Big Chicago

Big Chicago Part 19...by Samayel


Dora Tonks flipped another page on the stack of reports and investigation notes, sipping the cheap latte with a faint grimace. It had gone cold. She’d been in the strategy room for almost 13 hours, minus a few breaks to use the toilet. Kingsley was doing the same across the table from her, picking through early reports from the first crimes and highlighting potential witnesses and informants to lean on again.

It had been sheer hell these last couple of weeks. Then the devil himself came to town. Rufus Scrimgeour, Special Agent, FBI. He’d brought his own fawning toady, that pipsqueak asshole Dawlish, along for the ride. The investigations into every mob related homicide in Chicago had been nominally turned over to his command, and the staff of the Organized Crime Task Force had been transformed from leaders into assistants overnight.

Well…assistants in the sense that they hit the streets and pored over the paperwork, picking through facts and possibilities, while Scrimgeour lunched with the mayor and glad handled TV crews all damn day. Even if they blew this case wide open, it would all go to Scrimgeour’s credit as a job well done. Additionally, his version of ’pouring every resource into resolving this situation’ translated to ’keeping every member of the staff on duty almost 16 hours a day’. Jackass.

At least she and Kingsley were nominally still among the chief persons assigned to this, but that didn’t really change much for them except shifting their role to the interpretation of information. Others were combing the streets, from flatfoot beat cops to detectives, and the tons of paperwork they generated all came here.

On TV, bless their fucking hearts, every cop solved the case in forty eight minutes, fostering the cheery illusion that crime was always committed by mildly retarded or otherwise fatally flawed losers. There was always a smoking gun or a witness that came forward, or the criminal would crack under questioning and tell all, always in dramatic fashion. This kind of thing made it hard to convince people that actual police work involved endless interviews, mountains of paperwork, and weeks of sifting through seemingly inconsistent information. The public clamored for a fast answer and high profile dramatic arrests…but when those happened in real life, it usually meant that the arrest had been hurried to appease the masses, and the person charged would get off on a technicality, and that was assuming that they’d even hauled in the right suspect in the first place!

This was the real work. Combing through tidbits of possibility, following up on questions that were asked again and again, pushing for one more shred of information that might carry you forward a little to the next step. Good, solid convictions came from hitting the proper suspect with the right charges for the right crime. It wasn’t easy, putting bad people away for a long time, but it sure beat letting them turn the world into a bigger hellhole than it already was!

It started with the prison riots. A man named Harry Black, who, upon further investigation simply did not exist, had been incarcerated for only a few weeks before disappearing after the riots. A handful of dead criminals who were due for early release had been all that was left behind. They were able to ascertain that SOMEONE had been there, and that the prisoners believed his name to be Harry Black, but the trail ran cold after that. It had taken several bribes in the form of luxuries for an injured prisoner named Marcus Flint to spill even the few details they had.

What a piece of work Flint had been too! A real, honest to God, unredeemable asswipe of the highest order, and they’d had to coddle him with the promise of a private cell in the ’cripples ward’ with extra amenities for his cooperation. The worthless piece of crap had been smirking all the while, amused that he’d had something to hold over the cops questioning him, even while he was in traction and wrapped up until he was nearly mummified. Still, he was a living witness who swore that a dark haired, green-eyed man named Harry Black had been there after all, and he’d been beaten nearly to death by that same man weeks before the killings.

Other than that, they had fuck-all to work with. The ’Black Angle’ was a dead end, and there were no witnesses alive for the later killings. It was possible that Black was entirely unrelated, and they had a string of other crimes to put their effort into. The peace of the streets had been kept, by only the narrowest of margins, but it was fraying fast, along with her own nerves.

They had a mystery hacker or hackers, who had penetrated city services and the power company with apparent ease, shutting off power during each of the first half dozen cases. Several other killings happened shortly afterwards, with no power outage involved. It was possible that rivals or copycats were using the confusion to eliminate enemies, but it was equally possible that the power outages were used only when necessary and the cases could still be related.

Multiple styles of execution had been used, primarily involving firearms, but there was no easy way to gauge the number of people involved. One at least, probably more, given the number of dead bodies found. Shotgun blasts had killed the Russians and the Czech, a knife had taken the life of a cartel playboy from Columbia, nine millimeter pistols were used in two separate cases, involving a trio of dead Chinese white slavers and bar office full of dead Italians. Chaos…absolute fucking chaos.

And barely anything matched up in any significant way. No records available for any Harry Black that could be accounted for in Chicago. They’d already checked the profiles and questioned a few men with that name already. Nothing. Every single one had an alibi. It had to be an alias, and a good one if it passed through the prison unnoticed, but that still left nothing to go on.

And Scrimgeour and the mayor were not patient people.

Dora felt the cellphone buzz in her pocket before the ringtone kicked off. Luna. Shit. It had been the same all week, but what could you do? She flipped the phone open, vaguely hoping that it was just the usual nonsense and that nothing serious had happened.

