by Tracy Clark
The night was quiet, hot, sticky—the kind of summer night that propelled the criminally minded out into the street to see what kind of trouble they could kick up. It was nearly eleven, but the Dudz and Sudz kept up a steady flow. I ducked the car into the alley and got out to peek around the corner; the smell of sour milk, rotten garbage, and small dead things wafted up my nose, turning my stomach. I stuck to the shadows, but this wasn’t a good vantage point. I could barely see the door from where I stood. I needed to get closer. I needed to find a spot that I could hunker down in for a while without anyone seeing me.
My eyes swept up and down the street. I checked the dingy alley. There was no good spot to burrow into to watch the door. Slowly my eyes drifted upward toward the rooftop, and my hands began to sweat. I’d nearly died on a rooftop. I’d taken a life on a rooftop. My police career ended on a rooftop. I squeezed my eyes shut, giving it a minute for the memories to settle. When I opened them again, I was fine, or at least fine-ish. I squared my shoulders, centered myself, and then jogged back to the car. I pulled a pair of binoculars and a camera out of the trunk before heading around back, looking for a way up. It’s fine, I told myself. The rooftop is fine. I ran it through my head like a mantra. It’s fine.
I rattled the lowest rung on the unsteady fire escape ladder, eyeing it dubiously, taking a moment to mentally confirm that my health insurance premiums were paid and up to date. The ladder didn’t look sturdy enough to hold the weight of a gerbil, let alone my 130 pounds, but the six-story building to which it was attached was directly across the street from the Dudz and Sudz. Therefore, it was the one I needed to make work. It would be a real shame, I thought, if I fell, broke my back, and had to lay in sour, dead garbage while being nibbled on by yellow-eyed rats. The thought sent a shiver through me, but I tucked the camera and binoculars inside my light jacket, jumped up to pull the ladder down, and started up. No guts, no glory.
Halfway up, I had another horrifying thought. What if my climb up was all the ladder could take? How would I get down? I glanced back at the alley floor, making sure the car was still there, and noticed just how far down the ground was from here. This is stupid. I am an idiot. Ben is right; I have a serious problem. I planted my foot one rung up, added my weight, and let out the mother of all yelps when the rung crumbled underneath me, the broken pieces crashing to the asphalt below with an earsplitting rattle. I clung to the ladder, my heart slamming against my rib cage. I was going to kill Nick Spada. I was going to yank his wicked heart right out of his chest and stomp it into a bloody pancake. I started climbing again.
Every rung cleared was a gift from Heaven. When I finally slid my body onto the rooftop’s tar covering, I lay there, hugging it, my cheek to the sticky surface, sweat streaming off me like a waterfall. I’d made it. I didn’t die. I’d live to eat breakfast in the morning, work myself out of debt, grow old in Key West. When my legs and arms stopped shaking, I rose up on all fours and crawled over to the rim to peer over it. There it was, the Dudz and Sudz, just where I left it. I lay on my stomach, flat against the roof, and got out the binoculars, training them at the door. I’d be here when the goons showed up, and if I didn’t figure out a better way to get down, I’d be here for a lot longer than that.
* * *
The Williams brothers walked into the Dudz and Sudz three hours into my ill-advised rooftop sit-in. They drove up in a white Dodge Charger with tinted windows, no front or back plates. The car was likely hot. Maybe the two were trying it out before they drove it into their cousin’s chop shop. I quickly switched from binoculars to camera and snapped away at the ugly twosome. They were standing out in front of the Dudz and Sudz, chewing the fat with a squirrely-looking guy in a tank top and basketball shorts. I snapped him, too.
I was still snapping when a maroon Bonneville eased up to the curb and a familiar face got out. It was Leon the chop shop guy—Whip’s ex-con friend, the one who owed him a favor. What was up? Some kind of sleazy crook board meeting? The three greeted each other with warm hugs and happy back slaps. This was some kind of meeting, but which one of them called it? Had Spada made contact and given them all instructions? If he had, I had a good idea who’d be on the receiving end of their last-ditch push to clean up the mess, and I wanted no part of that. I snapped photos feverishly until the men disappeared inside, then slid my phone out of my pocket and called Ben.
