The image in the mirror didn’t change.
And while the shower refreshed her, it didn’t wash away the memories of the things she had done with Drago the night before. Memories that would undoubtedly haunt her. Part of her wondered if she would ever learn from her mistakes. The other part wondered if it had been a mistake or a new beginning. Feeling the same way about Drago that she had when she’d left that hotel room—as if she’d found something special, something she couldn’t have imagined existed—she realized she wanted this to be a new beginning, wanted him.
When she opened the bathroom door, Drago was standing there, still nude, arm over the lintel, as if he were waiting in line to use it. “Done?” he asked, the single word loaded with multiple meaning.
Staring at the soft cleft in his chin, not daring to meet his gaze directly, she wondered if she was dreaming or if there could be something more between them. She still had her doubts. “Can I get by?”
He moved slightly, giving her an opening, but forcing body contact when she slid by him. “You might find this difficult to believe, but I don’t exactly trust you, either.”
She froze. “Me?” Then turned around to face him rather surprised he chose to bring this up now. “I’m one of the good guys.”
“Right. A cop.”
So there it was, out on the table. They both had a trust issue.
“Your own brother was a cop for more than ten years.”
“Doesn’t mean I trust him, either.”
She’d known there was something off between Drago and Justus, but she hadn’t been able to figure it out. “What do you have against cops?”
“Having to do their job for them. For starters.”
She shook her head. “I don’t get it.”
“No, because you were raised in a nice, safe suburb. Humboldt Park has always been gang territory. When I was growing up, the neighborhood was a lot worse than it is now.”
“You expect the police to what? Magically make the gangs disappear?”
Gangs in big cities were the new organized crime. Drugs. Prostitution. Dogfights. Gambling. And many gangbangers were underage, so they had to be treated differently from adult offenders, tried differently, unless murder was involved. And when gang leaders were arrested and convicted, they simply ran their crews from their prison cells.
Drago shook his head. “I knew you wouldn’t understand.”
With that he entered the bathroom and closed the door in her face.
Well, wasn’t this great. Having sex had made her jumpy and him irritable. A not-so-promising start to the day.
Hearing the shower go on, Camille figured she had enough time to check her email, so she headed for her desk in the living room where they’d plugged in her laptop.
What had Drago meant by having to do their job for them? Camille wasn’t sure she really wanted to know. And why had he chosen now to say something that was sure to rile her? Was he having doubts about what had just happened between them?
Clearing her mind of negativity, she turned on her laptop and started checking her email. Mostly junk ads. Nothing that couldn’t wait. But before she could put the laptop in hibernate, an IM sprang up. Her heart lurched and her breath caught in her throat.
Angel!
She quickly read: You and your boyfriend put on a good show for me last night.
What did he mean by that? He must have found her through Sandy. Had he been outside, peering through her windows? Her skin crawled at the thought that the pervert might have been watching her and Drago have sex.
A ping alerted her to an addition to the message: Now I’m inspired to give you a great show…click on the photo icon.
She stared at it for a moment, fear freezing her. What had he done to Sandy?
And then she clicked and found out.
The photo of the fourteen-year-old was like a punch to the gut. She cried out and Drago came running, wearing nothing but a towel around his hips.
“What happened?”
“Look for yourself.”
He leaned over her, but his nearness didn’t have any effect on her. She was ice cold inside as she stared at the photo of the girl.
Sandy gazed at the camera out of vacant-looking eyes. Her face was recognizable. Her hair was not.
It had been dyed a deep, bright red.
Giving her something in common with Angel’s other victims.
—
Drago couldn’t believe the change in Camille as they entered Hog Heaven Saloon to see Titus. She’d gone all hard and deep and dark, barely speaking. It wasn’t him or their disagreement. Seeing what Angel had done to Sandy, making the girl look more like his victims, realizing he’d done it to taunt her, had been more than the black-and-white focused cop could take.
Plus, Angel knew where to find her.
Or he had. Insisting she was staying at his apartment until they caught him, Drago had gotten her to pack a bag and bring it and her car to his place. On the way there, she’d downloaded an IM program to her smartphone. Just in case the bastard tried to contact her again. Plus she’d called Jackson, who would arrange night surveillance on her home in case the bastard came back.
Camille had a piece tucked into a holster beneath her blouse. It seemed she’d had a backup handgun stashed away all along but had chosen not to carry until now. Apparently she’d been trying to stick to the rules of her forced leave, but now had given that up. Knowing that dark place she’d gone to intimately himself, he believed that if Angel were in front of her right now, Camille would do her best to end him with that weapon.
He couldn’t let that happen. She didn’t have his experience with vigilante justice. And even with his violent past, he’d never actually killed anyone. If she turned her back on her beliefs, it would destroy her.
It was early enough that the biker bar was fairly empty. One guy staring into his beer, two at the pool table, another playing an electronic game.
The bartender nodded at him. “Drago! What can I get you?”
“Nothing to drink. Is Titus around?”
“In his office.”
