Momma gestured for Artie and Mitch to sit at the small café table by the window. She served them each a cup of tea and said, “Artie saved us from the cruelty of your father. You could say he’s been our guardian angel. He made sure we had everything we needed all of these years. He even paid for most of your college.” Momma brushed a tear from her cheek. “This is the first I’ve seen him in 25 years.” Momma reached across the table and squeezed Artie’s hand. He raised her hand to his lips and gave her a soft kiss.
Mitch looked at Artie, “Thank you. I…I’m not sure what to say. Where have you been for 25 years?”
Momma answered, “He’s the best forger the mob ever had. He’s been in prison until this morning.”
Artie corrected her. “Actually, I prefer the title ‘document man’, or artist. Pick which one you like best.” He shrugged and smiled.
Mitch’s jaw dropped as Momma giggled again and kissed Artie’s cheek.
* * *
Nick arrived at the 107th Precinct to find Jen already busy at her computer. They had gone home for a few hours of sleep after canvassing both blocks of Dalton Street last night. Much of the information they needed now would come from bank records and CSU reports. Detective Wayne Dunfee was napping in his chair.
Jen whispered, “Lacey forgive you last night?”
Nick’s boyish grin spread across his face as his eyes twinkled. “I gave her my most heartfelt apology.”
Jen mumbled, “I just bet you did,” and looked back to her computer.
Nick sat at his desk and pulled up the reports for the morning. Jen had already done much of the work on the reports for their two homicides. Nick noticed Wayne had pulled a homicide last night, too, Attorney James Baxter.
Nick whispered over to Jen, “Why do I know that name: Attorney James Baxter?”
Wayne opened his eyes, “Big mob lawyer.”
Jen and Nick exchanged glances.
Nick walked over to Wayne’s desk. “Let’s play poker. I call ya. I’ve got a mob banker’s wife, and I’ll raise you a dogwood blossom.” Nick dropped the baggie on Wayne’s desk.
Wayne yawned and stretched his arms to the ceiling. “Crap.”
* * *
Six men sat at the round table in the back of an obscure bar. The lights were dim and the air hung heavy with the stench of stale whiskey and cigars. Two large men flanked the group and stood to face anyone foolish enough to approach.
Frankie hadn’t slept well. He was nervous. His whole life had been tied to Dom’s crew. He had survived because he didn’t make mistakes. Now he was making mistakes. His aging mind was playing tricks on him, setting him up. He had to focus and be extra careful, extra sure about everything he did and said.
The crew had made sure that he had a free place to live, a generous monthly stipend, and a few jobs to keep him loyal. He had earned his position with Dom. He was one of a handful of men Dom trusted.
Obviously the meeting had started long before Frankie had been told to arrive. Newspapers were thrown on the floor and Dom’s face was flushed in anger. He had been shouting. Frankie could tell from the facial expressions of the other men: this was not a pleasant meeting.
Dom gestured for Frankie to sit. “You know four of our boys got out of prison this week?” Dom pointed to the newspapers on the floor. “Carson got popped two blocks from the prison after he got released yesterday. Two blocks!” Dom slammed his fist on the table. “I’m gonna find out who did this!” Dom’s eyes had narrowed. Frankie felt the effect of lasers shooting toward him. He hadn’t seen Dom this animated in years.
Frankie flinched as Dom suddenly leaned forward and pointed at him.
“Our banker’s wife and our lawyer got popped last night, too. Somebody’s lookin’ to make a statement.” Dom leaned his chair back and took a slow drag on his cigar. “I got ears and eyes on this already. Could be the Feds, could be the heroin boys lookin’ to expand business.” Dom focused on Frankie and whispered, “When I get a name, I want you to take care of it. We understand each other?”
Frankie twisted in his chair. It was bad enough he had shot Dom’s lawyer, he didn’t know he had shot Dom’s banker’s wife. He prayed he had covered his tracks well enough that Dom would finger someone else. Dom was the boss for the Westside crew. Frankie tried to sound stern. “Got it.”
Dom nodded approval. “In the meantime, we look out for our own. Until we line up a place for Artie, he stays with you. Shouldn’t be more than a few days. We’ve got FBI up our shorts just waitin’ for us to make a mistake.”
