Chapter Sixteen
Danica
Schilling blew up when I dragged Lucy, sobbing back to the van.
“Have you completely lost your mind?” He snapped.
“Nope,” I shrugged. “We weren’t gonna get shit from him.”
“And now they know we’re onto them.”
“Exactly,” I grinned. “They’re now firefighting on all sides. They know PD are on their ass, they know they’ve sparked a war with one of Mexico’s biggest, most brutal cartels. All we have to do is sit back and watch the fireworks. Oh, and protect Lucy, of course, he’s gonna make a move on her tonight. I guarantee it’ll be the same guys turning up who killed Stacey and Maia, they’ll go after Lucy in the same way, pin it on Leo. You should probably get that fed you have to put a detail on your house, Schilling. Leo’s family home too.”
“Why would they go after Lucy when they know we’re onto them?” Leo frowned.
“Because Lucy’s all we have on them and they’re about to learn that.”
“How?”
“We tell them, now, with Lucy. Schilling, you said the chief's in on this, right? Let’s go tell him about this hunch we have and all the dead ends we’ve smashed into chasing it.”
“Kid,” Schilling grinned, “you’re either a genius or completely insane.”
“She used me as bait,” Lucy sobbed. Leo pulled her into his arms.
“Not you, Lucy, me. You’ll be safe with Leo.”
I wanted to punch them both.
“You can trust, Dani, Luce. Promise.”
My dad drove himself and Leo back to the cabin, where Maria had a feast waiting for them. Lucy, copies of her diary, myself and Schilling all headed to the station.
◆◆◆
“You can see why we came straight to you with this, Chief?” Schilling asked. Lucy had poured her heart out, telling him everything, even things Schilling and I didn’t know, minus the bit about meeting up with Leo. Copies of her diary, marking the dates her dad asked her to get all snuggly with my boyfriend, the date she received the car, Leo’s arrest and the suspicions she had at the time were all laid out in that dairy, interspersed with meaningless girly twaddle about getting her nails done and the barista at the local coffee shop asking for her number.
The Chief sat behind his cluttered, worn mahogany desk, his belly straining at his shirt, peering over his rimless glasses at Lucy, who sat opposite him, sandwiched between me and Schilling.
“This is all you have?”
“Afraid so, boss,” Schilling sighed.
“And this is the fugitive’s ex-girlfriend?”
“Not exactly, Sir,” I hissed, “they fucked. I wouldn’t say they were close.”
Schilling ground his heel into my boot. Lucy shrank down in her rickety wooden chair.
“It ever occur to you two fools that she made the whole thing up?”
“No,” Lucy pleaded, “I didn’t, I wouldn’t. There’s more proof. It’s all in here, all the awful things my father has done. I’ve been blind to it for years, but after Leo… He’s a monster, him and all his friends.”
She pushed the copied papers from her diaries towards him. A photograph of her and Mexican contractor slid towards the Chief.
“And this proof you have?”
“Other people have been hurt, not just Leo. Accidents that weren’t accidents, Sir. My mother, what happened to her was no accident.”
Fuck. This is the first we were hearing of this. Lucy’s mom died of a cocaine overdose as far I knew.
“My mother didn’t do coke, she was a good mother. I see now. I see exactly what he is. He has to pay.”
“And you have proof of that?”
“Her diaries, I have those. She kept diaries for years. That’s why I keep mine. The Police wouldn’t look at them, they said they weren’t valid to their investigation. My father said they were the ramblings of an insane woman. They both lied.”
“And where are they?”
“Safe,” Lucy said, straightening in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. “And that’s where they’ll stay until my father is arrested and I’m protected from him.”
Finally, she goes with the plan.
“Fine,” the chief sighed, pushing back in his seat, “I’ll get something organised for your protection, until then Lucy, I suggest you go home.”
Schilling grabbed Lucy’s arm, pulling her from the chief’s office.
