Violet Darger (Book 4): Bad Blood Read online

  Jaworski wasn’t even packing a weapon, thinking a corporate party like this might entail security and metal detectors. Not so tonight.

  He’d arrived late, blended with the crowd, flitted along the edge of the affair all night. He hadn’t told Urszula he would be there. Avoided her detection in the thrum of drunken bodies.

  And it wasn’t long before he saw it. This prick leaning close to whisper something in her ear, getting just a little handsy with her. Touching her shoulders a few times. Touching her waist once. She always leaned away from his advances, tucked her chin, her body language putting up the closed sign, but Howard pursued anyway.

  The guy was a prick. Everyone knew he had a history. A big lawsuit from a couple of his former secretaries revealed much, all of the court documents now on the internet for all to see.

  He’d instigated unwanted massages with co-workers. Made comments about female employees’ bodies. Constant innuendos. Relentless unwanted advances. Guy was a scumfuck. Plain and simple.

  Urszula wasn’t a possession to Jaworski the way women often were for men in his business. She was his peer, his partner, the girl he wanted to start a family with.

  Family. That was the one thing Jaworski truly respected, maintained a true reverence for. Above business. Above honor. You didn’t disrespect an acquaintance’s family, and you were never, under any circumstances, disloyal to your own. Well, this Howard cocksucker was both. Shitty to all the women around him and their families. Terribly disloyal to his own wife and children.

  Fuck him.

  Jaworski felt his back and shoulders get tight, chest and abs all tensed up. It almost felt like his upper body was expanding. And he no longer concerned himself with remaining unseen. He went to the open bar on the far side of the lobby. Had a few drinks.

  He knew it was a mistake, drinking. It only ever led to bad things for him, woke up some hostility inside of him that he could neither understand nor contain.

  But he didn’t care. Not tonight.

  After slamming his fourth White Russian, he went on the prowl. On the hunt. Truthfully, Howard was dead as soon as Jaworski left the bar, even if it took a few hours to become official.

  Jaworski slipped away from the crowd and made his way upstairs to the offices. He had no particular plan in mind. He was just looking for an opportunity. An angle.

  He found it in the form of keys. Howard kept a spare set in the top drawer of his desk.

  Again, he’d half-expected to find nothing but locked doors on the upper level, perhaps even something a little more sophisticated like keypads or at least security cams. He found none of these things. In fact, the doors weren’t just unlocked, most of them were hanging open. He’d always heard that life was softer out in the suburbs, that the people outside the city lived like domesticated animals — cows with soft eyes — but he realized in Howard’s office for the first time that he’d never had a clue how far this notion could go.

  The alcohol continued to seep into his bloodstream as he crept out to the parking lot, that strange swirl of mental clarity and slight dizziness heightening in his head, his arms and legs feeling a little wobbly, a little further away.

  He staggered over the blacktop through the dark, and the parking lot lights buzzed overhead, swarms of insects surrounding each yellow bulb.

  When he got close to his car, he thumbed the unlock button on the key fob. The loud beep and clack startled him, made his head swivel around to see if anyone had been watching, breath held for a beat. He saw no one, though. No movement at all but those bugs spiraling up above.

  He leaned into the driver’s side and grabbed the stereo, fingers getting a firm grip and then yanking the whole unit straight out with a scrape and pop. Good. No problems. Sometimes it got stuck and he had to work at it for a minute, rock it back and forth.

  He unplugged a couple cables from the back and tossed the black rectangular unit on the passenger seat. Step one complete.

  Now, he fished a hand into that black hole where the stereo had been, half of his arm disappearing into it like a mouth. This stash spot held what he’d come for. He may not have armed himself for the party, but he always brought a backup with him in one way or another.

  His fingertips scrabbled over the innards of the dash like spider legs. It took a second for them to find the smooth metal of the gun, but they did, wrapped around it, and pulled it into the light.

