Tracking Shadows (Shadows of Justice 4) (7 page)

Fed up with her uncharacteristic waffling in the field, Trina settled at her computer and started searching for reminders of why Slick Micky had to die. Her fingers flew across the keyboard and she let her eyes roam headlines past and present as she skimmed phrases and bits of news, cutting and pasting the information into an impromptu scrapbook of criminal endeavors.

It seemed the Chicago police department liked to implicate or flat out blame Slick
Micky for everything that went wrong from jammed traffic cameras to squatters on decayed urban properties. Though she searched, she didn't find anything linked to the neighborhood she'd visited with April. Was it confirmation she'd been in the lion's den, or just the opposite?

Weary of analyzing with no conclusion, she switched gears, looking for any news on Joel or his family. It was hardly the first time she'd searched since running away from Chicago, but it was the first time she'd found something new.

A storage unit facility listing ownership as Mickleson and Sons, might just be another coincidence, but maybe it was his family. She knew she was grasping for any connection, but a seed of hope that her best friend had somehow survived the smuggler's brutal attack blossomed in her heart.

The property was up by the lake, away from any of their old haunts, and according to the Internet ad, there was even climate-controlled space available. A plan formed in her mind with a sweet day dream close on its heels.

She closed her eyes, savoring the vision of a tender reunion, imagining how Joel might look. How he might look at her.

Her eyes popped open and she swiped at the tear rolling down her cheek. Oh, he'd never approve of her career, but assuming he was actually alive, he wouldn't ever have to know. No one could tie any of her kills to her real name. Assassins didn't stay in business long if everyone knew how to find them.

So she let herself fall back into that happy, dreamy reunion where Joel was thrilled to see her and they would become more than friends, never to be parted again. The pure fantasy provided a welcome break from her rather bleak reality, so she let it ride.

Once reunited, she'd eliminate Slick
Micky as her retirement job. And then...the picture faded. How could she not know what her life should look like in retirement?

Frustrated, she opened her eyes again, gazing around the posh hotel room. If she retired, she'd be free to settle down and revamp her life. And since it was just a fantasy, she put Joel in as a central, permanent fixture.

Excited by hope and braced for disappointment, she set her plan into motion by making the necessary adjustments to her current hotel reservation and finding accommodations closer to the storage center. At some point, she'd have to shake off Montalbano. He wouldn't give her any peace without some service for the retainer he'd paid her, but without the crutch of GPS, his goons wouldn't catch her unaware again.

A few hours later she was unpacking in her new cut-rate motel room. She denied the Internet connection card and did her best to look like just another road-weary traveler until she got to her room. When her computer booted up she hacked into the motel's server, masking her presence behind the desk clerk's account. She verified the addresses of two storage facilities owned by Joel, or more likely his family. Committing those details to memory, she turned to online archives searching for aerial views of the area, planning primary and secondary routes. It surely wasn't a necessary element in her idealized reunion scenario, but Trina recognized the hard line between fantasy and reality. As a pragmatic person, she knew her good habits had kept her alive.

She changed her identification and cell cards and headed out. Despite the crisp fall air, her palms were damp inside her gloves by the time she reached the gate guarding the entrance of the storage center. For once she didn't regret that her ability only worked person to person. Trying to affect how a camera captured her image had always failed. Now there was no temptation to hide her real self, not if it meant someone from the Mickleson family might recognize her. The risk sent doubts tumbling through her mind, but she managed the appropriate answers when the unseen attendant asked her business.

The gate parted on a squeal of wheels and hinges and she felt her smile wobbling between too bright and too uncertain as she walked to the office. Hopefully anyone watching would blame the weather.

But the woman inside wasn't concerned with more than her own fingernails. "How long you gonna need that ten by ten?"

"Three months," Trina replied. She glanced around the counter and at the various displays looking for pictures or names or any evidence of Joel's family.

The woman shifted her attention to a monitor and keyboard built into the counter. It seemed like high tech gear for a storage center. Trina gave her an alternate name and contact information. "I used to know a family by the name of Mickleson."

"Oh?"

"This property is still owned by Mickleson and Sons right?"

"Haven't heard otherwise."

