Clinton, an old black guy with graying dreadlocks, the meeting’s organizer, stood up at the front of the room. “Thank you, Joan. Anyone have something they’d like to say?”
Michael raised his hand.
“Go ahead,” Clinton said.
“I’m struggling with it, too.” Michael put a hand on Joan’s shoulder.
She reached up and put her hand on his. Her palms were sweaty with nerves, but there was a tenderness to them, a comfort in shared understanding.
“My sister doesn’t trust me,” he said. “She’d deny it if I ever brought it up, but I know she doesn’t. And I can’t sit here and act like she’s doing me wrong, because she’s not.”
Joan squeezed his hand.
“I’ve been here a long time. When was the first meeting I showed up to, Clinton?”
“Summer of 2012.” Clinton smiled at him. “Four years and going strong.”
That brought some claps and cheers out of the rest of the attendees. Michael waited for it to die down before pressing on.
“All the time since then I’ve struggled with the same thing you’ve struggled with.” He squeezed Joan’s hand to let her know he was talking to her. “I don’t know if there’s a way I can get my sister to trust me again. But I know I’m a better person for having stayed sober all this time. I know my life has improved, and I know that even if I don’t earn her trust back the way she trusted me when we were kids, that won’t stop me from trying. The only thing that can stop me is myself.
“It’s a struggle that doesn’t end,” he said and bowed his head. “Seems like every time I get comfortable with my sobriety, I do something that almost destroys it.”
“Sounds like there’s something you want to share with us,” Clinton said.
Michael looked up. All eyes were on him. Clinton’s, Joan’s, a dozen pairs more.
He shook his head.
“You can tell us,” Clinton said. “No judgments here.”
“Everything stays here,” someone said from his right.
“You can trust us,” another person said. They all wanted to hear what was on his mind since Colm’s death. He knew how they’d react when he told them what he did.
Joan turned around and cracked her dour expression with a forced smile. “C’mon, Michael.”
He looked into her red-rimmed eyes. “I shot someone,” he said. “In trying to find out what happened to Colm.”
Everything in the basement of St. Anthony’s stopped. The hopeful atmosphere was choked out by a feeling of shock and dread while they all processed what Michael said. Even Clinton, who’d seen and heard so many things from the attendees at these meetings over the years, looked at Michael with eyes as wide as manhole covers.
In the dead quiet, a pan lid smacked the kitchen floor overhead.
“He would’ve shot me if I reacted a split second slower,” Michael said. “I know that. He was a bad person. I know that, too. I took his drugs from him and told him to send his boss to find me. His boss was a bad person. I didn’t know it at the time, but his boss had a part in killing Colm. If I knew that then….”
Michael’s fist folded in on itself. He forced it to relax, then busied his fingers by drumming them on his father’s cigarette case in his pocket while he thought about what to say next.
“I thought I moved past that part of my life for good. But I guess, as much time as I spend here talking about how I’ll always be an addict, I shouldn’t be surprised to learn that nothing ever really goes away.”
CHAPTER 6
“Afternoon, Detective.” Sergeant Daly walked through the hall leading to the elevator, flashing his smile bright enough to blind Shannon. He was too nice to be a cop—let alone a Chicago cop working the front desk at one of the busiest districts in the city.
Still, it was hard not to smile back at him, even coming straight from a slaughterhouse crime scene like Jennica Ausdall’s.
Shannon smiled and waved.
“Am I going to see you at Detective Adelson’s retirement party?” Daly said.
“When is it again?” She pushed the call button for the elevator, barely hearing him over the sound of her own paranoid thoughts. What if Dedrick showed up again?
“Saturday.”
“Just picked up a new case, so we’ll see.” She tapped the button over and over.
“Something wrong, Shannon?”
“I’m great. Never been better,” she said. “I just like hitting the button.”
The elevator dinged. Shannon tightened her fist and braced herself against the possibility that she’d get ambushed by Dedrick again. The doors slid open. It was empty.
