Choked Up

by Janey Mack

  Edward called back. “The closest thing I’ve got to Renko’s is eight blocks away. I’ll messenger a key and parking card immediately. Third-floor walk-up, 301. Fire escape. Trendy, overpriced. How soon do you plan to visit?”

  “I want to drop my car as soon as I can. I won’t go into the apartment today, but as soon as Stannislav knows I have a place . . .”

  “Okay. It’ll be ready,” Edward said. “How is he treating you?”

  “Too well. I’m having a difficult time reconciling his brutality to others and his sweetness to me.”

  “Watch yourself, Maisie. Make no mistake. Renko is a killer.”

  I lugged my stuff downstairs, made a ham sandwich, got a sugar-free Red Bull out of the fridge, and went to find Flynn and Rory. They were in the office, working. Flynn behind the computers, Rory wading through binders of paper at the conference table.

  Flynn noticed me first. “Whoa! Your hair!”

  Rory went wide-eyed. “What the hell happened to yeh, Snap?”

  “Nice to see you guys, too.”

  “It’s nice,” Flynn said. “Different.”

  “I don’t like it,” Rory said.

  “Aren’t you sweet?” I said. “I just had it done, so it’s gonna stay this way for a couple months.”

  “Gels and their feckin’ hair,” Rory said under his breath.

  “What are you doing home?” Flynn spun the wheeled desk chair next to him over to me.

  I went behind the desk and sat down. “Personal day. Big case?”

  “Lake Michigan floater. Not little. About time, too,” Flynn said. “We’re still waiting on forensics.” He shot Rory a look. “Surprised the Matchstick’s dragging her feet on our request.”

  “Don’t quit your day job, Flynn,” I said. “You’d never make it as a private investigator.”

  “Huh?”

  “Jaysus. He’s your brother and partner and you don’t notice the St. George medallion’s back around his neck?” I smiled at Rory. “How’s Dr. Joy?”

  “Are you feckin’ kidding me?” Flynn said.

  Rory glowered at me. I pointed at the case file in front of Rory. “Want me to take a look, see what else you missed?” I rolled over, grabbed the file, and opened it next to Flynn. “Cause of death?”

  “Bullet to the back of the head.”

  “So?” I opened the folder and looked at the first crime scene photo. A close-up of the gunshot wound in the back the victim’s head. He was facedown, a white guy with short brown hair.

  “A badass John Doe,” Rory said. “Scarred to hell an’ back. A couple of gunshots, some blade.”

  The next photo was a wider shot of the victim’s bloated but muscled back and head. His torso was missing everything from the waist down, as well as one arm and the wrist and hand of the other arm. “Whoa. Looks like Jaws had a snack.”

  “Ship’s prop.” Rory smirked. “Like the German and the airplane from Raiders.”

  “Nope. Monty Python and the Holy Grail.” Flynn raised his fist. “For the win!”

  God, I miss these guys.

  I clapped and Rory grunted his assent. I flipped to the next photo. A strangled squeak slipped from my lips.

  Jeff Mant.

  Jaysus fecking Christ.

  I started coughing. Flynn smacked me between the shoulder blades. “You okay, Snap?”

  “Yeah.” And I was. Surprisingly relieved to have photographic proof that yesterday’s shooter had been a warning for Stannis. Nothing personal.

  “He looks pretty good for a floater,” Flynn said. “I pushed Dr. Dudek for TOD. His best guess was four or five days. Still, it’ll be a tough ID.”

  I sure as hell hope it’s gonna be, seeing as I knew the mad dog and I’m in love with the man who put him down.

  I winced inwardly.

  Somewhere, somehow, a fundamental shift had occurred in me.

  Any of my five brothers would have killed Jeff Mant without a second thought if they’d seen him with the bag over my head, cutting my chest, or even assaulting me on the car.

  But they wouldn’t have done it a day or even an hour later.

  Jeff Mant was an animal. It needed to be done.

  Flynn handed me a photo from a separate stack. “Any ideas?”

  I looked closely at the flayed bicep that was partially attached to the torso. A tattoo of a skull with part of a beret was still intact.

  Shite.

