faces, looking for Gabriel Cronan. He was a tall muscular man with intense blue eyes and a distinctive scar over his right eyebrow. Cronan wore a sobering grimace when annoyed, which was most of the time. His short dark hair had likely never seen fancy gels or styling products, and his chin rarely went without bristle. Anywhere else Gabe would have stood out, but not here. Here the state of masculinity thrived, drilled down to its bare essence. A guy like Cronan would know the rules in a place like this.

  Hell, he’d make them.

  After a first pass through the crowd, she came up empty. No Cronan in sight. She looked at her watch. If she didn’t find him soon, she’d have a decision to make and
covering for him wouldn’t play well. Angelica tried his cell again, but when it rolled into voice mail, she headed toward the exit, prepared to take one last look around. That’s when she noticed a striking pair of broad shoulders.

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” She shook her head and winced.

  Gabriel Cronan stood in the ring—getting the crap beat out of him.

  ***

  A hard right hook caught Cronan on the chin. His head snapped back, and he rolled with the punch, but a sharp jolt of pain raced down his neck. The blow staggered him, and he stumbled, his back against the wire mesh. Faces in the bleachers blurred, and sweat stung his watery eyes. The rabble took to their feet and waited for the inevitable.

  Cronan smelled blood—his.

  He shook his head to clear the fog and wiped his eyes with the back of a hand. He put up a shaky front and dropped his chin as he raised his raw bare fists to sidestep into center ring. One more time, he challenged Chainsaw Max who outweighed him by fifty pounds and stood a foot taller. Although the man was a damned behemoth with mitts the size of his head, Cronan could now dismiss the hyped rumors that the guy was part ape.

  Max had been showing off for his sister who was in the crowd. From this distance, she looked human.

  “Stay down,” the big man bellowed. “…before I kill you, you stubborn son of a bitch.”

  “Ain’t gonna happen, b-big guy,” he stammered. “Not t-tonight.”

  Before Cronan took a swing, he craned his neck and squinted into the unruly crowd behind Max, saying, “I wouldn’t let a g-guy touch my sister… like that. What kind of b-brother are you?”

  When Max turned and glared into the bleachers, Cronan balled his fist. He landed a few choice blows and punched Max in the gut. Spittle squirted from the man’s lips, followed by a chaser of his foul breath. With Max doubled over, Cronan dropped to a knee and delivered the kill shot—a swift knuckle grinder to the nuts.

  “Ohh!” The men in the crowd grimaced and let out a collective groan.

  Max’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he hit the canvas. He writhed and moaned in pure agony with his hands between his legs.

  Even Cronan winced.

  The referee jumped between them and waved his arms, counting down the seconds when the fight would officially end. The crowd chimed in, but Cronan knew from experience that Chainsaw Max wouldn’t make the count. The bastard had taken the same cheap shot with him last year. Cronan had bided his time and waited for the right moment to finally return the favor.

  The bell rang, and the fight ended.

  Cronan stared down at his squirming opponent as he sucked in smoky air and felt the sweat trail down his body. Most people might expect him to feel a pang of guilt or question his sense of fair play, especially considering what he did for a living. Being a homicide cop for the Chicago PD had taught him to adapt, improvise, and get results.

  If that made him messed up, so be it.

  ***

  “Winner! Cronan, the barbarian!”

  The ring announcer proclaimed him the winner of the bout over a mic and held up Cronan’s arm, amidst the outcry of catcalls coming from the drunks who’d bet against him. Outside the cage, he grabbed a towel with his chest heaving and his muscles burning. As he wiped the sweat and blood off his face, he heard a familiar sound that stood out from the din of the crowd.

  A woman’s voice.

  “Cronan, the barbarian? You’ve got to be kidding.”

  He looked up and stared at the face of his partner, Angelica Ramirez. She shook her head in questionable amusement.

  “Wasn’t my idea,” he said. “But around here, whoever gives a show, gets the dough.”

  People understood money. When anyone asked about why he voluntarily subjected himself to the abuse of a fight club, money had become his stock answer, but that didn’t come close to the real reason. Sometimes a guy had to hit something. Anything. Drawing blood the hard way had an added bonus. Being a cop and upholding the law fit most days.

  When it didn’t, he came looking for a fight.

  “Hello, Angel.” Cronan wiped the towel over his face and cocked his head. “How did you know where to find me?”

  “I’m your partner, and this is familiar turf.” She grinned. “Besides, seeing the way you used your face to block his punches, that explains a lot.” Angel narrowed her eyes. “What did you say to get him to turn around?”

  “That’s top secret. A defensive technique I learned from the Stooges. If I told you more, I’d have to give up my man card.” He smirked. “What are you doin’ here?”

