Twisted: Nick Stryker Series, Book Two The Shallow End Gals Read online

  Wayne scrolled further on the screen. “And here’s our 25 thousand cash withdrawal same day. Why is this guy splittin’ big fees and paying with cash?”

  Wayne and Nick just stared at each other. It meant something. What?

  Nick frowned. “Let’s go back at least a year on Baxter and see how many of these we have. What if our mob attorney was a middle man for hits? Wait, Alexia Cummings signed the check; she wouldn’t have paid for a hit on herself.” Nick started clicking his pen again until Jen frowned at him to stop.

  Nick’s phone rang. He listened for a moment, said thanks, and hung up. He turned to face the others. “Ballistics confirmed Baxter and Cummings were shot with the same gun.”

  Sam leaned back in his chair and asked, “What about your flower? Maybe it’s not so special after all?”

  Nick smiled, “My flower was a sniper shot. I knew it would be different.”

  Nick leaned his chair forward. “Something else is bothering me. Isn’t it weird that the addresses on Dalton Street are reversed? What if someone transposed the numbers by mistake? That’s a good neighborhood. What are the odds of two murders in that neighborhood on the same night?” Nick smiled, “Just suppose that Lomas was a mistake. Alexia Cummings is the only one that paid our attorney. What if the killer went to the wrong house first?”

  Jen rolled her eyes. “And also killed a man by mistake instead of a woman? And then decided to kill his meal ticket attorney friend? Gettin’ out there, Stryker.”

  Nick leaned forward, “Stay with me a minute. Let’s say 45 Dalton Street was a mistake. 54 Dalton Street gets upset because the paid for hit that didn’t happen. It would explain Alexia writing the check if Travis was the target.”

  Wayne rolled his chair closer. “54 Dalton lady calls lawyer to complain; lawyer calls hit man.”

  Nick smiled, “Hit man kills the two people that know he made a mistake before the first murder is reported. Problem solved and reputation still intact.”

  Jen asked, “Who cares that much about reputation?”

  Wayne and Nick both answered, “The mob.”

  Nick pointed at Jen. “Or…maybe we have scenario number two. Mob banker is being pressured by somebody that kills his wife as a warning to play ball. This person might have a problem with the mob in general. Maybe they decide to really send a message by killing the mob’s attorney on the same night.”

  Jen asked, “What about Reggie Lomas? How does he fit into this scenario number two?”

  Wayne answered, “He doesn’t. You said he wasn’t very likeable. His hit was a sniper shot, different from the other two. His hit could be totally unrelated. In spite of Nick’s flower.”

  Nick stood, “I think I want to hear Dom’s take on this.”

  Jen asked, “Dom who?”

  “Guioni.” Nick smiled at Jen’s expression. Dom was known to be the Westside mob boss.

  “I was afraid that’s who you meant.”

  Nick’s phone rang again; he answered, listened and then said, “Yes, sir.”

  Nick looked at Jen, “Chief says someone from Special Cases is here to have a chat.”

  * * *

  Mo whispered, “Wait, no need to panic. Why don’t we just dump the head and sell the guns?”

  Flash pointed at the blue cooler in the backseat. “Man, I don’t care, as long as we get rid of that.”

  Mo turned the car around.

  Sirus Corn watched two young men in a Jeep pull up near the fence at Sumac Park on East 42nd Street. The passenger got out and put a perfectly good cooler in the dumpster. Sirus rubbed his chin and watched the boys drive away. Sirus knew Maude would be turning the corner any minute to search the dumpsters. If he was going to get that cooler, he’d better hurry.

  Sirus gave his overfilled cart a push forward and lifted the lid on the dumpster. There it sat, just as pretty as you please. He grabbed an armload of treasures from his cart and placed them on a nearby bench. He hefted the cooler. It was heavy. He shoved the cooler as far down as he could in his shopping cart and replaced his other treasures on top. He could barely see over the pile.

  Maude’s hunched over frame struggled to push her already overloaded shopping cart. She cleared the line of shrubs at the corner and headed quickly towards Sirus. Maude screeched, “You best get away from here. This is my street, Mr. Sirus Corn!”

