by Mary Stone
Amelia already knew the answer to the question she was going to ask, but she asked it anyway. “And I don’t suppose any of those are monitored?”
A shadow of apprehension flitted across Phil’s face as he looked from Amelia to Joseph. “No. All those areas are exclusive to prison staff. Inmates aren’t allowed through that door.”
“Okay.” Joseph took a step back and gestured to the wall-mounted monitors. “Send us everything you have from five a.m. on for this entire floor.” His blue eyes flicked to Amelia’s. “Agent Storm and I will be in touch if we need anything else.”
Amelia took the cue. “Thanks again, Mr. Mason.” She offered the CO a departing handshake, and Joseph followed her out.
They’d already been cleared by the warden to visit the scene where Carlo had been stabbed, and unlike the last time Amelia had been at MCC Chicago with Zane, they weren’t required to be accompanied by a chauffeur.
As the door closed behind them, Amelia blinked to adjust her vision. “So, you’re thinking what I’m thinking, right?”
Joseph rubbed his forehead. “Yeah. We’re looking for a CO, not an inmate.”
“Or both.” She never liked it when the good guys were the ones committing crimes. Just like the rat she knew haunted their FBI building, it made everyone a suspect and increased the need for secrecy. And secrets were almost as deadly. She tried to gulp back the knot forming in her throat as she pushed some stray hairs from her face. “But you saw Mason’s expression when I mentioned the cameras on the other side of that damn door. COs don’t rat each other out. We’d be more likely to see an inmate snitch on one of their friends than a CO.”
“Shit, you’re right.” He paused, glancing curiously at her. “We’ve got two crime scene techs here, but we already know they didn’t find a murder weapon.”
“And they don’t know that we’re potentially looking for a CO.” She pursed her lips as they started down a wide hall that would take them to the cafeteria. “The perp had to have gone through that door, though. Whoever they are. That’s the only way they would’ve gotten in and out of the area without showing up on camera.”
“Right.”
Their dialogue tapered off as they passed an unfamiliar corrections officer. As the man’s scrutinizing gaze fell on them, Amelia and Joseph flashed their badges. The guard replied with a stiff nod, and they continued on their way.
An eerie silence had descended over the cafeteria like a shroud. The hairs on the back of Amelia’s neck rose to attention as her and Joseph’s footsteps echoed against the polished concrete floor.
For a split-second, Amelia pictured a different cafeteria—one where the hall at the edge of the room led to the freshly killed body of a grade-school-aged girl and the psychopath who had murdered her.
Though the memory was fleeting, the taste on her tongue had soured.
As she and Joseph neared the hall at the corner of the room, Amelia couldn’t help but wish she was with Zane. There were a litany of reasons why she preferred Palmer’s company, but at that moment, she missed his ability to keep her grounded in reality when her thoughts wandered toward experiences she’d rather forget.
Amelia gritted her teeth.
The sooner she and Joseph were done with their work and could return to the relative comfort of the FBI building, the better. At least when she was stuck with Joseph in the field office, there was an occasional friendly face to lessen the sense of impending doom.
She and Joseph turned the same corner where they’d watched Carlo disappear. Two crime scene techs were busy on the scene. One of them nodded at Amelia as she draped a camera around her neck.
Amelia waved as she ducked beneath the yellow crime scene tape.
Joseph followed close behind.
“You must be Agents Larson and Storm. I’m Bailey Howison, one of the team leads for the CSU. I’d shake your hand, but you know…” she held up a gloved hand, “crime scene.”
“Completely fine.” Amelia nodded and pointed to herself and then Joseph. “I’m Agent Storm, and this is Agent Larson. Security cameras were a bust, and we were wondering if you’ve found anything.”
Glancing to the tall, dark-haired man at her side, Bailey let out a resigned breath. “Nothing so far. Norman and I are getting close to finishing up the scene, and it doesn’t look like we’re going to come away with much of anything.”
