Fractured (17 page)

“I got you mad at somebody besides the lieutenant, didn't I?” He chuckled.

Instead of responding to his bait, she cursed.

“I'm only saying that no matter what you do, you're not going to shake them if they don't want to get shook. Why frustrate yourself?”

“Wait a minute. You feel better that somebody's watching me, don't you?”

“That doesn't mean I don't think you can take care of yourself. If somebody got murdered in my place, I wouldn't mind the Feds hanging around for a bit.”

She drew in a long, deep breath to force her nerves to settle. Next she unclenched her hands at her side, which had been clutching the handkerchief. “You knew, didn't you?”

He hesitated before answering. “Sort of.”

“Son of a—” With that she hung up and turned off her phone. Next she went outside to give her Fed friend an earful.

He must have been expecting her because he had his window down and was waiting. She didn't even have to knock to get his attention.

“What are you doing here?” She tried to not to scream, but sensed her voice went up a couple of octaves during the process.

“My job, Detective Sanchez.”

“I don't need babysitting. Just because I have a vagina doesn't mean I can't take care of myself.”

He stammered. “Yeah…well…I'm sure you're perfectly capable, but I have my orders, ma'am. I will not leave my post.”

“You make yourself feel like a big-shot if you'd like. If you don't mind, I'm going into my house where it's safe because I'll shoot anybody who comes near that door. And that includes you.”

Frustration ebbed and flowed once more and she turned to walk back to her apartment. Her nerves were rattled, anger rolling off her in waves. She handled things all by herself without help from anybody.

Her first instinct was to call back Landry. But she still was smarting from his earlier remarks. Now that she had time to settle and focus, she had this perverse need to talk to him about the situation with Lou.

And what did he mean about her mother being killed because her grandfather was a King? Could it possibly be true, or was it a case of folklore? Could her father have spun an elaborate tale to make himself look innocent somehow?

Instead, she rambled through the apartment, pacing back and forth and thinking about how she was going to ditch her unwanted federal bodyguard in the morning. She had the sense she wouldn't be able to accomplish anything if she had a babysitter watching her every move.

It took her a while to settle her nerves. She tried yoga breathing, even though she wasn't the yoga type. It didn't work. Next she tried to distract herself with TV. Even though there was nothing on, she suspected even if a blockbuster movie was being broadcast, that wouldn't have worked, either. Then she put on some music to soothe her nerves. While it was distracting for a while, that respite didn't last long. She finally went to the fridge, opened a beer and took swig. Not much of a drinker, she had a bit of a buzz before she finished the bottle.

But it did the trick; she headed into bed with exhaustion competing with anxiety for control. Exhaustion won.

* * *

“Look what we've got here.” The man pointed to the video surveillance feed.

“What is that?” The other studied the film as closely as he could, but still had a hard time recognizing much beyond a moving shadow.

He zoomed in closer. Although the image was still unrecognizable, a man's shape began to take form. “Unless I miss my guess, somebody surprised Detective Sanchez in her car.” The man emitted a low chuckle. “Since we know the woman is alive and well, I've got to figure it's that cousin of hers.”

“That kid's got a lot of nerve.”

“But he's just given us the best way to finally find him. Sooner or later he'll be back. And we'll be ready.”

Unsurprisingly, the next morning she felt like crap. Then her phone rang and things got even more complicated.

“Detective Sanchez, I need to talk to you.” The man spoke in a whisper. He sounded somewhat familiar, but she couldn't place the voice.

“You can meet me at my office this morning.” She gave the pat answer even though she knew that wasn't what the caller was looking for.

“It's too dangerous. I can't be seen going into a police station.”

“Yeah, well, I don't like showing up there much myself most days, but tough.” At this point, she was sick and tired of being shot at, beat up and stalked. “If you want to meet with me you're going to have to give me something.”

“I can't say anything on the phone.”

“That's a line from every cop movie ever written. Once again, I need more. What is this about?”

“It's about saving your life and the lives of those you care about.”

“I don't take kindly to be threatened.”

“I didn't—” The caller sputtered. “This isn't a threat. You need to know.”

The caller was silent for several seconds. At first she thought he'd hung up, but she heard breathing sounds. She got the impression he might be waiting for something, but she couldn't be sure. Instead of hanging up, she waited. She knew sooner or later, he'd continue with his train of thought.

Finally, he huffed out a breath. “It's about your father and how he died.”

Considering the last couple of days, she refused to give an inch. “That's simple. He died from a gunshot wound to the back of the head.”

“Do you know how he got out of prison?”

“Best guess would be the Feds sprung him.”

“But do you want to know why?”

Okay, that might very well be the magic button. “All right, you have me intrigued.”

“I also know who showed up at Stateville posing as you, if you haven't already figured it out.”

That was the hook.

