Shoot 'Em Up (30 page)

Walt's text came in over my phone only moments after I'd returned to the apartment.

The concierge buzzed me from down below. I ran down and picked up the envelope addressed to Maisie Renko.

Perched on a bar stool, I pulled the zip tab and took out the contents. Several packets had been clipped together. The first was a detailed report and an eight-by-ten high-res picture of the blown munitions barn. Along with it were several pictures of the striker sticking out from the Navigator's armor plating. They'd been cropped in, microscope tight.

The other packet had a photo of the striker I'd recovered from the post of El Cid's Juárez stash house. As well as others, cropped in close.

I paged through memos and forensic reports until I hit the yellow-highlighted portions.

“Whatcha looking at?” Lee loomed over my shoulder, scaring the tar out of me.

“I'm not quite sure. Walt sent this over.” I shrugged as he scanned the report. “Confirmation, I guess, that El Eje was responsible for both bombs.”

Lee's face went white. “That's not possible.” He shouldered me out of the way, flipping to the photos. “That goddamn motherfucking sonofa . . .” He walked away, raking his fingers through his hair, cursing low and fast under his breath.

“Lee?”

“It's not El Eje, Maisie,” he said. “It's the fucking ATF.”

“What?”

“The strikers. They're not easy to come by.” He rubbed his forehead. “The numbers on the strikers are NSN numbers.”

“What are those?”

“If the American government does one thing well, it's label the shit out of everything. Those are American tracking numbers on American strikers.”

“So? Lee, you and I both know stuff like this gets stolen all the time. And nobody wants the gen pop to know it's missing.”

His voice was low and bitter. “They weren't stolen.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

He jabbed a finger at the second NSN striker number on the report. “Because I used that one when I blew the barn.”

What?
“How?” I stared at him like he was an alien. “Why?”

Lee slumped onto the stool next to mine. “Ditch Broady requested I partner with you. It was a natural fit, for a lot of reasons.”

Including thinking I was too stupid to figure it out, which was apparently correct.

I clamped my teeth down on the insides of my cheeks and waited.

Lee started, slowly at first. “The night before we left . . . The ‘prescription' I picked up was two canisters of chemical explosives and the striker. I swapped out the halon in the storage hold on Grieco's jet.”

I gaped at him. “You replaced fire extinguishers with chemical explosives?”

“Only the two tanks for the cabin. Without a detonator, it's not as risky as it sounds. I left the halon for the electronics alone.”

“So . . . the night of the party?” I said, retracing his steps. “You weren't drunk, were you?”

“No. I retrieved the tanks.” He gave a boyish smile. “I really didn't know there was a girl in the tent.”

“Cute,” I said, ignoring the sunny little butterfly in my chest. “And when I took off with El Cid—”

“I blew the barn at the night guard shift change.”

Well, that explains the diesel smell.
“You sonuvabitch. All that bullshit about ‘being a partner' was just that. Bullshit.”

He jabbed a finger at my face. “You never should have left the fucking estate.”

“And you should've told me what the hell you were doing.”

The cords stood out on his neck. “I didn't see you'd snapped the locator until I got back and saw my phone,” he said, throat working. “Christ, Maisie. A minute later and you'd have been . . .”

The fury flaring inside me was snuffed as effectively as a canister of halon at the thought of The Weeping Beast.

“Okay. Okay.” I sighed. “We both messed up. Now what?”

“Forward-focused. We're gonna lock this shit down.” Lee got up and grabbed a couple bottles of water out of the fridge. On the way back, he picked up the television remote and turned it to the news.

“Mind if I check the weather, Bae?”

Even if I did, I wouldn't have said a thing.

He clicked the channel to the news and turned it up. “Christ, I hate that prick.”

Talbott Cottle Coles and his weird, overly white, horse-sized caps leered at us from the screen.

Coles fairly pranced across the stage.

“Look at that asshole. Still not wearing a goddamn vest.” Lee shook his head. “We're at square one. Broady's the lynchpin. What set all this in motion?”

