It was Ewan.
“Mr. Keane!” Andrea walked over and gave him a hug.
Over her shoulder, Ewan’s eyes settled on Michael. For a moment, his face betrayed the shock he must’ve felt, but Ewan quickly covered it up with his deferential smile. “How’s your day, Andrea?” Ewan pulled back, his hands lingering on her arms.
“Absolutely fantastic. We finally found the line cook we’ve been looking for.” She motioned toward Michael. “What do you think?”
Ewan smiled at Michael the way he’d smile at a passing stranger. It was sickening to see him try to play like he had no idea who Michael was. Though for his part, Michael didn’t make any sort of conscious hint he knew Ewan. He didn’t do anything, in fact, except look into Ewan’s cold eyes.
“Mr. Keane is on the board of the Chicago Restaurateurs Association,” Andrea said. “With your kind of talent, I’m sure you’ll be seeing a lot of him in the future, Michael. At least, I hope so. He’s really a great guy to know in this industry. He’s kept us out of trouble at least once or twice.”
“I only wanted to do what was right for my colleagues,” Ewan said.
“Don’t try to play it off,” Andrea said. “That health inspector would’ve had Paul’s head roasting over a spit.”
“He had an agenda. No one on the Board of Health would’ve believed the violations he presented.”
“No one on the Board of Health would’ve listened to our side if it wasn’t for you.”
“You give me far more credit than I’m due.” Ewan took her hand in his and clapped it. “Tell me more about your new line cook—Martin was his name?”
Forgetting Michael’s name. What a nice game Ewan played.
Michael leaned forward against the prep table between them. His hand squeezed the edge of the steel table like his fingers could rip off a piece and chew.
“His name’s Michael,” Andrea said. “He came around last night asking for a job after we closed. I think Paul nearly shot him when he walked up to him out back. Isn’t that right?”
“Something like that.” Paul didn’t look at Andrea when he spoke. His eyes traveled the wavelengths between Ewan and Michael, where they’d stop and study each man for a moment, so as not to draw too much attention. It was a habit Michael had seen too many times before—a habit played out by people who knew something was wrong, but they couldn’t quite pin down what it was.
“Yeah, well, anyway,” Andrea said, “Michael did an audition for us today, and we both feel like he has raw talent that’ll get him pretty far if we can give him the right guidance. Kind of like what you did for Paul.”
Ewan eyed Michael up and down. “He looks like a man with all kinds of talents and surprises, once you start to peel back his layers.”
“Hear that, Mike?” Andrea chuckled. “Ewan Keane wants to peel back your layers—you better watch yourself around him.”
“I promise not to let my guard down.” Michael tried to force a smile at Ewan, but it just wouldn’t come out. He could feel Paul’s eyes dissecting him right down to the unease settling in his bones.
“Well, it was nice meeting you, Michael,” Ewan said. “I’d love to get acquainted with you better, but I’m afraid I came here on business that needs to be addressed.”
What business would that be? Any time Michael had been around Ewan when he needed to address business, some poor slob who tried to screw him over ended up with a couple broken bones.
“Did you fill out your application for the Taste of Boystown in October?” he asked Andrea. “We think the Cubs might make some noise this post-season, so we’re expecting a larger turnout than past years.”
“Didn’t I fax the application to you?”
“I haven’t seen it.”
“Come back to my office then.” She moved toward the far end of the kitchen, where another door waited. Ewan followed behind her. “That stupid fax machine probably ate it. I can get you a copy.”
The both of them disappeared behind the door.
With Ewan out of sight, Michael’s hand unclamped itself from the prep table. He looked at his palm. A white line had been pressed into it where the table’s edge had been. It began to bleed.
“Everything all right with you?” Paul said.
“Yeah.” Michael looked up at him. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
If Paul was half as smart as Michael guessed, he wouldn’t buy that.