“Let's meet at the north end of Oz Park at nine,” she said. Most times she preferred to pick the location for these things. A place she was comfortable with and knew like the back of her hand always worked best. Given the last couple of days, she needed that kind of security.

“Not going to work. You've got that Fed watching your house. Chances are he'd follow you to that location.”

How did this guy know that? Little warning bells were going off inside her head. “Where do you think he wouldn't follow me?”

“If you lose him, the ladies' room by the band shell in Grant Park would be a good spot.”

“You don't sound like a lady to me.”

“I might not be, but I'll look like one when you see me.”

Just what she needed—a drag queen informer. “I'll be there.” With incentive like that, how could she not be?

First she called the lieutenant and let him know she'd be in around ten. Then she ate breakfast, put on a fresh pair of jeans with her grandfather's handkerchief tucked into the pocket and her lucky sweater and then strapped on her gun. She opted for leaving the sling at home. Her arm had started to feel better. Besides, she didn't want to appear vulnerable to whomever she was meeting. She popped some painkillers and stuck her sling inside her bag just in case.

She walked out the door and knocked on the window of the Fed car sitting in front of the house. Since she'd outted him, he'd parked a little closer.

“FYI, I'm taking the El into work this morning.” She tried to sound nonchalant.

“I can drive you, if you'd like.”

“Nope. I'd much prefer to be at least somewhat of a challenge. I'll see you at the station.”

Without another word, she strolled down the block. As she got closer to Wells she looked for Leo, hoping he had returned to his usual spot, but he was nowhere to be found. That kind of bugged her. She couldn't help but wonder how long he'd be banished before the powers that be gave him a free pass once again. But she needed to move on. She already had more than enough to worry about.

Chances were the Feds had called in somebody else to tail her, so she had to be more then cautious. The last thing she needed was to be followed and have them scare away whoever wanted to meet with her. Her gut told her it was a solid lead. She didn't need anybody messing it up.

The Fed set up at the El platform had on jeans and a baseball hat. If she weren't a cop, she probably wouldn't have spotted him so easily. But to her he stuck out like he was bathed in day-glow orange paint.

With the rush hour crowd, it didn't take much maneuvering to get lost in the shuffle. That and a couple of train line switches and she was good to go. She did have the satisfaction of waving to her Fed friend as the train pulled away from the Rogers Park station.

She got off at the next stop and took the El headed back to the Loop. Thanks to her Fed friend, it was already eight-thirty. If there were some kind of delay, she might be late to meet her mystery caller. This time she didn't want any interference to prevent her from finding out what was going on.

The El stopped at Wabash and Lake and she got off and walked down the steps. People hurried down the sidewalks, heading off to jobs or school. As much as she could, she kept an eye on those around her to check for more Feds, just in case.

Traffic cops were directing the cars that lined Michigan and the cross streets. Amidst the honking cars and whistling of the policemen, she followed the swell of the crowd, crossing Michigan by the Art Institute. Ninety percent of the people around her were either heading toward jobs or school at this early hour.

The band shell stood on the grounds of Grant Park. While the park wasn't nearly as large as Central Park in New York City, it was still a big expanse of land considering it was plunked down in the middle of a thriving city. It contained the famous sculpture depicting the Chicago skyline, the water spouts which people used to cool off during the humid summer months and Buckingham Fountain, a favorite tourist spot.

The band shell was on the north end. The small structure held concerts during the summer, but now it was deserted, with only a sprinkling of people using it as a pass-through on their way to someplace else. Certainly her preference would be much more foot traffic to avoid the potential for trouble.

For a few moments she actually contemplated calling Landry and asking him for back-up. But that was crazy. Maybe she was getting soft.

It was quiet in the short hallway leading to the bathrooms. She could hear the echo of her own footsteps, which was a bit creepy. She eased open the door and slipped inside. Her hands twitched nervously by her gun as she checked the stalls.

Nobody.

Letting out a sigh of relief, she glanced at her watch. 8:55. A tingle started at the base of her spine and spread outward. What was she doing here?

She rolled her shoulders to relieve some of the tension and contemplated the best place to wait. Stalls lined the perimeter. In the center, there were mirrors and sinks.

There were too many corners and angles to be able to maintain a good visual. She reached into her pocket and fingered the handkerchief. Once again she thought about calling Landry, but brushed back the thought.

At nine-fifteen, the door swished open. Isabella held her breath, readied her gun, and tried to shield herself as much as possible.

A homeless woman shuffled in, pushing her shopping cart with all her belongings stuffed inside. She didn't seem to notice Isabella's presence as she circled the perimeter of the room before settling in the last stall.

Isabella blew out a breath and glanced at her watch one more time: nine-twenty. How long should she wait before giving up?

The toilet flushed and the woman shuffled back out of the stall. Still hyper vigilant, Isabella eyed her cautiously. The woman caught Isabella's eye and smiled. Something about her face was familiar.

Holy crap.

