Street Justice: A Smokey Dalton Novel

by Nelscott, Kris

  He handed me the wire cutters back as Sam finished tying the clerk’s legs. We’d free him as we were leaving, but not before. Sinkovich and I figured he was probably the only guy who had the phone number to the mob, and if he had it, there was a possibility that he had it memorized.

  Kim had gone behind the desk, removed a pile of matches, and handed them to me. Then she ripped down papers that contained phone numbers. She started to shove them in her pocket, but Sinkovich took them.

  He raised his eyebrows at me, and I understood. He was protecting dirty cops. Or maybe he was keeping them for his own blackmail possibilities.

  He shoved the papers in the pocket of his coat, then nodded toward the mirrored wall next to the stairs. He and I went to the wall first. He mimed shattering the glass, but I shook my head. Too loud.

  We went down the hallway, saw an unmarked door in the right place, and I tested it. Unlocked. It opened into a small room with a couple of chairs and a table. The room stank of old cigarette smoke. Both ashtrays were full.

  We both looked toward the wall. The entire front area opened before us. The clerk was struggling against his ropes. Neither Kim or Sam were visible.

  On the counter underneath the one way window were two Polaroid cameras and two high-end cameras with telephoto lenses. Sinkovich knocked the Polaroids off the shelf and stomped on them. I thought those cameras were damn near indestructible, but Sinkovich proved me wrong.

  I grabbed film canisters lining the counter. Sinkovich pulled a plastic sandwich bag out of his pocket and held the bag open for me. I dropped the film inside.

  I turned.

  “What about the cameras?” Sam asked softly.

  She meant the ones with the telephoto lenses. Those things were indestructible. I hoped the heat of the fire would destroy anything inside them. As I was about to reply, Kim grabbed one off the shelf and expertly opened the back. She removed batteries and tossed them to the ground. She also exposed the film, then shut the back.

  “Just in case,” she said as she did the same to the other camera.

  I nodded, feeling a slight weight lift off me. I wouldn’t have done this nearly thoroughly enough.

  Now, if we only got out of here.

  We left the first blind mostly intact. The second was behind the bar. I opened the door and discovered no one manned that one, either. This room had two windows, the one overlooking the bar, and the one that showed the men’s bathroom. The one for the men’s room was smaller, but the Polaroid cameras rested on the shelf beneath it.

  I suspected the blackmailers who ran these rooms got some of their most candid shots here, showing men in authority who couldn’t quite wait to get upstairs to take advantage of the women around them.

  This time, Sam stomped on the Polaroid cameras. Her face was bleak as she did so. She had to stomp twice before destroying them, but she finished as Kim finished disabling the other cameras.

  I left first, checking out the rest of the downstairs. I grabbed an entire box of matchbooks from behind the bar. Sam extended her hand so I could give some to her, but I didn’t.

  She frowned at me.

  Before we went upstairs, I glanced through the swinging door into the restaurant. It looked recently abandoned. Coffee pots still steamed on their burners and half-eaten breakfasts sat on tables.

  In the back, something smashed.

  Sinkovich grabbed my arm. “Not our job,” he said softly.

  I nodded. I knew that, but that didn’t stop me from wanting to help. I backed away from the door and headed to the stairs. I finally pulled my gun. Sinkovich had his as well.

  I could hear voices echoing down the stairs. Female voices, soft but sharp, issuing orders. When we reached the second floor, Sam looked at the elevator, silently asking if that would be better for us.

  I didn’t want to get out of a box on the seventh floor, only to have Turner’s muscle waiting for us. It would be a kill zone.

  Only I couldn’t tell her that.

  I glanced down the hall. All the doors were half open, as if someone had already searched them. I realized then that the hotel staff had probably done so to make sure no girl got left behind. My teams were starting on the fifth floor and working their way down.

  Except, of course, for the most important team, trying to free the girls on six.

  We crept up another flight. Sinkovich and I checked the floor, looking for our people, and seeing nothing. This one looked as abandoned as the second floor.

