by Mary Stone
With an exaggerated eye-roll, he gave her shoulder a playful shove. “Whatever, Storm. Yours was probably full of bad puns and dad jokes anyway.”
Slapping her hand back over her mouth, Amelia lapsed into a fit of laughter. “It was, actually. My intro line was, ‘Big, huge, enormous…I don’t like small talk.’”
Zane snorted. “Oh, I would have totally swiped that one.”
“I made it for the same reason your friend told you to make yours. I’d been living in North Carolina for years before the Army moved me to Virginia, and I didn’t know anyone or anything about the city. Modern problems and modern solutions, you know?”
Zane readjusted his seat, not stopping until he was leaning back a couple inches. “Speaking of modern solutions. It might be a year and a half before we get back to the office in this shit.” He gestured to the endless line of cars on the road ahead of them. “We’ve got plenty of time to figure out what we need to take care of while we wait for the prosecutor to get the paperwork over to the warden.”
The simple statement jerked Amelia out of the cloud of joviality and none-too-gently deposited her back in the real world, where she and Zane were trying to track down a corrupt Chicago PD detective who had appeared in more of Alton Dalessio’s child exploitation videos than Amelia could count.
“Right. Well, for starters.” She pulled a notepad and pen from the bag she normally carried. “We need to make sure that this guy doesn’t try to retaliate against any of the other potential witnesses from the Kankakee farm.”
His expression had turned grim. “You mean the Flores kids and Hazel Pomales.”
“Yeah, and all the others. They’re being monitored by the Marshals, but we’d better let the Witness Security detail know that there’s a Chicago cop out there who might be after them.” Amelia jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “The Marshals are a few blocks east of the prison. And we’ve made it.” She paused to check the nearest street sign. “Two blocks. You know what.”
Repositioning his seat until he was fully upright again, Zane glanced at her. “What?”
As she set the black and teal tote on her lap, Amelia grabbed her phone from the cup holder. “The Marshals are only a few blocks away. You’ve got the paperwork thing under control, right? Or do you need me for anything?”
He pinned her with a knowing stare. “Are you about to get out of the car and walk over to Dearborn Street?” He pointed to the upcoming intersection. “I can turn around here and drive you over there, you know. Or you can call them when we get back to the office.”
“First of all.” Amelia lifted an index finger. “I can probably walk over there as fast as you could drive there. And secondly, I might have to fill out paperwork for the Marshals, and it’ll be faster if I’m there to do it in person. When I’m done, I can just take the L and then grab a rideshare or a cab.”
“I get it. Divide and conquer. Good plan. We’re just sitting here at a dead stop anyway, and we’re only one lane away from the sidewalk.” With a grin, he pressed a button, and the locks disengaged with a click. “Go get ‘em, Tiger.”
Shoving open the passenger side door, Amelia raised her middle finger. Zane’s laughter followed her out into the warming afternoon.
With a quick wave to the driver next to Zane’s Acura, Amelia hurried around the front fender and sprinted to the sidewalk. Each step she took away from her friend and fellow agent came with a renewed dose of reality.
Somewhere in the city, a man sick enough to sexually abuse children on camera was going about his duties as a Chicago police detective. To call him a wolf in sheep’s clothing was a grave understatement.
She could dig and dig, could shovel through layers of corruption until her hands were blistered and bloody, but she wondered if she’d ever reach the other side.
Maybe not, but she’d be damned if she didn’t try.
Clenching her jaw, Amelia set off toward the Marshals office at a brisk walk.
3
Without Amelia to keep him company on the drive back to the FBI field office, Zane had plenty of time to reach out to Cassandra Halcott to discuss Carlo Enrico. Or he would have, but the Federal prosecutor never answered her phone. He’d left her a voicemail and sent a follow-up email, sent a message to SAC Keaton, and replied to two of Amelia’s texts, all while stuck in downtown Chicago traffic.
Finally, after an agonizing forty-five-minute commute, he’d arrived back at the FBI field office. Chicago was home to some of the worst traffic in the country, and this morning had served as a steadfast reminder of why he avoided driving at nine in the morning.
