—
I woke up strapped to a chair. My hands were stretched out, palms down, fingers spread and secured to a table made of grained wood. There was some dim light behind me and a pockmarked wall in front. I could hear breathing and guessed there were at least two of them. They smelled like smokers. One stepped out where I could see him. It was Iron Belly. He carried the shovel in both hands.
“Maybe we should put the bag over your head?” I said.
Iron Belly rammed the shovel, blade first, into my stomach. If I’d eaten anything, I would have lost it. As it was, I just retched some more and spit on the floor.
“Who was with you at the job site tonight?” Iron Belly’s voice was low and guttural, like a metal burr being buzzed flat by a bandsaw.
“I was by myself.”
Another shot to the gut. Not as bad this time. But when I retched, I saw leavings of blood in my saliva.
“Who was with you?”
“Fuck you.”
Iron Belly raised the shovel again, then paused. The other man in the room walked out onto the small, sullen stage and took a seat across from me.
“I’m enjoying the hell out of this,” Bones McIntyre said. “How about you?”
I spat in his general direction. Iron Belly made another move with the shovel, but Bones waved him off.
“I’m surprised you’d let me see your face,” I said.
“That’s because you don’t understand how we work.” Bones pulled out one of his cigars and rolled it between a thumb and forefinger. Then he took out a silver cutter on a chain and clipped off the end.
“Why don’t you explain it to me?” I said.
Bones crinkled his forehead in surprise. “I already tried.”
“Try again.”
“Maybe a little history would help.” He struck a match and sucked up the yellow flame in a long, cool draw. The room filled with the rich smell of burning tobacco. Bones eased back in his chair and picked a piece of cigar wrapper off his spotted tongue. “The whole thing started in the late eighties. The powers in this town decided they needed their own little cash cow. A slice of an anonymous industry they could fleece without anyone being the wiser. So they picked highway construction. And they created Beacon Limited.” Another draw and a ribbon of blue smoke spiraled over my head. “All the heavy hitters bought in. City, county, state. We built our fix into the DNA of the system, cooked the amounts we planned on skimming right into the state budget. I like to call it the Chicago annuity. Hell, we’ve been doing it so long, it almost seems legal.” The old politician chuckled and laid his cigar down so the ash hung, pregnant, over the side of the table. Then he tipped forward and tapped me on the forearm. “That’s why someone like you could never make a case against us. If you did, you’d be taking it to a cop whose boss or boss’s boss is part of Beacon. Same thing with all the major prosecutors in the state and half the judges on the bench. The thing would go nowhere. And whoever you gave it to would have their career snuffed. Maybe worse.”
“No one could have things locked up that tight.”
“We’re very discreet. Our interests are narrowly defined. And we only exercise our muscle when those interests are directly affected.”
“I don’t believe it.”
Bones turned to look at Iron Belly. “He doesn’t believe it.” Back to me. “I could put a bullet in your head. Leave the gun here with my prints on it and walk away clean. I guess that would make my case. Of course you’d be dead, so the ‘I told you so’ might feel a little hollow.”
“And what’s stopping you?”
“First smart thing you’ve said all night. There’s one person we don’t control. And that’s Ray Perry. You’re gonna help us with that.” Bones walked behind me and came back to the table with an iPad. “Surprised? Old fuck like me. Rotary phone, all that shit. What do I know about technology? Nothing, really. They cue the stuff up, and I just play it. This one I’ve played a half-dozen times.”
Bones flipped the iPad around and hit a button. A video rolled. The camera was somewhere in Rachel Swenson’s bedroom. I closed my eyes, but it didn’t matter. I could hear the soft groans and oiled squeak of bedsprings I knew all too well.
“She’s had a couple of cowboys in there since you.” Bones’s voice had dropped to a hazy whisper. “This one’s a trader down at the Merc. We paid him to make the tape. He did your girl for nothing.”
