Storm's Cage

by Mary Stone

  “I am.” He pulled out an office chair, taking a seat across from her as he reached out for the perfunctory handshake. “Nice to meet you. SAC Keaton wanted me to tell you she’s sorry for the change of plans.”

  After a firm, businesslike shake, Agent Kantowski folded her hands atop the table. “It’s not a big deal. I wasn’t exactly in the middle of anything, anyway. I’ve got a couple court appearances next week, but I didn’t have anything big on my plate. Other than this task force assignment, that is.”

  Zane scratched his unshaven cheek. “Well, fret not, Agent Kantowski. There’s more than enough work to go around. Agent Storm is out in the field, so she couldn’t make it today.” Though he’d thought to maintain an air of professionalism, he slumped back in his chair and drummed his fingers against the table.

  Until now, Amelia and Zane had been hush-hush about the RICO case they’d been compiling against the Leóne family.

  The Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act allowed the FBI and other investigative agencies to establish a pattern of illegal behavior in order to prosecute an organized crime group. RICO investigations were laborious, but the result was a harsher penalty for the criminal syndicate than would have been achieved otherwise.

  To a group like the Leóne family, a RICO case was the only weapon in the Bureau’s arsenal that was capable of inflicting long-term, irreparable damage. For that reason, Amelia and Zane had kept the investigation as close to the vest as possible.

  But SAC Keaton had personally vetted Agent Kantowski, and the woman wouldn’t be much use in their task force if Zane kept her in the dark.

  He pushed aside the discomfort and met Agent Kantowski’s curious stare. “I suppose we’ve got a lot to go through, so we might as well get started. We’ll take it from the top and start with the RICO case.”

  She lifted one overly plucked brow. “A RICO case? Against the Leóne family?”

  Zane replied with a slow nod. “Yes. I’m sure you can understand why we’re keeping this all pretty quiet. For the past few months, there’ve been indications that we have a rat somewhere in the Bureau.”

  Glenn’s eyes widened as she leaned back in her seat. “Huh. A rat? And not the kind that squeaks and eats cheese, I’d imagine. You think it’s a field agent?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “I’m not sure, honestly. They’ve been quiet over the past few weeks. But we know if word got out to the Leóne family that we’re working on building a RICO case, there’s a good chance they’d go underground.”

  “Right. They usually do.” Glenn twisted the band of her watch around her wrist. “All right. So, there’s a RICO case and a dirty Fed. What else?”

  Biting his tongue, Zane suppressed his cynical laugh. “Well, as of this morning, there’s a U.S. Senator, a nationwide labor contractor, and a multi-billion-dollar agriculture business involved, along with a billionaire D.C. lobbyist and a massive human trafficking ring.”

  If any of his succinct explanation surprised Glenn, the sentiment didn’t register on her unlined face. “Sounds like a doozy.”

  For the second time, he fought back laughter. Her words were punctuated by a faint, folksy northern drawl, and he couldn’t help but feel like he’d been transported to an episode of Fargo.

  “It sure is.” He pushed to his feet. “Come on, let’s head down to the tenth floor, and I’ll show you our war room.”

  Agent Kantowski closed the laptop and followed. “Lead the way.”

  If the agent’s reaction, or lack thereof, was any indication, Zane might not be the only one on their task force who’d had run-ins with high-ranked government officials.

  Their trip to the shoebox-sized office was made in silence, though they each offered a polite greeting as they passed Agent Kavya Bhatti in the hall to the elevator.

  As Zane stepped through the familiar metal door, he spotted the stainless-steel thermos he’d left in the center of the worn table. He barely waited for Agent Kantowski to cross over the threshold before he made a beeline for the coffee.

  By the time he returned his attention to Glenn, a crease had formed between her brows. Glancing to the collection of decrepit chairs, to the cluttered table, and then to the whiteboard, she pursed her lips. “It’s…cozy, I guess.”

