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

she stared down at the matte black handgun. “Hey, Floyd. I think I’ve got something.”

Floyd trotted across the asphalt toward his partner. As soon as his pale eyes fell on the frame of the handgun, he sucked in a sharp breath. “Is that?”

Natasha reined in her excitement. “I can’t say for sure right now, but I can’t think of any other reason there’d be a silenced handgun at the bottom of a trash can three houses down from where Ian Strausbaugh was killed.”

“Hold on.” Floyd bounced on the balls of his feet and lifted a finger. “Let me run and grab an evidence bag from the car.”

“Get two.” Natasha pointed to the green plastic bag. “One for the bag, one for the weapon.”

“Good call. Got it.”

As Floyd trotted to their unmarked black sedan, she gingerly turned the handgun over to search for a serial number. She half-expected to find nothing more than scratched metal, but to her surprise, the identification was intact.

Floyd was back at her side, huffing as if he’d just run a marathon.

“Hey, take a look at this serial number.” Natasha pointed with her gloved finger.

“Wait.” His eyes popped open wide as he glanced back at her. “A serial number? What the hell? What kind of contract killer would leave behind a handgun with a traceable serial number?”

Lifting her shoulders, Natasha blew out a long breath. “I have no earthly idea, Floyd. Maybe we aren’t looking for a contract killer. Maybe this was personal.”

Floyd scrutinized the weapon as he gently placed it inside the evidence bag. “It’s personal, or our contract killer is an idiot.” He squared his jaw as he sealed the plastic sack.

Natasha suspected foul play, but this seemed more like a setup. “I don’t think so. The working theory is that Ian pissed off the D’Amato family, and that’s who killed him. But did you ever deal with the D’Amato family back when you were in narcotics? Before you transferred to homicide?”

His expression turned thoughtful as he tagged the bag with the silenced handgun. “Not really, no. Word over there was that the D’Amatos didn’t deal with much in the way of drugs.”

Natasha yanked the nitrile gloves off her hands. “That’s true. They don’t.” She scowled at the evidence bags. “And they don’t leave behind weapons with serial numbers, either. They’re smart, and that’s why you never hear about them around the station. They’re cyber criminals more than anything, at least nowadays.”

Glancing up the curved sidewalk to the split-level house and its pristine siding, Floyd blew a raspberry. “Well, shit. I guess we’d better do our due diligence and ask the homeowners here if they know anything.”

Even as Natasha nodded, she suspected they wouldn’t find any useful information from the couple who lived inside.

The discovery of a potential murder weapon in the bottom of a waste bin should have felt like a godsend, but to Natasha, the handgun only raised more questions.

At this point, all she knew for sure was that she and Floyd had only started to scratch the surface of this case.

As I pressed send on the email I’d just composed, I scooped up a pen and crossed out the first line on a to-do list I’d written on a yellow sticky note. I still hadn’t been assigned a new partner, and most of my work since Ian’s death had been largely administrative. Paperwork was the bane of most detectives’ existences, and though I shared the sentiment, the tedium had served my anxious brain well over the past few days.

When I’d started in Homicide at the Chicago Police Department, my shift had included Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. In those three years, I’d grown to hate Friday and all the hype that came with the final day of the workweek. But today, on a Friday, thirteen years after I’d left behind the dreaded weekend night shift, my tune had changed.

My partner’s body hadn’t been found until Tuesday morning, and Detectives Natasha Reyman and Floyd Yoell hadn’t found the murder weapon at the bottom of a neighbor’s trash bin until Wednesday. Garbage day was Thursday, and if Reyman and Yoell had waited twenty-four hours longer to search for the thing, the nine-mil would have been tossed in the back of a waste truck, dumped in a landfill, and never seen again.

I’d had to give the two detectives a few pointers, but I was confident suspicion hadn’t fallen on me. The end of the first week was about to draw to a close, and so far, my plans were on track.

Though nine o’clock in the morning hadn’t yet rolled around, the precinct was abuzz with news of the ballistics analysis from the weapon Natasha and Floyd had retrieved.

According to the rumors, both the nine-mil and the bullet from Ian’s body had been traced back to a D’Amato man. The suspect’s name hadn’t been released, but I already knew who he was. Gabriel Badoni, a trusted, tried-and-true lieutenant to none other than Alex Passarelli. I’d have preferred to frame Alex Passarelli himself, but Gabriel Badoni was the next best catch.

Someday, I’d find a way to hang Alex, but not today.

A familiar figure emerged from the hall at the opposite corner of the room. Pushing myself to stand, I met Floyd’s pale eyes and lifted a hand in greeting.

He returned the gesture with a sleepy smile as he made the morning trudge toward his cluttered desk.

Buttoning my black suit jacket, I strode over, trying to appear casual.

“Morning, Detective.” Floyd tilted his red thermos before he took a quick sip. “I’m guessing you heard about the ballistics results, huh?”

“Damn right I did. Congratulations.” If I played to his ego, it might keep any of my curiosity regarding his case free from suspicion. After all, if I hadn’t killed Ian, I imagined I would be riding Detective Floyd and his partner pretty hard for clues. Just as I would be eagerly praising them when they found those clues. It sounded good in my head, at least.

The more I