by Skye Knizley
“Bronzeville? What the hell is it doing so far from where she was found?”
“I don’t know, but he tracked it to a rental company at the airport and they gave him the GPS code,” Aspen said.
Raven picked up the phone and staggered into the bathroom. Aspen had written “I Love You” on the mirror with what looked like purple eyeliner.
“I love you too,” Raven said.
Aspen laughed. “Found my note? I’m sorry about last night, babes. I shouldn’t have lost my temper.”
“I’m sorry too, Asp. I will try harder to put us first. I’m so bad that Thad noticed,” Raven said.
“Wow, you got relationship advice from Thad? When did he last have a partner, 1975?”
Raven splashed water on her face, trying to shake the cobwebs clinging to her mind. “’82. A punk rocker named David, I’ve seen the pictures.”
“Take it with a grain of salt, honey. Anyway, I have something else. Ming pulled a partial from Carmichael and I managed to get a hit. Kieran Archer. He’s a small time neck-breaker for your favorite crime family.”
Raven stared at the water swirling into the sink. “Riscassi?”
“Got it in one, he works out of the Green Mill,” Aspen said.
Raven pursed her lips. “Rupe said he found a Green Mill receipt in her purse. Alright, I’ll check it out. Keep tabs on Rupe for me and let me know if he finds anything?”
“Will do. I’m texting you his pic, call you later, babes.”
Aspen ended the call and Raven set about getting ready for the day. A quick shower, blow dry and cup of coffee that didn’t taste half bad got her started, and she finished with an outfit that included a pair of skinny jeans, formfitting blouse, knee high boots and her favorite coat. She grabbed a stick of celery on her way out, dipped it in ketchup and took the stairs. She’d had enough of Ipanema for a while.
*
1408 Broadway, Chicago, IL
The Green Mill was one of the oldest jazz and bebop venues in Chicago. It had once been owned by one of Al Capone’s Capos, a thug named Joey McGurn, or Machine Gun Joe. The current owners were supposed to be of a more law abiding bent, but rumor was that the Riscassi family, direct descendants of the Capone Outfit, were pulling the strings. Raven had worked a case years ago involving the place, but she hadn’t made a connection to Riscassi, until now. It was interesting that one of the family made have had something to do with her kidnapping and imprisonment in a lycan temple beneath the city.
Raven parked in front of the building and frowned. At night, the décor wasn’t half bad. The green words and gold lights were eye-catching and nostalgic. By daylight it looked as if a maddened elf had vomited glitter on everything. She put on her sunglasses and entered through the side door. Though the club was closed, employees were cleaning and getting everything ready for the next show. Wait-staff looked at her curiously as they polished glasses or ran silent vacuums between the tables, but made no comment.
The interior of the club was more stylish than the outside. The rear of the club near the door consisted of an elevated semi-circle with cocktail tables set behind a railing. Steps led down to the main floor where smaller, more intimate tables were placed in front of a stage where some of the best jazz and bluesmen in the business played in front of a silver and gold curtain that looked like it was cut from one of the King’s jumpsuits.
Raven went to the nearest person, a middle-aged man with black and grey hair and a mustache, and showed him the picture from Aspen’s text, along with her badge.
“Have you seen this guy?”
“No,” the waiter said without looking. He just kept running his vacuum around a cocktail table.
Raven grabbed the vacuum handle. “Do you want to try looking at the picture before you give a blanket denial?”
The waiter stopped and looked at the phone, then said, “No,” in a tone of voice that made Raven want to slam his head into the table and ask again.
Instead, she raised the phone closer and said, “Is that why your pupils just dilated and sweat popped out on your lip? Try again, once more with feeling.”
The waiter wiped the fresh sweat off his lip with his sleeve. “Alright, yeah, that’s Key. He’s in the back with Jo-Jo and Rocky. Go on back.”
Raven put her phone away and hung her badge around her neck. “Jo-Jo No-Nose? When did he get out?”