Iron Belly snickered, and I knew somewhere in my brain he’d just bought himself a bullet. Bones was a given.
“We’ll take the judge whenever we want,” he said. “Ruin her professionally, financially, or maybe just have her raped and killed in that pretty fucking graystone of hers. We’ll videotape that, too, and send it to you. Open your eyes.”
I did. The iPad had gone to a merciful black. Bones scraped his chair closer and fixed me with a slitted stare. “Tell Ray I want my money. If he gets it to me, I’ll forget about him. And you.”
“What money?”
“Tell him.”
“I don’t know where Ray is.”
Bones’s smile was a razor. In its bloody arc, I caught a glimpse of the awful price paid for power. “Just tell him, Kelly. And keep your fingers out of other people’s business. We’ll all get along fine.”
Fear spiked a claw in my gut as Bones McIntyre rose out of his chair. Iron Belly stood just behind him. The shovel had been replaced by a hatchet. My eyes flew to my hands, naked and spread, each finger separated and secured to the rough wood with a small metal clamp. Somewhere in my head a door closed and I knew, whatever happened, things would never be the same. I looked up again at Iron Belly, gaze flat as a sledgehammer. In one movement he raised the hatchet and swung it down, through a crust of nail, tissue, blood, and nerve, until the sharp blade bit into the ragged wood and stuck there. I might have screamed. I’m sure I screamed, but it was drowned out by the roar in my ears. Then my eyes rolled back in my head, and my world went white with pain.
CHAPTER 25
I looked down at the brown Jewel bag puddled with blood and wrapped around my left hand. Then I looked up. The gun seemed more like a cannon in the hands of a ten-year-old. He had a finger curled around the trigger and the business end pointed at my head.
“That’s my gun.” The words were torn from my lips by a howl of wind, and I wondered if I’d really said anything at all. Apparently I had, because the kid gave me his best fifth-grade smile. “Got you on the red beam, Casper.” The kid tucked the howitzer into the belt of his jeans and swaggered off down the street.
I leaned back on the wooden steps and stared up at a purple sky dipped in hues of orange and red. They’d dragged me out of the cellar and thrown me into a car. I remembered some shapes and a large jolt. Rough hands at my neck, the smell of sour sweat and cigarettes, cold air and cracked pavement. Then, the kid. I looked down the street and back up it. I’d been dumped on the steps of a building that was more bones than flesh. The rest of the block was a similar parade of skeletons, black sockets where windows should be; others boarded up and nailed shut. On a corner, two street signs stood naked in the newborn light. I was at Fifteenth and Drake in Lawndale. Score one for the home team. I felt the edge of my mobile in my jacket. Score another for the good guys. I took the phone out with my right hand and fumbled to make a call. I knew I was on the jagged edge of shock. Knew if I succumbed the next passerby would take my money and my phone. Or maybe the kid would come back with my gun and finish the job. I hit a button and waited. Rodriguez’s voice came alive at the other end of the line.
“It’s six in the morning.”
“I’m at Fifteenth and Drake.”
“What the fuck are you doing out there?”
“Nothing good.”
“You don’t sound so hot.”
“I’m not. Can you get here?”
“Sure.”
“Bring a first-aid kit.”
A pause. “Are you hurt?”
I glanced at the soggy Jewel bag. “Probably.
”
“An ambulance might be quicker.”
“No ambulance.” I looked up. The kid wasn’t back. But his older brother was. “I gotta go, Vince. Just get down here.”
I cut the call and laid the phone down on the step beside me. He was maybe sixteen, lean with fine features and hard, bright eyes—in another world, the savvy point guard on someone’s basketball team. He wore a black leather coat that fell almost to his knees and pulled my gun from somewhere out of one of its folds.
“You give this to Shorty?”
“He took it from me.” I held up the bag of blood to indicate my problem. His eyes flared, then went back to calculating.
“Who fucked wit’ you?”
“No one you know.”
