FOR THE BABY'S SAKE (2 page)

The girl shrugged. “I suppose.”

The woman nodded at Sawyer. “Shoot,” she said.

Mary snorted, and the pretty counselor’s cheeks turned pink. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “We’re ready. Proceed. Begin.”

Wow. She was a Beach Boys song—a regular California girl—with her smooth skin and thick, blond hair that hung down to the middle of her back. She wore a sleeveless white cotton shirt and denim shorts, and her toenails were the brightest pink he’d ever seen.

What the hell was she doing in a basement on the south side of Chicago?

He knew what he was doing there. He was two minutes and two hundred yards behind Dantel Mirandez. Like he had been for the past eighteen months.

And the son of a bitch had slipped away again.

Sawyer crossed his legs at the ankles and leaned back against the desk, resting his butt on the corner. He focused his attention on the teenager. She sat slouched in her chair, staring at the floor. “Ms. Thorton, any ideas about who is responsible for this shooting?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Liz Mayfield sit up straighter in her chair. “I—”

He held up his hand, stopping her. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to give Ms. Thorton a chance to answer first.”

“I don’t know anything, Cop,” the teen said, her voice hard with irritation.

Damn. “You’re sure?”

Mary raised her chin. “Yeah. What kind of cop are you? Haven’t you heard about people in cars with guns? They shoot things. Duh. That’s why they call them drive-by shooters.”

It looked as if she planned to stick to the same old story. He walked over to the window and looked out. Two squad cars had arrived. He knew the officers would systematically work their way through the crowd that had gathered, trying to find out if anybody had seen anything that would be helpful. He didn’t hold out much hope. In this neighborhood, even if somebody saw something, they wouldn’t be that likely to talk. He heard a noise behind him and turned.

“I’m out of here.” Mary pushed on the arms of her chair and started to get up. “I’ve got things to do.”

He wasn’t letting her off the hook that easy. “Sit down,” he instructed. “We’re not done.”

“You can’t tell me what to do,” Mary shouted.

You can’t tell me what to do.
The words bounced off the walls, sharp, quick blows, taking Sawyer back seventeen years. Just a kid himself, he’d alternated between begging, demanding, bribing, whatever he’d thought would work. But that angry teenage girl hadn’t listened to him, either. She’d continued to pump heroin into her veins, and his son, his precious infant son, had paid the ultimate price.

Sawyer bit the inside of his lip. “Sit,” he said.

Liz Mayfield stood. “Detective, may I talk to you privately?”

He gave her a quick glance. “In a minute.” He turned his attention back to Mary. “I’m going to ask you one more time. What do you know about this shooting?”

“What I know is that you talk funny.”

He heard Liz Mayfield’s quick intake of breath, but the woman remained silent.

“Is that right?” Sawyer rubbed his chin, debating how much he should share. “Maybe I do. Where I come from, everybody talks like this. Where I come from, two drive-by shootings in one week is something worthy of note.”

Mary lowered her chin. Liz Mayfield, who had remained standing, cocked her head to the side and studied Mary. “Two?” she asked.

Sawyer didn’t wait for Mary. “While Ms. Thorton shopped in a convenience store just three days ago, the front windows got shot out,” he said.

“Mary?”

Was it surprise or hurt that he heard in the counselor’s voice?

The teen didn’t answer. The silence stretched for another full minute before Liz tried again. “What’s going on here?” she asked.

“There ain’t nothing going on here,” Mary said. “Besides me getting bored out of my mind, that is.”

“Somebody’s going to get killed one of these days.” Sawyer paced in front of the two women, stopping in front of Mary. “How would you like it if Ms. Mayfield had gotten a bullet in the back of her head?”

“I got rights,” Mary yelled.

“Be quiet,” he said. “Use some of that energy and tell me about Mirandez.”

“Who?” the counselor asked.

Sawyer didn’t respond, his attention focused on Mary. He saw her hand grip the wooden arm of the chair.

“Well?” Sawyer prompted. “Are you going to pretend you don’t know who I’m talking about?”