“Well, there are a few recipes I’d like you to learn before we open tonight.” He turned around and grabbed a black binder from an overhead shelf. “You’ll just be doing prep work, but since I’m paying you, I expect you to be functional.” Paul tossed the binder on the prep table. “Study the weeknight menu. And bring that binder with you when you come back tonight. Apparently, you’re a night owl, so I want your nose buried in that thing after we close.”
“I never like sleep much anyway.”
This was a bad idea, wasn’t it? What was Michael thinking? Of course taking a restaurant job in Boystown meant he was going to run into Ewan. Now that he knew Ewan was on The Chicago Restaurateurs Association, it didn’t matter if he took a job in Boystown or selling hot dogs outside of U.S. Cellular Field—they were bound to run into each other again.
“Michael?” He hadn’t noticed Paul had moved right beside him. “You got something on your mind, man?”
Michael’s hand drifted down to his father’s cigarette case in the front pocket of his dress slacks. “I need a smoke break before I look over the menu.”
“Sure.” Paul sounded confused, like Michael had asked him for his pinkie finger. “Ash in that coffee can out back.”
Michael was through the back door of the restaurant without another word.
It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the brightness of the clear late-September sky. His hand scrambled for the cigarette case in his pocket, and before he knew it, he had a lit cigarette resting between his lips.
He couldn’t ignore Ewan hanging around.
What if he called Shannon and asked her advice? He pulled his phone out and navigated to his contacts. His finger hovered over the entry for her—a picture he’d snapped of her when they’d gone to a Cubs game last June.
Call her and ask her what? How to avoid Ewan? How to scare him away without hurting him? How to get Ewan arrested without bringing the whole Irish mob down on their heads?
What about Miss Honey? Could she do anything for him here? Give him a sympathetic ear, maybe, but nothing that would move the needle for him.
“I have a guess as to what you may be thinking.” Ewan appeared from the back door, walking toward Michael. “But before you make any assumptions, you should understand that I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“You don’t know what I’m thinking,” Michael said as he stashed his phone in his pocket. “If you did, you wouldn’t have bothered coming out here to talk to me.”
“If you wanted to work in a restaurant, all you had to do was ask me.” Ewan spoke in that unnaturally calm tone that belonged only to him. “I know how hard you work when you put your effort behind something. Don’t take a job here. It’s a waste of your aptitude.”
“You’ve never seen me cook anything.”
Ewan smiled at him. “Like I said, I know what you’re capable of when you apply yourself.”
Michael flicked at his cigarette, knocking the ash into the coffee can near his feet. There was a double meaning behind everything Ewan said, wasn’t there? “I’ve spent a lot of time trying to forget how I applied myself when I worked for you.”
“As any truly decent man would,” Ewan said. “And I want you to know, I regret pulling you into that world with me. I don’t plan on asking those things of you again. What I want from you right now is what you want—putting you to work in a kitchen.”
Michael scoffed.
“My offer is genuine.” Ewan casually strolled closer. “No more pliers, no more copper wires and batteries, no more blinding anyone.” Ewan snaked his hand around the bac
k of Michael’s neck. “Come work at one of my restaurants. I’ve opened up a new online ordering and take-out venture, and I need dependable people to work for me. Then, in a couple years, I’ll have you running the show as an executive chef at some new place I’ll have opened by then. You’ll earn four times what you’d get working as a line cook here. Invest your talents into my business, and it’ll pay dividends.”
Michael slid Ewan’s arm off him.
Ewan’s calm exterior degraded into a grimace. “I caution you against letting your irrational mistrust of me get the better of you.”
“Irrational?” Michael ripped the cigarette out of his mouth and tossed it against Ewan’s suit coat. “After what you did to my father—after what you made me do when I worked for you—”
“No one treated their son better than I treated you.” Ewan squeezed Michael’s neck tight enough to crack his spine. “Even Colm would swear by that.”
Michael took two fistfuls of Ewan’s jacket and slammed him against the brick wall next to the back door. Ewan didn’t put up much of a struggle—he only grabbed Michael by the wrists and held on, his eyes lashing Michael like a midwinter wind.