He still had my gun in his hand and tapped it against his leg as he thought things through. “What else you got in your pockets?”
I gave him the phone and some cash. I wasn’t gonna give him my ID and plastic. Let him search for that. He counted the money and powered the phone on and off. Then he pocketed it.
“You a cop?”
I shook my head. “I work with one. That was him I was talking to.”
“What’s his name?”
“Rodriguez.”
“Vince?”
“You know him?”
“Tell him LJ said ‘What up?’ ” LJ stuck my gun back in one of his long pockets and wandered off. Fifteen minutes later, Rodriguez pulled to the curb. I slipped into the front seat.
“LJ says hey.”
“LJ?”
“One of your buddies down here. He just lifted my gun and phone.”
“I’ll get ’em back. What happened to your hand?”
I looked over at Rodriguez. His face rippled like a bedsheet pegged to a clothesline in a summer storm. The air around him stretched and snapped, reality smoking and fraying at the seams.
“Get me to a hospital,” I said and slumped back against the seat. The car began to move. My head slid until it hit the passenger’s-side window. The next thing I felt was a cool hand on my forehead, the squeak of rubber wheels on tile, and the sharp tug of a syringe as it bit into my arm.
CHAPTER 26
I was in a hospital bed, my left hand wrapped in gauze and resting on my chest. My head seemed a little spongy, and my throat was parched. Otherwise, I didn’t feel so bad. A door opened, and a nurse came in.
“You’re awake?” She was young, with cropped black hair and skin dusted in cinnamon.
“I guess so,” I said. “Still a little groggy. Where am I?”
“You’re at Northwestern Memorial, and you’ve been out for about four hours. My name’s Janice, by the way.”
“Hi, Janice. Michael.” I held up the wrapped club they’d left me as a hand. “So, what’s the damage?”
Janice pulled a blood-pressure cuff off the wall and wound it around my arm. “The doctor will give you the details, but it wasn’t too bad.”
“Really, ’cuz this bandage looks pretty big.”
“You were a little shocky when you came in, so they stabilized you. The injury itself was to the very top part of your pinkie.” She held up her own and pinched off a thin sliver of skin above the nail. “About this much. And the entire nail. No surgery necessary. Just some stitches. Take the antibiotics and pain pills, and you should be good to go.”
“Huh.”
“You were pretty lucky. What happened, anyway?”
“Gardening shears.”
“At six a.m.?”
“Pruning roses at dawn. Calms the nerves.”
“You came in with a detective.”
“Is that what he told you?”
“He left when they were stitching you up. Came back an hour later and dropped this off.” Janice unwrapped the cuff and pointed to my smartphone sitting on a small table by the bed. “He said to tell you he had the rest of your stuff.”
“Thanks, Janice.”
“Sure.” She checked an IV drip they had me hooked up to. “You want something for the pain?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
She returned with a small cup of pills. I took them without any water. I didn’t have a lot of pain but figured it would come soon enough. Janice was watching me closely.
“Are you going to tell me what really happened?”
“You didn’t buy the gardening shears?”
“No.”
“If I told you the real story, you’d believe it even less. What’s the stuff you’re pumping into my arm?”
“Just some antibiotics. You’ll have to stay here until a doctor sees you.”
“Not a problem.”
“Might be a few hours.”
“I’m beat. Just want to get some sleep.”
“Good.” She plumped a few pillows, turned out the lights, and left. I waited a couple of minutes, tugged the IV out of my arm, and climbed out of bed. My clothes were hanging in a closet. I got dressed with some difficulty, found some tape and gauze in a cabinet, and stuffed them under my coat. Then I tucked my bad hand in my pocket, walked down the corridor, and hit the elevator. The hospital lobby was mostly empty. I walked over to a Starbucks and ordered a black coffee. In the gift shop, I bought a bottle of extra-strength Tylenol and took a couple. Then I pushed through the revolving doors and walked up to Michigan Avenue. I was in a cab heading north when I pulled out my phone and punched in Rodriguez’s number.