She stepped inside. Her finger automatically tapped the “close door” button, even though she knew it wasn’t connected to anything.
“Have a good day, Sergeant.” She smiled.
“You sure there’s nothing wrong?”
“I’m so sure.” Shannon clicked away at the button. The doors started to slide shut. “Positive.”
Daly stuck his arm through the shrinking gap between the doors.
“What are you doing?” Shannon whacked at his arm. “Stop it!”
The doors slid open again and Dedrick’s face came into frame. Shannon’s eyes almost shrunk out of their sockets. She hadn’t been this close to him since the day he kissed her outside of Logan Correctional Center—the day she freaked out and shot him down.
“What the hell was that?” Daly said as he massaged his arm where she’d hit him.
“Uh. Nothing. Sorry. Must’ve been a spasm,” Shannon said. “PTSD probably.”
Dedrick forced a smile at her as he stepped into the elevator.
The doors slid shut on Daly’s confused face.
It wouldn’t be so bad, would it? The elevator only had to go up to the third floor. How long would that take? Ten seconds? Fifteen? Good thing she could go without air for that long, because it had all been sucked out.
“How’s Frank?” Dedrick said.
She forced breath into her lungs. Those were the first two words Dedrick Halman had uttered to her since he drove off the LCC parking lot in his beloved Impala.
“He’s fine,” she said. Her mind flashed back to that day outside Logan Correctional Center when Dedrick watched Frank for her. He looked so cool, leaning on the bumper of his Impala in his fitted khakis and his tapered CPD polo.
Why did she have to screw that up? Why couldn’t she just let it be, maybe see where things went with him? Did she have to get scared and trap herself into a reality where she felt like getting into an elevator with him was a near-death experience?
The elevator dinged. The doors opened on the third floor—the detectives’ bullpen—and the both of them stepped out without another word to each other.
Shannon stopped. She stood with her bag on her shoulder and her heart in her feet, watching him walk away without so much as a glance in her direction. She’d blown her only chance with Dedrick, hadn’t she?
“Did they make you take the servants’ entrance at Northern Cardinal?” Detective Marcie Talbot walked up from behind her. She had on her pantsuit today—gray slacks, gray jacket, and a light-blue blouse—the uniform of a woman stitched up in the gravest sort of business.
Of course, being that Marcie was a CPD Violent Crimes Detective, the gravest business wasn’t far from her mind, which always had to busy itself with something. Usually a puzzle of some kind—crosswords were her forte.
With hair the color of wet sand, and soft sea foam green eyes, Marcie Talbot looked like a sweet fifty-year-old lady with butterscotch candies in her purse. But if you looked through her handbag, you’d find a Glock and the ire of one of the most observant detectives Shannon knew.
“Oh, Shannon,” she said. “There’s no need to wistfully stare at him. I’m sure Dedrick would be more than happy to talk to you.”
Shannon hid her face in her hands, leaned on Marcie’s shoulder and whined.
“We all make mistakes.” Marcie put her arm a
round Shannon’s shoulders. “The best thing to do is own them and try to make things better before they get worse.”
“I broke his heart,” Shannon said into her hands. “How could it be any worse?”
“You didn’t burn his house down.”
“I messed up his car.” Shannon pulled herself away from Marcie and started toward her desk. Marcie followed—her desk was next to Shannon’s. “Hurting Dedrick’s Impala is worse. It’s department-issue, but he treats it like his dad passed it down to him. The thing might as well be his fourth kid.”
“If his car is his fourth kid, he’ll have three more which are presumably in perfectly good condition. No harm done.”
Shannon smiled at Marcie.
“That’s how I’d feel if it were my children,” Marcie said. “No one needs more than two anyway.”
“You have three.”
“Then I know from experience, don’t I?”
Plopping down in her desk chair, Shannon let her bag slip off her shoulder and crash to the floor with a dull thud.
“That thing must weigh a thousand pounds,” Marcie said. “What have you got in there anyway?”