“I’m not your son.” Michael pushed his knuckles into Ewan’s chest. “Tommy Rourke was my father—don’t forget that.”
“Your father was my family.”
“And that makes me your son?” Michael was a step away from breaking Ewan in half. “You made me into a monster just to protect your money. You made me hurt innocent people. You helped me stay doped up because it was easier that way. What kind of father does that to his son?”
Ewan’s expression tightened again. His fingers tried to tunnel through the flesh of Michael’s wrist to get him to let go, but like hell that was happening. “You’re a disappointing, ungrateful little bastard.” Ewan spat the words at him. “You know how many times I’ve stepped in on your behalf since you ran off into the night? How many times I almost got my throat cut to keep you alive?”
The arrogance it took to say that to Michael’s face right now was reason enough to kill Ewan and be done with it all.
“I wish things were different back then, Michael—I do. But there was a war on. There was more than money on the line. We were fighting for our very way of life—for our right to exist.” Emotion gathered in Ewan’s eyes. “I’ve never once been proud of the things I asked you to do, but they had to be done, and I don’t remember you ever turning the money down, or questioning me then.”
“I should’ve killed you years ago,” Michael said through gritted teeth. “All the evil things you did—all the suffering you inflicted on people—you should be dead.”
Ewan kept his eyes on Michael’s. “You wouldn’t dare.”
The back door opened.
“Michael?” Paul saw the two of them together, Ewan’s shirt pulled halfway up his chest, and Michael, foaming and crazy. He leapt between them. “What the hell are you doing?”
Michael let go just as Paul got there. He held his hands up and scowled at Ewan while Paul pushed him away.
“Mr. Keane! Are you okay?” Paul turned back to Michael. “What the hell was that, Michael?”
What answer was he supposed to give? He stayed quiet.
“Apologize to him,” Paul said.
“That’s not necessary.” Ewan quickly wiped his eyes, then smoothed out his shirt. A hole had been torn in the shoulder seam. “I antagonized him.”
“No, Mr. Keane, it wasn’t you. I could tell he didn’t like you from the second he saw you walk into the kitchen.” Again, to Michael, “Apologize.”
Michael shook his head and walked toward the street. He wasn’t apologizing to Ewan Keane for anything.
“You’re fired!” Paul yelled at his back.
Michael popped another cigarette in his mouth and kept walking.
CHAPTER 20
Leigh Corvath’s apartment was a bust. The place was barely furnished—there was a crusty futon mattress on the floor with a desk lamp next to it. His letterbox was stuffed with mail, and aside from a half-eaten Giordano’s pizza, his fridge was empty. If he had ever lived in that apartment, it wasn’t for long.
Shannon guessed he had probably lived at Jennica Ausdall’s house. She certainly had enough room for him.
After turning up nothing, both she and Marcie decided that taking a closer look at Leigh’s car was in order. Shannon had it impounded at the Central Auto Pound over on Lower Wacker Drive.
When they arrived, the clerk at the front desk took them back to the Chicago PD holding area. It was a two thousand-square-foot space of asphalt below an overpass, surrounded by an eight-foot-tall fence—the type you’d see warding off wandering eyes from looking into someone’s backyard pool.
“It’s not nearly as romantic as I remembered it being.” Shannon pulled on a pair of latex gloves, then handed another pair to Marcie. “Has anyone at the crime lab looked Leigh’s car over yet?”
Before he left, the clerk handed Marcie a small file containing all the processing information about the car. She picked it up off the asphalt and opened it, then thumbed through the sheets. “It appears someone spent a couple hours with it yesterday. Lifted a couple fingerprints, some hair—oh, there was a fingernail in the passenger seat.”
“Try not to get too excited.” Shannon pulled the driver-side door open. It was hard to believe a trace of anything had been left behind with how showroom-clean the car looked yesterday—with exception given to the hair trapped by the bumper, of course.
Marcie walked around the front of the car, scanning the hood with her eyes. She continued over to the passenger-side door, then opened it.
