“And I don’t intend to answer it,” Raven said with a glance. “Mr. Symone, have you ever been to a little book store in Old Town? A little place that sells things like scrying crystals, Wiccan items and black candles?”
“Of course not,” Wall replied. “My client has no interest in the occult.”
Raven turned her head to meet Wall’s eyes. “We already know that isn’t true, Mr. Wall. Would you like to let your client answer the question? I think he might like to try the truth.”
Wall faltered for a moment under Raven’s piercing gaze and nudged his client, who said in a soft voice, “I only go to Marie’s for my vaudun needs. I’m not sure what other store you’re referring to.”
“Then can you explain how the shop owner knows you by sight?” Raven asked. “She was able to describe you well enough for one of our artists to sketch your likeness in under an hour.”
With that, she placed the completed sketch on the table. Both men stared at it with horrified interest.
“I trust you both recognize the face in this rendering? The resemblance is striking, to say the least,” Raven said.
“It looks like me,” Brand said, pulling the drawing closer. “But I swear to you I’ve never been to any other shop in Old Town.”
Raven turned the image around again and asked, “Then how was our witness able to describe you so accurately?”
Wall found his voice at last. “Obviously she has it in for my client and she’s lying.”
Raven shook her head, her gaze still locked on Brand. “I doubt that. The witness didn’t know his name or what the investigation was about, yet she still identified your client, Mr. Wall. I can hold Brand on suspicion based on her testimony and the evidence we’ve gathered and let the District Attorney sort everything out in court. Is that what you want, Brand?”
Brand sat up with a start and leaned forward. “Detective, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I have never been anywhere in Old Town but a few clubs and Marie’s. I have no idea how your witness knows me, but I didn’t kill anyone!”
“This is only making things worse,” Raven replied. “I have a witness who says you purchased items from her store…items found at Vicki Laveau’s side when her body was discovered. She identified you by sight alone. Do you have any other explanation you’d like to share?”
Wall leaned forward and pushed Brand back into his seat. “Can you prove the items you found were the ones supposedly purchased by my client, Detective Storm?” he asked, his voice a dangerous whisper.
“Are you worried, counselor?” Raven asked with a smile.
“Not at all, detective. I’m just wondering how solid your case against my client is,” Wall replied. “Now…are you going to answer my question or not?”
“The evidence has been processed through the crime lab,” Raven said. “We know your client had motive, opportunity, and the candles he purchased, according to the witness, were found next to Victoria Laveau's body. Unless you and Mr. Symone cooperate, I’ll be holding him on murder charges. The media will be on this before the ten o’clock news, which I’m sure Cade Symone won’t appreciate. I’ll let you have a few minutes to think it over.”
Without another word, Raven pushed back from the table and exited, closing the door on the two men in the interview room. In the adjoining chamber, she leaned against the wall and watched through the one-way mirror.
“What do you think?” Frost asked.
“Unless I’m way off base, Symone is telling the truth, but Wall is starting to think his client is guilty.”
“What makes you think he’s telling the truth? We practically have his fingerprints at the scene!” Levac said.
Raven shook her head. “I don’t care what you call it, but I am sure that kid is terrified and indignant. He has no clue what is going on and he’s most certainly not guilty of killing our three victims.”
“Oh, come on, how can that be?” Levac asked. “Maybe your intuition has gone haywire this time.”
Raven glanced at Levac and shrugged, still watching the pair in the interrogation room. It was clear from their body language that Wall was trying to get Symone to tell him the truth and Brand was denying any involvement in the murders. After several minutes of tense arguing, Wall stood and knocked on the door. A uniformed officer answered it, which was Raven’s cue to exit the small observation room and return to the suspect. She entered with a smile and took a seat across from Brand.
“So,” she said, “what did you decide?”
Wall straightened and paused to glance at his client before replying, “Mr. Symone had nothing to do with these crimes and will not cooperate with your inquiries. Further, should his arrest generate any bad publicity, both you and the police department will be sued for libel and false arrest.”
“That’s your prerogative, counselor,” Raven said. “In the meantime, I’ll have your client sent to processing. You can visit him in his jail cell in about an hour.”
As Raven stood to leave, Brand also stood and moved around the table. “I understand you are just doing your job, detective,” he said, reaching out for her. “All I ask is that you don’t let it end here. Whatever happened, I didn’t have anything to do with it. Whoever killed Nate and Vicki is still out there, somewhere, and if he killed them, he’s going to kill again.”
Raven looked into Symone’s eyes and saw concerned sincerity. After a moment, she nodded and moved to the door. She waited until Symone was seated again before knocking and exiting.
V
A dark, almost luminescent fog darkened the Windy City, dimming even the brightest of the city’s lights. Raven stood in front of her Shelby and watched traffic as it moved along the choked roadways, lost in thought. All of her instincts told her that Brand Symone was innocent. But she also knew that the drawing of him was accurate; their artists were some of the best in the country. Someone who looked like Brand Symone had purchased the candles, which forensics had traced through a local distributor. The wax at the scene had been a perfect match and Maggie Cooke insisted she hadn’t sold those candles to anyone but Symone.
