Shoot 'Em Up (31 page)

Lee was driving my Dodge Challenger Hellcat SRT, Amy Winehouse's “You Know I'm No Good” playing in the background.

“Where were they?” Lee said.

“Who?”

“The bones, Maisie. Where the fuck were you keeping the bones?”

“Under the bed,” I said and caught myself just before I went into the whole aquarium-sand extravaganza.

“Jesus Christ. You're supposed to be a cop. Do you have any goddamn idea how much forensic evidence is in there?”

I tipped my head from side to side. “Definitely a lot, but it's not all from the U.S., so . . .”

“Do you even fucking hear yourself?”

“Yeah, Lee, I'm pretty much losing it right now, and I need to pull it together before we beard the lion in its den.”

Lee tightened his hands on the steering wheel, seething with the need for speed, but not wanting to shake Keck and the boys behind us.

I couldn't bear it for another minute. “Turn off that stupid song and say what you need to say.”

He snapped off the music. “You have to turn the bones in.”

“What?” I shook my head.
Seriously?
“Okay, no. Not gonna happen.”

We pulled up to the club and went inside.

The Storkling was, as always, sexy, swanky, and suave all rolled into one. I got my new crew situated in the bar; the dining room was members only.

Lee, naturally, wasn't drinking nor sitting with us.

A little FIFA talk and a couple rounds of rakija with dire toasts like, “Do evil and look for like,” and “One man's death is another man's breath,” and they were sitting in the palm of my hand.

Lee came over and pressed my arm. “Mrs. Renko? Your appointment.”

“Have fun,” I said, rising. “Just not too much.” The men nodded, smiling. “Except you.” I pointed at Srecko. “No fun at all for you.” Which left them all laughing.

Taking my arm, Lee led me through the sea of golden draperies. Two shots in and I still flinched at the fabric's every undulation. “With great power comes great responsibility,” he said.

“I'm more of a Captain America girl myself.”

The red-haired siren Bobby Blaze kept it sultry with “Angel Eyes.” The maître d' led us to a tiny private table in a dark corner.

“This is some place,” Lee said, scanning the room.

“Can we please just cut to the chase?”

He flashed me a crooked smile. “You said you didn't want to talk about the bones.”

“I don't!” I said, a little too loudly. Lee put his hand on mine, and I blew out a breath. “Just say what you want to say about the kid and get it over with.”

“Srecko's going to be a handful. Hair-trigger temper. His looks have spoiled him. And now he's mooning over you like a lovesick calf.”

“That's not what I meant.”

“I'm not following.”

“Geez,” I hissed. “Isn't this where you climb down my throat about cutting Srecko?”

“The way you handled him?” He cupped my cheek in his hand. “Maisie.” He ran his thumb across my lower lip. “I'd follow you into hell after that.”

“Don't we look cozy?” Jimmy the Wolf's voice was as hard and unforgiving as his eyes. “I'm gonna bring Vi over.” He disappeared and resurfaced with the mob princess on his arm. Tonight she was wearing a beige Hervé Léger bandage dress, an armful of gold bangles, gold stilettos, and an ankle bracelet with dangling gold charms.

Lee and I stood up to meet her.

“Vi, you look amazing,” I said as we exchanged air-kisses.

“And this is ?”

“Lee Sharpe. I work for Mrs. Renko.” He took her proffered fingers in his. “A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Veteratti.”

She took her time, getting her money's worth before removing her hand. “I was surprised by your . . . reservation.”

“We'll be ready to move forward by the end of the month.”

“That's news worth celebrating.” A canary-eating smile creased her catlike face. “You work fast, kid. Are those your boys in the bar?”

“Some of them.”

“Make sure they're happy, Wolf.”

With a nod he left us.

“Thank you,” I said.

“You need anything, anything at all, it'll be taken care of.” With a last appraising look over her shoulder at Lee, she sauntered away.

The white-coated waiter was well aware of Veteratti's presence and what that meant. I ordered two champagne cocktails.

“Maisie,” Lee said. “Don't.”

“C'mon. Only one, because it's just like what the real Stork Club used to make—Krug champagne and Martell Cordon Bleu cognac.”

He shrugged. “Whatever you say, boss.”

The cocktails arrived in Tom Collins glasses with ice and lemon peels.

I picked up my glass.

“Uh-uh.” Lee wagged a finger at me. “Those were the worst toasts I've ever heard in my life. I got this.” He raised his glass. “Here's to having your back . . . And your front.”

“And that's better?” I laughed.

He stared at me over the rim of his glass. “I think so.”

I wasn't sure if it was the champagne, the music, or the fact that I'd just narrowly escaped amputating another finger, but I felt as light and iridescent as a dragonfly on an updraft.

“Dance with me.”

I bit my lip and glanced away, trying to think of a clever way to say I was a terrible dancer. Coles leered at me from across the room. My hand flew to my neck.