“Stupid cops,” Mary said, shaking her head.

He’d been called worse. Twice already today. “Come on, Mary,” he said. “Before somebody dies.”

Mary leaned close to her counselor. “I don’t know what he’s talking about. Honest, I don’t. You’ve got to believe me.” A tear slid down the girl’s pale face, dripping onto her round stomach. He looked away. He didn’t want to think about her baby.

“If I can go home now,” Mary said, looking up at Liz Mayfield, “I’ll come back tomorrow. We can talk about the adoption.”

The woman stared at the teen for a long minute before turning to him. “Mary says she doesn’t know anything about the shooting. I’m not sure what else we can tell you.”

Sawyer settled back against the desk and contemplated his next words. “That’s it? That’s all either of you has to say?”

Liz Mayfield shrugged. “I’d still like a minute of your time,” she said, “but if you don’t have any other questions for Mary, can she go home?” She brushed her hair back from her face. “It has been a rather unpleasant day.”

Maybe he needed to describe in graphic detail exactly what unpleasant looked like.

“Please,” she said.

She looked tired and pale, and he remembered that she’d already about passed out once. “Fine,” he said. “She can go.”

Liz Mayfield extended her hand to Mary, helping the girl out of the chair. She wrapped her arm around Mary’s freckled shoulder, and they left the room.

He had his back toward the door, his face turned toward the open window, scanning the street, when she came back. “I’m just curious,” he said without turning around. “You saw her when I said his name. She knows something. You know it, and I know it. How come you let her walk away?”

“Who’s Mirandez?” she asked.

He turned around. He wanted to see her face. “Dantel Mirandez is scum. The worst kind of scum. He’s the guy who makes it possible for third graders to buy a joint at recess. And for their older brothers and sisters to be heroin addicts by the time they’re twelve. And for their parents to spend their grocery money on—”

“I think I get it, Detective.”

“Yeah, well, get this. Mirandez isn’t just your neighborhood dealer. He runs a big operation. Maybe as much as ten percent of all the illegal drug traffic in Chicago. Millions of dollars pass through his organization. He employs hundreds. Not bad for a twenty-six-year-old punk.”

“How do you know Mary is involved with him?”

“It’s my job to know. She’s been his main squeeze for the past six months—at least.”

“It doesn’t make sense. Why would he try to hurt her?”

“We don’t think he’s trying to hurt her. It’s more like he’s trying to get her attention, to make sure she remembers that he’s the boss. To make sure that she remembers that he can get to her at any time, at any place.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Three weeks ago, during one of his transactions, he killed a man. Little doubt that it wasn’t the first time. But word on the street is that this time, your little Miss Mary was with him. She saw it.”

“Oh, my God. I had no idea.”

She looked as if she might faint again. He pushed a chair in her direction. She didn’t even look at it. He watched her, relaxing when a bit of color returned to her face.

“I’m sure you didn’t,” he said. “The tip came in about a week ago that Mary saw the hit. And then the convenience store got shot up. She got questioned at the scene, but she didn’t offer anything up about Mirandez. I’ve been following her ever since. It wasn’t a coincidence that my partner and I were parked a block away. We saw a car come around the corner, slow down. Before we could do anything, they had a gun stuck out the window, blowing this place up. We called it in, and I jumped out to come inside. My partner went after them. As you may have heard,” he said, motioning to his radio, “they got away.”

“It sounded like you got a license plate.”

“Not that it will do us any good. It’s a pretty safe bet that the car was hot. Stolen,” he added.

“Do you know for sure that it was Mirandez who shot out my window? Did you actually see him?”

“I’m sure it wasn’t him pulling the trigger. He rarely does his own dirty work. It was likely someone further down the food chain.”

She swallowed hard. “You may be right, Detective. And I’m willing to try to talk to Mary, to try to convince her to cooperate with the police. You have to understand that my first priority is her. She doesn’t have anyone else.”

“She has Mirandez.”

“She’s never said a word about him.”

