“Normandy?” the chief asked. “What’s going on?”
“These assho—” Normandy stopped, scratched his balding head, and rephrased. “Their lawyers have requested they be allowed to consult with their clients in a room other than an interrogation room. You know, the cameras, the two-way glass…So, I’m taking them to conference room number two. And after they’ve had a little consult,” he sneered the word, “we’ll continue the questioning. In an interrogation room.”
“Fine,” Washington said, his expression that of a man who’d just stepped in something sticky and smelly.
Normandy nodded, ushering the group toward an adjacent hallway. Then his gaze snagged on Eve’s cousin. “Oh, and I’m glad you’re here, Lieutenant Buchanan. I’ve got a couple of questions to ask you about your uncle and Blake Parish.”
“Sure thing.” Buchanan nodded, though his expression betrayed his distaste. Mac wondered how close the guy was to his uncle, and what his take on Edens was. The FBI investigator in Mac would love to poke around inside Buchanan’s brain for a minute or two. “I’ll be there in a sec,” Buchanan added, then turned back to Eve. “I think it’s good you’re getting out of town,” he told her.
Eve’s lips trembled as she glanced up at her cousin. “You don’t think I’m running away? You don’t think I’m being a coward?”
“Hell no.” Buchanan pulled her in for another hug. Mac lifted a brow when Bill’s jaw started to twitch. “I absolutely do not think either of those things. I think you’re strong and tough and—”
“Lieutenant,” Normandy cut in after re-entering the bullpen. “Let’s get going on those questions, huh? I’m working on a short clock here.”
“Yeah, sure.” Buchanan gestured him on before releasing Eve. Mac fought not to roll his eyes when Bill immediately snagged her by the shoulder and dragged her back, tucking her under his arm. “You better take care of her, Reichert,” Buchanan warned. “Or you’ll have me to answer to.”
“I’ll protect her with my life,” Bill vowed, lifting his chin.
Buchanan must’ve heard the crystal clear ring of truth in that statement—hard not to—because a look of relief…or maybe contentment was the better word, passed over his face. He jerked his head in a quick nod, then turned to zigzag his way through the desks and over to Normandy.
“Protect her with your life, huh?” Washington muttered, his dark brow furrowed. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
And for no reason Mac could explain, the phrase famous last words skittered through his mind like rancid, diseased leaves on a hot breeze. He shuddered…
Chapter Eighteen
Chicago Police Station, District 2, Second Floor, Interrogation Room #6
11:42 p.m…
They don’t know. I played my cards just right. They may have their suspicions, but they don’t know. I was able to keep up the act around them, around her…
Her…the damned woman who was turning out to be impossible to kill. The damned woman who seemed to have nine lives. Who would’ve ever thought it? Certainly not him.
As he sat on the cold metal chair, staring at his reflection in the two-way glass on the opposite wall, he was careful to keep his expression shuttered. Careful to keep his face completely impassive as he mentally cursed those useless, moronic gangbangers straight to hell for botching what should’ve been an easy job.
And okay, fine. He realized he’d botched the first three attempts on her life, but that’s only because his heart hadn’t really been in it. He still loved her, damnit! Which made his failures understandable, perhaps even reasonable. But Christ! How hard was it for a couple of dickheads who—for shits and giggles—spent their weekends doing drive-bys to walk into a bar full of slow, fat bikers and put a bullet in the brain of one unarmed woman? Really? How hard was that?
Apparently too hard. And now not only did he have to deal with the fact that he was still at square one when it came to getting his hands on the money he needed, but there was also physical evidence left behind at the scene in the form of a blood sample—a blood sample that, when he stopped for a moment to think about it, was probably teeming with all manner of STDs; he knew the guy in question liked his crack as much as he liked his whores—that could eventually lead back to him…
No, no, no. I’ve been too smart. There’s no way this will come back to bite me. I used a burner. I have alibis. And, besides, Devon Price won’t let his man talk…
Devon Price. Just thinking the name of the leader of Chicago’s biggest Southside gang, known as the Black Apostles, was enough to have the scotch he’d sipped earlier turning to bitter, burning acid in his stomach. And when he quietly and slowly blew out a breath, he could smell the anxiety and…fear—let’s just call it what it was—coming up from deep inside him, from the pit of his somersaulting stomach.
He owed the man so much money. Too much money. Then again, the nice thing about being indebted to that snake-mean sonofabitch was that Devon needed him alive and out of jail in order to be able to cash in on the fat check he hoped to receive upon Eve’s death. Which meant Devon would do what needed to be done to make sure the police didn’t get anything on him.
For instance, he knew there’d be no hospital report of a man with buckshot in the leg, because the man with buckshot in his leg wouldn’t be going to any hospital. In fact, the man with buckshot in his leg was currently being tended to by a veterinarian who made his bank by sewing up the bodies of Devon’s gangland crew.
Bleh. He shivered just thinking of lying on a cold, metal slab where a whole slew of filthy, furry critters had lain before him, having his open wounds poked and prodded at with instruments that were likely seeing their second, third, or fourth use. But whatever. The bumbling idiot’s medical care, or lack thereof, wasn’t his problem. His problem was whether or not the gangbanger’s DNA profile was in the system.
But if it is, it won’t matter. It’s not like Devon will let the man cut a deal even if he’s inclined to, which, considering where the guy comes from, he’s probably not.
One of the nice things about dealing with society’s bottom-feeders was that, though they tended to have very few scruples, the one tenet they clung to more stubbornly than a cocklebur in a wool sock was the fact that they didn’t rat. They didn’t squeal. They kept their goddamned mouths shut at any and all costs, no matter what they were accused of or what sort of sentence was coming down on their heads. Because they knew that to do otherwise would compromise the integrity of the gang and ensure one thing and one thing only for themselves: a good ol’ fashioned shanking in the shower after being ass-raped and beaten.
Okay. He blew out another sly, guarded breath. So, he was fine. He was covered. There was nothing to worry about on that front.
Which means now all I have to contend with is motive…
Shit.
And there was that. Then again, he could rest easy knowing he wasn’t the only one with cause to want Eve dead…
So, I just need to continue to play it cool. Continue to cast doubt and continue to manipulate all the players around the board.
A smile threatened to curve his lips as he thought, it’s a good thing I’ve always been so good at chess. But he knew any show of emotion other than concern would be viewed as suspect, so he folded his hands in his lap and looked up expectantly when the CPD detective threw open the door and schlepped his rumpled, hygiene-deficient self into the room…