“That’s what I said.” She ran her hands down her skirt again. It was a new skirt, as were most things in her wardrobe. Most items of clothing only lasted a month before she moved them on. “And if this case goes to court, then I will be on the stand, as will many of us cops. So, I came here to remind you that you owe me a favor.”
“How so?”
“Have you forgotten the Gillian case?” She leaned forward.
“That wasn’t a favor. You only acted in a way that helped your friend.”
“Regardless, the information that I provided you helped save your client from prison.”
“It helped save an innocent woman from criminal charges.” Hunter was firm.
“Still your client.” She brushed her hands over her hair and lifted her chin. “I expect to be treated kindly on that stand.”
Silence sat over them like a wet blanket.
Hunter formulated in his head what she was doing there—as a cop, she must’ve known that most cases didn’t make it to trial, especially cases where the homeless are charged with murder. Most deal out before the thought of a trial even happens.
“At the function, what were you arguing with McCann about?” Hunter stepped closer, gripping the basketball in both hands.
“How did you know I was arguing with him that night?” Her face showed her shock at the question.
“You wouldn’t be here otherwise.” Hunter kept his gaze on her. “If you were merely a witness, merely someone in the wrong place at the wrong time, then you would wait until this case has progressed further before you would worry about what to say on the stand.”
“It was a private issue.” She turned away. “Nothing I can discuss with you now.”
“Did he have something on you, Alicia? Is that what you were arguing about?” Hunter’s voice rose. “In his year of redemption, he finally wanted to address the issues that had plagued him his whole life—corruption. He was going to right the wrongs of his past.”
“What ridiculous talk.” She shook her head. “Sidney wasn’t corrupt.”
“You know he was, and you know he was going to expose a lot of people in the department.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m not expecting that I will have to take the stand because you’ll have to deal out on this one. You have to do what’s best for your client, and that’s advise her to take the deal.”
“Don’t be so certain on that,” Hunter replied. “Nobody has done a deal yet.”
“She’s a homeless girl and numerous people saw her beat Sidney!” She snapped. “That’s some very damning evidence. Most lawyers would take a deal in that situation.”
“I’m not most lawyers.” Hunter turned the basketball in his hand.
“My argument with Sidney isn’t the only reason I’m here. I’ve been asked to be here, Tex. To see if I can talk some sense into you.”
“By who?”
“By very powerful people. They don’t like that you’re looking into McCann’s past. They don’t like it one bit. And if there’s one thing I know, it’s that these people will stop at nothing to protect their department.”
“You think I’m going to be scared off by corrupt cops?” Hunter smiled. “My whole life has been lived in the shadow of the police department.”
“These people aren’t corrupt, they aren’t crooked, but they will, and I repeat, they will protect the police department with everything they have. The PD is their home. It’s their family. And they’ll do what it takes to protect its reputation.”
“They should’ve tried to protect the reputation of the department while Sidney McCann was taking money off criminals.” Hunter stepped closer. “I won’t walk away from this. Not for you. Not for your bosses. And certainly not for the reputation of a dirty cop.”
Alicia looked down, quivering under the stare of Hunter. She took a step back, and looked to the door.
“Just remember, the Chicago PD is like a family. We look after each other.” Carson turned to leave, her footsteps loud on the basketball court. Before she reached the door, she turned back to him. “And if you’re going to expose someone, then you’d better be prepared for an onslaught.”
Chapter 9
Private Investigator Ray Jones pumped out his fifth set of chin-ups, pulling hard to reach the last one. He loved exercising in the outdoors, preferring it over a fancy gym with clean benches. He stood next to the gym equipment in Burnham Park, hands on knees, looking out to Lake Michigan as he caught his breath. Cyclists rode past on the lakeside path, teenagers were kicking a soccer ball on the grass nearby, and a possible small-time drug deal was happening in the parking lot behind him. The perfect Chicago view, he thought.
Jones could never workout in a sterile, sweat-free environment—for him, working out meant grunting, sweating, doing the hard yards. It meant getting dirty, pumping muscles, and callused hands. It meant run-down equipment, rusty bars, and heavy metal music. He had no time for the modern gyms, with all their new equipment, clean seats, and cheesy pop songs.
He wanted to grunt, display his aggression, and outwardly exhibit his masculinity; of which, he had plenty.
Jones wiped his thick forearm across his brow, turned up the music on his portable speaker, and pumped out another set of chin-ups, his arms throbbing as he pulled his 260-pound muscular frame towards the bar.
After the set was completed, he stretched his arm across his chest, watching as a BMW sedan, its clean exterior shining in the spring sunshine, pulled into the parking lot next to the gym equipment. His friend, and colleague, Tex Hunter stepped out, dressed in a fitted European suit, loosening his tie. He took a moment to stare at the two older cars that had parked next to each other on the other side of the lot, and watched as a bag was exchanged through the windows, possibly heroin, or maybe ice. The two cars drove out of the lot under Hunter’s stare, but they weren’t going to cause him any trouble.
He was surprised they were there at all—there were two cameras in the parking lot, one at each end, recording the activity. A risky spot to do a deal, he reasoned, unless they wanted to get caught.