“I assume he’s the father of the baby,” he said. “That fact is probably the only thing that’s keeping her alive right now. Otherwise, I think she’d be expendable. Everybody is to this guy.”

Liz shook her head. “He’s not the father of her baby.”

“How do you know?”

She hesitated. “Because I’ve met the father. He’s a business major at Loyola.”

“That doesn’t make sense. Why isn’t he tending to his own business? What kind of man lets his girlfriend and his unborn child get mixed up with people like Mirandez? He knows about the baby?”

“Yes. But he’s not interested.”

“He said that?”

“Mary is considering adoption. When the paternity of a baby is known, we require the father’s consent as well as the mother’s.”

“I guess they’re not teaching responsibility in college anymore.” Sawyer flexed his hand, wishing he had about three minutes with college boy.

“Can’t download it,” she answered.

Sawyer laughed, his anger dissipating a bit. “And where does Mirandez fit into this?” he asked. “You saw her face when I said his name. She knows him all right. The question is, what else does she know?”

“It’s hard to say. She’s not an easy person to read.”

“How old is she?”

“She turned eighteen last month. Legally an adult but still very young, if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, well, she’s gonna be young, foolish and dead if she doesn’t get away from Mirandez. It’s only a matter of time.” He wanted Liz to understand the severity. “Otherwise, if I can prove she was at that murder scene, then she’s an accessory and that baby is gonna be born in jail.”

“Well, that’s clear enough.” She turned her head to look at her desk. She took a deep breath. “It may not have anything to do with Mary.”

He lowered his chin and studied her. “Why do you say that?”

She walked over to the desk and flipped over a piece of notebook paper. She pointed at it and then the envelope next to it. “They go together. I opened it about a half hour ago.”

He looked down and read it quickly. When he jerked his head up, she stood there, looking calmer than he felt. “Any idea who sent this?”

She shook her head. “So maybe this has nothing to do with Mary. Maybe, just maybe, you were busting her chops for nothing.”

For some odd reason, her slightly sarcastic tone made him smile. “I wasn’t busting her chops,” he said. “That was me making polite conversation. First time you ever get something like this?”

“Yes.”

“Anybody really pissed off at you?”

“I work with pregnant teenagers and when possible with the fathers, too. Most of them are irritated with me at one time or another. It’s my job to make them deal with things they’d sometimes rather ignore.”

He supposed it was possible that the shooting wasn’t Mirandez’s work, but the similarities between it and the shooting at the convenience store were too strong to be ignored. “I imagine you touched this?”

She nodded.

“Anybody else have access to your mail?”

“Our receptionist. She sorts it.”

“Okay. I’ll need both your prints so that we can rule them out.”

She blew out a breath. “Fine. I’ve got her home number. By the way, they spelled my name wrong,” she said. “That doesn’t necessarily mean it’s not someone who knows me. Given that
business
is also spelled wrong and the grammar isn’t all that great, I’d say we’re not dealing with a genius.”

“They still got their point across.”

She smiled at him, and he noticed not for the first time that Liz Mayfield was one damn fine-looking woman. “That they did,” she said. “Loud and clear.”

“Why don’t you have a seat? I’ll get an evidence tech out here to take your prints. That will take a few minutes. In the meantime, I’ve got a few questions.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’ll just bet you do,” she said before she dutifully sat down.

Chapter Two

“Hey, Montgomery, you owe me ten bucks. I told you the
Cubs would lose to St. Louis. When are you going to learn?”

Sawyer fished two fives out of his pocket. He hadn’t expected
his boys to win. But he’d been a fan since coming to Chicago two years earlier
and going to his first Cubs game at Wrigley Field. He wasn’t sentimental enough
to believe it was because of the ivy growing on the walls that it somehow
reminded him of home. He liked to think it was because the Cubs, no matter if
they were winning or losing, were always the underdog. Sort of like cops.

He folded the bills and tossed them at his partner. “Here. Now
shut up. Why does the lieutenant want to see us?”