“I got involved when Cash was shot. . . .” My voice trailed off as I stared at the TV. “No. That's not it. The assassination attempt on Coles. That's when Sawyer and I got called in to meet with Coles's ATF-DEA-BOC joint task force. Broady didn't want me.”

“So, after Cash,” Lee said, “you went to Nyx.”

“It was a win-win for Sawyer and the BOC. Solidifies my cover for the upcoming Operation Summit, and puts the DEA in the owe column.” I squinted at him. “But why the bomb at AJ's stash house?”

Lee frowned. “Trying to draw Carlos out? El Cid's his obvious favorite. Either that or the ATF was trying to force an El Eje link? It doesn't fit. Not yet.”

“Next step?”

“We find out how, where, and why Ditch Broady got those strikers.”

* * *

Lee and I started where the majority of crimes are solved: paperwork. Sawyer had secured the necessary warrants and systems log-ins.

“Ahh, the glamour of police work,” Lee said. “Hardly need more than a credit check, tax return, and a couple of Visa statements nowadays. Two years ago, Broady was in the red. Bright red.”

“Stoplight red,” I said.

“Police-siren red.” Lee gave my ponytail a playful tug. “And now he's black as pitch. He paid back slow, but not slow enough. There's no way he could have paid this off this fast.”

Takeout of every ethnic variation covered the kitchen and bar counter. Empty beer bottles, energy drinks, coffee cups, and soda cans were overflowing from the garbage can. Stannis's kitchen was thoroughly trashed. We didn't look much better.

Lee hadn't shaved in two days.

And I was not one to talk. Unwashed hair tied up in a ponytail, and somehow my outfit had degenerated to cotton gym shorts, a green Jameson whiskey tee, Lee's dirty flannel shirt, and thick white socks crumpled at my ankles. Our two laptops and Stannis's laser printer were working triple-time.

“Here we go.” Lee hit Print. “The strikers.”

The ATF was actually the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms,
and
Explosives. And as such, they have a normal, procedural need for detonators. While some old or unstable explosives like dynamite could be disposed of during slow burns, others had to be blown.

The printer beeped. Out of paper. I pushed my chair back.

“I got it.” Lee got to his feet. “I know you don't like going in the study.”

Pink exploded in my cheeks. “Don't be silly.”

“Chill, Bae.” He put his hand on the back of my neck. “You're still the most badass partner I've ever had.”

The color didn't leave my cheeks, but the embarrassment morphed into happy-happy joy-joy.

Within minutes, the reloaded printer was spitting out government forms. I started highlighting. The two known detonators were from a lot of twelve, purchased from a government contractor.

The next pages that came out were the ATF records.

“We got him.” Lee fanned himself with a printed, scanned-in form. “Broady's signature. He signed out the detonators.”

My highlighter stopped mid–yellow streak.
Uh-oh.
“Lee? It says here, the entire lot of detonators were used. There are literally five separate signatures attesting to this, including a local fire chief and the—”

“What? Where?”

“Elmhurst, Illinois.”

“Road trip,” Lee said. “Race you.”

* * *

Lee parked just north of the Union Pacific Railroad tracks in front of the Elmhurst PD. Clean, friendly, and well-run, it felt more like small-town store than a police station.

Lee flashed his badge, and within moments, an officer took us back to Police Chief Delbert Guptill's office. White-haired and smiling, he adjusted his tinted eyeglasses and waved us to the chairs in front of his desk. “Now, what can I do for a couple of the Bureau of Organized Crime's top cops?”

“Do you remember an ATF agent detonating a series of explosions?”

“You'll have to be a little more specific, son.” Guptill hooted with laughter. “We got some o' them alphabet boys out here every other month, don'tcha know.”

“Sir?” I said. “I don't follow.”

“Elmhurst has a quarry pit. And our boys sure don't mind earning a little OT watching a fireworks show.”

