by Skye Knizley
“He isn’t worth it, Ray,” Aspen said as they walked.
“You are,” Raven replied simply.
Aspen stopped her. “He was baiting you, honey.”
Raven sighed and ran a hand through her snow-wet hair. “I know, Asp. I shouldn’t let him, but he’s always been able to get into my head.”
“He’s up to something,” Aspen said. “Do you think he was involved in raiding the tomb?”
“He could be. He’s got an agenda, I just don’t see what he gains from any of it,” Raven replied.
“Blood, power, and money, what else is there?” Aspen asked.
Raven started walking again. “With Francois, there’s no telling. I think that’s what worries me most.”
She climbed into the Jag and started the engine. It had been a long night and it wasn’t getting any shorter. Time to get some rest and see what the morning brought. They still had a murderer to catch and almost no place to look.
She glanced out the window to where Du Guerre was sitting. He’d changed seats and relit his pipe, now facing the carolers with an air of extreme ease, a wealthy businessman without a care in the world.
“When I figure out how you fit into all of this, Francois…”
“Let’s go home, baby,” Aspen said.
Raven nodded and guided the Jaguar back into traffic, her mind on Strohm and how he was connected to the mage she’d seen in the elevator. She didn’t believe in happenstance.
CHAPTER FIVE
Donut Vault, Michigan Avenue Chicago, 9:00 a.m. Dec 23rd
Raven sipped from her large black coffee and stared at the notepad in front of her. She rarely used them, trusting her memory to keep things straight. Since the nightmares, Aspen had suggested she use one as a dream journal and to make notes during the day, hoping it would help. If there was a sweetest person in the world award, Aspen would be in the running. It hadn’t helped much with the nightmares, but she’d found it helpful for doodling and letting her mind freewheel while she worked through cases. She’d spent the early morning tracking down Harley Davidson. He had a sheet as long as her arm, mostly petty theft and assault, and had done a five year stint up state for grand theft auto, his third strike. He’d been paroled after two and on the street for six months. He had no listed address, but his parole officer Reuben Grimes had an office near Bronzeville. If anyone would know where Harley made his bed, it would be him. And if he didn’t, it wouldn’t be hard to put out a BOLO and an arrest warrant for parole violation.
She finished the last touches on a doodle shaped like a wooden stake and looked up to find Levac entering the shop. She almost didn’t recognize him in his ugly red holiday sweater and Santa hat.
“Rupe?”
Levac smiled and accepted a coffee from the clerk before sliding into the booth. “Morning, Ray. How was Court?”
“About like you’d expect, with a generous helping of Du Guerre making an ass of himself. What the hell are you wearing?”
“You like it? Sloan got it for me,” Levac said.
Raven looked at it critically. It had a snowman on the front with black and green pom-poms. “It’s questionable, Rupe. Where’s the rumpled suit and tie I’m so fond of?”
“It’s almost Christmas, Sloan thought it would help bring in some holiday cheer,” Levac replied.
He sipped his coffee and sat back with a sigh. “So what’s going on with Du Guerre?”
Raven considered what to tell him and decided that less was more given that Sloan was due to give birth any day now.
“Nothing major, putting his nose where it doesn’t belong and making a pest of himself at Court. I don’t know what he’s playing at yet, when I do you’ll be the first to know,” she said.
“He’s one of the few skeeters I wish you had put down when you had the opportunity,” Levac said. “He’s as slimy as he is handsome. It gets on my nerves.”
“No argument from me. We’ve got other priorities though. While you were trying out for the Ugliest Sweater award, I was working. No address on Harley, but I found his parole officer. We should check in with him and see if he’s got a line on this guy,” Raven said.
Levac grinned and fished in the pocket of his jeans for his own badly rumpled notepad. “Au contraire, boss of mine. Dr. Zhu finished Decker’s autopsy early this morning and faxed over a copy of the report.”
He flipped open his pad and smoothed the page, turning it this way and that to make it legible.