“Isaiah?” Isabella had sent his brother Nathan, a hardcore gangbanger, to prison on a drug-related charge a few years back. During the course of the investigation, she'd learned a lot about the Johnson family and their struggles—everything from putting food on the table to having a roof over their head. Mrs. Johnson had tried her best, but Nathan had succumbed to a life on the streets. Isaiah, on the other hand, was his mother's pride and joy. An honor roll student, he'd received an academic scholarship to attend Yale next fall.

He nodded slowly. “You've always been real nice to my family, Ms. Sanchez, I mean Detective Sanchez. You bring us food and clothes. I don't want to see you get hurt.”

“I can take care of myself, Isaiah. Do you need to tell me something?”

“At first I didn't know what to do about it. My brother Nathan got out on parole about a month ago. My mother thinks he's doing great, going to work and everything. But—” he hesitated for a few moments as if trying to wrestle up the courage. “I'm not so sure about what's going on. They're paying him too much considering…well, you know…and he's spending a whole lot of time on the phone whispering whenever I'm around.”

“That's not much to go on.”

“There's more. I heard him talking about some kind of big money deal going down between the Aces and the Kings. Then he mentioned your father's name and said he needed to be taken care of. Considering my brother's been a member of the Aces since he was thirteen and now your father's dead…”

Her heart sped up. “Did your brother kill my father?”

He gulped. “I'm not sure. There's something big going on, and somehow your father knew about it.”

“Who posed as me and went to see my father?”

He smiled despite his heavy duty case of nerves. “There's a girl down the block. She looks a lot like you. Somebody put her up to it.”

“The Feds?”

“No. The Aces used her to somehow scare or intimidate your father. It's almost like they knew he was getting out somehow.”

“I need to talk to this girl.”

He shook his head. “She's more scared than I am, which is why she did what she did. They said they'd give her little brother a pass on joining the gang if she agreed to go through with it.”

The irrational part of her wanted to hunt down these overgrown bullies and put them behind bars. But the rational part knew that wasn't the solution. If she wanted to kill the snake, she had to cut off its head. But who or where could the head be?

Something didn't gel in her head. “But my father was in a maximum security prison for twenty-five years, why would he fear somebody from the outside?”

“I don't think he feared for his own life. He feared for yours.” He reached out to touch her arm. “You're good people. I'd feel terrible if something happened to you.”

The idea sunk inside her and ping-ponged around her chest for a few seconds before she got the courage to speak. “Who's behind this? You've got to give me a name.”

He glanced down then back up. “I can't. I trust you and all, but it's too risky. You might have to tell some of your cop friends, and some of them…well, they're not so nice.”

“Are you saying there are cops in on this?”

“I don't know for sure, but I'd rather be careful.” He put back on his wig and his granny glasses. “I've got to get going to school.”

She grasped the sleeve of the sweater he wore. “Isaiah, where does your brother work?” There weren't a lot of places that hired convicts, especially ones with a long history, like his brother. The thought that he'd gotten a job so easily in this economy sent up a huge red flag.

“I think it's called Swan or Schwab Packaging. At least that's what he says.”

Her heart did a nose dive to her gut before righting itself. “Do you mean Schmidt Packaging?”

He nodded. “Yeah, that sounds like it.” He turned before he got to the doorway and glanced at her. “Whatever you do, Detective Sanchez, please be careful.” For the first time he gave her a smile. “My mother would have my hide if I let anything bad happen to you.”

Without another word, he opened up the door and walked out, leaving her to wonder what her next step could possibly be.

* * *

She could count on one hand the number of people she could trust: number one, Landry, and number two, the lieutenant. She wasn't even sure she had a three, four or five. She'd talk it over with Landry later, but for right now she'd enlist the lieutenant to help solve her dilemma.

She went into his office and gave him a brief, somewhat watered-down version of her suspicions. She needed an angle to get into Schmidt Packaging. Maybe they were running drugs out of there.

“You want me to what?”

“I want you to figure out a way to get a court order to tear apart Schmidt Packaging.”

“That's what I thought you said. What would be your cause? Hiring parolees? Heck, the judge would probably want to give the guy an award for employing the unemployable.”

“I know. I know. But don't you think that's a little suspicious?”

“Maybe the owner has a soft spot in his heart for jailbirds? What do I know? Come on, Sanchez, you've got to do better than that. You tell me the Johnson kid won't come in cause he's scared, which I understand. You tell me the neighbor who impersonated you at Stateville is scared as well. Tell me where I have probable cause for anything?”

“I'm…not sure…but you know the system—”

“My point exactly. You've got diddly.”

She chewed on her lip. “Okay, let's look at this another way. Let's assume we can't get an order from the judge.” She glanced up to see him nodding. “What can we do to figure out how to connect the dots?”

“Ask Malone. If he sprang your father, he should know something.”

“I tried that route. He gave me nothing.”

“Then maybe you have to assume the Feds got this covered and let it be.”