In complete exhaustion, he fell back onto a pillow, wiping a hand across his damp brow. His bare skin prickled with the chill of realization. The remnants of the nightmare clutched at him as his lungs fought for air. Unyielding, the hellish images flashed like a strobe light through his mind. Dead eyes of familiar faces stared back, demanding answers that might never come. Their cries for justice penetrated the black body bags, seeking him out even now. He stared blindly at the ceiling. The lingering details of the dream faded despite his best effort to recall them.
Still, one thought remained. Where's the kid? We came for the boy. Find him.
The words leapt from his memory like a harsh slap in the face. It had been the first time he remembered hearing them—and the recollection stayed. Normally, such details would be wiped from the slate the moment he awakened from the nightmare. What did it mean? It must be significant. Damn it! Why couldn't he remember?
Christian struggled for every shattered image. Often in the silence, he strained to recall, all the while dreading the journey to relive it. More times than not, his memory was tainted with the terror of his family's final screams—abruptly ending his grisly pilgrimage. He blocked out so much.
Only after extensive therapy and hypnosis did he discover his deepest regret—the time he spent fighting the shadow man.
Ultimately, the man proved to be his savior.
CHAPTER 6
Dunhill Tower
Downtown Chicago
The Dunhill Corporation shadowed Michigan Avenue, a monolith in glass and granite acclaiming the amassed wealth of the family holdings. Raven had walked by it many times, never giving the notable family a thought. Standing at a crosswalk with her partner by her side, huddled with the masses, she burrowed into her overcoat. Her eyes fixed upon the gray morning sky, then trailed the height of the tower until it dissolved into the low-lying clouds.
Unlike her, Tony didn't appreciate the courtesy of being prompt. By her watch, it was five till eight and they were on foot, still a good five blocks away. Although, technically, they weren't late at this very minute, it would be inevitable nonetheless. In her mind, she imagined the unspoken judgment on Delacorte's face. The guy probably shot from his mother's womb precisely on time, right down to the split second.
"You're antsy this morning. What's up?" Tony asked. The light changed and they crossed the street.
"Nothing. We're gonna be late." She stuffed her hands into her pockets. "You know how much I hate that."
"Yeah. Kind of an endearing quality." He chuckled. "Just like I hope my procrastination is to you."
"Everything about you is endearing, partner. Now shut up and keep moving." She smiled. "I got my heart set on a big cup of joe. I bet Designer Boy has good taste in java."
The muffled sound of a cell phone summoned her. Reaching into a coat pocket, she answered the call, "Yeah. Mackenzie here." To listen, she plugged an ear with a finger, keeping pace with Tony.
"Hey Raven. Scott Farrell. We got an analysis off the GCMS, the trace evidence on the Blair case."
Raven was familiar with the acronym. The gas chromatograph mass spectrometer was a machine used to analyze material and trace evidence. She didn't have to understand how it worked, just that it did. True to his word, Farrell had promised a rush analysis and delivered. The man read through a litany of scientific particulars.
Interrupting him, Raven wanted to cut to the chase. "So, bottom line, what are we looking at, Scott?"
"Two main points. There was evidence of rust and paint on his hands, but what's interesting is the content of the paint. It was lead-based, indicating an older structure painted before 1978."
"An old building in Chicago? That should stand out, big time," she joked.
At the front entrance to the Dunhill Tower, Tony pushed through the revolving glass door, with her on his heels. Once inside, they stood amidst a lavish leather seating area, under the close scrutiny of the security staff at a circular kiosk.
"That's why they pay you the big bucks, Mac." Farrell laughed. "But remember I said there were two notable items. The second one may help make your job easier."
"I'm listening."
"The list of compounds I read off, we found them on his clothes and hands, but they boil down to one thing. Ammunition."
She took a moment to digest his assessment. "So we're looking for an older building perhaps used to store or make munitions?"
"That'd be my guess," he replied.
"Aren't some of those components considered controlled substances?" She asked, searching her memory. "Or some kind of hazardous waste?"
"Yeah, prior to a federal law enacted in the late seventies, treatment of ordnance waste wasn't tracked. Components used in explosives, as well as solvents and fuels, are reported more thoroughly now. But I know where you're headed. We have access to a property database that we could query on the munitions components, maybe get a hit on ownership of record. Since it's a fairly recent resource, I'm not sure we'll have luck on any buildings that old. It's gonna be a long shot."
"Well, you're talking to a Cubs fan. Long shots are what I do." She couldn't help but grin, thinking of her father. "Just give it your best. Maybe we'll get lucky. I'll check back with you."
"Give me an hour or two," he added. "Later, Mac."
"Thanks for pushing on this one." She ended the call and glanced at Tony, lowering her voice.
"Another coincidence just hit us broadside, my fine friend. Seems the trace evidence on Blair is related to munitions." She raised an eyebrow. "And with the Dunhills rumored to be involved with illegal arms trading, I think Fiona Dunhill is neck-deep in this, up to her cultured pearl necklace."
"You think Christian Delacorte is running interference for her?" he asked, anticipating her thoughts precisely.
Raven had kept her midnight rendezvous with Delacorte a secret from her partner. For what purpose, she didn't fully understand—not sure she really wanted to. But in light of this new information, she had to face facts.
Christian Delacorte was anything but an ally.
"Could be, partner," she speculated, shrugging out of her coat. "I think we should call on Mrs. Dunhill while we're here. And my gut tells me we should stick close to Delacorte. Whether he knows more than he's letting on, I don't know. But the man might be worth the effort." She stared across the room, her eyes not settling on anything in particular, lost in thought.
"Worth the effort?" Tony questioned, humor coloring his expression.
Her partner had an annoying habit of actually listening. Had she said he'd be worth the effort? Delacorte had definitely gotten under her skin. Would it take a radical surgical procedure to remove the two-hundred-pound growth? If only it were that simple.
Tony waited for an answer. To cover up her faux pas, she replied, "I think we should stick close to the guy. That's all I'm sayin'. And given the arrangements today, I've got an idea on how we can do that."
Christian discovered the Giles Avenue property belonged to a division of Dunhill Corporation. By all accounts in the company files, the old armory was a historic site, abandoned long ago. So why did Mickey have the address written on a notepad at his home? Like playing a game of connect-the-dots, a link between Mickey and Fiona had been made with one easy stroke. The thought disturbed him, especially without Fiona here to explain the reason.
Now where would this lead him? All he could think about was checking out the old building. But one thing loomed on his horizon before he left on his personal errand—Detective Raven Mackenzie.
Swiveling his desk chair, he stood and walked toward the large picture window across his office. A console table had been set up with a coffee service and a modest serving of fruit and pastries for the visitors he expected. The thought of food turned his stomach, but the coffee was another story. Christian refilled his third cup of coffee since arriving at six. Slowly, he sipped the dark, pungent brew, letting the steam rise to his lips. A fog drifted off the lake, clouding the view. It tinged his somber mood with the blues. Adrift in the haze, his eyes probed the gloom as if he waited for an answer to emerge. No such luck.