Dom waved his hand to shoo Frankie away. “Make Artie feel welcome, but keep your business to yourself. He’s always been a weak link. Too soft. If it wasn’t for his father’s memory, I’d pop him myself. You’re retired, understand? The heat will be watchin’ him close; that’s why I want him with you. You know how to keep yourself clean.”
Frankie stood to leave, “I understand.”
Outside the bar, Frankie hailed a cab and cursed under his breath. He not only had to keep his continued active employment with the mob secret from Artie and the FBI, he had to hide his ‘side jobs’ from everybody. If Dom ever found out he was supplementing his income and risking the crew, he’d be the next prone, bloody body circled by cops and photographers. Artie would arrive at Frankie’s apartment sometime this afternoon. Frankie exhaled; the first thing he had to do was get that head out of his freezer.
* * *
Mitch took care of the morning customers as Momma and Artie caught up at the corner table. Each time the store was empty of customers they broke into animated conversation. Mitch tried hard not to listen in, but it was so darn interesting. Artie had the inside scoop on everything in and out of prison. Artie was quite the charmer and Mitch was mesmerized.
Artie glanced over and saw that Mitch was staring at them, his wiping rag frozen on the glass case and his jaw dropped. Artie tried to remember the last thing he had just said.
Artie smiled at Mitch. “What I meant to say was the guy was a great swimmer! Not that he was swim-min’ with the fishes.” Artie and Momma laughed. Mitch nodded his head quickly and resumed his work. Holy Jesus.
The door chimes jingled and Mitch’s friend Eli entered the store. Mitch enthusiastically greeted him. “Eli!”
Eli glanced around and saw Momma and a man at the corner table. The rest of the store was empty. Eli shrugged. “Hey, I’m going to be a no show for darts tonight. Sis’s car finally died. Her neighbor gave her a lift to work, but I’ve got to pick her up.”
Momma walked over. “You talkin’ about Renee? If she needs a car for a bit, she can use mine. You and Mitch check it out; make sure there’s gas an’ all. Heck, it ain’t been out of the garage since last fall; not like I’m gonna miss it.”
Artie stood. “I’m so sorry to interrupt, but I just noticed the time. I must take care of some business.” He kissed Momma’s hand again and asked, “After I get settled in, may I stop back later to visit more?”
Momma smiled. “Seein’s you ain’t worked for 25 years, why don’t you help me at five so Mitch can help Eli deliver my car?” Artie chuckled, pointed to his watch and turned for the door. Momma watched him leave, glided to the back of the store and disappeared behind the curtain.
Mitch hissed at Eli. “That dude just got out of prison! He works for the mob! And he’s in love with Momma!”
Eli could see that Mitch was excited, but he was more interested in Momma’s car. It would be great not to drive his sister all over Chicago. Eli asked, “If I stop here at four when I get off work, can we take Momma’s car?”
Mitch frowned at Eli. “Did you even hear what I said? That friend of Momma’s is in the mob.”
Eli raised an eyebrow and said, “What part of that surprises you? Momma knows everybody in this town. Word on the street has always been to leave Momma be.”
Mitch raised his hands, palms up and said, “I’ve never heard any ‘word on the street’.”
Eli chuckled as he grabbed a
muffin from under a glass dome. “That’s ‘cuz you ain’t never on the ‘street’.”
* * *
Frankie dumped the last of the ice into the cooler on top of the head. Just as he secured the lid, his front door rattled with pounding. He hefted the cooler and rushed it into his bedroom. His bed was already heaped with items he had gathered that needed to be hidden from Artie. The pounding started again. Where the heck was the key to lock his bedroom door? He couldn’t think with that racket going on.
Frankie slid the bolt to the side and opened the apartment door. He recognized Artie from his pictures. Artie was dressed in a suit and had two leather bags resting next to him. Frankie smelled aftershave. Way too much aftershave. He could feel his sinuses preparing a pounding.
“Man! You stink. First thing you got to do is shower and don’t put that junk back on!” Frankie backed up so Artie could enter.