  Flynn and Rory weren’t just good detectives. They were tigers. As a team, they ranked in the CPD’s top five of case closers. And this . . . they’d guard this case like a slab of raw meat.

  My blood turned hot and thick.

  “Armed Forces, probably. Early to mid-forties—or he’d have more ink.” I closed the folder and pushed it away. “Hmmm.”

  “What?” Rory said.

  “Nothing.” I fingered the edge of a crime scene photo. “It’s just . . . Have you considered he might not be an American citizen?”

  Flynn’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “A lot of immigrants in Chicago. I’d make sure it was an American tattoo, is all.”

  “Oh?”

  I flipped through the photos again. “The vic’s scars . . . they don’t look like they were attended to by American doctors. Healing’s a little rustic.”

  Flynn scanned the photos again. “And you’d know, Dr. Maisie, because . . .”

  “Hank has a lot of scars.”

  “Jaysus.” Rory smacked his hand on the table. “Here we go.”

  “Hey, you asked. I answered.”

  “Interesting observation.” Flynn pulled my chair into his. “Does our vic appear to be of Eastern European descent to you?”

  “Uh . . .”

  “Yeh,” Rory tagged in. “Tell us about yer fine Mr. Renko. What exactly does he export besides trouble?”

  Well, Super Cop, he runs a multimillion-dollar chop-shop operation.

  I shrugged. “I’m not sure. Scrap metal, grains. That kind of stuff, I think.”

  “Are you sleeping with him?” Flynn, who still had my chair by the arms, loomed over me.

  My cheeks burned as if they’d been napalmed. “What if I am?”

  Ah, the joys of having brothers. They hate Hank and yet, could at this moment, quite possibly hate Stannis more without ever having met him.

  “Christ, Snap!” Rory said. “Are you feckin’ serious?”

  Not like they haven’t dated strings of women at the same time.

  “Of course not. I’m friends with Stannis. I’m dating Hank.” I mentally crossed my fingers that Hank and I were still together.

  “Rory, help me out here.” Flynn ran a hand over the back of his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a man who was okay with his girl making out with another guy.”

  Rory scratched his cheek. “Pimp, mebbe.”

  Flynn tapped his nose and pointed at Rory.

  Dinks.

  They’d gotten my ire up, but they’d get no more satisfaction. I had far too much to lose.

  The doorbell rang. “I got it.” I jumped to my feet and hustled out of the office.

  “You’re shady as feck, Snap,” Rory called after me, laughing.

  A young woman in a courier’s tee handed me an envelope. I signed her electronic tablet and turned to go back inside.

  Kon stood at the car, arm at one side of his body. And while I couldn’t see his hand, I was certain it was holding the Glock.

  I closed the door behind me, slumped against it, and opened the envelope. Inside was the address, directions, and floor plan of the apartment, the location of the mailboxes, the swipe key to get into the parking garage as well as the front door of the building, and the key to apartment number 301. There was also another $2,500 in Visa cards. I put the cards and keys in my purse, memorized the apartment as best I could, then buried the envelope and floor plan in the kitchen recycle trash.

  I climbed onto a bar stool and sat there, knee bouncing, thinking about things. I knew I should get
my car and talk Kon into dropping it off at the apartment before going back to the penthouse, but I was exhausted and wired at the same time.

  The house phone rang. I almost let it go, but I was sitting right next to it. I picked it up. “Hello.”

  “Maisie?” A long pause. Then a raspy groan. “It’s Lee.”

  “Lee? Cash isn’t here,” I said. “Are you okay? Do you need help?”

  “My stomach,” he panted.

  “Lee, where are you? I’ll call nine-one-one.”

  “Are you my appendix, baby? Because I’m pretty sure I need to take you out.”

  Oh. My. God.

  “You jerk!” A tiny, scoffing giggle popped from my lips. Then I laughed. Really laughed. I couldn’t stop. It was like he’d reached inside my head and opened a tension valve. Tears ran down my cheeks. I finally caught my breath. “Rain Man called. He wants his social skills back.”

  Lee chuckled. “This your first time playing outside?”

  “Not gonna happen, cowboy.”

  I could hear the smile in his voice as he said, “Keep telling yourself that, if it cheers you up. I’ll call you later.”

