“They’re not good for you. I’m just helping you eat them because I care about your health. That’s the kind of friend I am.”
Cordie rolled her eyes at Sophie and then turned back as Regan was asking, “I do have a serious question. Do you think Mary Coolidge committed suicide, or do you believe what Sophie believes?”
“That she was murdered?” Cordie whispered. “I’m not sure. It’s possible.”
Regan dropped her fork and leaned forward. “Are you serious?”
“How come you didn’t act shocked when I told you my opinion?” Sophie asked.
Regan didn’t mince words. “Because you’re a drama queen. Cordie’s more practical, and if she thinks it’s possible, then …”
“Then what?” Sophie asked, frowning now.
“Then it’s possible.”
“I’m not a drama queen.”
“Tell me why you think it’s possible,” Regan asked Cordie, ignoring Sophie’s comment.
“Read the diary.”
“I will, but tell me now.”
“Okay. You’ll see toward the end, Mary was scared of Shields. He had threatened her. If you read the last entry, you’ll see that her handwriting is all over the page, which tells me the drugs were in her system and making her loopy. Maybe that’s why she wrote what she wrote … but then again, maybe it was really happening.”
Regan picked up the papers, pulled the last page out, and read. There were only four words.
Too late. They’re coming.
Chapter Six
THE ALLEY SMELLED LIKE WET DOG HAIR AND PUKE. THE OVER-flowing Dumpster that Detective Alec Buchanan had spent most of the night behind smelled much, much worse.
In all, there were now seven detectives working the case. Alec had drawn the short straw and was relegated to doing backup for another detective named Mike Tanner, who was inside the dry and most likely warm warehouse, waiting to make the deal.
Undercover detectives Dutton and Nellis were across the street, watching the entrance to the warehouse from different angles.
Two other detectives were across town at a restaurant, looking as young and clean-cut as high school honor-roll students dressed in the uniform of all the teenagers in the city—Old Navy T-shirts, Gap loose-fit jeans, and scuffed white Nikes. They were impatiently waiting for a fresh supply intended for the streets of suburbia.
The seventh detective was following the money.
Detective Dutton was officially running the show, but Tanner thought he was in charge. Alec had worked with Tanner for only a couple of days, and so he tried not to make any snap judgments about the man. He’d adopted a wait-and-see attitude. Though, admittedly, what he had seen so far hadn’t impressed him. Tanner had a short fuse and let his temper get the upper hand. Not good, Alec thought, in a situation like this. Not good at all.
Tanner had already caused problems. He’d refused to wear a wire and wouldn’t let the techs put a couple of bugs inside the warehouse. Tanner was worried the mikes would be discovered, and since he was the only one who had worked with the twins, the others had to acquiesce.
Alec had been told to expect the deal to go down around three or four in the morning, when the scum crawled out from under their rocks to buy and sell anything and everything. These two lawyers were a different breed, though. They apparently started their workday around noon.
The attorneys, Lyle and Lester Sisley, were identical twins who had migrated to Chicago from a 7-Eleven-sized town in Georgia. They sounded and acted like good ol’, down-home, country boys who pledged allegiance to the flag and to Elvis every morning, and who liked to go out on the town and kick up their boots every now and then, but who would never ever get into any real trouble. Casual acquaintances considered the twins a little slow-witted, but sweet, terribly sweet.
The opposite was the case. There was nothing sweet or slow-witted about them. Their IQs were identical and hovered just one point above genius. It was reported that they had partied their way through law school and still had managed to graduate at the top of their class.
The twins had been in Chicago for a little over a year when they came to the conclusion that they were working too much and making too little. They decided then that they needed to branch out.
Five years later, they were taking in millions, and it sure as certain wasn’t from their legal fees. They continued to practice law and maintained offices on Elm Street, but they had very few clients. The two shared an impressive title, yet neither dared print it on the glass of their office door. They were quite simply known as the premier drug lords of Chicago.
