Justified, page 8
“Have a seat,” was the next order.
“Yes, sir.” Karl made it to the chair in front of the commander’s desk. When he sank into the seat, he was an ant staring up at two giants. Was he going to get suspended? Fired? He prepared for the worst, but the knots in his stomach made it impossible.
“Congratulations.” Robinson broke into a smile. “I’m pleased to see you taking the initiative to move your career in the right direction.”
The unexpected praise gave Karl mental whiplash. “I’m sorry. What?”
“You’ve made detective, son.” Whitehead’s voice was as hard as his facial features. “Impressive work on both your oral and written exams. I have no doubt you’ll make one hell of a detective for the department.” He stepped forward and offered his hand.
Karl sprang from his seat and accepted the handshake. “Thank you, sir. I-I hope to make you proud.” He told himself to release the superintendent’s hand, but he couldn’t get himself to stop pumping it. He’d never been this excited.
“Yes, I’m sure you will.” The superintendent snatched his hand free and shook it at his side to get the blood flowing again.
“There’s more news.” Robinson moved toward his chair behind the desk.
“Sir?” Get ready for the other shoe to drop.
“We’re putting you with the Special Task Force,” Robinson announced, dropping into his chair. “The anti-gang division, headed by Detective Caruso.”
“Vice?” Karl needed to sit, but he remained standing. “I see.”
“Detective Caruso and his men are doing a hell of a job out there. On paper, they are pulling some impressive numbers, making record numbers of busts, closing cases . . .”
Karl cocked his head and swung his gaze between the two men. “But?”
“There’s no ‘but,’” Robinson lied. “Only, we want to make sure everything is running as smoothly as it appears on paper.”
“There have been a few complaints,” Whitehead corrected. “Some questionable tactics and offenses used by the division, including unprovoked shootings, beatings, planting false evidence, dealing in narcotics, and perjury to cover up these . . . offenses.”
Karl’s gaze swung between the men again. “I see.”
“Do you?” Robinson bridged his hands together.
“I think so. You’re asking me to spy on Caruso and his men. To be a blue snitch.”
“We’re asking you to make sure this department doesn’t have a Rampart scandal brewing under our noses. The city is already battling bankruptcy with a record number of civil cases in the last five years alone. If we have corrupt cops in our midst, it’s up to us to root them out.”
“Yeah . . .” Karl frowned.
“But?” Robinson asked.
“But you know what happens to cops who cross the blue line for Internal Affairs. I’m no kamikaze pilot.”
“All we’re asking you to do is to keep your eyes and ears open. That’s it. No one will ever know.”
Karl didn’t believe them.
Robinson tried again. “I understand your concerns. This is a big risk, and we’re more than prepared to reward you for—how should I say it?”
“Risking my neck?”
Robinson and Whitehead nodded together.
“Yes, you will be putting your neck out on the line,” Robinson added. “But one hand washes the other. I can see you moving up the ranks in this department.”
“The sky is the limit,” Whitehead agreed.
“Yeah?”
They nodded again.
Still, Karl hesitated.
Whitehead slapped a hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t we give you, say—the night to think it over? Whatever you decide to do, we’ll respect your decision. But we’re hoping you’ll come on board.”
* * *
Charlie headed out to Lake Shore Drive to see Ramsey. No better way to prove you’re a mogul on the rise than living in the Chicago Gold Coast neighborhood. It was a long way from where he and Hennessey had grown up. With last night’s shooting all over the news, she wanted to make sure Ramsey also had made it out of the Emperor’s Club all right before heading out for her first job interview.
Arriving at the address Billie had given her, Charlie couldn’t help but be impressed. The only eyesore, at the moment, were the two news media vans parked out front of the penthouse building. What if they recognize me?
She dismissed the thought. It had been more than five years. Her fifteen minutes of fame had long expired.