“I don’t know. I got the same page you did.” Robert Hanson
pulled a thick telephone book out of his desk drawer. “It’s a damn shame.
Veronica spent the night, and she’s really at her best in the morning. Very
enthusiastic.”

“Which one is Veronica?”

“Blonde. Blue eyes. Nice rack.”

That described most of the women Robert dated. Sawyer heard the
door and looked up. Lieutenant Fischer walked in.

“Gentlemen,” their boss greeted them, dropping a thick green
file on the wood desk. “We’ve got a problem.”

Robert sat up straighter in his chair. Sawyer stared at his
boss. The man looked every one of his fifty years. “What’s up?” Sawyer
asked.

“We’ve got another dead body. Looks like the guy was beat up
pretty good before somebody shot him in the head.”

“Mirandez?” Sawyer hissed.

“Probably. Our guys ID’d the deceased. Bobbie Morage.”

Sawyer looked at Robert. “Morage was tight with Mirandez until
recently.”

Robert nodded. “Rumor has it that Morage was skimming off the
top. Taking product home in his pockets.”

Lieutenant Fischer closed his eyes and leaned his head back.
“No honor among thieves or killers.”

“Any witnesses?” Sawyer asked.

His boss opened his eyes. “None. Got one hysterical maid at the
Rotayne Hotel. She found him on her way to the Dumpster. Look, we’ve got to get
this guy. This makes three in the past two months. Eight in the past year.”

Sawyer could do the math. He wanted Mirandez more than he’d
wanted anybody in fifteen years of wearing a badge.

“Are you sure you can’t get Mary Thorton to talk?” The
lieutenant stood in front of Sawyer, his arms folded across his chest.

“I don’t know. Like I told you yesterday, she’s either in it up
to her eyeballs, or she’s just a dumb young kid with a smart mouth who doesn’t
know anything. I’m not sure which.”

“What about her counselor? What was her name?”

“Liz. Elizabeth, I guess. Last name is Mayfield.”

“Can she help us?”

“I don’t know.” Sawyer shook his head. “If anyone can get to
Mary, I think she’s the one. She said she’d try.”

“We need the girlfriend. Push the counselor if you need
to.”

Sawyer understood Lieutenant Fischer’s anxiety. People were
dying. “She does have her own issues,” he said, feeling the need to defend the
woman.

Lieutenant Fischer rubbed a hand across his face. “I know. You
get any prints off the note she got?”

“Nothing that we couldn’t match up to her or the receptionist.
We got a couple partials, and we’re tracking down the mail carrier to rule him
or her out. I don’t know. It could be coincidence that she got this and then
Mirandez went after Mary Thorton again.”

“I don’t believe in coincidence,” Lieutenant Fischer said, his
voice hard.

Sawyer didn’t much, either. “I’ll go see her now.”

“I’ll go with you,” Robert offered, clearly resigned that
Veronica was an opportunity lost.

Blonde. Blue eyes. Nice rack.
Liz
Mayfield had green eyes, but other than that, she was just Robert’s type. “No,”
Sawyer said, not even looking at Robert.

“Hey, it’s no problem. I like to watch you try to use that
old-fashioned Southern charm.”

“I don’t need any help.” Sawyer looked at his lieutenant and
got the nod of approval he needed.

“Fine,” Robert said. “Go ahead and drag your sorry ass over
there again. I’ll just stay here. In the air-conditioning.”

Lieutenant Fischer shook his head. “No, you don’t. You’re going
to the hotel to interview the maid again. She doesn’t speak much English.”

“Doesn’t anybody else speak Spanish?” Robert moaned.

“Not like you do. I’ve got officers who grew up in Mexico that
don’t speak it as well.”

Robert grinned broadly. “It’s hell to be brilliant.” He ducked
out the door right before the telephone book hit it.

* * *

A
HALF
HOUR
LATER
, Sawyer parked his car in front of the brick
two-story. He walked past a couple brown-eyed, brown-skinned children, carefully
stepping around the pictures they’d created on the sidewalk with colored
chalk.