  The .38 seemed tiny in his hand. It looked so much smaller now than it had when he’d first acquired it all those years ago, plucking it from the hat box his father had left it in. He kept it in the car as a good luck charm as much as a backup weapon, though this would be just the third time he would use it. So long as he had this gun, he was safe, he thought. Some family power kept him safe.

  He tucked the weapon in his belt and moved out, stumbling a little as he crossed the lot, eyes scanning everywhere.

  He’d been drunk as he exited the party and walked out among the cars. By the time he climbed into the back seat of Howard’s ridiculous Fiat SUV, he was drunker still — bordering on wasted. The booze had fully caught up with him.

  He tugged the gun from his waist, stowed it in his hand. And he waited for what felt like a long time, kept himself low, leaned his forehead against the back of the front seat. Closed his eyes.

  He let his arm go limp, let the gun dangle down near the floor. Waiting. Waiting.

  Flashes of hot anger flared in his head. Visions of the violence he wanted to administer. This was different than when he killed for money. Those cold detached feelings that made him good at his job had been replaced by fiery hatred, bursts of heat so intense they blurred his ability to reason, to think at all. A whole different deal.

  And savage movies played in his head. Violent fantasies that blazed brighter than real life, the colors so vivid, the contrast and saturation cranked all the way up.

  He pictured pistol-whipping Howard. Vicious blows. Hammering away at his jaw until all his teeth were shattered and gone. A little pro bono dental work. That made him smile — pro bono. What was the other Latin word for it? Gratis.

  Next he saw himself battering the man’s face in with a hammer, collapsing his skull like he had Joey Crampton’s all those years ago. Breaking his head open like an egg, letting the yolk brain slide out the cracked places, viscous goo, mostly opaque with translucent streaks. He’d read that the human brain is the consistency of soft butter, and in his experience, he’d found that it would seep out a little if you bludgeoned it good enough, bashed it just so. Some of it more like runny eggs than butter, from what he’d seen.

  But no. What was he thinking? He wasn’t going to kill this guy. That would be too risky after so many had seen him at the party, guzzling White Russians at the bar.

  Just rough him up pretty good. That’s what he’d do. Talk to him. Make him see things his way. That was all.

  He lifted his head, his forehead peeling away from the leather upholstery with a sound like the opening of the cellophane on a Kraft single.

  Dizziness spiraled in his head, swirled the whole world around him. Christ, he was a lightweight when it came to alcohol, especially for his size. He blinked a few times, tried to clear his mind, steady himself. It seemed to help. After another round of blinks, he coaxed his eyes into focusing on the world beyond the windshield.

  A dark shape moved on the other side of the glass. Smeared and blurry. Headed his way.

  He squinted, and he could see. It was Howard. This was it.

  His mind sharpened at once, eyes pointed, almost stinging from the sudden clarity. A fresh round of adrenaline stripped away the alcohol’s fuzziness, the softened edges all going hard.

  He ducked again, rocking forward so that he now crouched on the floor more than sat on the seat. His weight balanced on the balls of his feet, and he could feel the tension in his calves. Ready to pounce like a fucking jaguar.

  The gun still hung down at his side. Ready. Waiting.

  Now he put his head down. Cl
osed his eyes. Controlled his breathing. Slow. Even. Almost silent.

  His heart thundered in his chest. Electricity thrumming through his core, shooting bolts like lightning down his arms and legs.

  The automatic locks clattered, the dome light flooding the vehicle with light. Even with his head half buried in the leather and his eyes closed, Jaworski could sense the brightness. It shone through his eyelids, stinging and red.

  Howard climbed into the driver’s seat, not so much as glancing into the shadows in the back. His weight shifted the vehicle, pressed the back of the seat deeper into Jaworski’s face.

  He was by himself. Good.

  Jaworski heard the engine’s purr kick on, a low rumble he could feel through the floor and seat.

  The intertwining smells of vodka and musty cologne wafted into the vehicle a beat after Howard did. He was drunk, as usual.

  And the heat renewed itself, rushed to fill Jaworski’s head, raging and roiling behind his face.

