Choked Up (21 page)

My hair might have been the color of flames, but Stannis was the one on fire. After dinner at Deca at the Ritz, we hit SUB 51. Filled to the gills with champagne and Yellow Wasp rakija, I sagged in inebriated relief at the 2 a.m. last call.

We pulled up to Stannis's penthouse.
Arrrgh.
He had no intention of letting me go home for the night.

Kon glanced at me over his shoulder, a half wince on his face. He knew I was blitzed.

I wanted to ask him to carry me upstairs, but I couldn't feel my teeth.

Kon and Raw Chicken rode up in the elevator with us. We stepped into the foyer to Gorilla and nine other Eastern European men wearing suits in a grim-faced and badass reception line.

Stannis marched me down the line, introducing me to each man. Too hammered to remember a face or a name, I concentrated on not falling over.

The next thing I remember was Kon helping me step up onto the raised stone fireplace hearth in the great room.

Stannis stood in front of me. Every man had a water glass full of rakija. He raised his glass, “My
Vatra Anđeo,
Maisie! She will live here with me.”

The men cheered and threw back their drinks. And then the party started in earnest.

Stannis helped me step down and pulled me in close. “Black Hawk tells me you must live with me. I see this is so. My men will keep you safe.”

I swayed in place, a glassy grin on my face, waiting while Stannis zigged and zagged around the room, pouring drinks, back-slapping, and talking.

After a while, nodding and barely stumbling at all, I edged toward the guest bedroom offered a scant few days ago. Gorilla caught me by the arm. “Mr. Renko!” he shouted across the room.

Stannis bounced over, all excitement. “We take picture. For Black Hawk.”

Gorilla held his smartphone at the ready, so ridiculously small in his hands I started to giggle. Stannis put his arm around me and with his other hand, raised my chin. We smiled and Gorilla took several pictures.

“Always”—I yawned—“pictures.”

“It is special day for us.”

I tried to say, “Yes, we're celebrating my red-haired return to the nickname Ginger Snap.” What came out was, “Yeshhhnap.”

“Maisie . . .” Stannis squinted at me in surprise. “You are drunk.”

“Very.”

He took me into his room. “When the men are here, you sleep with me, yes?” He disappeared into the closet.

I sank down on the bed.

He came out with cotton pants and a T-shirt. “For you.”

Inspiration clicked. Also known in the McGrane clan as
The Drunken Master Flash of Brilliance
. “I need your shirt,” I said. “Right now.”

A frown creased his brow as he searched his shirt for a stain and found none. He slipped off his suit coat and unbuttoned his shirt.

“Your shoes and socks, too.”

Able to decipher my orders through the slurring, he did as requested. Which meant he had to be at least half in the bag himself.

He planted himself before me, palms up.

I reached out, undid his belt, then stood and mussed his hair. “Jacket back on.” He looked at me like a dog on a bicycle, but he put it on over his v-neck undershirt.

Something wasn't quite right. I tapped a finger against my lips, thinking. It was still tacky with lip gloss. “Don't move.” I held his face in my hands and smeared my mouth across his. I stepped back to admire my handiwork, bumped up hard against the bed, tripped, and landed on it in a heap.

Perfect.
I rolled on my side and gave him a thumbs-up. “Go get 'em, tiger.”

Stannis threw his head back and laughed. “I take longer time.”

Just leave me alone so I can sleep.
I nodded and dragged my foot up toward my hip, fingers fumbling at the thin ankle strap.

Stannis shook his head, pushed my hands away, then unfastened and took off my shoes. He leaned over and unzipped my dress.

I sat up on one elbow. His wrinkled dress shirt hit me in the face.

“You make good trouble,” he said. “I like it.”

 

The supersonic whine of a dentist's drill shredded my eardrums.

It stopped.

Then it started again. I groaned in agony and opened gluey eyes.

I sat up too fast and grabbed my head before the halves of my skull came apart. His phone was on the dresser.

I hauled my roadkill carcass the four steps to the dresser. My mouth tasted like a dirt sandwich. I fumbled with the phone. “Hello?”

“Who the fuck is this?” said a strident and creepily familiar voice.

Saliva streamed down the back of my throat. “Who're you?”

“I'm the goddamn motherfucking mayor of Chicago.”

“Please hold.”
Oh God.
I staggered my way out into the great room and threw my hand in front of my eyes.
Too. Bright. Eyes. Melting.

