The Brotherhood

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  Jack led him back to Haeley Lamonica’s desk and had him sign for the files. It was not lost on Boone that the woman seemed very hesitant about that and kept staring at her boss. Finally she whispered, “Sir, there are only two divisions who are supposed to be privy to these, and he’s not employed by either one.”

  “That’s my girl,” Jack said. “Always lookin’ out for me. Let me sign right alongside Boone’s name so I take the heat, okay? You’re off the hook.”

  “I wasn’t worried about being on the hook, just protocol.”

  “I ’preciate it, Haeley. We okay now?”

  “Of course.”

  Boone couldn’t help but feel responsible for the woman’s discomfort and tried to smile an apology. But she wouldn’t catch his eye.

  As he followed Keller back into his office, Jack said, “I’ve been talking with Galloway and Pete Wade, and if you can get up to speed and we get this done as quick as I hope, we have an office I think you’ll like.”

  “Seriously?”

  Jack nodded. “Want to see it?”

  Jack took him just a few feet down the hall past Haeley, still not smiling, to a small office with one window.

  “Hang on a second, Jack. You didn’t know before I did that I was going to survive this investigation, and yet you’ve got this office for me already?”

  Jack pressed his lips together and shrugged. “All right, you caught me. We had a backup candidate, and I swear, I wasn’t giving you a nickel’s chance before Freddy gave it up. But as soon as he did, I called Haeley and had her arrange an appointment with the losing candidate. I’ll be breaking that news later this afternoon. I’m not looking forward to that, but I’m glad it turned out this way.”

  Keller walked Boone out, files under his arm. They were waiting by the elevator when Haeley told Jack there was a call he would want to take. “Be right there,” Jack said as the elevator arrived. “You got to celebrate, Boones, even if it means whooping and hollering in the car by yourself, kicking up your heels, eatin’ some dessert without working out, something.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “And I don’t need to tell you, those records are for your eyes only.”

  “I should leave them on the table at Starbucks, is that what you’re telling me?”

  “Hilarious.”

  As he descended to the lobby, Boone realized that his victory was hollow without Nikki to share it. He was glad, sure, and as an old justice freak, he simply felt this was right. It was what should have happened. But he couldn’t deny that God had intervened.

  Boone hesitated by the exit, knowing he had left things awkward between himself and Haeley Lamonica. Garrett Fox had told him everybody was always hitting on her. Maybe her defenses were up. Or maybe she was disappointed he had done the opposite—he had not acted impressed by her at all. And there was no hiding that he had neglected even a polite comment about her son.

  He headed back up, only to find her on the phone. When she noticed him, Haeley seemed to idly turn Max’s photo toward her and away from Boone. When she hung up, she said, “Forget something, Officer?”

  “Uh, no, I just wanted to say again that I would look forward to working with you, if this whole thing works out and I get transferred here.”

  She cocked her head, looking dubious. “That so? You don’t even know me.”

  “Yeah, but I’ve heard good things about you. If Jack Keller likes you, I know I will. And your son is cute. You didn’t need to turn the picture away.”

  She blushed. “Sorry. Your pastor reminded me who you were, so I understand. A lot of us on the job were praying for you back then when . . . you know.”

  “Thanks. I still need it.”

  “Well, there must be a lot of people praying for you at Community Life.”

  “I don’t go there anymore.”

  “Oh? Well, I thought . . . Pastor Sosa—”

  “Still a friend.”

  “Where do you go? I’d think it would be hard to find a better church than—”

  “Let’s just say I’m between churches.”

  “You’re looking? Because—”

  “Not really. Not yet.”

  “Oh, that’s not good. Sorry. Listen to me. I’m just saying, when you’re ready, you know where we are.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Haeley fished in her purse and pulled out a business card with her church’s information. Boone put it in his pocket and thanked her. “No promises, but you never know.”

  “Hey, some weeks if you showed up, you would double the attendance.”

  Boone snorted and she grinned, and he had to admit it was a nice smile. “I hope my transfer comes through.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that. You wouldn’t have gotten out of here with those files otherwise.”

  When he got home, Boone looked up the passage Sosa had jotted down for him. It was from Isaiah 43.

  Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by your name; you are Mine.

  When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow you. When you walk through the fire, you shall not be burned, nor shall the flame scorch you. For I am the Lord your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior.

  “God,” Boone said quietly, “thanks for what you did today. I know it could have easily gone the other way, and then I don’t know what I would have done with myself. I’m so tired of all this. Pastor Sosa says that one prayer you will never ignore is a request to reveal yourself to someone. Well, I need that. I want that. Please.”

  Boone sat there feeling foolish, realizing that God had shown himself that very day in the hearing. Guess I just need a little more of that.

  14

  Deep Night Shades

  Over the next SEVERAL MONTHS and into the late fall, Boone found himself mired in a cycle of encouragement and depression, and he couldn’t get a handle on it. He studied for the detective exam while also immersing himself in all the stuff Jack Keller had given him about Chicago street gangs and the Chicago Outfit, the local version of the Mob, the Mafia, or what was known elsewhere variously as “the families” or La Cosa Nostra (“this thing of ours”).