Artie smiled and grabbed his bags. Obviously Frankie wasn’t going to volunteer to help him. “I assume you are Frankie Mullen? You were notified of my arrival?”
Frankie shook his head and backed further into the room. “I’m serious about that smell. Smells make me sick.”
Artie nodded, “Just point me to the shower and my room and I shall remedy this unfortunate turn of events.”
Frankie pointed down the hall as he continued backing up. “Last door at the end of the hall is your room. Don’t touch that first door. That’s my room.”
Frankie opened the window over the kitchen sink and waved the fresh air into the room. He opened the freezer door of his refrigerator and inhaled deep breaths of the icy air until the pressure in his head receded. The sound of Artie’s shower starting was little comfort that this living arrangement was going to work out.
Frankie made three trips from his room to the parking garage two flights below to move his stuff to his car. He was exhausted. Before he left with the last gun case, he left a note on the counter with a key. “I’ll be back. Don’t shut the window until the stink is gone. Make yourself at home. There’s no food.”
Frankie sat in his car trying to decide where to take his things. He knew a friend of the crew that had a few storage units about twenty blocks away. It should be safe for the few days Frankie would need it. He’d have to replace the ice in the cooler daily. He rubbed his wrinkled hands over his face and moaned. He had forgotten to pack the pistol hidden under the couch cushion. His knees already screamed with pain. He walked back up the two flights of stairs to get the pistol.
Kevin Brown, street name ‘Mo’, and Dan Summers, street name ‘Flash’, had slid down in the front seat of their Jeep to smoke dope in the dark parking garage. They had watched Frankie carry what looked like gun cases to his car and place them in the trunk. As soon as Frankie left the fourth time, Mo said, “That’s good shit, man. Looks like gun cases. Let’s get that shit.”
Flash nodded his approval and the two of them raced over to Frankie’s car, popped the trunk lid, emptied the contents to their Jeep and slammed the trunk lid shut. They slid back down in the Jeep’s front seat to watch as Frankie returned, slid behind the steering wheel and eventually drove away.
Mo and Flash fist bumped and started up the Jeep. They got about three blocks from the garage when Mo said, “Pop open that cooler and see if we got us some booze.”
Flash opened the cooler and peeled away the layers of plastic wrap. “Ain’t no booze; some kind of meat or somethin’.” Flash jumped back and screamed. “It’s a head! A real, frozen head!”
Mo pulled the Jeep over and looked for himself. The mass inside the plastic wrap was dark with freezer burn and the frosted surface was melting on what was definitely a human head. “This ain’t good, man. That there is big trouble.” Mo pressed the lid back on the cooler and pushed it away.
Flash sputtered, “Big trouble, like the mob?” They stared at each other in horror.
* * *
Frankie paid for a month on the storage unit and purchased a new lock set from the man behind the counter. He would replace it with a better lock later. He backed his car into the unit, lowered the overhead door and opened his trunk. His knees buckled and he felt a flash of heat rise up his neck. His trunk was empty.
CHAPTER 3
Tuesday 9:00 a.m.
He woke to the clanging of a metal cart slamming to a stop outside of his room. The door opened and he decided to sit up and face his captor. A young man in blue scrubs put his finger over his lips to signal quiet as he closed the door behind him. He quickly walked closer and said, “I’m going to help you get out of here, but you have to trust me.”
He realized that he was nodding his head in agreement. The man looked somewhat familiar. Who was he? Why was he dressed like that? Was this a hospital? He watched as the man removed a small bundle from his shirt pocket and pushed it toward him.
“Eat this. You need food. I emptied your shot in the potted tree again. I’m probably going to kill it.” His captor snickered and then glanced nervously at the door. “Hurry up. If they find out I’m helping you, we’re both dead.”
There was something about the man’s mannerisms that was very unsettling. His unkempt appearance and the intensity of his icy blue eyes added to the bizarre nature of his visit. His left cheek rose quickly to meet his left eye in a nervous tick. He suddenly glared, “If someone else comes in here, pretend you’re drugged out. Do you understand?”
Once again, he nodded his head. He knew better than to ask any questions. Not yet.