Drago put a hand across Camille’s back, but she shrugged it away without saying anything. She stayed a step ahead of him until they reached the end of the bar. Then she waited for him to open the door that would lead them to the inner office.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Fine. You don’t have to worry about me.”
“What if I want to?”
Her eyes looked vulnerable for a second before she reclaimed the invisible barrier between them. He’d expected her to struggle with herself over what had happened between them last night. He hadn’t expected this.
Telling himself not to take it personally—this was about Angel and Sandy, not about him—he opened the door and indicated she should step through. He followed directly behind her. They crossed the storeroom stacked with boxes of beer and hard liquor to an open doorway. Since Titus was expecting them, he walked right in.
“Drago. You made it.”
“Titus. This is Camille Martell.”
The biker nodded at her. “The pretty police lady.”
“Homicide detective,” she corrected him.
“Pretty homicide detective, then.” He indicated the chairs across from his desk. “Sit.”
Drago took a seat. Camille looked like she wanted to say no, but after a slight hesitation, did the same.
“So what did you find out that you wanted to meet in person?” Drago asked.
“Rumor has it that Angel is local, just like you suspected. No one knows his identity, but apparently there has been a lot of speculation since the first woman was murdered.”
“What kind of speculation?”
“That his identity is being protected by a gang.”
“Like I said, we came to that conclusion when Noreen told us about the tats. Do you have something more specific?”
“I have someone more specific.” Titus stroked his braided beard. “I jus
t don’t know how you would feel about talking to him.”
Camille finally spoke. “Who is it? I don’t have any prejudice here. I’ll talk to anyone if it means it’ll help save the girl.”
“LeRoy Walker.”
Drago nearly choked on that. “I see what you mean.”
“I don’t,” Camille said. “Tell me.”
“I assume you’re familiar with the Insane Brotherhood,” Drago said.
“A black gang with territory in the Garfield Park area.”
“Right. That LeRoy Walker. Their leader.”
She glared at Titus. “Are you crazy? You think the notorious leader of a gang is going to voluntarily tell a cop anything?”
Titus shrugged. “It’s the only new lead I have. But you ask me, it sounds like a good one.”
“How do I find him?” Drago asked.
“The Brotherhood took over a vacant building in East Garfield.” Titus scribbled something on a small pad of paper, then ripped the top sheet off and handed it to Drago. “Chances are you’ll find him there.”
Standing, Drago took a look at the address, stuffed it into his pocket, and shook Titus’s hand. “Thanks.”
“No thanks necessary. Glad to do it. I’ll keep my network working on it.”
Camille said nothing. Not until they left the bar and got into his car. “Where are we going?”
“You’re going home. To my place,” he clarified.
“No.”
“You already said LeRoy wouldn’t talk to you.”
“I said he wouldn’t tell a cop anything. Then I won’t be a cop.”
She took her hair out of the clasp and ran her hand through it so that it looked wild. After unbuttoning enough of her blouse so he could see her cleavage and the lace decorating her bra, she swiped on a deep red lipstick.
“Well?”
He didn’t like it, didn’t want to see her put herself out there like this to scum. “You look like arm candy.” But he obviously wouldn’t have a choice. “Can you fake it?”
“Oh, lover boy, I can do anything for you.”
She flashed her lashes at him, but Drago wasn’t feeling the love. The whole scenario reeked of subterfuge. He sensed the darkness below her surface as if it were a tangible thing. Then again, he didn’t think anyone knew Camille as well as he did. No doubt she could fake it and make others believe. He didn’t want to take her, but if he tried to leave her behind, she would probably manage to follow him as she had before. And then, who knew what kind of trouble she might get herself into without him to protect her?
He used his code on a touch pad that opened his modified glove compartment and held out his hand. “Your piece.”
“Why would you want me to leave it in the car?” She eyed the glove compartment, where he kept his own gun. “Oh, I see. So you do carry.”
“I’m a private investigator. Of course I have a gun.” Half of the good citizens of Chicago were probably armed since the law preventing them from being armed had been overturned. “I only carry it in dangerous situations.”
“You don’t think this is going to be dangerous?”
“Get serious. LeRoy’s lieutenants aren’t going to let us get anywhere near him if we’re carrying. They will check.” And he would have to hold himself back from ripping off the head of anyone touching her.
He was still holding out his hand. “Your weapon.”
Glaring at him, she pulled it from her waistband and gave it up.
—
Camille hated being weaponless in this economically depressed area of Garfield Park, where gentrification had not yet arrived. On this block, buildings had been abandoned and lots sat empty but for the foundations from the houses that had once stood there. The street where Drago parked was empty except for three young black men hanging on a stoop, heads covered by black nylon do-rags tied at the back of their necks and wearing skimpy black T-shirts that showed off much of their highly tattooed bodies. Most of the tattoos were black outlines of crosses and other symbols that looked like they’d been done by amateurs. She had no doubt these were members of the Insane Brotherhood.
Torn about walking this street without her police persona and weapon for protection, Camille stayed right with Drago, holding on to his bicep, hoping she was believable as his “arm candy.” That Drago carried himself as aggressively as he’d been that first night in Hog Heaven offered little comfort. Instead, it reminded her of how dangerous he could be.