"Have you met any of the family?"

"Nope.
Only met the property manager the day I was hired."

"I went to high school with a
Mickleson. Joel, I think. Is he related to the owners?

The attendant, whose name tag declared a rather anonymous '
Mary' gave a half shrug. "Not that I know of. Never heard the name, but as I said, I just work here." She turned an electronic notepad toward Trina. "Just list the likely contents and sign at the 'x'."

Surprisingly, the woman double checked the signature against the ID Trina placed on the counter. Trina smiled, expecting approval.

"You're gonna store family heirlooms?" Mary shook her head. "You'll want climate controlled for that. Let me scrap this agreement and – "

"No, thanks.
It'll be fine," Trina insisted. "It's just a few weeks."

Mary started
tsk-ing
as if the heirlooms in question were her own. "A few weeks of hard weather this time of year. What? You missed that we're so close to the lake?"

"Of course not."
Trina muzzled her growing irritation. She'd spent time crafting the perfect excuse to use this particular storage center, she simply had to apply it. She pushed her mouth into a smile. "The items are coming in by ferry. They'll be carefully packed and crated." She made a mental note to find a few crates she could manage with just a dolly.

Mary
tsked
again and rolled her eyes. "Whatever. It's your stuff. I'm just trying to help." Her fingers clattered over the keyboard once more. "Sign this disclaimer."

Trina obeyed.

"And swipe your payment when you're ready."

Again, Trina did as directed, sliding a card through the reader Mary held out.

"We're not responsible when your stuff gets mold or dry rot."

"I understand."

"And you know the agreement doesn't keep the cops out of your unit if there's trouble."

"Yes."

"And you saw that you can't live in the unit."

"I did read through it before I signed."

Mary paused. "We have to verify certain points because most people don't read it. And you signed it fast. We get some real weirdos being that we're so close to the docks."

Trina stopped listening, her toe tapping in her shoe, the only physical manifestation of her temper. This was a serious waste of time. A fitting punishment for her stupid fantasy and now she had to carry the charade even further. "Do I get the key now?"

Mary blinked at the interruption. "What? Oh, sure. Follow me."

They left the office after Mary made a production of setting a phone bud in her ear and locking up. Trina paid little attention as the woman explained the facility and pointed out fascinating things like freight elevators to assist customers wise enough to go with climate controlled units.

Outside, the brisk air off the lake cleared Trina's head and she tried again to ask about Mary's employers. It was no use, the attendant simply didn't know anything. Trina had nearly given up the effort here as a lost cause when she thought of one last angle.

"Is there any sort of excitement to be had around here?"

"We're not on the most exciting side of Chicagoland." Mary's expression turned sympathetic. "But on payday we all head for the strip."

Trina raised her brows.

"Up around the other side of the docks. There's a street with a few shops and a couple bars. The Levee's my personal favorite. They don't apply a surcharge on payroll cards."

"They pay you by card?"
How very old school.

"Yeah."
Mary stopped in front of a storage unit and flashed a flat, two pronged electronic key. "This is you." She slid the key in and out of the lock and handed it to Trina. "We'll just verify it's empty and then you can program the lock your own way."

Trina was again impressed with the high end technology in the rather shabby looking facility. They clearly invested in customer security more than general maintenance. "Are units often left full?"

Mary grimaced. "You wouldn't believe half the stuff I've seen."

The door rolled up and Trina peered inside. The unit was empty from the spotless cement floor to the corrugated aluminum ceiling. "Guess we won't be seeing anything today."

"Guess not," Mary agreed with a disappointed frown. Then she brightened. "I once rented a unit and walked the customer out only to find a guy sound asleep in a threadbare recliner." She laughed. "He woke up grumpier than a hibernating bear and I quick locked him inside until the cops got here."

"Who was he?"

She shrugged both shoulders this time. "Some dock hand if I had to guess, but nobody looks good waking up so I can't be sure. Said he got in through the ceiling." She peered up, flashing a light into the corners of Trina's rental. "I don't buy that. What? Did he spend a night out here cuttin' and weldin' in and out of units until he found a chair his size? Doesn't make sense."

"
Weirdos."

