by Julie Beard
I opened the door and found Marco standing in midnight’s shadow. He exuded masculinity like an aura, and I wondered how taught his muscles were beneath his crisp and fashionable linen shirt. I could reach out and find out myself, if I had the guts.
He thrust his hands into his pants’ pockets and squinted at me through a sliver of moonlight. “You change your mind about that beer?”
“No, I need you to get the hell—”
He closed the distance and the words died in my throat as one of his strong, tanned hands moved around my narrow waist, massaging the tight muscles in my back. He pressed me against him.
“Marco,” I whispered, stunned by his gentleness, “you’re very good at this.”
“Shut up, Baker, and try to relax for two seconds.” He pulled me closer against him in a bear hug. For one pure second I felt at peace.
And just like that, the moment passed. We slowly parted. At least he had the decency to look as disturbed as I felt. It was time for that beer.
We sat out on my second-floor garden balcony, silent for a long time. The embrace notwithstanding, I felt amazingly comfortable in his presence and began to relax. For some reason I couldn’t explain, I trusted Marco. Besides, we’d almost died together.
Part of the multilayered wooden deck nestled like a big tree house in the giant elm shooting up past my roof. Now and then the leaves around us rustled in a desultory breeze. Marco rested against the railing and drank from the bottle of beer gripped in his big fist. I sat in a wicker chair, occasionally pressing my cold, brown-glass bottle to my temples, occasionally sipping. When you’re really wiped out, nothing beats a beer in an old-style glass bottle.
“So…” he said.
Instead of looking at him, I gazed at the stars glimmering in the blue-black sky. He would want to know about my apparent foresight at Lola’s apartment, and I dreaded the topic. But he surprised me by grilling me on a subject I hadn’t thought about all day.
“So tell me about that night,” Marco said. “The night Officer Danny Black died.”
I took a swig of beer. It was cold and delicious. I licked my lips. “Can’t you just read the file, Marco? I’ve been through this a million times.”
“I have read the file…a million times. I want to hear about that night from you. You were the only witness.”
I leaned back in my chair, balancing my feet next to him on the rail. “It was a lot like tonight. Muggy as hell. I’d been hired to drag Darelle Jones’s sorry butt in for a little retribution. Actually, what my clients wanted was to save his soul.”
Marco let out a huff of surprise. “His soul?”
I shrugged and grinned. “Darelle had gotten involved in the African Methodist Episcopal church down on Balboa. Darelle was a flimflam man. He’d promised to raise enough money to build a dining hall next to the sanctuary. But he’d used the money to pay for a drug delivery. The witnesses hadn’t shown up in court and the case was dismissed. So Reverend Samuel Williams and the sweet little old matriarchs who ran the church decided they wanted to save Darelle’s soul, even if they couldn’t get their money back.”
“Intriguing case,” Marco said.
“To say the least. I probably should have turned the contract down, but I let my curiosity and the last remains of my cockeyed optimism cloud my judgment.”
He tipped up his bottle and finished off the suds. I had two more bottles in a cooler and tossed one to him.
“Thanks,” he said.
“I did a little investigating and found out that Darelle was hip-deep in methop.”
Methop had been big for years. It was a time-released combination of methamphetamines and opium. Users went sky-high then landed on clouds. The drug never induced crash landings. With a regular supply, the euphoric roller coaster never ended. At least not until you gave up the ghost. It was the perfect drug. Too perfect.
Even though the recent U.S. government had decided it was okay if opium really was the opiate of the masses, Chicago cops had been ordered to crack down on methop. It was eating into the profits of the big drug companies who had legal substances that created the same effect. The street drug dealers charged less, which siphoned off the profits from the pharmaceutical companies, who didn’t like giving up so much as a dime.
“I followed Darelle one night, hoping to corner him alone in the Loop. I didn’t know he was about to make a big trade. I was just about to step out and confront him, but something held me back.”
“What was it?” Marco asked.
