“But if you commit murder to prevent murder, is society any better off?”
“I haven’t decided that yet.” I wasn’t about to tell him that I thought the warrants went too far. For some reason, I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.
“So you want to play God. Are you saying that you—or Gibson—have the power to determine who lives and dies?”
“People are going to live and die no matter what we do.”
“You can’t be that cynical, Baker.”
I gave him an exaggerated scowl. “Don’t be such a Boy Scout. You know as well as I do that rich people almost never pay for their crimes because they can afford great lawyers. And anybody, rich or poor, who is smart enough to keep DNA out of a crime scene will be back on the street, even with a conviction, after only two years. That’s a slap on the wrist. You’ve got to hate that, Detective. All your hard work trying to catch the perps goes to waste.”
“The system sucks, I agree. So why don’t you try to change it instead of compromising it?”
“Because the system is controlled by giant corporations and international crime syndicates who don’t give a damn about life, liberty or the pursuit of happiness, thank you very much. But if I can protect one woman from an abusive husband, or help a victim at least get an apology from his assailant, then at the end of the day I’ve done something worthwhile.”
“An apology?” A sardonic half smile tugged his lips. “Is that all your clients want from their perps after you hand them over? Some of the ex-cons you people haul in wind up at the bottom of Lake Michigan.”
Heat burned my cheeks. “That’s not my fault.”
“Isn’t it?”
“I don’t take any clients who would do that sort of thing. Nor does any other retribution specialist who is certified. We have a professional code and contracts that specify that no perpetrator can be killed or tortured. Surely you know that.”
“What I know is that you’re playing with fire. You can’t take the law into your own hands, no matter what criminals do. Even if what you do is legal, it’s not right. You have to leave law and order to trained officers. We’ll do our job.”
I snorted in derision. “And who are you? Elliott Ness? You think you’re going to clean up this town like Ness cleared out Capone and his gang back in the early 1900s?” I shook my head. “Cops. You’re all either corrupt or egomaniacs who think you’re going to save the world.”
He blinked slowly. “Why do you have such a low opinion of legitimate law enforcement?”
I took in a deep breath. Because the cops who arrested my mother and put her in jail for bookkeeping had been placing bets at her apartment the night before. Because the social workers who put me in foster care the next day knew my foster father had a history of abuse. Because I don’t trust anyone.
“Because,” I said in a rough voice, “even if you do your job perfectly, the bad guys are going to go free. Judge Gibson wants to change all that. While you can argue with his method, I can’t imagine anyone who would argue with the result.”
“So you’ve used Gibson Warrants?”
I leaned back as I thought about my encounter with Drummond. “You might say that.”
His chestnut-colored eyes darkened. “How many people have you executed?”
“In the past two months?” I shrugged. “I’ve lost count.”
For some reason he wanted to hate me, but he knew I was yanking his chain. He sighed and leaned back, taking another sip.
“What are you drinking?” I asked.
He licked the clear liquor from his lips. “Chianti.”
“Chianti.” I smiled. He was Italian. “I should have known. But I might have taken you for a Scotch man.” I hated Scotch.
In the pause that followed, the old-time elevated train roared by not two hundred yards away. It was the only original el-track still functioning in the entire country and a real tourist attraction. In the mid-twenty-first century, all of Chicago’s elevated trains and subways had been replaced by aboveground superconductor lines, which were virtually noiseless. I had the dubious privilege of living near the only remaining electric track capable of making my two-flat rattle from its vibration.
“So, Detective,” I said when the rumble died, “let’s cut to the chase. I’m not a bloodthirsty ogre and we both know it. What really brought you here?”
“Danny Black,” he said.
Two words. They may as well have been two fists pounding into my solar plexus. For a moment I couldn’t breathe. I tried to keep my cool, but my eyes closed of their own will while unwanted images flashed in my mind. I saw Officer Daniel Black’s body lying in a pool of blood in a rat-infested alley in the Loop. A minute before there had been seven of us—me and Darelle Jones, a drug dealer I’d been contracted to bring in, Officer Danny Black and four dealers—connected with the neo-Russian mob.
Darelle opened fire, killing everyone but me. I was close enough to witness the massacre, but just out of sight around the corner of a nearby building. When the smoke cleared, I was the only witness. The fact that I was the lone survivor and had prior connections to the assailant made me doubly suspicious. But a thorough investigation cleared me of any collusion.
I put the unpleasant memories aside and opened my eyes. I found Detective Marco heading toward the door, readjusting his sport coat. He wasn’t even going to hear me out.
“If you’ve bothered to look at the record, Marco,” I said as I stood and crossed my arms, unwilling to chase after him, “you know that I was found completely innocent in that tragedy. The chief even held a press conference announcing that conclusion. The case is closed.”
He opened the door, adjusted his collar and seared me from the distance with a laser-beam glare. “I’ve read the record, Baker. And you’re right, you were cleared of wrongdoing. But you couldn’t be more wrong on another count. The case isn’t closed. It’s now officially reopened.”
He slammed the door behind him. I didn’t move for a long time. I couldn’t have been more stunned if he’d said, “Frankly, Scarlet, I don’t give a damn.” And in a way, that’s exactly what he did say.
Chapter 4
Black Coffee, Blue Dragon
As soon as Marco left, I called the private eye whom I’d hired to watch the abuse shelter where Drummond’s wife and kid were staying. Some retributionists who make good money have a whole staff of private investigators who do everything from watching over victims to tracking the whereabouts of ex-cons. I kept my operation simple by using a freelance P.I. when needed.
My guy was an old pro from Skokie. I told him about my fight with Drummond and told him to call the cops and me, in that order, if my threats failed to cower Drummond and he showed up at the shelter. The police could legally shoot the sonofabitch if he attacked his family. I could only do it with a bogus Gibson Warrant and wind up in jail for fraud.
I had just hung up when someone knocked on the door again.
“Now what?” I muttered as I flung it open. And there, standing before me with a rakish smirk and a tilted fedora, was none other than Humphrey Bogart.
“Bogie,” I said on a long sigh of relief. “I forgot you were coming. Man, am I glad you’re here.”