Greed: A Detective John Lynch Thriller (40 page)

Hardin picked up the watch off the table next to Fenn’s bed. Top-end Rolex. “Nice watch,” he said. “Take a look at the date, Fenn. Six months. You take Corsco down or that’s what I’m giving you. Some day in the next six months.”

Fenn locked his lips shut, his chin quivering. Then he started to cry. “It’s not fair,” he said.

“Screw fair,” said Lynch.

CHAPTER 106

 

The elevator door opened. The Eagle had a hand in the shoulder bag, wrapped around the .32, ready to nail a cop if there was one there. Practiced shooting through the bag all the time, accurate as hell at ten feet, never fired from further out than that.

Nobody. Fenn’s door closed, hallway empty. Don’t question luck, just push it.

Walked straight across, pushed the door open, gun ready, picking up the bed, the target, squeezing off one shot before the door was even fully open, catching Fenn low, got the hip maybe. Aim off because there was another guy standing on the other side of the bed. That was a little distracting. Swung the gun up to get him. Fenn wasn’t going anywhere.

 

Fenn was ready to fold when the door flew open, blocking Lynch behind it. Lynch heard a barky, coughing sound, saw some blood spray off Fenn low on the torso, a leather shoulder bag coming past the door with a hand in it, some old lady coming in behind it. Yellow cardigan, five nine maybe, chunky, gray-haired, swinging the bag up at Hardin, Hardin dropping for the floor.

Lynch hit the door hard, knocking the old broad sidewise. Lynch snatched out his gun. The broad had good balance, hadn’t lost her feet. She was, spinning, swinging the bag at him now, must have the gun in there, another fucking suppressor. Lynch wanted to drop, but couldn’t bend his leg, got half behind the door, just his head and his right arm out with the pistol. Bitch snapped off another round, hit the door close enough to Lynch’s face that he could feel it. Fuck it. Lynch lit her up, six rounds, all to the body, punching her back, the broad grunting, but not dropping, started bringing her bag up again.

What the fuck?

 

The Eagle was ready to pull the trigger on the second guy when she got blindsided by the door, almost lost her footing. Felt the long-forgotten urge toward panic, fought that down. Improvise and adapt. The guy behind the bed went down to the floor, so she spun toward the door, saw a big guy there, the guy going for his belt, sliding behind the door, narrow target now, head and arm out, arm with a gun at the end of it now. Gonna have to be pretty fine with this.

Her first shot was just wide, hit the door maybe two inches right, had the range now. That’s when the guy opened up and she took the first round in the fat vest. And the second third fourth fifth sixth. She’d tripled up on the Kevlar in the fat vest – plenty of room, no need to be skimpy. Didn’t make getting shot in it any more fun. Still felt like taking a baseball bat to the gut.

The guy behind the door paused a second, probably trying to figure out why she hadn’t gone down yet. Gave her the break she needed, she brought the bag up, not rushing it, getting her line. He was doing the same thing, switching his aim point up to her head now, too.

 

Gotta be a vest, Lynch figured. That or she’s some kind of android Terminator. He brought the gun up, got a sight picture on her face and fired, her gun going off so close behind his it was almost a single noise. The edge of the door splintered, blowing bits of wood into Lynch’s face, stunned him. But a good chunk of the old bitch’s head was wallpapered on the far wall and she was down on the floor, hand out of her bag now, not moving except for a little twitch in her right foot.

Fenn was screaming on the bed, Hardin scrambling up from behind the bed, the old broad was bleeding all over the floor. Maybe not that old. The gray hair was a wig, half off now.

“What the fuck?” Hardin said.

“Don’t know,” said Lynch. “Tell you this, though. I am really fucking tired of getting shot at.”

Lynch put a hand to his face, some blood, splinters. Felt around. Nothing seemed serious. Close thing. Damn close thing.

Fenn stopped screaming, blubbered something.

“What?” Lynch asked. His ears were ringing.

“I’ll talk!” Fenn said. “I’ll fucking talk!”

CHAPTER 107

 

An hour later, Lynch was sitting on a gurney down in the ER. Nurse was finally done picking shit out of his face. Hardin was sitting in a chair across the way. Lynch told him he could go, knew he was blowing town, but Hardin said he’d stay, wanted to hear how things worked out.

Starshak and Bernstein walked in.

“How you doing?” Starshak asked.

Lynch just shrugged. “What’s up with Fenn?”

“Round skipped off his pelvis, nothing serious. Already trying to talk to us, told him he has to wait until he’s out from the anesthetic. DA says his being under could screw the deal. But I think they’ll have to sedate his ass to shut him up. We’ll get what we need. Doing the interview in an hour. Hickman’s getting a warrant ready on Corsco. Trying to get on our good side, I guess.”

“Trying to get his face in front of another camera, more likely,” said Bernstein.

“What about the old lady?” Lynch asked. “What the fuck was that? Corsco?”

Starshak smiled. “You want to tell him, Bernstein?”

“You bagged the Eagle,” Bernstein said.

“The Eagle? That was the fucking Eagle?”

“I know,” Bernstein said. “I expected somebody a little more badass.”

“From where I was sitting, she looked pretty badass,” Hardin said.

“You weren’t sitting, tough guy,” said Lynch. “You were hiding under the bed.”

Hardin laughed, stood up. “So we’re good? We got our happy ending?”

