Twelve

Ava

Dinner was in the oven. Just a pizza for tonight, something simple. Helping the Chicago Police department was taking over my life more than I cared to admit. It was grueling. Exhausting. And it was zapping every ounce of energy I had. Some nights I didn’t even have the energy to heat up a damn pizza and just went to bed.

I was always on call and didn’t even have time to run to the store to get things for a proper meal these days. Activity had ramped up, which was why they’d called me in. But they should have called me in sooner to prevent the deaths of two of their own cops. That, and to maybe help prevent some of the other crimes and violence that had gone down since then, including the busts of some more Russian warehouses.

My phone buzzed, and for a moment, my heart skipped a beat. Part of me hoped it might be Ian. But then I realized it was my work phone, and my heart sank. Business as usual. I turned the oven off, knowing full well that I wouldn’t be eating my pizza anyway. I grabbed the phone off the table, lamenting the fact that I was hungry and it wasn’t Ian calling.

“Yes, Chief,” I answered before it went to voicemail.

His voice came over the line, sounding both angry and depressed at the same time. Not to mention the fact that he sounded more than a little tired himself. He’d been putting in a lot of hours too, possibly more than me. Which was something.

“We found a body,” he said, his words clipped and short.

“Just give me the location, and I’ll be there,” I said. I knew this murder involved the Irish or the Russians, or else they wouldn’t have called me.

I was already getting changed into something more work appropriate before he gave me the location. Downtown. A seedy part of town, a place I wouldn’t normally care to be this time of night. As dirty, crime-ridden and seedy as it was, it was the part of the city where young people and chronically underemployed often lived because it was one of the more affordable parts of Chicago.

“I’m on my way,” I said.

I hung up, double-checked to make sure the oven was indeed off, and headed out the door. My stomach was growling, but I’d have to get food later. If I wasn’t too exhausted or even felt like eating after dealing with a dead body, of course.

***

“What do we have here?” I asked, ducking under the police tape and stepping into the apartment. Blood ran down the wall in thick, red rivulets with meaty chunks of human brain splattered throughout the mixture. It was the first thing I noticed upon approaching the gruesome scene, and it made my stomach turn. No matter how long I’d done this job, it still made me queasy. It wasn’t something I could get used to.

“Watch your step,” Officer Vaughn said.

“Hard to do that when you can’t even see the floor beneath your feet, but I’ll do my best,” I snarked, rolling my eyes.

Jesus Christ, this person was a slob, I thought to myself. But as soon as I had that thought, I pushed it out of my head. This person was dead. By the looks of things, brutally murdered. A messy apartment was the least of their concerns now. Still, if the place would have been a bit tidier, it would have made finding clues a lot easier.

I stepped over some beer cans and a pile of laundry before I saw the body slumped against the wall, taking in the full imagery of his death.

“Gunshot wound to the head,” Vaughn said, standing next to me with his hands on his hips.

“No shit,” I said, reaching for a pair of gloves. “Any clue who he is?”

Vaughn shrugged and yawned, almost like he couldn’t care less about the fact that there was a dead man, somebody whose life had been snatched away, less than five feet from us. In all honesty, though, Vaughn probably didn’t give a damn. To him, this was just another dead body, more hassle than it was worth. He didn’t care because the victim was no one important to him. But the victim had been important to someone. He’d been somebody’s son, somebody’s brother.

My eyes fell on his shirt. Jameson Irish Whisky. He wore dark colored jeans with holes in the knees–intentional holes at that. I guessed was what the kids found fashionable and stylish these days. It was something I’d never understand, paying good money for clothes that looked to be in worse shape than those you’d find at a thrift store.

Even though I couldn’t make out his facial features, I knew he was just a kid. Just some stupid kid, probably taking community college classes or working for his dad’s company. Somebody who hadn’t even had a chance to do anything with his life yet. And now, he’d never have the chance. Of those thoughts swirling through my head, it was the shirt that stopped me.

“Is he connected to the Irish?” I asked.

The police chief was standing nearby and heard my question, thankfully so. “We believe he might be,” he said solemnly. “We just got a possible ID. Vic’s name is Sean Malone.”

“Why does that name sound familiar?” I asked.

“His brother Neil Malone was killed about a year ago.”

I nodded. That was right. Neil Malone was found dead in an alley. It appeared he’d been running for his life before he was gunned down, though he’d suffered a devious torture prior to his death. He was missing some of his fingers, a few teeth, and had burns all over his body. It was only after he’d endured that torture that he’d been shot down and left to die all alone in the alley.

“Their poor mother,” I said softly.

“Their mother is dead, too,” Chief said. “Whole family is now gone.”

The Malones were just the type of boys who’d join a band of criminals. They were the kind of kids the Irish mob actively sought and recruited. Two orphans with no one else to turn to and little to lose.

But if that were the case and they were part of the mob, why would their chosen family turn around and execute them?

“The older brother, Neil, had been snitching for us,” the chief explained. “He was an informant in exchange for us dropping some pending drug charges against him.”

“And Sean?” I asked, standing up.

“No record of Sean working for us,” the chief said, sounding genuinely perplexed. “His criminal history is clear, surprisingly. This is the first time he’s shown up on our radar.”

“And the last time,” I said, shaking my head.

“Yeah,” the chief said softly.

“Well fuck me,” I whispered. Rollins’ eyes lit up with intrigue as his gaze turned to me, a smarmy smirk tipping his thin lips. “Relax. It’s just a figure of speech.”

“So, if you weren’t a snitch, then who did this to you, Sean? And why?” I asked as if the dead could somehow answer me. “Was it your brothers? Why would they turn on you like that?”

“Any witnesses?” I asked.

“Of course not,” the chief replied, bitterness coloring his words. “No one’s talking. No one saw anything.”

“What do you need from me, Chief?” I asked.

“Right now, nothing much,” he said. “We just want your opinion. Do you think it’s the Mob?”

I sighed. It was hard to deny the connection, but something was still bothering me about the case. We’d never managed to convict anyone for Neil Malone’s murder a year ago, either. Could it be the work of the same person? Was it the work of the syndicate? I had enough scraps of evidence that gave me reason to believe it was them, but I knew the court wouldn’t see it that way. Scraps of evidence that could easily be poked and pulled apart by any defense lawyer with half a brain. Nothing I had was concrete.

And Sean’s murder? I didn’t even have a scrap, yet. It was hard to say who’d killed him with any certainty, but I had a feeling. A very strong feeling.

“I think so, but we need to find something more,” I said with a sigh. “I’ll take a look around, see what I can find.”