Tracking Shadows (Shadows of Justice 4) (19 page)

Loyalty from the criminal class wasn't easy to foster and yet somehow Joel –
Micky – had done it. He'd gathered a vast array of people and pointed them toward a singular purpose, becoming the most connected and most powerful smuggler in town.

It couldn't all be rumor-based as he'd implied. At some point a businessman had to deliver on products or threats or he didn't get anywhere. But his people didn't act like frightened pawns or thugs with delusions of climbing to the top of the criminal order. They acted like a family.

It shouldn't irritate her, but it did. Worse, spending time in the warehouse made her feel like that lost little kid again. She'd had more than enough of being a freak. She'd spent her childhood as an outcast, always living on the fringe of real friendships.

Now, by choice, she had an independent life as a professional on her own terms, going where and when she pleased. An independent person didn't need a warehouse of people impersonating a family just to please a criminal. Shrugging a battered backpack over her shoulder, she squeezed through the doors at the last second to reach the platform.

If Micky's neighborhood looked threatening, she knew the area waiting at the bottom of the metal stairs promised more immediate and serious physical risk. The grit and grime were real here, not fabricated or nurtured for effect.

Her booted feet hit the pavement and she felt the locals put the target on her back before she'd gone two paces. No protective detail lurked in disguise; she was on her own in
Crayland's corner of the world. She indulged a moment, thinking about how he'd freak, and how she'd kill him, if he recognized her.

Knowing her blue eyes would flare a warning to anyone who
looked, she'd muted them with brown contacts and hidden her red head under a wig of dark, dull, messy hair. Having trained herself to blend in with her surroundings, to meld with the worlds of her various targets, she'd never yet played the strung out junkie role. There was plenty of inspiration around, so she mimicked the defeated posture and desperate expressions as the people needing a fix moved closer to their preferred dealers.

As expected, the street signs were absent or vandalized, so her research habit paid off as she shuffled her way closer to
Crayland's corner.

From researching
Montalbano she knew Crayland was an important weapon in his arsenal. Dealing drugs kept cash rolling in no matter what happened with the defense contracts on the legitimate side of his resume.

Trina paused, her back to a brick wall as she watched exchange after exchange, getting a feel for
Crayland's rhythm of dealing. He didn't waste time. Sharp movements and sharper eyes were constantly assessing his prey and the general area. She'd checked his record and knew he hadn't been busted in over a year. There might be more money in territories like Dakota's, but there was a certain immunity here. The police had apparently given up on this bleak pocket of Chicago.

Just as she moved forward, a familiar face crossed to
Crayland. Chloe, the bratty girl from Micky's team. The girl was clearly familiar to Crayland too. He smiled broadly and opened his arms for a hug. A hug?

Dread clutched Trina's stomach at the sight of a trusted mule with
Micky's enemy. She didn't worry about being recognized, but it was sickening to watch Chloe schmooze so easily with the likes of Crayland. She felt the whip of temper, driving her to act, but she held firm. Being smart meant taking a full assessment.

The bitch was one fine actress, spouting the party line and touting the benefits of
Micky's place. Yet here she was, crooning over the nickel bag he personally placed in her hands, before he tucked her under his arm. Didn't she know what he was doing? How could she not?  Talk about a conflict of interest.

Chloe wasn't naïve like April. No, she was more of a bully like
Crayland, except at the moment, she looked too blissfully content to dish out any sort of insult or badgering. More questions than answers raced through Trina's mind about possible romantic involvement, Micky's definite recon and security skills, and entrapment. Was it considered it entrapment between two crime bosses? Didn't matter. She had a decision to make: observe or intervene?

Trina observed because it suited her schedule and she wasn't inclined to save Chloe from herself. If the gossip at the warehouse was true, Chloe's occasional pot use was increasing. No intervention was scheduled since getting high softened her iron-clad bitch routine. She certainly looked friendly enough now, not just with
Crayland, but with everyone in sight.

Interesting.