“What did he have to say? It was kind of obvious how Decker died. Straight razor to the throat, right?” Raven asked.
“Nope. Doc says there is no evidence a blade was used,” Levac said.
Raven arched an eyebrow in surprise. “Then what? Claws? Laser? Rampaging pizza cutter?”
Levac grinned and sipped on his coffee before replying. “He doesn’t know. He said that the wound was clean with no evidence left behind indicating blade angle, type or material.”
That didn’t make sense. It was a law of physics that materials, when touched, always left evidence behind. The world was full of microscopic skin, metal, dirt…almost everything you touched left a physical print behind. It was the whole purpose of trace evidence analysis.
“That’s…impossible,” she said eventually.
“Doc said the same thing. He sent skin samples out for Aspen to run through the gauntlet and find anything he missed,” Levac said.
“What about the tox screen?”
Levac waved at the clerk for his usual jam donut and thumbed through his notepad. “No Thirst, if that is what you’re wondering. He wasn’t clean, though. Traces of amphetamines, nicotine and alcohol. Doc suspects Decker was coming off a high when he was killed.”
None of that was unusual. Amphetamines were still a problem in Chicago, especially crystal and Hard Rock. Raven sensed that Levac had something else up his sleeve, however and she waited with only a little impatience for him to take a bite of his donut and set it aside again.
“What else?” she asked while he chewed.
“Drain cleaner. If his throat hadn’t been cut, he’d have died within the hour anyway,” Levac said around his donut.
Raven stared at him. “He was murdered twice? Someone really didn’t like him much.”
“It also means someone was with him just before he was killed,” Levac said. “I don’t think it’s likely that he poisoned himself, drain cleaner is a hell of a way to die.”
Levac was right. Most drain cleaners contained sulfuric acid at a high enough concentration to burn through skin in a matter of seconds. If Decker had it in his system, he was in for a short but painful death. Cutting his throat had been a blessing.
“I agree, I don’t see him as a suicide.”
Raven frowned and stared into her coffee cup. Was Decker’s murder related to Murphy? They were killed in different ways, different places, with no obvious connection other than the hotel. When it came to the ‘weird’ cases she couldn’t take anything for granted, especially if it involved Thirst.
“Do you have any good news?” she asked.
Levac finished his donut and wiped his fingers on a napkin. “My sweater is the good news.”
Raven made a face. “How so?”
“After tonight, you never have to see it again,” Levac said with a grin.
“Small favors. Come on, Rupe, we have a parole officer to see,” Raven said.
Bronzeville, 11:00 a.m., Dec 23rd
The drive to Bronzeville took twice as long as it should have. The heavy snow and holiday traffic made the roads treacherous even at twenty miles an hour. Raven guided the Jaguar through an almost empty parking lot off Rhodes Avenue and parked outside a tall white building that seemed out of place in the middle of a neighborhood full of two and three story apartments.
“Grimes works here?” Levac asked.
Raven shrugged. “Fourth floor.”
She climbed out of the vehicle and zipped her jacket up almost to her throat. She was used to Chicago winters and blowouts, but this felt worse. The wind chewed through her skin and wrapped around her bones, making her shiver even inside the thick lined leather.
“Are you alright?” Levac asked, close enough to make her jump.
Raven forced a smile. “Just sick of the snow.”
The building’s lobby was as out of place as the outside, a hodge podge of art deco and post-modern styles that gave the impression the architect could have made more money selling whatever he was smoking instead of designing buildings. A middle-aged man sat behind a rectangular desk, a small radio beside him playing Andy Williams.
“Can I help you?” he asked. “Most of the businesses are closed on account of the storm.”
Raven unzipped her jacket and flashed her badge. “Is Reuben Grimes in?”
“Yes ma’am, fourth floor, end of the hallway. He’s got a client with him, just came in off the bus,” the clerk replied.
“Thanks.”
“And Happy Holidays,” Levac added.