“Supplies.”
“A gift for Detective Adelson?”
“Do I have to get a gift for a retirement party?”
Marcie shrugged. “A man like him would accept a shot or a beer in lieu of a gift card to Bass Pro Shops, I’m sure.” Marcie pulled open her desk drawer and grabbed out a copy of the Chicago Sun Times. It was folded to the crossword section.
“I’ll get him the gift card, then,” Shannon said. “That way, I can mail it to him if I end up not going.”
Marcie looked up from her crossword puzzle. “Wasn’t Adelson your mentor the first year you were a detective?”
“He was, but I’m afraid that you-know-who is going to be there, and it’s going to be awkward.” She nodded in Dedrick’s direction.
“Actually, I happen to know that he isn’t going,” Marcie said. “His oldest has her first dance, and he’s chaperoning. He’ll probably be too busy bashing heads together.”
“How would you know that?”
“Those of us in District 12 with school-aged children happen to be a close-knit group.” Marcie touched the side of her nose. “And I’ve just let you in on privileged information.”
“I’ll be sure to eat the missive.” Shannon flipped open her work bag and grabbed her notebook. She turned to today’s page, where she’d written down the partial license plate number imprinted on Jennica Ausdall’s body.
She started up Z Client—the database software CPD used to manage their records. She’d be able to put in the partial plate and see if anything interesting came back. Only, she’d have to wait for the program to start first.
“My son’s football team plays Northern Cardinal in a few weeks,” Marcie said. “Any idea what the victim’s name is?”
“Jennica Ausdall.”
“Oh,” Marcie said, “I think I know that name.”
“Do you?”
Marcie didn’t sound upset, per se. It was more like she’d heard someone’s cat died. “I might’ve heard it before, but at this moment, I can’t quite place it.”
Z Client chirped at Shannon. It was ready to go.
Shannon typed in what she had. A list of vehicles and their owners’ names came back, each with the 8JT sequence somewhere in the license plate. Shannon already knew exactly what she was looking for: a dark-blue sports car of some kind. Gregory Wendt was right—there were probably a lot of dark-blue sports cars registered in the state of Illinois, but how many of them included the 8JT sequence?
Only one, it turned out. Owned by a man named Leigh Corvath and registered to a place called Corvath’s Garage.
Shannon printed the page. She shot up from her chair and grabbed her work bag.
“Leaving already?” Marcie said.
“You know how it is. This stuff has a shelf life.”
She walked over to the printer, grabbed the sheet, then made her way over to Sergeant Boyd’s office at the west end of the detectives’ bullpen. It’d be smart to check in with him—let him know she was hard at work.
His office was small. There was barely enough room for his desk, let alone the four filing cabinets and his private mini-fridge. That was saying nothing of the man’s considerable heft.
He was immersed in a book—The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler. Shannon knocked on the open door.
“What is it, Detective?” His eyes never left the book’s pages.
“I’m ready to make an arrest in my case.
“Already?”
“Yes.”
“We’re talking about the one I assigned you this morning, right? The private high school?”
“Yes.”
He took a deep breath through his nose, then placed the open book face down on his desk. “I needed a break, anyway.”
“Is it good?” Shannon inclined her chin toward the book.
“You a reader?” He appeared surprised by her question.
“Cereal boxes, mostly.”
Boyd silently mimicked a laugh. “Raymond Chandler knew how to turn a phrase, but I’d be blessed if I can figure out the plot of this book.” He picked up the handset on his desk phone and scrolled through the saved numbers.
“I’ve never read it,” Shannon said.
“That’s a shame.” Sergeant Boyd pressed the phone to his ear. “Yeah,” he said into it. “It’s Boyd. I need two for an arrest.”
The person on the other end of the call said something. Boyd scooted the book directly in front of him while he listened, his eyes rolling over the description on the back cover.
“It’s for Rourke.” Boyd looked at her. “What’s the address?”