  Zane fought against the sarcastic smirk kinking his lips as he gestured to the chairs. “We’ve got plenty of seating for a crowd. But, as you can tell, most of them are broken. Space was limited, so SAC Keaton gave us the option of this repurposed chair graveyard or a broom closet.” That was just the kind of thing Amelia would say if she’d been there, right before bursting into a fit of laughter. And as the thought ran through Zane’s mind, he couldn’t help the smile that spread easily across his face. “I think we made the right choice.”

  Shrugging off her black messenger bag, Glenn chuckled politely. “I can see that.”

  Her lack of genuine laughter had Zane wondering if she’d be able to handle his and Amelia’s particular brand of comedy. Maybe his joke hadn’t been that funny after all. Maybe he just needed more coffee. He chugged what was left and placed the thermos back on the table.

  “Might as well get started. I hope you don’t have anywhere to be this evening because this might take a while.”

  13

  As Natasha Reyman approached a tall, blue bin, she groaned and glanced down to her gloved hands. This was the third trash can she’d sifted through, and she wished she’d been given a hazmat suit for the task.

  But like she did for any other investigation, Natasha wrapped her squeamish thoughts up, stuffed them in a box, and shoved them to the back of her mind. She might burn her clothes when she got home tonight, but she wasn’t about to saddle her partner with all the dirty work.

  Though trash was free game according to the court’s interpretation of the Fourth Amendment of the Constitution, Natasha and Floyd had knocked on the door of each house before they’d started their search. The notification was made more out of politeness than any sort of precaution. Over the years, the Chicago Police Department hadn’t racked up a favorable reputation, and Natasha did what little she could to restore faith with the people of the city.

  So far, all the residents she and Floyd had spoken with had been amenable.

  Glancing over her shoulder to where Floyd sifted through an identical blue bin on the other side of the street, Natasha took in a deep breath and flipped open the lid.

  A cool breeze drifted through the neighborhood, carrying with it the first faint scent of fall. As much as Natasha loved the sun and warmth of summer, she was better able to deal with crime scenes when the weather was cold.

  At least it’s in the sixties today instead of the nineties like it was a couple days ago. Satisfied with the mental reassurance, she turned back to the blue bin.

  Lifting the first white sack, Natasha squinted at the semi-opaque material. She and Floyd doubted the killer would have stuck around to untie a trash bag, stuff the murder weapon inside, and then tie the bag closed again, so they’d agreed there was no need to rummage through the contents of each individual bag.

  In any case, Natasha was well-versed with the weight of a handgun. If the weapon was inside a garbage bag, the awkward weight distribution would be enough to pique her suspicion.

  But as she plucked out the second sack, all she spotted were more takeout containers. Taking in a breath of clean air, she tilted the bin to the side so she could catch an unobscured glimpse of the interior. A heavy clunk accompanied the movement, and the first prickle of excitement rushed up to greet her.

  The sound could have come from an old tool that the homeowners had thrown away or a loose rock that had been tossed in to keep the container from blowing away on gusty days. As Natasha worked to temper the sudden rush of hope, she shifted the bin into the rays of the late afternoon sun.

  Stretching out one arm, she leaned forward and gingerly took hold of the plastic sack that concealed the mystery object. As she straightened, she unraveled the grocery bag
.

  Pulse rushing in her ears, she stared down at the matte black handgun. “Hey, Floyd. I think I’ve got something.”

  Floyd trotted across the asphalt toward his partner. As soon as his pale eyes fell on the frame of the handgun, he sucked in a sharp breath. “Is that?”

  Natasha reined in her excitement. “I can’t say for sure right now, but I can’t think of any other reason there’d be a silenced handgun at the bottom of a trash can three houses down from where Ian Strausbaugh was killed.”

  “Hold on.” Floyd bounced on the balls of his feet and lifted a finger. “Let me run and grab an evidence bag from the car.”

  “Get two.” Natasha pointed to the green plastic bag. “One for the bag, one for the weapon.”

  “Good call. Got it.”

  As Floyd trotted to their unmarked black sedan, she gingerly turned the handgun over to search for a serial number. She half-expected to find nothing more than scratched metal, but to her surprise, the identification was intact.

  Floyd was back at her side, huffing as if he’d just run a marathon.

