“Mind if we drink these while we walk? I’m meeting someone outside the courthouse and I don’t want to keep them waiting.”
“Should I be jealous?” Marisol asked. She tried to make it playful, but she felt the words gnaw at the pit of her stomach.
Sabrina turned to her while they waited at the crosswalk. She took a sip of her coffee, leaving a pale-rose lip print on the lid. Marisol had washed a similar print off her inner thigh during one of her many showers at the hotel.
“Krone’s a colleague and old enough to be my father.”
A tiny voice in the back of Marisol’s head told her this conversation was a bad idea, but she ignored it. She was only halfway through the coffee and she was ready to take risks with this woman.
“Are you here for a particular case, or are you covering a beat?” Sabrina asked.
The question reminded Marisol she was playing a part and she slipped back into it reluctantly. “I’m freelance. Hoping to find something worth writing about today. Want to give me any tips?”
“Oh no,” Sabrina said, swirling her paper cup. “I can’t talk about my cases.”
“Defense attorney?”
“God no,” she replied, her face hardening. “I couldn’t imagine helping a guilty person go free. I mean—don’t get me wrong—I believe everyone has the right to a fair trial…”
“You’d just rather be on the good side.”
“Exactly.”
“And what about the wrongfully accused?”
“I’d never send an innocent man to prison.”
There was such sincerity in her words, Marisol was inclined to believe her. She couldn’t help thinking of the prosecutor at her own trial. He’d taken far too much joy in sending her away. Of course, she’d been guilty of everything she’d been convicted of and more.
The light changed and Sabrina started forward with the crowd. She must be the new Assistant State’s Attorney Marisol had heard about. As if things weren’t complicated enough. She should let it go—keep the memory of a lovely weekend and disappear into the crowd. Instead, she hurried to catch up and leaned close to Sabrina’s ear.
“Like you said, Brin, it’ll be a long day. I’ll need a drink after. Maybe even dinner.”
Sabrina’s smile answered before she did. “Brin? Hmm. I like that. We’ll discuss dinner over the first drink.”
When they made it to the courthouse stairs, a man in an off-the-rack suit waved his arm and Sabrina waved back. Turning to Marisol she said, “There’s Krone. So, Mario’s? Six thirty?”
Marisol nodded and Sabrina hurried away. As she made her way into the crowd surging up the stairs, Marisol caught the man’s confused glare in her direction. He pointed at her and Sabrina’s frowning gaze turned to follow.
Making herself comfortable in the pool of reporters at the back of the courtroom, Marisol pulled out a notepad and started doodling while the room filled. Sabrina marched in, her eyes straight ahead, but her colleague was looking into every face. When he finally found Marisol, he smirked and she smirked right back. He whispered in Sabrina’s ear but she didn’t react. It was the lack of response that had Marisol’s gut twisting.
The judge arrived fifteen minutes late, looking bored. He addressed Sabrina as Assistant State’s Attorney Sloane, confirming the trouble Marisol had gotten herself into. As the day progressed Marisol’s notepad filled with doodles. Men in orange jumpsuits filed in and out of the room. Marisol stopped squirming after the third one. She remembered all too well what it felt like to be shackled wrist and ankle. Her jumpsuit had smelled like beef stew and had made her itch all over.
Sabrina threw the book at most of the violent offenders. Anyone who had used a gun, Marisol noticed, earned a higher bail. In contrast, the nonviolent offenders, particularly petty drug offenses or the obviously destitute, were shown a shocking amount of leniency. Marisol wondered if Sabrina would be so kind in this new role after she’d been burned a few times.
