Storm's Cage by Mary Stone (uplifting novels .TXT) 📕

He lifted a shoulder. “I’m not sure, honestly. They’ve been quiet over the past few weeks. But we know if word got out to the Leóne family that we’re working on building a RICO case, there’s a good chance they’d go underground.”

“Right. They usually do.” Glenn twisted the band of her watch around her wrist. “All right. So, there’s a RICO case and a dirty Fed. What else?”

Biting his tongue, Zane suppressed his cynical laugh. “Well, as of this morning, there’s a U.S. Senator, a nationwide labor contractor, and a multi-billion-dollar agriculture business involved, along with a billionaire D.C. lobbyist and a massive human trafficking ring.”

If any of his succinct explanation surprised Glenn, the sentiment didn’t register on her unlined face. “Sounds like a doozy.”

For the second time, he fought back laughter. Her words were punctuated by a faint, folksy northern drawl, and he couldn’t help but feel like he’d been transported to an episode of Fargo.

“It sure is.” He pushed to his feet. “Come on, let’s head down to the tenth floor, and I’ll show you our war room.”

Agent Kantowski closed the laptop and followed. “Lead the way.”

If the agent’s reaction, or lack thereof, was any indication, Zane might not be the only one on their task force who’d had run-ins with high-ranked government officials.

Their trip to the shoebox-sized office was made in silence, though they each offered a polite greeting as they passed Agent Kavya Bhatti in the hall to the elevator.

As Zane stepped through the familiar metal door, he spotted the stainless-steel thermos he’d left in the center of the worn table. He barely waited for Agent Kantowski to cross over the threshold before he made a beeline for the coffee.

By the time he returned his attention to Glenn, a crease had formed between her brows. Glancing to the collection of decrepit chairs, to the cluttered table, and then to the whiteboard, she pursed her lips. “It’s…cozy, I guess.”

Zane fought against the sarcastic smirk kinking his lips as he gestured to the chairs. “We’ve got plenty of seating for a crowd. But, as you can tell, most of them are broken. Space was limited, so SAC Keaton gave us the option of this repurposed chair graveyard or a broom closet.” That was just the kind of thing Amelia would say if she’d been there, right before bursting into a fit of laughter. And as the thought ran through Zane’s mind, he couldn’t help the smile that spread easily across his face. “I think we made the right choice.”

Shrugging off her black messenger bag, Glenn chuckled politely. “I can see that.”

Her lack of genuine laughter had Zane wondering if she’d be able to handle his and Amelia’s particular brand of comedy. Maybe his joke hadn’t been that funny after all. Maybe he just needed more coffee. He chugged what was left and placed the thermos back on the table.

“Might as well get started. I hope you don’t have anywhere to be this evening because this might take a while.”

13

As Natasha Reyman approached a tall, blue bin, she groaned and glanced down to her gloved hands. This was the third trash can she’d sifted through, and she wished she’d been given a hazmat suit for the task.

But like she did for any other investigation, Natasha wrapped her squeamish thoughts up, stuffed them in a box, and shoved them to the back of her mind. She might burn her clothes when she got home tonight, but she wasn’t about to saddle her partner with all the dirty work.

Though trash was free game according to the court’s interpretation of the Fourth Amendment of the Constitution, Natasha and Floyd had knocked on the door of each house before they’d started their search. The notification was made more out of politeness than any sort of precaution. Over the years, the Chicago Police Department hadn’t racked up a favorable reputation, and Natasha did what little she could to restore faith with the people of the city.

So far, all the residents she and Floyd had spoken with had been amenable.

Glancing over her shoulder to where Floyd sifted through an identical blue bin on the other side of the street, Natasha took in a deep breath and flipped open the lid.

A cool breeze drifted through the neighborhood, carrying with it the first faint scent of fall. As much as Natasha loved the sun and warmth of summer, she was better able to deal with crime scenes when the weather was cold.

At least it’s in the sixties today instead of the nineties like it was a couple days ago. Satisfied with the mental reassurance, she turned back to the blue bin.

Lifting the first white sack, Natasha squinted at the semi-opaque material. She and Floyd doubted the killer would have stuck around to untie a trash bag, stuff the murder weapon inside, and then tie the bag closed again, so they’d agreed there was no need to rummage through the contents of each individual bag.

In any case, Natasha was well-versed with the weight of a handgun. If the weapon was inside a garbage bag, the awkward weight distribution would be enough to pique her suspicion.

But as she plucked out the second sack, all she spotted were more takeout containers. Taking in a breath of clean air, she tilted the bin to the side so she could catch an unobscured glimpse of the interior. A heavy clunk accompanied the movement, and the first prickle of excitement rushed up to greet her.

The sound could have come from an old tool that the homeowners had thrown away or a loose rock that had been tossed in to keep the container from blowing away on gusty days. As Natasha worked to temper the sudden rush of hope, she shifted the bin into the rays of the late afternoon sun.

Stretching out one arm, she leaned forward and gingerly took hold of the plastic sack that concealed the mystery object. As she straightened, she unraveled the grocery bag.

Pulse rushing in her ears,