Savage Lover, page 9
part #3 of Brutal Birthright Series
“Who is he?” I ask.
“Grisha Lukin.”
“What kinda name is that?”
“Russian,” Levi says. His gaze sharpens slightly. “You’re kinda nosy, huh?”
“Not really.” I shrug. “I just thought I knew most people in Old Town. I’ve lived here forever.”
“Yeah, but you don’t ever come out of your little shop,” Levi laughs. “I don’t think I ever saw you drunk in high school even. Now you’ll get your fun, though.”
He holds out the joint to me.
“No thanks,” I say.
“I’m not asking,” he snaps. “Sit down.”
I sit down on the couch next to him, trying to keep space between us without making it too obvious. He shoves the joint in my hand.
I take a pitiful little puff. Even that makes me cough. The thick, skunky taste fills my mouth and my head spins. I don’t like pot. I don’t like being out of control of myself.
“There you go,” Levi laughs. “Now you can chill the fuck out.”
It does make me relax—physically, at least. I sink back in the cushions, feeling mildly dazed and in less of a rush to get out of here.
I recognize the girl on the other side of me. Her name is Ali Brown. She was three years ahead of me in school. Her parents own the flower shop on Sedgewick.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” she replies.
She’s got straw-colored hair and freckles. She’s wearing a crop-top with no bra, and a pair of boy’s underpants with Superman logos all over them. She looks half asleep.
After a very long pause, she says, “I know you.”
“Yeah,” I say. “We both went to Oakmont.”
“No,” she says. “I saw your picture.”
She’s way more high than I thought. Still, to humor her, I say, “What picture?”
She pauses again, breathing shallowly. Then she says, “The one where you were eating ice cream on the pier.”
I stiffen. My dad had a picture like that. He took it when I was fourteen.
“What are you talking about?” I say.
“Yeah,” she sighs. “It was in the change room, taped to the mirror. I bet your mom put it there.”
Now my face is flaming. She’s talking about Exotica. Ali must have worked as a dancer, or a hostess.
“Who’s your mom?” a guy sprawled on a beanbag chair says.
“She’s a whore,” one of the other guys snickers.
“Shut your fucking mouth,” I snap. I try to jump up from the couch, but Levi pulls me back down again.
“Relax,” he says. “Pauly, don’t be a dick. We call them escorts.”
“My mother wasn’t an escort,” I hiss. “She just worked as a dancer.”
“A stripper,” Pauly laughs. “She teach you any moves? There’s a pole upstairs. Why don’t you show us how mommy shakes it?”
“Why don’t I shake your fucking head off your shoulders!” I roar, struggling to get out of the low, sagging couch while weak and enervated from the weed. It’s easy for Levi to yank me back down again.
“Nobody cares what your mom did,” he says. He slings his arm around my shoulders, which I don’t like at all. I can smell his sweat and the heavy reek of weed in his robe. “My parents are a couple of fuckin’ yuppies and that’s just as embarrassing. You can’t be fighting, though. You gotta be a good girl. Do your work. Make some money. Have some fun.”
His fingertips dangle over my right breast. He lets them touch down, with only my t-shirt between us. I force myself not to squirm away.
I see Ali watching us. Not like she’s jealous—more like a kid watching the fish in an aquarium.
“Yeah, whatever,” I mutter. “I need more Ex, then.”
Levi nods to the Samoan. The guy comes back about five minutes later with a paper bag, the top folded over. He hands it to me.
“Where am I supposed to sell this?” I ask Levi.
“Anywhere you want. Parties, raves, campuses . . . sky’s the limit. You’re your own boss. Under me, of course.” He grins.
“Do you make this?” I ask him. “How do I know it’s good? I don’t want any of my friends getting sick.”
Levi’s veneer of friendliness peels back. His bloodshot eyes peer at me from too close, his arm tightening around my shoulder.
“You know it’s good because you trust me,” he hisses.
He’s only in his twenties, but his teeth are as yellow as an old man’s, and his breath is atrocious.
“Right,” I say. “Okay.”
He lets go of me at last. I heave myself up off the couch, clutching the paper bag.
“You can sell ‘em anywhere from fifteen to twenty-five a pop,” Levi says. “You owe me ten each.”
I nod.
“Bring me the money in a week.”
I nod again.
The Samoan leads me back toward the front door, even though it’s only ten feet away.
“See ya,” I say to him.
He gives me a disdainful look, closing the door in my face.
Even though it’s hot as hell outside, the air tastes fresh after the fug of Levi’s house. I do not want to go back there. Especially not in a week.
And where the hell am I supposed to keep coming up with the money for this? I don’t want to actually sell Molly.
I drive a couple blocks away, then I pull over to call Schultz.
“Hey,” I say. “I got another batch of pills from Levi. What do you want me to do with it?”
“Bring it to me,” he says. “I’ll meet you at Boardwalk Burgers.”
I silently groan. Is today going to be a tour of all the people I least want to visit?
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll be there in fifteen.”
10
NERO
The first thing I do when I get home is start researching this cop.
It doesn’t take long to find him. Officer Logan Schultz, graduated from the academy in 2011, then bounced around the Bureau of Patrol for a while. Two years ago, he transferred to the Organized Crime Division.