By the time Marisol’s mark shuffled into the room, she already knew he wouldn’t be walking free. Marisol had come to court to assess the new prosecutor, fully prepared to take matters into her own hands if she thought the law wouldn’t exact justice, but she needn’t have bothered. No way Sabrina would be lenient with him, given his crimes. This day had been a waste, but she waited it out anyway. His face was smug and his lawyer was exactly the sort of clown Sloane had described over lattes. She barely gave him a chance to speak. His client went back to jail, his unattainable bond the least of his worries with a prosecutor like that on his case. Marisol could’ve left the courtroom, knowing she could leave her target’s punishment to ASA Sloane. Another abuser off the street, even if it took the coke Marisol planted on him to put him away. A few familiar faces hurried out, shaking their heads and no doubt writing off their colleague for good. She didn’t leave though. She waited until the end of the docket when even the judge looked exhausted.
As the crowd hurried for the doors, Marisol watched Sloane pack her bag. She didn’t look tired, but strain pulled at her eyes. Sloane looked over her shoulder once, her eyes meeting Marisol’s. The lightness that had been there that morning was gone. She looked at Marisol the way she’d looked at all the men in orange jumpsuits.
Even though she knew she’d be drinking alone, hope took her to the bar at Mario’s at six thirty. She drank beer at first, then switched to tequila. By the time the kitchen closed Marisol was slumped in her seat. She looked at the door every time it opened, but Sloane never walked through. When the bar closed she called a cab rather than risk a DUI. While she waited on the curb she looked into the high-rise apartment buildings around her, wondering if Sabrina Sloane was pacing behind one of the lit windows.
Chapter One
Ten Years Later
The dance floor moved like a living creature, a hive of humanity swaying and gyrating in unison to the techno bass line. The lighting was dim and blue, with white spotlights flickering across the crowd, illuminating flashes of skin. The mob jumped and danced in harmony, the unified ecstasy palpable through the semidarkness.
The band finished in an electronic crescendo and the crowd roared their approval. The singers, a threesome of indistinguishable blondes in tight dresses and wild makeup, bowed and filed off the stage. The club’s sound system picked up with a similar track at a lower volume. As some of the crowd made their way to the bar, Marisol Soltero returned her attention to the redhead draped across her lap.
“You havin’ a good time, baby?” the woman asked as she dove again for Marisol’s neck.
She was drunk and sloppy and drooling all over Marisol’s leather jacket, but she was warm and that was enough these days. She didn’t bother to answer. Marisol guessed she was in her early twenties, so she probably didn’t care about much beyond having a good time and getting laid. Marisol had had the same priorities then. Now at forty, she had other concerns, but the distraction wasn’t unwelcome.
Marisol gripped hard at the redhead’s miniskirt, pulling the woman toward her, enjoying the way bare legs slid along her leather pants. She squeaked with pleasure and redoubled her efforts to leave her saliva on every inch of Marisol’s exposed skin, her hands roaming freely under Marisol’s leather jacket. It didn’t take long for her to bore Marisol, who let her attention wander to her club.
Club Alhambra, nestled in the heart of Humboldt Park in Chicago’s West Side, was Marisol’s center of operations. Her place to see and be seen. Where her clients, rich and poor, could mingle and make her a fortune. She’d gutted and remodeled an old 1920s theatre and made it into her sanctuary. The stage was original, if shortened significantly to provide a larger dance floor. The mezzanine was a massive bar and everything above remained as before, private seating for the rich and famous. Marisol charged outrageous rates for the privilege of renting a box and the compulsory bottle service.
Of course Marisol’s box was the best. It was massive, comprised of two boxes from the original design. Deep leather couches and polished m
arble tables surrounded by wingback chairs filled the space. She had the best view from here—the width and breadth of the dance floor and the length of the bar. She could see every entrance and exit. More importantly, everyone could see her. It was the one area of the club that was well lit and the speakers were turned low. The thumping bass line was ever present here, but the rest was a hollow echo.
Most people called Marisol’s box The Throne Room. Admittance was by invitation only. Everyone kept an eye on The Throne Room, hoping they were cool enough, sexy enough or rich enough to catch Marisol’s attention. Most of them, like the redhead whose attentions were now an annoyance, had no idea what to do with themselves if they ever got up here.