“I’ve got the Williams brothers,” I said when he came on the line. “It’s another nail in Spada’s coffin.”
“Where are you?”
I looked around the roof, ignored the question. “Did you hear what I said? I found the twits that roughed me up. They’re meeting with Leon, the owner of the chop shop. They just walked into the Dudz and Sudz on Homan. Check the white Charger, no plates, and the maroon Bonneville, both parked out front. You need to get over here and, for Pete’s sake, ditch the lights and sirens. If they spook, we’ll never see any of them again.”
I heard muffled talking on Ben’s end of the line, and then he was quickly back. “Where. Are. You?”
There was no answer to that question that was going to get me anywhere I wanted to be. However, considering the state of the dilapidated ladder, I was either going to need a Chicago Fire Department hook and ladder or an ambulance, so I decided to just come out with it. “I’m on the roof across the street. If you don’t see me out front when you get here, check the alley. I’ll be laying spread-eagled on a mound of Hefty bags.”
I ended the call, put the phone away, and waited. I’d get to the ladder when I got to it. Right now, I kept my eyes on the door.
I soon spotted squad cars rolling in, one benefit to my bird’s-eye view. At least a half dozen of them cut cleanly, quietly, dark, through the side streets, like a herd of killer sharks honing in on an unsuspecting seal. Three cars approached the front; three turned off to speed down the alley one street over to cut off any rear escapes. Leon and his cousins were caught in a vise and didn’t know it. I smiled, watching as the cops roared in, tires squealing. Authoritative shouts came next as the cops bounded out of their squads and stormed inside. The Dudz and Sudz emptied quickly, everybody frantically tumbling out of the front door clutching armloads of laundry meant for the machines—one woman pulling a crude wagon with a sleeping baby in it, another hastily buttoning her blouse. I didn’t even want to guess what that was about. A few minutes later, a team came out with the Williams brothers in cuffs, but no Leon.
I snapped a photo. “Leon made it to the back room. Dammit.” The cops wouldn’t have had a warrant for that, not yet, but at least they got the thugs. I stuck my tongue out in their direction. “Take that, you ugly creeps.”
I was so busy watching the brothers getting put into the back of the squad car that I missed the unmarked car when it rolled up. By the time I caught sight of Ben and Weber standing in the middle of the street, looking up at me, it was too late. I ducked back from the edge, and then quickly crawled back to the top of the ladder. I eyed it unenthusiastically before forcing myself over the side, heading down. I’d die or I wouldn’t, but I wasn’t going to wait up here like a dim-witted damsel in need of rescue. I’d take my chances with the “death ladder.” I took the rungs hard, double-time, no slow and easy climb this time. I figured the faster I went, the farther down I’d be when the whole thing came crashing down on my head.
Nearly there, the ladder began to creak and sway and it felt loose in my hands. I glanced up toward the roof and saw the supports practically dangling from corroded mounts. My mouth went dry. I glanced down. Not close enough. If I fell from here, it was going to hurt like hell. A loud snap followed. I glanced up again to find one end of the ladder completely unhinged from the building. Maybe I had a good ten seconds. I scanned the ground—nothing but concrete and a Dumpster a few feet to my left. A Dumpster. There were bound to be rats in there. A whine of distressed metal broke into my panicked thoughts. Five seconds. I dove from the ladder into the Dumpster, landing on my back on a mound of slippery garba
ge bags. The ladder crashed to the alley, a cacophony of skittering bolts, rusted rungs, and worn metal. Dogs began to bark somewhere. The stench was horrendous. I clambered to my knees, clamped my hands onto the side, and hoisted myself over and out as fast as I could.
“Ack! Yuck. Blech.” I danced in one spot, beating my clothes to loosen vermin, thinking of rats and crawly things. The sense of relief to have my feet on solid ground was secondary. I fanned at my hair, shook my head, stomped my feet. I snorted hard to get the stench of rot out of my nose, then turned to see Ben and Weber walking toward me. I composed myself and moved away from the Dumpster. I eyed the pieces of ladder littering the alley, lucky to be alive.