“Bae?”

“Sorry?” I pressed the center of my forehead.

Coles rolled a stub cigar between his fingers, lip curling in contempt. He put it in his mouth and sucked.

Immobilized, I stared, transfixed by the cherry-red ember of his cigar.

“Maisie.” Lee snapped his fingers. “Hey?”

My cheeks trembled. I untucked my hair from behind my ear, finger-combing it over the scar. “If you wouldn't mind keeping an eye on Coles—I really, really need some air.”

His eyes went flat. “No sweat.”

I snuck out past the bar, where my new crew were having a grand time. I stepped out into the Chicago night, the cold air chilling me from the lungs out.

“Yo', bluebird. Where you been?”

Poppa Dozen, clad in his ridiculous chauffeur costume, leaned against Coles's limo, Camel in the corner of his mouth. “You running with that cop, ain'tcha? Now, I ain't one to tell you your business, but you're fuckin' stupid.”

“Aig!” I stamped my feet in a little dance of pure irritation. “Dozen. For the last time. That's the bodyguard Stannis hired for me. A former Marine, he just can't seem to shake that military edge, but he's pretty handy. Almost killed a guy tonight.”

“Then you best keep him around, bluebird. All kinds of crazy mutherfuckers cattin' off 'round here nowadays.”

“Tell me about it.” I popped my chin. “So how goes it with Coles?”

“I been tellin' him he's puttin' too many eggs in his south o' the border basket. But will that sumbitch listen? Pfft.” He scratched the underside of his chin.

“And Dafinest?”

“Still jonesin' for some of them FN 5.7 MK2 pistols.” Dozen shook his head. “Like a short bus rider cryin' and caterwaulin' for a goddamn Wii when every other kid has an Xbox.”

“I don't have a line on the 5.7s. But I might on some more Sugar Skull.”

He shifted his weight back and forth between his feet. “Didn't Dafinest tell you to see him direct?”

“Mr. Peanut can want what he wants, but you're with me or I'm out.”

“How much?”

“Half of last run. Same quality. Every other week. Eight weeks guaranteed.”

Dozen took a tiny Ziploc bag from inside his jacket and held it between two of his fingers. Four white rectangular tablets with bars stamped on them. “Just in case.”

I took the bag, building trust, and took a closer look. Xanax.

“Give one o' them to Soldier Boy if he get a lil' too intense. Chill him the hell out.”

Which was incredibly sweet in a sick and twisted way. “Thanks, Dozen. I better get back.”

“Peace out, bluebird.”

My phone rang at 7:00 a.m. The ring was the generic Unknown Caller aka Autodialer-trying-to-sell-me-something. I thought about ignoring it.

Too late. Already up. “Hello?”

A deep male voice said, “Is this Maisie?”

“Yes.” I shot up in bed. “Who am I speaking with?”

“Jimmy the Wolf.”

Ughhhh.
I flopped back down again. “Hey, guy. What's up?”

“Miz Veteratti requests the pleasure of your presence at The Storkling in an hour. You got a problem with that?”

“Nope. I'll be there.”

“See you then.” He disconnected.

I ran a brush through my hair while using a Rembrandt-loaded Sonicare. Skintight black jeans, knee-high boots, snug black Ranger Up tee, makeup, and a spritz of Oribe's Silver Pearl perfume and I was off to the races.

I grabbed the motorcycle jacket off the hanger in the hall closet and hit the elevator.

* * *

Jimmy the Wolf and Vi were waiting for me in her office.

“You're on time,” she said. “I like that. Let's go.”

I followed the Wolf and Vi to a door with a keypad for a handle. She typed in a code and the door swung open. The security room.

A bank of LCD screens made up the entire wall. Violetta leaned against the main control console and crossed her legs, while the Wolf took a seat at the computer. “Do we have a problem?” she asked.

I shook my head. “I don't think so.”

“Roll tape,” she said to the Wolf, who complied.

I recognized myself. From behind. Leaving the dining room.

Saliva ran down the back of my throat as I watched Coles step between the golden draperies, grab my ponytail, and jam his lit cigar against my neck.

“Jaysus,” I said, turning away but not before I caught an eyeful of myself stumbling blindly through the endless swaths of fabric.

“See? Now that . . . That's what Wolf and I call a problem,” Vi said. “You tell Wolf not to worry about it. A classy move, you getting your own back. Recognizing my club isn't to blame, yeah?”

I nodded, not sure where this was going.

“Unlike Eddie, I prefer to reinvest the capital in the club rather than up my nose. We've revamped security at The Storkling. Every angle full-color captured, every conversation miked.” Her arched brows shot even higher. “Intel is currency in the Information Age. Play the next clip, Wolf.”

Last night's time and date stamp ran in the upper left corner of the screen. A myriad of camera angles showed the men's room.