By now, the drying blood along the wall and floor had turned the color of rust. A wide smear on the right side of the hall marked the spot where Carlo had fallen to the ground, but evidence markers indicated a few droplets on the left side as well.
Amelia gestured to the streak of dried blood. “Is there anything you can tell us about how the vic was attacked? Looks like he must’ve been against the wall when it happened.”
Bailey fidgeted with the camera. “He was, as best as we can tell. All the spatter on the other wall seems to have been from the motion of the killer’s arm. The marks aren’t far off the ground, which makes me think the assailant stabbed in an underhanded motion, like this.” She turned to the side and dropped one hand level with her waist. Fist clenched, she swung her arm upward, miming the motion.
Joseph rubbed the side of his face. “Prison shivs are usually pretty short, so the person wielding it doesn’t have to pull the blade back far to stab again.”
As the second tech sealed the evidence bag in his hands, he tilted his chin at the handful of droplets on the other side of the hall. “You’re right, Agent Larson. Over there, that’s low velocity spatter. We haven’t seen any of the medical reports yet, but we know the blade cut through the vic’s liver. There are a lot of blood vessels in that part of the body. Like Bailey said, those droplets over there are from him pulling his hand back.”
Amelia unlocked her phone and pulled up Donovan Gillem’s contact card. “Then the perp would’ve been covered in blood, don’t you think? His hand and arm at least.”
The two techs exchanged glances as if having a silent conversation before Norman finally agreed. “Yeah. I think that’s a safe bet.”
Joseph pursed his lips and stared toward the ceiling, looking deep in thought. Something was rattling around in that head of his. Amelia hoped he could keep that kind of focus for the rest of the case.
“Then they would’ve stuck out like a sore thumb when the prison went into lockdown. Unless.” After a few moments of pensive silence, Joseph snapped his fingers and pointed toward the heavy gray door, just beyond the edge of the yellow tape.
Norman and Bailey’s attention followed.
“A guard, yeah, that would make sense.” Bailey’s gaze shifted back to Joseph and Amelia. “We need to get that door open and seal off the area inside so we can process it as a crime scene.”
Joseph nodded. “Yeah. We’d be looking for the usual. Blood, fingerprints. We think it’s possible that a guard used an inmate to commit the stabbing, so we’d want to look for any signs that an inmate was behind that locked door.”
“Right, specifically the fingerprints of an inmate or droplets of blood that can be linked to Enrico. Something to prove that a prisoner was in a room where they shouldn’t have been. I’ll call the warden.” Amelia held up her phone, hesitating a moment before dialing Gillem’s number. “If we’re expanding the scene like this, we might want to get a couple more people out here to help with it.”
As she stepped away from the blood-smeared wall, Bailey’s expression soured. “I can do that. This isn’t the first time I’ve processed a crime scene at a prison, and I doubt it’ll be the last.”
Though Amelia wanted to chuckle at the woman’s sarcastic tone, she still hadn’t recovered from the earlier conversation with Joseph. His lessened proximity could’ve been a figment of her imagination, but she swore he’d made a point to stand closer to her since they’d arrived at MCC Chicago.
The next few days promised plenty of tedious work as they slogged through security camera footage and personnel records, and Amelia could only hope that Joseph w
as more inclined to do his damn job than he was to push her boundaries.
She swallowed against the rage stirring in her belly.
This case couldn’t end soon enough.
12
As Zane stepped into the waiting elevator, he barely stopped himself from holding the door for Amelia. Ever since they’d been paired up on the Leila Jackson investigation a few months earlier, he’d grown so accustomed to her presence at the FBI office that he was thrown for a loop when she wasn’t around.
Not just gone, but stuck on a case with Joseph Larson.
Zane had his own reasons for disliking the agent, and his disdain for the man had only increased after Amelia told him about the sleazy advance the asshole had made one night when they’d grabbed a couple beers after work.
Apparently, Joseph Larson was a thirty-six-year-old federal agent with a womanizing mentality that would fit right in with an eighties hair band.
Amelia could handle herself, but he still lamented the fact that his friend was stuck working with a man who made her uncomfortable. Zane silently cringed at the thought.
