"You know how I feel about failure, Vinnie. It's simply not an option."
The blade became an extension of his threat. He slid the blade tip through the skin of Buck's cheek, leaving a white line. Blanched skin soon filled with blood.
"Now, how are we going to rectify the situation?"
"Please, Logan. It won't happen again," he blubbered, his face turning purple. "I'll find her. I swear!" He gulped air. A tear rolled down his cheek.
"You failed me. And even after I gave you that hooker." Logan stood and turned his back, leaving Vin to pick himself off the floor. "I could've made you wait in line like the rest of my men. Rank has its privileges, Vin. It must. But only if you deserve it. You've taken advantage of my generosity."
On his knees, Buck wallowed in guilt as he lowered his head, avoiding his glare. His subservience pleased Logan immensely.
"I won't fail again," he mumbled, thin strands of blood racing down his cheek. "By tomorrow, you'll know where to find Raven Mackenzie."
Walking back toward his man, Logan towered over the kneeling Vinnie. Laying his hand on Vinnie's head, he glanced down, enjoying the feeling of superiority. "Tomorrow, then. Redeem yourself in my eyes and make me proud."
Vin dared to look up, his eyes paying tribute. "Yes, sir."
A flash of yellow teeth told Logan that all had been forgotten. His lieutenant would not falter.
After Vinnie left the dining room, Logan returned to his bedroom with a bottle of whiskey and the wife of his latest recruit, Krueger, in tow. The newcomer had made the gesture of offering his woman, hoping to secure favor. And without a doubt, the man had failed to inform her of his generous overture. She now stood in the far corner of his bedroom, trembling in the most delectable fashion. Krueger earned brownie points with every snivel.
Although the woman's hair and eyes were dark, that's where the similarities with Raven Mackenzie ended. The pathetic little mouse would never be the caliber of female he deserved. Krueger's woman would soon learn how he handled disappointment.
"Don't complain to me, woman. I'm not the one passing you around like a party favor." He sighed. "You should be grateful. I rarely lower my standards to this degree."
Perhaps he'd consider the woman an appetizer to the main course. His mouth watered for the stimulation of Raven Mackenzie. Taking a long pull from the bottle, he downed a slug of liquor, imagining the good detective on her knees before him.
Picturing it brought back his consuming rage for vengeance, despite the fact that the detective wasn't technically responsible. In his mind, there was a certain harmony to the idea that she would pay for the sin against him. A whimper drew him back.
"Come here, darlin'," he cajoled, not knowing her name. "Show Daddy how much you appreciate him giving you and your man a home."
She inched closer, her face pallid and frail. Strands of hair draped over her eyes as her chin lowered. When she'd gone as far as she dared, he closed the distance, insinuating himself next to her.
"Drink," he ordered, handing her the bottle. Purposefully, he kept his expression unreadable, although her eyes searched for indications of his humanity. Finding nothing, she tipped the bottle to her lips out of sub-missiveness, wincing as the liquor burned her throat. He chuckled as she gagged and offered him the bottle in return—when he wanted so much more.
He raised her chin, waiting for her to look up. A shy smile slowly gained momentum on her face. Alcohol raised her hopes. Logan brushed back her hair and stroked a cheek. When he saw the faint essence of adoration brimming in her eyes, he leaned closer.
"To your knees, woman. After tonight, you'll know exactly how to please me." She gasped, choking on her fear. He kissed her cheek, then whispered in her ear. "And I expect you to be an energetic pupil."
Large tufts of wet snow drifted aimlessly, measured only by the cadence of a clock that gave rhythm to it. Christian sat mesmerized by the constant descent, his low spirits magnified by the abundance of white in Mother Nature's assault. The steady barrage accumulated quickly and now started to stick to the windows of his cottage, encasing his world in a silent tomb.
The sight provoked his imagination. Cemeteries and crypts were silent, but death screamed its passage, forever seared on the intellect even beyond rational explanation. He'd learned that firsthand. Like a man diseased, he fought back the symptoms of his affliction, struggling to bury the grief so he might function.
In the library, a flickering glow from the fireplace bathed the room as he sat at his desk. His mind was only faintly aware of the sedate crackle of the flame, fighting its losing battle against the chill. He favored the dimly lit study with its deep cherrywood paneling and heady smell of books, its furnishings of black leather. It fit his sullen mood, a stark contrast to the cozy wintry scene beyond the draped windows.
Ice cubes shifted, falling against the glass as he drained the last of the liquor. A subtle burn of vintage Macallan scotch branded the back of his throat. The heat warmed his chest, but sapped his strength. It'd been one agonizing day. The weight of it played on his mind.
Absentmindedly, he held up his glass, staring through cubes of ice and cut crystal. The blaze refracted through rainbow prisms, distorting his gaze into the hearth.
Beep. His computer summoned his attention as it booted. The bright screens launched a kaleidoscope of color onto his face and sweater, barely capturing his fading concentration.
His world had been rocked today. Despite that, Raven Mackenzie had insinuated herself into his brain from the moment she'd held him at gunpoint. With all the turmoil plaguing him, he didn't need the added complication. Women always wanted more than he had to give.
Eventually, even no-strings lovers deluded themselves into thinking he should feel something in return. They'd all been wrong. He recognized it long ago. Being emotionally crippled, he accepted his lot in life. But a woman like Raven would never understand. She'd want more, and would deserve it. Yet beyond every other impossible rationalization, Raven Mackenzie was a cop. He couldn't allow himself to forget that.
"Get a grip, Delacorte," he scolded. "Keep focused."
His fingers moved across the keyboard, pulling up the county tax assessor's database off the Internet. Retrieving the only lead he'd taken from Blair's place, he pulled out the ragged-edged paper from his jeans pocket.
Before Detective Mackenzie discovered him in the study, Christian had spotted a spiral notepad by the faint glow of a small flashlight. Flipping the notebook cover, he'd run his fingers over the top page, noticing faint indentations. With a pencil from the desk, he'd gently rubbed the lead across the lined page. A numbered street address gradually leapt from the page, lifted in reverse like a photographic negative. Not having a crack at Mickey's computer, he had to be satisfied with the only clue to follow.
Maybe it meant nothing.
"3533 South Giles Avenue," he whispered, as he entered the address into the query page of the property database. His only familiarity with the area was that the Dan Ryan Expressway ran through it, in the general vicinity of Chinatown. Without delay, he'd gotten a hit on his query.
A second screen detailed the property description, map location, and ownership data. The name on the deed left him staring at the screen in disbelief.
"What the hell?" he muttered aloud. "Why would you have an interest in this place, Mick?"
Fiona's words played back in his memory—I didn't have him killed, at least not in the way you might imagine. From her note, he thought she had fled the country from the police, but maybe she had run from him? Had she been afraid of what he might find?