Marisol caught the eye of her bodyguard, Gray. He was a lumbering, massive specimen, his muscles straining the seams on his tailored suit and his bald head gleaming in the orange glow of the lights. He looked like a meathead, but his eyes were sharp and his mind even sharper. She cut her eyes toward a nearby table where an unconscious occupant’s face was plastered to the marble next to a half-finished line of cocaine.
Gray took a phone out of his breast pocket as he walked across the room. He snapped pictures from several different angles before hauling the guy up by the armpits. He was so stoned his head lolled around on his neck as Gray dragged him out. A minute later, Marisol’s phone buzzed.
“Take a break, cariño,” Marisol said, removing the girl from her lap.
Far from being upset, the redhead helped herself to some fine añejo tequila while Marisol checked her phone. Gray had an eye for staging. Unfortunately for Judge Marshall, his adult son wasn’t careful about where he snorted coke. Marisol filed the photos for another day when they would have more value.
Gray made it back to The Throne Room just in time to intercept a gate-crasher in the form of Twitchy D, a tweaker who had worked for Marisol until he started smoking more meth than he could handle. The usual punishment was a trip to the bottom of the Chicago River, but she took pity on a longtime employee. He was thin and tall, with gangly arms and erratic movements. His stringy, curly hair always looked like he had just showered, but his body certainly didn’t smell like it.
Twitchy D turned his manic gaze on Marisol as Gray stopped him with a hand on his chest. His eyes held a desperate glee that intrigued Marisol, so she waved him over. Gray kept a close eye on him as he shuffled over, hopping along like a marionette caught in a windstorm. He cut a glance at the coke Judge Marshall’s wayward son had abandoned on the table, a weaselly giggle bursting from his lips.
Marisol waited until his eyes focused on her before she asked, “What’re you doin’ here, D?”
“Got some info, Your Majesty.” Words burst out of him in a rush. “There’s a new gang trying to push into your turf. Got a big thing goin’ down tonight.”
Gray shook him by the shoulder and his whole body flopped around like a rag doll. “Don’t be an idiot, D. No one’s stupid enough to move in on Marisol.”
The last group to challenge her dominance had been skinheads calling themselves The Moscow Mules. Six years earlier they had roughed up the local bodegas for protection money. Marisol had visited their leader at his biker bar hangout and had politely informed him he had exactly three days to move his men along. Three days and one hour later, when they had still been in place, she came down on them like fire from heaven. No one had come near her territory since, earning her the title The Queen of Humboldt.
“I know!” D said, giggling and picking at a sore on his cheek. “That’s why I came to tell you first! So you could take care of them. You know I’m loyal. I want you to destroy them.” His eyes went to the cocaine again. “Tonight.”
“You know I watch my borders, D,” Marisol said, drumming her fingers on her own leather-clad thigh. “Closest gang with any clout’s in Fuller Park.”
“Not moving on Humboldt yet. That would be suicide.” His shoulder shot up and back down again seemingly of its own accord. The movement caught his eye, dragging his attention from Marisol so his next words were mumbled into his shirt. “Gotta get themselves on the map first. That’s what tonight’s about.”
Marisol snapped her fingers, regaining his focus. “What’s happening tonight, D?”
“Something big.” His anemic tongue slid over his cracked lips. “They’re going to take her out.”
“Take who out?”
“That tight ass little governor of ours. Getting too tough on crime, they said. Need to send a message.” He giggled and put his fingertips in his mouth, saying his next words around dirty fingernails. “Shame. She’s a hot one.”
Marisol’s jaw tightened. She held still as she spoke. “Tell me.”
“She’s coming to Chicago tonight. Left the capital late, but she’s on her way here. They’re gonna get her in her apartment. Not much security there and anyone can deal with the state pigs.”
1115 Riverview. Apartment 30GH. One doorman and a geriatric rent-a-cop who could be overpowered by a determined house cat. But they wouldn’t have Chicago city cops to deal with. The Governor’s security detail of Illinois State Police officers would put up more of a fight, but how many would she have with her? The Governor, no matter where she was, was the jurisdiction of the State Police.