Amelia was his friend. No, she was more than that. They were closer than the simple term implied. Something he felt but couldn’t put a name to. And on some level, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to risk putting a label on their connection. He hadn’t missed the look of contentment in her eyes when he’d touched her face that morning.
This morning. Feels like it happened a week ago.
Though his watch hadn’t even hit three o’clock, he felt like he’d been at the FBI office for an entire week.
When the elevator chimed, he almost jumped in place. Growling at himself, he stepped out onto the durable carpet of an eighth-floor hallway.
He and Amelia had bigger problems to face. There was a real possibility Carlo Enrico would die before providing them with the name or likeness of the detective who’d worked with Alton Dalessio. Zane had decided to hand the child exploitation case fully over to the Bureau’s Cyber Crimes Division. The task force hadn’t assigned a Cyber Crimes agent yet, but SAC Keaton had given him a point of contact.
Zane rarely had a reason to travel to the eighth floor. He’d collaborated with Cyber Crimes once or twice, but the interactions had always been part of a case review or a briefing.
Tapping a manila folder against his leg, Zane set off down the hall to a room full of cubicles arranged in much the same way as the Organized Crime Division floor.
He’d half-expected each agent to have their own Oculus Rift virtual reality headset or for their desks to be reminiscent of a sci-fi flick. But as he made his way to the lone man at the end of the second row of cubicles, he realized the only difference was that each agent had been given four monitors instead of two.
Zane cleared his throat. “Excuse me. Are you Agent Redker?”
As the man’s dark eyes flicked to Zane, he pulled one earbud free. His suit jacket had been draped over the back of his chair, and he’d rolled the sleeves of his white dress shirt up to the elbows. Zane admired the agent’s modern faux hawk. It gave the man an air of youth despite the salt and pepper color of his hair.
Despite the gray, his clean-shaven face was unlined. He’d either been gifted with good genetics, or he made a point to take care of his appearance. Based on the fine material of the discarded jacket and his fashionable hairstyle, Zane assumed the youthful appearance was a combination of the two.
The agent set the pair of white earbuds beside his keyboard. “Yeah, I’m Layton Redker. You must be Agent Palmer from Organized Crime, right?”
“I am, yes.” Zane extended a hand. “Here to talk about the Kankakee farm case.”
After he’d accepted Zane’s handshake, Agent Redker leaned to the side and wheeled over a mesh-backed office chair. “I’ve been expecting you.” He paused as his dark brows knitted together. “I’m sorry. That sounded less creepy in my head.”
With a chortle, Zane took the offered seat. He’d known Agent Redker for all of two minutes, but he already liked the man. “Don’t worry about it. It happens to the best of us.”
Agent Redker laughed. “True enough.” He gestured to the manila folder in Zane’s hand. “This is what you and your partner collected in your investigation?”
Zane slid the file across the laminate desktop. “Yeah, this is a rundown of what we found at the location, as well as everything our…informant gave us.”
“The informant who was stabbed in MCC Chicago earlier today, right?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.” Leaning back in his chair, Zane crossed his arms. “Carlo Enrico, a soldier in the Leóne family. His superior, Alton Dalessio, was the man in charge of the child exploitation ring they were running. And then there was another Leóne soldier, Matteo Ricci. There was a fourth man involved, a Chicago PD detective. Ricci and Dalessio are both dead, and Enrico’s prognosis is bleak, so we’ve got no witnesses capable of identifying him.”
Agent Redker cringed as he rubbed his chin. “And none of the victims can ID him?”
“No. Not that we know of so far.” Zane shook his head. “There were only three survivors in that warehouse. All three of them recognized Ricci, Dalessio, and Enrico, but we haven’t heard anything in their statements so far that indicates a fourth man. Could be that they hadn’t been held captive long enough to run into him. Carlo Enrico was supposed to identify the fourth perp in exchange for witness protection and a reduction in his charges, but…” He shrugged, leaving the statement unfinished.