“Was that okay?” She asked.
“Next time you wanna spring a surprise on us, don’t,” I hissed.
“It was great, Lucy. He took the bait, I could virtually hear the cogs turning in his head. And kid, green don’t suit you. He chose you, there’s no war to fight here. Leo is head over heels with you. Christ, he was willing to confess to an unthinkable crime to make you hate him so you didn’t suffer losing him as an innocent man you couldn’t save.”
Lucy smiled weakly at me, batting her false lashes.
“These diaries of your mom’s, we’ll need to see them,” I sighed.
“They’re under my bed with mine. What now?”
“Now, we wait for someone to go looking for the diaries, only the chief knows about them and your dad. It should be enough to get a warrant from an understanding judge against them both, then we wait for the cards to tumble.”
An understanding Judge, who thanks to my dad’s connections, we knew was in bed with the cartel, not some up their own ass American boy’s club. My dad scouted Judges earlier. The warrant already on his desk, just needed a signature, one we’d get when Lucy’s apartment was broken into and they made a move on Lucy herself.
◆◆◆
Lucy exited her apartment, pulling her red hooded sweater over her head, shielding her face. She ran every night if she wasn’t working, same route, same time. She was nothing if not predictable. The only difference this time, we were waiting for her.
She ducked into our car, handing me her hooded sweater. I pulled it over my head. My sneakers and pants didn’t exactly match hers, Lucy was tiny, much smaller than me, her clothes didn’t fit me. We’d found some a similar shade, the darkness of the night would help with the rest. I tucked my earpiece in. Lucy ran over her route again.
I slipped from the car, taking up Lucy’s run. The streetlights cast my shadow ahead of me. I kept my eyes glued to it, ignoring the familiar faces I raced past. My dad and Schilling had this route lined with feds and trigger happy Mexicans.
“They’re in,” Schilling hissed in my ear.
Him and his fed buddy sat opposite Lucy’s apartment, supping coffee in a diner across the street. The chief had taken the bait.
Lucy’s surprise worked to our advantage after a little brainstorming. Only the chief knew about her mom’s diaries, if they kept looking after finding Lucy’s, we knew the chief had tipped them off. The Judge sat by his phone, waiting for our call.
I took a deep breath, focusing on the cool metal of my gun against my skin. Armed intruders waited for me beyond the glass doors of Lucy’s apartment, hidden in the shadows, waiting to pounce. Intruders we knew had no qualms over hurting women.
“Hey,” I muttered to the guard. Lucy always greeted the guard. He pressed the button behind his desk, the elevator slid open.
“Good run, Miss Attwood?”
“Yes, thank you.”
He’d bought it.
“Guards in on it,” Schilling hissed. “Rang up to Lucy’s apartment the second the elevator closed.
Lucy’s apartment had been filled with bugs, hidden cameras, you name it, we had it in there, recording every move the killers, every word they uttered.
“I’m right behind you, Milano,” Schilling soothed as I paced the elevator. It moved up floor by floor, my heart rate increasing with every floor it passed.
This was it. The doors slid open, I faced Lucy’s apartment door.
Behind those doors, Stacey and Maia’s killers waited for me.
My hand shaking, I reached for Lucy’s key, stepping into the darkness as the door opened. My hand reached under my hooded sweater, clutching my gun. I didn’t get the chance to pull it out before they were on me.
Cold, sharp metal pressed to my neck, a thick, strong arm wrapped around my body, pinning my arms to my side.
Fuck. One false move, they’d feel the shape of my gun pressing into my side. I’d be dead before Schilling reached me. I told him wearing it was a bad idea. He’d insisted.
“Scream and die,” he warned.
“Please don’t rape me, take anything you want but don’t rape me,” I begged in my well practised American accent. It seemed like the kind of thing a beautiful blonde doctor would say.
“Can’t promise that, sugar,” he leered. “You help us, we’ll go easy on you.”