And more. Much, much more. It was estimated that in the past twelve months, Lyle and Lester had sold more drugs than Pfizer Pharmaceuticals. There wasn’t a pill they didn’t push or a drug they didn’t lace with other, more addictive substances.
Needless to say, the undercover detectives had been trying to nail their sorry asses for a long, long time. Today would hopefully be the end for Lyle and Lester, if all went as planned. It had taken months of hard work to entice the twins into taking the risk of actually transferring the money personally. Greed had been a powerful motivator, and Tanner, who had set up this latest venture, believed he had successfully penetrated their inner circle.
Most of their illegal business transactions were conducted in the warehouse where Tanner was waiting.
The twins were the odd couple. They did almost everything together. They worked together, played together, and lived together in a high-rise apartment on Lake Shore Drive. They would even occasionally dress alike in cowboy attire.
There were a few differences. Lyle had a thing for buxom women. He consumed them like a baseball player chewing on sunflower seeds and spitting out the shells when the taste was gone. Yet, the women he so casually discarded couldn’t say enough nice things about him. After he finished with them, he lavished them with expensive “parting” gifts. The women called Lyle the ultimate gentleman.
Lester had a thing for cars, Rolls-Royces to be specific. He had over fifteen of them stored in his warehouse now and had just purchased another one. The cost was a mere one hundred fifty-three thousand, but that was chump change to the drug lord.
Lester never drove the cars. Every Friday he liked to walk around the warehouse and look at them. He was overheard telling a friend that he was saving the cars and needed to keep them in mint condition, but he didn’t explain exactly what he was saving them for.
“Heads up.”
The whisper came through Alec’s earpiece. Dutton, from his position across the street, had spotted the twins.
Alec dropped into the Dumpster and squeezed down in the garbage. Something crawled up his neck, and he fought the urge to slap it away as he turned ever so slightly and peered out the hole he’d drilled in the metal. The lousy hiding place had been Tanner’s idea. Alec had wanted to find a spot in the loft of the warehouse where he could watch and listen, but Tanner wouldn’t hear of it. He was sure the twins would know if anyone was hiding inside, and since Tanner had set the meeting up, Alec didn’t argue.
Alec told Dutton he had no intention of waiting in the damn Dumpster. Dutton agreed. Tanner’s determination to be a superstar cop and make a name for himself was jeopardizing the operation. Dutton gave the order that as soon as Lyle and Lester went to the door, Alec was to climb up the fire escape and go in through a window he’d already scoped out for trip wires.
Alec kept watching the street. No one there yet.
“We’ve got a problem.” The voice belonged to Detective Nellis. “There’s a uniform talking to the twins. Ah, hell, he’s gonna give them a ticket. They parked in a tow-away zone.”
“No,” Dutton said. “He’s not writing a ticket. They’re all walking toward the warehouse now. The uniform’s between them.”
“Is he willingly going with them?”
“Can’t tell,” Dutton said.
“What about a gun? Does Lyle or Lester have a gun on him?” Nellis was angry. “Can you see
, Dutton?”
“I can’t tell about the gun,” he whispered. “Alec, you’ve got time to get inside and warn Tanner. I’ll be right behind you.”
“Tell Tanner to abort,” Nellis whispered.
“He won’t, he won’t,” Dutton argued. “Alec, go. They’ve stopped in front of the main entrance, so they’re not gonna use the side door. They’re looking up and down the street. Not another soul around. Lester’s unlocking the door now. The uniform looks worried.”
Alec was already moving. He swung out of the Dumpster, raced across the alley, and climbed up the fire escape. The window was just out of reach. He jumped, grabbed the ledge, and then lifted himself through the window.
Dutton was right behind him. The detective wasn’t as big or as muscular as Alec, but he was just as nimble and didn’t make a sound.
There were boxes of auto parts stacked six feet high all over the loft and video cameras attached to the rafters. The twins didn’t have an alarm system. They took care of their own problems, and anyone who was crazy enough to rob or vandalize any of their property simply disappeared.
Dutton was slowly crawling toward the rail. Alec held up a hand to stop him and pointed to one of the cameras.