“Who?” When D didn’t answer the question, Marisol sat forward and said louder, “Who are they, D?”
He shrugged, chewing on his nails.
Marisol sat back, throwing her arm around the redhead and dragging her close. “Gold Coast isn’t my territory.”
Panic flooded Twitchy D’s eyes. She watched him register his reward slipping away. “They’re after the whole city. This is just a first strike. They’ll be after you next.”
Marisol looked at Gray, who had perfected a stoically neutral expression and was using it now. She looked back at Twitchy D, searching his face for a lie. After a moment, she jerked her head toward the table. Gray released him and D attacked the surface with glee.
“Why don’t you go get a drink, cariño?”
“Got one,” the redhead said, reaching for Marisol’s tequila again.
Gray caught her wrist. He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder and she hurried off. When she was out of earshot, he leaned in close and said, “Twitchy D isn’t a reliable source. Everyone knows he’s out of his mind half the time.”
“Which is why he hears more than he should.”
“It’s none of our concern, boss.”
Scanning the crowd at the bar, Marisol spotted a dark-skinned Marine in full uniform, her ponytail wrapped in a bun at the base of her neck. She nursed a beer, her eyes darting up to Marisol’s Throne Room often enough to be obvious. “No, it isn’t.”
“It would be nice though,” Gray mused, rubbing his chin. “She’s been on our asses for years. Having her out of the way and our hands clean will make our lives a lot easier.”
Moving to the balcony railing, Marisol watched the Marine raise a toast with a few uniformed buddies. When she turned her eyes back to the Throne Room to find Marisol watching her, she choked on her beer.
Twitchy D fell out of his chair with a muffled crash.
“Damn that guy.” Gray turned back to Marisol. “We can decide about this after I get rid of him.”
“There’s nothing to decide, Gray.” She looked back into the crowd, noticing several pairs of eyes on her. That would complicate things. She looked back to the Marine. “I think I’ll go have some fun.”
He followed her gaze and shook his head. Marisol knew he wouldn’t be fooled, and his words carried an icy warning. “I’m serious. We should stay out of it, boss. See what happens tonight and go from there. Or, better yet, turn D over to the cops after she’s toast.”
The Marine was looking up at Marisol every few seconds. The way she was laughing along with her friends looked forced, like she wasn’t hearing anything they said. Marisol straightened and slapped Gray on the shoulder.
“That’s a good plan,” she said, descending into the crowd.
The soldiers were the only ones who held their ground as Marisol approached, though her Marine looked ready to faint. Marisol stepped close enough to smell cheap beer and expensive perfume. She let herself wonder for a moment what this woman would look like out of that starched collar and those gleaming shoes. She had every opportunity to find out, but she knew she didn’t have time.
When she felt the Marine’s breath on her cheek, Marisol captured her with a long, smoldering look and watched her shudder. Only one woman she’d ever met had been able to resist Marisol’s cobra-like eyes. Just as she suspected, the Marine’s breathing hitched and she licked her lips.
Without a word, Marisol walked away. She went past the long line for the men’s room and the longer line for the women’s room, stopping at a guarded entrance marked “Private”. She spoke a few words into the guard’s ear before continuing around the velvet rope. At the end of a dark corridor stood another bathroom, this one deserted. Slipping inside, Marisol washed her hands and neck, removing all trace of the redhead.
It wouldn’t take long for Angel to extend Marisol’s invitation to the Marine, and not much longer for her friends to convince her to accept. She’d be here in moments and Marisol needed to be gone. Pushing aside the painting of a Spanish landscape, Marisol flipped the switch for the hidden door. Slipping through, she pulled it shut just in time to hear the bathroom door open. She was in the alley a moment later, sliding onto the seat of her motorcycle.
Queen of Humbolt Page 2