“What do you want? My dad has money, he’ll get you anything you want, just please don’t hurt me.”
“Who do you think sent us here, sweetheart?”
Idiot. This was gonna be easier than I’d expected.
“What do you mean?” I sniffed.
“Daddy’s money is the reason why we’re here, Princess, Daddy dearest wants you dead.”
“He paid you to do this?”
“Bingo, Princess. Now, me, I don’t want to hurt a pretty little thing like you, but you have something my boss needs.”
“Your boss?”
“Never mind you’re pretty head about him. Where are the diaries?”
“Under my bed.”
“The other ones, your mother's?”
“In a safe deposit box at the bank.”
“Which bank? Where’s the key?”
The blade pushed into my skin. A warm wetness trickled down my neck.
“Got him,” Schilling hissed in my ear.
Through my earpiece I heard orders barked at the guard. Hands on your head, step back from the desk.
Hurry the fuck up, Schilling.
“In my jewellery box, the key’s in there, it’s the Bank of America, the one on the high street opposite the hospital. Please, don’t hurt me.”
“Check it out,” my captor snapped to his friend, “I’ll keep Daddy’s little Princess company.”
He kept the blade at my throat, loosening his grip, his free hand strayed down my front, pushing at my waistband.
Anger bubbled inside me like a superfluous volcano ready to explode. Any vestige of fear I’d held vanished, overwhelmed by rage.
Why is it men always move to rape? This asshole planned on killing me, as if that wasn’t horrific enough he wanted to sexually assault me first.
I closed my eyes, focused on his breathing and the pounding of Schilling’s feet racing up the stairs in my ear piece. I’d practised this move every day since escaping the sex trade. I could do it my sleep, I had done it my sleep, winning many wars with my bedding, during the nights when the nightmares were more frequent, more vivid.
His hand crept below my waistband, reaching into my panties.
“Enough with the rape already,” I hissed through gritted teeth.
“Eh?”
My head slammed back. His nose exploded, filling the air with the metallic scent of blood, soaking the back of my shirt. I kept my hands locked on his forearm, yanking it down and away from my throat. My head ducked under his arm, my grip still on his wrist forced the knife down.
It happen with such speed he didn’t react, not until his own blade plunged into his side. My foot met with his face, crushing his already broken nose. He crumpled, folding to the floor, one hand on his side, the other on his nose.
“I said enough with the rape already, Jesus, is that all you assholes know?”
He dragged his sorry carcass across the wooden floor, leaving blood smeared behind him, pulling himself towards the blade that had skidded over the room. It nestled by the sofa, street light glinting off its cruel, 9 inch blade.
I grabbed my gun from its holder.
“Don’t fucking move,” I spat.
Schilling burst through the door. The accomplice raced from the bedroom, his gun drawn.
“Police, drop the weapon,” Schilling warned.
His steely black eyes roamed the dimly lit scene bouncing from his bloodied friend, laid out on the floor to me, to Schilling and his fed friend.
He lowered his gun slowly, his fingers loosening on the hilt. It crashed to the floor.
“Kick it to me,” I ordered.
The Fed pounced on my would be rapist, yanking his arms behind his back.
“Special Agent Fielding, requesting back up and an ambulance, we have a suspect down.”
He’d live. Unfortunately.
The second assailant dropped to his knees, wrapping his hands behind his head. Schilling kept his gun trained on him, giving me the oblique pleasure of arresting his pathetic, cowardly ass.
He grunted as I read him his Miranda rights.
“Fuck you, bitch.”
“Not tonight, sugar,” I snapped, dragging him to his feet.
Within minutes Lucy’s apartment flooded with feds and cops.
“We got the warrants, arrest warrants for the Chief and Attwood, search warrants for their business’ and homes. It’s gonna be a long night, kid.”
