Instead, it was an unknown number with a Chicago area code.

  Alarm bells began to ring.

  When Stone Morticelli had been busted, he’d been working in the family business in Chicago.

  First Accursio’s warning, then Agent Helm, now this.

  You never know what the day is going to bring, she thought.

  Pauling used her finger to swipe right, answering the call.

  “Lauren Pauling?” the voice asked. It was female.

  “Yes.”

  “Um, this is Veronica. Veronica Grasso.”

  The name wasn’t familiar to Pauling. At least, the name Grasso. But the caller’s first name, Veronica was–

  “You knew me by my married name.”

  Pauling suddenly remembered.

  “Veronica Morticelli,” the woman said. “Stone’s ex-wife.”

  8

  The man slung the body over his shoulder and climbed the last set of stairs to the rooftop.

  He pulled the door open and immediately turned to his right, away from the only spot visible to the apartment tower across the street. Hidden by the stairwell’s exit door and a series of metal-clad utility structures, the man carried his load to the side of a hundred-foot-high stone cylinder from which smoke billowed.

  A rectangular access panel had been built into the incinerator at the rooftop level should anyone need to dispose of waste they were unable to bring to the basement.

  Which fit the man’s needs perfectly.

  He dropped the dead man on the rooftop’s gravel surface and heaved the access panel open. It was made of iron, heavy and rusty. A small amount of fumes gushed from the opening but the man had already ducked down to scoop up the body.

  He shoved the dead man’s head in first and then slid the body forward until its own weight took over and gravity pulled the rest of the load downward.

  Far below, he heard the sound of the body hitting the bowels of the incinerator.

  On the rooftop, the man heaved the heavy access panel door shut and turned toward the stairwell.

  His phone rang.

  He opened the button on his suit coat and withdrew his phone.

  “Brooks,” he said. The name matched the label inside his suit: Brooks Brothers. He always wore them and when he’d had to pick an alias for his employers to use, it had come readily to mind. Besides, he looked like a Brooks: classically handsome with dark hair and a strong jaw, he could have been a news anchor or a model.

  Instead, he’d chosen a slightly different profession.

  One that not only paid better than those but, in his opinion, held more integrity.

  He listened as a familiar voice asked him to come to a meeting out in Lake Forest in two hours.

  “Of course,” Brooks said.

  He disconnected the call and slid the phone back into its pocket.

  A hundred feet above him, a new and thicker cloud of black smoke belched into the sky.

  9

  “Hello Veronica,” Pauling said. “How can I help you?”

  Pauling had already pictured the woman in her mind: very pretty, with rich chestnut hair, perfect cheekbones and a curvy body. Unlike the stereotypes most often associated with Mob wives, Veronica Morticelli had been a very classy, elegant woman. Beautiful, sophisticated and intelligent.

  She had also been a key witness in the prosecution against her husband.

  “I’m sure you’ve heard by now that Michael escaped from prison,” Veronica said. “I knew medium security was a mistake.”

  Pauling didn’t argue with the woman. She, too, had questioned the wisdom of putting Stone Morticelli in medium security. But prison overcrowding was a huge issue and his crimes –at least the ones for which he’d been convicted – had not been violent. Although suspected of murder and murder-for-hire, those charges weren’t what put him in jail, therefore, the judge had virtually no choice but to sentence him to medium security.

  “Look at this way,” Pauling offered. “Once he’s caught, he won’t be going back to a place like that. With three murder charges he’ll be in maximum security. Certainly for the rest of his life. And he’s bound to commit even more crimes while he’s out, which hopefully won’t be for long.”

  “I’m not worried about what happens after he’s caught,” Veronica said. “I’m worried about what he does while he’s out.”

  Pauling understood what the woman was saying. She was scared. Veronica had not only testified against Stone, but had also divorced him while the case was dragging through the legal system. It was possible he hated her more than anyone else on the planet.

  “Has anyone been in contact with you?” Pauling asked.

  “Of course. The FBI was just here.”

  “Do you have your own security, too?”

  Pauling knew most people like Veronica, even loosely tied to the Mob, tended to keep a bodyguard or two around, just in case.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then you’re in good hands.”

  “I asked the FBI agents who came here about you,” Veronica said. “They said you’re not with the Bureau anymore. Private practice, is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re private security?”

  Pauling sighed. She had a feeling she knew where this was going and didn’t really want to get into it.

  “I was. I recently sold my firm so technically I’m unemployed.”

  “I’d like to change that,” Veronica said. “Immediately. Name your price. I want you down here protecting me.”

  “I really don’t think that’s necessary, Veronica. The FBI has far more resources than an individual, a civilian, at that.”

  “It’s not about resources or manpower. It’s about trust. I don’t know these people from Adam. You, on the other hand, proved you do the right thing when it matters.”

  “You’ve got your own security in addition to the FBI. I would just get in the way. Too many cooks in the kitchen, as they say.”

  “Maybe, but until Stone is caught, I want you to lead the team.”

