I slipped into a pair of Pumas that didn’t have laces, praise be, and wiggled my toes until my feet were in the correct position. “I absolutely am going.”
I stood up, adjusted the jeans I’d paired with the wide elastic band to cover my belly and the Cadogan House T-shirt I wore over it. “Can you stick a dagger in my shoe?”
His expression remained flat. “Could you draw it even if I did?”
“Probably not. But that’s why you’ll be there—strong and sexy as hell—to help me out.”
Still flat.
“I know you want to protect me, and I appreciate that. But I’ll be with you and the Ombuddies, and none of you are going to let anything happen to me. That’s as safe as it gets.” I rose, walked to him. “He tried to make me a victim, Ethan, and he believed I was helpless. I need to be part of the team that brings him down.”
“You aren’t helpless,” he said. “But you are worth more than money to me.”
I put a hand on his cheek. “I know it. But I need to do this. And I don’t want to have to do it on my own, behind your back.”
“Blackmail, Sentinel? Really?”
“It’s not blackmail. It’s the truth. If you block me out, I’ll have to find another way.”
He was quiet for a moment. “All right,” he said. “But you owe me one.”
I wiggled my eyebrows. “Do I get to pick the one?”
We drove Ethan’s other baby, a red Mercedes-AMG GT Roadster which he swore he wouldn’t destroy (unlike the last Mercedes of his acquaintance) southwest across the city.
Beverly was a residential neighborhood with plenty of big trees and brick houses. The Ombuddies’ gleaming white van, OMBUDSMAN painted on the side in bold black letters, was already there, parked on a side street in front of a CPD cruiser. Two women in uniforms guarded the squat sedan, the pizza sign still attached. A few curious humans looked out from windows, curtains pushed aside.
Ethan parked, and we walked over to greet them. My grandfather, who wore khakis, a long-sleeve plaid shirt, and shoes with thick soles, pressed a kiss to my cheek. His head was bald but for a crown of silver, his face lined, his eyes sharp.
“Good to see you, baby girl.”
“Good to see you, too, Grandpa.”
I waved to Jeff Christopher, the third of my grandfather’s crew. He was tall and lanky, with floppy brown hair. Catcher preferred jeans and snarky T-shirts; tonight’s shirt read MCSNARKY above an emoji with a flat expression. Jeff stuck to business casual khakis and a button-down.
“How’d you find it?” Ethan asked.
“APB,” Catcher said. “Cruiser spotted it and alerted us. We figured you’d want to join us for the search.”
“We appreciate it,” I said, before Ethan could say something snarky about my tagging along.
“It’s a 1993 Festival GVS,” my grandfather said. “That particular brand didn’t last very long, so there aren’t many still on the road.”
“I’ve never heard of it,” I said, and circled the car, looked inside the dingy windows. An insulated pizza bag was on the front seat, along with plenty of detritus and garbage.
My grandfather gestured to Jeff and Catcher. “Let’s take a look.”
Both wearing disposable gloves, Jeff popped the trunk while Catcher opened the car doors. Scents wafted out: grease from fast food eaten on the road, the astringent smell of the green pine-tree air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror, and the must of old and dirty fabric.
“He’s not tidy,” I said. “Or much concerned with clean.”
“No, he isn’t,” Catcher agreed. He popped the glove box, which was empty but for a tire pressure gauge. Flipped down the visors, and found less than that. “No registration or insurance docs.”
“There’s bound to be DNA in here,” my grandfather said, his gaze skimming over a pile of discarded fast food cups, the lids and straws still attached. “Your criminal doesn’t seem especially savvy.”
“He didn’t succeed in grabbing me,” I pointed out. “And he said he owed someone big money. Maybe we aren’t the only ones who weren’t impressed by his skills.”
“Could be,” my grandfather said. “Given his fingerprints weren’t in the system, it’s likely his DNA won’t be either. On the other hand, it seems unlikely he started with kidnapping, so we’ll see what the forensics people can do.”
“Well, well,” Catcher said, climbing out of the front seat with a white disc of paper.
“What have you got?” my grandfather asked.
“Coaster from the Brown Mule,” Catcher said. The thick cardboard bore a cartoon of a kicking mule and an address.
“It’s down the road,” he said. “It’s a hard bar and a hangout for members of Chicago’s, shall we say, connected families. You don’t casually visit the Brown Mule.”
“You’re talking about the mob?” I asked.
“And several other varieties of organized crime,” Catcher said. “The bar doesn’t discriminate.”
“It’s a bad thing to owe money to the mob,” Ethan said.
“That it is,” Catcher agreed.
“It doesn’t mean that’s what’s happening here,” my grandfather said, frowning with concern as he looked at me, “but we’ll send some officers over to the bar to inquire.”
“Will patrons at a mob hangout talk to cops?” Ethan asked.
“Maybe, maybe not,” my grandfather said, but gestured to one of the uniforms standing nearby. “But we check the box anyway.”
Catcher looked back at the garbage. “Let’s dive into the rest of it.”
“Your job is very glamorous,” I told my grandfather with a smile.
“We occasionally have to get our capes dirty,” he said with a wink. “But it’s usually worth it.”
6
They picked through car garbage for more than an hour, looking for identifying information. Given the volume, it seemed likely there’d be a discarded bill or traffic ticket or receipt, something with the owner’s name or contact information. But while he’d left plenty of paper behind, and probably a lot of DNA, none of it bore a name or address.
My grandfather looked at Ethan. “Anything from the House’s surveillance video?”
“Nothing useful,” Ethan said. “No frequent vehicle, no obvious stalker. Any luck on your end with the canvass?”
“Nothing,” Catcher said. “There are a few houses we haven’t gotten to yet—where no one answered the door on the first pass—but so far nobody has remembered an unbranded pizza delivery guy or anyone watching Merit.”
“So we’re at a dead end,” I said, feeling more than a little unsettled.
“We’ll find him,” my grandfather said, peeling off a glove and putting an arm around me. “He won’t lay a finger on you or . . .” He dropped his gaze to my abdomen, then up at me again, a questioning look in his eyes.
“We haven’t decided on a name,” I said with a smile. “But we’ll let you know as soon as we do.”
Hopefully, that would be before she decided to make an appearance.
“Are you all right?” Ethan asked, when we were in the car again and making our way north.
I shifted to get comfortable in the narrow seat. “I’m fine. Just . . . discombobulated.”
“Because a madman tried to kidnap you, or shoot you, or both?”
“Both,” I said with a smile. Ethan was so serious that it wasn’t often that he made light of a threat. But he also wouldn’t have wanted me to worry and stress the baby.
“He can’t get to you,” Ethan said. “And he won’t get to you. The House is secure, and you’ll stay in it unless you’re with me.”
I had to work not to bristle at the authoritative tone of voice, even though I knew he was trying to keep me safe. “And if we don’t find him?”
“I’ll be honest with you, Sentinel. And I’ll tell you something that I believe you’d have concluded anyway if you were less emotional about this particular situation.”
The look I gave him should have lowered the temp in the car a few degrees. “Less emotional? Because you’re cool and collected?”
“I’m always cool and collected.”
I snorted a laugh.