The Wolf, page 5
Across the messy living area, in the glow of the ceiling fixtures, Mickie was sitting on his couch, his head back, his body on a sprawl, his feet flopped to the sides. But he wasn’t chilling. He had a massive abdominal wound, his blood seeping out to stain his dirty t-shirt a bright, Fourth of July red.
And that wasn’t the only new-and-interesting in the place.
There was a hole in the roof of the building, the dwindling rain falling through the ragged aperture to turn an Archie Bunker armchair into a sponge.
Keeping her gun in her hand, she went over and pulled another two-finger on a wrist. And just like the shooter by the dumpster in the alley, Mickie had flatlined—but was still warm.
The murder was recent, maybe thirty or forty minutes ago. Not that she was a coroner.
“Great. Just fucking great.”
Rio muttered all kinds of things to herself as she took out her phone, and with her left hand, texted the shooting in. Then she snapped a picture of the body as well as another of the worktable where a couple of scales, some powder residue, and a boatload of empty two-inch-square baggies were a loud-and-clear on what had been happening in the apartment.
Not that anybody would assume Mickie hosted cooking classes here.
After she scraped some of the had-to-be-cocaine off the table with her Swiss Army knife—
“I’m just going to use one of these baggies, Mick,” she said. “You don’t need ’em anymore, do you.”
She took a picture of the sample and then put it in her pocket.
Then she went back over to the body. As she stared into the frozen face, the waxy, pale skin transfixed her, taking her back to another time she had seen a human being dead… back to the first time she had seen remains. Her memories of the moment she had walked into her younger brother’s bedroom were so vivid that she became inanimate herself, suspended between the past and the present. And once that recollection was unleashed, there was no stopping the deluge of what she so capably kept under wraps during normal circumstances.
“Stop it,” she whispered.
But the nightmare wouldn’t recede. Then again, tonight she had almost died. Twice. No wonder the longest and worst evening of her life, as well as everything that had happened afterward, was dogging her.
It was a while before she could think properly again.
“You deserve worse, you sick bastard,” she said.
For everything Mickie had done to Spaz—and so many others. And that was why she had come here, to warn the dealer that he was going to lay off her street friend or the consequences were going to land on his head: Even though Mickie was—er, had been—a sadistic piece of work, there were levers she could pull, ones that were within the bounds of the law, but that would cause him problems with Mozart.
Of course, all that strong-arm stuff was a moot point now.
And the sad reality was that Spaz was likely to find another source for what he needed. Still, no one had been as bad as Mickie.
“Rest in Hell, you piece of shit,” she said. “I hope you roast—”
The soft squeak behind her brought her around—and her gun.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Black Dagger Brotherhood mansion had been built at the turn of the twentieth century by Darius, a brother who had had a big heart, a strong dagger hand, and a treacherous hope that one day, the fighters for the race would live under a single roof with their families and loved ones.
As Vishous shoved his goatee’d mug into the vestibule’s security camera and waited for the copper lock to be released, he had a thought that that male would have approved of where they had all ended up.
Damn shame the brother hadn’t lived long enough to see it himself—
Clunk!
Vishous opened the seven-thousand-pound door, and the ancient doggen butler on the other side was a beaming smile upright and walking in a penguin suit. Fritz Perlmutter loved his job and the household he served to a degree that had been grating at first. Like, how could anyone be that excited silver-traying drinks, organizing the rest of the staff, and spot-cleaning blood off rugs?
“You’re home!” Fritz exclaimed, as if V and Rhage had returned from a dangerous mission to the Arctic Circle and managed to only get frostbitten on a pinkie toe and one earlobe. “And early as well!”
Rhage plowed in, as was his way. “Fritz, my guy, I’m starved. Can you—”
“I have three footlongs pre-prepared for you. Ham and cheese, salami and cheese, and turkey and cheese. Allow me to mayonnaise them, and I shall bring them to you immediately.” Fritz looked at V. “A Grey Goose and tonic for you, sire?”