Not wanting to deal with valet, Charlie parked against the curb across from the high-rise. As she killed the engine, her gaze swept toward two cars behind the news vans in front of the penthouse. A driver chilled out behind the wheel. Her hackles rose after her first casual glance at the man. She removed her shades and leaned over her wheel to get a better look. The distance made it difficult. With an empty car parked between them, Charlie relied on the man’s side-view mirror. She had a view of his beard and full lips, but his eyes remained hidden behind a pair of mirrored sunglasses. Unable to place the face, she shook off the bad feeling and grabbed her purse.
Ramsey’s penthouse building’s front door opened, and Officers Vic Caruso, Chris Crews, and Thomas Graham strolled out like there was a red carpet underneath their feet.
Charlie froze as oxygen evaporated out of the car. Her eyes had to be playing tricks on her. But it wasn’t a trick.
“Fuckin’ uppity bitch thinks she’s too good for this dick!” Caruso’s large hand locked around her neck again.
Charlie’s heart pounded in her ears. She was in the back of the van again. With them clawing at her underwear. “Henny!”
“Scream all you want to,” the cop growled. “That dead nigga can’t help you.”
Charlie’s hands clenched on the steering wheel as she watched the news reporters flock to the cops, who warded off their questions. Caruso and Crews hopped into one car while Thomas slid in next to a maple-colored man with a discolored birthmark stretched across the left side of his face . . .
Jace Wallace. She blinked. The old gang was still thick as thieves.
Her brain struggled to process this while Caruso and his team pulled away from the curb. Charlie had only a second to think before she started her car again and followed.
CHAPTER 12
“A new team member?” Caruso repeated, swinging his sharp gaze between his commander and the superintendent. “Aren’t me and my guys posting good numbers?” Robinson’s plastic smile extended. “The task force’s numbers are impressive. I’m sure you know that, which is why you’ve earned yourself another member on the team. We want to put our resources behind what’s working.”
Caruso nodded as his smile tightened. “My team . . . we run a tight unit.”
“I’m sure you’ll find Detective Nelson to be a good team player.”
“Detective Nelson?” Caruso ran the name through his memory Rolodex and drew a blank.
“Karl Nelson. He made detective today.”
“So, me and my guys will be training him also?”
“He’s an open book. I have complete confidence in your team showing him the ropes.”
Caruso had no choice in the matter and kept smiling. “I’m sure this Nelson guy will be a great addition to the team.”
“Excellent.” Robinson buoyed out of his chair and waltzed around his desk to shake Caruso’s hand. “Nelson’s paperwork is still being processed, but he’ll be transferred over to your division before the end of the week.”
“Looking forward to it.” Caruso gave an extra pump to the handshake before turning toward Whitehead and shaking his clammy hand as well.
“Good to see you again, Caruso.” Whitehead flashed his blinding white veneers.
“You, too, sir.” After a final head nod, Caruso spun toward the door and marched out. An hour later, he and his team met up at Dugan’s and hunched over four frosted beer glasses.
“How is this going to work with another member on the team?” Crews asked nervously. “Are we going to have to watch everything we do and every word we say around this guy?” He inched across the table toward Caruso. “It’s going to make collecting street taxes difficult, don’t you think?”
Caruso nodded and backhanded the beer foam from his upper lip. “Difficult, but not impossible.”
Thomas shook his head. “I don’t like it.”
“I don’t, either,” Jace agreed. “Especially after pulling the last job. The streets are hot. We’re already watching our backs like a muthafucka, and now we have to watch our fronts, too?”
“Are you guys finished bitching?” Caruso caught the bartender’s attention and signaled for another round of drinks.
Crews’s face twisted. “You mean, this shit is cool with you?”
“No,” Caruso snapped. “But I fail to see what bitching about it is going to do. It’s not like I could tell Robinson we didn’t need another member on the team. He shoved the guy down my throat.”
“Whoa.” Jace leaned forward. “Shoved how? What did he say?”
“Nothing—other than they wanted to put their resources behind what’s working.” Caruso shrugged. “They complimented our bust numbers and then said Detective Nelson is a good team player.”