Trina felt the dealer watching her. Time to move. Shuffling around the corner, she searched out a better place to watch him work his customers. She had that sense of
deja vu
when she crept through the gaping door into the dreary shell of an old apartment building, but this time the junkies were real.

She picked her way around humans and debris, until she found a room overlooking
Crayland's operating corner. Chloe was leaving and Trina wanted to gag when she caught the girl blowing kisses. Something was seriously off with Chloe and after a few minutes, it was clear she wasn't the only one. No one haggled with Crayland, every customer was agreeable, even affable.

Double checking to be sure she was the only lucid person nearby, she fished a new camera out of the tattered backpack and captured some pictures.
Positively sickening how they gazed at him with admiration and gratitude. No question he wasn't selling pure weed, but how could she find out what he was he adding in?

The enhancement had to be connected to
Montalbano somehow. Not just by way of an order. Crayland was more than dumb muscle. Trina recalled her notes regarding Montalbano's efforts to break into the military 'supplement' game. Some other medical genius had beaten him to it, but his labs were still fully funded.

Now that Chloe had the product, Trina didn't see the sense in wasting her own money. She'd just pinch a little when she got back to the warehouse. Or convince
Micky to deal with it. Carefully avoiding Crayland's corner, she returned to the el platform and headed to her next appointment.

She wanted to give a joyful shout when the sparkling financial district came into view through the scratched el train windows. All the morning's contemplation was just too depressing. Nothing made her feel alive and in charge like bold action and cold logic.

If she pulled off this stunt, Joel –
Micky
– had a better chance of surviving the next attempt to take him out. She wasn't about to examine her reasoning, this was purely a gut call after the recent headlines.

Logic, logic, logic
, she thought, leaving the train and descending the stairs with the crowd. She let her head come up and put a spring in her step. Blending here, before she changed clothes, meant selling her look as a quirky 'artiste' rather than a lost junkie looking for a pocket to pick. She ducked into an alley, heading for the service entrance of the restaurant that anchored the nearest glittering high rise. Scooting through the kitchen to the employee's area, she brushed the wig, verified the contacts, and completed her transformation with a conservative suit and heels. At the mirror, she took stock of the new look and smiled at her success. She'd created the resemblance she wanted and might actually pass for Dakota's sister, eager to seize the reins and offer a fresh direction to the 'board of enforcers'. Stuffing all her previous failures in mass illusion into a mental box, she locked it and gave herself a pep talk.

It wasn't like she was really going to impress a big crowd, needing them all to see a movement or her physical features exactly the same way at a specific moment. No, this was more about attitude and calling a bluff. Two things she'd never expected to count as strengths. She wrapped herself in that untouchable confidence and left the restaurant, ignoring the curious looks.

Dakota's gang was knee deep in the feeding frenzy she'd set in motion. Taking out the boss tended to send the wannabes scrambling for a bigger slice of control. And while she'd suspected from the first that the crime bosses had come to some tenuous agreement to take out Slick Micky, she had not expected Montalbano to try and fill the hole she'd created by killing Dakota.

The territories, expertise and styles differed, but apparently the lust for power was universal.

Dakota had dressed in the right clothes, maintained the right address, and attended the right functions, earning the grudging respect of the financial community. Everyone knew he was dirty, but they all wanted to play. Just like she'd told Joel, people didn't care where the money came from as long as you tossed a little their way. Dakota had been a serious patron of the arts using money he collected in drug deals and extortion services carried out by his lieutenants.

Montalbano
wasn't ignored by the law, precisely, but everyone knew he was generally above it, thanks to a family tree full of mob bosses and a talent for legal tap dancing. Taking him down was going to be tricky. A simple assassination wouldn't work. Even if she tossed light on the small, convoluted knot that linked his legitimate defense enterprises with Crayland's street gang, odds were good he'd beat the rap.

The way she'd read the headlines,
Montalbano had sicced Crayland on the middle ranks of Dakota's scattered in-fighters. A few of Dakota's men had been picked up for petty, trumped up complaints, and the media credited all of it to anonymous tips. Anyone with street sense understood the potential risk and significant reward if Montalbano gained control of Dakota's people, but she wasn't sure law enforcement would make the connection in time to stop it.