  Much of the street gang stuff he already knew from his time on patrol in the infamous 11th district. Only the latest Outfit material was new to him, as he had already brought himself up to speed on its history. Most intriguing was what appeared to be a relatively new connection between the street gangs and the old Mob. Where it might lead, no one knew, but Boone found himself restless, eager to play a role in finding out and maybe even putting a stop to it.

  Call me an idealist, he thought, but I want the bad guys to be as afraid of the Chicago PD as the bullies were of me in junior high.

  Meanwhile, Boone was lonely. He breezed through the detective exam and enjoyed a nice going-away fete and the congratulations of his colleagues at the 11th. But after switching to plainclothes and being awarded his simple but dramatic five-point star with Detective across the top, Chicago Police in a semicircle, and his service number across the bottom, Boone found himself living for the workday.

  In his new office he was getting to know his colleagues, spending a lot of time with his new boss, Pete Wade, and learning more than he thought there was to know about Chicago’s underbelly. Wade, like Keller, was no-nonsense and old-school, a born teacher. In his midfifties, black, and already white-haired, he was articulate and rapid-fire in his delivery, and Boone found himself drinking in everything.

  But when the day was over, it was as if his lights went out. He and Wade did not socialize outside the office, as Pete was a family man. And Jack had a new live-in girlfriend who seemed to monopolize his off-duty time. So Boone spent his late afternoons and evenings working out, studying, and watching TV.

  Mostly he was in a funk, feeling sorry for himself. Sleep was so elusive that he was tempted to resort to wine again. But Boone had spent so much time and energy working out and eating right, he found himself in t
he best shape of his life and didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize that.

  He was still trying to pray, but his pleas disgusted him. It seemed all he did was ask for relief or something else for himself. He wanted rest, peace, something to look forward to besides the job. Boone was not looking outward, as Pastor Sosa kept encouraging. “You’re not going to be happy until you’re doing something for somebody else,” Francisco had texted him.

  The pastor was still inviting him to church and encouraging him to go somewhere, if not Community Life. He also sent him Scripture references occasionally, and strangely, Boone found himself actually looking forward to them. One night as he sat watching another inane late show, he muted the TV and looked up Sosa’s latest verse, Matthew 11:28:

  Come to Me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.

  Boone was glad he was sitting when he read that familiar verse. It washed over him with such power and left him with such longing that he felt he might collapse under it. It was all he could do to keep from weeping, and then he wondered, why not? Who was there to see if he cried? “I’m coming to you, God. I’m laboring and heavy laden, and I need rest. Tell me where to find it.”

  He finally turned off the TV and stumbled to bed, only to lie there staring at the ceiling and realizing that the answer to yet another prayer was no. Either that, or he was looking in the wrong place for rest. By now he thought the pain of his loss should have dulled, and at times perhaps it did. But deep in the night it was often as sharp as ever, and all he could do was bury his face in his pillow and scream and sob. He wanted Nikki and Josh back with such fierceness that he wondered if life was worth living. And people said time was supposed to heal all wounds.

  Some evenings Boone wondered if he should take Francisco Sosa up on the free counseling offered at Community Life. But every morning was a new start for him, and he eagerly dressed and headed for the office. Boone was intrigued by the fact that Haeley Lamonica was cordial and sometimes friendly, but never overtly so. She kept the photo of her son closer to her and not showing as she had in the past, and while Boone was tempted to ask if that was for his benefit, he didn’t pursue it.

  He was also struck by the number of times other police personnel—in fact just about anyone in the building for any reason—seemed to flirt with Haeley. Every time, she just sighed and hesitated, ignoring them as Garrett Fox had reported. She responded only to those who were clearly inappropriate, and her tone indicated a warning that she would not put up with harassment.

  To one senior executive who mentioned what he’d like to do with her after hours, Haeley said, “If you’ll forgive me for declining, I’ll forgive you for suggesting it.”

  “Come on! I know you’re single and would appreciate a man of experience.”

  “And I see you’re married.”

  “But not dead.”

  “No, but unemployed if you say one more thing I can report to Human Resources.”

  When the man huffed off, Boone emerged. “Impressive.”

  Haeley snorted and shook her head. “I only play tough. That stuff makes me quake.”

  “You really shut him down.”

  “I have a lot of experience.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Comes with the territory.”

  “Would you even know how to respond if someone asked you out and you wanted to see him?”

  She squinted. “Don’t start. Please. After all these months of barely speaking to me . . .”

  He smiled. “Don’t jump to conclusions.”

  “Don’t flatter myself, you mean?”

  “I didn’t say that; you did.”

  “How about those Chicago Bears, eh?” Haeley said, and they both laughed.

  Keller and Wade spent much of the day working with Boone either in a conference room or on the street, keeping an eye on the gangs. Of course there was no hiding a so-called unmarked squad car with three suit-clad men in it.