The waiter shrugged. “Not my business, lady.”
“Sure. Thank you for your cooperation.”
Raven passed through the club and walked along the bar on the far side of the room until she got to the employee doors. The club had only a modest kitchen, above a basement and sub-basement. A mustached chef in a black tee shirt and jeans was mixing wing sauce when Raven walked in. He stopped whisking and glared at her.
“You can’t come back here, we’re closed!”
“Does everyone here have a mustache? What, is it like a Riscassi family merit badge?”
Raven tapped her ID. “This says I can wherever I want. Where is Archer?”
The man made to poke Raven with two fingers. “I said−”
That was as far as he got. Raven grabbed his fingers and twisted his arm up behind his back until something popped. “That’s assaulting an officer. This is a public building and the waiter outside gave me verbal permission to proceed through the premises, so now you’re just pissing me off. Where is Archer?”
“Ow! He’s in back, hidden door beside the freezer. Damn, let go!”
Raven released him. “I’m in no mood for the paperwork I have to do if I arrest you. Stay out of my way, or I’ll get in the mood.”
The chef rubbed his shoulder. “Whatever you say, I’m not doing time for ten bucks an hour.”
The freezer was in the back corner of the kitchen, a small unit that looked like a walk in, until you opened it and saw it held a few frozen chicken wings and four pints of ice-cream. The Mill got most of its food from the restaurant next door.
Beside the freezer was a metal panel that purported to be the temperature control for the freezer. It held nothing but a round temperature gauge and a few toggle switches that looked like they belonged on Flash Gordon’s rocket. Raven twisted the temperature gauge and the door opened to reveal a large hole in the brick wall. Beyond was a chamber made of brick lit by overhead lights. The kind from 20s movies where interrogators grab them, shine them in someone’s eyes and say “Where were you on the night of the twenty-fifth?”
Raven could hear voices within and she recognized one as Jo-Jo No-Nose. She’d arrested him almost eight years before on drug trafficking. He was a dangerous, violent man with a big nose and a strange affection for chainsaws. She drew her pistol and stepped through the gap.
The room beyond was ten feet wide and almost twice as long. The left hand wall was lined with shelves that held boxes of ammunition, guns, bullet proof vests and boxes that looked suspiciously like military issue. To the right were a pair of old-fashioned money counting machines while in the middle was a poker table that also served as a desk for Jo-Jo, who was seated at it with a cigarette in his mouth and a vial of clear liquid in his hand. Archer stood behind him while the third man was seated with his back to her.
Archer was a tall, thin man, almost effeminate in appearance. He had long brown hair blown out so it hung around his shoulders, soft brown eyes and lips that looked he wore gloss. He was wearing a paisley vest, purple shirt with cuffs rolled up and matching tie. A shoulder holster under his left arm held a Glock 19.
Raven held up her badge. “Hey Jo-Jo, how’s the shoulder?” She looked at the other men and shook her head. “Don’t get up, FBI. I came looking for Kieran there, and what did I find? Enough hardware to start a good-sized war and Jo-Jo No Nose holding, what, liquid cocaine? Say it isn’t so, Jo.”
No-Nose didn’t move. “Fancy seeing you again, Storm. The shoulder hurts, b
ut only when it rains. I heard you was in homicide now, guns and narcs aren’t your thing.”
Raven shrugged. “You know the Feds, we’re into everything. But I’m not here for the guns or the drugs. Not yet, anyway, I’m just looking for your boy Kieran.”
Archer straightened. “What can I do for you, Agent Storm?”
His voice held a hint of South African accent.
“Domino Carmichael.”
Archer’s face was blank. “Who?”
“A hottie with your fingerprints all over her. A dead one, does that ring any bells?”
Archer stared at her for a beat, then all hell broke loose. The man whose face Raven couldn’t see fell backwards with a Heckler and Koch MP5 in his hands. High velocity rounds spilled from the barrel, chewing holes in the brick ceiling and narrowly missing Raven, who took cover behind the bookcases.