Rubbing his eyes with one hand, he shoved the gearshift into park and reached for his orange and white coffee cup. When he sucked on nothing but air, he remembered that he’d polished off the latte close to a half hour ago. With a groan, he exited the car and stepped onto the drab concrete of the parking garage.
The thud of the car door closing echoed throughout the cement fortress as Zane ambled toward the set of glass double doors at the end of a row of parked cars. His first order of business was to find more caffeine, and then he’d meet with SAC Keaton.
He’d been hesitant to leave Amelia downtown with no means of transportation, but this was the city she’d grown up in. He, on the other hand, still struggled to remember the names of all the major streets.
Besides, calling Cassandra while Amelia sat close by would have been awkward. He still wasn’t sure why the call would have been uncomfortable. Maybe he was worried Amelia would tease him, or maybe he just wanted to keep the fact that he’d slept with a Federal prosecutor a secret from his colleagues. But then again, he hadn’t known that Cassandra was an Assistant U.S. Attorney until after their first night together.
Like he’d told Amelia, he had been new to Chicago, and he hadn’t known a single soul outside the men and women he’d met at the Bureau.
In his first few weeks in the city, he’d contemplated asking Amelia out for friendly drinks and unhealthy food. In the end, he’d decided against it. Though she was an intriguing woman, he hadn’t wanted the invitation to come across as a request for a date, especially when his intent was platonic.
Well, mostly platonic. If she’d made an advance back then, he wouldn’t have rejected her.
Instead of venturing down that questionable path, he’d taken the advice of an old friend from his ten years with the Central Intelligence Agency. Nate Tennick was happily married now, but in his single years, he’d used his fair share of dating sites and apps when he moved to a new location.
Zane had always thought the practice was odd, and he’d heard plenty of horror stories from his female friends back home.
But beggars couldn’t be choosers, so he’d swallowed his doubts and made an account on one of the more popular apps.
Like Amelia had said, all the cool kids did their dating online nowadays. Considering his first and only date was an Assistant United States Attorney, Amelia’s words had some merit. Cassandra Halcott was cool, but at the time, he hadn’t been interested in a commitment that involved any sort of emotional labor.
As he shook himself free of the contemplation, Zane swiped his work identification over a badge reader, pushed open the door, and draped the lanyard around his neck.
His trip up to the Organized Crime floor was uneventful. After filling his stainless-steel thermos with breakroom coffee—as well as a heap of cream and sugar to make the sludge palatable—he set off down the hall to the office of the Special Agent in Charge. In the fifteen-story building, three floors were reserved for intelligence analysts and the agents who specialized in anti-terrorism.
As Zane approached the silver name plaque that read Jasmine Keaton, Special Agent in Charge, he stifled a yawn. The door was propped open, and a wide ray of late morning sunshine spilled over the durable gray carpet. Switching the thermos to his left hand, he rapped his knuckles against the doorframe.
Jasmine Keaton’s dark eyes had been fixed on the glowing screen of her smartph
one. As she looked up, her stern look of concentration dissipated. She straightened in her seat and waved him in.
With an amiable smile, Zane stepped over the threshold. Plastic blinds clattered against glass as he closed the door behind himself. As he approached, he caught a glimpse of her phone and was sure he spotted the colorful tiles of a game of Mahjong.
“Agent Palmer, good morning.” She gestured to a pair of cushioned armchairs in front of the cluttered oak desk. “I got your message about Carlo Enrico. Take a seat.”
“I tried to get ahold of the Assistant U.S. Attorney on my way over here, but she didn’t answer. I left her a voicemail and sent a message.” He dropped into a chair and swallowed a sigh. “We’re trying to speed the whole thing up as much as we can, so that’s why I’m here. I figured you might be able to pull some strings with the U.S. Attorney’s office that Storm and I can’t.”
Sunlight shimmered on her glossy hair as she nodded. “I can do that. Cassandra Halcott is working this case, isn’t she?”
