by Lake, Keri
“Chief Cox. Just found another number.” Riley nabbed a plastic baggie sitting beside a forensics duffel, on what looked like a card table. “This one’s printed on the back of a napkin for a bar on the west side. Has some apartments up top. Gonna need a search warrant.”
Cox eyed the napkin through the plastic. On it, blood red letters in bold font read Devil’s Pointe Bar and Grille, and he inwardly groaned. Jesus Christ. Two Polish brothers, who made the mafia look like a bunch of saints, owned the place. A search warrant wasn’t going to be enough. Cox would need a goddamn Black Ops team to deal with Bojanskis.
“Looks like we’ve got ten-thirty. Might be an apartment number,” Riley said.
“Or a date.”
“I’m sorry?”
“October thirtieth. Devil’s Night,” Cox clarified.
Setting the bag of evidence back atop of the table, Riley nodded. “Ah, right. Never thought of that.”
Cox stroked his chin, and glanced back to Burke and Corley, who stood off to the side, while the forensics investigator pulled a purple, fleshy-looking object from the water. With a crimped lip, Cox turned to Riley and lowered his voice, “I need to run something by you. Wanna take a walk?”
* * *
Cox stared at the sign inside the skinny stairwell to the apartment above Devil’s Pointe Bar. Apartment For Rent had been scribbled in large black letters onto a poster, nailed over the chipped and peeling paint of the wall.
“Empty apartment.” Cox shook his head, the irritation simmering inside of him flexing his fingers with the urge to punch something. “This asshole better not be leading us on some goddamn goose chase, or someone’s head’ll fuckin’ roll.”
“Want me to grab the owner, Chief?”
Burke’s ignorance had Cox rubbing a hand down his face, as he began his ascent up the stairs. “No. I don’t want you to get the fuckin’ owner.”
Newbie cops often made the mistake of thinking police could tread anywhere they wanted in the city. A rookie mistake. Some communities had their own laws, their own ways of dealing with law enforcement, and the neighborhoods that bordered Hamtramck happened to be a few of those places. Made of up of mostly Polish, they were a tight community with long-standing roots, and the Bojanskis were like the goddamn prom kings. Their connections could rival the mayor’s, and busting into their property, even with a search warrant, was enough to get a man killed.
Waving a hand, Cox signaled Burke and Corley to follow him to the upper level. Like most bars of Poletown—as it was commonly referred to—Devil’s Pointe was small, probably a maximum capacity of fifty people, if that, and something of a watering hole for the community. Only a single apartment stood above the bar, where it’s previous owner probably lived. No way in hell the Bojanskis lived in the shithole. The two brothers made more money than the whole damn neighborhood, combined.
“Where’s Riley? Thought this was his gig?” Burke asked, the heavy thud of his boots on each step toying with Cox’s edgy nerves.
Christ, Cox would probably have to kill Burke and Corley, if they stumbled upon the same shit he had at The Palms.
“Said something came up.” In truth, Cox had given him an ultimatum—stay back, or risk getting picked up on his way home from work some night and dropped off the end of a pier into the Detroit River. The eager bastard was still convinced that Achilleus X and the Eye for an Eye killer were connected, and Cox didn’t need the nosey agent dipping his hands into shit and stumbling upon something Cox had every intention of keeping under wraps. Besides that, Michael Culling and all his political connections would back the Chief on the threat—which meant the mellow son of a bitch could easily lose his cozy pot-smoking job.
The growing need to identify the little prick behind the murders—the one who’d made it clear he was next—had consumed Cox to the extent that he didn’t give a shit if Culling didn’t back him up. He needed to find the killer before the killer found him. Any longer, and Cox’d be shitting sticks of dynamite, with as many Nitro pills as he’d taken. If it meant taking out an intrusive FBI agent along the way, so be it.
The numbers still remained a mystery, too. With each member of the Seven Mile Crew getting snuffed, it didn’t take a genius to know it had something to do with The Cullings and Devil’s Night. But what did that have to do with him?
All three men climbed higher up the stairs, the search warrant tucked inside Burke’s back pocket.