I handed across a copy of the form that Chief Guptill, two other officers, and two firemen had signed.

“Well, that's my signature, sure enough. If the ATF needs somethin' blown up, you know, they'd rather come here than take it over to the army range.”

“Why?” Lee said.

“The paperwork alone, eh? You got OSHA and the EPA and God knows who has to sign off, chain of command and all that. And I imagine we're a fair bit cheaper.”

I tucked my hair behind my ear. “So, they call you and say, ‘Hey, I got some stuff to blow up?' A couple cops and firemen show up to watch the show, and . . . ?”

“They blow up their explosives, and we sign the paperwork and then go knock down a few pints at Manny's.”

I'd seen the look on Lee's face before. On the National Geographic Channel. Right after the tiger brings the antelope down. “We got him,” he said.

Once we were back in the car, Lee said, “Where's the best place to hide something?”

“Plain sight.”

“And what's plainer than proof the strikers have been destroyed?”

On the way back to Chicago, he explained his theory of what Ditch Broady had done. “He files a phony report, tells them he found a bunch of stuff that needs to be disposed of. His boss signs off on the detonators. He reserves quarry time at Elmhurst. Then, sweet as pie, the Podunk police and firemen show up. Broady tells him it's pretty unstable and it'd be best if everyone kept their distance.”

Lee's brown eyes sparked with the excitement of the chase. “He's an explosives expert, after all, so he makes some homegrown bomb, blows it to smithereens in front of the audience, who then sign off as witnesses.” He slugged me gently in the shoulder. “No detonators, no accountability. Get it?”

“Tidy. Concise. Logical. You sure you don't want to be an attorney?”

“I'll give Walt the heads-up, check in on the ballistic report. Our next step: Find out who's bankrolling him. Yeah?” Lee flashed me a smile. “Whaddya think?”

A dirty ATF agent with God only knew who was pulling his strings?

I jerked awake, panting and fumbling for my Kimber Ultra. I sat up and rested my elbows on my knees, gun dangling loosely in my hand.

Only the truly wicked or the truly good can sleep the sleep of the dead. Which is why I slept the hitching, twitching sleep of the neurotic.

The digital clock showed 6:21. Like some sort of challenge. I stared at my reflection in the mirror at the end of the bed.

I knew exactly how I was going to spend my day. I pulled on jeans and a tee, and in less then twenty minutes I was out the door en route to the salon.

It took Lee until 9:30 to wake up and call me.

“Hang on.” I held up a palm to my nail tech, Luba. “You're going to love this.” I hit Speaker on my iPhone and held it up so she could hear it.

The woman next to me and her tech leaned in.

“Where are you?” Lee demanded. “You just took off?”

“There's a note.”

A bumping noise. “Nope.” Lee paused, swallowing. “Nothing here.”

“Are you drinking the milk straight from the carton?”

“Uh . . . no?”

Luba snorted and covered her mouth.

“Baby?” I said, laying it on thick for the girls. “Put the carton down. Turn it around until you see the note.”

“Smart-ass.”

“You're welcome.” I moved to click off the speakerphone. The women waved at me not to.

“How long does a spa day last anyway?” Lee said. “And who are Sonia and Guma?”

“The cleaners. Their check is on the coffee table in the living room. Just get everything off the floor.”

No response.

“Lee?”

“Yeah. I guess I'll see you when I see you.”

“'Bye-ee.” I hung up.

“A deep voice,” said the woman at the next station, eyeing me up and down. “How old is your son?”

“That's not my son.” I started giggling.

Her nail tech opened a bottle of topcoat. “Husband?”

“Boyfriend,” corrected Luba. “A husband would've called to ask
where
the milk is.”

Hours later, I rode up the elevator, feeling better than brand new after a mani-pedi, massage, spray tan, and haircut. The outrageously charming navy Nanette Lepore jacket and power pencil skirt in a Saks shopping bag didn't hurt, either.