“Now Enrico is on death’s doorstep.” Redker nodded to himself as he drummed his fingers on top of the desk. “And you’re preparing for the worst, right?”
Agent Redker seemed to have the measure of things, which gave Zane a bit of reassurance. “We need to find the fourth man in this operation. Not only is he a detective in the Chicago Police Department, but he’s a dirty cop who’s been affiliated with the Leóne family for god knows how long. And with Enrico out of the picture, there’s only one way to come close to identifying him.”
Agent Redker’s gaze shifted to Zane. “The videos that were recovered from the farm.” He blew out a long breath and massaged his temple. “I mean, theoretically, we could put together his likeness from the videos where he appears, and then we could go through the detectives in the CPD, but well…”
“It’s a stretch,” Zane finished for him. “I know. But at this point, it’s the only shot we have at finding him. I know that your department has been working on tracking down the buyers who paid Dalessio and his guys for access to those videos, but at this point, I think the dirty cop ought to take priority.”
Jaw clenched, Redker nodded. “I agree. My partner and I will do our best, but I want your expectations to be realistic. This is a lot of tedious work, and there’s no guarantee of success.”
Zane appreciated Redker’s candor. He liked a man who could tell it to him straight without sugarcoating things. “All I can ask is that you try. If my partner or I learn anything new, we’ll pass it on to you.” He scooted his chair away from the agent’s desk.
“Understood. We’ll do the same, and we’ll keep you posted on our progress.” Layton pushed to his feet along with Zane and extended a hand.
After a quick goodbye, Zane set off for the elevator. Smacking the call button, he checked his watch. The meeting with Agent Redker had taken less than fifteen minutes, and he was left with an additional fifteen before he was slated to sit down with the newest addition to the Leóne task force, an agent from the Bureau’s Public Corruption Division.
He snorted to himself. The longer he was in Chicago, the more public corruption seemed to be the norm. If a sitting U.S. Senator—a senator who also happened to be the head of a multi-billion-dollar agricultural business with roots dating back to the early nineteen-hundreds—was in bed with the Leónes, and if Brian Kolthoff had helped bankroll their illicit operations, then Zane figured he’d have an easier time picking out the officials who weren’t dirty.
As the elevator
chimed, the silver doors slid open. Stepping out onto the familiar landing, he tried to ignore the sinking sensation in his stomach.
Whatever. It’s a job that someone’s got to take care of. Better that someone who knows what they’re doing deals with it.
Clenching and unclenching the fingers of one hand, he made his way to the closed door of the dinky conference room next to the breakroom. He hadn’t expected any free time after his visit with Agent Redker, and he’d left his coffee in their temporary shoebox.
For a beat, he considered turning around to go retrieve the thermos, but he stepped forward to open the glass and metal door instead. Blinking repeatedly, he let his eyes adjust to the rays of light that spilled in through the floor-to-ceiling window across from the doorway. Even the fixtures inside the FBI office seemed dull compared to the brilliant afternoon sunshine.
Blinds clattered against the door as it swung closed behind him. When he swept his gaze over the cramped space, he barely managed to hide his surprise.
Seated at the circular table, the only occupant of the room had fixed her honey-brown eyes on him. The golden sunlight lent a reddish glow to her long, ebony hair, the ends of which were lightened to a dark ash brown. Either a balayage or a color melt, according to what he’d learned from Amelia that morning.
SAC Keaton had given him the name of their new teammate, but Glenn Kantowski had looked a lot different in his head. In his thirty-four years of life, Zane had crossed paths with a handful of people named Glenn, but they’d all been men.
Forcing himself to stop staring, he finally managed to offer the woman a nod of greeting. “Are you…Agent Kantowski?”
As she pushed aside a matte silver laptop, the semi-sheer fabric of her jade green blouse shimmered in the sunlight. “That’s me.” She smiled politely, but Zane caught the twinge of annoyance in her voice. “Don’t worry, it happens all the time. I still get called ‘sir’ in half the emails I get here and at home. You must be Agent Palmer?”