Forensics had to clear me before I was allowed to leave. I was grateful for the space. Cops buzzed around the apartment. Feds stamped their feet, claiming jurisdiction. I counted at least three people who’d be arrested by the end of tonight. They were easy enough to spot, even if I hadn’t known them. They all wandered aimlessly, running their shaking, sweating palms through their greased, gelled hair, their faces sallow, silvery-pale under the high tech LED lighting system of Lucy’s apartment.
Their panic fuelled my hatred. If you’re gonna break the law, get into bed with monsters who happily order the rape and murder of children, at least face the consequences like a man.
“Ma’am?” A young, floppy haired CSI approached me, smiling apologetically, clutching a camera in his hands.
I was ordered into a million poses, every inch of my blood soaked torso photographed for evidence. There was no doubt it was self defense but things had to be by the book.
“I’ll need the sweater, miss.”
I gladly peeled it off, the drying blood setting into a sticky, foul film over the zipper. He held out an evidence bag.
“The shirt too,” he requested.
Crimson blotches stained my ivory shirt, smeared where it soaked through the sweater.
Someone tossed me a grey Police sweater. My shirt ended up in an evidence bag.
◆◆◆
Schilling hung around waiting for me. An hour after being attacked, I was finally released. The drive back to the station, silent and tense. We were both on edge, aware of the chaos that awaited us.
The station buzzed with life, our own guys, the ones who hadn’t been displaced by intruders, sat at their desks, gazing into space, whispering to each other or resting their heads in piles of cases. The rest huddled in a corner. They all turned to us when we walked in.
Internal affairs had already descended, picking over the cases of the accused. The executive director sat the Chief's desk, his fists balled in his greying hair, barking orders into the speaker phone.
“Is it true, about the Chief?”
“Yeah,” Schilling sighed.
No cop enjoyed learning a teammate played for the other side. When that teammate was your boss, the pain was tenfold.
The fireworks lasted days. Attwood was the first to be thrown under the bus. They accused him of masterminding the whole thing, setting up a boys club, you scratch my back, I scratch yours. A network of law enforcement, governors and judges were banded together, ready and willing to give the wealthy whatever they wanted for the right price. Their banks records told us everything.
Want to make that speeding fine vanish? Not a problem. Caught with a gram of cocaine behind the wheel of your merc? We’ll fix that, Sir. Oh, you knocked a kid down while you were snorting the coke? That’ll cost you more. Want to rush through the case of the man you framed for murder? We can do that, Sir. Attwood had gone off the books for that one. Stacey and Maia were all his own sick idea. He’d used the crooked firm’s thugs to do his dirty work, but not a one of them were willing to admit to anything. We still had no proof of Leo’s innocence.
The Chief claimed ignorance on everything but making a few parking tickets go poof, and naively directing the investigation into Attwood’s wife’s death away from him, convinced of his old friend’s innocence. He claimed the woman had issues with drugs dating back to highschool, her overdose came as no surprise to him. Apparently him and his buddies are the only ones who spotted this addiction, the woman was a saint to everyone else. That didn’t stop her death being recorded as accidental overdose.
Everyone denied involvement in Stacey and Maia’s murder. Leo was still firmly on the hook for that.
Judges fell, Feds were dismissed or charged with perverting the course of justice.
Attwood lost everything, including his freedom. All but one of his buildings were condemned. The tax inspectors had a field day with his accounts.
I didn’t find it consoling that the bastard was charged with the murder of his wife, no matter how many ways Schilling tried to paint it.
The thugs who’d killed Stacey and Maia and attacked me were charged with burglary, carrying a weapon with intent, false imprisonment, multiple firearms offenses and a litany of related felonies. They faced a long, hard stretch. At best they’d be in their eighties when they finally tasted freedom again. Mrs Charles took comfort in that. I didn’t.
I was hungry for justice for that poor child and her mother. The back patting, speeding ticket vanishing boy’s club, I didn’t give a crap about. More than anything, I wanted justice for Leo.