Stannis was at the table with four men playing cards and eating breakfast. Wearing the same clothes he'd had on last night and showing no ill effects from the massive amount of alcohol he'd consumed, the bloody bastard. “
Vatra Anđeo.
”

I held out the phone to him. “Coles.”

He grabbed my arm and pulled me onto his lap. “Renko,” he said into the phone. “Yes. You know this, Talbott. You know this very well.”

I couldn't hear what Coles was saying, but he was angry. Stannis looked bored.

Gorilla's eyes drifted up my legs.

Stannis snapped his fingers. Gorilla looked away. “No,” he said into the phone. “No more, Talbott. I talk later.” He turned off the phone and tossed it onto the table with a clatter. He handed me his glass of orange juice. “Drink.”

As I put the glass to my mouth, he nodded at Kontrolyor, standing in the kitchen. “Make
anđeo
some eggs.” His lips curved. “And sardines. With the oil.”

I took a swig of the juice and gagged.
A screwdriver.
I slapped a hand over my mouth and sprinted for the bathroom, bare feet drumming on the hardwood, the men's laughter echoing in my ears.

 

Gorilla maneuvered the Range Rover into position in Cicero. A low-rent, mostly Hispanic neighborhood overlooking the CEC Intermodal train yard. It was a crisscross of train tracks and buildings and enormous metal bridge structures.

“Time for work,” Stannis said.

Gorilla and Kon got out of the car and went to the trunk. I forced myself not to turn around, to ignore the sounds of them opening cases and the sound of metal hitting metal.

Hank's Law Number Eleven: Heavy hitters don't advertise.
And I sure as hell aspired to be one.

Stannis removed a laptop from beneath the seat and opened it.

Sweet. I can make-up text my family and Hank.
I pulled out my phone.

“No,” Stannis said without so much as a glance away from the screen. “Shut down phone.”

I did and slipped it back in my purse.
What would Hank do?
The master of silence and stillness would have put his head back against the seat and slept.

So I did.

“
Anđeo
. Is time.” Stannis nudged me awake. “Come, outside.”

We got out of the car. Kon was watching the train yard through a black Swarovski HD ATS 80 spotting scope on a tripod, cell phone at his ear.

Gorilla had a notebook, pen and a pair of binocs around his neck. He was on his phone, speaking in Serbian.

Stannis set the laptop on the hood of the car and picked up the second pair of Steiner Predator 8x50 binoculars. He spoke in Russian to Kon, who nodded in assent.

“Come, see.” Stannis put his arm around my shoulders and the binocs in my hand. “We wait for my trucks.” We looked down onto the yard. The activity was organized and frenetic, as though someone had split open a beehive.

Semis carrying all shapes and sizes of containers drove in and out of the transmodal station, some parking and unloading cargo, others driving beneath giant cranes that raised the cargo off the trucks and onto the flatbed railroad cars.

Gorilla and Kon murmured into their phones and kept a loose watch on the entrance to the Intermodal train yard.

“They aren't speaking the same language,” I half-asked, half-stated.

“No. Kontrolyor is Russian. Former ODON. Russian is of more use, more speak Russian. But Serbian has many dialects. Difficult to replicate. Useful.” He smiled. “English is the bridge.”

Gorilla grunted. “Approaching inbound checkpoint.”

Five semitrucks carrying multicolored double twenty-foot trailers arrived at the inbound point.

Gorilla checked his watch. “On time.”

Kon began reading the stenciled numbers aloud off the containers. Gorilla scribbled them into his notebook, while Stannis checked it against the computers. “As is on the shipping instructions.”

“May I?” I picked up Stannis's pair of binocs.

“Of course.”

Stannis's trucks pulled into a single-file line. One at a time they drove beneath the open-sided roofed structure, halted at the checkpoint stop sign, while an inspector stopped at the driver's window, checked paperwork, and affixed a CEC Intermodal seal across the door of each container.

“The seal,” I said. “He didn't check the cargo.”

“Is not his interest. Does UPS or FedEx look in your package before they send it? A train container is same but larger.”

I looked at the thousands of containers on the CEC Intermodal train yard and felt the enormity of what Edward and Danny had tried to explain to me. Trucks and trains. And no one except the shipper had any idea of what was inside.

Unable to help myself, I peeked over Stannis's shoulder at the laptop. “Why, you can see everything on the remote cameras.”

“Yes,” he said. “But dependency on electronics is weakness. I do not leave my business to others.”

“Why are your trucks all in the same line?”

“I request all train cars locked together.” He wove his fingers together. “They call this ‘five-packer.' My containers arrive together. Do not get lost.”

