Chapter 6 #3
“You’re thinking the same as I am brother, but let’s gather more evidence and facts before we call it. Just because your son is doing shady shit doesn’t mean he’s the one doing the damage to your shipping business.”
“It’s him, Drake. I just don’t have the proof.”
“You want to tell Rafael and the rest?”
“Let me get the solid proof. All I can tell Rafael is that we have Bratva working in our territory leaving their calling card. He won’t want to move on anything until there’s solid proof. There’s no room for error here.”
“Calling card? Explain.”
I pull out my last smoke. At this rate, I might as well get a fresh pack before heading home. I snap the case closed and pull out my lighter.
“The hit style.” I pause and light the end of my Marlboro. “My father taught it to me and then taught it to my son. Check the man’s wounds. Two at the base of his throat from the front and one dead center in the forehead. The kiss of the Volkovs.” I touch each place as I fill him in on the details.
Drake walks over to the coroner and palms him a few bills. When they turn their backs, he pulls the zipper down and snaps a picture.
My phone pings a couple of seconds later with the dead man’s kill shots.
I look at the screen. I’m right. It’s the Volkov killing signature. You see a dead body in the street with three bullets like this, you know who to fear.
I put my phone away and scan the faces of the crowd for a younger version of my own face. But Nikolai isn’t who I spot.
“Know him?” I ask and jerk my chin toward a man with a shirt that doesn’t fit over his expansive middle and looks like he sleeps in his clothes.
Drake plucks my half-forgotten cigarette from between my fingers and puffs on it before handing it back. “Yep.” He releases the smoke. “This night just got interesting. Three words describe Detective Randall Vickers. Dumb, dirty, and expensive.”
Vickers stands near the yellow tape, talking to a uniformed officer.
I don't know the man, but I know the type. Willing to do anything for a hefty sum and morals that scrape the bottom of a scum-filled pond. He’s exactly the kind of badge we turn and use to our advantage, only according to Cora this one is playing for another team.
“Cora said she tried coming to the cops before she hit up our wish box. I’m betting he’s the one who sent her packing knowing men would follow her home.”
“Cold fucker.” Drake takes another hit on my cigarette and I do the same, killing it underfoot.
“What do you know about him?"
"Vice for twelve years before they moved him to Homicide. Anyone with enough cash to blow owns his loyalty which shifts every few years. We used to have him on our payroll and then he became unreliable. I think we both know who owns him now.”
My jaw sets.
“We can’t ever let him find Cora."
Drake's expression doesn't change, but I catch the slight tension at the corners of his eyes. I know my brother and I can read the calculations behind his eyes. He’s running risk assessments that involve him and the rest of the Red Letter men.
I know I would. The woman who witnessed the murder is now connected to me, which means anything Vickers does to find her will eventually lead back to my door. And anyone under our protection.
"Want him dealt with? You know as well as I do the whole station will be on the look out for her. We take care of Vickers, but not the whole force."
He’s not wrong. "Not yet." I watch Vickers tell an officer something that has the cop walking over to Cora’s shop and testing the door.
Fuck. It won’t be long before they are in and pulling her life apart.
I turn back to the conversation with Drake. "We will need to deal with Vickers soon. Put someone on him. I want to see the proof of my son with him."
Drake nods once. We watch the scene for another ten minutes.
Long enough to confirm there's nothing else useful to learn.
The coroner's van pulls away with my dead contact inside.
The forensic team continues processing the alley.
Vickers makes two phone calls, both brief, both conducted with his body angled away from anyone who might read his lips.
"I’ve seen enough. You?”
“Yeah.”
The drive to Redthorne is quiet. Drake follows in his own vehicle and I use the silence to organize what I know.
I pull my phone from my jacket and dial Rafael's number.
Two rings.
"Rowan.” Rafael's voice is sharp, alert. He wasn't sleeping either. “What's wrong?”
"I need a meeting. Everyone. Tonight."
Silence bleeds through from the other end.
"How bad?"
I turn the ring on my finger. The silver is warm from my skin.
"That is a complicated answer."
The line goes quiet for a beat. Then Rafael's voice carries over the speaker. "Twenty minutes. Conference room."
With that our call ends.
The city blurs past my windshield as I mentally check off what I know. My contact is dead. The cops are coming for Cora and my son is working in the shadows of my city.
And I aim to find out why. And put an end to it.
Yes, it's fucking bad.
And it's about to get worse.