“That’s weird,” Burke sneered, a wheeze of air confessing he was out of breath as they continued to climb. “Major case breaking here and the asshole … what? Had a fucking hair appointment he couldn’t miss?”
Cox kicked open the apartment door. “I didn’t ask.” Gun cocked, Cox made his way in first. Muscles tense, he prepared to blow away the first bastard that came into view.
Voices spoke from another room, and pausing, he straightened his stance and concentrated on the sound. Like laughter, maybe? He motioned Burke and Corley to keep quiet and padded across the room to the bedroom door. Muffled tones bled through the wood, and he kicked in the second door, gun aimed at a mostly empty room, aside from a table where a laptop had been set.
After a quick sweep of the vacant space, Cox approached the dark screen, where what sounded like a news report played over another video. He tugged a pair of gloves from his coat, donned them quickly, then swiped the mousepad. A box popped up, requesting a password.
“What d’you think his password is?” Cox stared down at the keys, mind swimming with what to type first.
“Ten thirty?” Burke’s voice arrived from beside him.
Cox pecked the numbers slowly. Carefully. The box disappeared, and the screen opened to two videos playing simultaneously on loop. One showed a news report and Pulitzer Prize winning journalist-turned-drunk, Bill Warden, talking about a murder on Theodore Street. Another appeared to be some kind of home video, only about ten seconds long, with a boy and a woman talking to the camera. In it, she smiled, while whispering into the boy’s ear, and the boy laughed, tipped his head back and said, “Go get ‘em, Daddy!”
“Damn.” Arms crossed, Burke shook his head as he watched the video. “Looks like the whole damn family was killed. I don’t remember this one, do you, Chief?”
“Nah,” Cox lied. “No idea who they are.”
“I do.” Hands on his hips, Corley sniffed, eyes glued to the screen before they flicked to Cox. “I remember them real well.”
Anger bubbled in Cox’s gut. Corley had been assigned to investigate the case a while back. The snooping bastard once tried to probe a little too deep into Cox’s affairs, an act that got Corley subtly demoted. Cox would’ve fired the self-righteous little cocksucker, too, if he hadn’t been second generation cop and son to the highly respected Chief who’d preceded Cox. Firing him would’ve sparked a mutiny, and worse, a visit from Internal Affairs.
Cox cocked his head toward where Corley stood. “What’s this guy’s name again?”
“Nick … Ryder. That’s his wife, Lena. The boy is his son, James,” Corley added, stoking the ire burning in Cox’s gut.
Pieces came together. Ryder. Theodore Street. Devil’s Night. The Culling.
Hell, Cox could hardly remember the details, except that he’d given the green light to Julius Malone, who’d broken into a family’s house, wreaking havoc. What the fuck made them do it, Cox didn’t know. Could’ve been a primitive savagery ingrained in the little bastards, or they may have been pissed off for getting stiffed on the last deal they’d made with Culling, where two of their guys had gotten shot in a drug bust gone bad. A dead family would’ve sabotaged Culling’s public support for more aggressive measures to curb the city’s out-of-control crime rate. The deaths had to be covered up and brushed under the rug. That was the last time Culling tapped the Crew for a job, and over time, they eventually disbanded, hiding out from the enemies they’d made along the way.
“Can I help you, gentlemen?”
The raspy voice from behind jolt
ed Cox’s muscles, and he twisted to a group of three men in white shirts and black slacks. Standing in the doorway, all of them stared intently back.
“We’ve got a warrant,” Burke said, stepping toward the men like he couldn’t possibly be filled with lead in the next breath
The urge to roll his eyes tugged at the back of Cox’s sockets. Rookies. Undermining the cop, Cox stepped in front. “Followed a tip. The guy who owns this place led us here.”
“I own the fuckin’ place.” The heavier male stepped forward, rubbing his hands like he was itching for a fight. Cox recognized him as one of the Bojanskis. “And I sure as shit didn’t lead you here.”
Hand rested against the butt of his gun, Cox stood with his feet apart. “The tenant of this apartment.”
“There is no tenant in this apartment, asshole. You see the sign out front?” A smile stretched across Bojanski’s face. Whether he was Leon, or his infamous brother Frank, Cox didn’t know. Both men carried a bad reputation on Detroit’s west side, and most cops didn’t fuck with them.
