Chapter Seventeen
At noon, Chicago Police Detective Frank Parisi sat at his desk and powered up his aging department computer.
The thing hummed and clicked, as if it might give up at any second.
The CPD was in the process of upgrading their systems, but until they worked their way through every precinct, he was stuck with equipment that belonged in a museum.
After fifteen years on the force—nine of them in Homicide—he’d learned not to expect anything different.
Hurry up and wait. That was the department’s way.
The squad room around him buzzed with low conversation, phones ringing, keyboards clacking. A couple of uniformed officers laughed too loudly near the coffee station, and someone cursed under their breath when a printer jammed. Same noise. Same routine. Day in, day out.
Five more years. That was all he had left.
Between his pension and the money he’d earned on the side—none of it on record—he and his wife, Diane, would be more than comfortable in Florida.
He pictured it sometimes when the job got dull.
A boat. Open water. No supervisors looking over his shoulder.
He could spend his days fishing or with a new girlfriend.
Diane could keep herself busy however she wanted when he wasn’t around.
As long as she didn’t interfere with him, he didn’t care.
The computer finally finished booting up, and a red dot blinked in the corner of the screen.
Parisi straightened, all distraction gone. He cast a glance around the room, making sure no one was close enough to look over his shoulder, then clicked on the alert.
Finally!
After months off the grid, Moriah Jensen had surfaced again. They should’ve had her weeks ago if that officer in Ohio had filed his paperwork on time. Instead, she’d slipped through their fingers and vanished.
Until now.
He scanned the details, his focus narrowing as he read the name attached to the hit. A North Carolina SBI agent—Brian Malone—had run her license.
Parisi leaned back slowly, eyes fixed on the screen.
Then why hadn’t he called it in?
If Malone had her in custody, this wouldn’t still be sitting in the system. The notification would’ve come through, clean and official.
Which meant the agent didn’t know what he had—or had already let her go before the BOLO request hit the system.
He drummed his fingers once on the desk, irritation building as he considered it. Sloppy. Either way, it complicated things.
Reaching for his desk phone, he dialed the number listed for Agent Malone. The line rang, then rang again, before rolling over to voicemail.
Parisi’s jaw tightened slightly.
“Agent Malone, this is Detective Frank Parisi with the Chicago Police Department. I need you to return my call as soon as possible regarding Moriah Jensen.”
He hung up without another word and stared at the screen, the blinking alert still pulsing in the corner.
If she were in North Carolina, she wouldn’t be out of reach anymore. And this time, she wouldn't slip away.
Grabbing his jacket, he headed for the door, tossing a quick word to the unit receptionist that he was following up on a lead and would be back later.
His partner was out for the week with a new baby at home, so Parisi was working solo.
Fine by him. Collins was strictly by the book and would’ve gone straight to Internal Affairs if he had any idea what Parisi was involved in.
As long as he kept his distance, they managed well enough.
A few minutes later, he was behind the wheel of his department-issued Crown Victoria, weaving through midday traffic before turning into the bus depot a handful of blocks away.
He parked, got out, and moved inside with purpose, heading straight for a row of lockers near the back wall.
Pulling a key from his pocket, he unlocked unit 702 and reached inside for one of the prepaid cell phones he kept stashed there.
It was untraceable and necessary since he couldn’t risk making the call from his department phone or personal cell.
He powered it up as he shut the locker and made his way back outside, dialing the number from memory.
The call connected on the fourth ring.
“What?” The voice on the other end was rough, impatient.
He scanned the lot as he walked toward his car. “Guess who’s been spotted in North Carolina.”
A brief pause was followed by, “How? When? Where?” The questions came clipped, precise.
“Her license was run in Elizabeth City by a state investigator,” he said. “I called to see if he had her in custody, but it went straight to voicemail.”
“Let me know what he says.”
The line went dead.
Unfazed, he lowered the phone. Adrian Hernandez didn’t waste time on conversation, and his associates learned not to expect it. The man ran a large piece of Chicago’s drug trade and paid well for useful information. Tracking down Moriah Jensen definitely qualified.