  Then we went to four. Nothing there either.

  On five, closed doors, and women working their way in teams of two down the hallway.

  “Empty so far,” one of the women said softly. She was wearing a ski mask. All I could see were her mouth and eyes, making her seem eerily anonymous.

  I nodded, mouthed “Thank you,” and went up to the important floor.

  Crying, banging, shouting. There was no way the group on seven could ignore this noise. The question was, would they believe it part of every day living in this hellhole or something strange?

  For the first time, I realized that there was a subtle side effect to having women rescue these girls. There were no male voices, so the cries probably did sound routine.

  Marvella stood at the top of the stairs. Paulette had a gun trained on the elevators. She looked like she knew how to use it.

  They were not wearing ski masks.

  “Progress?” I asked.

  “Only eight rooms with girls inside,” she said. “And Jesus, Bill, they’re in bad shape.”

  “Get them out,” I said. “Worry about their condition later.”

  She nodded. “We got four out already. But it’s taking a bit to get the rest.”

  “You two,” I said to Kim and Sam. “Help them.”

  “But—”

  “Jack and I are doing this last part alone,” I said.

  “You need us,” Sam said. “You have no idea how many—”

  “Stop fucking arguing and follow orders,” Sinkovich growled. “Goddamn civilians.”

  He started up the stairs. I caught his arm.

  “You’re probably not going to want to go, either,” I said.

  “Too late,” he said. “I’m already committed.”

  I had to hurry to get ahead of him. The calm I had felt earlier had dissipated.

  So far, it had been easier than I thought. And that was a very bad sign.

  FORTY-TWO

  I REACHED THE TOP of the stairs first. A row of doors went off to my left. But to my right, a single door, and only one elevator where on the previous floors there had been two. One of those elevators opened into the penthouse itself.

  I didn’t see a soul. Apparently the cries below had sounded normal.

  I walked to the penthouse door, reaching for my burglar kit, when Sinkovich shoved me aside. He held the master key ring in his right hand.

  He gave me a grin and mouthed, “Experience,” and stuck the key in the deadbolt.

  At that moment, a chorus of screams rose from the floor below, followed by five gunshots.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said, and pulled the key out. “Go check it out.”

  “No,” I said. “You do it. Let me handle this.”

  He glared at me. “You need someone at your back.”

  “You already got it. Come back up when you’re done.”

  He cursed under his breath, but didn’t move. The door opened. We both trained our guns on it.

  A bleary-eyed guard came out, hair tussled, suit messed up as if he had fallen asleep in it.

  I grabbed him and pulled him out before he could shout a warning inside. Sinkovich punched him in the face, knocked him to the ground, and cuffed him in what looked like a single move.

  “Baxter, what the hell’s going on?” That voice came from inside the penthouse and had to belong to Turner. “Phone’s dead.”

  “Yeah.” I pushed my way inside, gun close enough to my body that it couldn’t be knocked out of my hand, far enough
away that I could use if I need to. “I cut the line.”

  There was chair near the door, with a blanket crumpled on the floor beside it. Apparently, Baxter had deliberately fallen asleep on the job.

  The room stank of beer and sex and rotting food. A food tray from below sat on a table, the remnants of a meal still scattered everywhere. I didn’t see a girl, not yet anyway.

  Sinkovich was right behind me.

  Turner came out of the bedroom, completely naked, holding a double-barrel shotgun. “Get the fuck out of here,” he said. “Or I will use this.”

  “Guys who threaten don’t actually shoot,” Sinkovich said softly to me, but we both moved away from each other just in case.

  “Put it down,” Sinkovich said. “I’m a cop. You shoot me, you live in hell the rest of your life.”

  “I don’t know you,” Turner said, still holding that shotgun. His right hand was shaking. “I know half the cops on the South Side. They’ll have your badge.”

  “Let ’em try,” Sinkovich said.

  Behind us, another gunshot echoed and it was close. Turner looked past us. I angled my body just enough to keep an eye on him and see the door.