“We got them. They’ll roll on Spada. They’re too stupid not to.” These were the first words out of my mouth. I’d survived a Dumpster jump. I felt invincible.
Ben and Weber eyed the ladder, then me; neither spoke. Ben looked at the rusted ladder lying on the ground, shook his head. Weber just stared at me, bewildered.
“I got a tip,” I said. “I followed it through. It panned out.”
Ben opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again to speak. “I don’t know where to start.”
“The back room is where all the action happens,” I said. “But I wouldn’t waste time getting a warrant to search the place. They’re probably in there now shredding and burning everything worth looking at. Another thing, can you check to see if Spada comes back as the owner of Leon’s chop shop? I’m still looking for a connector. The shop might be it.”
Ben took in the broken ladder lying at our feet. “So we’re not going to talk about these rusted pieces of—”
Weber cut him off. “I don’t really think you want to, do you?” I turned and headed for the rental.
“Hey, where are you going now?” Ben asked. “We need you to pick these jokers out of a lineup.”
“I will, but I’ve got one stop to make first.”
“Uh-uh, you go with us. We’ll get your car picked up later.”
“Are you nuts? Look where we’re standing! If I leave that rental here, it’ll be up on blocks and stripped clean by the time you send your guys back to get it. I’ll meet you at the district.”
Both of them looked skeptical, and, frankly, I couldn’t blame them. Even I knew I was a flight risk.
Ben pointed a warning finger at me. “Cass, no fooling around. You’d better be there.”
“I will.” I purposefully left out the word “eventually.” I would definitely make it in to ID the brothers, but first I had something to do. As I walked to the car, I kept smelling tar and rotten food and tracked the smell to the sleeves of my jacket. I quickly stripped out of it and tossed it into the trunk, lamenting the cleaning bill. Ben and Weber were still standing there when I drove away.
Chapter 44
Fleet Transports, the front for Leon’s chop shop, was locked up tight when I got there around four AM. One bare lightbulb sputtered over Fleet’s front door, but it didn’t offer much in the way of light. It didn’t help that half the streetlights weren’t working. Somewhere a dog was barking itself hoarse. The metal door had a mail slot cut into it, but that wasn’t going to work for me, so I dug out my picklocks and got busy while Whip stood and watched my back. Stella Symonds had died just hours ago. She wouldn’t be able to bear witness to Spada’s depravity. It was one more thing to hate Nicholas Spada for.
“Far as I know, chop shops are a twenty-four-hour business,” Whip whispered. “Somebody called and cleared the place out.”
I fiddled with the short hook, raking it over the lock’s pins. It was slow going, and I had to work by feel alone. “Somebody from the laundromat got to a phone.”
Whip sighed. “You know I can pick that lock faster, right?”
“Not without going back to prison, you can’t.” The last pin slid up and I stood, shoving the picks into my back pocket. “There. We’re in.”
The place was dark and, despite the sultry night, dank, a scent of fuel in the air. I found the light switch, but when I flicked it, nothing happened. I pulled the compact flashlight out of my pocket, Whip did the same, and we slowly swept cone-shaped beams over the deserted space and along the craggy walls caked with decades of motor oil, exhaust grunge, and city muck. The place reeked of man sweat and gasoline, the floor felt slick with it, like they’d had some kind of spill. No sign of Buddha, or anyone else, thankfully. Whip might have been able to take him after a couple rounds, but I didn’t want him to have to. In and out—that’s what I wanted, hopefully after finding something here that confirmed the links I thought I’d made, something that would put Leon back in a cell.
The cars were gone, except for one left behind. It was hidden under a canvas tarp, up on blocks. There’d be no VIN, no plates, no easy way of finding its owner. It was now an orphaned auto ready for the scrap. Nothing about Fleet Transports was legit. Besides the chop shop component, it was also a place you could come to get an untraceable car with few questions asked, for a price. That’s how Darby ended up in one of Leon’s dodgy vehicles.
“If Spada owns this, then that’s how he knows Leon,” I said.
Whip swept his flashlight around the garage. “He’d have the scratch, that’s for sure, but so would the kid’s brother. Like I said, gut feeling.”
I grinned, but didn’t say anything. Whip was a better con than he was a cop. He’d overlooked motive, opportunity.