They could hear voices. The twins were talking to each other as they walked toward the office, which was directly below the loft. Tanner must have been waiting for them in the doorway of the office, because they heard him shout, “What the hell is this?”
Another voice—it had to be the young cop—answered, “What are you …”
And then there was a second of dead silence.
Dutton whispered, “They know.”
Alec nodded. He motioned to Dutton to cover the steps while he slowly edged closer to the railing so he could see what was happening.
Tanner was losing it, pacing back and forth, defensively throwing accusations at the twins. Lyle shoved the cop toward Tanner and pulled a gun.
It all went to hell then.
Chapter Seven
“SO ARE YOU IN, REGAN?” SOPHIE ASKED.
“Of course I am.”
“I knew you would be,” she said. “You’re always telling me I’m a sucker for lost causes …”
“Actually, that’s what Cordie tells you.”
“Yes, but you’re a sucker too.”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” Regan asked.
Cordie was just finishing her cheeseburger. She waved a fry in Sophie’s direction and said, “You’re going to be late. Didn’t you tell me you had a meeting at one-forty-five?”
“I need to talk to Regan first,” Sophie said. She turned her full attention on her friend and said, “I need you to read the diary as soon as possible, but definitely before tonight. It won’t take long. Mary didn’t write in it every night. I think it’s only forty-some pages. You know what? Maybe you could read it after Cordie and I leave. And then …”
“Yes?”
She took a breath and blurted out, “I need another favor. I need you to go to the police station and find out if anything has been done with the investigation. Cordie went last time, so it’s your turn.”
“My turn? I just joined in this—”
“It’s still your turn,” Sophie pointed out.
“Why can’t you go to the police station?” Regan asked.
“Are you serious? I’m a reporter. They won’t tell me anything.”
Before Regan could say a word, Sophie said, “Okay, I know what you’re thinking. You too, Cordie. So I’m not a full-fledged investigative reporter yet, and, yes, I know you know I haven’t written any big exposés yet, and I’ve been working my butt off on the advice column at the paper for almost five frickin’ years, but honestly, Regan, you should have more faith in me. You too, Cordie,” she said again. “Everything’s going to change soon. You’ll see.”
“I have complete faith in you,” Regan protested. “And I wasn’t thinking …” She suddenly stopped arguing and laughed. “You’re really good, Soph, with the guilt thing.”
“She’s a pro all right,” Cordie said.
“I was trying to guilt you, wasn’t I? Old habits die hard, I suppose. But I still can’t go to the police station because there are always reporters hanging around in case something big happens, and one of them will surely recognize me and want to know what I’m doing there. I know how busy you are …”
“I can make the time,” Regan promised.
Sophie was thrilled. “You do understand why I don’t want any other reporter snooping around, don’t you? This is my investigation. I want to be the one to nail Shields and get justice for Mary Coolidge.”
“And maybe get yourself a Pulitzer?” Cordie asked.
Sophie smiled. “That’s a one-in-a-billion possibility, but one can always hope. That’s not why I’m doing it, though.”
“We know,” Cordie said. “Shouldn’t you get going, Soph?”
Sophie looked at her watch and groaned. “I’m gonna be late. I’ve got to get out of here,” she said as she grabbed her purse. “Will one of you pay for my lunch? I’ll pay for dinner tonight.”
“Sounds like a plan to me,” Cordie said.
“What time are you picking me up?” Sophie asked. “And who’s driving?”
While Cordie was answering, the sleazebag and his babycakes girlfriend caught Regan’s eye as they strolled out of the restaurant. Cordie noticed the change in her friend’s expression and asked, “What’s wrong?”
“That creepy old man hanging all over that twelve-year-old.”
Cordie turned and spotted the couple. “She isn’t twelve. She’s got to be at least eighteen. Otherwise he could get busted.”
“And he’s what? Sixty?”
“He could be,” she said. “And the age difference bothers you because …”
“It’s disgusting.”
“And?”
“You’re sounding like a therapist.”
