by Diane Capri
She watched as the Expedition headed directly to Unit D-6 and pulled straight in toward the garage door, just as Bramall had done.
Two big men climbed out. They might have been talking to each other, but from this distance, she couldn’t hear the conversation. She found the Boss’s cell phone and pushed the call button.
When he answered, she whispered, “You got eyes on this?”
“Yes. Running the license plates on that SUV now.” He paused. She heard him talking to someone else before he continued. “Lay low. Wait it out.”
Her lip curled. No questions asked that the Boss didn’t want answered.
He said, “Can you get out of there right now?”
She glanced toward Bramall. He was watching from his sedan slightly behind and to her right. “Without subduing those two guys first? Doubtful.”
He sighed. “Wait until they leave, and then you and Bramall get out. We’ll pick them up after. When they’re on the street.”
She kept her eyes on Unit D-6.
These guys knew what they were doing. One carried a shotgun. Two loud blasts with door breaching rounds, placed near the hasp’s attachment to the brick wall, did the job. The hasp jumped away from its fasteners and hung limply, still attached to the door by the hasp’s opposite side. Bramall’s heavy-duty lock was still in place.
The guy dropped the shotgun, bent to the ground, pushed the door up, and opened it wide.
“They’re in,” she said to the Boss, although he probably had a better view of the action than she did, given all the cameras perched around.
Before she could say more, Bramall pulled his sedan forward and accelerated hard toward Unit D-6.
“Oh, crap!” Otto exclaimed under her breath.
CHAPTER 14
Friday, February 11
5:35 a.m.
St. Louis, Missouri
Bramall screeched to a stop behind the black SUV, blocking any attempted getaway.
She disconnected the call, turned her engine off, activated the body cam, drew her Glock, and followed Bramall on foot. She smelled the earlier shotgun blasts on the breeze.
Weapon held ready, she rounded the corner and crossed to the building where Bramall had parked. She crouched low and moved silently along the brick wall toward the two vehicles.
She was three units away when two warning shots from a handgun rang out.
“Drop your weapons!” Bramall demanded as he rushed forward. Shouts carried clearly on the night air.
All three men were now inside Unit D-6, out of her visual range.
She heard male voices but not distinct words.
The only one she recognized was Bramall’s. The other two were mid-range with Chicago accents. She crept closer.
One man yelled, “You’s not FBI anymore, Bramall.”
The other guy screamed, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Bramall shouted, “Get down on the ground with your hands behind your back.”
“Yeah, sure. We’ll just do that,” the first one jeered. “Big Mike would be thrilled.”
She heard another shot, followed by rounds from three weapons that ricocheted inside the brick walls of the storage unit. She flattened her back against the wall to avoid any stray shots that might exit toward her, alert for a good chance to lean in and aim in the right direction.
The shooting stopped as abruptly as it started. She felt engulfed by a cloud of ominous silence.
After a moment, she inched closer to the door and craned her neck around to get a quick look inside.
The two thugs lay on the ground, face up, glassy eyes open, but lifeless.
Bramall stood beyond the seeping pools of blood, hands at his sides. He was breathing hard.
“Were you hit?”
He patted himself down and shook his head. “Amazing, but no.”
Otto nodded. The thugs were exceptionally bad marksmen. She kicked their pistols out of reach, just in case.
Bramall was a better shot than his file reflected, too. Both bodies sported multiple ragged red splotches on their torsos.
She took a deep breath and moved into the open maw of the unit, avoiding the pools of blood on the floor. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” he replied, with a slight quiver in his voice. “Just peachy.”
She walked over toward the bodies, checked pulses to be sure they were both dead, and kicked their weapons out of reach for extra insurance.
“What the hell was that all about, Bramall? Did they say Big Mike? You know him?”
“These two are—were—muscle for Mike Bavolsky. Wetwork, mostly,” Bramall said, nodding. “Bavolsky’s a two-bit Polish mobster. Took over from his old man about ten years ago. His territory’s on the north side of Chicago. Runs drugs, protection rackets, money laundering, illegal gambling. You name it, that’s Big Mike’s business.”
She cocked her head, trying to make sense of events. “You know Bavolsky and his goons from your FBI days, I take it?”
“I arrested these thugs a couple of times, back in the day. I recognized Joey Two when they got out of that SUV. The other one is Little Hugh. Usual story. Scooped ’em up. They served some time. Got out and went back to work. Served some more.” His breathing had slowed, almost to normal. “Both of them escaped a death sentence for two murders in Kentucky. Popped a bookie with sticky fingers. They beat it because Big Mike eliminated the witnesses against them. The cases fell apart. Illinois found something else to charge them with and, last I knew, both were still locked up at Statesville.”
She tilted her head toward the two goons. “So you’re figuring you did the world a favor here, getting rid of these guys.”
“Damn straight. Nobody’s gonna lose any sleep about it, either.” Bramall jutted his chin in her direction. “But don’t get on your moral high horse. They knew me. They came at me. I shot back. Total self-defense. No question.”
“You didn’t lure these thugs here so you could have your shootout, I suppose?”