Thomas frowned. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Shit.” Jace shook his head. “Do you think Robinson is planting an inside guy?”
Their drinks arrived by way of a perky crème au lait–skinned black chick with a giant golden-blond Afro. “Here you go, boys.” She plunked down their frosty mugs and removed their empty ones. “Enjoy.”
“Will do.” Jace followed the sway of her hips as she walked away. When he faced the guys again, he wore a big Kool-Aid smile. “What?”
“Why don’t you put yourself out of your misery and ask the girl for her phone number already?”
“Don’t worry. I’m going to make my move.”
Thomas laughed. “When?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Can you two knuckleheads focus?” Crews barked before returning his attention to Caruso. “How about it? Do you think this Nelson guy is a plant for Robinson?”
Caruso wanted to reassure his guys, but the question had been running through his mind since he’d walked out of Robinson’s office, too.
“Vic?” Crews needled.
“I don’t fuckin’ know, a’ight? He could be. So, until we can figure this Detective Nelson out, we’re going to have to be careful. Cross every T and dot every I.”
“And if he is a plant?” Crews pressed.
Caruso didn’t want his thoughts to go down that road, but with three sets of eyes leveled on him, he considered the worst-case scenario. “If Detective Nelson is a plant, we’ll take care of him.”
“Wait. What does that mean?” Jace asked, shifting his gaze around the table. “Are we talking about”—he glanced around and lowered his voice—“killing a cop? Are you fuckin’ serious?”
“Nothing is concrete,” Caruso hissed, leaning into Jace’s face. “But if the situation ever calls for it, are you telling me you would have a problem with it?”
Jace blinked. “Nah, nah. I want to make sure I understand what we’re talking about. That’s all.”
The table went silent.
Jace stressed, “I’m down for whatever needs to be done.”
“Yeah?” Caruso challenged.
“Yeah.” Jace forced a smile. “You know me. I’ve always got your back. Always.”
Caruso’s gaze shifted to the other guys. “What about the rest of you? Any questions about what we might be up against? What we might have to do?”
Crews and Graham looked at each other and shook their heads.
“Good.” Caruso grinned. “We’re all on the same page.”
* * *
At the opposite end of the pub, Charlie sat hunched in a corner booth hiding her face behind her hair and large sunglasses. For over an hour, she nursed a glass of bourbon on the rocks while she remained laser-focused on the four cops who’d ruined her life. The grinning and laughing boiled her blood. Buried terror from the back of that van roared to the surface.
Over and over.
She was a soldier—but it was four against one. She couldn’t take them. After all her military training, she couldn’t take them on. Tears seeped from beneath her sunglasses. Charlie made a quick swipe at them as the blond-Afro waitress made it to her table.
“Is there anything else I can get you?”
Charlie shook her head. “No, I’m good.”
“Are you sure? We serve hot wings, nachos, and some mean burgers.” She smiled. “The jalapeño bacon double cheeseburger is my favorite.”
“Sure, fine. Whatever. I’ll have that.”
The waitress’s smile widened with a wink. “You’ll thank me later.” She sauntered off with an extra bounce in her step, and Charlie wondered whether the Afro-punk waitress was flirting with her. She shook her head and refocused her attention on Caruso and his gang. By the time she’d drained her bourbon, her burger had arrived.
However, she only took one bite before Jace Wallace stood from his booth alone, tossed some money down on the table, and saluted his boys a good night.
“How is the burger?” the waitress asked, springing up from nowhere.
“It’s great. Thanks.” Charlie grabbed her purse, also tossed down a few twenties, and scooched her way out of the booth.
“You’re leaving?” the waitress asked.
“Yeah, sorry. But the burger was great.” She flashed a smile and maneuvered around the stunned waitress to follow Wallace out of Dugan’s.