CHAPTER 27
“I need you to do me a favor,” I said.
“What was last night? Where are you anyway?”
“In a cab.”
“They let you out?”
“Sort of. Listen, I need someone to watch Rachel.”
“Why don’t we talk about what happened to your hand?”
“We will, but I need someone watching Rachel now.”
“Fine, I’ll get someone.”
“No cops.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not safe,” I said. “Use someone private.”
“Okay. Someone private.”
“Her apartment might be bugged. It needs to be swept. And she can’t know anything about it. Money’s not a problem.”
“Big spender. Let me make a call. I got your gun, by the way.”
“I know. Janice told me.”
“Who’s Janice?”
“Never mind.”
“How’s the hand?”
“My finger. It’s fine. Just a few stitches. What did you pull out of Eddie’s bathtub?”
“What we thought.”
“Eddie?”
“Took a slug in the forehead before he went in. My boss will sit on it for a week. Then he wants an arrest and doesn’t much care who. Want some free advice?”
“Not really.”
“Take a vacation. Enjoy your hundred K. And forget about Ray Perry.”
“I’ll call you.” I cut the line just as we rolled to a stop on Broadway. I paid the cabbie and went up to my office. My first call was to Jack O’Donnell. I got his voice mail and left a message. Then I sat back and stared out the window at traffic. I could feel the pain building in my forearm and squeezed the bandage lightly. Bones could have taken a finger. Hell, he could have taken the hand. But he just wanted to hurt. Enough to scare. Enough to deliver a message. I thought about Rachel and wondered how long that movie would be playing inside my head. My phone buzzed and the e-mail icon blinked. I tapped it and read the message.
There’s an extra 10k in the account for medical expenses.
I typed with one finger.
Who am I talking to?
Your client.
I need a name.
A pause, then I typed another line.
Am I talking to Ray?
The answer came quickly.
Yes.
Why did you hire me?
Beacon.
Did you take their money?
Not important. Focus on my wife. She’s in danger.
I thought about that, then typed again.
/> Why did she help you get out of the courthouse?
Another pause, then a response.
Not important. Your apartment is bugged. Video, audio. Laptop/phone at home probably not secure. Office okay. Good-bye.
I stared at the last message for half a minute. Then I went down the hall to the bathroom and locked the door. Every instinct told me to find the bugs in my apartment and rip them out. Right now, however, they were a potential lead. Which meant they’d stay in place. And I’d live with it. I turned on the water and looked at my face in the mirror. Carefully, I peeled off a row of butterfly stitches they’d used to close up a gash in my eyebrow. It bled a little but stopped pretty quickly. I moved on to my hand, unwinding the bandage slowly. The top half of my finger was black with bruising and flat, a row of stitches marching along the top and down one side. I touched the finger lightly but couldn’t feel anything so I tried to bend it. The pain shot up my arm, froze my elbow, and exploded in my shoulder. I leaned over the sink and took a deep breath. After a minute or so, I stood up and rewrapped the hand, taping my pinkie and ring fingers together so the rest of my hand was free. Then I splashed some cold water on my face and wiped it dry with a paper towel. I unlocked the bathroom door and walked back down the hallway, wondering if Ray Perry had really been on the other end of that e-mail exchange. And if so, what did he want? I turned the corner to find Bones McIntyre waiting outside my office. He had a pencil in hand and was reading a Tribune.
“Kelly, what’s an eight-letter word for ‘morally bankrupt’?”
“ ‘Politics.’ I’m guessing you want to come in?”
CHAPTER 28
Bones followed me into the office. “How’s the hand?”
“The hand’s fine.” I walked behind my desk, cracked open the window, and sat down. The gun was five feet away, in the bottom right-hand drawer. My fingers itched for it, and I could feel the heat pouring off my skin. I blinked away the moment and softened my face. “What do you want?”
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