At the same time, her phone rang. “Hello, darling,” she said into it. “I’m going to put you on speaker. I’m at work, and I need my hands free.” Marcie tapped the phone’s screen, then sat it on the ground just outside the door.
“The Bayers asked if we want to get dinner with them tonight.”
Shannon had never met him, but that had to be Marcie’s husband on the other end of the call. Or a secret lover too open for his own good.
“I’m spoken for tonight.” Marcie snapped her fingers at Shannon and motioned for the keys, which Shannon handed over. “I’m working a case with Detective Rourke.”
“Who?”
“I’ve told you about her. Shannon.” She put the keys into the lock on the glovebox.
Nothing but silence from her husband’s end of the call. Then, “Oh, the girl who kissed that other detective?”
The hair on the back of Shannon’s neck stood up. She took her eyes off the dash and glared at Marcie, who was already staring at Shannon with the widest pair of eyes she could manage.
“Something just came up. I have to go.” Marcie hung up the phone.
“Marcie!” Shannon pulled a glove off and threw it at her. “You told your husband!”
She sheepishly grinned at Shannon. “Well, don’t judge me too harshly—who’s he going to tell? Our cat?” Marcie asked. “Steve runs an online store, so he never leaves the house. I’m lucky if I see him wearing something other than pajamas half the time.”
Shannon sighed. Wives probably told their husbands all sorts of things about all sorts of people they’d never meet—not that Shannon knew from experience.
“Oh.” Marcie had her hands buried in the glovebox, but Shannon recognized the noise she’d made. She’d found something.
“What?”
“Do you happen to know what time it is?”
“Why? Change your mind about dinner?”
“No—the Bayers are awful people.” Marcie held up a man’s wristwatch. “Didn’t you tell me Leigh Corvath said he’d traded this car to pay off a gambling debt?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“This is a Rolex.” She bounced the watch up and down with her fingers. The metal links clinked and rattled.
“Expensive, right?”
“I’d say so. I got Steve one for our silver anniversary, and it set us back n
ine thousand dollars. If Leigh was loathe to separate himself from his car, this watch would’ve been a sizable down-payment on his debt.”
“Assuming it’s real.”
Marcie lifted the watch closer to her face. She picked apart the dial with her eyes; she turned it over and looked at the back. “Engravings.” She turned it face-up in her hand once again. “Cyclops lens for the date. See the way the second hand moves smoothly?”
Shannon watched the thinnest arm on the face continue its path without stopping. “I see it.”
“That’s a real Rolex. All the fakes have that stuttered way of moving the second hand—like the clocks above the doors at the station.”
“If it isn’t Leigh Corvath’s watch, it’s hard to think someone wouldn’t have noticed that it had gone missing,” Shannon said. “Unless that someone drove this car over Jennica Ausdall—then they’d leave that watch behind like it was radioactive.”
Shannon walked over to her work bag, which was on the ground near the driver-side door. She pulled an evidence baggie out and handed it to Marcie.
“Let’s take it over to Leigh and ask him about it.”
CHAPTER 21
Shannon and Marcie drove southwest to the Cook County Jail where they met with Leigh Corvath in another gray-walled, tile-floored, infinitely depressing interrogation room.
He was in an orange jumpsuit which looked as old and faded as his skin had become in the twenty-four hours since Shannon had last seen him. A pair of guards snapped his chains into a hook on the floor on the opposite side of the unadorned table where Shannon sat. Marcie posted up against the back wall, behind Leigh, her arms crossed.
“Did you talk to my bookie?” Leigh said.
“Robert Norwaldo?” Shannon sat her voice recorder on the table between them and pressed the record button. “Yes. Twice.”
“Did he tell you he had the car?”
“He offered to be one part of a threesome with Detective Talbot and I.” Shannon motioned over Leigh’s shoulder, at Marcie.
“It was a gracious offer, but we both declined,” Marcie said.
Leigh looked confused. “But he told you he had the car, right?”
Chicago Broken: Detective Shannon Rourke Book 2 Page 11