  Pauling chose her words carefully. “The FBI isn’t going to let me lead anything. Plus, I don’t think you need me. Stone will be caught quickly. These days, it’s much harder for a man like him, on the run, to stay hidden. Besides, why do you think he’d take the risk to come after you? He has to know you’ll be protected by the Bureau.”

  “Did I ever tell you the last thing he said to me, before he got locked up?”

  “No.”

  “He said, if it’s the last thing I ever do, I’m going to strangle you with my bare hands,” Veronica said. “Or die trying.”

  10

  East St. Louis was nobody’s idea of paradise.

  But right now, in Stone Morticelli’s mind, it was perfect.

  Consistently ranked one of the most violent and economically depressed communities in the country, East Saint Louis was exactly what he needed; a place where no one knew him, and where an unspoken pact to not communicate with law enforcement was firmly in place.

  Stone knew the Barranca family had some business in the city, every Chicago Mob family did, but he didn’t think anyone here would recognize him on sight.

  He parked the motorcycle near a dead-end street, removed its license plate, and dumped the plate in a garbage can. He then used most of the cash from Bud Dupree’s wallet for a cheap hotel room near downtown.

  There was a good chance the motorcycle would be stolen, but he didn’t care.

  In his room, he studied his face in the mirror. He would need to change his appearance if he could, but at the moment, he didn’t have the tools he would need.

  He gathered up what little cash remained, and went to a drug store around the corner. There, he had just enough to buy a disposable burner cell phone. He used it to send a short text that contained the address of the hotel.

  The recipient was a woman named Tara.

  Then, he sat on a park bench a half block from the cheap motel and waited. He felt exposed and had considered wearing the motorcycle helmet he’d tossed into the trash. But that would look bizarre.

  No, the odds of someone spotting him now were slim.

  Instead of worrying, he calculated the time it would have taken Tara to leave Chicago and get to St. Louis.

  She had a slightly shorter trip than his from Oklahoma but he had hit the road immediately. In his best estimation, she should have been very close by now.

  When he’d called her from the Dupree trailer, he’d only told her to start heading for St. Louis, but he hadn’t given her an address because he wasn’t sure exactly where he would wind up.

  Now that she had the address of the cheap hotel, it would only be a short wait.

  Still, Stone had seen it all and he had no illusions.

  There was always a chance he couldn’t trust her.

  If she had turned on him, the cops would arrive first. Probably plainclothes. Or maybe even Feds.

  If she was still loyal, she would show up alone with no one tailing her.

  For now, all he could do was wait.

  11

  “How do you like Chicago?”

  Tallon smiled. Pauling always had the strangest openings on phone calls.

  He had just finished one of his epic runs through the desert. He’d showered and dressed, but a thin bead of sweat had broken out along his forehead. His legs ached and it would take several hours to recover. Rather than sit down, though, he opted to keep moving and now, he was back outside.

  “Chicago’s a great town,” he said. “Hot dogs, pizza and beer. What’s not to love?”

  He was standing outside the main building of his adobe ranch, appraising its curb appeal, as the realtors called it. It still bothered him how many times Connie had referred to his home as “interesting.” He chalked most of it up to the fact that she was twenty years older than him and wasn’t used to the kind of minimalism military guys liked in their living quarters.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “An old case of mine from the Bureau has sort of come back to life and I’m thinking of going to Chicago to help out.”

  “The Feds are letting you do that?”

  He heard her hesitate. “Not exactly. I may help someone who was involved. A civilian.”

  As always, Tallon wondered if the call was being monitored. He knew Pauling had state-of-the-art security, just as he did, but you never knew. When the FBI pulled out all the stops, they could do just about anything.

  “Well, I’m between jobs right now, so the timing is perfect,” he answered. “But it sounds like you’re not sure if you’re actually going to do it.”

  “I think I’m definitely going to Chicago and at least meet with my potential client, even if I don’t take the job,” Pauling said. “So, we could at least have a weekend together even if it doesn’t pan out.”

  Tallon had to admit, he was getting a touch impatient with their living arrangements. But they were in a weird place. He didn’t want to sell his ranch, and Pauling wasn’t exactly in a hurry to move out of New York and in with him. So they were in a bit of a purgatory.

  Now that he had toyed around with the idea of selling his property and promptly decided against it, the same dynamic was back in play. If they spent time together in Chicago, then what? Would he go back to New York with Pauling? Or would she come back here with him?

  “And then after, I thought I would come out to your place for awhile,” she said, as if reading his mind.

  Immediately, his mood improved.

  “Do you want to take care of the flight arrangements to Chicago, or do you want me to?” he asked.

  12

  It was a Lake Forest mansion, along the shore of Lake Michigan with a vista that was easily worth a few million dollars. This was the neighborhood of Al Capones and Michael Jordans and tycoons of various industry.

  A sprawling yard with a winding driveway leading up to a massive structure three stories tall with multiple wings shooting off the central building. The home was awash in old-world craftsmanship: limestone block, custom wrought iron works, heavy wooden doors.

  Brooks had seen it all before. Not this particular home, but many like it. His employers tended to favor the look of old money, even if they’d made their questionable millions in less than a decade.

