Storm's Cage Mary Stone (classic reads .TXT) 📖

“It’s me.”

At the familiar voice of my Leóne contact, the voice I’d been waiting to hear all damn day, I straightened in my seat. “What’s the status?” I didn’t have to elaborate. He knew there was only one status that concerned me right now.

“Car’s in the shop. Must have been some accident. Body is all banged up. Tires won’t hold air. Check engine light is flickering. Mechanic hasn’t said it’s totaled yet, but I expect him to report it shortly. My best guess…it won’t be leaving the shop ever again.”

I bit my tongue to keep a relieved exclamation to myself. If Carlo had been put in the hospital, there would be a snowball’s chance in hell he’d ever see the light of day again. Problem solved. “I appreciate you taking a look at it. Keep me posted if the mechanic comes back with a different verdict.”

“No problem.”

After a polite goodbye, I flipped the phone closed, let my head fall back, and muttered a silent thank-you to my contact.

I took a few minutes to clear my head of the fog of paranoia about Carlo before I grabbed my drink and made my way back inside. As I stepped off the elevator and onto the second floor, the somber atmosphere greeted me like a slap to the face.

Enrico might have been dead, but the fact remained that Ian Strausbaugh’s body had been found a little over a day ago. Those who could place me at the Kankakee County farm had been taken off the board, but a nagging sensation at the back of my neck said I hadn’t cleared the minefield yet.

As I made my way down a short hall and into the open area that housed the precinct’s homicide detectives, I spotted a pair of familiar faces seated across from one another at a desk two rows away from mine. Floyd Yoell and Natasha Reyman were focused on a handful of papers as they conversed in hushed tones.

Speaking of landmines.

Clearing my throat, I acknowledged them with a raised hand.

Floyd’s pale blue eyes flicked up from the paper he’d been showing the other detective, and Natasha twisted in her chair and gazed up at me with sympathy in her eyes.

As I maneuvered past two empty desks, Natasha stifled a yawn with the back of a hand. “Morning, Detective. Or is it afternoon yet? I keep losing track.”

“Afternoon, but just barely.” I gestured to the mostly empty room. “Which is why there’s no one here, I’m guessing.”

Floyd’s faraway gaze drifted back to Natasha. “Hear that, Reyman? Lunchtime. Maybe that’s what we should do.”

“Okay, okay.” Natasha rolled her shoulders. “We’ll grab some food. We’re at a good stopping point, and I could use some coffee, honestly.”

As Natasha swept the papers into a pile, I pointed to the manila folder near the edge of the desk. “How’s the case going? Any leads so far?”

A metallic creak sounded out as Floyd leaned back in his office chair and shook his head. “Not much so far. Ballistics is still working on the bullet that was recovered from the scene, but there wasn’t much else there for us to look into.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “Nothing? That makes it sound like it might’ve been a hit.”

Floyd’s grim expression confirmed it before he opened his mouth to speak. “That’s what we’re thinking. None of the neighbors heard a gunshot, so we’re pretty sure the killer used a sound suppressor. That alone makes me think it was a hit.”

Rubbing my chin, I leaned against the adjacent desk as I pretended to mull over Detective Yoell’s words.

The weapon I’d used to kill Ian was one I’d long kept for a rainy day. Ever since the Portelli case—where a Leóne soldier named Gerard Portelli had been shot and killed by a higher-up in the D’Amato family—I’d kept my eye out for an opportunity to use the nine-mil to frame the D’Amato man.

Though the ballistics themselves would point in the direction of the D’Amato man, I’d taken the extra step to leave the handgun near the crime scene. All I needed now was for Natasha and Floyd to find the damn thing.

I took a drink of my soda. “Where have you guys looked for the murder weapon?”

Drumming her slender fingers against the metal desktop, Natasha raised a shoulder. “We checked around the property, looked in the drains and yards of the neighbors in case the killer might’ve tried to toss it somewhere before they took off. Didn’t find anything, though.”

I pursed my lips together to appear thoughtful. “If it’s a professional hit like you guys are thinking, which it sounds like it is, then the perp probably would’ve quickly disposed of the murder weapon.”

Floyd wheeled away from the desk and stretched his legs. “I doubt it’s anywhere on that property. You don’t try to throw away a murder weapon by leaving it somewhere at the scene of the crime, you know?”

Cradling her cheek in one hand, Natasha scrunched her face as if contemplating her partner’s words. “Yeah. I think I have to agree with Yoell.”

“You’re right about leaving it near the scene.” I glanced from one detective to the other, forcing myself to appear casual. “But you’d be surprised how often they dispose of it in a place where it might move on its own.”

Both detectives looked at me quizzically. They weren’t taking the bait. I had to feed them a little more, but short of coming right out and telling them where it was and incriminating myself, what could I say? Filled with nerves, I drummed my fingers on the desk as I scrambled for the right words. And then, just like lightning, it hit me.

“Are there any dumpsters nearby?” I asked the most leading question I could to help spark their train of thought. “Or any businesses with dumpsters? Anything like that? When is the scheduled trash pickup in that area?”

Natasha’s dark eyes drifted to Floyd’s before she turned back to me. “Nothing closer to the house than a couple miles, but