Galilee Rising (23 page)

Once again he's silent as he stares at me. "Why are you doing this, Joanna? Why join in this fight?" he asks, sounding genuinely concerned. "Didn't you learn anything from last year? Nothing good can come from this, not for you. No mortal has fared well in a battle between gods. You'll be nothing but cannon fodder. Justin wouldn't want this for you."

My back goes ramrod straight. "Don't you
dare
utter his name. You have no right. And you don't have a fucking clue what he'd want for me."

"I was there, Joanna," he says with a scoff. "I saw his face when he let go. I think I understand him better than even you."

"We are not discussing this. Stop trying to distract me."

"I can't imagine the guilt you feel," he continues. "If only you hadn't stopped him from murdering me. If only you had been the strong one and let go. If--"

"Shut up!" I snap. "Shut the fuck up! Answer my damn question."

He pursues his lips, I think in disappointment. "Temper, temper," he chides before pausing. "I'll make you a deal. You do that with your other informants, I believe."

"What?"

"Judging from the décor I view behind you, and your zeal to gather information, I assume you've more or less taken over Justice duty. You're probably even in league with his replacements. I'm a useful asset with priceless information regarding the city's underworld. I'll provide you this information as needed if you arrange weekly video chats with Grace."

"Monthly. I don't pay off her guards, and she's under constant observation. That's the best I can do."

"Then I'll settle for weekly calls from you, plus the monthly with Grace. Any port in a storm, right?"

Fuck, fuck, shit. "Fine. Tell me about Cain."

"I recognized one of his aliases, Jackson Adler, code name 'The Mockingbird,' which it seems your police friends knew nothing about. I hired him six years ago for a hit that required a finesse I knew myself and my enforcers incapable of. I'm not going to tell you who the person was, but I will say that Adler's specialties are accidents and natural causes along with the bombing talent you've already seen. He was worth every penny."

"How did you hire him?"

"Danny Watkins knew him. Before he moved here, Danny did some work in Columbia for the cartel. Adler was building his reputation with them at the time. They stayed in touch. I also think they were lovers judging from Danny's leanings and the way he spoke about Adler."

"Cain's gay?" I ask with a raised eyebrow.

"Just a theory. Anyway, I met the man once only. Adler didn't want to, but I insisted. I wasn't about to pay half a million dollars without meeting the man I was hiring."

"What did he look like? What were your impressions of him?"

"Medium height, thin almost to the point of lanky, brown eyes, black hair and beard, square glasses, and I believe a fake nose. He seemed incredibly smart, more so even than me. The job was impeccable."

"Where did the meeting occur?"

"The library. We both insisted on a public location."

"Do you know where he was staying or--"

"No clue. We didn't exactly chat. I try not to ask personal questions of the help."

I frown. "To your knowledge has he ever taken any other jobs in town?"

"Not that I'm aware of. He only handles a few jobs a year, that I know of. Apparently he met his quota for the year, and if not for Danny, he wouldn't have taken mine."

"What about Danny? Did you help him fake his death?" I ask.

"After the explosion he was taken to one of our clinics. I helped him get a new ID and put him on a plane to Rio. Haven't heard from him since. There was a rumor he was in Russia."

"What was the new name?"

Ryder thinks for a second. "Ralph Comstock, I believe. It was years ago, I can't be certain though."

"What about Acevedo and Raitt? Did Cain have contact with them?"

"No, but Danny did. They were all on my payroll at the same time."

"So Cain contacts Watkins, who in turn reaches out to his old co-workers," I say, more to myself. "Who else was Watkins close to in your organization?"

"Afraid that's where I draw the line, Joanna. I won't give up anyone else. I will not penalize those wily enough not to get caught. They have families, I do have some loyalty left."

I want to lunge at his image and strangle him, but all I can do is glare. "How did you contact Raitt and Acevedo? Where'd you find them?"

"Acevedo was pure muscle. An idiot, but loyal. He came to me though Gearhead, but last I heard he was working for Oleg Casanov." Whose organization was just decimated thanks to me. "Miles is a contractor. He has a website, MRBakery.com. Send an e-mail asking for chocolate croissants and give your phone number."