I briefly shut my eyes. “A feeling maybe. I suppose that’s too nah-nah-noo-noo for you. What’s your working theory?”
“Any thinking man could only assume you had set Danny up. That’s twice that I’m aware of that you’ve survived an R.M.O.-related bloodbath. Nobody can be as lucky as you are, Baker. How is it you always walk away when the dust settles?”
I smiled grimly. I had no answer for him. He wanted to blame me for Officer Black’s death, that much was clear.
“What happened just before you decided to hang back—that night and tonight?”
I wiped a rivulet of perspiration that trickled down my neck. “This is going nowhere, Marco.”
“Tell me,” he demanded.
I shook my head. “I don’t know. The night Black died I—I remember being sick to my stomach, even before the arguments began. Maybe I saw something in my mind—blood maybe—but I don’t remember. Tonight I actually heard the sizzling of those acid eaters before it happened. I wasn’t quite sure what I was hearing, but I knew it was trouble.”
Marco crossed his arms and planted his chin in an upturned palm, staring hard. “Could you have saved Danny?”
Guilt washed over me and I looked down at the dead leaves on the deck. I had wondered that same thing, until I was finally able to put it behind me.
“Marco, I was around the corner. Darelle huddled with these guys, then Black burst out from nowhere and told everyone to drop their guns. He took a big chance coming out like that, all alone. He looked like such a rookie.”
“He was a rookie,” Marco said, his deep voice gravelly.
“Darelle pulled out an annihilator. It happened so fast. I was horrified. I didn’t think Darelle was capable of that kind of violence. I learned that night that anyone is capable of anything under the right circumstances.” I wiped a hand over my face. “Needless to say, the A.M.E. church gave up on plans to save his soul.”
“You left the scene.”
“I didn’t leave right away. I went after Darelle but he got away too fast. I quickly returned to help the victims, but they all were dead. When I heard a siren’s wail, I knew help was on the way. I left then, but turned up to make a report at headquarters the next day.”
“Why risk being blamed?”
“I knew my information was critical to the investigation. Like I’ve told you, I follow the law.”
He nodded and for once he seemed to believe me. He gave me a melancholy smile. “You saved my life tonight. Why couldn’t you…?”
His voice faded and he shook his head.
“You wanted to know why I didn’t save Black’s life, too.”
When he gave me a half-accusing glare, I swallowed hard. “I didn’t plan any of this, Marco. We got lucky tonight.”
“Did we?”
“Yes! I’m not a superhero. I couldn’t have saved Dan Black’s life if I’d tried.” When he said nothing, I pressed on. “Why is his death so important to you?”
“Because his life meant even more to me.” He looked away, then looked back at me without emotion. “He was my brother.”
“What?”
“From my mother’s second marriage. I talked him into joining the force. Told him together we’d clean up this city. Guess I was wrong. Dead wrong.”
I realized I was holding my breath. When I grew light-headed, I let it out. For one fleeting moment I’d felt comfort in a living, breathing man’s arms. Unfortunately, it had been in the arms of a man who thought he had
reason to hate me.
Irony sucks. Big-time.
Chapter 8
Thieves in Law
I woke up the next morning determined not to think about Marco and his brother, considering I’d had nightmares about them all night. And considering I had a host of other problems to solve, not the least of which was rescuing Lola. I decided to start by seeking help from Henry Bassett, my foster father, who had ties to the news business and knew a little something about everything.
The Bassetts lived in Evanston, a university town on the lake that touches the northern border of Chicago. Ironically, Evanston is spitting distance from the Rogers Park neighborhood, where Lola lives.
My two childhood homes had been so close and yet so far apart. Lola’s flat was a mere ten-minute drive from the warm and loving mansion I’d shared with the Bassetts. I chose to forget entirely the two years I’d spent in foster hell between the ages of seven and nine in the Chicago suburbs with a dysfunctional family who shall remain nameless.
