Chapter 17
At noon, Chicago Police Detective Frank Parisi sat at his desk and turned on his ancient department computer.
The CPD was in the process of updating their systems, but until they made their way through every precinct, he had to put up with an eight-year-old unit.
With fifteen years on the force, nine of them as a detective in the Homicide Unit, Parisi was used to the department’s “hurry up and wait” standard for getting new equipment.
Five more years, and he could retire from this hellhole.
Between his CPD pension and the money he had made on a few side ventures, which the department didn’t know about, he and his wife, Diane, could live very well in Florida.
He could spend his days fishing, and Diane could do whatever the hell she did when he wasn’t home.
He didn’t care what she did as long as he had the freedom to do what he wanted.
A red dot flashed on the computer screen, and Parisi sat up straighter. Glancing around, he made sure no one was in the vicinity and clicked on the alert.
Hallelujah!
After months of being underground, that bitch, Moriah Jensen, had finally appeared on the radar again. They would’ve had her a few months ago if that hick cop in Ohio had processed the accident paperwork faster.
Scanning the alert, he read that a North Carolina State Investigator, Brian Malone, had run her license.
But if that was the case, why the fuck hadn’t he called CPD and told them he had her in custody?
The whore probably batted her eyes, and the schmuck released her with a warning before he got the BOLO—be on the lookout—request back on the computer. Fucking idiot.
Parisi snatched up his desk phone’s receiver and dialed the number that was listed on the computer screen for Investigator Malone. When it went to voicemail, he left a message for the asshole to return his call.
Grabbing his jacket, he headed toward the door, advising the unit receptionist he was going to check on a lead and would return later.
His partner had taken the week off because his wife had just given birth, so Parisi was flying solo for a few days.
It was just as well since his partner was a Goody Two-Shoe who would run straight to Internal Affairs if he knew who Parisi was doing business with.
There was no love lost between him and his partner.
As long as the guy kept his nose out of Frank’s business, the detective could tolerate him.
He drove his department-issued Crown Victoria eight or nine blocks and turned left into the bus depot.
Hurrying inside, he made a beeline to a row of lockers and pulled out his key for unit #702.
After opening the door, he pulled out one of the throwaway cell phones he’d been given, which couldn’t be traced.
He couldn’t risk making this call from his department phone or personal cell.
After powering it up, he dialed the number from memory as he shut the locker door and headed back outside.
Four rings later, the call was answered by the gruff voice belonging to Adrian Hernandez. “What?”
Parisi glanced around to ensure no one was within hearing distance as he strode across the parking lot to his vehicle. “Guess who’s been spotted in North Carolina.”
“How, when, and where?”
“Some hick cop down there ran her license in Elizabeth City. I tried calling to see if he had her detained, but I just got his voicemail.”
“Let me know what he says.”
Parisi wasn’t surprised when Hernandez hung up on him without warning, as he was now used to his rude manner.
The man was the biggest drug supplier in Chicago and would pay Parisi nicely for discovering the woman’s whereabouts.
He’d gotten himself assigned to the Jensen murders to help clean up the mess Leo Simmons had caused.
That two-bit loser gave his ditzy girlfriend a duffel bag stuffed with money and a gun, which could be tied to two other murders in the city, to hold for him.
What a fucking ass! Now the money and gun were missing, along with his girlfriend’s sister.
Climbing back into his car, he hoped Hernandez killed Leo when this was over for all the trouble the jackass had caused. He’d be happy to do it for the drug lord. For now, though, he would head back to the station to wait for the investigator’s call.
Sean Malone hung up the phone after talking to his brother, Brian. So much for a few days off.
Fuck!
KC and Dan had really stepped into it this time.
Opening a file on his laptop, he scanned his law enforcement associates list and found the number for a Drug Enforcement Agency contact in Chicago.
He’d worked with the agent during a joint task force case a few years ago and hoped he hadn’t been transferred.
He called, and Agent John Samson answered the phone after five rings. After exchanging pleasantries, Sean gave the agent the rundown on Moriah’s story and asked if Samson knew anything about the case or the drug dealer Leo Simmons. He wasn’t happy with the agent’s response.