Sawyer nodded at the two old men sitting on the steps. When
he’d left OCM the day before, he’d taken the time to speak to them personally,
hoping they’d seen the shooter. From his vehicle, just minutes before the
arrival of what he still believed was Mirandez’s band of dirty men, he’d seen
them in the same spot, chatting.

They’d seen the shooter. It didn’t help much. He’d worn a face
mask.

He took the steps of OCM two at a time. He just needed to get
inside, talk to Liz Mayfield and get the hell out of there. Before he did
something stupid like touch her. He’d thought of her skin for most of the night.
Her soft, silky skin. With legs that went on forever.

Sawyer glanced down at the street-level window. Plywood covered
the opening, keeping both the sun and unwanted visitors out. He didn’t stop to
wonder how unwelcome he might be. He walked through the deserted hallway and
down the steps. He knocked once on the closed door and then again when no one
answered. He tried the knob, but it wouldn’t turn.

“She left early.”

Sawyer whirled around. He’d been so focused on the task that he
hadn’t heard the woman come up behind him.

“Sorry.” She laughed at him. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Looking at her could scare almost anybody. She had bright red
hair, blue eyeliner, black lips, and she wore a little bit of a skirt and shirt,
showing more skin than material. She couldn’t have been much older than
eighteen. If she had been his daughter, he’d have locked her in the house until
she found some clothes and washed the god-awful makeup off.

His son would have been just about her age. “What’s your name?”
he asked.

“Nicole.” She held up the palm of her hand and wriggled her
fingers. “Don’t you recognize me?”

She was the part-time receptionist who had gotten her prints
taken. An evidence tech had taken care of it for him. He’d been busy filling out
case reports—one for the shooting, a separate one for Liz Mayfield’s threat.
“Sorry. Thanks for doing that, by the way.”

“I’d do almost anything for Liz. Like I said, though, she’s not
here. She left early. Maybe to get ready for the dance.”

Sawyer tried to concentrate. “A dance?”

“OCM is having a dance. A fund-raiser. Jamison says we’re going
to have to shut the doors if donations don’t pick up.”

Sawyer had finally had the opportunity to talk on the telephone
with Jamison Curtiss, the executive director of OCM, late the evening before.
The man had flitted between outrage at both the shooting and the note Liz
Mayfield had received, to worry about the bad press for OCM, to despair about
the neighborhood all in a matter of minutes.

Sawyer had told himself, several times while he was shaving
this morning, that it had been that conversation that had spurred dreams of Liz
Mayfield. Otherwise, there’d have been no reason to take his work home, to take
it literally to bed with him.

Dreaming about a woman was something Robert would do.

“Dinner is two hundred bucks a plate,” the girl continued. “Can
you believe that? Like, I’d cook ’em dinner for half that.”

“Where?”

“Like, at my house.”

Sawyer shook his head. “No, where’s the dinner?”

“At the Rotayne Hotel. Pretty fancy, huh?”

“As fancy as they get.”
As long as they
keep the dead bodies hidden in the alley.
“What time does it
start?”

“Dinner’s at seven. My grandmother wanted me to go. Thought I
might meet a nice young man there.” She wrinkled her nose.

“Not interested?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Last one I met got me knocked up. Guess
Grandma kind of forgot about that. I don’t know what I would have done if Liz
hadn’t helped me find a family for my baby. Now she’s living in the suburbs.
Like, with a mom and dad and two cats.” The girl’s eyes filled with tears.

“Uh...” He was so far out of his league here.

“Anyway,” she said, sniffing loudly. She tossed her hair back.
“She’s the best. Some lawyer guy helps her. He talks fast, drinks too much and
wears ugly ties. Easy to spot.”

“What’s his name?” Sawyer asked.

“Howard Fraypish. Liz went to the dance with him.”

Sawyer pulled his notebook out of his suit coat pocket and made
a note of the name. Yesterday, after they’d gotten Liz Mayfield’s prints, he’d
asked her whether she was seeing anybody. It was a legitimate question, he’d
told himself at the time.