Not that my life in serene and wealthy Evanston had been without problems. I was reminded of that when I walked up the stone sidewalk of the Tudor mansion on the lake and found my foster sister gazing at me through the open door.
“Well, if it isn’t my darling little sister, Angel. Mother! Look what the cat dragged in!”
“Hello, Gigi,” I said, and mentally patted myself on the back for not gagging as I said it.
“What brings you up to Evanston, sweetie?” She stood in the doorway, making no move to let me in.
I contemplated my reply. As I did, I stared almost disbelievingly at my foster sister. I hadn’t seen her in months and had almost forgotten how surreal she was.
Picture, if you will, a thirty-year-old woman with a bouncy, feminine figure who dressed in the sleek, simple twenty-second-century style, but wore odd little touches that advertised her own manipulated ultraperky personality. Like the thick turquoise headband over platinum hair that flipped at the middle of her neck and bounced when she walked. I wanted to cut all that sunshine from her scheming little head. Yeah, she looked like Doris Day, but she manipulated like Joan Crawford. And she hated me. Like me, Gigi loved old-time movies, but she preferred the cheesy color films that were popular in the 1960s. She was all flash and no class.
“Mom and Dad have missed you. You worry them so. What’s kept you away so long, hon?”
“I was here last week, Gigi,” I said and pushed past her.
“Really? Mom didn’t tell me. You haven’t returned my calls in ages.”
“Is Henry here?”
“Daddy’s working in his study. Mother is—”
“Georgia, did you call?” Sydney Bassett came into the well-appointed marble foyer and looked up with a beaming smile. “Angel! I’m so glad to see you.”
“Hi, Sydney.” She gave me a warm hug and I basked momentarily in the only selfless love I had ever encountered, besides from Henry.
My foster mother was the quintessential college dean’s wife. She had salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in a loose bun, expensive bifocals that perched on her matrician nose, flawless skin, understated perfume, and she could always be found kneeling in her garden or curled up on the floral chintz love seat in the sunroom reading.
Sydney and Henry had taken me in at the age of nine after rescuing me from my first abusive foster home. For that I worshiped them. Still, I had never called them “mom” or “dad,” though I think they’d wanted me to.
I withdrew from Sydney’s tender embrace and from over her shoulder caught Gigi’s crossed-armed, jutting-hip sulk. If invisible daggers were real, I’d be dead.
“I didn’t expect you, sweetie,” Sydney asked. “What’s up?”
“She probably needs money,” Gigi murmured.
Sydney didn’t even bother to chastise her. She just gave me a “you know Gigi” look. My eyes warmed in return. I certainly did.
My foster parents had taken me in when Gigi was eleven and hopelessly spoiled. She had a younger brother, Henry Jr., but his birth had done little to dethrone Her Royal Highness. I was supposed to be the companion and the competition that would even out her rough edges. It didn’t work out that way. Gigi never missed an opportunity to remind me that she was adopted while I was only a foster child. It didn’t matter to her that the Bassetts couldn’t adopt me because Lola wouldn’t give up parental rights. Meanwhile, Hank Jr. and I had become the best of friends.
“Come in and say hi to Henry,” Sydney said, leading me by the elbow.
“I’ve got to go.” Gigi slipped the handle of her handbag to her shoulder. “Say, sis, let’s do lunch.”
“Sure, Gigi,” I replied, confident it would never happen.
I found Henry in his book-lined study. No surprise there. He was the recently retired Dean of the Medill School of Journalism at Northwestern University. He finally had time to catch up on all the pleasure-reading that his role as head of one of the most prestigious journalism schools in the country had prevented.
We chatted about family stuff. It seemed Gigi was considering a third stab at marriage, no pun intended. Husband number two had fallen off the face of the planet. I half expected him to be found stuffed in one of Gigi’s suitcases.