I nodded. If someone would have told me a train car could get lost, I'd have laughed in their face. But after seeing the thousands of containers, trains, and trucks moving in and out, loading and unloading cars, it was beyond belief that the vast majority of it got to its intended destination on time.

Through the binoculars, I watched Stannislav's trucks go through the checkpoints onto Lot D. A crane that resembled a portable bridge lifted each container off the semis and placed them, two apiece, atop five empty railcars.

When the railcars were hauled from view, Kon put the spotting scope away while Gorilla removed and snapped the SIM cards from their phones, put away the binocs, and disrupted the gravel, erasing any traces the tripod might have left.

Stannis's phone vibrated. “
Da,
” he answered. “
Chyornyj Yastreb
. . .”

At Black Hawk's name, Gorilla and Kon exchanged a glance and quickly got in the car.

A river of Russian poured out of Stannis as I surveyed the CEC Intermodal yard and felt more than a little sick at about just how simple it was to transport illegal goods within the United States.

Stannis hung up, walked over, and draped an arm over my shoulders. “A good day.”

It was. Sunny with a soft breeze and a front-row seat to transportation of chop-shop parts. “I'm glad.”

“Is good you are quiet,” he said. “Make no fuss.”

A copper-colored strand of hair blew in front of my face.

I tucked it behind my ear. “What's he like, Black Hawk?”

“Soldier. Clever. Good friend.”

“Handsome?”

“Yes.” Stannis moued. “Why you ask this?”

“You seem happy when you talk to him.”

Stannis began to laugh. “You are like little girl.” He ruffled my hair. “
Chyornyj Yastreb
is right hand.” He jerked his head at the car. “My soldiers. Eddie V. is business. Coles is . . . useful. Always all things must be separate.”

“And me?”

He smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You are little sister. Family.”

I returned a watery smile.

The phone buzzed again, and he answered without looking at it. “Yes?” He turned his face away from the phone and exhaled in irritation. “No.” His voice was sharp. “Not possible . . .” He listened for a short while. “No.” He disconnected and slid the phone into his pocket. “Talbott.” He swore under his breath in Serbian.

I bumped my shoulder into his. “Aww,” I teased. “He's just worried I make you happier than he does.”

“You, I like.” He shrugged. “Him, I fuck.”

The next day, Stannis came into the great room wearing a smart charcoal Hugo Boss suit and open-necked shirt in deep marine. “I have appointment.”

“Okay.” I started to get off the couch.

“No.” He dropped a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Kontrolyor stay with you.”

He pointed at Kon. “Make her happy. Make her safe.”

The bodyguard nodded solemnly. As I heard the elevator doors close behind Stannislav, I slumped on the couch, finally free of my 165-pound Serbian straitjacket.

Kon was happily chopping vegetables in the kitchen. Open to the hallway, there was no way I was getting into the office unnoticed. I rubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands. I needed to call in to the BOC, check in with Leticia, and figure out what exactly I was going to say to my family and Hank.

I went into my room, closed the door, and took the BOC iPhone from my purse. As I brought it up to dial, I stopped at the sight of the BOC's electronic signal detector wristwatch.

I pushed the buttons.

The watch glowed. Any electronic signals leaving my room would be captured. And specially encrypted texts and phone calls from my BOC iPhone would set off an alarm that would make an air-raid siren sound like a party horn.

Apparently the
L
in my luck has been replaced with
F.

I changed into jeans, boots, and an old Sabo Cruz T-shirt and went into the kitchen to rattle Kon's cage. “Let's go,” I said with my happiest face.

Panic flashed across his face. “We stay here.”

“Mr. Renko wanted you to keep me happy, right?”

Kon gave a slow nod.

“It will make me happy to get my things from my parents' house.” I offered him my phone. “Would you like to call
Stannis?
”

He chewed on the inside of his lip for a moment, dark eyes appraising. “Okey.” Kon took off his apron, picked his Glock off the counter, and stowed it in his shoulder holster. He gave me a sideways glance as he slipped his suit coat on and got the keys from the drawer. “We go.”

 

We traveled in Renko's second car. A pristine and armored black Ford Explorer. “This is all your parents'?” Kontrolyor might have been dazzled, but it was only momentarily. His eyes scanned the property, the neighbors, the street, looking for threats.

“Yes.” I swallowed hard. Flynn's red Ford F-150 and Rory's black Cadillac CTS were parked in the driveway.

Kon pulled into the gate. “What is code?”