She passed the sheet of paper she’d printed off to Sergeant Boyd. The address Leigh Corvath used for registering his midnight-blue 1970 Corvette Stingray was on it.
“488 Lenox Road in Glen Ellyn,” Boyd said.
The voice said something back to him.
“Okay. Thanks.” He hung up his phone. “A pair of officers will meet you around the corner from uh—” he looked at the paper “—Mr. Corvath’s place of business.”
“Great.”
Boyd licked his thumb and opened The Big Sleep to where he’d left off.
Shannon stood in the doorway, looking across Boyd’s desk at him like there was something else she wanted to say, but couldn’t let out. It wasn’t lost on him.
“I don’t like seeing that look from my detectives,” he said into the book.
“I know I’ve sucked lately,” she said. “But I want you to know I’m working hard on this one. I feel like it’s going to get me back on my feet.”
He kept his face tilted toward the book, but his eyes looked up at her. Boyd smiled politely.
“I don’t know why I felt like I had to say that,” she said. “But it’s out there in the open now.”
Boyd put the book down again.
“Detective.” He leaned back in his chair. “Shannon.” It made noises like it was being pushed past its limits. “I’ve been doing this job for a little over two decades now. I’ve seen all manner of people get off that elevator with a star on their person. From the very brightest CPD officers I’ve ever met, to the total dummies who signed up to crack heads and drink beer for free—every one of them had winning streaks, and every one of them had losing streaks.
“I’ve read all the relevant details. I know you caught a rough case with that Isabella Arroz girl. I know. Your service record from the Marine Corps is in one of these filing cabinets behind me, and it goes into exhaustive detail.”
Was he implying he knew about the miscarriage? Shannon felt herself tipping.
“I can only guess what’s going through your head right now, but there’s no need to be alarmed,” he said. “I know how to keep my detectives’ personal histories personal. Any file in that cabinet stays in that cabinet until the city stops paying for toilet paper.”
>
She nodded.
“My point is, Shannon, you caught a rough case. It happens to everybody who does this job long enough. But I know you’re resourceful. I know you’re tough. And above all, I know you’re determined. You’ll kick that case off your back just like you’ll kick this losing streak.
“That being said, the more you want it, the more difficult you’ll make it. You need to take your time and make sure you’re doing things cleanly. Got it?”
“Yes, Sergeant,” she said a breath above a whisper.
He opened the book again. “Now go make your arrest.”
CHAPTER 7
The elevator taunted her again. What kind of terrible luck would Shannon have if she was stuck in this thing with Dedrick for a third time?
God. Marcie was right. Shannon should talk to him—she was a thirty-two-year-old woman acting like a high schooler.
The elevator chime, and the doors opened in front of her. No Dedrick inside. Shannon half-stepped in, then backed out. She looked to her right—toward the bullpen. No Dedrick coming toward her.
She hit the button for the first floor and let her breath out.
Being the butt of the universe’s jokes was wearing a little thin.
The elevator chimed again. The hair on Shannon’s arms stood on end as the doors slid open to the first floor. She poked her head out and looked.
No one in the hallway.
Shannon took a left and headed for the glass doors which led to the parking garage.
She really should take Marcie’s advice. How hard would it be just to say hello to Dedrick? Maybe she could tell him sorry for breaking his heart into a million pieces, and perhaps she could apologize for stomping on the shards by being so awkward whenever he was around. While she was at it, she could admit she knew she’d made a terrible mistake the moment after he drove away from the women’s prison that day.
She pulled the door to the garage open and stepped out. It smelled like someone having a fish fry on a tire fire.
“Son of a bitch.”
That was Dedrick’s voice.
She walked past a big concrete pillar and saw him leaning over the opened hood of his Impala, his jacket laid over the ajar driver’s door of his car. An algae-green liquid crept out from beneath the car and ran downward with the parking garage’s slope.
Chicago Broken: Detective Shannon Rourke Book 2 Page 4