She didn't lie to herself. 'In time' meant in time to protect
Micky now. It still caused an odd little glitch in her stomach to realize she wanted to help a man who'd lied to her and prided himself on a business she didn't believe in.

Pulling her thoughts away from any softer emotions, determined to get this done and get out of town before she reached the point of no return, she strolled down the block and into Dakota's building.

Her first test came unexpectedly at the building's reception desk. The psychiatrist she'd drugged to gain access to Dakota's private offices gave her a long look while he waited for the elevator. She let him take his visual inventory, returning the favor until his cheeks went pink. Counting it a success, she asked for a visitor's pass to Dakota's floor.

"That's restricted, ma'am.
By invitation only."

She smiled, but it was nothing close to friendly. "Well, give Mr. Walker a call," she insisted, dropping the name of Dakota's second in command. "And get busy on that pass. I'm on a schedule."

The receptionist remained stoic despite Trina's attitude, but she moved to comply. Or call security. Trina prepared for either option.

"Whom shall I announce?"

"Ms. Dakota."

The receptionist's poise cracked and her eyes widened.
"Of course."

So she had nailed the family resemblance.
For one peripheral person. It wasn't big, but it was a start.

Chapter Nineteen

Micky
had no trouble identifying the hotel in question, or gaining access to the room still sealed by bright crime scene tape. With his mules back on their routes, gossip flowed freely and this time he was grateful for it. Getting past the official barrier simply meant applying a bit of his natural charm. Now, if he only knew what he hoped to find.

Might have been smarter to hack into the evidence database or the morgue from the safety of his warehouse, but his gut insisted there was something here that wouldn't translate in reports or holograms. But was it something that led to Trina or away from her?

He didn't like this need to confirm or deny her story about taking out Sis's killer. It was bogus. Had to be. Trina wasn't supposed to be a bad ass. She was supposed to be a bittersweet memory of calmer days long gone.

And yet, she was here, back in Chicago and tied to at least one incident of harassing his business. He needed to pin down how she'd wound up on the docks and still had nothing to do with the sabotage that hadn't actually been sabotage. Did paranoia cause headaches? He pressed his hands to his temples and took a breath. Maybe her timing was just that awful.
Nah. Maybe he was just that afraid, in some deep insecure corner of his mind, that she'd carefully planned it.

Forcing himself to the task, knowing time was short, he examined the room. It surprised him they hadn't done any cleaning aside from the body and personal effects. The evidence team must have been spooked by the fingerprints. If the hotel ownership caught wind of a military connection, they might be anticipating a major settlement. Juiced soldiers causing damage in civilian digs always earned big hush money. Just another – legal – form of extortion,
Micky thought.

Raised by generations of criminals, he had an advantage over cops and evidence teams. If the guy was a grinder, military assassin, he would've taken precautions that included an escape hatch identity. Brian had assured him the detectives were working all angles, and yet
Micky felt there was something more going on.

He rifled every drawer, opened every cabinet door, feeling for false bottoms, inserts, tape or even residue. It was old school, but the simple techniques were favored for good reason: they were effective. Through it all, he thought of Trina's face and the unmistakable pride in her voice when she'd claimed to kill this man.

Had
Trina
really managed to stage it like a sex encounter gone wrong? Why?

Micky
scrubbed at his face, wondering what the hell he was doing here. Any physical evidence was long gone. It wasn't like he'd find a stray red hair to confirm her story. The same lack of evidence meant he couldn't deny her claim either.

Brian's opinion about one professional taking out another drifted through his mind as he studied the bed. He just didn't want to admit she might be an assassin.

She made people hallucinate, offering up illusions that could amuse or terrify. Ben had mentioned being overrun by spiders and Darlene swore Trina's eyes turned an evil red. But sex gone bad?

God, it fit. Seduction was the perfect scenario for a woman to get close enough to restrain and kill a bigger, stronger opponent. Trina's sensuous build would cause any red blooded man to crave, to envision the possibilities even without her illusion skills.