To his dismay, I hopped out of the car, typed in the code, and directed him to park off to the expansive extra parking side of the driveway. Kon opened the door and I stopped him before he got out. “Listen. You see those cars?”

He nodded.

“They are police.
Politsii
.” I held up four fingers. “Brothers. Father. Not good for them to see you. Not good for Stannis.”

His chin raised, eyes narrowed. “Lot of house for
politsii
.”

“Yes,” I agreed.

He tipped his head from side to side, weighing the odds of crooked cops being able to protect me. He found in my favor.

I jogged up to the front door and went inside. I locked my bedroom door and called Edward Dunne at the BOC.

“Hullo, lass. How goes it?”

I flopped in one of the taupe microfiber armchairs.
Where do I start?
“Stannislav's decided I'm the reincarnation of his murdered little sister.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“Tugged the heartstrings. Until I saw that he'd turned electronic monitoring on when he left.” Edward sucked in his breath. “Easy. Everything's copacetic. I'm calling from my parents'. But my ability to check in is over. Stannis twisted Coles's arm. I'm officially on unsigned leave from the Traffic Enforcement Bureau.”

“I see.” Edward's voice was dour.

“He's also quite insistent I live with him.”

“And?”

“I'm in. Yesterday, we watched five double-load semis drop their cargo at CEC Intermodal. We stayed until they were loaded on the trains. Any decisions on the shipment?”

“No. That's up to Walt and Danny to decide how and whether to proceed. What else can I do for you?”

Besides a quick wrapup?
“Actually, I need an apartment. Only one that looks like I live there. And fast. Mr. Bannon and I are taking a ‘break.' For me to play Stannis's house pet, my family has to believe I'm with Bannon and Stannis has to believe I have my own place. To make this work, I need a secure parking spot to dump my car and an apartment that I can say belongs to me.”

“Not a problem,” Edward said. “I'll call you back in ten.”

I dragged a small carry-on suitcase and duffel bag out of my closet. Makeup, jewelry, hair goo, workout and lounge-y clothes, underwear. I jammed a couple of Brad Thors and Dashiell Hammett's
The Continental Op
in my bag. If yesterday was any indication, I was going to need plenty to read.

Edward called back. “The closest thing I've got to Renko's is eight blocks away. I'll messenger a key and parking card immediately. Third-floor walk-up, 301. Fire escape. Trendy, overpriced. How soon do you plan to visit?”

“I want to drop my car as soon as I can. I won't go into the apartment today, but as soon as Stannislav knows I have a place . . .”

“Okay. It'll be ready,” Edward said. “How is he treating you?”

“Too well. I'm having a difficult time reconciling his brutality to others and his sweetness to me.”

“Watch yourself, Maisie. Make no mistake. Renko is a killer.”

 

I lugged my stuff downstairs, made a ham sandwich, got a sugar-free Red Bull out of the fridge, and went to find Flynn and Rory. They were in the office, working. Flynn behind the computers, Rory wading through binders of paper at the conference table.

Flynn noticed me first. “Whoa! Your hair!”

Rory went wide-eyed. “What the hell happened to yeh, Snap?”

“Nice to see you guys, too.”

“It's nice,” Flynn said. “Different.”

“I don't like it,” Rory said.

“Aren't you sweet?” I said. “I just had it done, so it's gonna stay this way for a couple months.”

“Gels and their feckin' hair,” Rory said under his breath.

“What are you doing home?” Flynn spun the wheeled desk chair next to him over to me.

I went behind the desk and sat down. “Personal day. Big case?”

“Lake Michigan floater. Not little. About time, too,” Flynn said. “We're still waiting on forensics.” He shot Rory a look. “Surprised the Matchstick's dragging her feet on our request.”

“Don't quit your day job, Flynn,” I said. “You'd never make it as a private investigator.”

“Huh?”

“Jaysus. He's your brother and partner and you don't notice the St. George medallion's back around his neck?” I smiled at Rory. “How's Dr. Joy?”

“Are you feckin' kidding me?” Flynn said.

Rory glowered at me. I pointed at the case file in front of Rory. “Want me to take a look, see what else you missed?” I rolled over, grabbed the file, and opened it next to Flynn. “Cause of death?”

“Bullet to the back of the head.”

“So?” I opened the folder and looked at the first crime scene photo. A close-up of the gunshot wound in the back the victim's head. He was facedown, a white guy with short brown hair.

“A badass John Doe,” Rory said. “Scarred to hell an' back. A couple of gunshots, some blade.”