All V could do was shake his head in wonder. The guy had a way of growing on you, you know? “Yeah, thanks. We’re up with Wrath.”
“Right away!”
In spite of the jowls and the wrinkles, Fritz headed off fresh as a sprinter out of the blocks, his polished shoes clipping over the foyer’s mosaic floor, his white-gloved hands pumping to the beat of his love of service.
“It’s like he’s a mind reader,” Rhage said as they started for the grand staircase, with its gold-leafed balustrade and its blood-red runner. “I mean, how did he know—”
“You are never not hungry, and when have I ever turned down a V ’n’ T?” V held up his forefinger. “I’m not saying he ain’t a genius, but guessing you’re ready for a footlong is not prognostication.”
“You got a point, my brother.”
As they came to the second floor, the doors to the study were open, and across the pale blue room with its fine French furniture, Wrath, son of Wrath, sire of Wrath, was all heavy-is-the-head-that-wears-the-crown. Plugged into the old carved desk his father had used, sitting on the old carved throne his father had sat in, the great Blind King’s wraparounds were angled down as he ran his fingertips over lines of braille. No doubt it was another report from Saxton, the Brotherhood’s solicitor and expert in the Old Laws.
“Well, well, well,” Wrath murmured as he looked up like his eyes worked, “back so soon. What went wrong.”
With his hip-length black hair falling from that widow’s peak, and his aristocratic features that had a cruel edge, he looked like exactly the force of nature he was, and had to be, if the goal was keeping the species alive and together, under the noses of humans and in spite of the persecution of enemies.
It went without saying that the brother wasn’t a party to deal with sometimes. Then again, anybody in his situation, with his kind of stress, would get a little cranky from time to time—although, to be fair, even before he started really doing the king shit, he’d had the interpersonal skills of a shotgun.
“I got a door prize,” Rhage said as he barged right in and planted it on one of the silk sofas by the fireplace. “Well, lots of little prizes.”
As Hollywood held up the Target bag full of coke, even though Wrath couldn’t see it, V shut the double doors. “All he had to do was empty the lower intestines of a dealer into the guy’s own couch.”
“Your beast come out?” the King said.
“Nah, I sneezed.”
Black brows lifted over the wraparounds. “Really? I didn’t know your nose had that kind of firepower.”
“It doesn’t,” V answered as he took out a hand-rolled. “He had an oopsie.”
“Do you need gun practice—”
“You would have sneezed, too,” Rhage interrupted the King. “And no, I don’t need to go to the range. Well, unless Lassiter has a target on his ass—”
“I’ll volunteer the angel right here, right now.” V parked it on the far side of the desk. “And can I be the one with the stapler, pinning the tail on his donkey? ’Cuz I’ll tell you right now, I’ma hit that Stanley until the thing jams.”
Wrath sat back, his hand reaching down to stroke the boxy head of his Seeing Eye dog. As George lifted his head in adoration, the King actually laughed a little at the joke. A rare event. Like Zsadist smiling.
“I would pay money to see that.” Annnnnnnnnd then shit got serious again. “So tell me what went tits up.”
V flicked his Bic, sucked the flame into the tip, and exhaled. “We got some samples of the product. Nothing much else. As we said, Rhage popped one contact, and the other—well, she got busy saving the world so she missed her appointment with the middleman.”
“Why don’t you get into her mind,” Wrath demanded. “Look under the rocks, find the worms. If that shit’s hitting the streets, and she’s one of the dealer’s enforcers, she’ll know where it’s coming from.”
“She doesn’t. Not yet. She’s working on a deal, though. Something was supposed to come of it tonight, but then—yeah, she had to go to rehab.”
Wrath shook his head. “Good dealers never use their own product.”
“Oh, it wasn’t for her. She was taking care of a junkie.” V stroked his goatee. “See, our girl down there, she’s got herself a little secret. She’s a cop playing among thieves.”