Zane balanced his cup on the wooden arm of the chair. “She is.”
The SAC raised a sculpted eyebrow, studying him closely. For a mad second, he wondered if his boss knew about his sexscapades with the lovely prosecutor.
“How much does she know about Carlo Enrico, and what kind of deal is he asking for?”
Instead of being relieved, Zane grated his teeth together and met her inquisitive glance. He hated giving these scumbags deals, but it was usually the only way to catch the even bigger scumbags. Chop off the head of the snake and all that drivel.
“He wants all the child exploitation charges dropped. Something about how he doesn’t want to be branded a pedophile while he’s in prison. And he wants the death penalty off the table.”
SAC Keaton narrowed her eyes. “He wants all of them dropped? What about the first-degree murder charges for Vivian Kell? Or all the racketeering and trafficking charges he’s looking at?”
Zane raised his hands. “Life without parole. He knows that since he’s facing Federal charges, Illinois laws about the death penalty don’t really matter. I think Cassandra made that abundantly clear to him, and that’s why he’s decided to make a deal, honestly.”
As she propped her elbows on the desk, SAC Keaton stared at the wall over Zane’s shoulder in deep contemplation. “I don’t think Simone Julliard will be happy about dropping the exploitation charges. Her office will want someone to hang for that.”
“That’s something her office will be able to do.” Zane maintained eye contact as he lifted a finger. “If we cut a deal with Enrico, he’s willing to give us everything he has on the fourth man that the techs identified in those videos. A detective in the Chicago PD would be a pretty big bust.”
SAC Keaton rubbed her temple and let slip a groan of frustration. “I’d rather hang them both, but you’re right. Info on the crooked cop changes things. I’ll get in touch with Julliard and see what she can do about getting this paperwork pushed through for MCC Chicago.” Lacing her fingers together, she scooted forward. “Speaking of corrupt cops. I know you and Storm have been swamped lately, but I’ve been meaning to ask you about the status of your…investigation.”
Zane slumped back in his chair. He knew it would come eventually, but that hadn’t stopped him from dreading this question or the answers he couldn’t offer. “There’s not much to say about it, honestly.”
He and Jasmine Keaton were the only two at the Chicago field office who were privy to Zane’s real background. Even then, SAC Keaton only knew the abridged version of his experience.
As far as the rest of the Bureau—save the Deputy Director who had recruited him three years earlier—was concerned, he’d worked for the FBI for most of his adult life. There were fake records that placed him in intelligence analytics at the New York City field office, as well as various classified undercover projects throughout the country.
The Central Intelligence Agency spared no expense when the time came for them to cover the tracks of one of their covert operatives.
His experience in espionage was the chief reason he’d been brought to the Chicago FBI office. His objective was to hunt down any sources of corruption, which the Chicago branch of the Bureau had a long history of, as did a handful of field offices in other large cities across the country. Unbeknownst to most agents at Zane’s level, even the previous SAC’s hands were dirty.
As part of the deputy director’s effort to clean house, a handful of Special Agents in Charge had been replaced, and the Bureau had sought new agents with expertise in gathering intelligence. Zane knew nothing about the others, but he had his guesses about where they’d been sent.
He was still a part of the Organized Crime Division, with all duties and casework that came with his field agent status. In truth, he preferred the investigative portion of his job over the borderline covert side project he’d been assigned before he’d completed training at Quantico.
But the corruption in Chicago was a real problem—he and Amelia had learned that the hard way during the Leila Jackson investigation. As he went about his casework, he was also tasked with scrutinizing his fellow agents.
When SAC Keaton’s voice cut through his contemplation, Zane wondered how long he’d been silent.
“Nothing came up in your last case? Or in the past few weeks since the Kankakee farm went down?” She fixed him with an expectant stare.
He’d hoped to have something to offer. At one point, he’d felt he might have narrowed down a name or two to give SAC Keaton, but innocent until proven guilty meant that, yet again, he had to disappoint her with his answer. Zane hung his head, shaking it as he looked to the floor.