“But, for sure, Leon would need a boss,” Whip said. “He’s cutthroat and mean as a junkyard dog, but he’s no entrepreneur.”
We picked our way in, careful where we put our feet. “I ran the building. Spada’s name wasn’t on it. It came back to a company called Tavroh. He could own that, though. I asked Ben to check it out.”
Whip ran the beam of his flash along the ceiling. “Rich folk got all kinds of ways of hiding dirt. If he owns it, he sure wouldn’t want to advertise. Chop shop and insurance don’t really go together.”
I ran my flash briefly over the tarp, then turned away from it.
“The office,” I whispered as I headed straight there, Whip following.
“You aren’t going to find anything. I was in there, remember? This is a chop shop, not a Honda dealership. No paper trail. They drive the hot cars in, they dice them up, and the parts go adios.”
I slid him a sideways glance, smiled. “I know how a chop shop works.”
“You cop know, you don’t con know.” He swept his flash right to left and back again, paying close attention to the shadows. “They zero in on the wheels, the air bags, the catalytic converters, high-value stuff.” He spoke as though he were teaching a class in chop shop—slow, step-by-step. He turned back to eye the tarp. “They must have been moving too fast to get that one off its blocks. Good money tossed down the can, you ask me.”
I glanced over at him. “We’re looking for anything that definitively connects Darby and Spada to the Williams brothers and your friend Leon.”
“I know, but first, get it straight. You and me are friends. That’s why I’m creeping around in here and not home watching American Ninja Warrior. Me and Leon? We were in the joint together and I saved him from getting shanked in the back. That doesn’t mean he wouldn’t shank me if he felt like it.”
I stopped, held the flashlight up so I could see his face. “No honor among thieves?”
Whip snorted. “Depends on the thief . . . and what you consider honorable.”
“Darby’s a con, Leon’s a con. Spada could be a con,” I said.
“And maybe he did his stint with either Darby or Leon?”
“Or both.”
Whip chuckled. “You do meet a lot of interesting people living on the state’s dime.”
“So they get out and now everybody’s just itching to do Spada’s bidding?”
Whip nodded. “If the price is right, only you can’t say for sure because Darby got himself chunked up and the cops don’t have Leon yet.”
We eased into the office, which was even darke
r than the garage had been. No windows, just an old table and a few scarred chairs, the table littered with used paper cups smelling of old coffee, some girlie mags, a deck of cards. I turned to Whip, looked a question.
“Told you. You don’t need a lot to get the chopping done.”
“So let’s say Spada is a con, and let’s say he’s got his hands in a lot of different pies. He somehow gets this place and sets Leon up to work the chop shop, but he’s also got Sterling, which is semilegitimate, with this secret-death part built in. That’s where Darby and that fake nurse would have to come in, right? Spada would know how to get his hands on killers. Maybe Spada’s an alias. That’d explain my not turning up anything on him.” I looked at Whip. “It’s so easy for cons to get hooked back into this crap. It’s a revolving door of crime and incarceration.”
Whip picked up the card deck, shuffled it a bit. “You’re thinking like a cop. This is the life, for Leon, for Darby, maybe for Spada. They probably all got out of the can and fell right back in with the same crowd they ran with before.” Whip tossed the cards down on the table, eyed the girlie mags, but left them where they were. “Take Leon, because he’s the one I know. He probably got out, got himself a good meal, a woman, two maybe, then he starts looking around for his next move.
“He spreads it around that he’s out and ready to get back into things, so a guy he knows sets him up with a guy he knows, maybe this Spada, and suddenly Leon’s back in the game. This time, it’s cars. Next time, it could be high-end whiskey that falls off the back of a truck, maybe even hookers. It doesn’t matter to Leon. When the profits get split, he’s there to take his cut and the ‘circle of life’ continues.” Whip grinned. “Just like in The Lion King.”
I watched Whip, listening to him explain it, saddened knowing that he’d lived the life he’d just described. That he had once been in Leon’s spot, in and out of prison, heading fast in the wrong direction, that it could just as easily be him headed back to prison now, instead of Leon. “What turned you around?”