  “I wouldn’t have barged in on your fun, tough guy, except you weren’t answering your cell.”

  “Sorry. Having my head bashed in takes concentration. What couldn’t wait?”

  Seeing her in this place surprised him. Whatever brought her to his migrating fight club had to be important. A woman like Angel stood out anywhere, but even more in this cesspool. He had to admit that he fantasized about her, usually after alcohol constipated his common sense. Nothing would ever happen between them. Angel had been married to his best friend, Manny Ramirez, a guy he’d known since childhood. He’d been best man at their wedding, but the good times ended when Manny lost his fight with a brain tumor two years into their marriage.

  Now Cronan felt protective of Angel, most of the time.

  Angel never flaunted her good looks. She didn’t have to. She bounced where a woman should bounce, and her dark soulful eyes were downright lethal, but dropping trow with a partner would be career suicide, even if he didn’t picture the face of his best friend every time his thoughts crossed the line. With Angel still wearing her wedding ring two years after Manny’s death, that said it all. She didn’t need a man in her life—or want one.

  In the five years he worked with Angel as his partner in homicide, there’d been times he fought the urge to put his arm around her, like the time she’d used lethal force to save a hostage from a gangbanger with the notorious MS-13 crew. The shooter had given her no choice, and the kill went down as justified—but the dead thug had been a twelve-year old kid.

  That was the only time he’d seen her cry on the job.

  “I got a call,” she said. “The chief wants us to handle a special case.”

  “We’re not on call. What’s up?” He headed for the dressing room, and she followed.

  “There’s been a murder in Oz Park. He’s asked us to take lead.”

  “Oh, no.” He shook his head. “This smells ripe. Tell him the wicked witch did it.”

  “Come on, Gabe. It’s not every day that the head honcho asks for us.”

  “You act like that’s a bad thing.”

  “He lives near Oz Park. Residents in the area are upset, and the media is out in force. He thinks this can turn high profile. You know how he hates that.”

  “Does he want us to wash his vehicle while we’re there? ‘Cause that’s how it starts, Angel. You start kissing ass now, you’ll be jonesing for it. I’d have to do an intervention.” He grimaced. “Why the hell would he want us on a high profile gig? Come on. Us?”

  Cronan knew there’d be strings attached. He knew how high profile cases worked. Whoever took lead on a case like this would feel the pressure. If the Chief of Detectives ended up in the public eye through the media, that would put him on a short leash with the Superintendent of Police.

  Crap trickled downhill pronto.

  Cronan had no patience for TV’s talking heads or in-house politics. He had no talent for diplomacy, and Angel would never be mistaken for a delicate flower when it came to treading on touchy feelings. She spoke her mind and results turned her on, something they had in common—and another reason the chief would have picked them.

  Cronan and Angel knew how to bend the rules when it counted. With his back to the wall, the chief had sent a clear message to him through Angel. He wanted a payoff at all cost—even if it meant assigning his most contentious team. If things went south, he’d have an added bonus.
<
br />   They’d make the perfect scapegoats.

  “Look, Angel. You’re my partner. For better or worse, I’m with you. But are you ready for livin’ in a fishbowl with no place to hide? The chief hates public pressure. If we don’t nail this solid, he’ll make our lives a livin’ hell. Or worse, he’ll spank us in public with the media.” He let her digest that before he said, “Just think about it. I’m hittin’ the showers.”

  He expected her to stay in the hall, but Angel wasn’t done talking. She barged into the steamy shower room after him, doing her best to ignore the naked butts. Bellowing obscenities echoed off moldy tile and metal lockers, directed at her. She returned the favor in Spanish before she made her point with him.

  “I want this case, Gabe.” She crossed her arms. “A case like this might have risk, but it’s also got a good chance at rewards. I could use a good review and a decent pay boost this year. Bottom line, the chief asked for us. That means something to me. As far as I’m concerned, this investigation is ours to lose. I don’t want another detective unzipping his fly and pissing on our turf. If there’s gonna be piss, we should do it.”

  “Interesting analogy. Basically you’re saying if anyone’s gonna screw this up, it may as well be us.” After she shrugged, he grinned and made every muscle in his face ache. “If you want this, Angel, I’m with you. Give me five to shower, but you might consider waitin’ outside the locker room.”

  She raised an eyebrow and gave him the once over. “Why? What’s to see out there?”

  ***

  Oz Park – After Midnight

  “What kind of sick loser kills in a city park with Dorothy and Toto looking on? This’ll be a damned circus,” Cronan said over his shoulder to Angel as he walked past a statue of the Scarecrow. “Keep your eyes open for flying monkeys. At night they’re damned hard to see.”

  “Just so you know,” Angel said. “There are times when I’m convinced you’re a total nut job.”