“Then, who the fuck left the computer?” Burke pointed over his shoulder.
Bojanski’s eyes shot to Burke. “No idea.”
Cox gave a nod toward Burke. “Meet you downstairs.”
“I’m sorry … what? We’re leaving? We need to dust for prints. Collect evidence. This is as much a crime scene—”
“You shut your fuckin’ mouth, Burke,” Cox barked back. “Downstairs. Now.”
“The fuck?” Burke’s lip twisted as he passed, and he waved to Corley beside Cox. “What about him?”
“Corley stays.”
Corley had a relationship with just about every non-law-abiding bastard that roamed the streets, like a fucking pied piper of criminals. They respected him, which ordinarily grated on Cox’s nerves, but right then, he’d make an exception.
Burke pushed past the group of men, storming off like a pissed off toddler.
“Now you’re outnumbered.” Bojanski tipped his head and smiled, like threatening a police Chief was as normal as changing his goddamn underwear.
“I want his name.” A bold request, but Cox had been brought to the level of stupid moves since he’d been tagged the next victim.
“Go fuck yourself. Pig. I don’t take orders from cops.”
Cox snapped for Bojanski’s throat, pinning him to the wall inside the bedroom.
Three guns clicked at once, two of them pointed at the Chief.
“Whoa! Hold up!” Corley’s voice thundered above the blood swishing inside Cox’s ears. “Just hold the fuck up! We’re here to investigate a string of murders. We have reason to believe the killer lives here.”
Bojanski snorted when Cox’s grip fell from his throat. “Killer. More like hero. Taking out all the shit that you cops are too fuckin’ lazy to do.”
“Look, this person is a bit unorthodox, and I can’t deny that.” The calm in Corley’s tone made Cox want to punch the bastard. The cocksucker probably hoped Bojanski would snuff Cox right there so he could steal the throne and be crowned the next police chief. “Whoever it is, is targeting some major players, no doubt. But he’s climbin’ the food chain, and sooner or later, he’s gonna hit one of the top dogs. These are psychopaths he’s going after. Ain’t like you and Rev, Leon.”
“You know Rev?”
“Yeah, I know Rev. We go back a long ways.” Just as Cox suspected, Corley knew all the shady bastards.
Bojanski sniffed. “All right. Name’s Alec Vaughn. Skipped out six months ago. Ain’t been back. Bastard stiffed me on half a year’s rent.”
“Alec Vaughn,” Corley repeated. “What’s he look like?”
“Looks like a fuckin’ gangster, that’s what he looks like. Like Al Cappone, or some shit. Likes pinstripe suits and fedoras.”
“You know anything about him? Relations? Family? Interests?” Corley’s line of questioning seemed worthless at that point. It was no mystery why the killer chose the Bojanskis. If Cox hadn’t been so damn preoccupied with the possibility of stumbling upon something incriminating, he’d have called on the goddamn military to take out the asshole, if necessary.
“Look around. This ain’t Trump Tower. The fuckin’ tenants who’ve lived here came from the streets. I’m not courting the bastards, I’m their landlord, not their goddamn fairy godmother.” He straightened the collar of his shirt. “You got the information you needed. Finish up and get the fuck out. And if I ever find you on my property without my knowing, search warrant or not, you’ll be the next Jimmy Hoffa.”
The three of them exited the apartment, sparing no fear that they’d just told off the Chief of Detroit Police.
Cox turned to Corley. “I want you to look into this Alec Vaughn. I want to know everything about this cocksucker—his favorite color, what time he shits, how he takes his goddamn coffee. And you report directly to me. No one else. Understood?”
“Yeah. I understand.”
38
Nick
Tipping back the bottle of whiskey, I kicked back a heavy swill, watching Aubree sip her beer while she cooked bacon on a griddle, with nothing more than a pair of panties peeking beneath my white borrowed shirt.
The whole scene felt out of place. Oddly domestic, after a marathon of sex inside the broken down, dilapidated surroundings. Like some fucked up version of June and Ward Cleaver in the ghetto.
“Bacon is for breakfast.” I leaned into the countertop, crossing my arms.