"Just as I said."
Mary nodded somberly. "I'll just leave you to it. Your key will get you in an out of the gate too."

Leaving a convenient record of her coming and going for the management. "Thanks."

"If you get out to the strip sometime, I'll show you around."

"I'd like that," Trina lied, smiling as Mary walked away. When the woman had turned the corner, she moved into the unit and looked around more critically.

Her initial plan a failure, the farce might actually have more practical applications. Trina pulled out her new phone and checked for broadband signals, grinning at the solid connection. She recognized all kinds of potential she hadn't considered when she'd been blinded by her little reunion fantasy.

If the owners here were not related to Joel, she could use this location to stash another emergency identity. If they were, she would simply let the rental expire and sacrifice the key replacement fee.

She refused to do anything to disgrace her memory of Joel or his family. They'd always been so very nice to her no matter the rumors she denied or the bruises she covered.

This close to the docks, she could pluck up a couple discarded crates and use them to satisfy Mary, who would surely be watching for her return. She could stash her new wardrobe here and find a thrift store and pick up some old looking junk. Both old and new would be great cover for her back up equipment, just in case Mary had a tendency to snoop when she wasn't working her nails.

On the docks, or even the strip, Trina might find someone willing to talk contraband. Her mind turned a couple more gears. Smuggling wasn't her thing, but Slick Micky had to have some connections close by. The storage unit was too convenient for a criminal to overlook, evidenced by Mary's sleeping dock hand.

She pulled down the door, making a mental note to oil the rails and rollers, and programmed the lock with her own code. Maybe Mary didn't know precisely who owned this place, but she was nosy enough that if Trina asked Mary the right questions, she might stumble onto something to put her back on Slick
Micky's tail.

She thought of April and was glad now that she hadn't stayed. She wasn't in the habit of causing trouble for innocent bystanders. Apparently fate or karma, or something else was on her side for the moment.

Chapter Seven

Micky leaned back in his chair and scrolled through the news reports for any word on Sis's murder. Brian had kept his word. The cops hadn't mentioned anything about Sis's personal, professional, or criminal connections. So far, they'd even avoided the usual mention of Slick Micky as a person of interest in the case.

While it was definitely better for him, he felt he was letting her down. She'd died because of him, because someone knew his vulnerability and wanted him to suffer. He changed media stations again, but there was nothing pertinent being reported anywhere. Knowing what it took to suppress a story, even one as publicly irrelevant as Sis's death, had his mind turning in troubling directions.

His concern about his ventures made the bizarre report of some kind of armed conflict out West a valuable distraction. He turned up the volume to listen as a perfectly coiffed reporter speculated about vigilantes, over-juiced soldiers, and secret societies. He snorted at her preposterous theories and muted the monitor again. Those odd reports made him appreciate how good he had it dealing in moderately illegal substances and juggling minor personnel issues.

He sighed. It was time to address April's lack of common sense and breach of direct orders. He called down to security and asked for her to be sent to his office.

Minutes later, the girl walked in with such a despondent look, he nearly faltered. But Sis never tolerated insubordination and he couldn't afford to let her off the hook.

"Sit down."

She slid into the chair like her knees had been about to buckle. "I'm sor –"

He held up a hand to silence her. "We have a system in place for everyone's protection."

"I –"

He scowled and her mouth snapped shut.

"You listen." He couldn't recall a time when he'd been as young and naive as April. "When I put a stop to deliveries, I have a reason. When I tell you not to bring anyone home, I have a reason."

Micky
paused. He sounded just like his father. "Look, just obey the rules and we're all better off." He ran out of words, as he considered how best to discipline her.

"I'm really sorry," she whispered as the silence stretched out. "What's going to happen to me?"

"What do you think should happen?" Good Lord. If he didn't stop channeling his father soon he'd be breaking open a case of Cuban cigars.

"I know you can kick me out, but I really hope you won't. I am super sorry and I won't buck the system again.
Ever."

It was an impossible promise, though he didn't doubt her sincerity. "Tell me what happened."

"My client's a chef."

"April, I know your clients. Tell me why you brought a stranger to dinner."
And why you let her leave.

