Page 18 of Tortured Eyes
Eight
“Hey, hey, hold up,” Jimmy spits out from behind his pads. “What’s up? Why the violence today?”
“No reason,” I pant, my lungs screaming for air.
If Jimmy needs a breather, I guess I’ll just work on my own. I shake my limbs out and amble to the back wall lined with punching bags. Perfect target practice.
“Spill. And don’t give me any crap.” Jimmy follows me over, and just as I start to pound my fists into the softened leather, he grabs the bag, supporting it for me.
“It’s nothing. That’s the point. I’m working on a case.” My blows punctuate the words that are fuelling my fight.
“What case? I said I could help. Even if that’s helping you get whatever this is off your chest.”
“Fine,” I shout, dropping my arms and breathing heavily. “I’m looking into my dad’s old cases. The ones he was looking at before he died. They’ve led me to the Canes.”
“As in the Cane Group? Hotel and casino monopoly Canes? The wealthiest family in Chicago, Canes?”
“Yes. But that’s not all they are.”
“Sure, we’ve all heard rumours. But damn, girl, you better have some concrete, iron-clad evidence before you go looking for trouble there. They’ll eat you up.”
“I fucking know that, Jimmy.” I lash out at the bag and send him back two paces.
“I went to see Logan Cane at his club.” My words sound like a confession. And in a way they are, because what's running through my head is that I went to see Logan Cane and I totally pictured us fucking. Bad idea.
“Wow. As a cop? What the hell, Bryce?”
“He didn’t know who I was. But I’m fucking tired of getting fuck-all answers from any of what I’m pulling together. Seriously, Jimmy. I’ve got cases going back decades, all suspicious, all covered up, and all involving one of the Canes or the company. I want answers, and I’m damn tired of the corrupt bullshit that goes on around this sort of crime. I deal with death and violence every day, and it makes me sick to think about what they could have buried in their closets.”
Jimmy is silent and just stares at me like I’ve grown a second head or some shit. I shake my head and walk back towards the changing room. For a split second, sharing the burden I’ve been carrying helps. Until Jimmy’s reaction cements what a fucking impossible job I'm up against. My thoughts turn to Logan again. Am I delusional for thinking he's the way in? That he’ll be the one to give me what I’ve been looking for? Stupid fucking fairy tale, I should know better.
“Hey, Bryce.”
I look up from my seat on the bench.
“Be careful. The Canes aren’t your regular criminals. There's a reason they’ve remained untouched. Don’t forget that.”
“I won’t. I’ve been looking at this for years. I’m well aware. I know their business and what they are capable of.” I’m done with this conversation. “See you later.” I grab my jacket and throw it on over my damp training gear, brushing past Jimmy at the door. I’ll shower at work.
My bad mood follows me into the office, and seeing Watts joking around in the break room doesn’t improve it. “Watts, when are we interviewing the husband?”
“He’s err, coming in around noon.”
“Remember, I’m going to be witnessing this. And if there’s even a hint of bias in your questioning, I’m going to ship your ass out of this division. You get me?”
“Perfectly, boss.”
My door rattles the windows of my office as I slam it shut.
This isn’t like me. I might be a hard-ass when I need to be, but I never get angry or lose my cool. And that’s exactly how I’m feeling now. I settle into my chair, kick my feet up and scan through the emails on my tablet. None of them interest me, bar one.
A friend I was in the Academy with transferred a few years back and is now working narcotics in New York. I reached out to her months ago when I was looking at the main players again to see if there had been a shift in power over the last few years. I’d given her some of the names from my father’s files. Vico, Anchov, Mortoni and Denago were all on the list. Back then, Vico seemed to rule over New York and controlled the city, still did until the day of his death that I can tell, but there was no direct evidence of his involvement in drug trafficking.
Her email now states that two known men from the Denago cartel flew into JFK three days ago. Current whereabouts unknown, but due to Vico’s recent death, this information put all of the narcotics team on red alert. “Thank you, Isla.”
My next call is closer to home. “Derek, hi. Look, I need a favour.” Derek Mason runs the Chicago narcotics unit and so far has been as forthcoming as I’d imagine Nathaniel Cane to be when asked something directly.
“Favours don’t come cheap, McCarthy.”