The elevator ride was short and, for once there was no holiday music being butchered by the sound system, just a very soft pop tune playing in distance. The doors opened onto the fourth floor and Raven led the way down the hall past legal and accounting offices to the end of the hall. Grimes’ office had a half-glass door with his name written in gold across the top. Beneath was a list of services including bail enforcement and parole services.
The office was small and cluttered, with a wide wooden desk that had seen better days, two leather chairs with the stuffing coming out at the seams and an old green rotary phone. Another door was closed and, presumably, led into Grimes’ private chambers.
“Didn’t the guy downstairs say he was with a client?” Levac asked, rifling through the papers on the desk.
“Maybe he took the stairs,” Raven replied.
“This is interesting,” Levac said. He tugged a sheet of rumpled paper from beneath a stack of court orders and manila folders. Raven cocked her head to read the name scrawled across the page.
“Rosemary Kerr… that’s the name Murphy had written down,” she said.
“One more connection. Too bad she doesn’t exist,” Levac said.
Raven’s reply was interrupted by a crash from the next room. She drew her pistol and rapped on the door with her knuckles. “Mr. Grimes? Is everything alright?”
There was no reply, not even a muffled cry for help. Raven opened the door and stepped through, weapon ready. The office inside was almost identical to the other; same style of desk, same out of date telephone and, if anything, more clutter. There was a door in the far corner and another that looked as if it opened into the stairwell.
“Mr. Grimes?” Raven asked.
“Here,” a voice replied. Its owner rose into view behind the desk. He was an older man with greying hair, a nose only a gnome could appreciate and square-rimmed glasses. He was wearing a threadbare suit and a tie that might have been in style in 1986.
“Can I help you?” he asked, arranging papers on the desk.
Raven held up her badge. “Agent Storm, that’s my partner Rupert Levac. We’re here about Harley Davidson?”
Grimes pushed his glasses up his nose. “What has Harley done this time?”
“Nothing, as far as we know. We’d like to talk with him about a case we’re working,” Levac said.
“Harley’s always done something, he’s been in the system since he was a kid. Its hard to live down being saddled with a name like Harley Davidson,” Grimes said.
He rummaged on his desk and pulled out an antique rolodex. “So, what is it you need?”
“His address, a phone number if you’ve got one,” Raven said.
“Got both.”
Grimes pulled an index card out of the pack by his hand and jotted down the address and phone. He handed it to Levac with a smile.
“Anything else I can do?”
“Just one more question, sir,” Levac said, copying the text into his notepad. “I noticed the name Rosemary Kerr was written on a sheet of paper in the other room. What can you tell us about her?”
Grimes shrugged. “Not much, I’m afraid. Harley asked me to look into the name, but I haven’t had the time.”
“Did he say what his interest was?” Raven asked.
“Harley is a, how do I put this? A finder of people and things that don’t want to be found. I assume he was trying to find her for a client,” Grimes said.
“I’m sorry, are you trying to tell us a career criminal is a private detective?” Levac asked.
Grimes smiled and spread his hands in a gesture of innocence. “I just make sure he’s got a job and hasn’t done anything that violates his parole agreement. Beyond that, what he is or does isn’t my problem.”
Raven frowned. “Is that really a good attitude for a parole officer?”
“You’ve never been on this side, have you, Agent Storm? You just arrest them and that’s the end, right? When they get out, many are casualties of an unforgiving society that refuses to accept them. I do. I accept them and understand it’s sometimes necessary to look the other way for them to make a living,” Grimes said.
He stood and moved to the stairway door. “If they aren’t breaking the law, its fine with me. If you don’t mind, I have some calls to make and would like to get home before the snow makes it impossible. Good day.”
He opened the door and offered a smile. Raven wanted to punch him, but she had to admit he had a point. She rarely, if ever, thought about the people she put behind bars. Had any of them been recoverable? Maybe. It wasn’t her job to separate the diamonds from the slime of humanity.