"Oh. I was coming home and we were on the same train and some dude just, like, attacked her like he was a caveman or something and we weren't on the verge of the twenty-second century. It was awful."

"Which train?"

April blinked.

Micky drummed his fingers on the edge of his desk.

"Oh." April glanced up to the ceiling and he knew she was reviewing the convoluted route Sis had taught her.
"The first one. I boarded a couple blocks from the hotel. I can't remember if she was already on board, or not, but she was sitting just a couple seats away from me. I heard the whole thing. He was such –"

"A caveman.
Got that. So you thought it was a personal thing and she was in trouble."

"Yeah."

"And you brought her home for dinner."

Her shoulders slumped.
"Yeah."

"But you didn't offer to let her stay?"

"Well, I invited her, but I didn't tell her anything that could hurt us." She studied her shoes. "I'm not very good at recruiting."

"No." But that was okay. He didn't want new recruits at the moment. "The guards weren't happy with you."

"She was in trouble." April's chin came up. "Sis always said we are a safe haven."

Micky
barely stifled the groan. Idealism would kill him if the assassin didn't. "True. Did you get her name or any information?"

"Katrina. She might work at the hotel."

The name, so similar to his old friend, brought back a rush of youthful memories he didn't have time for right now. He cleared his throat and added a scowl for effect. "Since you brought her to dinner, make yourself useful to the kitchen crew for the next week."

"Yes, sir."

"That's in addition to the rest of your shifts and responsibilities."

She nodded and hurried out when he signaled her toward the door.

He buzzed Jim's line again, passing on the information about the train where April had interrupted the attack on the other girl. "Let me know when you have video. Where's the feed I requested from the dining hall and entrance they used?"

"Corrupted, boss."

"Come again?" He'd negotiated for security systems that offered better protection than Fort Knox and the World Bank combined and competent people to run them. "Did it start when April came in?"

"No. Earlier," Jim said after a moment.

Micky was deciding if that was cause for relief or more concern when Jim started spewing technical jargon Micky didn't want to hear. "Just get me whatever you've got starting with an hour before the problem and running an hour after."

While he waited, the memories stirred up by the mere mention of that name, Katrina, refused to drift back to where they belonged. Silly really, as April's new friend couldn't possibly be the same woman who'd gone by Trina when they'd been in high school.

First there was the likely age difference. April was young enough to mention it if her new acquaintance had been 'older'. Plus, the girl he remembered was a bold beauty with serious potential if she managed to break free of her whacked family life. Her looks combined with her odd ability to make people hallucinate...well, it just couldn't be the same person. He'd looked for her, even had Sis help him after he claimed the Slick Micky title, but she'd vanished. No matter how he might wish otherwise, his Trina would never have ended up in the warehouse home he'd concealed in a burned out slice of Chicago.

He forced his thoughts back to the grunt work and details that kept his girls and the rest of the team safe. The cigarette delivery out of Canada had been uneventful and he contacted the new supplier to arrange another pick up. He ordered the same amount, but he'd see how Ben and Darlene managed without him.

He issued those assignments and reviewed the latest numbers from his legitimate operations. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he switched on the news again.

Keeping up with the government antics and posturing had kept him in business for more years than he'd thought to enjoy in such a cut throat industry. While his street rep was frightful it kept the truth safe. Other crime bosses might deal in hard liquor and real drugs, but he'd found a broader customer base in the general population
jonesing for fully caffeinated coffee. And since, contrary to government propaganda, coffee didn't actually kill anyone, his clients weren't dying after a few weeks on the product. His customers, in turn, were more than happy to keep his secrets.

He hoped the government never repealed the stupid caffeine laws. Sugar and nicotine were all right, but coffee was his gold mine.

He crunched numbers in the supply chain, adjusting his orders for the coming month. He reviewed recent deliveries, mules, and routes. Smiling to himself, he wondered how people would react if they knew how he managed the scope of his operation.

The smile soon faded as he looked over personnel and adjusted his security teams to give the girls and incoming shipments more protection. He would not have a repeat of Sis. Knowing it was an illogical reaction didn't make it less real. Whoever was gunning for him was one of a very small group who knew the truth about his past. Just one of the reasons he made such a concerted effort not to be connected to any of his mules.
To any
one
, for that matter.