  It didn’t matter which of the big three street gangs’ territories they ventured into—the Gangster Disciples, the Vice Lords, or the Latin Kings—the members immediately busied themselves looking the other way when the police officers rolled into view.

  The Disciples had become the largest of the three factions, and they consisted of more than thirty thousand blacks in the Englewood area on the South Side. The Jewish Star of David and the upturned pitchfork were their symbols. All over their neighborhoods, graffiti read, “All Is One,” and “What Up G?”

  “I’ll tell you what’s up, G,” Pete Wade told Boone. “These guys pull in more than nine figures a year.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “As a heart attack. They’re bigger than the Vice Lords, though the Lords have been around longer. The Lords have about twenty thousand members in the Lawndale area. You believe that? They started as a little club more than fifty years ago at the Illinois State Training Center in St. Charles.”

  Boone saw all kinds of graffiti symbols on the West Side for the Lords, including the initials VL, a pyramid, dice, a bunny head, a crescent moon, and a top hat with gloves and a cane. The Vice Lords had gained control of their neighborhood when they appeared to turn over a new leaf in the 1970s and became community leaders. They were given federal grants to run a center for youth and job-training classes. “When the grants were rescinded,” Wade said, “the Vice Lords reverted to their old ways.”

  Even the so-called smallest of the three leading gangs, the Latin Kings—made up primarily of Puerto Ricans and Mexicans—numbered nearly twenty thousand members. Their symbols—expressed in graffiti all over the Southeast Side and Humboldt Park—included crowns, stars, a cross, a lion’s head, five dots, and their initials.

  “These neighborhoods and their gangs freak you out, Drake?” Pete Wade said, swinging around in his seat as they headed back to headquarters late one Friday afternoon. Keller was driving with Boone in the backseat.

  “Sure. Give me the creeps. You couldn’t pay me enough to venture in there alone. But give me the right tools and backup, and you couldn’t pay me enough to stay away.”

  “That’s as it should be. Now it’s quiz time. See if you’ve been studying. Where are we on Chicago Outfit and how do they interact with the gangbangers?”

  “Well, let’s see. It’s been one disaster after another for the last two decades for the Outfit. Worst came earlier this decade when a bunch of Mob bosses and their associates, including three made guys, were indicted. They’re down from six street crews to four and some say as few as three. They’re still big in loan sharking, debt collecting, extortion, and street taxes, but the old days of making a lot of money from vice and gambling are gone. Too much of that has been legalized, and it’s cut into their action. They still lend to casino gamblers the bank won’t touch, and the vigorish on those loans is exorbitant.”

  “Good,” Wade said. “How big is the Outfit now, compared to what it was?”

  “Around a hundred made guys and associates, down from about four-fifty twenty years ago.”

  “Uh-huh, and in your opinion, from what you’ve read and we’ve taught you, what’s the biggest organized crime threat to the city of Chicago?”

  These were softballs, Boone thought. Clearly something else was coming, once he had established that he had all this down. “Well, seeing as how the Chicago Crime Commission figures there have been around eleven hundred Mob hits in the last century, and the last one was more than twenty years ago, while the street gangs—who monopolize the drug trafficking—have murdered about two thousand in the last decade, I think it’s obvious. We still have to stay atop the Outfit, with all its ties to the unions and embezzling and all that. But the street gangs are clearly worse.”

  Pete Wade settled back, facing the road. “Jack,” he said, “I think the boy is ready for the next step.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t you think he’s ready for the assignment?”

  Keller shrugged. “In due time.”

 
Pete held up both hands. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be premature. And it wasn’t my place.”

  Jack laughed. “I just want to wait till we’re back in the office. I want to see the look on his face.”

  Whatever this assignment was, Boone was eager to get it. But when they got back to the office, the workday was nearly over. Haeley had her son in a chair next to her desk. Apparently she had persuaded him to be both quiet and still, as having him sit there was a privilege she couldn’t afford to lose.

  Keller retired to his office with Wade, while Boone stalled in his own office, waiting to be summoned. As he tidied up and stacked files, he heard Keller emerge and instruct Haeley to set a meeting for the three of them Monday morning. Why did it always have to be this way? If there was one thing Boone no longer looked forward to, it was a weekend with nothing to do.

  Boone was pulling on his trench coat when Haeley poked her head in to tell him of the meeting. He thanked her and made a show of jotting it down when Max scooted away from his mother and ran to him. He reached up with both hands, and Boone froze.

  “Max, no! Come here!”

  But the boy stood there, looking puzzled, still reaching. Boone finally welcomed him into his arms, not prepared for the wave of emotion the little body evoked. He bit his lip and looked away as Max laid his cheek on Boone’s shoulder.

  Haeley quickly pulled the boy away. “I’m so sorry, Boone. Forgive me.”

  “It’s all right,” he managed, feeling his face flush. “Hey, listen, you got plans for dinner?”

  Haeley gave him a look. “Don’t do this. You don’t have to, and I’d rather you not be like everybody else. Trying to get a sitter on a Friday night—”