“Now why didn’t I think of that.” He laid the sarcasm on as thick as peanut butter on bread.
She nodded. “Okay. How did they know you were here?”
“What makes you think they were here for me?” He scowled, still breathing hard. “You could just as easily have been the target as me.”
She cocked her head and shot him a glare.
“Not to mention,” he waved his palm toward the storage unit. “There’s at least a couple million dollars’ worth of drugs and cash in here, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“Let’s get back to that. Where’d this stuff come from? Who stashed the drugs and cash here?”
“Good questions,” he replied as if he didn’t know the answers. Maybe he didn’t.
But she wasn’t as willing to believe him as she was a half hour ago.
She nodded like she’d accepted his version of events, even though the entire situation was just a little too convenient for her taste.
She said, “You know how it works. The investigation will sort everything out. After they process the scene and so forth.”
“Yeah. I’ll make some calls. Get a team going.” He holstered his pistol and found his phone.
She noticed his hands shaking a little. She checked her watch. It would be daylight soon. “Can we still close that door? Keep the curious eyes away until our guys get here?”
He walked toward the garage door. While his back was turned, she snapped a few photos of the two dead men, sent them to the Boss, and slipped her phone into her pocket.
“Come outside. I’ll get the door over the hole, at least,” he said.
She watched Bramall reach up to the rope pull and give it a good yank. The steel screeched and resisted, but miraculously, the wheels rolled along the overhead track all the way down to the pavement.
When the door was closed again, she photographed the damage, which was mostly to the brick wall.
Shooting a padlock open with a gun was a Hollywood myth. She’d seen t
he tests. Even ran a few herself. The two goons must have known that, too. Probably because they’d had similar experiences before.
Joey Two had aimed his shotgun carefully at the brick where the hasp was mounted and blown the hasp off the brick wall. The shots had damaged the bricks, as he’d intended. But the padlock itself was still intact, and its shackle remained secure on the opposite side of the hasp.
Bramall picked up a few big chunks of brick and shoved them into the damaged wall. He propped what was left of the hasp into place, like putting a broken pencil back together. The hasp wouldn’t hold. But from a reasonable distance, a casual observer might not realize the hasp was barely hanging on and could be removed with a sharp tug.
The drugs and cash in Unit D-6 demanded better security until they could be collected by the DEA or the FBI or even local law enforcement.
Bramall turned, walked out of earshot, and talked quietly on the phone. While he was occupied with his call, the Boss’s phone vibrated in her pocket with a new text message. The timing confirmed he still had eyes on the situation and help was coming.
She read her orders at a glance. “Get out. Now.”
Bramall finished talking and returned. “I called in a couple of favors. They’re on the way.”
She nodded.
He used his boot to jam the door so that it couldn’t be opened again without effort.
Bramall said, “I’ll hang around here. Explain things.”
She gave him a level stare. “Just how are you going to explain all those opioids in there? And the cash?”
He shrugged. “It’ll be better for both of us if you’re not here when they arrive. Maybe get some sleep. You look like you could use it. I’ll call you in a few hours when I’m done. Buy you that coffee I promised. We can talk.”
Otto cocked her head and stuffed her hands into her pockets. Damp cold had seeped into her very pores. She shuffled her feet to work up a bit more body heat and narrowed her gaze to think.
Could she trust Bramall? She still didn’t know who leased this unit. Or who owned the drugs. Or where that money came from. Or a hundred other things that mattered.
But she was tired. She’d function better with sleep. The Boss was watching things. And there would be several hours of work to do here before Bramall would be free to talk anyway.
“Okay. Here’s my number. Call me when you’re done here. I’ll find a hotel near the airport and get a few hours’ sleep.” She sent him a text from her cell phone, covered a yawn with her palm, and walked back to her rental.
Three yards away, she turned. “Where is your client, anyway?”
His eyebrows raised all the way to his hairline, and his eyes widened to the size of nickels. “Rex Mackenzie? Home asleep in his bed in Lake Forest, I assume. Where else would he be?”
“Check your voicemail. See if he’s called. Because he’s not home and we can’t find him.” She nodded toward the garage door but kept walking backward toward her vehicle. “Now I’m wondering about those thugs. If they weren’t after you, did Big Mike send killers for Mackenzie?”
Bramall’s eyes widened further, but he shrugged and said nothing.
CHAPTER 15
Friday, February 11
8:45 a.m.
St. Louis, Missouri
She opened one eye when the phone began vibrating on the bedside table, bouncing like a tap dancer. When she saw the caller-ID, she pulled the phone to her ear and closed both eyes again. She needed another few hours’ sleep before she could hope to function.
She managed a garbled, “Otto.”
“Good morning, Sunshine. Aren’t you awake yet?” Gaspar asked.
She groaned.
He chuckled. “Okay. I’ll talk first. I’ve seen the videos from your body cam at Unit D-6, and the footage you uploaded from your phone. Looks like Bramall is involved in this thing up to his neck. What’s your take?” Gaspar asked.
She heard him sipping something. Sickeningly sweet coffee, most likely. He usually filled a smallish cup with half espresso, half milk, and enough sugar to rot every tooth in his head.