“So either he’s the greatest liar in the world,” she muttered to herself, “or someone who looks, smells and acts like him is running around out there killing people with poisoned antacids.”
She was still mentally pulling on the threads of that inquiry, checking off the possible suspects, when her phone chimed. Fishing it from her pocket, she saw the now-familiar number of Francois Du Guerre.
Answering the phone, she purred, “Good evening, Francois. Did you sleep well, love?”
“I did indeed, Ravenel,” Francois replied, the joy in his voice obvious. “How was your day?”
“Same old, same old,” she replied. “We arrested a suspect in the case I’ve been working on.”
“Surely that is a good thing,” Francois said. “Perhaps we should celebrate the solution to this latest challenge?”
Raven smiled. “The problem is, my instincts tell me we’ve caught the wrong man. Nothing about this makes any sense, but a witness has positively identified him.”
Raven could almost hear Francois’ frown when he asked, “Then what will be your next move?”
“I don’t know. But I’m not going to put this one to bed just yet. We have other evidence that’s supposed to be coming in from the lab. Maybe that will help clear things up. I don’t have much time; I’m sure the captain and chief will soon be holding a press conference that these cases have been solved. It won’t be pretty if it turns out we’ve put the wrong man behind bars.”
“I understand, Ravenel,” Francois said. “Will you be working this late evening, then?”
Raven huddled in her jacket, wishing it was Francois’ arms. “I think so. I’m going down to the records department to see if they have my info on Whitehall. If I can find a connection to the murder weapon, it should shed some light on the true suspect.”
“I will not trouble you any longer, then. Please call me later; perhaps
we can enjoy a little wine and a late dessert.”
“I will, love,” Raven said, feeling warm inside.
“I look forward to your call, Ravenel.”
Francois ended the call and Raven dropped her phone back into her pocket before sliding behind the wheel of the Shelby.
Raven arrived at the records department just short of an hour later and parked in one of the empty spots in front of the large building. Her boots crunched on the thin layer of ice and snow that covered the lot as she made her way through the glass double doors to the lobby, her enhanced reflexes keeping her stiletto heels from slipping on the slick pavement.
The warmth within was welcome and she unzipped her jacket, letting the heat warm her before she turned to the small counter where a bored-looking college intern was watching football on a handheld television. He didn’t look up when Raven leaned on the counter and smiled.
“Can I help you?” he muttered around a wad of gum.
“Detective Raven Storm. I’m looking for a file on one of my cases. Did anyone leave anything for me?” Raven laid her badge on the counter.
“Nope,” the intern replied, not looking up. “Sorry.”
Raven frowned and reached out with one finger to turn off the television. “Do you think you could actually check? It should be waiting for me.”
The intern looked up at her, his face blank, and then turned to sort through a pile of folders behind him. “What was the victim’s name?"
Raven watched the names flick past under the kid’s fingers. “Nathan King, Victoria Laveau, Taylor Hellsey, and Whitehall.”
“Huh, whatdya know,” the intern said, pulling the file out of the stack. “My bad, detective.” He spun around again and picked up Raven’s badge, writing the number on his declarations sheet and sliding it through the glass. “Sign here, please."
Raven signed, gathered her things and walked back into the ice storm. The intern had turned the Packers back on before the door had even closed behind her.
Curled behind the wheel of her Mustang, Raven flipped through the files. The research department had been thorough, tracking the Whitehall building through several dummy corporations to eventually determine that a small security company in Chicago had overseen the sale of the building. Research had even completed a background check on the guards who had worked there and provided a listing, complete with current addresses. Raven scanned the list and wasn’t surprised to see a name she recognized near the bottom. With a mirthless grin, she stuffed the file into her purse next to all the others. At this rate she would have to start carrying a briefcase. The Gucci was starting to overflow.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The ice and wind blowing in off the lake had done little to make the Dark more appealing; it gathered up trash and debris and piled it in repulsive corners, covering everything with a thin sheet of ice. Rats, both human and animal alike, scurried away from the driving cold to hide in the steaming storm drains or beneath rusting dumpsters for what protection they offered from the grave-like chill that seemed to permeate everything. Raven had parked the Shelby in a secure lot in Old Town, not wanting to risk the treasured car being stolen or worse, and was now proceeding toward the Dark on foot. She ignored the strange noises coming from the manhole covers and drains she passed and continued to pick her way through the shadows to an address she knew well.
After a ten-minute walk into the Dark, Raven reached the address she was looking for, a double-wide trailer nestled between two ruined apartment buildings. A small diesel generator rumbled angrily in the alleyway, providing sporadic energy for the motor home, and lights flickered in the paper-covered windows. A newer fifteen-speed bicycle was attached to the trailer by the sort of chain usually used to train recalcitrant elephants and restrain rancor monsters.
The detective stepped up to the door, which was festooned with more locks than Lady Gaga had platform shoes, and knocked. Her ears detected rustling inside and a piece of the paper covering the nearest window was moved gingerly aside.
“Who's there?” called a voice Raven barely recognized.
“Detective Storm,” Raven replied. “I’m looking for Wilson.”