  A man came through it, waving a gun. He wore the same coat he’d had on yesterday morning. Same coat, same pants, same boots.

  “Get out of here, Loring,” I snapped.

  “You fucking cop, what the hell have you been doing to the girls here?” He pointed his gun at Sinkovich. “You and him.”

  And then he waved his gun at Turner.

  The blast from Turner’s shotgun damn near deafened me. Loring flew backwards out the door, and I turned toward Turner, who was already aiming at Sinkovich.

  I pulled the trigger. Turner didn’t move. For a moment, I thought I’d missed. Then he staggered backwards, crumpled to his knees, and dropped the shotgun.

  Both Sinkovich and I moved, terrified that the shotgun would go off when it landed.

  It didn’t.

  The room stank of gunpowder and blood. Sinkovich moved forward as Turner fell on his back, his eyes opened.

  Sinkovich didn’t go near the body, but peered into the room. Some sound was making its way into my consciousness. It took me a moment to realize it was a woman, sobbing.

  “Looks clear,” Sinkovich said. He kicked Turner. The man didn’t respond. Then Sinkovich kicked the shotgun out of Turner’s reach, and went inside the room. I moved a little to the right, toward the bathroom. The door was open, and baggies sat on the counter. Mostly marijuana, but also some multicolored pills, probably LSD.

  Otherwise the bathroom was empty.

  I made my way to the bedroom. Sinkovich had his gun trained on the woman I’d seen going upstairs when I cased the hotel. She had tugged on the black underwear and the white robe, but not the bra. She was kneeling on the bed, her hands over her mouth, and she was crying, although she was trying not to.

  “Come on,” I said. “We’re getting you out of here.”

  She shook her head.

  “We’re getting you out now, unless you’d like someone to shoot you…?” Sinkovich. Always the charmer.

  She stood, her legs wobbling. She was on something.

  “Anyone else here?” I asked.

  She shook her head. I couldn’t tell if that was a shock response or an answer.

  “How many guards were here?” I asked.

  “Baxter,” she said.

  “That’s it?”

  “Didn’t need anybody else.” She slurred her words.

  Sinkovich put his arm around her, and pushed her forward. She stopped when she got to Turner’s body.

  “He’s dead?” she asked.

  “Probably not,” Sinkovich lied. “Get out so we can help him.”

  She looked at Sinkovich and for a moment, I wondered if she would grab his gun. Then she stepped daintily past him, careful not to get her bare feet in the blood.

  “You got clothes downstairs?” I asked. The mention of downstairs made me realize it was eerily quiet below us.

  “I dunno,” she said.

  Sinkovich cursed, grabbed a pair of high heels off the floor, and then a man’s coat. He wrapped her in it and handed her the shoes.

  She looked at them like she didn’t know what to do with them.

  “Put them on,” he said. “We’re going outside.”

  She glanced at me. I couldn’t tell if she recognized me or not.

  Then she walked to the couch, sat on its arm, and slipped the heels over her feet. She tottered toward me. I kept the gun on her, and so did Sinkovich.

  We headed toward the door. She looked at Loring as if he could hurt her, but he was dead too, his entire torso gone. Sinkovich put a hand behind her back and propelled her forward. She tripped on Loring’s arm, then caught herself on the door jamb.

  “Keep moving,” I said in the most commanding voice I could manage.

  She stepped into the hallway, her heels leaving little prints in the blood. Sinkovich placed his feet around the blood, then he shook his head slightly.

  “Oh, Jesus,” the woman said. I couldn’t see her, but I heard her, puking.

  Sinkovich dipped out of my view. As I made my way around Loring, I saw what finally got to her. Baxter, on his back, the top of his head gone. That gunshot we heard just before Loring came into the suite marked the end of Baxter.

  Sinkovich was removing his handcuffs from Baxter. The woman wiped her hand over her mouth, then puked again.

  Sinkovich put his cuffs on his belt, then grabbed her and yanked her upright. “You don’t got time for that,” he snapped. “You wanna end up dead too?”