“Yeah,” Lynch said.

“That shit you told Fenn about me testifying, you know that’s not happening, right?”

“Yeah, I know.” Lynch said. “We’ve got what we need. Corsco’s toast.”

“And that’s all you wanted out of this?”

“Fuck what I want. Not like I’m gonna stop the drug trade or solve the Middle East. But this is my town. Corsco’s been shitting where I live.”

“Glad I could help,” said Hardin. “Now, I have a flight to catch.”

“Someplace nice?”

“Tahiti,” Hardin said.

“That’s pricey.”

Hardin shrugged. “Say what you want about Munroe, he pays well. You ever want a nice South Seas vacation, let me know. On me.”

“Wilson’s going with?” Starshak asked.

“Yeah,” Hardin said.

“Don’t know if I could relax with her around,” said Lynch. “She scares me a little.”

“Scares me a little, too,” Hardin said. “I just figured that was love.”

 

 

 

CHAPTER 108

Five hours later, Hardin and Wilson were in a limo on the way to O’Hare for their flight to Papeete. “Wish I’d had time to pack,” said Wilson.

“They’ve got stores there,” Hardin said. “Nice stores.”

“So we’re really rich?”

“Really, really rich.”

Hardin heard Corsco’s name on the radio, asked the driver to turn it up a minute.

“
Tony ‘the Blade’ Corsco was arrested at his residence today on charges of conspiracy to commit murder. US Attorney Alex Hickman told reporters that further charges are expected. In a stunning development, actor Shamus Fenn, who is recovering from a drug overdose, is reportedly involved in the case and has provided key evidence–”

“You can turn it off,” Hardin said.

They rode in silence for a moment, Wilson leaning over and resting her head on Hardin’s shoulder.

“Think anybody will come after us?” Wilson said.

Hardin shrugged. “Have to deal with us if they do. By the way, you’ll need this.” He pulled two French passports from his jacket pocket and handed one to her. She flipped hers open, then took his and looked inside.

“Jean and Fantine Bernard. Really? I didn’t know that Fantine had a last name.”

“I don’t think she did, but you need one for a passport. Bernard is kind of like the French version of Smith. Fouche arranged the papers. He thought the names were romantic.”

“Husband and wife, huh? This makes it official?”

Hardin pulled her hand up, kissed it. “All the sacrament I need.”

Wilson turned toward the window a moment, her hand went to her face. Hardin thought she might have brushed away a tear. Then she turned back.

“Fantine,” she said. “I’m stuck with that?”

“I could call you Fanny, I guess.”

“I may have to kill Fouche for this someday.”

“That’s probably harder to do than it looks,” said Hardin.

“Isn’t everything?” Wilson said.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Man, doing a second acknowledgements page is tough. I mean what do you do? Thank all the same people again? Um, in some cases, yeah, you do.

So thank you again to my agent Stacia Decker and to my Team Decker stable mates Chuck Wendig, Joelle Charbonneau, John Hornor Jacobs, Steve Weddle and Seth Harwood who have all lent support, and, occasionally, booze.

Hat tip to my siblings, Tom, Maura, Brendan, Marty and Pat, who have put up with me longer than anyone. (Marty gets special mention for making his in-laws and friends buy their own copies of my last book when they asked to borrow his.)

Thanks again to Emlyn Rees and the team at Exhibit A. A special thank you to Paul Simpson, without who’s sharp eye I would have embarrassed myself a couple of times. And to Stewart Larking, what can I say? Another stunning cover.

There’s this weird little universe of people out there you get to know if you’re a crime writer, online reviewers, magazine and e-zine publishers, folks taking a shot at starting up new imprints. They aren’t getting famous, they sure as hell aren’t getting rich, but they do a hell of a lot to help authors breaking in to this game get a little exposure.

So thanks to Jon and Ruth Jordan, the masterminds behind
Crimespree Magazine
, behind Murder and Mayhem in Muskego, the driving forces behind a couple of Bouchercons and just nice people.

Thanks to the Shotgun Honey crew, past and present – Kent Gowran, Sabrina Ogden, Chad Robacher, Ron Earl Phillips, Jen Conley, Chris Irvin and Eric Arneson.

Thanks to the Snubnose Press guys, Brian Lindenmuth, Sandra Ruttan, Jack Getze and R. Thomas Brown.

And to fellow writers and Noir at the Bar emcees Scott Phillips, Jed Ayers, Eric Beetner and Stephen Blackmoore, thanks for the stage and the mic. I’m told I had fun, but it’s all a little fuzzy.

Finally, to Elizabeth A. White, who first reviewed a version of this book way back when it was an online experiment, I hope you like how it turned out. We’ll always have
Mammon
.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Dan O’Shea is a Chicago-area writer. Drawing on Chicago’s settings and history, the novels explore the city’s history of corruption, but with a national, even international flavor.

danielboshea.wordpress.com
 
 
 

twitter.com/dboshea
 
 
 

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Copyright © Daniel O’Shea 2014

Daniel O’Shea asserts the moral right to be

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Cover photograph: © Corbis; design by Argh! Oxford.

All rights reserved.

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This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and

incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination.

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or

localities is entirely coincidental.

Ebook ISBN: 978 1 90922 317 2

UK Paperback: ISBN: 978 1 90922 315 8

US Trade Paperback: ISBN: 978 1 90922 316 5