Sydney and Henry no longer asked if I was dating seriously. They knew it was a touchy subject. When I was twenty-four, I’d fallen for Peter Brandt, a hot-shot investigative reporter who was vying for a job at WFYY, the network TV station where Henry still wielded clout. As soon as Peter got the job, I got the cold shoulder. Six months later he married some rich chick from the north shore. Talk about humiliating. What a fool I was to think a con artist’s kid stuck in the foster care system would grow up to belong anywhere. But I’ve never let myself be used again.
Sydney went off to make tea, leaving me to get down to business with Henry. I told him what had happened in the past twenty-four hours and that I thought Marco was too distracted by his own agenda to be of much help in finding Lola. Henry stroked his neatly trimmed, silver vandyked goatee as he listened, leaning back in his burgundy-leather manor desk chair.
Then he pushed a button under his desk and a transparent screen lowered from the ceiling. His veined hands caressed the touch screen keyboard imbedded in his desktop and words splashed up on the screen, changing too quickly for me to follow.
At lightning speed images from International News Database appeared, one after another, warping into a new map, article or photograph. Henry could read at lightning speed, which was pretty much a requirement for journalists these days. With the ever-increasing capabilities of computers, information overload had practically turned into information fusion. He scanned the most recent IND articles and archives.
Henry leaned forward, his concerned expression intensifying. “I have no idea why the Mafiya would be interested in Lola. But I can give you a quickie course in history and geography so you can make your own deductions.”
“Thanks, Henry. I don’t need to tell you I nearly failed both subjects in school.”
He smiled as he grabbed a chair and pulled it next to his. More than anyone, Henry had always appreciated my special talents, even though they were the exact opposite of his own. He’d offered to give me a full ride to Northwestern University, but I was too proud and tried to pay my own way. At the same time I was spending too much time in the tae kwon do studio and flunked out of college.
Still, I’d used my natural talents to support myself even without a degree, and I think Henry was proud of that. While he wished I’d chosen a more cerebral and safer career, he admired my courage and skill and said it was important to pursue my own goals instead of borrowing them from somebody else.
“Have a seat, honey,” he said.
I did, and prepared myself to listen and learn as a map of Chicago flashed in the screen.
“As you know,” he began, “Russian immigrants flocked to the north side of Chicago in the 1980s before the fall of the Berlin Wall.” He tapped his desktop touch screen and the map swir
led into a close-up of the Rogers Park neighborhood nestled against Lake Michigan. “Before long, the shops on West Devon stopped selling donuts and hot dogs and started offering beluga and borscht.”
“And that process intensified after the breakup of the Soviet Union,” I said.
“That’s right.”
Sydney quietly slipped in with a tea tray, then hurried off to answer the door. I poured tea for us and handed a mug to Henry.
He caressed the touch screen and a photograph of Russian determination and pride appeared in a swarthy face. “That’s when Ivan Petrov came to Chicago and established the powerful Chicago arm of the Russian Mafiya. Back then Russian mobsters were called Vor y Zakone.”
“Thieves in law,” I said. “I do know a little about that from my encounters with the Sgarristas on the street.”
Henry gave me one of those measured looks of his that reflected both admiration and fear. “Have I ever told you that you should consider a safer line of work, Angel?”
I didn’t bother to reply to his ironic query. He knew I never would. He just said that to make himself feel like he was fulfilling his fatherly duties. When I’d decided to become a retribution specialist, he had argued loudly against the idea until I had reminded him that his job had once put him in harm’s way, as well. He’d been shot as a foreign war correspondent. He’d realized then that I was just as passionate about my work as he had been about his. When Mayor Alvarez, a family friend, needed retribution, Henry had confidently and confidentially recommended me.
“A Sgarrista tried to assassinate me today,” I said quietly.
Henry nearly dropped his mug and some tea splashed on his pants. “Damnation.” He put the mug on his desk and glared at me. “Angel, do you know what you’re dealing with?”
“Some real assholes.”
“The Sgarristas are ruthless.”
“Tell me about it.”
“They cut off the heads, legs and arms of their victims.”