Turning away from the nightmare of guilt
that
idea caused him, knowing it was not just possible, but probable that Trina had done this, he resumed his search for proof. This time, with the desperation of a man bent on protecting her.

If Brian thought the false leads were annoying before, he'd soon be pissed as hell. No way
Micky was going to sit idle and leave Trina to twist for disposing of the bastard who'd murdered Sis.

He'd failed her once and he learned from his mistakes. Before, he'd blown off her unique skill with trite words and platitudes. Not that he'd known how to really help her, but he hadn't even tried. Back then he couldn't be bothered to find someone willing to talk to her or get involved. Nearly getting killed hadn't been his idea, but the circumstances left her friendless in a cold life. He should've worked harder to find her. He might have given her options or led her to a career with more promise than taking lives for pay.

Their recent encounters flashed through Micky's mind as he tossed the mattress and searched under the bed with his flashlight. When she'd startled him with the memories of the explosion, had that been an attack or just a blow back of her own shock at seeing him alive? He'd never given her a chance to answer.

In the atrium, she'd been alternately miserable and blissful, muttering about a mental breakdown and her attraction.
To him.

Coming up empty on the search,
Micky wasn't ready to celebrate. It was likely the evidence team already had what they needed to track her down. He cringed. If she'd left behind a stray red hair, they'd have her in custody the minute she showed up on any security feed in Illinois.

"Christ almighty. Are you lost?"

Micky spun toward the voice and the large man blocking the door, wishing like hell he'd relied on Kyle's hacking. "Might say the same about you, Gideon." They didn't really know each other aside from a fast intro from Jaden. Even in street clothes it was easy to believe his former life in black ops.  At the moment he wasn't looking all that 'former'.

"Expecting trouble?"
Micky nodded to the shoulder holster.

Gideon stuck his head in the door, looked around. "I've learned to expect a little of everything."

Micky glanced behind Gideon, looking for Petra. The man's wife was Jaden's sister and the mules had chattered about her supposedly psychic abilities. Right now, Micky wished he'd listened. "You come alone?"

Gideon grimaced. "I tried since
it's business." He waved his pregnant wife in from the hall.

"And since
it's business, I let him have all his super security fun." She winked at him.

The big man looked pained and adoring all at once.
Micky looked away, barely resisting the urge to shuffle his feet.

"What happened to your face?" Petra moved closer, but didn't try to touch him.

Micky stepped back anyway, just in case his recent, vivid memories tried to jump out of his head and into hers.  "Nothing. Just gives people something to talk about," he replied, but Petra's attention had already shifted to the stripped bed, visible through the wide doorway. He turned to Gideon as she walked by. "What's going on?"

"Doing a favor for an old friend."

More likely Gideon and the dead guy shared similar military connections. "You knew the victim?"

"No, but I knew his type." Gideon pressed his index finger to his lips. "Let her work."

Micky shrugged. He wanted to leave, but didn't dare. He had to know if Petra's skills turned up something that led to Trina. Wanted to be around to diffuse it. "What's she doing?"

Gideon leaned closer, keeping his voice low. "She 'reads' whatever crime residue is left behind. It's a mind thing I don't pretend to understand, but it's real."

Micky didn't dare speculate.

"Why are
you
here?"

"The cops found a connection between the deceased and my dead partner."

"No," Petra's serene voice drifted in from the bedroom. "Your partner is still alive."

Micky
raised an eyebrow at Gideon, but the man only shrugged. "I've learned not to argue."

He considered his words carefully, hoping to draw out more information. "My assistant, Sis, was tossed out a window. When I heard the guy who did it died here, I came to pay my respects."

"Uh-huh. With a fake access card I'm sure."

Micky
grinned, unrepentant.

"The deceased was a rank bastard.
Went by Atlas on the street. Started as military, then discovered private contracts paid better."

Brian had called the man intimidating even when dead on the coroner's table.
Micky was glad to have the scar in place, it helped conceal his reaction. Trina had called the assassin by that name – when she'd been trying to convince him she avenged Sis.