“Doesn’t anyone want to help the police with their enquiries anymore?”
Bullets tore splinters from the bookcase and sparks from the bricks beside her. Raven tossed her sunglasses onto the shelf behind her and took a breath. The world went blue and she spun from behind cover. She was moving so fast she could see the trail of bullets from the MP5. She dodged aside and fired two shots. Both hit the gunmen square in the chest, ending his barrage. She then aimed at Jo-Jo, who was holding a Steyr pistol she didn’t recognize and covering Kieran’s escape through another secret door at the back of the room. She shot him through the same shoulder she’d hit so many years before and let the world go back to normal. N-Nose fell back in his chair, his hand clamped to the wound in his shoulder. Raven threw his pistol away and cuffed him to the desk with a zip-tie.
“My boss is going to think I’ve turned over a new leaf if I keep arresting people,” Raven said.
“You shot me! Again!” No-Nose whined.
Raven patted his shoulder, making him wince. “You’re doing better than your pal, he’s too dead to whine. Hold tight, I have to go find your friend.”
She stepped through the back door, into the alley behind the club, checking in both directions for any sign of Archer. One end of the alley ended in a ten foot high brick wall that separated the alley from the street, while the other end continued into afternoon shadow behind an office building. Though Kieran had looked athletic enough, Raven didn’t think he could leap a wall in a single bound, which meant he’d gone the other way. She reloaded the Automag, pocketing the half-used magazine, and ran after him.
The alley smelled of urine and dead rats, an odor found in every noisome alley in every American city. Loose plastic bags fluttered in the wind or gathered in corners, rustling like old leaves, and heating units buzzed and hummed, keeping the chill away for busy workers and diners in the buildings to either side. Raven slowed near a large puddle in the middle of the alley and checked the ground for tracks. Sure enough a set of men’s size ten tracks exited the puddle and headed down the alley. She followed them at a trot and passed behind the next building, which held several law offices and a penthouse restaurant that smelled delicious even forty floors down.
The tracks vanished as the water dried and Raven again slowed. The street was still several blocks away with no access and none of the buildings had doors that opened from the outside, so where the hell had he gone?
A sixth sense told her that she was in danger. Out of instinct she dove and rolled forward. A large potted plant crashed into the pavement where she was standing. Raven shielded herself against the pottery shrapnel with an arm and tried to spot Archer. He was four floors up on the fire escape. He flashed a mischievous grin and started up the next flight of stairs. Raven aimed and put a round into the fire escape, narrowly missing his leg.
“Why don’t you come down from there and not make me run after you?”
Archer kept going and Raven shook her head in disgust. “First Paco, now this guy. I hate running.”
She eyed the stairs above her, looked around to make sure she was alone, and let her vampire out. She growled under her breath and leapt as hard as she could. She landed twenty feet up on the stairs and kept running, the impact of her feet making the steel creek and groan with every step. Ten floors up, she found an open emergency door and slowed, sucking air between her teeth. She peered around the doorframe and saw an empty corridor painted safety white with orange emergency stripes on the floor. At the far end was a fire door with a ‘do not enter’ sigh just below a safety-window. Raven saw Archer’s shadow through the glass and followed. She pulled the door open and checked the corridor. It was L-shaped with the emergency exit in the corner. Businesses had discrete signs painted in gold on wood and glass doors, but most looked empty. Several had ‘For Rent” in place of business names. But there was no sign of Archer.
Raven closed her eyes and sniffed. Archer wore a distinctive cologne. Not annoying, like men’s room Polo, but subtle, with notes of vanilla and pepper. She detected a hint of his scent and moved down the right hand corridor, weapon ready. She passed an office belonging to an accountant and then a wedding planner without stopping. She followed the scent past an empty office then stopped in front of one that purported to offer dogsledding lessons. The scent was stronger there, as if Archer was right inside. She touched the door handle then looked at the frosted glass. She could almost see Archer standing on the other side, weapon ready to shoot the moment she passed the threshold. She smiled grimly and moved to the side of the door. She then kicked it with her right heel and rolled left.