As they approached the building where the men gathered, all eyes turned to them. One of the men broke away from the others and stood in front of the stairs, muscle-ropey arms crossed over his massive chest, and glared at Drago.
“Where you think you goin’?”
Drago didn’t even hesitate. “To see LeRoy Walker.”
He tried to move forward until the other man put up an arm to stop him. Her chest tightening, Camille prepared herself for a fight.
“LeRoy didn’t tell me about no appointment with no white boy.”
Not about to correct him, Drago jutted his face closer to the man. “He’ll see me.”
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
“Because I’m here to talk to him about Angel.”
The gangster stared at Drago a moment longer, then snapped, “DeAndre! Go ask LeRoy if he wanna talk to White Boy about this Angel.”
One of the other men said, “Okay, Rashan,” and hurried inside.
“You a copper?” Rashan asked Drago.
“Concerned citizen.”
Rashan gave him a disbelieving expression. “Yeah, sure you are. What about the skirt?”
Realizing Rashan meant her, wanting in the worst way to smack that smarmy grin off his face, Camille forced herself to go wide-eyed and press closer into Drago’s side.
“She’s my woman.”
His woman. He said it with such authority. As if he really meant it. Camille had to bite back a caustic reply.
DeAndre came out of the building. “LeRoy said send him in.”
“You carrying heat?” Rashan asked Drago.
“Nope.”
“Gotta check. Raise your arms.”
Drago did as he was told and let the man pat him down.
Then a grinning Rashan turned to Camille. “Now you.”
“Touch her and you’re a dead man!”
Camille felt Drago tense against her. He would go through with that threat, which could get them both killed. Her pulse threaded unevenly, but she didn’t refuse.
“No problem, snookums.” Letting go of the clingy girlfriend role for a second, she raised her hands, sweetly saying, “Touch anything you shouldn’t, Rashan, and I promise you won’t be fathering any more babies.”
The other two men snorted, and Rashan gave them a filthy look. Then, giving her an expression of respect she hadn’t expected, he patted down Camille as quickly and impersonally as he had Drago. He stepped to the side. “First floor, dining room.”
Drago scowled his way up the stairs, the other men stepping aside to let them pass. Camille would swear they feared him. They got inside without any further interference. Even so, Camille was on edge, her gaze sweeping the interior as they entered. Though it was still daylight, the interior was dim, gloomy. A good place for an attack. She checked out every corner as they crossed the living room into the dining room. No one until they came upon the lone man sitting in an armed chair on a wall without windows. Though he was dressed in the same T-shirt and do-rag as his men, he held an aura of power the others couldn’t touch. He sported professionally executed tattoo “sleeves” that extended to his chest and neck. The only tattoos on his face were tears. A lot of them, open and closed, indicating both his kills and the people he had lost.
“LeRoy?” Drago asked.
“I know who I am. Don’t know you.”
“Drago Nance.”
“Ah, I know that name. I heard about you. Spent time in the can. You made yourself a reputation at Cook County.”
“I’m not here abou
t me. I’m here about Angel.”
LeRoy turned his piercing gaze on Camille.
“Same.” She abandoned the arm-candy camouflage. She didn’t think LeRoy would believe it anyway. “We heard you had information.”
LeRoy sized them up in an uncomfortable silence that lasted far too long. For a moment she feared that he wasn’t going to tell them anything.
Then he asked, “What’s in it for me?”
Camille wanted to say she wouldn’t arrest his ass, but clenched her jaw and let Drago do the talking.
“I’ll owe you.” Drago clarified. “Nothing illegal.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” The gang leader nodded. “Deal.”
“So what is it you know about Angel?”
“Not his real name. I saw him, though.”
Saw him? They already had a description from Noreen. Camille asked, “Saw him do what?”
“Dump that woman’s body on Logan Boulevard in the middle of the night. My boys and me were riding by when he did it right under a streetlight. Almost like he wanted a witness. I could see the brand on his arm as clear as if it was daylight.”
Branding was a very nasty, painful form of tattooing done with a hot metal branding iron like those used on cattle. Some gangs used a brand to identify a member’s affiliation with the most pain possible, literally adding salt to the wound. Apparently tolerance for pain was their measure of a man.
Camille could hardly breathe as Drago said, “And the brand was…?”
“H. L.”
“Humboldt Lords.”
Camille sensed Drago’s deep anger when he named the Latino Humboldt Park gang that had been at war with the Insane Brotherhood for decades. Drive-by shootings had become commonplace, but of course gang members hadn’t been the only ones hurt or killed. So many of the victims were the innocent who’d been at the wrong place at the wrong time. His hatred of the rival gang obviously being the reason LeRoy had been willing to talk to them.
“You’re sure you don’t know who this Angel really is?” Camille asked.
“Baby, if I knew who, I would gladly give him up, but I didn’t see his face.”
“Anything more you can tell us?” Drago asked.
“As far as I’m concerned, you ought to just send all the Lords to Hell where they belong.”
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