“I just think you ought to admit why you’re so disgusted. The couple remind you of your creepy stepfather and his sleazy bride.”
“Of course they do.”
“Oh.”
“Oh, what?”
“I thought I was helping you make a breakthrough.” She smiled then. “You really need to lighten up a little. It’s time.”
Regan nodded. She knew Cordie was right. She just wasn’t sure how to go about it.
“I’ve had the most horrible morning. Have you got time for me to do some whining?”
“How much whining?”
“A bunch.”
Cordie laughed. “I can give you ten minutes. Then I’ve got to leave.”
Regan immediately launched into her complaints about her job, her brother Aiden’s constant interference, and her run-in with his assistant, Emily. When she told Cordie that Henry had caught Emily snooping in her office, Cordie was incensed and said, “You need to fire her ass.”
Regan’s eyes widened. Cordie laughed. “I’m starting to sound like my students. You do need to fire her, though.”
“I can’t. She’s Aiden’s assistant. He has to fire her,” she said. “But knowing you’re as outraged as I am makes me feel better. I’ve done enough whining for now. I think I’ll order another iced tea and read this diary. Then I’ll walk over to the police station. I’m going to stay positive,” she added.
“How are you going to do that?”
“I’m going to believe that the day is going to get better.”
“I wouldn’t count on it. And good luck with Detective Sweeney.” Before Regan could ask why, she added, “He’s the man you’ll have to talk to about the investigation. He’s a real piece of work.”
“I’m not worried. How bad can he be?”
Chapter Eight
DETECTIVE BENJAMIN SWEENEY, KNOWN BY HIS INITIALS, B. S., TO all the other detectives in the department, was having a worse than usual bad day. It started at five-thirty A.M., when he woke up with a hangover that felt like a jackhammer drilling behind his eyeballs. The o
nly medicine that would take away the hallucination and stop the pain was what had caused it in the first place, another stiff drink of bourbon, which he downed in two thirsty gulps. It burned his throat and took the hair off his tongue. Bleary-eyed, he gargled Listerine to hide the smell of the booze, got dressed, and went to the dentist. At seven he had a bad root canal. By nine the shot of novocaine had worn off, and he was in agony. Then, at ten, the sun vanished, heavy dark clouds moved in, and he got soaked running from his car into a roach-infested apartment building with his partner, Lou Dupre. They climbed four flights to stare down at the decomposing body of a young twentysomething female. There were empty crack vials littering the room. Sweeney figured one druggie had offed another. No real loss that he could see.
He also knew there wouldn’t be any identification on the victim—that would have been too easy—and of course he was right. There wasn’t. Usually he could complain enough to make Dupre do all the paperwork and the running around in circles before the file was put in the “still pending” drawer, which Sweeney had secretly labeled “who gives a damn.”
Today, however, Dupre wasn’t cooperating. He called Sweeney an asshole, told him he was sick and tired of his constant bitching, and insisted he was going to have to get off his lazy fat ass and start pulling his own weight.
In all the movies about cops and robbers that Sweeney had watched on television while he was drinking himself into oblivion, the detectives were like brothers with their partners. One would take a bullet—and inevitably did before the movie was over—for the partner. A frickin’ love affair in the movies. A fairy tale. In Sweeney’s miserable world—the real world—he and his partner, Dupre, hated each other’s guts. There were times when Sweeney would fantasize about a good old-fashioned shootout where he could get behind his partner and blow his brains out.
He knew the feeling was mutual. Hell, these days everyone in the department was avoiding him as if he had the clap. They knew he was under investigation, unofficial though it was, and they had decided to condemn him before any of the facts were in. Sweeney wasn’t worried about Internal Affairs. Yes, he was guilty of taking the money to look the other way while a drug dealer was killed, but the men who paid him to close his eyes weren’t in any position to rat on him. And the money, ten thousand dollars, was clean. Squeaky clean. Sweeney had been real careful. Let the task force listen to all the rumors from the out-of-work whores the murdered dealer had been running. It didn’t matter to Sweeney. If they had anything concrete, he would already have been suspended.