Black eyebrows once again rose above the wraparounds. “Dangerous game.”
“She’s a do-gooder, trying to make up for a bad thing that wasn’t her fault. She’s definitely going to get herself killed in the process, but hopefully, I’ll find out what we need from her before she toes up.”
“You are such a humanitarian, V.” Wrath leaned to the side and gathered up the dog, transferring the sleepy blond bulk from the floor into his lap. “But stay on it. We need to find that camp.”
V ran through his visit to the previous location. The place had been underground, out north and west from Caldwell, a subterranean labyrinth of old cells and cavernous common places hidden from everyone and everything. Set up by the glymera for criminals in the 1800s, it had devolved into a debased holding tank for all kinds of minor infractions, social insults, and inconvenient people who needed to be disappeared by the aristocracy. Over time, the location had been forgotten, and in the vacuum of stewardship, a new power structure and sustaining effort had evolved, the costs of food and supplies covered by drug dealing in Caldie’s downtown.
The big break on its existence had come when a female had gone into the prison camp to rescue her sister, and shit had gotten critical. The Jackal, a true male of worth who had been falsely imprisoned, had made it out alive with her, but by the time the Brotherhood had arrived on scene, the place had been partially destroyed and totally emptied out.
From a tactical point of view, V had to respect the coordination required to move that many people. It wasn’t like they’d dematerialized to another location. That would have been like blowing the head of a dandelion, scattering your indentured workforce to the wind, never to be seen again. No, the illicit leadership had had trucks—and big ones. There had been evidence of a flotilla’s worth of vehicles exiting the abandoned site through a roadway that ran in and out of the facility.
There had also been the leftovers of a drug-processing station the size of a small college, the details of which the Jackal had shared as best he could.
“We’ll find the prison.” V inhaled deep and let the smoke roll out of his mouth. “And we’re gonna take control.”
A subtle knocking on the door had Rhage leaping to his feet. “Fritz with the food, finally! I’m starved.”
As Hollywood raced to let the butler in like he was in a deadly blood sugar drop, Wrath shook his head. “Does he ever stop eating?”
“Not that I’ve noticed,” V said dryly.
* * *
The St. Francis Medical Center was a state-of-the-art sprawl that just happened to be on Rio’s way home. As she came up to a red light at the entrance to its complex, she looked over the glowing, mostly empty parking lots, and the glowing, always full buildings of surgical suites, testing facilities, patient rooms, and administrative offices. Even with all the well-lit signage, the idea of figuring out how to get around to the emergency room was exhausting—
Her phone vibrated in the interior pocket of her jacket, and she fished around to find it. She didn’t bother to check and see who was calling. She knew who it was.
“I can’t talk, I’m going to get checked out.” Hitting her directional signal, she ran the red light and turned into the main thoroughfare through the acreage. “And no, I’m not bleeding. I got into a little car accident, but I’m fine.”
Captain Stanley Carmichael got his boss voice on. “I’ll meet you there.”
“No, you won’t. I’m undercover and will be using my—”
“I don’t want to do this over the phone.”
Rio’s eyes tracked the red-and-white signs that read “EMERGENCY,” and the fact that her hands and feet operated her beater all by themselves seemed a commentary on how used to dealing with emergencies she was.
“Do what,” she said remotely. “Over the phone.”
The emergency room was lit up like a ballpark, the bays for the ambulances and the glass-fronted entrance for walk-ins glowing like a promised land for the afflicted.
God, she hoped she didn’t end up with a cast.
“Hello?” she demanded. “Will you just tell me, Captain. I’m going to have to hang up in a second as I go inside.”
“What kind of car accident were you in?”
A quick memory of rolling up and over that Charger played like a ticker tape across her mind’s eye. She really should have kept that detail out when she reported Erie’s death.
“Just a fender bender,” she said.
“Then why are you getting checked out.”
“You know me, always following the rules.”