  “You pay as much in property taxes as I do you ol’ bitch. You don’t own no street.” Sirus sounded brave, but he turned his cart and quickly headed away from Maude. She was known to carry a big knife and wasn’t afraid to use it. Sirus just wanted to put as much distance as he could between them. Tonight he would go back to the little ‘apartment’ he shared with his friend, Daryl, in the tunnel community. He was safe there from people like Maude.

  * * *

  Frankie tried to figure out how to dial his apartment manager on his new phone. He hated this phone. It was one more inconvenience of having to babysit Artie. He didn’t want Artie hearing messages from his jobs on the apartment line. Frankie had several sources that used his skills and had given all of them his new number this morning. He was going to have to figure out the stupid phone sooner rather than later. He finally reached the apartment manager and told him he would be there shortly and wanted to see today’s surveillance camera feed from the parking garage.

  Frankie went to his favorite gun shop and purchased new guns to replace his stolen guns from the ‘special’ selection room of the store. He drove back to the storage unit and locked them inside. He kept his pistol in his coat. Artie would expect him to carry something for personal protection.

  Back at the apartment building, Frankie and the manager watched two punks empty Frankie’s trunk and drive away after Frankie left. Frankie’s heart clenched as he watch the punk heft the cooler from his trunk and throw it into the Jeep. That was his most prized trophy. He had kept it safe for decades.

  The manager was shocked. “Well I’ll be. Didn’t take ‘em but five minutes to clean you out. Don’t recognize them boys as belongin’ around here.”

  Frankie pointed to the screen. “Back this up and zoom in on that plate. I’ll know who they are soon enough.”

  Frankie sat in his car in the garage as he called a mob friendly officer at the Chicago PD. “Hey. Got a plate number I need you to run.” Two minutes later Frankie was writing down the address for Mo.

  * * *

  Travis Cummings had spent two hours being questioned by Nick. His answers to Nick’s questions never wavered. No, he had no idea who would want to kill his wife. Yes, his marriage sucked, didn’t they all? No, he hadn’t used Attorney Baxter for anything lately. He had no idea why his wife paid Baxter 50 grand. No, there was not a divorce being planned that he knew of. Yes, he was aware that the majority of his clients were thought to be tied to the mob. No, he wouldn’t discuss any of his clients. Finally, Travis suggested they give him a polygraph test so he could resume his life. He passed.

  Instead of returning home, Travis drove to the Westside, where he purchased a prepaid phone, dialed Dom, and asked for a meeting. Dom refused and pointed out that the cops would be watching Travis closely even though he passed his poly. Dom assured Travis that Alexia’s death was not mob ordered and that he personally would see to it that whoever was responsible would pay.

  Travis tossed the phone into the nearest trash receptacle when the conversation was over. He didn’t feel any better after talking to Dom. In fact, he felt worse. He was a month late posting the contract fee from the hospital. Dom’s cut of the fee, the skim, could not be late. He couldn’t post what hadn’t been sent. But how could Dom know already? The statement wasn’t due to be sent out until next week. Travis knew that Dom had eyes and ears everywhere. He had to assume Dom knew there was a problem. It was Travis’s job to make sure the skim came in uninterrupted. No excuses.

  Travis had called Dr. Elmhurst and told him to pay up. Elmhurst had said something about budget problems with the State. Travis had warned Elmhurst that it wa
s a big mistake to disappoint Dom. Elmhurst had screamed at him to back off. Could Elmhurst have ordered Alexia killed as a warning?

  Travis had a chilling thought: could Dom think he had kept the money? Travis glanced around his surroundings looking for people that might not fit in. Everyone looked suspicious. Stryker had mentioned that Attorney Baxter had been shot last night too. Why had Alexia paid Baxter 50 grand? None of this made sense. He was in the middle of a nightmare.

  Travis walked into a Starbucks and ordered a coffee. He wasn’t sure what to do next. It hit him that he hadn’t told Alexia’s family she was dead. He was so tired and scared after the police left last night that he drank half a bottle of scotch and passed out.

  A young gal next to him turned and smiled. She was beautiful. Travis smiled back realizing for the first time that not everything was wrong today.