  The vehicle jerked into motion, backing up slowly and then picking up speed as it moved forward.

  Jaworski picked himself up slowly, his head and shoulders rising first, then his arm coming up as his legs push him forward, into the space between the bucket seats.

  He pressed the muzzle into Howard’s neck, and the man jumped a little at its cold touch.

  He slammed on the brakes, and the SUV jerked to a halt. The inertia jostled both men, the shift in momentum rocking them forward and then letting up all at once so they tottered in place.

  “Drive,” Jaworski said.

  Howard froze, hands going motionless on the steering wheel, his fingers splayed. His wide eyes stared into Jaworski’s in the rearview mirror, eyelids fluttering like butterfly wings.

  Jaworski pressed the gun harder into the man’s neck, hard enough to make his forearm tremor a little, hard enough to turn this little swatch of throat flesh a milky pale.

  “Drive,” he repeated, his voice harder.

  Howard drove.

  And it struck Jaworski that no flash of recognition had played in Howard’s eyes in the mirror. That this guy had no idea who he was or what this was about. He clenched his teeth at the thought, but maybe it was better. It fit, didn’t it? It fit. The careless rich people crashing through the world, paying no mind to the messes they made, the people they trampled. They were always so shocked to be faced with consequences, weren’t they?

  Now, though, Howard seemed to be thinking. His eyes darted from the road to the mirror and back a few times in rapid twitches. Something seemed to click for him, and his eyes went wider still. Both of his hands rose and fell, clapped on the steering wheel.

  The driver’s chin ticked up, mouth moving. His lips spluttered and popped a little before he could get words out.

  “Wait. I know you. I’ve seen you around. You’re the big… the big Polish guy, right? You work for the Battaglias.”

  Jaworski gave no sign of acknowledgment. He didn’t even blink.

  “Look, I can pay you. Give you money. More than whatever they’re... double whatever they’re paying you. Cash.”

  Jaworski said nothing, stared straight into the eyes in the mirror.

  “Can you just tell me what this is all about? We can clear it up. Whatever it is, we can, you know, clear the air. Get things squared away.”

  “Straight at the stop light and take the next left,” Jaworski said, his eyes flicking to the road before returning to the rearview.

  “I don’t understand. I have cash. Unbanked cash. Stacks of it in a storage unit on the other side of town. We can go there right now, and I’ll triple whatever they’re paying you. I’ll want to know who put you up to this, of course. I think that’s only fair.”

  A small grin curled on Howard’s lips, some salesman instinct kicking in, trying to win Jaworski over with words and a smile.

  “Take a left at the intersection,” Jaworski said. “And pull into the parking lot up here. Park in the back of the lot along the row of pine trees.”

  Howard followed the gunman’s instructions, though he seemed to ride higher in his seat now, his body tensing, back and shoulders arching a little. Jaworski could see the man’s jaw muscles clenching and unclenching a few inches above the spot where he pressed the gun into the neck, little ripples undulating in his cheeks.

  “I don’t— I mean, I’ll pay you, right? I don’t understand what we’re doing here.”

  “We’re going to pull into the parking lot up here, and we’re going to talk.”

  “Talk?”

  “Talk.”

  Howard let out a deep breath, and a little of the tension seemed to drain from his posture.

  He settled the SUV into a parking spot, the headlights glaring against the pine boughs that now filled the frame of the windshield. Howard put the vehicle in park but let it idle.

  “Kill the engine and headlights, and toss the keys into the back.”

  Howard did as he was told, and the dark and quiet seemed to press itself in on them. Stark. Nothingness.

  Jaworski removed the gun from the driver’s neck. He pulled back from his crouched position, settled into the back seat. It felt good to relax, rest his legs and core and spine. He stretched, and it made his neck and head tingle in a way that reminded him he was drunk for the first time in a while.

  Howard licked his lips before he spoke again, and when he did, his voice came out sounding thinner than before. Hushed.

  “Can you at least tell me what this is about? Don’t I have a right to know why I’m being… being… subjected to all of this?”