There was a multi-tiered parking lot on the far side of the ER, and out of habit, she avoided it and parked instead in the open air and directly under a streetlamp. Her ring of keys made a clapping sound as she turned off the engine, and when she got out, she made sure she hadn’t been followed.
“Hello?” she said into the phone. Like the roles were reversed and she wasn’t speaking to a very-much-higher-up.
Captain Carmichael was actually Chief Carmichael, but he was the kind of humble man who didn’t stand on ceremony. According to him, “captain” was enough when it came to titles, although he wasn’t going to turn down the office and especially not the private bathroom.
“Rio.”
“What.”
When the captain didn’t respond, she closed her eyes and leaned against the side of her car. “I’m not stopping. You’re not taking me off—”
“You called in two homicides tonight. Both gunshot victims.”
“I did what I’m supposed to—”
“So you know the rules. In addition to reporting in, if any officer is involved in a shooting, it’s mandatory admin leave until they’ve been assessed by a counselor and cleared by the county prosecutor and the AG—”
“I didn’t shoot either of them. And if you don’t believe me, check the ballistics. My gun wasn’t used.”
“The rules are what the rules are. You’re off the streets—”
“I’m so close to getting what we need on Mozart. Captain, come on, I just want another couple of weeks—and I can get you the supplier as well. I met him tonight, and I’m going to get the deal done—”
“Rules are there for a reason—”
“I’m being punished because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time!”
“This is not punishment. This is health and safety, Rio. I’m taking you off the case. Mozart is not as important as your life.”
So he knew about the cover being blown, she thought. That’s what this was really about.
And he was a good guy, so he wasn’t going to spell it out to her—because nothing was less professional than an undercover cop who’d had her identity compromised. Especially one like her with federal training.
Rio looked over to the ER’s entrance. An older woman and man were coming out, the man offering his arm, the woman taking it and leaning on him. She wasn’t limping, but she was tilted in as if she needed help carrying her own weight. But her problem wasn’t like what Rio had, it wasn’t an injury. She was sick. In the bright, icy illumination, her face was too red and she was breathing through her mouth and coughing.
“—assessment later this week,” her superior was saying. “And then a debriefing. After that, you’re taking a couple of weeks off—”
“How’re you going to replace me. Out on the street.” She leaned forward, like the man was in front of her in his suit and tie. “Who’ll take my place with Mozart? I’m the one who’s gone the furthest, and I’ve worked on this for eighteen months straight. I told you, I met the supplier contact tonight—and I was about to make the deal when we were rudely interrupted by a goddamn gunfight that had nothing to do with me.” Well, at least in theory, she tacked on to herself. “It’s not my fault that the Ballous decided to ride up on Caldwell and avenge Johnny Two Shoes—and before you criticize me for holding a meeting in an alley, where else am I supposed to face-to-face my contacts? The public library? Yeah, because that’ll go over so much better—”
“Your life is more important than this case.”
“I accepted the risks when I took the job.”
“There’s no getting around this, so let’s both be professional here. Your appointment’s been made with mental health, and I’ll expect to see you in my office tomorrow, shall we say eleven? Great. See you then—oh, and if you need to make a workers’ comp claim for that injury, bring your paperwork from St. Francis. Goodnight, Detective.”
The connection was cut, that deep, serious voice turned off like a lamp at midnight.
“Sonofabitch.”
As she shoved her phone into her pocket, she thought of Spaz and wondered how the shelter was going for him. He would have been assessed by now, and had that stab wound checked out. He’d also have a hot meal in his belly and a clean bed for his body to rest on. She wished there was a way to make him stay in long enough to transition into a long-term care facility that would detox him and get him into a sustainable recovery.
But that wasn’t the way things worked.
Rio watched the couple get into a station wagon. The man helped the woman into the passenger seat; then he went around and got behind the wheel. The headlights flared to life, but the couple didn’t immediately leave. They were talking.