I went to my room and hung up my new outfit. There was something I was forgetting, but I couldn't put my finger on it. Stannis's watch read five thirty. An hour and a half until Christo Keck and company came over.

I lay down.

My eyes snapped open.

Stannis's legacy. The bone jar.

I made crying noises for about twenty seconds. It helped, surprisingly.

After lugging Stannis's legacy into the kitchen and setting it on the counter, I double-bagged a black trash bag and wedged a mesh strainer in the top.

I pried off the thick wooden lid.

Gently, I poured the white sand through the mesh, stopping to sift every so often. Eventually, the strainer was full of ivory pieces.

But the sand hadn't come off the bones as quickly or easily as I had hoped.

Dammit.

I Windex-ed the jar, desperately trying to think of an alternative solution, because wiping off all those human finger bones might actually make me vomit.

Aha!
Blow-dryer.

Set on cool, my Conair blasted clean Stannis's wind-blown sin.

Mine, too.

Coles's finger was in there, somewhere.

I returned the bones to the jar. The fine aquarium sand had settled into the deep grooves of the wood lid. I held it over the trash can and blew on it. The sand slid into a tiny rectangular outline. I pressed it with my fingertip.

It popped open. Inside was a minute black USB drive. Three-quarters of an inch wide by one and a half inches long.

I put the lid on and slipped the drive in my pocket. Stannis's legacy was impressively ghoulish. And the fact that it didn't weird me out that much, would hopefully instill confidence in their new leader.

The double doors were open.

An ESPN rerun of a classic football game droned on the TV over the fireplace. Lee was sound asleep on the couch. He loved Stannis's office. Partially because it made me uncomfortable, but mostly because it was sublime.

I crossed the room and returned Stannis's legacy to the desktop. Even money, it would escape Mr.
You-didn't-leave-a-note
's notice.

I gazed down at his sharply planed cheekbones, the hard lines of his mouth. The corners tipped up naturally. Even sleeping, he was a good sport. I picked up a cashmere throw and covered him. He might as well get a solid half hour while I tried to find out what in the hell was on this drive.

* * *

The password code blinked at me. Unruffled, unbothered. The scurvy bastard.

I took a break to call The Storkling and make a request to see Violetta Veteratti personally that evening, as well as two bizarre reservations, one in the club for two or three and another in the bar for two or four or possibly six, and was assured complete satisfaction.

That's the lovely thing about power. Wielding it.

I looked at the notebook where I'd listed the passwords I'd already tried:

Nothing.

Safe to say I was more Hacky Sack than hacker.

The alarm on my MacBook went off. I shut down the laptop and put the drive away, loathe to disclose its existence to Lee or Sawyer until I knew what was on it.

Time to get ready.

“Lee?” I called, fastening Stannis's Patek Philippe on my wrist as I walked into the living room in my new Nanette Lepore. “Game time.”

He was waiting for me in a charcoal suit and dark tie. “Wow. Setting the world on fire, are we?”

I gave a showy spin, so I could hide my ridiculous smile, then turned on the stereo and cycled through to Chopin.

At seven on the dot, Christo Keck called up from the lobby. I buzzed him and his men up.

Lee leaned against the wall. “You look good enough to eat.”

“Easy, tiger. Ready to play muscle?”

“Yes, ma'am, Mrs. Renko.”

“I'll be in the office.”

* * *

Straight-backed, I perched on the edge of the desk chair. Not a big believer in the previous life thing, I wouldn't mind channeling Queen Elizabeth I or a lil' Margaret Thatcher.

Lee showed the men in. Christo Keck and three men, all in dark suits, entered the room. Two of the men looked to be brothers. Early thirties, six-four and six-two, hovering around 190 pounds with coal-black hair, long, pale faces, and identical aquiline noses. The third was five-ten, in his midtwenties, ropy and rugged, and somewhat adorable with deep dimples in his cheeks.

Stannis would never have let me stand or shake hands, so I didn't. “It is good to see you, Christo, out from under.”