“Same as yours,” she mumbled into the pillow.
“That’s only the first thing. He arrived at that storage unit fully prepared to break in and leave without the owner’s knowledge. Which means he probably knew what was inside.”
“Or at least he suspected some kind of contraband,” she said quietly, head still on the pillow, eyes still closed, drifting toward sleep. “He didn’t seem shocked when he saw the stash. But he wasn’t pleased, either.”
Gaspar paused a moment, considering. “Okay. I can go with that. For now.”
Someone rapped hard knuckles on her door.
“Room service,” the guy said from the hallway.
She hadn’t ordered room service. Her eyes popped open, and her heartbeat quickened.
“Don’t panic,” Gaspar said in her ear. “I ordered coffee and pastries for you. Rise and shine. We’ve got work to do.”
The waiter knocked again, harder. She groaned, slid out of bed, and padded to the door to let him in with the tray.
While he set up, collected her signature, and left, Gaspar kept talking. “Unit D-6 was leased by T. Mackenzie.”
“Who is T. Mackenzie?”
“I figure it could be Theodore Rex Mackenzie. Could be Tiffany Jane Mackenzie. Could be someone else entirely,” he said.
Her sleep-fogged brain wasn’t tracking well enough.
“The unit was leased about six months ago. Paid up for a full year at the time.”
She gave in and poured black coffee into one of the cups. “And when did Mackenzie store the drugs and money in the storage unit?”
“Can’t say. Because of the security setup at U Store Stuff, there’s no entry or exit log. No way to monitor when items are stored or retrieved. Which they claim is a personal privacy issue, but it sounds like a haven for crooks and thieves to me.”
The coffee was pretty good, actually. She ignored the pastries. Gaspar was the one who mainlined sugar every morning. Black coffee started her engines just fine.
“Everything out there is monitored. Cameras all over the place. A keypad code is required for entry to the lot. Some electronic record should exist,” she said, feeling a bit more awake, pacing the room in an attempt to stay that way.
“The Boss is working on that. The entry codes could be tied to the units. Which could mean visitors in and out show up on a log somewhere.”
“At least the honest visitors. Assuming there were any,” she replied. The caffeine had kicked in. She wouldn’t sleep now even if she went back to bed. “Any luck tracing the serial numbers and barcodes on those drugs?”
“That’s where things start to get interesting,” Gaspar said.
“How so?”
“Pharmaceuticals are regulated and monitored more closely than used plutonium, right?”
“Yeah, well, not that many people have used plutonium laying around.”
He replied, “True. But every medicine chest in America probably has a few pain pills in it left over from a root canal or an appendectomy. Pills that can be stolen. It’s all traceable. In theory, we can find out everything we need to know by looking at the package. Or, if there’s no packaging, the actual pills are stamped with traceable numbers, too.”
“Sounds like good news,” she said, hopefully.
“Every grain of controlled substances contained in those pills and patches should be traceable, yes,” Gaspar said.
“Let me guess. Although the drugs should be traceable, they’re not because…” her voice trailed off.
“Exactly.” His tone conveyed the approval that a professor might lavish upon a particularly apt pupil. “According to the databases, none of those pills or patches in Unit D-6 were ever actually manufactured at all.”
She groaned but did not reply. Somehow, she wasn’t surprised.
He finished the thought. “Which means we have no idea where they came from. Or when or how.
Or who stored them in Unit D-6, for that matter.”
She paused a few moments, struggling to get her brain in gear. “What about the cash? On each of the paper wraps around those bills, there were identification numbers. Have you been able to trace them?”
“Yes. They came from the Chicago Federal Reserve Bank, according to all the computers.” Gaspar said. “Which at least ties everything to Chicagoland. It gives us a place to start looking for disappearing drugs.”
Otto nodded and then replied, “It does. What about those two dead thugs?”
“Bramall knows better than to lie to a federal investigator,” was his smug response.
She said, “He knows more than enough to be dangerous on a lot of levels, it seems to me.”
“And don’t you forget it, Suzie Wong.”
She scowled. Gaspar couldn’t see her, but he knew her well enough to guess her reaction. He moved on. “It’s just like Bramall said. Those two were foot soldiers in Big Mike Bavolsky’s mob. He’s a two-bit gangster compared to his father, but he’s looking to move up in the criminal world. He’s at the center of a big multi-agency investigation right now. Which means he’s nervous, too.”
“When he gets wind of what happened to his guys and who killed them, Bramall’s gonna be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life,” she said.
She was ambivalent about Bramall. He’d been an FBI agent once. And a damn good one. She didn’t want to believe he’d gone sideways. Not without a lot more evidence than they had right now. But something wasn’t kosher with the guy.
Otto finished the coffee and poured another cup. “Bramall’s not sitting around waiting for Big Mike to kill him, I hope.”
“Interesting you should ask.” He paused. “You’re fully awake now, right?”
She widened her eyes. “Why?”
“Because all that was background. This part is important.”
She sat on the edge of the bed with her coffee. The sheets were still warm, and she longed to climb back under the covers and sleep a while longer. “I’m listening.”