“Not once? It’s a major metropolitan area. Most people drive through it when they take a trip to Chicago.”
“I’m not most people.”
He stares a bit longer. “How long has your eye been like that?”
I turn away. “It just happened.”
“Hm.”
I don’t like the way he asks these questions. He starts to ask another, but the door to the office swings open and hits me in the arm. I hadn’t even realized how far I had leaned away from him until this moment. The guy gets me on edge.
“Lieutenant Walker,” Monica says, poking her head in and smiling. “I have Deputy Chief Charleston on the line for you. He says he isn’t going to wait long.”
The lieutenant mulls over the comment while running a hand down his face. He looks tired—and stressed—and eventually lets out a long sigh. “Wait here,” he tells me. “I need to ask you a few more questions. I’ll be right back.”
He steps out of the office with Monica, leaving me alone with all his paperwork.
The commotion of a busy department filters into the room and creates a dull backdrop to an otherwise still environment. I glance around and smirk. The guy must be some sort of straightlaced white knight. He has a picture of himself becoming an Eagle Scout, right next to a picture of his police work at a local elementary school—not to mention all the handwritten cards from kiddies thanking him for his time—and on a shelf behind his desk, I catch sight of an ISBA Law Enforcement Award for a search-and-rescue operation during a major fire in downtown Joliet.
Well, la-dee-da. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear he has an ego three times the size of the moon.
Curiosity gets the best of me, and I amble around the side of his desk to get a better look at his paperwork. I sift through mountains of personal files on the rescued individuals and take note that they’re all under the age of twenty-five. Kids that young shouldn’t be victims of crimes this heinous.
I freeze when I see a few case files labeled “Noimore.”
I know that city like the back of my hand, and lately it’s become a heart of darkness for the region, pumping the lifeblood of crime into the surrounding territory with a steady pulse. Once it was run by the Vice family mob; now it’s tearing itself apart with turf wars and new emerging gangs. I’m sure some of the Vice family still holds power there—if anything, I’m sure Jeremy Vice is out of jail—but that only adds to the chaos of an already hostile environment.
Jeremy Vice.
Even thinking about the man gets me uneasy. I left the mob because I wanted out, but I had to fake my own death because Jeremy kept me as a tortured dog. He really did a number on me for the few months I worked under him. I swear he broke a piece of me—a piece of confidence I once had—and I can’t bring myself to dwell on it too long.
I hope to God I never have to go back to Noimore ever again.
And what’s a Joliet cop doing with another city’s criminal records? Again, I can’t help myself. I flip open the Noimore files and leaf through the information.
Everything stacks up pretty quick. The Illinois State Police want city police departments to work together to stop the recent uptick in human trafficking. Still… I don’t like that cops in this area are involved with Noimore criminal records.
I catch my breath the moment I spot my file. It’s open on his desk, like that asshole lieutenant had just been reading up on it. I yank it over and scan the information, my heartbeat threatening to drown out all other sound.
It doesn’t have my name or picture, but it lists my appearance, profession, and suspected crimes. Vice family top enforcer. Suspected of murder, racketeering, extortion, possession of illegal firearms—the list is extensive and rather accurate.
Tall Caucasian man. Midthirties. Dark brown hair. One eye discolored. But everything else is flat wrong. My blood type, my fingerprints—everything. Big Man Vice had lots of connections in the Noimore Police Department back when I worked for him. They made sure misinformation was the only information the cops ever got.
My date of death was recorded eight months back, the night I escaped Noimore and got away from Jeremy.
I allow my panic to wane as the facts settle in. I’m officially dead. There’s no way anyone’s going to be able to link me to my past. As long as I don’t give them the opportunity.
I graze my left eyelid and curse under my breath. I have a few distinguishing marks, and that golden boy lieutenant picked up on one fast. With a sigh, I pull up my left sleeve and examine the stark black text of the tattoo I have along my forearm. It reads: VICE HOUND. A gift Jeremy etched into my skin so that I’d always remember who owned me.
Maybe my bum eye alone can’t pin me, but I’m sure even a simpleton could put one and two together after reading this file and seeing my tattoo.
Before the lieutenant comes back, I shut all the case files, leaving mine open like I found it, and exit his office.
Time to leave.
I step around officers rushing to and fro and head straight for the front lobby where I left Miles. I stutter-step to a halt the moment I catch sight of Lieutenant Walker chatting it up, right before the front counter. He’s speaking to Miles, of all people, and the two laugh and smile like they know each other.
When the lieutenant turns to leave, I walk around one of the many occupied desks, keeping my back to the man as I make my way to the front. Police officers give me odd sideways glances, and I flash my PI trainee license to placate them.
I walk up behind Miles and grab him by the upper arm. “Let’s go,” I mutter.
“Pierce,” he says, glancing over his shoulder.