  “Hey, take a look at this serial number.” Natasha pointed with her gloved finger.

  “Wait.” His eyes popped open wide as he glanced back at her. “A serial number? What the hell? What kind of contract killer would leave behind a handgun with a traceable serial number?”

  Lifting her shoulders, Natasha blew out a long breath. “I have no earthly idea, Floyd. Maybe we aren’t looking for a contract killer. Maybe this was personal.”

  Floyd scrutinized the weapon as he gently placed it inside the evidence bag. “It’s personal, or our contract killer is an idiot.” He squared his jaw as he sealed the plastic sack.

  Natasha suspected foul play, but this seemed more like a setup. “I don’t think so. The working theory is that Ian pissed off the D’Amato family, and that’s who killed him. But did you ever deal with the D’Amato family back when you were in narcotics? Before you transferred to homicide?”

  His expression turned thoughtful as he tagged the bag with the silenced handgun. “Not really, no. Word over there was that the D’Amatos didn’t deal with much in the way of drugs.”

  Natasha yanked the nitrile gloves off her hands. “That’s true. They don’t.” She scowled at the evidence bags. “And they don’t leave behind weapons with serial numbers, either. They’re smart, and that’s why you never hear about them around the station. They’re cyber criminals more than anything, at least nowadays.”

  Glancing up the curved sidewalk to the split-level house and its pristine siding, Floyd blew a raspberry. “Well, shit. I guess we’d better do our due diligence and ask the homeowners here if they know anything.”

  Even as Natasha nodded, she suspected they wouldn’t find any useful information from the couple who lived inside.

  The discovery of a potential murder weapon in the bottom of a waste bin should have felt like a godsend, but to Natasha, the handgun only raised more questions.

  At this point, all she knew for sure was that she and Floyd had only started to scratch the surface of this case.

  As I pressed send on the email I’d just composed, I scooped up a pen and crossed out the first line on a to-do list I’d written on a yellow sticky note. I still hadn’t been assigned a new partner, and most of my work since Ian’s death had been largely administrative. Paperwork was the bane of most detectives’ existences, and though I shared the sentiment, the tedium had served my anxious brain well over the past few days.

  When I’d started in Homicide at the Chicago Police Department, my shift had included Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. In those three years, I’d grown to hate Friday and all the hype that came with the final day of the workweek. But today, on a Friday, thirteen years after I’d left behind the dreaded weekend night shift, my tune had changed.

  My partner’s body hadn’t been found until Tuesday morning, and Detectives Natasha Reyman and Floyd Yoell hadn’t found the murder weapon at the bottom of a neighbor’s trash bin until Wednesday. Garbage day was Thursday, and if Reyman and Yoell had waited twenty-four hours longer to search for the thing, the nine-mil would have been tossed in the back of a waste truck, dumped in a landfill, and never seen again.

  I’d had to give the two detectives a few pointers, but I was confident suspicion hadn’t fallen on me. The end of the first week was about to draw to a close, and so far, my plans were on track.

  Though nine o’clock in the morning hadn’t yet rolled around, the precinct was abuzz with news of the ballistics analysis from the weapon Natasha and Floyd had retrieved.

  According to the rumors, both the nine-mil and the bullet from Ian’s body had been traced back to a D’Amato man. The suspect’s name hadn’t been released, but I already knew who he was. Gabriel Badoni, a trusted, tried-and-true lieutenant to none other than Alex Passarelli. I’d have preferred to frame Alex Passarelli himself, but Gabriel Badoni was the next best catch.

  Someday, I’d find a way to hang Alex, but not today.

  A familiar figure emerged from the hall at the opposite corner of the room. Pushing myself to stand, I met Floyd’s pale eyes and lifted a hand in greeting.

  He returned the gesture with a sleepy smile as he made the morning trudge toward his cluttered desk.

  Buttoning my black suit jacket, I strode over, trying to appear casual.

  “Morning, Detective.” Floyd tilted his red thermos before he took a quick sip. “I’m guessing you heard about the ballistics results, huh?”