Archer’s shots made a near perfect grouping on the opposite wall. When he was through, Raven leaned around the corner and pointed her weapon at his head. “You made me run.”
The smile fled Archer’s face when he saw Raven’s eyes, and he dropped his pistol.
Raven entered the room and started tugging on her phone. “Good choice, bub. You sit there and don’t do anything stupid. I need you alive and my boss will be really pissed of I shoot another suspect.”
“Another suspect? How many have you shot?”
Archer had gone green.
“More than a few,” Raven said.
She continued to stare at him while she called Murtaugh. If she scared him bad enough, maybe he wouldn’t make her run again.
*
District House One, Harrison Street, Chicago, IL
Raven Storm sat on the corner of her old desk at District One with Kieran Archer’s file in her lap. He was born in South Africa, immigrated to the United States at the age of nineteen and promptly got arrested for car theft. For the last ten years he’d been involved in everything from smash and grab to high end car theft, but not murder. At least, not any that anyone knew about.
“Storm! What the hell are you doing?” Mauser yelled.
Raven didn’t look up. “My job, which is more than you seem to be doing.”
She could hear Mauser’s blood pressure rising. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
He stomped toward her, his tie flapping over one shoulder. “Just who the h−”
Raven stopped him with a glare. “I think I’m Agent Storm. I’ve got a suspect in holding and my partner is on his way. When he gets here, I’m going to make my suspect’s day very uncomfortable. I also have a suspect in the morgue, a dead one, and an injured one in custody. I took two crates of military issue MP5s and a box of grenades off the street and found out which Riscassi scumbag has been supplying liquid cocaine to the lowlifes in your district. I’d say that’s a pretty good day, wouldn’t you?”
Mauser leaned closer. “I have men on those cases! You screwed up weeks of surveillance and groundwork. We have procedures, Storm!”
Raven made a face. Mauser had eaten garlic at lunch. “Does the phrase ‘personal space’ mean anything to you? Step off!”
When he didn’t, Raven pushed him away as gently as she could. “Maybe you should stop reading the rules and start making some arrests. The bad guys are out t
here, not in a book!”
Mauser waved a finger under Raven’s nose. “You have no right to tell me how to do my job!”
Raven slid off the desk and slammed her file onto the one beside her. “Somebody has to! When Frost left, we were putting bad guys behind bars or in the ground, not wasting time on warrants we don’t need!”
Mauser stood to his full height, which wasn’t as impressive as he thought. “You don’t belong here, Storm. Your ideals don’t fit with modern policing, you’re a dinosaur like your father!”
Raven shoved her vampire back into its cage. “Which ideas, Lieutenant? That crimes should be punished? That victims are more important than scumbags? Which of my father’s ideals don’t you hold with, Lieutenant?”
“Hey, Ray!” Levac said from somewhere nearby. “Why don’t we go see our suspect and leave the good lieutenant alone? Come on, you can hit Archer with a phone book or something, you’ll feel better.”
Raven glared at him, but could feel her anger fading. Levac always had that effect on her. “Excuse us, Lieutenant, I have to go use those ideals you don’t agree with to put a scumbag behind bars.”
She snatched the file on her way by and headed toward the elevators, where Levac joined her.
“What the hell was that about?” he asked.
“Mauser needing an attitude adjustment and the stick removed from his ass,” Raven said.
“You can’t go picking fights because you’re with Section 13,” Levac said. “King asked you to play nice.”
“I am playing nice! If I wasn’t I would have thrown his ass out the window to see if he left a crater or splashed,” Raven snapped.
Levac raised his eyebrows. “Wow, that bad? What happened?”
Raven leaned against the wall. “It’s complicated and involves him trying to kill me and snogging a girl who looks about sixteen.”
“His wife looks older than that…”
Raven nodded. “Yeah, and she isn’t a pale, gothic-looking little thing, either.”