Page 11 of Night Justice

Deciding the walk would do her good and give her time to calm her temper, Orla headed to a busier street. This wasn’t a neighborhood she was familiar with, but at least she could walk with less risk to her life. Not that she cared. If only Evans had told her what he knew on the spot. Damn bikers. They never saw the big picture, just played and enjoyed the moment with women and money.

However, she hadn’t worked to grow a network over the years for nothing. Despite the ungodly hour, the ends justified the means and she scrolled through her phone until she found the number she was looking for. Three rings were all it took.

“Yeah?”

The sleepy female voice on the other end made her cringe, but there was no way to avoid it. “Hey, Deva. How’s my favorite massage therapist doing? So sorry to wake you, but I have a huge favor to ask.”

“Orla? Is that you?”

She could hear a sheet rustling and a deep rumble in the background. Orla had met Deva Landry a couple of years earlier when she’d returned from the Middle East, battered and bruised and in desperate need of physical therapy. Deva primarily worked with injured soldiers and sailors in Chicago and Orla had been referred to her. Over the weeks, Deva told her about her past connections with the darkest part of the Chicago underground. Her father had been an MC president in his time. Unable to stop herself from digging deeper, Orla had learned her husband Aleksei Voronov had, and maybe still had, ties to the Russian mafia. It was two good reasons to reach out to her.

“Yeah, I’m sorry to bother you, but it’s kind of an emergency, and I think you can help me.” Orla gave her a quick rundown on her current investigation into the impending release of Phantom throughout the city, knowing she could trust the woman. She avoided talking about the vigilante or her encounter with him, preferring to keep things simple and straightforward.

“You’re working with the chief of police on this?”

“Yes. Listen, Deva, I don’t want to put you in an awkward position, but the faster I can get Evans’ address, the faster I can knock on his door and ask him what he knows.” She tried to keep her tone of voice as detached and factual as possible, but beyond the potential article, there were lives on the line.

“I only have his phone number, and I can’t guarantee it’s still current. Give me a sec, and I’ll send it to you.”

Orla fist pumped and almost did a victory dance. “Thanks, Deva. I owe you.”

“Yeah, you definitely do. I’ve heard about the damage Phantom has done in Europe, and I don’t want this shit here either. I’m gonna make a few calls on the down-low and try to get more information if possible. Find out if Damon was one of the bidders. No promises, but I’ll call you.”

“Don’t get yourself into trouble because of me.”

Deva half-laughed on the other end of the line. “You’re the one in deep shit. If you were seen or recognized at El Diablo, there’d be hell to pay, and unless we know where it’s coming from, you need to watch your back.”

No truer words were spoken, and Orla knew it. After reassuring Deva she’d be careful, she hung up and didn’t waste time dialing Evans’ number. The night air grew colder as she walked and she longed for a hot bath. If Evans didn’t answer, she’d call it a night. However, despite the tiredness pulling at her, Orla didn’t want to stop.

“Evans.”

The voice she’d spoken with earlier came on the line. “Mr. Evans. It’s Orla Karlsen.”

The second of silence that followed had her praying she’d find the words to convince him to talk to her.

“Well, I’ve stalked people before, but it’s the first time a lovely lady has stalked me. Care to tell me where you got this number?”

Orla wasn’t going to reveal her source and avoided the question. “Our conversation was interrupted earlier.”

“You’re a tenacious woman, I’ll give you that, but I’m a bit busy right now.”

“And I’m busy finding the people who’ll be responsible for killing a shitload of innocents in our city.” There was a hesitation on the other end of the line, and Orla was damned if it was good or bad. “Come on, Evans. I just want to know who contacted you, how it went down, names. Anything that can help me.”

She was met with silence, and she wondered if he’d ended the call. He was waiting for something, and she wasn’t ready to give it to him—the offer of a favor if he needed one. It was a dangerous promise and one she rarely bestowed as it could impact her life and job in the worst possible way.

She was scrambling for another argument when the man finally spoke. “I’m not a morning person, but I fancy breakfast tomorrow. Bongo Room, Andersonville. Eight a.m.”

He disconnected, and she didn’t know if she should curse or jump for joy at the small victory. She was grasping at straws, and Evans knew it. But if he’d invited her for breakfast, that meant he was willing to talk.

It took more time than she expected to walk to where there was a constant flow of traffic. It was time to call an Uber or find a cab. Her luck held when she spotted two cabbies talking to each other near a 24-hour restaurant close to an intersection.

It took some convincing for one of them to drive her home as they were both about to end their shifts, but some begging, and a promise that she’d pay them once they got her home, finally convinced one of the drivers to help her. The night had been crazy, and as her adrenaline faded, her system desperately needed to shut down.

When the cab dropped her off in front of her building, Orla tipped him extra as a thank you.

When she keyed herself into the secured lobby of her building, it was automatic to stop and check her mail. She pulled out the bunched-up pile of envelopes and leaflets, and something fell and hit the ceramic floor, landing with a metallic sound.

She bent and picked up the keyring featuring a 50s-inspired pin-up girl with insane breasts. Shoving her bundle of mail back in the box, she frowned. It was a car key, and it definitely wasn’t hers. Had someone put it in her box by mistake?

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