“Nice spot.” Hunter approached the outdoor gym equipment, staring out at the lake that was shimmering in the sunshine. “It’s a pity this exercise equipment blocks the view.”
“It’s my perfect gym,” Jones patted the rusty metal pole. They shook hands solidly, Jones’s grip hard after working out. “Why workout indoors when you can be out here in the sun? You should take off that jacket and join me in a set of chin-ups.”
“No thanks. I’d much prefer the loud music and specific gym equipment. It’s mindless, and it’s good to switch off for a while. I already do too much thinking about life. And I’ve heard the specialized machines specifically target muscle groups, which works for me.”
“Don’t believe everything you hear.” Jones walked around, but his frame was too wide to fit between some of the equipment. “There are only three things that tell the truth: drunk people, small children, and yoga pants.”
Hunter laughed out loud. “Well, last time I was at the gym, I asked the personal trainer which machine is best to impress the ladies—and he pointed outside to the ATM machine.”
“Ha!” Jones moved to the side of the exercise equipment. “I was reading something yesterday—”
“Didn’t know you could.”
“The paper I was reading said Oregon leads the country in both infidelity and depression.” He began to smile. “What a sad state of affairs.”
Hunter laughed again, patted his friend on the shoulder, and then walked across to Jones’s red Chevy truck, polished clean enough to see his own reflection.
“How’s the new girlfriend?” Hunter asked.
“Gone.”
“Already? This one only lasted a month. That’s quick, even for you. What happened?”
“She had a strange fetish.
“Which was?”
“She liked to dress up as herself and act like a nasty woman all the
time.”
As Hunter laughed, Jones opened the door to his car, removing a folder off the passenger seat. The bond between the men was more than work, more than testing themselves against the underworld of Chicago, their bond was built on mutual respect and masculinity. In a world where the definition of masculinity was questioned, where the definition of strong was seen as threatening, these two men had the strength to be themselves.
“I don’t have a lot of information about the Mary-Ann Steele case yet. I’ve looked at a lot of the basic information, but nothing stands out.” Jones handed the folder across to Hunter, closed the door and leaned against his car. “The area in Chinatown where the car was stolen has a few shops, a few parking lots, and some residential buildings. I would’ve thought one of those buildings would have surveillance footage of that night.”
“But?”
“But there’s nothing. Not one piece of footage that shows the entrance to the construction site where Kenneth Chow claims his car was parked. Five cameras from the residential buildings across the road were turned off, the shops down the street had their cameras facing the other way, and one shop’s camera was ‘broken.’” He used his fingers to show quotation marks.
“Coincidence?”
“I don’t think so. Everyone seemed evasive when talking about the car theft. There was something those people didn’t want to discuss with me.” He wiped his brow again. He loved to sweat, to release the toxins from his body. That pain let him know he was alive. “I have a contact who runs a taxi company, Town-Side Cabs, and because he runs the company, forty cabs in his fleet, he knows a lot of the ins and outs in Chicago. He’s heard secrets that would make your mouth drop, and he has a theory about what happens around that area.”
“Things he’s seen firsthand, or heard from his drivers?”
“From his drivers. They say there’s a lot of underground poker games happening around the area of the car theft in Chinatown, and the cameras are intermittently turned off. Five or six phone calls are made, and then suddenly the cameras stop recording.”
“To avoid detection?”
“That’s what he says. He says it’s a known area for underground activity and when he sends a cab there late at night, he only sends his toughest guys. He’ll never send a female cab driver over there at night because he doesn’t know what’ll happen.”
“That’s good to know.” Hunter said. “Because it looks like I’m going to be spending a lot of time around there.”
“Why’s that?”
“Chinatown is also the neighborhood where Sidney McCann was last seen alive. Just one block from there, one week before the theft.”
“That’s heavy.” Jones raised his eyebrows. “Do you think that’s a coincidence?”
“I’m not sure yet. I need you to look into whether you can find any evidence that ties the developer, Kenneth Chow, to the force. Anything at all that connects him with corrupt cops, and also find out if Chow’s path ever crossed with McCann’s.”
“You think McCann may’ve been part of the corruption that happens around there?”
“I know both McCann and Chow were corrupt, but does that mean they’re connected? I’m not sure yet. All I know is that the people we’re looking into aren’t going to be friendly. Your contact with the cabs, ask him if he knows the name Kenneth Chow. If he does, find out what he knows.”
“Got any main suspects for the Sidney McCann case, or are you positioning the girl to take a deal? From what I’ve read in the media, it’s a strong case against her, and more than that—she’s a homeless black girl accused of murdering a retired, white cop. She doesn’t stand a chance in court.”
“It’s a strong case, and the deal may be her best option, but we still have to do due diligence, and look into what happened that night.” Hunter rested his hand against the truck, looking back to the skyline of Chicago, highlighted against the blue-sky backdrop. “McCann’s wife called me and said that, before he went missing, her husband was trying to expose the corruption that he’d been a part of. And then, a few days after he meets with the DOJ, he goes missing.”