Her cheek dimpled with a smile. “You’ve never had bacon and eggs for dinner?”
“Never. In fact, you’re probably breaking a law in some country, somewhere.”
“No, no, no.” She lifted a small piece she’d already cooked from a nearby plate, and sauntered toward me. “Bacon is like sex. You can have it any time of the day.” With the bacon caught between her teeth, she pressed into me, offering the food from her mouth, and as I bit down, I stole the meat and her kiss. “And it’s so damn good.”
“I can’t argue that.” I wrapped my arms around her, clutching both of her rounded ass cheeks, and bent forward for another kiss. Digging my fingers into her muscles had me appreciating the high lift and firmness of her ass. “Tight,” I said through clenched teeth against her mouth. “You’ve got one hell of a Brazilian ass.”
“French Canadian ass, thank you very much.”
I could see she had some exotic blend, in the chestnut color of her hair and the golden tone of her eyes. “You’re Canadian?”
“My father was. Anton Levesque. The first and only man I ever loved.”
“He died.”
She nodded. “Both my parents are gone now. My father, just about a year ago.”
“You said he was the first and only man you ever loved. What made you marry, if not for love?”
Her nostrils flared with a deep breath, as though she braced herself for the explanation. “Michael was a student of mine, suffering from the loss of … probably the only man in the world he ever respected. I suppose he thought love could fill that hole. And I was foolish enough to believe him.”
“So … you work with troubled adults? Thought it was kids.”
“Kids, too. Most of my patients have been severely abused. A lot of them have developed disorders as a result of trauma.” Sliding from my embrace, she stood beside me at the counter.
I crossed my empty arms. “What sparked that interest?”
Her eyes dipped away from mine, but only for a second. “When I was nine years old, we lived in a pretty quiet neighborhood of Detroit. It was actually River Rouge area. Lot of auto workers. Blue collar types. My dad was a factory worker.” She sipped her beer. “We didn’t have much. We were pretty poor.” The corner of her lip crinkled, giving the impression that whatever existence she’d lived was well below her new standard. “ A boy lived next door to me, a little older than I was.” Gaze cast beyond me, she shook her head. “I’d never seen him in school, didn’t know if he went to school at all. He was never allowed to leave his ba
ck yard, so we used to play at the fence, where I had a sandbox that my father built for me.” As she talked, she toyed with the rim of the beer bottle, circling her index finger over the mouth of it, her eyes unfocused as though lost to the memory. “I’d make mud pies and pass them through the fence to him. I remember he always had bruises on his legs, during the summer when he wore shorts. As curious as I was, I never asked him about them, but I was mesmerized by the deep shades of purple and yellowing of the ones that’d begun to fade. I’d never been abused. Had no idea that an adult was capable of such cruelty.”
Listening to the way she described him, I couldn’t help but wonder how the kid had come to affect her life so profoundly.
“I … gave him a ring. Nothing expensive, just a plastic piece of junk I’d gotten from a cereal box, or something. Told him he was my best friend. My boyfriend, though I didn’t know what that was at the time.” Her brows pinched together. “He went missing two days later. For an entire week, I didn’t see him. He never came out to play. I thought maybe he’d gone to his grandma’s house for the week, as I sometimes did during the summer. At night, I’d hear noises that frightened me, like monsters outside my window. And then, one day, his backyard was full of people—police, cameras, news reporters. At the time, I didn’t know why all those people had gathered. My mother told me I was too young to understand, and so it wasn’t until later that I found out he’d been tied to a tractor in the shed and tortured.” She cleared her throat, her gaze dropping away from mine. “I think what bothered me most was, the whole time I thought he was gone, he was merely a few yards away from me. I’d even called out his name to play, but he never answered. He must’ve been so scared that he wouldn’t even answer me.” She blew out a shaky breath. “I could’ve saved him. If I’d told someone about the bruises, I probably could’ve saved him. If I’d asked where they’d come from, given him the chance to ask for help … but I never did.” Her gaze lifted to mine. “I vowed to listen from that point on. I promised to ask and never ignore the bruises and scars. I’d never ignore the signs again. So, that’s what I do. I help interpret signs.”