Half an hour later, Sean ran around his bedroom, packing a travel bag.
He had two hours to get to the airport and through security with his weapon before his plane took off from Jacksonville, Florida, to North Carolina.
He’d fill his brothers in with the details when he arrived at the beach house.
The Malone boys would ride again and rescue a damsel in distress. Yee-haw!
After two hours of waiting for the phone to ring, Frank Parisi was anxious and very tempted to head for the men’s room for a snort of the coke he kept in the hidden pocket of his sports coat.
The phone rang at the same time he stood.
Sitting back down, his hand covered the receiver.
Taking a deep breath, he answered the call with what he hoped sounded like a bored voice. “Detective Frank Parisi.”
“Hello, Detective. This is Investigator Brian Malone from North Carolina’s SBI, returning your call.”
“Yes, Investigator, thanks for calling. I received an alert that you ran the license of one of my BOLOs . . . a Moriah Jensen.” He grabbed a pad and pen to make some notes.
“Yeah, um, someone turned in a purse with that ID. I ran it to see if it was stolen property. I thought it was a little odd to find her bag in North Carolina when she’s from Chicago.” He paused and then added, “So this Jensen is wanted for questioning in a couple of homicides, huh?”
Shifting his eyes around the room, he kept his voice quiet enough not to be overheard by the few detectives working at their desks or the conference table in the middle of the bullpen.
“Yup. Looks like she killed her mother, sister, and the sister’s kid.
Shot ’em several times each, then took off running. ”
The investigator whistled softly over the phone. “Really? Fuck, that’s cold. What makes you think she did it?”
Pausing momentarily, Parisi narrowed his eyes at the other man’s fishing expedition. “Well, like the BOLO says, she’s just wanted for questioning. It’s a little suspicious she disappeared immediately after the murders.”
“Yeah, I guess that would be suspicious. I wonder what her motive was if she did do it.”
Aggravated, he leaned back in his chair. “Well, that’s something I’ll ask her when we locate her.”
Malone sighed. “I wish I could help you out, Detective. But I have her picture—I’ll pass it around the barracks and see if anyone recognizes her.”
“I’d appreciate that, Investigator Malone. If you could put that purse in your property room, just in case we need it for anything, that would also be great, you know, to maintain chain of custody.”
“No problem. Anything to help you big-city boys.”
“Thanks.” His upper lip raised into a sneer while he tried to act as if nothing was wrong. “You have a good day, and let me know if Ms. Jensen shows up anywhere in your parts.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Thanks again.” Parisi hung up and muttered, “Dumb, fucking hick.”
Within fifteen minutes, he was back in his department vehicle, dialing the same number on the throwaway phone. After this conversation, he would break the device into pieces and dispose of them in different trash containers.
Adrian Hernandez picked up the phone on the first ring this time. “What is it?”
“I heard back from that cop in North Carolina. Says someone turned in the girl’s purse.”
“And?” The man’s irritation was clear.
“And I think he’s lying.” Parisi put the car in drive. He might as well grab something to eat and then find a place to have a quick snort. “I could be wrong, but he seemed a little too interested in finding out what we had on her.”
“Yeah? What’s his name? I’ll send a few boys down that way to see what he knows.”
“State Investigator Brian Malone. Called from the Elizabeth City SBI office on East Main Street.”
“Got it. If this turns out to be something, you’ll have a little extra in your pay this month.” Hernandez hung up before the detective could respond.
Hanging up the phone in the quiet report room, Brian ran a hand down his face and let out a heavy sigh.
He hated to lie to the detective, but until he got a better idea of how much danger KC’s girlfriend was in, he was better off fudging the truth a little.
He hoped the guy hadn’t recognized he was fishing for information.
Thinking back over the conversation, he realized he’d laid it on pretty thick several times.
Probably thinks I’m some dumb hick.
On his hip, his cell phone chimed when a text came through.
Glancing at it, he was surprised it was a message from Sean saying he would be boarding a flight to North Carolina soon and would grab a rental car at the airport.
Brian hadn’t expected his brother to drop everything and fly home to help, but that’s how the Malones were—when one was in trouble, the others came running.