The thought sent him careening back to high school, to those simple days when natural sugar was his only product.
Days when his personal high came from a few minutes alone with Trina Durham by the gym. She'd kill him if she knew he remembered her that way, but it had been such a struggle to be only her friend when he wanted to dive into her and never come up for air.

Then any possible chance went up in flames with that god-awful explosion.

Micky longed for Sis to pull him out of this horrendous melancholy. He'd made a habit, a life really, of looking to the future while taking care of the present and forgetting everything ugly about the past.

Sure he appreciated the valuable resources and lessons of recent and distant history, but he never wallowed in it. Not like this.

His grandmother had taught him how to shift his focus in challenging times by turning his attention to others when he got too absorbed with his own interests. Putting her advice into action, he left his office and headed out to check on the girls who called this warehouse complex home. It always soothed him to see them relaxed and content after the tough circumstances most of them had escaped by joining his team.

That team spirit was what the Gypsy Smith march had taught his
many greats-grandmother way back when the old district was full up with gaming halls, opium dens, and brothels like her own. Options, choices, and dignity mattered to the people who worked in any business. That wise woman had listened to the evangelist's message, but she'd taken away a very different idea of what and who to reform. Her reorganized business model had trickled down through the generations and her ideals helped Micky capitalize on his opportunities, expanding his network and territories.

He headed up the stairs to the sugar packaging room. The four girls currently assigned to the task were chatting up a storm and more than willing to include him.
Micky exchanged a few pleasantries, confirmed they were all well, and evaded the questions about Sis. Word had gone around quick enough about her death, of course, but everyone seemed to be waiting for him to make some move about a funeral.

Maybe planning that unhappy event should have been April's punishment. But he wasn't half as heartless as the world believed.

Telling them to send any suggestions about a memorial service for Sis to his office, Micky made a hasty exit.

At the other end of the building another crew broke open cartons of cigarettes for upcoming deliveries. He didn't require anything
so foolish as putting customer names on labels, but they sorted the most typical requests so the mules could easily find what they needed on any given day.

"How did those new crates look?"

Of the four girls on the team, only three looked at him. The other girl, Chloe, was doing a little dance in her chair while she worked, obviously lost in whatever pumped through her ear buds.

The crew leader, Marion, cleared her throat. "They looked fine."

She'd been with him for two years and he heard the hesitation in her voice. He waited, knowing her extremely shy nature meant she was gathering just the right words.

"One crate doesn't smell right."

Well, she would know. She'd been working in this quiet room almost from day one. It was the only thing she could do while she healed from the emotional shock and physical injuries caused by her former husband. "Show me."

She led him to an open crate and pushed the lid aside. "I think the smell is coming from the packing material. The cigarettes smell fine once they're out of the crate."

Micky wondered. He hadn't smelled anything out of the ordinary during the pick up, but as he leaned in now, the odd scent was unmistakeable. "Smells like burnt honey." He leaned back and rubbed his nose. "You've kept the product separate?"

She nodded. "It's just this crate. The cigarette cartons on top didn't even smell funny." Marion paused, glancing at Chloe. "She did the unpacking. She was herself until she got deep into this crate."

Micky wanted to laugh. Chloe was never agreeable or mellow. "Proof enough for me. You kept her on the cigarettes you thought were contaminated."

"She pretty much wanted to stay on them. I gave her a special bin, just in case."

He chuckled. Slowly, so he didn't startle Marion, he reached for the pen light in his pocket. He wasn't the only smuggler who dealt in real cigarettes, but he was the only one who didn't deal in the herbal blends too.

"
You been through the whole crate?"

"No." Marion shook her head.
"Just Chloe."

Riding any contact high, she wouldn't be thinking clearly enough to look for the source of the problem. "Go on and finish, I'll take it from here."

Marion nodded, but cleared her throat again.

"Yes?"

"What if you start dancing?"

"Call Jim."
Micky smiled at her. "And whatever happens, don't let me dance with her."

Marion's amused expression was worth the wait as it slowly transformed her face. She returned to her table and the sorting, but
Micky felt her eyes on him as he dug into the packing material.