“If this doesn’t pan out, we’ll be back,” she said.
“I look forward to our next visit, Agent Storm. Happy Holidays,” Grimes replied.
Raven led the way down the stairs to the lobby. It seemed even colder to her, and darker. The sky outside was a darker shade of grey and a plow was pushing a mound of snow so high it was splashing on the big truck’s windshield. Was it ever going to let up?
“I haven’t seen it like this in years,” Levac observed, pressing his nose to the glass.
“Not since I was a kid,” Raven said.
“Not since the sixties, in fact,” the receptionist said behind them. “It was on the news, we’ve not had a storm like this since 1967. Twenty-three inches then, we just passed it with twenty four an hour ago and it’s still snowing.”
Raven glanced at him, then back at the snow. It should have been beautiful, a pristine blanket of white, a perfect harbinger of the holidays. Instead it looked dark and foreboding, dyed red in the holiday lights that reflected off the building.
“Marvelous,” she muttered. “Happy fucking holidays.”
West Brayton, Chicago, IL, 1:00 p.m., Dec 23rd
Davidson lived in a small red bungalow in the middle of West Brayton Street. The house was red with a small garage and a basketball hoop that looked like something from the 1960s. An old Ford Bronco sat in the driveway with only a few inches of snow on the roof. Raven parked behind it and looked at the house. Unlike most on the street it had no holiday decorations, no lights or merry fat men on the roof, no snowmen, just a plain house on a cold, empty street.
Though the sidewalk had been shoveled, the blizzard had already covered it in a thin blanket of snow that stuck to her boots and made the concrete treacherous.
“Damn,” Levac said, slipping on the steps.
Raven arched an eyebrow. “Some familiar you are.”
Levac dusted off his sweater and resettled his weapon. “Aspen got the increased reflexes.”
“What did you get?”
“Charm,” Levac said with a grin.
�
��Maybe I need to bleed on you again,” Raven said.
She knocked on the door and waited, taking a moment to check the mailbox nailed to the door. It was empty save for a couple holiday cards addressed to “H.K.” Raven filed the information away and closed the box a moment before the door opened. In the gap stood a tall man with a short, close cropped beard, bushy eyebrows and dark orange hair that was pulled back into a tail held in place by a leather thong. He wore an old Harley Davidson tee with jeans and sock-covered feet.
“Cops or Feds?” he asked.
Raven raised her badge. “Feds. Harley Davidson?”
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. How can I help you?”
“Jensen Murphy,” Raven said.
Davidson folded his arms. “I know him, he’s a friend, does odd jobs now and then.”
Raven tried to judge his reaction. Sometimes it was best to hit a suspect cold, sometimes not so much. If he was innocent, being cold could destroy any chance of getting useful information. Davidson didn’t seem like the kind of person to take it hard. Most criminals weren’t.
“He’s dead, murdered in his hotel room two nights ago,” Raven said.
Davidson blinked, but otherwise didn’t react. “Damn. How?”
“Small caliber bullet behind his ear. We know he was working with you, can you tell us what he was doing?” Levac asked.
Davidson looked out into the street then pulled the door open wider. “You should come inside.”
The interior of the house was cleaner than Raven expected, with furniture that looked like it had fallen off the pages of a trendy magazine mixed with decorations and glassware from a motorcycle catalog.
There wasn’t much to the house, a small galley kitchen that smelled of simmering beef, a smaller dining room and a living room with a single sofa and a wide-screen television. A short hallway led to the two bedrooms and a bathroom that looked like it belonged in a motorhome not a house.
Davidson gestured at the small dining table. “Have a seat. Can I get you a beer or a soda or something?”
“No, thank you,” Raven said. “Tell us about Murphy.”
“I admit I used to be a fence and I sold some things for him back in the day, but I’ve been clean for the last six months,” Davidson said, taking a sip from a half-full glass of beer. “He wasn’t working for me, I was working for him.”