That’s exactly what I expected. Organized Crime covers Vice, Narcotics, and Gang Investigations. All of my favorite things.
But I’m curious to know who this joker actually is.
Am I dealing with a Boy Scout? Or a classic crooked cop who wants to get his beak wet?
Now that’s a little trickier to tell. Officer Schultz has several complaints lodged against him, and he’s been investigated twice for misconduct. But as far as I can see, he’s only gotten in trouble for roughing up suspects, not taking bribes.
He’s received a couple of commendations, too. Most recently the Top Gun Arrest Award for recovering illegal firearms.
There’s a photo of him getting a medal pinned on his chest by a man with a long, crooked nose and thinning gray hair. The caption informs me that this is Chief Brodie. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen Brodie at those hoity-toity parties I was needling Schultz about. I don’t actually enjoy attending those—but it’s all part of securing power and influence in Chicago.
Lining up the dates on Schultz’s big case, I’m guessing he was involved in that raid on the Bratva last year—I hear they lost almost twenty million in high-quality Russian munitions.
So it looks like our boy is a real go-getter. Really making a splash in the Chicago PD.
I try to search his social media, looking for evidence of a wife, kids, girlfriend, or exploitable bad habits. It’s all buttoned up tight—no public profiles. Or maybe no profiles at all.
However, I do find an old news article from April 18th, 2005:
Off-Duty Chicago Police Officer Slain in South Shore
* * *
Officer Matthew Schultz passed away early this morning, after being shot at approximately 1:30 am at the corner of E 77th Street and S Bennet Ave.
Police Superintendent Larson said the officer was driving close to Rosenblum Park when an unknown assailant approached the vehicle at a stoplight. The shooter fired through the Officer’s car window, hitting Schultz three times in the chest and head.
Larson said officers conducting a traffic stop nearby heard the gunfire and responded to the scene. Nearby security cameras caught partial footage of the event.
Schultz was rushed to Jackson Park Hospital, where he underwent emergency surgery. The doctor’s efforts were not successful, and he was pronounced dead at 5:22 a.m.
Schultz is survived by a wife and son. Donations to the family can be made via the Fallen Brothers Fund.
Well, well, well. It doesn’t take a bona fide detective to surmise that the “surviving son” is the new Officer Schultz. Or that his avenging angel routine is supposed to make up for Daddy catching a bullet in South Shore.
Interesting that the news article makes no mention of what Dad was doing driving around South Shore in plainclothes in the middle of the night. And I don’t see any follow-ups about catching the shooter.
I wonder if Schultz the Younger knows the answer to that little mystery.
Well, that’s his problem. I’ve got my own issue to contend with. Namely, how I’m going to rustle up some capital for the Steel Works development.
I’m going to need a lot of money. Not a couple million—serious coin.
Which might just mean going back to my roots.
Dante and I used to pull jobs together when I was a teenager. This was back before he joined the military. He was fucking wild then. Absolutely fearless.
And I was in a state of pure mania. Our mother had died. Our father was a wreck. I needed something, anything to grab hold of.
When Dante started planning jobs, I begged him to let me come along. At first, I was just the lookout or the driver. That progressed as Dante saw I had a talent for the work.
We robbed almost a dozen armored trucks while I was in high school, taking anywhere from $80,000 to $650K per hit.
I always stole the getaway cars. I could slip into a parking garage and roll out in a nice, unobtrusive sedan in less than ten minutes. Stealing from the airport long-term parking was best—nobody would even notice the car was gone. So there was little chance of it being reported as stolen while we were in the middle of the job.
For a getaway car, you want something with guts and speed, but also a low profile and dull color. Something that blends right into the surroundings. Four doors for easy in and out, and a big trunk to store the loot.
A Mercedes E-Class was always a good bet, or an older BMW. Even a Camry worked well.
We looked for Brinks drivers who were old and fat. Close to retirement and too tired to keep a lookout. No itchy young cowboys wearing combat pants, with visions of glory in their heads.
We liked the Brinks trucks. Regular routes, consistent security routines. We attacked them early in the morning when they’d service the ATMs, before the banks were actually open.
We’d drop the money off at a safe house. Then drive the getaway car out to the boonies, douse the interior in bleach, and set the whole thing ablaze.
Now, that was all good fun and good practice. But I’m going to need a much bigger payout than an armored truck can provide.
I’ve got to go right to the source.
Right to one of the largest vaults in the whole of Chicago. One that stores gold, diamonds, and undeclared cash for the city’s wealthiest citizens.
The vault owned by Raymond Page.
It’s right in the heart of the financial district, at the end of what they call the “LaSalle Canyon”—the long tunnel of skyscrapers that include the Board of Trade and the Chicago Fed.
Bella’s father doesn’t own the biggest bank, but Alliance sure as shit is the dirtiest. It’s like our own little Deutsche Bank, laundering money for oligarchs and helping the wealthy skirt the pesky regulations of international finance.
From what I hear, his records are more convoluted than a Navajo code, and about as factual as The Lord of the Rings. Which is all to say, I think I could steal a whole lot of money that nobody could track.