  And the tectonic plates in Jaworski’s skull shifted, fresh heat spewing up through the cracks in an angry burst. He gritted his teeth. Squinted his eyes so tightly he could see pink splotches in the dark.

  He tried to hold the rage off, tried to stop his thoughts from sharpening into spiky, hateful things, but he couldn’t do it.

  This prick had no respect. No clue.

  “Seems to me like you ought to know,” Jaworski said.

  He bit the words off, conveying anger he didn’t mean to reveal. Not yet, anyway.

  Howard’s lip quirked, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he let his eyes fall from the mirror, passing over the windshield to direct his gaze at his lap. His chin tucked into chest and neck in slow motion, and his eyebrows crinkled.

  “Shit,” the driver muttered under his breath.

  He was trying to figure this out, Jaworski knew, figure out what he must have done, who he must have crossed, to wind up here in a remote location with a hitman pointing a gun at the back of his head.

  Maybe if he could figure it out, it wouldn’t end so badly for him. Maybe.

  At last, he lifted his head. Ready to lock in his final answer.

  “It has to be Rocco right. The, uh, building project we’d negotiated. But see, that’s the thing. I told him how it’d be. I was clear… couldn’t have been more clear. I told him these types of deals take time. Weeks and months, not days and hours, I said. I said that! There’s, you know, red tape and whatnot. There’s a heap of paperwork before the money starts changing hands, before the, uh, benefactors get their cut, and hell, there’s a long way to go even from there. Just a little patience, that’s all I’d need, all I’d ask. I’m not…. This is how this business works, OK. There’s a timetable. A standard timetable. It’s not my call. The pace of events is not my call.”

  Jaworski’s arms shook now, wavering like branches in a storm. He didn’t notice it until he lifted the gun, leveled it at the back of Howard’s head again.

  “No,” he said.

  “No?” Howard said. The quizzical flourish of his eyebrows in the mirror was almost funny, those close-together chimp eyes so confused.

  Jaworski’s arm flexed.

  He squeezed the trigger, and the .38 barked twice in his hand.

  The barrel snorted flame.

  And the exit wound tore a fist-sized wad of Dan Howard’s face out and sprayed brain and chunks of bone all o
ver the dashboard.

  He was confused no longer.

  Chapter 23

  They’d been at it for over three hours. Constantine’s would close in about forty minutes, and the stake-out detail would be over for the night.

  Blankenship had the binoculars pressed to his face while he read off the license plate number of a silver Jaguar, his jacket folded neatly and resting on his lap.

  “I think it ended with a ‘G’ but it could be a ‘6,’ so you might as well run both.”

  Huettemann typed the plate number into the computer on his lap.

  “It’s a ‘G.’ Registered to a Theodore Carlson.”

  Blankenship added the name and license to the half dozen others they’d noted so far. None of the names had brought anything of interest. A few of the registered owners had minor offenses on their record, but nothing that indicated definitive mafia ties.

  “So I heard you were the one that found the Dan Howard crime scene.”

  Huettemann cleared his throat before answering.

  “I was.”

  “I know you don’t get so much of that in the northern suburbs. Was that your first DB?”

  “For a homicide, yeah. But I caught my first 10-55 as a rookie. Responded to a single vehicle accident. DUI, if you couldn’t guess. Kid was going so fast when he hit the tree that it just about sheared the car in half. Seventeen years old. Parents had to have a closed casket.”

  Blankenship took a long pull of Coke.

  “Let’s just put it this way — fucked up world we live in,” he said. “My first dead body was a welfare check on an old guy that lived alone in an apartment in Islandview. Middle of summer. It’d been 90 degrees for the whole week, and the place didn’t have AC. There was a good breeze, and you could smell him from three blocks away, I shit you not. We tried knocking on the door, no answer. Called the building manager, but it was gonna take him a while to get there. We noticed on the way in that the guy’s window was open, hence the smell making its rounds in the neighborhood.”