“No, nothing came up. We had most of the same people involved in that case and in the Leila Jackson case.” He could feel her eyes boring into him. She, no doubt, was just as disappointed as he was in the lack of results. He couldn’t hide from it, though, and lifted his gaze, meeting the SAC’s eyes. “My best guess is that the rat has something to do with either Emilio Leóne or Brian Kolthoff.”
SAC Keaton laced her fingers together. “Well, who was on your short list during the Jackson case?”
He took a long drink from the thermos before returning his attention to the SAC. “No one I’m sure of. I’m basing most of this on the night we tried to bust that first Leóne house, where everyone had vanished by the time we got there. Anyone involved in that takedown could have been the one to warn the Leónes.” He lifted a shoulder. “Corsaw, Larson, Harris, and the rest of the tactical team, not to mention the crime scene techs.”
“What about Storm?”
Zane’s eyes narrowed, and a cold rush of disbelief rose up to greet him. SAC Keaton’s question was vague, but the first place Zane’s mind went was to the basement of a warehouse.
Not long after the Kankakee County farm, Amelia had confessed to him that she wasn’t sure she’d been justified when she shot and killed Alton Dalessio. Though Joseph Larson had backed up her account of self-defense, and though the Bureau had closed the standard inquiry, the possibility remained that she’d pulled the trigger prematurely.
According to Amelia’s own version of events, she had been in a state of hyper-awareness, and she could have misinterpreted one of Dalessio’s movements.
As far as Zane was concerned, and as far as the Central Intelligence Agency would have been concerned, she’d made the right call. Threatening movement or not, she’d feared for her life as she stood in front of a man who’d just murdered four innocent girls. Dalessio had deserved far worse, and Zane would take Amelia’s secret to his grave, if need be.
He cleared his throat to force any combativeness out of his tone. “What about Storm?”
The SAC lifted a calm down hand. “I’m not accusing her of anything. But I know you two are close, and I want to make sure that’s not impacting your vigilance around her.”
He didn’t hesitate in answering. “No, Storm’s clean. We’re friends… sure… because I know she’s not
dirty. That wouldn’t be the case if I thought she was cozying up with the Leóne family. Plus, she killed Alton Dalessio, and he was a Leóne lieutenant. Even if there was a possibility before, there’s none now.”
A look of hesitancy kept SAC Keaton’s expression flat. “Okay. I trust your judgment, Palmer. The main reason I wanted to know what you thought about her was because there’s the potential to bring her in on this in the future. Two sets of eyes are better than one, you know?”
Cautious relief edged its way into his thoughts. “That’s true. I’ll keep that in mind.”
After a quick reassurance that SAC Keaton would reach out to the U.S. Attorney, Zane headed back to the shoebox-sized workspace he shared with Amelia. A couple of the photos taped to the whiteboard fluttered as the door swung closed, but otherwise, the space was still.
Though he knew without a doubt that Amelia was no friend of the Leóne family, he suspected she had her fair share of secrets. They’d worked side by side for the Jackson and Flores cases, and for both, Amelia had proved to be a wealth of information about the inner workings of the city’s two Italian crime families.
The Leónes and D’Amatos were both local to Chicago, so her knowledge hadn’t come from the year she’d spent in Boston. And based on the way she perked up any time the D’Amato family was mentioned, Zane couldn’t help but wonder if she’d struck a deal with the Leónes’ archrival.
Weary from the weight of his dark thoughts, Zane slumped into a rickety office chair. Morality didn’t exist in black and white for Zane. Not anymore. Not after the things he’d done on orders from the United States government.
Absently, Zane rubbed at an old and faded tattoo halfway between his collarbone and his shoulder as he stared at the closed door.
At the end of the day, he trusted Amelia. As much as he was capable of trusting another human being these days, anyway. If she’d reached out to the D’Amato family in order to find Leila Jackson or Javier and Gloria Flores, then he was sure she’d had a damn good reason.