“Doesn’t surprise me.” Jones stretched his arm across his chest again. “I had a dealing with Rhys McCann a few years back. He sold me a second-hand television, but I got it home and it didn’t work. I went around to his place, demanded my money back and he refused. So, I dealt out my own type of justice, just a few little taps around his ribs, you know?”
“A little tap from you would be hard enough to break most people’s ribs.”
“I roughed him up, looking to get my money back. I knew he was a security guard, but I didn’t know his father was a cop. Within a day, my apartment was being searched by a detective named Sidney McCann, supposedly because of a report of stolen goods. I’d thrown the television out, but it was clearly a set-up. He was looking for me to pay him off with a bribe. I’d since heard it was a scam they’d run a lot of. Rhys sells the stolen goods, his father comes in and finds the person in possession of the goods, and takes an extra payment, usually a few hundred in cash, to turn a blind eye to the crime. A good little scam if you’re running it every week and picking the right people.”
“I’m going to talk to Rhys tomorrow, and see what sort of life he leads. From what I’ve seen so far, it isn’t much of one.”
Jones took out his phone, which looked tiny in his huge hands, typed a few notes, and then placed it back into his pocket.
“Heads up.” Jones nodded to the entrance of the parking lot as a police patrol car drove in. “I can guarantee they’re here for you.”
The marked police car circled the parking lot once, driving slowly, and then parked behind Hunter’s sedan, blocking any chance of an exit. Hunter sighed, and shook his head. He knew what was coming. He knew he had months of this ahead of him.
Both officers, older men in uniform with a clear chip on their shoulder, stepped out of the patrol car with their hands on their guns, still resting in their belts.
“Sir, please step away from the car.”
Neither Hunter nor Jones moved.
“I said, please step away from the car.”
“What did we do wrong?” Jones raised his hands in the air and began to back off.
“We’ve had reports of a drug deal in the parking lot and we have suspicion that you have drugs with you.”
“What suspicion?”
“An anonymous tip-off.”
Hunter groaned, and then raised his hands. He knew how this play worked—one cop anonymously reports a suspected drug deal on the tip-off line, and then dispatch sends a patrol car to the spot to rough them up legally, searching for drugs. When nothing is found after the aggressive search, and perhaps a punch or two, the suspects would be free to go, with only a few bruises to show for the encounter.
“Sir.” The officer with a trimmed beard walked behind Hunter. “Place your hands on the car in front of you.”
Hunter waited, asserting his dominance, and then did what he was asked, as did Jones. One of the officers began to search Jones’s truck, turning his neat car upside down. He emptied the glove box, emptied a paper file, and turned everything around.
“Is this your car?” The officer asked of Hunter.
Hunter didn’t respond.
“Sir, I asked if this is your car?”
“I don’t have to answer your question.” Hunter turned and stood tall, then nodded to the end of the parking lot. “That camera is currently recording what happens in this area. You can choose to do what you want next, but I’ll warn you that the footage would be hard to erase.”
The officers shared a look of surprise, stared at the camera, and nodded back to their patrol car. They hadn’t expected the cameras to be placed there.
“Look at you, with all your lawyer talk.” The first officer came up behind Hunter as he walked to his car. “You may be a lawyer, but we’re the law.”
The cop pressed his finger into Hunter’s chest.
“And we protect o
ur own,” the cop whispered into Hunter’s ear. “Watch your step, or you’ll be the next body to end up in the bottom of the lake.”
Chapter 10
Despite all the government documents, despite all the cameras, despite even the mass of information available online, the greatest way to know a person, to really understand them, was to watch them in their daily routine.
Tex Hunter knew that better than most. He followed Rhys McCann, the son of the murdered Sidney McCann, staying half-a-block behind, on the cool Saturday morning, and not for one moment did he like what he saw.
In East Pilsen, on Chicago’s Lower West Side, Rhys McCann walked from his apartment to the nearest convenience store, yelling at three strangers, all in flashes of rage. The first was at a woman taking photos of a beautiful tree, as she had dared to stop in the middle of the sidewalk. McCann could’ve easily stepped around her, but decided to bump the woman with his elbow and follow it with a tirade of abuse. His second outburst of rage was when he walked out in front of traffic and someone almost ran him over, as if it was the driver’s fault that an idiot stumbled out onto the street. The third, and loudest, was reserved for a homeless person that dared ask him for help.
There was no doubt this man had anger issues, and it was clear the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree. If it wasn’t for his anger, no one on the streets would’ve looked at Rhys McCann twice. He was everyman, the man that blended into the background with nothing special to add to the world, nothing unique to give to anyone. Twenty-four, never married, no kids, and he possessed a stomach that hung over his cargo shorts, occasionally showing under his dirty t-shirt.
After failing the police entrance exams twice, Rhys McCann had spent the last five years contracting for a security company, driving from site to site to check on alarms. He enjoyed the job in his late teens, the work was easy and mindless, but now, as he went through his mid-twenties, he was beginning to realize there was no future in his job. He’d never seen any action, never fired a gun, and never played the hero. The bravery that young Rhys McCann once had, the bravery that his stepmother talked about, had been slowly drummed out of him through years of failure, an alcohol addiction, and a dead-end job.
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