Talbott Cottle Coles was at the sink, washing his hands, checking his hair. His man inside, on the hinge side of the door.

Lee walked in, subtly pulling the door closed behind him.

He took one step past the mayor's bodyguard, then spun, striking the man with a downward chop to the base of his neck. The guard's head came forward. Lee hit him again, crushing his temples between the heel of his left hand and his right fist.

The bodyguard hit the floor like a load of pig iron.

“Your boy has fast hands. Nice soft tissue work, nothing permanent, no marks.” Jimmy the Wolf shot me a sideways look of approval.

On-screen, Coles dove into the stall, locking the door.

Lee rifled through the downed bodyguard's clothes, pulling the guy's gun from the shoulder holster and the backup piece at his ankle. In less than thirty seconds he'd unloaded the guns, removed the slides, tossed the pieces in the trash and the magazines out the small open bathroom window.

“Hit the sound, Wolf,” Vi said.

He tapped the keyboard.

On-screen, Lee kicked open the stall door. Wedged into the corner between the wall and the toilet tank, Coles raised a small pistol. “Stay back.”

Faster than an old magician, Lee jerked the pistol out of Coles's hand and dropped it into the toilet. He stepped aside, hand extended, for the mayor to leave the stall.

“What do you want from me?”

Lee said nothing, just waited.

Coles left the stall, his gait short and rigid. His head darted, looking for escape. “What do you want?”

“You put your cigar out on my girl's neck.”

Blood drained from Coles's face. “That was an accident, I—”

“Now, I could get her plastic surgery. . . .”

“I know some of the best in the business.” Coles leapt on the opening. “I'll take care of it.”

Lee shook his head. “But surgery doesn't make up for me looking at that mess you made of her throat.” He put his hands on his hips, suit coat sliding open, flashing his Sig Sauer. “Listening to her cry.”

Coles glanced at his bodyguard, unconscious on the floor.

Lee took a pack of Marlboro Reds from his pocket and tossed them on the counter. “Have one.”

With surprisingly steady hands, Coles picked up the pack and put a cigarette in his mouth. Lee lit a match. Coles leaned in and sucked in a lungful of nicotine. He blew it out in a long, thin plume. “How does ten thousand sound for your inconvenience?”

“Men don't settle with money.”

“Twenty. Twenty thousand. Cash.”

Lee shook his head.

“How much?” Coles demanded.

“Man up.” Lee looked at the cigarette. “Get the end nice and red.”

No escape.

Nostrils flaring, Coles faced the mirror and took two heavy drags. The decision to brazen it out set in his face.

Lip curled, he pressed the glowing end to his throat for a two count. Breath whistling between his teeth. “Ergh!” He jerked it away and flicked the cigarette into the sink.

He glared down his nose at Lee. “It's over.”

Lee squinted at the blistering pink burn on Coles's neck. “Looks a lot smaller than my girl's.” He rubbed the back of his jaw. “Two more oughta even the score.”

“Fuck.” Coles gagged and swallowed. “Thirty thousand.”

Lee took another Marlboro from the pack and lit it. He took a deep drag, then another and handed it to Coles.

I could taste the stink of Coles's burning flesh. “Christ.” I clapped my hand over my eyes, listening as Coles did it twice more, sweating and shaking and swearing.

We watched Lee leave the bathroom.

Jimmy the Wolf hit Pause and smiled at me. “Wanna watch Coles fish his gun out of the toilet?” he asked, in all seriousness.

“No.” I wrinkled my nose. “That was plenty, thank you.”

“I don't like Coles,” Vi said. “But I do like everything he brings with him.”

“I'm sorry. Sharpe did that without my knowledge or permission.”

“I figured as much.” She sifted her scarlet talons through Jimmy the Wolf's dark hair. “That's the trouble with the best ones. They have difficulty understanding where the lines are.”

The Wolf grunted.

She smacked him in the shoulder. “Print her a DVD.” He started the procedure. Vi bared her teeth. “Us working girls gotta stick together.”

I raised a truth-to-power fist in the air, not feeling it. At all. “You know it.”

But the only thing I knew for sure was that if she found out I was a cop, she'd scoop my heart out with a rusty demitasse spoon.

The Wolf scrawled a date and time on the disc and handed it to me.

* * *

I walked the streets for a solid hour trying to get my head straight.

It didn't help.

My heart beat like a drumroll on a snare. I felt numb and charmed at the same time. For everything—the flirting, the kisses, hell, the bald-faced admission that Lee wanted me, wanted to be with me.

None of it touched me like what I'd just seen him do.

Serious, stepping-over-the-line kind of retribution.

For me.

Hank's stock-in-trade. Only Lee's didn't have the same sort of heady buzz.

Because Lee wasn't that kind of man. Was he?