  CHAPTER 4

  He finished the sandwich and stuffed the paper wrapper under the mattress. His mind was starting to connect thoughts. He looked at his arms and saw a tattoo of a staff and a single serpent wrapped around it. He ran his finger slowly over the tattoo. It was Asclepius, the Greek symbol of healing. The realization that he knew what it meant caused a tear to roll down his cheek. “I’m a doctor.”

  * * *

  Nick gave a quick rap to the Chief’s door and walked in. Seated inside were his Chief, Detective Bud Holmes, and a man Nick didn’t know. The Chief stood and made introductions. “Nick, I believe you know Bud from Special Cases and this is their FBI liaison, Agent Steven Phillips.”

  Nick shook hands with both of the men, took a seat and returned his gaze to the Chief.

  Chief Dawson asked Nick, “Exactly what do we have so far on the homicides of Alexia Cummings and James Baxter?”

  Nick recapped the connections they had made through bank records and his theory about Alexia’s shooting being a warning to Cummings. Nick noticed Agent Phillips lean back when he mentioned his second theory that Baxter was acting as a middle man on hits. Nick stated he planned on speaking to Dominick Guioni today for his take on the events. Nick noticed Phillips glance quickly at Detective Holmes.

  Holmes spoke to Chief Dawson as if Nick was not in the room. “This is precisely why we should take over the case.” Detective Holmes looked at Nick, “This is no reflection on you Nick. Hell, I know you were a Navy SEAL and all. Nobody questions your integrity or ability. Phillips and I inherited an investigation that started 25 years ago. We’re so close to the end of it that we can taste it. The Westside crew, Dom Guioni in particular, is this close to finally going down.” He had his index finger and thumb pressed together for effect.

  Agent Phillips said, “This week four of the old Chicago crew were released from prison for their 1990 indictments. Carson was shot practically on the courthouse steps; Artie Corsone, Tommy Albergo and Anthony Jarrett are still alive, but maybe not for long. We didn’t get everyone we wanted in 1990, but we might get them soon. Thanks to info from the Family Secrets trial and ongoing FBI investigations, all that’s left is crossing the T’s and dottin’ the I’s. Our problem is that these new murders don’t fit with what we know. Until we figure this out, we can’t spook Dom.”

  Detective Holmes added, “We also have some prison chatter that suggests one of these four men plan to take down Dom. That mutiny info is on top of what we’ve been working on, but with all of the same players. You can see that a lot is happening all of a sudden. The last thing we want Dom thinking about right now is the name Stryker.”

  Nick’s mind swirled. What the hell? He’d never had anything to do with the mob. Nick leaned back, “I think there’s some kind of mistake. The mob can’t have a problem with me. I’ve never worked a mob case and I’ve never spoken to Dom.”

  Agent Phillips leaned forward. “You work Chicago homicide. You’ve never been given a mob case before. You think that’s a coincidence? We’re referring to your mom, Sophia. We can’t risk Dom putting two and two together.”

  Nothing Agent Phillips said was making sense. Nick hadn’t seen his mom in 25 years. She had left him and his dad and never looked back. Agent Phillips stared at Nick’s face. “You don’t know, do you?”

  “Know what?” Nick was angry that he seemed to be the only one not privy to some secret about his mom.

  Agent Phillips handed Nick a card. “Talk to your dad and then call me. We’ll go from there.”

  * * *

  Jen could tell immediately that Nick was upset. His posture was stiff, his jaw set and he had that deep brooding look he got when he was angry. She wanted to ask what happened in the Chief’s office, but she knew Nick would tell her when he was ready.

  Nick sat heavily in his chair, glanced at his computer and then abruptly stood. He rubbed the back of his neck as he rolled his head from side to side. “Can you work with Wayne on Baxter’s bank records for a couple of hours? I want to know how long this pattern of 50 grand checks has been going on.” Nick leaned over and lowered his voice, “I’ve got a problem downtown I have to straighten out.”

  Jen nodded. “Sure. We’ve got plenty to do; take your time.”

  Jen watched as Nick left the room, his cell phone to his ear.

  Wayne cleared his throat, “Everything okay?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Jen knew everything was not okay. Even she couldn’t explain her loyalty to Nick. She instinctively knew something was very wrong. Nick would talk about it when he was ready. It had taken years for their trust to develop, yet there were times she felt she knew nothing about him.