"Do you have any idea as to where Cain might be holed up? He has a large quantity of explosives and needs privacy."

"I owned over a dozen properties, which as you know, were taken by the city under the RICO laws."

"You must have one or two we never found. The subway station you held me in for example," I say with a fake grin.

"Good memories," he says with a matching smile. "None that Danny would know of. Anything else?"

"Know any of Watkins' old lovers names?"

"Never had the pleasure of meeting them. As I said, I tried to keep business and personal separate, otherwise things get complicated."

"As your present circumstance proves," I say with a genuine smile.

He smiles back. "How true. I let my emotions get the better of me and am now paying the price." His grin widens. "But it was so worth it."

I have to stop myself from spitting on the webcam. "I'll get started on the Grace thing. Just hope it won't come too late."

That fucking smile grows even wider. "Wear something sexier next week, Joanna. I'm awful lonely in here. Until then, good hunting." He makes a kissy face, then the screen goes black.

The moment it does, my façade crumbles and the breath I've been holding sputters out. If I wasn't already sitting I'd need to. My legs shake even now. I close my eyes and will myself to calm down. It takes awhile. When I can, I open my eyes and stare at the black screen. Why do I feel like I've just made a deal with the devil? Because I have. Better be worth it.

*

To maintain the status quo, Lexie is in New Urbana for a photo shoot the next two days and Brendan has football practice during the days, and I'm not even allowed to think about Jem let alone contact him, it's up to me and the GFPD to run down the plethora of new leads Ryder provided. I sent Harry the new info on Cain's alter ego, "The Mockingbird," Watkins alias, the way to contact Raitt, and instructions to ask all the male escorts to keep their eyes and ears open. Everyone needs companionship, even terrorists.

Doris and I tackle the rest. First I review the INTERPOL file on Jackson Adler A.K.A. Lee Harper A.K.A. the Mockingbird. Jordan must really like
To Kill a Mockingbird
. I have no doubt he's the one who gave Jem his nickname. I start playing with my hair as I imagine their nanny reading the boys the book as they fell asleep, dreaming about the perfect father who adores them and fights for justice. I shake my head to clear it.

Anyway. The Mockingbird. The authorities only attributed two hits to him: one in Prague and the other in Guatemala, both car bombs. Watkins must have taught him that skill. The alias Jackson Adler hasn't popped up since it was traced to an order for the knock-out gas he used on the First Lady's guards when he kidnapped her. That must have been when he retired Adler and became Lee Harper. There's only a grainy photo taken from the security camera in that INTERPOL file. His hair is down to his shoulders and blonde. A wig complete with sunglasses and mustache. Only if I squint do I see the family resemblance. Hard to hide those cheekbones. The fact there's so little information on him or any of his aliases does not bode well. If he's been an active mercenary for almost two decades, and they barely have a picture of him, it tells me he's either incredibly smart, ruthless, lucky or all which is where my money lays. But I do have one thing he doesn't: Doris.

Assuming he started plotting his re-emergence when he heard Jem was moving here approximately three to five months ago, I change the search parameters from then to the present. I plug in every alias and
To Kill a Mockingbird
reference I can think of and Doris culls through all property sales, rentals, and utilities for those key words. While she does that, I rest my eyes on the couch, waking when Dobbs brings me breakfast six hours later. Yesterday was a hell of a day.

As I eat my cereal, I review her results. Out of a hundred fifty possibles, two look promising. The Scout Group, owned by Lee Jordan, is renting a building by the airport. When I look the company up, I see they're advertising plane parts. The company was incorporated a few months in New Urbana. So far so fishy.

The other is Mockingbird Inc, owned by J.A. Dill, who purchased a warehouse in the Ward two months ago. The company was founded eight months ago, also in New Urbana, and specializes in book distribution. The CCTV near the airport shows the outside of the Scout building but none of the cameras around the warehouse are functional. Good old Ward. People will steal even things that
are
nailed down. Guess it's up to me.