My stomach whined like a college kid for a safe space. Eleven thirty-two.
Holy cat. Lunchtime.

I circled back to the Hellcat and cruised by Publican Quality Meats to pick up a couple
Big E
s—wagyu brisket, horseradish cheddar, smoked onions, mustard, and green leaf lettuce on rye—before heading home.

Lee was hunkered down in Stannis's office pounding the phones, tracing every move Ditch Broady had made in the last three years. I held up the bags. “Lunch.”

Tucking the phone under his chin, he held up both hands. Ten minutes.

* * *

Lee inhaled his sandwich, chips, and two bottles of water before I'd made it through a quarter of mine. “Now, that was fucking awesome.” He stood up and cracked his neck. “God, you ‘get' me, Maisie.”

“You all right? You don't look so good,” he said.

My sandwich had somehow morphed from insanely delicious to completely unappetizing. “I'm . . . uh, great.”

He smoothed my hair back and pressed his lips to my forehead. “Feel a little warm to me. Why don't you take a nap?”

“Because I'm fine?”

“I wasn't asking. I can't have you run outta gas on me this week.” He jerked his head toward the bedroom. “Beat it.”

I slunk off to my room and lay down on the bed, the cool Matouk pillowcase beneath my cheek. I traced my finger along the double-pleated edging, thinking of Stannis. It was more relaxing to focus on the best friend who'd been ready to put a bullet in my brain, than on Hank and Lee or anything I'd done over the past week.

Somehow I actually slept for a couple of hours. When I awoke, I slipped out of my bedroom, Lee's muffled voice echoing through the silent penthouse. He'd left the door to the office open.

I got out the laptop, inserted the tiny drive from the bone jar, and typed “
SENKA
” into the flashing password bar.

It opened.

The 256G drive was almost full.

Neat-o.
Just to make it easy, everything was in Serbian—Cyrillic alphabet, naturally. Ugh.

Traversing through the folders, eventually I got a video to open. Loud music, naked women, gambling, drugs, and far too many close-ups of male organs sproinging out all over the place. “Whoa.”

I tried to scroll through the video, but the drive wasn't having it. It was hard identifying people through my fingers.

“Why, Maisie,” Lee said in my ear, scaring me out of my chair. “I had no idea you were so . . . voyeuristic.”

My cheeks flamed. “Part of Stannis's legacy. How about you watch, and I'll run to the store for some ice cream?”

“You're terrific, you know that?” Lee chuckled. “You save—what, forty people from a kill house and earn Special Ops status in a Mexican drug cartel, but you get squeamish in front of a lil' homemade porn?”

“Not making it any better,” I said through gritted teeth.

“I bet you'd rather die than let someone see you pee.” He stopped short. “Oh, hell. That's why you lost the locator, isn't it?” He howled with laughter.

“Gee,” I said. “Thanks ever so much for reveling in my humiliation.”

“Aww, Bae. Don't go away mad. But go. Now. I'm hungry.”

“Just for that, you're getting Rum Raisin.”

* * *

I returned with milk, bread, eggs, and pints of Häagen-Dazs—Vanilla Swiss Almond, Rocky Road, Mint Chip, and one Rum Raisin just to rattle his cage.

Lee had moved his laptop and the printer out of the office. Sweet of him, but he was still getting the Rum Raisin.

He took a bite. “Ughhh!” His face screwed up like a little kid's. “Yuck. Dried fruit in ice cream? It's the curse of the fruitcake. Almost as bad as Raisinets.” He stabbed his spoon for a bite of mine, but I was too quick for him. “C'mon, please?”

“No.” I mock-pouted. “I'm sorry you don't care for your treat.” I took the Rum Raisin from his hand and threw it out.

“Wait! It's not that bad. I can spit out the raisins. . . .”

I opened the freezer and held up the two reserve tubs. After a happy and inordinately long waffle, he settled on Mint Chip and dragged a chair close. He patted the seat. “Check it. Screenshots we need to show to Walt ASAP.”

I sat down. There were a few of Stannis and Coles. But the ones Walt would want to see were of Coles with his favorite Mexican diplomat, Cesar Garza. And ATF special agent Ditch Broady.

“Like that?” Lee laid out several more prints. “Here he is again. El Eje kingpin Álvaro Garza's son, Cesar. And again.”

A familiar piranha-mouthed face peeped out among the debauchery. “Holy cat! Is that . . .
Raúl?
”

“Sergeant Reptile Torturer at your service.” Lee turned in his chair, knee bumping mine. “There's something we're missing.”

I stepped through what we had. “El Eje wants Tampico and the eradication of the Grieco cartel. The strikers were supplied to El Eje via the ATF. The two bombs?”

“The cooler bomb was either a test and/or an obvious link to the bullet factory.” Lee smacked his fist on the table. “Either way, I was Broady's bitch. Goddammit.”