  Nick placed a call to his father, Martin Stryker, who was a professor at the University of Chicago in the Liberal Arts Department. Martin told Nick he had a lecture class starting shortly that would run a couple of hours and then they could meet. Nick felt as if he was going to explode. He had twenty 25 years of unasked questions about his mother assaulting his mind. He decided to go to the downtown shooting range and blow off steam. The University was nearby and he needed the practice time anyway.

  * * *

  Mo pulled the car over to the side of the road and put it in park. They were back in their own neighborhood and had to decide what to do with the stolen guns. Flash started to light a joint. Mo smacked the lighter from his hands. “What’s wrong with you? All we need is to give the cops a reason to stop and find these guns!”

  Flash shrugged. “Sorry, man, I ain’t thinkin’. I’m still screwed up over that head. Who we know might buy these guns?”

  Mo tried to think as he watched all of his mirrors for cop cars. “Hell, I try to stay away from the dudes with the guns. I ain’t got any ideas. You?”

  Flash stuffed the joint into an empty cigarette box and shrugged. Just then a rap on his window made him jump and grab his chest. A neighborhood kid, Joey, had rolled up on his bicycle. Flash lowered his window. “What the hell you want?” Flash enjoyed acting street smart to a kid.

  Joey pointed down the street. “Thought you might wanna know some ol’ dude’s been parked down from your house for a bit. Got binoculars and everythin’ watchin’ yo’ house.” Flash peeled off a dollar bill and handed it to Joey. Joey frowned. “A lousy buck?” Flash peeled off a five and told Joey to get lost.

  Mo and Flash stared at each other in silence. Finally Mo said, “Let’s roll around the back and check this out.”

  Flash sat up straight and nodded. “Don’t get too close, man.”

  Mo turned the corner and pulled into a vacant lot down the street from his house. In the driveway of a boarded up house sat the same car they had robbed in the parking garage.

  Mo threw the Jeep in reverse and sped away from the neighborhood as fast as he could. Flash was rocking in his seat as if to help propel the car forward faster. He finally looked over and screamed above the roar of the Jeep’s motor. “Dude knows where you live!”

  * * *

  Nick had been at the firing range for over an hour. He had a pile of weapons next to him and a three inch thick carpet of brass at his feet. He was in the zone. It felt goo
d to focus on the targets and forget the other issues on his mind.

  His case load was ridiculous. The city was manipulating crime statistics to make it look like crime was down. The Mayor had just ordered reducing the number of homicide detectives just to prove his point. In reality, they would just be transferred to other precincts temporarily and then quietly moved back. All that would accomplish would be assigning personnel to unfamiliar neighborhoods where they had no street informants. One of Nick’s current homicide cases had just been reclassified a vehicle accident on the monthly statistics report. The medical examiner had changed the cause of death to ‘undetermined’. Nick took aim and destroyed the center of his target. The guy wouldn’t have run his car into a brick wall if he hadn’t been shot in the head first.

  Nick knew his precinct captain was fighting to keep Jen and him at the 107th. Captain Swartz had a unique advantage in the political hierarchy of the Chicago PD. His brother was the Commissioner and the Chief wasn’t afraid to say and do what he thought was right. Nick respected him for that. He had witnessed the Chief place his own job on the line when fighting for his officers.

  Now Nick had two, maybe three mob cases to add to his pile. Nick waited for his targets to be replaced. Someone tapped his shoulder and he turned. The duty sergeant motioned for Nick to follow him out of the indoor range area. Once through the heavy steel doors the duty sergeant said, “Terry is asking for help at Ohio and Michigan. Bank robbery at Chase. SWAT is too far away. They’re outgunned, that’s all I know.”

  “I’m taking your best gear.” Nick remembered he had his Harley. “And I need a car.”

  The duty sergeant took a deep breath and then threw a set of keys at Nick. “Everything here is crap. Take mine. Blue GTO all souped up. Lights and sirens added by yours truly. That baby is a tank.”

  Nick could tell the sergeant was proud of his car. Nick winced; he knew his track record of destroying vehicles. Nick strapped his vest on and grabbed a high capacity magazine clip. “You might want to rethink this.”