I grab a few cameras from storage and the instruction manual on how to set them up before going upstairs to shower and change into baggy jeans, a black hoodie, Angel's baseball cap with my hair tucked in, sneakers, and bulletproof trench coat Justice gave me. I don't expect trouble but in case I also bring an untraceable gun from Justin's collection, my Taser, Triumvirate phone, and brass knuckles. Better safe than sorry.

It's a damn good thing I kept my old Acura because an Aston Martin wouldn't last two seconds in the Ward. Since the bridge blew up it takes me thirty minutes longer to get into the city, not that I'm in a rush. Condemned buildings, junkies and pushers on the corners, bars on every window, my old stomping grounds. I certainly have moved up in the world.

The warehouse is surrounded by equally dilapidated, empty buildings with nary an intact window to be found. There are no signs of life inside as I drive past. It's small, only about a thousand square feet with no trucks or workers outside like a normal working warehouse. Either they haven't begun filling the warehouse with books or there's something rotten in the state of Denmark. Since it'd be suspicious for me to climb a telephone pole like a monkey to place a camera there, I park behind the abandoned three-story office building across from the warehouse. I pass fleeing rats as I climb to the second floor. After half an hour of cussing and even throwing the instruction manual against the wall, I think I finally get the damn camera working. It has the perfect vantage of the main warehouse door. I check the feed on the laptop. Camera's operational. Hurray for me.

Just as I'm packing up to move onto the next building, through the window, I notice the warehouse door open and two men step out. I vaguely recognize one of them but can't place him. They light cigarettes and begin chatting. I sit down to move out of their sight. I pull the laptop from it's hiding spot to watch on it as they continue social hour. Come on, brain. How do I know--Matt Lucas. I busted him six years ago for assault. He beat up some college kid who couldn't pay his gambling debts. If memory serves, we later linked him to Ryder's organization.

As they shoot the shit, an SUV turns down the street then pulls up to the warehouse. Lucas runs to open the sliding door for the car to enter. From the glimpse I get, the inside of the warehouse is mostly empty with a table and at least two other cars inside. Lucas closes the door and returns to his buddy. Book warehouse my ass. The door opens again a minute later. Gary Acevedo pokes his head out and gestures the men in. My mouth falls. Holy shit. Not expecting that.

What the hell am I supposed to do now? Call the cops? What if Cain was in that SUV? What if the place is wired to explode? I get my prepaid and dial Brendan. It rings about ten times before I leave a message, giving my location and the situation. He's probably still at practice, and Lexie's across the country. No choice.

"Hello?" Jem asks after the fourth ring.

"I found Acevedo. Possibly all of them. Meet me at 18765 Eisner St, brown brick warehouse, second floor. Get here fast." I hang up. I'd be nervous to see him again after he sort of broke up with me, but I'm too damn excited by this lead.
God
I've missed this feeling. The thrill of the chase. Almost as good as sex.

Of course on a roller coaster what goes up must come down. Ten minutes pass and all is quiet. No one exits or enters. Just as I start getting bored, I hear a thump inside this building and unholster my gun just to be safe. Fast footsteps moving toward me make me clutch it tighter, unlocking the safety. I relax when I see a flash of purple, then him. Damned if even now the butterflies don't begin. He, on the other hand, seems less than happy to be in my presence.

"What the hell are you--"

I stand. "There are three I know of inside, probably more. I definitely saw Acevedo."

"You shouldn't be here," he hisses as he approaches.

"Well, I am." I give him the rundown on everything I've learned from Ryder to Matt Lucas. With each sentence, the sides of his mouth move lower until he's downright frowning.

"Have you lost your senses? What were you thinking conversing with that psychopath? What if everything Ryder told you was to lead you into a trap?"

"Oh, come on. Give me a little damn credit."

"You came here. Alone. You're exposed."

"I took every precaution. Look, can we please stop fighting and figure out what we're going to do?"

"
We
aren't doing anything.
You
are going home."

"I'm not leaving you here alone. You need back-up," I insist.

"Tempest will be here when he can."

I shrug. "Then I'll wait until he gets here."

Nightingale takes an angry stride toward me, and instinctively I move back a little. "I don't need you." Something about those words unnerves him. His lips twitch. "
Here
. I don't need you here. Please. Just go.
Please
," he pleads.