  Chapter 31

  Dropping the Dodge Hellcat in the parking garage went smoother than anticipated. Mostly because I was so preoccupied with how the BOC would take down Stannislav, I didn’t have time to get the yips.

  I called Hank before I left the parking garage. His overly sexy secretary informed me he was out of country for the next four days, but would I want to see him Tuesday night?

  Gee, that’d be a cinch, seeing as I live with Stannis and have a team of bodyguards shadowing me.

  I gave the honeypot a restrained and demure, “Hell, yes.”

  Can’t worry about the middle pieces until you have the edges done.

  The drive back to the penthouse was spent in a quiet fog of wondering how to come clean with Hank after the chop-shop bust and warn him my brothers were on Mant’s case. We rode up the elevator to the penthouse, Kon insisting on carrying both my suitcase and duffel.

  Stannis was on the phone. He put his hand over the receiver. “Good, you have suitcase, Maisie. We take trip.”

  What?

  After a stream of Serbian, he hung up, came over, kissed me on both cheeks, took my hand, and led me into his room. He pointed at the bed. “Sit. What I pack, you choose similar.”

  I gave him a thumbs-up, kicked off my shoes, and flopped down on my stomach.

  He came out with a blue-black suit that he laid on the bed. He held up a Charvet shadow-stripe dress shirt. Hanging from one shoulder was a Charvet hairline-stripe silk tie in deep blue. On the other shoulder was a gauze-patterned tie in charcoal silver.

  “Mmm. The silver. Definitely the silver,” I said. “Bring me your suit bag and I’ll pack for you.”

  He did, flopping down on the bed beside me, watching in delight as I folded his two sets of boxer-briefs, undershirts, and pajamas.

  The look in his eyes fairly broke my heart. It was a tragic cocktail of affection, hope, and loneliness. Trouble was, I liked him more every day. The physical contact without any hint of sexual connotation—there was something so safe about his hands on me that wasn’t safe at all, like a rabbit with a rattlesnake inside.

  Stannis, Kontrolyor, Gorilla, and I flew first-class into JFK at 12:00 p.m. the next day, Stannislav apologizing for flying commercial. A Mercedes limo—not a rental—waited with two men. The driver’s copilot took our bags from Kon and Gorilla. The four of us got into the car and drove an hour and thirty-four minutes into Newark. Because, as Stannis pointed out, “A fox never leaves tracks in a straight line.”

  We parked again on high ground overlooking another CEC Intermodal transport train yard.

  Welcome to Newark. The armpit of New Jersey.

  Stannis and his men got out of the car. Stannis was wearing black jeans, an Armani jacket, and black jersey tee with steel-toed black work boots. He opened his laptop on the hood of the limo. Kon and Gorilla set up as before.

  The driver and the other man remained in the car. I stayed until Stannis signaled me to get out.

  Sweet.

  We’d parked on a wind plain. It took all of fourteen minutes before my hair was blown to hell and I was freezing.

  “Twenty minutes,” Kon said, somberly.

  “Report says trouble south of Control Point Ten.” Stannis typed on the laptop. “Cars cut loose. Left on stub track, waiting for road train with crew.”

  Oh shite.

  Panic as palpable as bile rose in my throat. My heart beat double-time.

  Kon shrugged. “Hot box?”

  “Does not say.” Stannis frowned.

  Hank’s Law Number Four: Keep your head.

  “What’s a hot box?” I asked.

  “When the axle get no oil. Fire. Ruins car.”

  “Twenty-five minutes,” Kon said.

  The BOC is moving on Renko and his outfit. And I’m here. With him. My hands and the tip of my nose turned to ice.

  Stannis reached over and put his hand on mine. “You are cold, yes?”

  “I’m fine.” Stay frosty. The endgame won’t be here.

  “Train coming now,” Gorilla said.

  We waited the agonizing half hour for the train to pull in without Stannis’s containers. He looked at Kontrolyor. “Call.”

  Kon dialed. “Is me.” He rattled off the numbers of Stannislav’s containers. “Da? How long? Okey.” He smiled at Stannis. “Air brake malfunction. Can occur with five-packer. Repaired and will be picked up by new train. Estimated time, five hours.”