The next photo was a wider shot of the victim's bloated but muscled back and head. His torso was missing everything from the waist down, as well as one arm and the wrist and hand of the other arm. “Whoa. Looks like Jaws had a snack.”

“Ship's prop.” Rory smirked. “Like the German and the airplane from
Raiders
.”

“Nope.
Monty Python and the Holy Grail
.” Flynn raised his fist. “For the win!”

I clapped and Rory grunted his assent. I flipped to the next photo. A strangled squeak slipped from my lips.

I started coughing. Flynn smacked me between the shoulder blades. “You okay, Snap?”

“Yeah.” And I was. Surprisingly relieved to have photographic proof that yesterday's shooter had been a warning for Stannis. Nothing personal.

“He looks pretty good for a floater,” Flynn said. “I pushed Dr. Dudek for TOD. His best guess was four or five days. Still, it'll be a tough ID.”

I winced inwardly.

Somewhere, somehow, a fundamental shift had occurred in me.

Any of my five brothers would have killed Jeff Mant without a second thought if they'd seen him with the bag over my head, cutting my chest, or even assaulting me on the car.

Flynn handed me a photo from a separate stack. “Any ideas?”

I looked closely at the flayed bicep that was partially attached to the torso. A tattoo of a skull with part of a beret was still intact.

Flynn and Rory weren't just good detectives. They were tigers. As a team, they ranked in the CPD's top five of case closers. And this . . . they'd guard this case like a slab of raw meat.

My blood turned hot and thick.

“Armed Forces, probably. Early to mid-forties—or he'd have more ink.” I closed the folder and pushed it away. “Hmmm.”

“What?” Rory said.

“Nothing.” I fingered the edge of a crime scene photo. “It's just . . . Have you considered he might not be an American citizen?”

Flynn's eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“A lot of immigrants in Chicago. I'd make sure it was an American tattoo, is all.”

“Oh?”

I flipped through the photos again. “The vic's scars . . . they don't look like they were attended to by American doctors. Healing's a little rustic.”

Flynn scanned the photos again. “And you'd know, Dr. Maisie, because . . .”

“Hank has a lot of scars.”

“Jaysus.” Rory smacked his hand on the table. “Here we go.”

“Hey, you asked. I answered.”

“Interesting observation.” Flynn pulled my chair into his. “Does our vic appear to be of Eastern European descent to you?”

“Uh . . .”

“Yeh,” Rory tagged in. “Tell us about yer fine Mr. Renko. What exactly does he export besides trouble?”

Well, Super Cop, he runs a multimillion-dollar chop-shop operation
.

I shrugged. “I'm not sure. Scrap metal, grains. That kind of stuff, I think.”

“Are you sleeping with him?” Flynn, who still had my chair by the arms, loomed over me.

My cheeks burned as if they'd been napalmed. “What if I am?”

“Christ, Snap!” Rory said. “Are you feckin' serious?”

“Of course not. I'm
friends
with Stannis. I'm dating Hank.” I mentally crossed my fingers that Hank and I were still together.

“Rory, help me out here.” Flynn ran a hand over the back of his head. “I don't think I've ever met a man who was okay with his girl making out with another guy.”

Rory scratched his cheek. “Pimp, mebbe.”

Flynn tapped his nose and pointed at Rory.

They'd gotten my ire up, but they'd get no more satisfaction. I had far too much to lose.

The doorbell rang. “I got it.” I jumped to my feet and hustled out of the office.

“You're shady as feck, Snap,” Rory called after me, laughing.

A young woman in a courier's tee handed me an envelope. I signed her electronic tablet and turned to go back inside.

Kon stood at the car, arm at one side of his body. And while I couldn't see his hand, I was certain it was holding the Glock.

I closed the door behind me, slumped against it, and opened the envelope. Inside was the address, directions, and floor plan of the apartment, the location of the mailboxes, the swipe key to get into the parking garage as well as the front door of the building, and the key to apartment number 301. There was also another $2,500 in Visa cards. I put the cards and keys in my purse, memorized the apartment as best I could, then buried the envelope and floor plan in the kitchen recycle trash.

I climbed onto a bar stool and sat there, knee bouncing, thinking about things. I knew I should get my car and talk Kon into dropping it off at the apartment before going back to the penthouse, but I was exhausted and wired at the same time.

The house phone rang. I almost let it go, but I was sitting right next to it. I picked it up. “Hello.”

“Maisie?” A long pause. Then a raspy groan. “It's Lee.”

“Lee? Cash isn't here,” I said. “Are you okay? Do you need help?”