“No one here by that name,” the voice replied. “Go away!”
Raven smiled and moved to peer through the gap in the paper. “Wilson, it’s me and I know that scratchy voice is you. Open up; I need your help with an investigation I’m working on.”
“Y-you got a warrant this time?”
“I don’t need one, Wilson. You’re not in any trouble,” Raven replied. “I have some questions about a building you were guarding a few months ago. The Whitehall building?”
“I worked there…yeah. What about it?”
“Can I come in?” Raven asked. “It’s cold and rainy out here.”
After a pause, the paper dropped and there was the sound of numerous locks being opened. The door slid aside on well-oiled hinges. Raven stepped inside the trailer, grimacing at the stacks of take-out boxes and instant noodle packets sitting on every available surface. She turned when the door closed and smiled at the lanky form behind her.
Wilson stood with his scabbed arms folded over his pigeon chest. He was wearing a threadbare tee shirt and uniform slacks that had seen better days. His hair was close-cropped and his face clean shaven, save for a tiny mustache he no doubt thought made him look dashing and really just made him look like the villain in a B movie.
“Okay…so…whatcha want?” he asked, picking at one of the scabs on his arm.
“The Whitehall building: It was a pharmaceutical company that closed and was sold. Do you remember it?” Raven asked.
Wilson nodded and moved to sit on top of a pile of old clothes and wrappers. Whatever was under it probably used to be a chair or sofa from one of the Dark’s many hotels. “Yeah…not much good stuff left over.”
“Do you remember any boxes or wrappers? Things maybe you took and sold?” Raven turned to keep an eye on the older man.
“Why you want to know?” he said. “I didn’t steal nuffin.”
Raven ignored the comment. “Who did you sell the stuff to?”
Wilson shook his head, still picking at the track on his arm. “I don’t remember the guy’s name. I didn’t do nuffin wrong.”
“Wilson, I don’t care what you sold or how you got your hands on it,” Raven pressed. “I’m not in narc; I’m in homicide now. I need to know who you sold the stuff to; it’s important.”
“I d-d-don’t know!” Wilson stuttered, his eyes widening in fear.
Raven rolled her eyes and squatted in front of the strung-out security guard. “Can you describe him?” she asked in a soothing voice.
“Yeah…” Wilson replied. “Yeah…it was a big black guy. He spoke with a crappy accent and wore a bathrobe.”
Raven nodded and cocked her head. “Where did you take the stuff when you sold it?”
“He h-had a church over in Bronzeville. Paid for me to t-take a cab. The dude paid me in the, uh, usual for boxes and foil packets from the old building.”
“Did he tell you what he wanted them for?”
“I didn’t ask. I know better; that’s how people get dead in this town.”
Raven nodded again and pulled a fifty from her wallet. “Thanks, Wilson. Get some real food, will you? Not any of this crap. Go to a store and get real food.”
She placed the bill on the pile of containers next to Wilson and let herself out. Behind her, she could hear Wilson shooting the locks back into place and she knew he was watching her until she was out of sight.
At one time, Woodrow Thomas Wilson had been a top-notch narcotics cop working out of the third. He had been working undercover and had gotten in deep with the Bratva. By the time the vice squad had been able to extract him, he had become hopelessly addicted to a variety of narcotics, including heroine and thirst. Nothing had worked to get him off the needles and pills, and he had eventually been given a small pension and left to his own devices. He made a living as a security g
uard and small-time crook, spending most of his pay to feed his habit. He made extra cash serving as a snitch and was on several police informant lists. Wilson somehow heard everything and knew everyone.
The steady, icy drizzle had stopped by the time Raven returned to the parked Shelby. The attendant was thoughtful enough, in exchange for a twenty, to scrape the ice from the windows and headlights, and within a few minutes Raven was making careful progress back toward Old Town, where she was hoping to meet Francois for a late dessert. She would follow up with the bocor in the morning. For now, she needed some wine and chocolate-y goodness.
She was less than a mile from Old Town when she came upon a roadblock where three Department of Transportation workers were detouring what little traffic was still on the road. Raven turned down the side road the orange-garbed flagman indicated and continued deeper into the gloomy night. She passed several more similar workers, turning each time she was directed. After several minutes and more turns than she could count, however, her instincts began to scream at her.
“This isn’t right,” she muttered. “This is going toward the heart of the city, not toward Old Town.”
At the next flagman, Raven stopped and exited the Shelby, leaving the engine idling.
“What’s going on?” she called over the car’s icy roof.
“Get back in your car and move on, Miss,” the man called back. “Just a detour around some flooding.”
Raven stared at the man for a heartbeat, trying to sense if he was lying or not. There were too many mixed smells and too much ice for her to get a clean scent. Annoyed, she slipped back into the car and continued down the indicated alleyway.
Just a detour, my grandma’s buttocks, she thought. They’re herding me somewhere. But who and what for?
More curious than worried, Raven continued following the directions, eventually reaching a large atrium area between several high-rise office buildings she didn’t recognize. She stopped the car and waited, only turning at a squeal of metal on metal that made her teeth itch and her fists clench. Behind her, a gate was closing.
Stormrise Page 20