  Stannis closed the laptop and put his arms around me. “You are my luck, Vatra Anđeo. You stay with me always.”

  Feck. Me.

  A tremor of fear wobbled my knees. “Five hours? How ’bout we go get a drink?”

  Kon and Gorilla stayed on-site with the chauffeur’s partner. Stannis and I drove to the closest bar. A nasty little dive, whose faded and flaking paint spelled out Joshua Johnson’s.

  Nothing like a country western bar in a union slum.

  I glanced at Stannis, looking decidedly upper-crust in his tech-fiber jacket. But he was packing, so it had to stay on.

  We walked inside. It smelled like every other dive bar—smoke, stale popcorn, and wet peanut shells. The Boss played on the jukebox.

  Yet one more reason to hate Newark.

  The regular clientele wasn’t exactly thrilled we’d arrived. I told Stannis to choose a table while I got the beer.

  Everyone was drinking pitchers of PBR, so we would, too. I ordered a pitcher of beer, chips, and some candy bars from a bartender who thought “the stink-eye” was a hot look for him. I asked for darts. He slapped three pieces of bent plastic onto the counter. I dropped a ten to the twenty I’d laid on the bar. “No change.”

  He reached beneath the bar, then set a glass with six new darts on the tray.

  “Thanks.” I waitressed the load over to the low table in between the pool table and the darts where Stannis was sitting. I poured the beers.

  He raised his glass. “Death twitches my ear. ‘Live,’ he says.... ‘I am coming.’ ”

  One of my father’s favorites. I clinked my pint glass against his. “To Virgil.”

  Stannis’s eyes danced. “Very good.”

  Jackson Browne came on, singing about the girl who could sing.

  “We have not found shooter yet,” Stannis said. “But I promise you there will be much blood.”

  For the love of Mike. I’m trying to keep my act together here, Bik.

  I nodded. “Is Black Hawk hunting for him?”

  “No. Only my men.” He took a swallow of beer and grimaced. “Tastes like cold piss.”

  It kinda does. “Isn’t he one of your men?”

  “No. Chyornyj Yastreb is like me, only with smaller team. Very skilled, but does as he chooses.” He rapped his knuckles on the table and pointed at me. “You meet him tonight. You like very much, I think.”

  “Awww. I’ll
always like you best.” I stood up. “Let’s play darts.”

  He beat me handily. Every game. Didn’t matter that I was mentally shaken harder than a Bond martini; Stannis was a machine. The more points he spotted me, the more focused he became.

  Three florid, beer-glutton local boys moved into the area and started playing pool, making sure to edge a cue into our game every couple of minutes.

  We ignored it until the sausage-nosed fire-hydrant ringleader put a cue between my legs.

  When it got to mid-thigh, I spun hard left. The cue wrenched out of his grasp and clattered on the dirty cement floor.

  A sallow-faced cinder block smacked the ringleader in the chest. “Almost broke it off in the bear trap twat.”

  The crew laughed.

  My fingers curled into fists.

  Hank’s Law Number Seventeen: De-escalate. The true fight is won without fighting.

  I bent and picked the cue up.

  The third in their crew, wearing a filthy Don’t Fear the Reefer T-shirt, jeered, “Yeah, girl. Bend over. That’s right. Can’t keep your hands off my stick.”

  I smacked the cue against my palm. “Why don’t you have another beer, make another observation.”

  “My dick in her mouth will shut her up,” said Fire Hydrant. Aren’t you a fine, helpful fellow.

  There was the smallest hitch in Stannis’s step before he came to me, shaking his head. “Maisie, Maisie. You should not provoke.”

  The crew was so surprised it took almost ten seconds for Cinder Block to grab his crotch and echo, “Provoke this!”

  Stannis took the pool cue from me and held it out to the ringleader. “I prefer you play from other side of table, yes?”

  The crew laughed. Cinder Block spat. “That’s not how it works, asshole.”

  “Will be challenge then.”

  The six-foot-two ringleader topped the scales at three bills and change. He gripped the cue and shoved Stannis in the chest at the same time. “Fuck off, Russkie.”

  Stannis stumbled back two steps.

  Reefer laughed. “But leave the muff behind.”