local level to prevent compromise inside their own organization. If Lisa’s husband hadn’t gotten in contact with his girlfriend, they’d have been all right. The screwup wasn’t on the feds’ end—it was Philip Cobb’s.”
“Are you going to call the number she was given?” Giannini asked.
Riley ran a finger along the blackened metal of the gun barrel. “Not right away. Let the assholes sweat a little first. If their people showed up at the rest area, they must have come across the result of the fight. I’ll call them first thing tomorrow.” He frowned. “Funny thing, though. There was nothing on the news this morning or in the local paper. You’d think two dead people on the interstate would make the news.”
“Maybe the feds clamped down on it when they were notified,” Giannini said. “Another pile of shit swept under the rug. You should know about that.”
“Yeah,” Riley agreed. “Or it simply might have happened too late to make the morning paper.”
“I’ll get in contact with Lisa’s brother and let him know she’s all right.”
“Okay.”
“And Dave—”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
Riley put down the phone, then punched in the number for Moon Hall—the guest quarters for military personnel on Fort Bragg—and rang through to Hammer’s room.
The voice that answered sounded quite happy. “Tony’s funeral home. You stab ’em, we slab ’em.”
“Hammer?”
“Yo!”
“This is Dave Riley.”
“What’s up, Chief?”
“What have they got you doing tomorrow?”
“Shooting ice cream and eating marbles.” There was a pause, then Hammer’s voice turned serious. “Not much, Chief. Why? You have something for me?”
“Yeah, but it’s not exactly official work. I can cover for you at the company. I’ve got a woman here at my place who needs someone to guard her for a little while. I can do it tonight, but I need to show up at work tomorrow and I was hoping you might be able to come out here and watch over her while I’m at PT.”
“Sure thing, Chief. She good-looking?”
“Her husband just got killed the other night and I think the mob is after her to finish the job.”
All the humor was gone from Hammer’s voice. “What time do you want me at your place?”
“Zero-five-thirty.”
“Roger. I’ll be there. Run a few miles for me, eh, laddie?” Hammer asked no more questions, simply accepting what Riley told him at face value.
Riley hung up the phone and settled down on his couch to think.
Upstairs the tears finally flowed, soaking the sheets. It was all gone— Melissa, her old life, and now Philip. Everything was over. Lisa grabbed the pillow and pulled it tight to her chest, wrapping her arms around it, as sobs racked her body.
Chapter Seven
CHICAGO
30 OCTOBER, 7:45 a.m.
“So what’s up?” Giannini asked as she made her way through Homicide, grabbing her daily morning cup of coffee.
“It ain’t what’s up, it’s what’s down. Permanently down,” Lorenzo cracked. “That’s what we deal with.”
Giannini rolled her eyes. “You stay awake all night thinking that one up?”
Lorenzo was a dud—everyone knew it—and that’s why he was anchored to his desk in Homicide instead of being out on the streets doing a real job. She glanced around. Lorenzo was all alone, which had prompted her first question. “Where is everyone?”
“Out at the filtration plant.”
“What do they have?”
“A body.”
Giannini reeled in her temper. She didn’t need this shit. “Everyone’s gone for one body?”
“A wise-guy hit.”
Giannini could just picture Lorenzo sitting up late at night, practicing impressions of various TV detectives. “Who got killed?” Lorenzo glanced down at his desk.
“Some dame named Fastone.” Giannini slowly put down her coffee mug.
“The filtration plant?” Lorenzo looked puzzled.
“Yeah, but why . . .” His next words were lost as Giannini headed out the door.
FAYETTEVILLE
30
“Are you going to call the number she was given?” Giannini asked.
Riley ran a finger along the blackened metal of the gun barrel. “Not right away. Let the assholes sweat a little first. If their people showed up at the rest area, they must have come across the result of the fight. I’ll call them first thing tomorrow.” He frowned. “Funny thing, though. There was nothing on the news this morning or in the local paper. You’d think two dead people on the interstate would make the news.”
“Maybe the feds clamped down on it when they were notified,” Giannini said. “Another pile of shit swept under the rug. You should know about that.”
“Yeah,” Riley agreed. “Or it simply might have happened too late to make the morning paper.”
“I’ll get in contact with Lisa’s brother and let him know she’s all right.”
“Okay.”
“And Dave—”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
Riley put down the phone, then punched in the number for Moon Hall—the guest quarters for military personnel on Fort Bragg—and rang through to Hammer’s room.
The voice that answered sounded quite happy. “Tony’s funeral home. You stab ’em, we slab ’em.”
“Hammer?”
“Yo!”
“This is Dave Riley.”
“What’s up, Chief?”
“What have they got you doing tomorrow?”
“Shooting ice cream and eating marbles.” There was a pause, then Hammer’s voice turned serious. “Not much, Chief. Why? You have something for me?”
“Yeah, but it’s not exactly official work. I can cover for you at the company. I’ve got a woman here at my place who needs someone to guard her for a little while. I can do it tonight, but I need to show up at work tomorrow and I was hoping you might be able to come out here and watch over her while I’m at PT.”
“Sure thing, Chief. She good-looking?”
“Her husband just got killed the other night and I think the mob is after her to finish the job.”
All the humor was gone from Hammer’s voice. “What time do you want me at your place?”
“Zero-five-thirty.”
“Roger. I’ll be there. Run a few miles for me, eh, laddie?” Hammer asked no more questions, simply accepting what Riley told him at face value.
Riley hung up the phone and settled down on his couch to think.
Upstairs the tears finally flowed, soaking the sheets. It was all gone— Melissa, her old life, and now Philip. Everything was over. Lisa grabbed the pillow and pulled it tight to her chest, wrapping her arms around it, as sobs racked her body.
Chapter Seven
CHICAGO
30 OCTOBER, 7:45 a.m.
“So what’s up?” Giannini asked as she made her way through Homicide, grabbing her daily morning cup of coffee.
“It ain’t what’s up, it’s what’s down. Permanently down,” Lorenzo cracked. “That’s what we deal with.”
Giannini rolled her eyes. “You stay awake all night thinking that one up?”
Lorenzo was a dud—everyone knew it—and that’s why he was anchored to his desk in Homicide instead of being out on the streets doing a real job. She glanced around. Lorenzo was all alone, which had prompted her first question. “Where is everyone?”
“Out at the filtration plant.”
“What do they have?”
“A body.”
Giannini reeled in her temper. She didn’t need this shit. “Everyone’s gone for one body?”
“A wise-guy hit.”
Giannini could just picture Lorenzo sitting up late at night, practicing impressions of various TV detectives. “Who got killed?” Lorenzo glanced down at his desk.
“Some dame named Fastone.” Giannini slowly put down her coffee mug.
“The filtration plant?” Lorenzo looked puzzled.
“Yeah, but why . . .” His next words were lost as Giannini headed out the door.
FAYETTEVILLE
30
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