He bowed his head. “I thank you for all that you have done, Mrs. Renko.”

My, so formal.
“And who have we here?”

Christo introduced them from shortest to tallest. “Srecko, Miljan, and Vladimir.”

“You are too young and beautiful to meet with men such as us.” Srecko smiled, popping those dimples, dismissing me. “This business is for the strong.”

“Awww.” I propped my elbows on the desk, rested my chin on my hands, and smiled right back. “You are very sweet. But you forget your place, Srecko. Do not let it happen again.”

The dimples disappeared. “
Å ta?
”

I turned to Keck. “Would you be a darling and translate for Srecko?”

“I understand perfectly,” Srecko said.

“Do you?” I looked up through my lashes. “Then pay me the respect due the wife of
Mesar
Renko.”

“He is not here. Where is the proof that you are able to take the reins ?”

I rested my fingertips on the edge of the jar. “In here is the mayor of Chicago's little finger. I took it. As I will take those of the people who disappoint me. As I was taught by my husband.”

Uncertainty crossed Srecko's eyes.

“I know this to be true,” Christo said.

Ignoring Srecko, I smiled at the two taller men. “Miljan, Vladimir. It is very nice to meet you.”

“
Drago mi je da smo se upoznali,
” Miljan said.

I could feel Srecko's fuse burning. Lee's weight shifted to the balls of his feet. “I look forward to a strong and prosperous relationship.”

Vladimir nodded. “
G-đa Renko.
”

Srecko slammed his fist on the desk. “You know noth—”

Lee had a hand on the kid's belt and his Sig Sauer at the base of his skull. Eyes on Miljan and Vladimir.

Keck's face was shuttered.

“You are a killer, Srecko, of this I have no doubt. But beware the old man in a profession where most men die young.” I opened the desk drawer and took out the kitchen cleaver I'd put there just in case. “I am young, too, Srecko. I do not want to make a mistake.” I tapped the blade against my palm. “I do not wish to maim a young and talented man in my employ. But I will not have him mistake my wisdom for weakness.”

“Take his finger,” Keck said. “He's could use a reminder.”

What would Stannis do?

I knew what he would do, goddammit. And it hurt me. And doing it in front of Lee was going to hurt even worse.

“I have something else in mind. And this is far too clumsy.” I dropped the cleaver into the desk drawer. “Does anyone have a knife?”

Miljan and Vladimir each held out a blade.

“No,” Srecko said, eyes glowing with defiance. “You use mine.”

Lee let go of the belt, reached around, pulled the blade from his pocket, and handed it to me.

I opened the knife. “His arm.” Lee moved to take his arm.

“No.” Srecko pulled his sleeve up and extended his left hand, palm up. “Is honor.”

The blood pulsed so hard at my temples, when I sliced the first stroke, I almost thought the blood was mine. Four more small slashes, and the letter
M
appeared on his forearm, just above his wrist. It was beyond awful.

Lee didn't look at me.
Thank God.

Keck, whom I hadn't realized had left the room, returned with one of Stannis's white terry bar towels. He wrapped it around Srecko's wrist, the snow-white plush turning to crimson before my eyes.

The symmetry of the event was unspeakable. But worst of all was the sick, starry-eyed look of adoration in Srecko's eyes.

“Unfortunately, I have business this evening at The Storkling,” I said. “But I would have you dine as my guests.”

Lee took the three men into the kitchen, leaving Keck alone with me.

“You did very well, Mrs. Renko.” He gave a sad bark of laughter. “Soon they will all want one.”

I was exhausted. I had no idea how I made it the fifteen steps to the door. He waited for me to step through. “Do you know the name of Stannislav's sister?”

“Senka.” The corners of his slanted eyes crinkled. “It means ‘shadow.'”

“Christo?” I said softly. “Let's get one thing perfectly clear. While I will appreciate your counsel, I will not be governed by it.”

“But of course, Mrs. Renko.”