  He was shown to the study by a thick-chested man in a suit tailored to display said torso.

  Brooks was always amused by bodybuilders. A passion for lifting heavy objects didn’t serve one well in a fight. At least by itself, gymnasium-supplied strength didn’t do much on its own. Whenever he saw a huge slab of meat stuffed into an Armani suit trying to intimidate, Brooks always wanted to ask: but do you really know how to fight? With hands? Guns? Knives?

  Most of them didn’t.

  In the library, floor-to-ceiling shelves were filled with leather books. Oil paintings hung on the wall. The faint smell of whiskey and cigar smoke seemed to permeate the heavy wood beams.

  Completely not fitting in with the scene before him, a man in a peach-colored suit sat in one of the leather club chairs, a drink in hand. In addition to the glow-in-the-dark suit, the man had multiple gold rings on each hand. He looked a little like Elton John circa the late 90s.

  Brooks knew him, of course. His name was Leonard and he was a go-between. He didn’t own the house. He was simply allowed access to the mansion in order to hold occasional, sensitive meetings. It was also why he was willing to dress like a flamboyantly gay rock star: his bosses were nowhere near the conversation.

  “Ah, Brooks,” Leonard said. He smiled, revealing teeth that had seen no small amount of bleach, polish, and veneers. “Care for a drink?”

  “No.”

  Leonard smirked. “Your social graces never cease to impress.” Leonard spoke with an affected tone, like he was being filmed for a reality show.

  Brooks stood in front of Leonard and waited.

  “Please sit.”

  “No thank you. You called me here for a job. What is it?”

  Brooks had dealt with Leonard before and despised the man. Brooks despised the way Leonard loved the sound of his own, mellifluous voice. The man would use fifty words to say something that only required ten.

  One of these days, Brooks would assign himself the elimination of Leonard, when he wasn’t concerned with the consequences. He would do the job pro bono.

  “It’s a doozy, my boy,” Leonard said, batting his eyelashes. “It seems a certain federal prisoner has flown the coop and no one can find him. There’s a dossier on the table with everything you need.”

  “So the Feds are involved,” Brooks said.

  “Indeed.”

  “I hope my fee reflects the degree of difficulty.”

  “It does. You’re not dealing with the B-team here, sunshine.”

  Brooks picked up the folder and asked, “How soon?”

  “As soon as possible. And yes, that is reflected in your fee, too.”

  The sun was setting over Lake Michigan and a swath of burnt ocher filled the study, turning the wood from dark oak into a honey color.

  Brooks headed for the library’s exit but Leonard had one more thing to say.

  “Be aware failure is not acceptable on this one, Brooksy Boy.”

  Brooks didn’t break stride, simply held his right hand up behind his head with the middle finger extended.

  13

  Stone Morticelli’s former girlfriend was the polar opposite of his ex-wife, which is what had attracted him to her in the first place.

  While Veronica was a curvy brunette both intelligent and beautiful, Tara Norcross was a rail-thin bottle blonde with fake boobs and an addictive personality. When Stone had first met her, she was just getting into stripping but already fully immersed in a cocaine addiction. Stone had stepped in, stopped her path from the usual: stripper to escort to street hooker – and set her up in his bachelor pad.

  As physically attractive as Tara was, Stone had found her personality endearing. Tara was a dangerous woman, up for anything, and frequently in some kind of trouble. Life with her was never boring, which Stone both loved and hated.

  The chemistry between them had been wild and wicked. They’d spent many a hot and sweaty night working between the silk sheets of the king bed in his secret apartment. Of course, he later found out it hadn’t been that much of a secret – that Veronica had known all about it.

  What’s done is done, he thought.

  And even though he hadn’t seen Tara since he’d been incarcerated and she certainly hadn’t written or visited – that wasn’t Tara’s style –Stone knew she was fiercely loyal and would do anything for him.

  He hadn’t given her his room number, so he waited from his vantage point, keeping an eye on the front of the cheap hotel, and her car. She had owned a red Porsche and loved it more than anything in the world. He figured she probably still drove it, but people change.

  Whatever car Tara arrived in, Stone was confident it wouldn’t be ordinary.

  He ran the most likely scenario through his mind. Stone knew the man at the front desk wouldn’t give her any information, like his room number, namely because he wasn’t the one who’d given him his room and it wasn’t the kind of place that kept records.

  Just as he was beginning to feel the first seeds of doubt take hold, a red Porsche pulled up outside the hotel. A blonde exited the car, paused to confirm the address and then went inside.

  Stone left his spot and ducked into the corner convenience store next to the hotel. If he knew Tara, she would get no information from the front desk and then come back out. She would probably debate going back to her car and waiting for Stone to contact her. But first, she would come in to the convenience store for a pack of smokes or some liquor before going back to her car to wait.

  As it turned out, Stone himself didn’t have long to wait. He was pretending to peruse a shelf of various processed donuts when he heard the door open. Stone could almost sense her presence. He waited and heard a female ask for a half-pint of vodka.

 

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