  She teared up. I looked down the stairs. I hated the silence. I had no idea what it meant.

  “Me first,” I said.

  “No,” Sinkovich said, but by the time he finished the word, I was nearly to the stairs. I went down them as quietly as I could, peering ahead. I saw one person, dressed in black, hovering near the steps. I also saw legs prone.

  My heart pounded.

  I reached the landing, looked down, saw Marvella who whirled at me, pointed a gun in my direction.

  “It’s me,” I said, putting my hands up anyway.

  “Oh, thank God,” she said, her tone watery. She leaned against the railing. I doubted she would do that if she were feeling threatened, but I couldn’t entirely predict.

  Behind her, two of the gang members I’d seen the morning before. They were sprawled on the floor near the elevator. The elevator door kept trying to close, but it couldn’t. The third gang member was lying across the entrance, as dead as the other two.

  They had gotten caught in that killing box that had had me worried. Only they hadn’t gotten off any shots at all. Only Loring seemed to make it past, and he hadn’t gone after the women. He had run up the stairs to us.

  “I thought maybe he killed you,” Marvella said.

  “I’m hard to kill,” I said.

  There seemed to be no one else on the floor. The women who had guarded the doors were gone. There were footprints in blood, pointing down the stairs.

  “Ohjesusohjesusohjesus.” The woman from upstairs, peering over the railing at the bodies.

  “Keep going,” Sinkovich said.

  “I can’t,” she said, and her feet twisted.

  “Can you get her downstairs, Marvella?” Sinkovich asked. He used a different tone with her. Respectful, but commanding.

  “I think so,” she said.

  “Where’s everyone else?” I asked as Marvella made her way to the woman.

  “They were willing to go after they heard the shots,” Marvella said. “We had to carry most of them, but we did it. Or rather, the ‘ladies’ did.”

  She looked at Sinkovich, and to his credit, he grinned. He knew she needed that, even though it wasn’t funny.

  “Good job,” he said.

  “No one else waited?” I asked.

  “I was waiting to see who came down,” Marvella said. “I was gonna duck into a room if it
was Turner. If he was alone, I’da shot him. And then I would’ve burned this place down.”

  “With us in it?” Sinkovich asked.

  “I’d’ve started upstairs,” she aid. “If you were still alive, I’d’ve gotten you out.”

  I believed her. She would have gotten help and the women would have figured out a way to get us out of here.

  “Who shot the Stones?” I asked.

  “Paulette. Sam. The Stones came up the elevator, but that other one, he was on the stairs. I heard him run past as they were firing.”

  Sinkovich looked at me. “I didn’t expect gangs.”

  “Me either,” I said, and decided to leave it at that.

  The woman’s teeth were chattering. She was leaning on the railing and looking as if she might puke again.

  “Can you get her out of here, Marvella?” I asked again.

  “Yeah,” she said.

  She put her arm around the woman, and led her to the next staircase.

  “What’s your name, honey?” she asked in a soothing voice.

  I didn’t hear the answer.

  “You need to get out too, Jack,” I said.

  “No fucking way,” he said. “We’re finishing this.”

  “It’s—”

  “Oh, don’t give me the legal crap. We’re past it.” He extended his hand. “I need matches.”

  I gave him half a box of matchbooks.

  He flipped one matchbook open with his thumb. “Okay, Grimshaw,” he said. “Let’s finish this thing.”

  FORTY-THREE

  IT TOOK LONGER than I expected. The two of us worked out a system. One would check the room, looking under the bed, behind the shower curtain, in the closet, and then the other would start the curtains on fire, light the matchbook, and toss it on the bed.

  We started on the seventh floor, in the rooms we hadn’t investigated before we went into the penthouse. Those rooms looked like they hadn’t been touched in years.

  We avoided the penthouse entirely without even discussing it. I think we both believed that it would vanish with the hotel. Or maybe that the story the penthouse suite told would give a different impression of the events of the morning.

  Either way, we didn’t start a fire there. Instead, we worked our way down, floor by floor.