She hadn’t even blinked. Said that she hadn’t dated anyone for
over a year.

Going to a dance with somebody sounded like a date.

“I think she just feels sorry for him,” the girl added.

So, she and lawyer guy weren’t close. Maybe there was someone
else. He had a right to ask. Maybe the connection wasn’t Mary or Mirandez. Maybe
the shooter’s target had been the pretty counselor. It wouldn’t be the first
time a spurned love interest had crossed the line. “She seeing anybody
else?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

He was glad that Liz hadn’t lied to him. But it still surprised
him. A woman who looked like Liz Mayfield shouldn’t have trouble getting a date.
She had the kind of face and body that made a man stupid.

He’d made that mistake once in his life. He wouldn’t make it
again.

* * *

H
E
TRIED
TO
REMEMBER
THAT
,
two hours later, when he watched her glide around
the room. She had on a long, dark blue dress. It flowed from her narrow waist,
falling just shy of her ankles. It puffed out when she turned.

She’d pulled her hair up, leaving just a few strands down.
Sawyer rubbed his fingers together, imagining the feel of the silky texture. The
dress had a high collar and sleeves ending just below the elbow. She barely
showed any skin at all, and she was the sexiest woman there.

Classy. It was the only word he could think of.

Determined to get it over with, Sawyer strode across the dance
floor, ignoring the startled whispers or shocked glances in his wake. He felt as
out of place as he knew he looked with his faded blue jeans and his beat-up
leather jacket. He’d shed his suit earlier that evening before suddenly deciding
that he needed to see Liz Mayfield tonight. She’d had her twenty-four hours. It
wasn’t his fault that she was a party girl and wanted to dance.

He met her eyes over the shoulder of her date. Her full lips
parted ever so slightly, and her face lost its color. He shrugged in return and
tapped the man between them on the shoulder.

The guy, early forties and balding, turned his head slightly,
frowned at Sawyer and kept dancing.

Sawyer tapped again. “I need a few minutes with Ms.
Mayfield.”

They stopped. When the guy made no move to let go of her,
Sawyer held out his hand. She stared at it for several seconds then stepped away
from her date. Suddenly she was in his arms, and they were dancing.

He wanted to say something. But his stupid mind wouldn’t work.
He couldn’t think, couldn’t talk, couldn’t reason.

She smelled good—like the jasmine flowers that had grown
outside his mother’s kitchen window.

He wanted to pull her close and taste her. The realization hit
him hard, as if someone had punched him. He wanted his tongue in her mouth, her
breasts in his hands and her thighs wrapped around him. He wanted her naked
under him.

Sawyer jerked back, stumbling a bit. He dropped his hands to
his sides. The two of them stood still in the middle of the dance floor like two
statues.

Why didn’t she say something? Hell, why didn’t she blink? She
just kept her pretty green eyes focused on his face. Sawyer kept his breaths
shallow, unwilling to let any more temptation into his lungs. “Any more
letters?” he asked. He kept his voice low, not wanting others to hear.

She shook her head. “Our mail doesn’t usually arrive until
after lunch. I left before it got there.”

“So, no news is good news?”

“For tonight.”

He understood avoidance. At one point in his life, he’d
perfected it. He felt silly standing in the middle of the floor. He stepped
closer to Liz Mayfield, and she slipped back into his arms as if it was the most
natural thing in the world.

Which didn’t make sense at all because it had to have been ten
years since he’d danced with a woman. It felt good. She felt good.

He really needed to remember that he wasn’t here to dance.
“What did your little friend have to say?” he asked.

Her body jerked, and he realized he’d been more stern than
necessary. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“That’s fine,” she said. “It’s just that I...I didn’t see Mary
today.”

“She didn’t show, did she?”

Liz shook her head and jumped in with both feet. “I had to
cancel most of my appointments. I didn’t feel well.” That much at least was
true. She’d been sick after hearing Mary’s voice mail.
I’m
not coming today. I’ll see you tomorrow at the regular time.