  “Damn right I did. Congratulations.” If I played to his ego, it might keep any of my curiosity regarding his case free from suspicion. After all, if I hadn’t killed Ian, I imagined I would be riding Detective Floyd and his partner pretty hard for clues. Just as I would be eagerly praising them when they found those clues. It sounded good in my head, at least.

  The more I thought about it, the more I regretted the murder. Not Ian being dead, of course, he was a loose end, but the way I’d done it. I should have made it look like a suicide. All this covering up and second-guessing was doing my head in.

  Floyd cleared his throat, and I realized I’d been standing there dumbstruck for too long. The detective was staring at me. I had to say something. “Sorry. I’m all up in my head about this. It’s your case. You should be the one concentrating on it. But yeah.” I chuckled awkwardly. “I think most of the department has heard of your victory, honestly. Sergeant told me about it when I got in a bit ago, but I still wanted to hear your opinion on it. Maybe I can offer some help.”

  “Hey. It’s okay. We’re going to get justice for Ian.” Floyd’s expression was pure sympathy. “Ballistics told us that the nine-mil Natasha found was the weapon used to kill Detective Strausbaugh. There was a serial number on the weapon, which we thought was odd. It’s telling us the same story as the ballistics. They’re both pointing at the same guy.”

  I lifted a brow. “A D’Amato man, right?”

  Floyd’s pale eyes flicked back to mine. “Yeah. Wow, I guess word does spread quickly. I just found out about it at six this morning. Didn’t figure the whole damn department would know about it when I got here.”

  I threw a quick glance over my shoulder, checking to see if anyone was within earshot, and then propped my elbows on Floyd’s desk. Leaning in close, I kept my voice low. “Look, I know you probably aren’t supposed to answer this since the suspect’s part of a big crime family, and believe me, I get why.” I paused, swallowing hard in feigned apprehension. “I just…remember what I told you and Detective Reyman when you interviewed me on Tuesday morning? About the Portelli case?”

  Setting the thermos beside a computer monitor, Floyd nodded. He had to know about the Portelli case, but to his credit, not even the slightest hint of curiosity or surprise showed in his expression. “Yeah, I remember that. What about it?”

  Folding my hands, I made a show of gritting my teeth. “I don’t know. I just…I had a theory about who might’ve killed Ian, and I wanted to know.” I pr
etended to trail off and rubbed my forehead.

  This was what I would’ve done if I was innocent. I was sure of it. With every clue Natasha and Floyd uncovered, I’d want an update. I’d be suspicious if I’d kept to myself and sought to avoid any news of Ian’s case.

  Drumming his fingers against the desk, Floyd finally let go of the steeliness in his expression. “We’re not under orders to keep it to ourselves. It’s mostly a recommendation. So, technically.” He raised his shoulders. “I can tell you. Natasha should be here any minute now, and as soon as she gets here, we’re going to head out to pick the guy up.”

  I already knew what Floyd was about to say, but my heart thudded against my chest just the same.

  “Ballistics were a match to the handgun that Gabriel Badoni allegedly used to kill Gerard Portelli in self-defense.” He held up a finger. “And, that weapon was actually registered to Portelli. It should’ve been stored away as evidence, but that case is years old, so who knows.”

  “Wow!” After I practically yelled the word, I realized that my enthusiasm might have been a little overplayed. I reached up and rubbed at my eyes, hoping the friction might make them water as I heaved an exaggerated sigh. Emotional highs and lows went with news like this, so if he thought I was just overcome, he’d have no reason to suspect my outburst. With an added sniffle, I met Floyd’s gaze. “I can’t believe it. A ballistics match and a name, that’s…I’m so…great news.”

  “We’re hopeful.” Floyd’s gaze softened. He looked about one more sniffle away from giving me a hug. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. I just want to see justice for Ian.” I plastered a brave smile on my face. “This is the best news I’ve heard all week.”

  Floyd’s attention shifted to something behind me.

  I turned to peer at the hallway, and Natasha Reyman’s dark brown eyes met mine.

  The expression lasted only a fraction of a second, and at first, I wasn’t sure if the skepticism had been real. But in that fleeting moment, I could have sworn I’d caught her sizing me up.