Now, the tricky part is that while Raymond Page might be crooked, he isn’t stupid. In fact, nobody is as paranoid as a criminal. Alliance Bank probably has one of the tightest security systems in the city.
But no system is perfect. There’s always a crack.
And I already know how I’m going to find it. Through Raymond’s baby girl, of course.
11
CAMILLE
I meet up with Schultz at Boardwalk Burgers, down by the pier. He’s already eating a double stack and fries at one of the outdoor tables.
“You want anything?” he asks me.
I shake my head.
“You sure? I can expense it.”
Everything he says has a teasing tone. It coats all his statements, making it hard to understand his real intent. Is he bragging because he can write off his meals? Is he joking about how silly it is to submit a form for a five-dollar burger? Is he reminding me that I’m an informant now, effectively on his payroll? Or is he trying to flirt with me?
I don’t like that last possibility.
But I can’t ignore how Schultz is constantly pinning me down with his bright blue eyes. Standing too close to me. Sneaking a suggestive tone into every statement.
Once I’ve sat down across from him at the picnic table, he shoves the half-eaten basket of fries toward me. I shake my head again. I don’t want anything in my mouth that he already touched.
“So,” he says, taking a slurp of his soda. “What did you find out?”
“I went to the street races last night. Levi was there. I told him my brother’s not selling for him anymore. So he made me pay for the product you took, and he said I have to sell for him instead.”
“Good.” Schultz grins.
“I didn’t really see who Levi was hanging around with that night. The cops came and broke it up before anything else happened.”
I see a little gleam in Schultz’s eye.
“I know,” he says. “One of the attendees got in a chase with a couple of squad cars. Do you know Nero Gallo?”
Even the sound of his name sends a flush of heat up the back of my neck.
I try to keep my expression neutral.
“We went to the same high school,” I say.
“The officers thought he had a brunette in the car with him. Do you know who that might be? I noticed your Trans Am down there. I stopped them from impounding it, by the way.”
“Thank you,” I say, stiffly.
He finishes the last bite of his burger, dabbing his mouth with his napkin. Staring at me the whole time.
“So was that you?” he says. “Were you speeding around with Nero?”
I impulsively grab one of his french fries, to give myself a second to think. It’s already lukewarm and soggy. It tastes like grease and salt.
I chew hard and then swallow.
“No,” I lie.
“Camille,” Schultz purrs, his blue eyes drilling into me. “This isn’t going to work if you lie to me.”
“I barely know Nero,” I say.
“You do know him, though.”
I hesitate. “Yes.”
“Have you ever fucked him?”
“NO!”
Now the heat has risen all the way up to my cheeks. Schultz is grinning. He loves unnerving me. He thinks it lets him read me.
“Not even once? I hear he’s got some kind of golden cock. The ultimate Casanova, right? Girls throwing their panties at him like he’s Justin Timberlake?”
Schultz is sneering, but there’s an edge of jealousy to his words. He’s handsome, fit. He thinks he deserves that kind of female attention himself.
“Maybe you should date him,” I mutter.
Schultz glares at me, then gives a fake hearty laugh.
“Good one,” he says.
“Here’s what you need to understand,” I tell him. “I was a loser in high school. I know these people because we all grew up in Old Town. We’ve lived in the same twenty-block radius most of our lives. But we’re barely acquaintances. They don’t like me or trust me. I can try to get closer to them, but nobody’s going to be spilling their secrets to me anytime soon. Least of all Nero Gallo.”
“You know what his family does?” Schultz says.
“Yeah. They’re old-school Italian Mafia.”
“Not just mafia. His father Enzo is the head don in Chicago.”
I shrug. “So?”
Schultz leans forward, his face alight with excitement. Ambition burns in his eyes.
“Can you imagine the promotion I’d get if I took down the Gallos?”
“Yeah,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Can’t believe nobody’s tried before.”
Schultz ignores my sarcasm. “The key to Enzo Gallo is his sons. Not Dante—he’s too careful. Not Sebastian—he’s not even a gangster. It’s Nero. That reckless, vengeful little shit. He’s the weak point of the family.”
Schultz has forgotten about Aida. Or he figures she’s too well-protected by the Griffins these days.
“I don’t know if I’d call Nero a ‘weak point,’ ” I say.
“Why?”
“He’s smarter than you think. He got one of the highest scores in the school on the ACTs. His grades were shit because he never handed in any assignments.”
“See,” Schultz says softly. “You do know him.”
“I know he’s a total psychopath. Asking me to get close to him is like asking me to cozy up with a rattlesnake. He gets one hint that something’s up, and he’ll stab me in a heartbeat.”
“Better not fuck it up, then,” Schultz says coldly.
He doesn’t give a shit what happens to me. I’m a tool. And not even a very valuable one. Not an air compressor or a fancy impact wrench—I’m just a cheap plastic funnel. Easily replaced.
“Now,” Schultz says, sitting back against the fence enclosing the little outdoor dining area. “Tell me more about Levi.”
I take a deep breath, almost relieved to be off the subject of Nero.
“I went to his place today to get some more product. What do you want me to do with that, by the way?”