* * *
The first rays of spring sunshine burst through the blinds of the homicide wing of the precinct building. The blast was blinding to anyone glancing east. Instead of closing the blinds, computer monitors were shifted and chairs rolled away from the intrusion. The sunlight highlighted the dust in the air and gave life to great swirls that traveled along the floor with each passing of shoes. The standing joke was that the dirt and dust was what held the old building together.
Jen returned to her desk after interviewing Karen Lomas. Nick had just finished reviewing the medical examiner’s findings and the CSU reports from both 45 Dalton Street and 54 Dalton Street. The fourth member of the detective squad, Sam, had just reported to work from a week’s medical leave.
Jen greeted Sam, “Hey! How’s the leg?”
Sam grinned as he pushed his chair up to his desk. “Leg’s been fine since day one. Thank God that punk only had a 22. He was so damn far away the bullet barely broke through the skin.” Sam had been shot in the thigh chasing down a murder witness. “I’ve been catching up on darts. Figured I might join that team of Wayne’s and show ‘em how it’s supposed to be done.”
Wayne glanced over and scowled. “Since you’re all perky again, why don’t you jump in and help with some detecting? We picked up three new ones last night. Two are mob related.”
Sam got up and adjusted the blinds, rolled his neck and moaned, “I knew I should have asked for another week.”
Wayne walked over and dropped a stack of papers in front of Sam. “Known associates, Attorney James Baxter, deceased.”
Sam whistled. “Who’s number two?”
Nick answered, “Alexia Cummings, wife of Travis Cummings, mob banker.” Nick held up his bag with the dogwood blossom. “Also picked up a Reggie Lomas, who may or may not be connected to the other two by this flower.”
Sam shook his head. “I’m not takin’ the bait, Stryker. You say the flower is important, it’s important. Whatever makes you happy.”
Jen stretched her arms above her head and twisted her desk chair to face Nick. “Karen Lomas is taking a poly right now. She has no clue why someone would kill her husband. She’s just glad they did. I believe her.”
Nick pointed to a short stack of papers on the corner of his desk. “That’s the Lomas pile. There’s nothing interesting in her phone or bank records, but she’ll get over a million in life insurance.”
Jen smiled. “I’m glad. According to Karen, Reggie Lomas was a tight fisted S.O.B. and proud of
it. She earned every penny. I’ll start working his co-workers.”
Nick glanced back at his computer screen. Bank of America had sent him an email with an attachment. “I asked for a copy of one of Cummings’ checks from Bank of America because of its size. I have a check for 50 grand clearing the Cummings’ checking account last week.” Nick leaned closer to the screen. “Well, I didn’t expect this.” He hit print and yelled over to Wayne. “Do you have the bank records for Attorney Baxter yet?”
Wayne changed screens on his computer. “Looks like they came over 20 minutes ago. What am I looking for?”
“A 50 thousand dollar check deposited last week.”
“Got it.”
Nick rubbed the back of his neck and spoke to no one in particular. “I was hoping this would lead to something. The check was made out to Attorney Baxter, but signed by Alexia Cummings.” Nick smiled at Jen. “I guess it would have been too easy to have Cummings pay his lawyer for a hit on his wife. Too bad she signed the check.”
Jen offered, “Could be a fee for a divorce. Maybe our investment banker got wind she was going to divorce him and decided to speed up the process.”
Wayne added, “Looks like Attorney Baxter withdrew half of it the same day he got it. In cash.” Wayne snapped his finger, “Hey, looks like he had a 50 thousand dollar deposit last month, too.” Wayne cursed. “Jen, show me how to find this deposit document on this darn thing. I want to see who wrote this check.”
Jen walked over, highlighted the deposit date and clicked on a tab that said ‘document’. “How do you guys function?”
Wayne whistled. “We might have stepped into something. Last month he got a check for 50 grand from Kerry Starke.” Wayne looked over at Nick. “Starke, our dead IRS dude.”
Nick grabbed a file from the bottom of his stack. “I asked her about that check. She said they had paid for some legal fees.” Nick waved the file in the air. “You know how many people wanted this dude dead? IRS agents make lousy homicide files.”
Twisted: Nick Stryker Series, Book Two The Shallow End Gals Page 2