"Know who hired him?" He just managed to get the words out past the icy ball of panic in his throat. 

"There's a working theory."

Petra returned before Gideon could elaborate. With a hand on her belly, her cheeks rosy, and a beatific smile on her lips she didn't seem any worse for whatever mind thing she'd been doing. "The baby has the hiccups." She waved Gideon over to share the moment.

Good grief! Micky wanted to leave, but he had to know if Petra had found anything to implicate Trina. "So, ah, nothing useful?"

"Oh, forgive me. It's just…well I won't bore you with it."

Micky waved off the apology. But he didn't like that soft tenderness in her eyes, as if she could see something deep inside him that he didn't want to examine. Whatever she thought she was looking at, he didn't want her psychic skills aimed at him any longer than necessary. "So did the cops get it right the second time? Was it murder?"

Petra tipped her head and turned toward her husband. Gideon shrugged.

"It was. And really quite an interesting one."

"Not self-defense?"
Micky gritted his teeth to keep from blurting out more absurdities.

"
Mmm." Petra shook her head. "No, not self-defense. It was a dark struggle. Not unexpected between two trained killers determined to live. Whatever she said or did, the deceased was motivated to take his own life."

"She?"
Gideon spoke to Petra, but his gaze was locked with Micky's.

"Got a woman on your old crew?" It was a minor victory to watch the other man bristle. Until he felt too childish as Petra quietly diffused his anger with a soft touch. "Sorry.
Just trying to figure this out." He had the eerie feeling Petra already had.

"For the record, the man who stayed in this room was in Chicago on orders. His killer was not."

Micky gulped. "The record?" A grinder on orders in Chicago. Why would the military care about Sis or his operation?

"Yeah.
Whatever Petra finds will be reported to my boss."

His boss.
The Marine Corps Commandant. Shit. Micky knew how to read people and it was obvious Petra knew the whole story. Names and details aside, Trina was about to become a target in the military side of this investigation. The assassin label made her a shoot-first sort of target.

"What do you know about the female who took out Atlas?"

Micky shook his head, grateful he didn't have to lie. "Nothing." It wasn't semantics. He absolutely did
not
know a Trina capable of cold blooded murder.

* * *

"I know you're not his sister," Walker said when the elevator eased to a smooth stop at his floor. "Though you did a good job trying." He kept one hand on the override key and traced Trina's cheekbone with his beefy finger.

She didn't flinch, but it was a near thing. "Thank you?"

"What are you playing at, lady?"

"Short game, big stakes."
She knocked his hand away. "Montalbano thinks Dakota territory is an early Christmas present. I'd rather not make it so easy for him."

"What do you know about it?"

"I know you've got associates in jail on faked evidence."

He tugged on his ear. "Huh.
You some kind of court officer? Or one of those lousy cops in bed with the Mob?"

If only. "No. I'm some kind of asset to you if you've got the balls to make a decision that will put you in Dakota's vacant chair."

"Huh." He turned the key and the doors parted. "Let's see you convince the boys. Bring 'em around and I'll let you walk out of here in one piece."

Ten minutes later Trina was pretty sure she was about to die. Her life wasn't flashing by quite yet, but she was losing control of the crowd. If she could quiet the hecklers and get them viewing Walker as her supporter she might survive.

It was vital to remember the disguise, to own the disguise. Only Walker knew she was faking the sister thing. She planted her hands on her hips and stared down the length of the conference table. Walker looked like the bulldog he was, but he wasn't stupid. A point that worked both for and against her. He could recognize the value of her offer as well as the offer from Montalbano. She just needed him to decide she was the better risk.

Own the disguise.
Micky's voice popped into her head: use the rumors.

Ms. Dakota didn't have any, but Trina could damn well drum up some chatter right here and now.

"Everyone out." The collective personnel dulled her message with their greed for instant gratification. She made strides with one argument, only to lose ground to the next doubter who opened his mouth. "Walker and I will finalize this."

"He can't decide for all of us. We –"