Parisi had gotten himself assigned to the Jensen murders as a calculated move—one that put him in position to clean up the fallout from Leo Simmons’s mistake.
The idiot had handed off a duffel stuffed with cash and a gun—one that could be tied to several murders in the city—to his girlfriend for safekeeping.
Now, the chick’s sister had disappeared—and the bag had gone with her.
And that made everything more complicated.
Parisi shoved the phone into his pocket and climbed into his car. If Hernandez decided to deal with Leo when this was over, that was his business. Parisi wouldn’t lose any sleep over it.
For now, he had something more immediate to focus on.
He started the engine and pulled out of the lot, heading back to the station to wait for Malone to return his call. Hopefully, it wouldn’t take long.
Sean Malone ended the call with his brother and stared at his phone.
So much for a few days off.
KC and Dan had stepped right into a mess this time.
He set the phone aside and opened a file on his laptop, scanning through his list of law enforcement contacts until he found the number he needed—a DEA agent out of Chicago. They’d worked together on a joint task force case a few years back. He hoped the guy was still assigned there.
He made the call. On the fifth ring, Agent John Samson picked up.
After a quick exchange of greetings, Sean walked him through Moriah Jensen’s situation, laying out the key details and asking what he knew about the case—and about Leo Simmons.
The answers he got weren’t reassuring.
Thirty minutes later, Sean moved quickly through his bedroom, packing a travel bag with practiced efficiency. He had two hours to get to the airport, clear security with his weapon, and catch a flight from Jacksonville to North Carolina.
He’d fill everyone in when he got there.
The Malone brothers would be together again, this time to rescue a damsel in distress. Yee-haw!
After two hours of waiting for the phone to ring, Frank Parisi was on edge.
More than once, he’d considered slipping into the men’s room for a quick hit of cocaine from the stash tucked in the hidden pocket of his sports coat.
As he pushed back from his desk, the phone rang, the caller ID flashing the North Carolina area code he’d called earlier.
He dropped back into his chair, hand already covering the receiver. Drawing in a steadying breath, he picked up and forced his tone into something neutral, almost bored. “Detective Frank Parisi.”
“Hello, Detective. This is Special Agent Brian Malone from North Carolina’s SBI, returning your call.”
“Yes, Agent Malone, thanks for getting back to me. I received an alert that you ran the license of one of my BOLOs… a Moriah Jensen.” He grabbed a notepad and pen, more out of habit than necessity.
“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.” A brief pause, then, “So this Jensen is wanted for questioning in a couple of homicides, huh?”
Parisi let his gaze move casually around the room, keeping his voice low enough not to carry beyond his desk. A few detectives were still working, heads down, but he wasn’t taking chances. “Yup. Looks like she killed her mother, sister, and the sister’s kid. Shot them several times, then took off.”
A low whistle came through the line. “Really? Damn, that’s cold. What makes you think she did it?”
Parisi paused, narrowing his eyes slightly at the question.“Well, as the BOLO says, she’s only wanted for questioning. It’s a little suspicious she disappeared right after the murders.”
“Yeah, I guess that is. I wonder what her motive was if she did do it.”
Leaning back in his chair, irritation crept in despite his effort to stay even. “That’s something I’ll ask her when we locate her.”
Malone let out a heavy breath. “Well, I wish I could help you out, Detective. But I’ve got her picture—I’ll pass it around headquarters and see if anyone recognizes her.”
“I’d appreciate that, Agent Malone. And if you could put that purse in your property room, in case we need it, that would keep the chain of custody intact.”
“No problem. Anything to help you big-city boys.”
“Thanks.” His upper lip twitched into the hint of a sneer, though his tone stayed polite. “Have a good day, and let me know if Ms. Jensen shows up anywhere in your area.”
“I will.”
“Appreciate it.”
He ended the call and muttered under his breath, “Idiot.”
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 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 impatience came through clearly.