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