Outside, Wallace was already pulling out of the parking lot, and Charlie had to rush to her car. It took her no time to find him on the road. She hung back a couple of car lengths and followed him across town.
Charlie glanced at herself in the rearview mirror. “What are you doing, Charlie?” She had no idea. Wallace pulled up to a ranch-style home around the corner from Evergreen Park. When he parked in the driveway, it was the only car. Does he live alone?
Charlie stopped at a curb two houses down and across from Wallace’s place, and killed the lights. Now what?
Wallace’s car keys jingled as he jogged up to his front door, grabbed the mail out of a box, and let himself inside. If he’d turned on a light, it wasn’t visible to the front of the house. Charlie scanned the quiet neighborhood twice before going for her door handle. After silently climbing out of the car, Charlie crept toward Wallace’s place and cased the house, peeking through windows and checking to make sure there wasn’t a dog around, waiting to snatch a bite out of her ass if she broke in.
If?
When.
It was happening. It had to happen. All the windows were locked—except for the kitchen. And when it moved, Charlie’s heart almost stopped. She hesitated for a second and then used a lawn chair to hoist herself inside.
Once in, Charlie closed the window and struggled to climb out of the sink. A black cat meowed from the kitchen counter. Startled, Charlie hit the faucet’s lever and turned on the water.
“Shit.” She scrambled to shut it off and froze. No fucking way Wallace hadn’t heard her. Sitting in the sink in wet clothes, Charlie waited for the cop to charge in, shooting.
But it didn’t happen.
The cat jumped off the counter and dashed out of the kitchen.
Relieved, Charlie resumed climbing out of the sink. From the corner of her eye, she spotted a butcher block filled with knives. It wasn’t a .45, but it could work. She gripped one handle and pulled out a 12-inch blade. The steel gleamed from the moonlight behind her. Charlie crept out of the kitchen on her tiptoes, relieved to find both the dining room and the living room cloaked in darkness. However, she was still able to make out the cat’s yellow eyes as she moved past it, hissing from the back of a La-Z-Boy.
In the hallway, Charlie heard the steady water flow from a showerhead. She relaxed, but her hackles stood, and her heart enlarged in her throat. She didn’t think; she relied on her instincts.
The last time she’d inched toward danger, she was a soldier in Jalalabad, Afghanistan, weighed down with seventy pounds of gear and armed with an M4 rifle.
Now this was a different kind of combat.
The deep piled carpet swallowed the sound of Charlie’s footsteps as she moved down the long hallway. She passed a closet and an empty bathroom. The first bedroom she came across was apparently a home office. The second bedroom was a kid’s bedroom—a girl’s, judging by the pink walls and boy-band posters. It was also empty.
Something in the air shifted, and her gut instinct told her to duck. A muffled gunshot fired. A bullet whizzed by Charlie’s head. When she glanced over her left shoulder, Wallace stepped out from the corner of the last bedroom with his weapon leveled on her.
“Who the fuck are you?” he barked.
Charlie straightened but kept a firm grip on the knife at her side.
“Wait.” Wallace’s face twisted as recognition settled in. “I know you.” He took another step into the hallway. “What the fuck are you doing in my house?”
Charlie glared and willed him to move closer.
“When did you get out of jail?”
She didn’t answer.
Wallace glanced down the hallway. “Who else is in the house with you?”
Silence.
He adjusted his grip on the weapon. “Answer me.”
Charlie smiled.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Wallace took a half step forward and another nervous glance down the hall.
It was all Charlie needed to drop low and launch forward.
Startled, Wallace delayed his tap on the trigger and missed.
Charlie didn’t.
The butcher knife pierced below the left side of his rib cage and sank deep.
Stunned, Wallace dropped his gun and slumped against Charlie. His eyes were as wide as silver dollars.
“Scream all you want to,” he’d growled once. “That dead nigga can’t help you.”
Charlie never stopped smiling. “Fuck you, you sick son of a bitch. Who is going to help you now?” She stepped back, pulling the knife out with her.