“Yes. Yes. Yes. Yeah. Uh-huh. Hey…HEY. I’m still at work, honey! We talked about this. This is what I do. This is very big, and I can’t come home until we finish for the day. Luna…Luna…LUNA, please! I know…I know…God damn it! Do you think I don’t want to come home? I can’t talk about this now! I’M AT WORK! I’ll see you when I get home…in a few hours.”

The cellphone snapped shut in her palm while Dora plopped her head down onto the table. She’d been a lot more patient at the beginning of all this, but it was the same thing every night. Worried call after worried call, pleas for her to come home, veiled hints that she was neglecting her family by doing her job and more. The worst part…the absolute worst part…was that it was at least partly true. And there wasn’t one damn thing she could do about it without leaving a job she’d striven her entire life to have.

She missed her lover, she missed her daughter, she missed stopping for coffee at one of the coffeehouses or galleries that Luna’s work showed at. She missed dinners at home, instead of Chinese takeout, and watching TV in her pajamas while curled around Luna after Diana was safely to bed. She missed sleeping more than five hours a night at best and taking long showers or baths instead of flying out the door in a daze. There had been cases that were high profile before, and she’d had her share of late nights, but never, never like this.

Kingsley pushed a pin into the map he was working on, detailing the exact locations of crime scenes, as well as power outages and their times in relation to each crime. Dora was on the ragged edge, and to be damned frank, so was he.

“You know, Tonksy, if it’s any comfort at all, it ain’t any better on my side of the fence. Deirdre has been waiting ‘til I get home to give me an earful of what she thinks about all this, and lemme tell ya, it hasn’t been an earful of poetry! We’ll get through this yet. We’re two of the best in our field, and you know what? If worst comes to worst, maybe we get bumped back down the ladder and our rep takes a hit. Maybe they take us off this and put someone else in the hot seat, but we’ll go down fighting. Are you with me?”

Dora fought back the vague dizziness that came with being seated for hours at a time after very little sleep, and nodded grimly.

“I’m with you. Still in the game. Let’s go back over the bar scenario. We still have a couple of employees on the books there that ‘vanished’ right after the shootings. Let’s see what we’ve got and try to get the patrol boys to beat the bushes in Little Italy again.”

“Hey…you do know how to catch an Italian…don’t you?”

Dora cringed. The punch line would be terrible. It always was. Kingsley had many talents…but delivering great comedy wasn’t one of them.

“I’ll bite. How do I catch an Italian?”

“Tie a rope to the back of your car and a bowl of spaghetti, and drag it through Little Italy.”

“Kingsley?”

“Yeah?”

“Eddie Murphy is sleeping soundly tonight, secure in the knowledge that his job isn’t in danger from you.”

“Hah! Well at least somebody is sleeping! It sure ain’t us.”

“Next pile, please.”

Kingsley handed over another stack of files. Dora winced even as she looked at it, remembering fondly the days when she still loved her job.

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Remus Lupin hurried to catch the bus, dropping an almost empty cup of coffee into a nearby trashcan as he headed for the still open door of the bus. Just in time. Like pure luck. Another minute and he’d have been dialing up a taxi. Luck…he’d never really had much, but he seemed to be catching a case of it these days.

Maybe it was the pills, even if he did hate their tiny little guts. Something hard to define had been shifting for him. Waking up on time was easier. Getting organized wasn’t quite the chore it had been, and to be honest, he actually felt…well…kind of cheerful just lately. Like anything was possible, if just stayed in the ring long enough to see it happen.

Whatever it was, Remus wasn’t complaining. The dumb bastard he’d been tailing for weeks had finally slipped up. The thing was, he hadn’t been seeing his secretary or anyone obvious. He’d been humping a girl from the local video store on the side. Remus had gotten the entire affair on film, and had been paid in full for his weeks of work. Several thousand dollars after expenses. His room at the Lucky Ace was paid up to the end of next month, his cellphone bill was paid off entirely, he’d gotten his best suit and his trench coat dry cleaned, and he still had plenty to send along to Dora and Diana.

Not that Dora really needed the money. She was the tops at what she did, and her salary wasn’t anything to scoff at these days, but Remus had tried his damnedest to make sure he contributed to his daughter’s well being and care. He was off the bottle, clear eyed and working steadily, and that meant the added bonus of seeing Diana for awhile. Maybe a trip to the zoo would be in order soon.

Throw in the fact that the cute Greek girl at his favorite morning restaurant stop had slipped him her phone number, and the fact that he already had a lead on a new client, and it had been one hell of a good week!

It was the kind of summer day where Remus carried his jacket in his hand instead of wearing it, because the heat of summer was making things a little sticky for everyone. The bus was packed, as usual, and Remus sat near the back and just smiled while he stared out the window. He’d been up and down these same streets a few hundred times, and yet today they looked cleaner and brighter than he remembered.

He’d choked down pills every day for weeks now, and that just had to be the difference. Who knew? Such a little thing, but such a big difference. They still made him want to puke just looking at them, but what the hell? You couldn’t argue with great results.

His cellphone buzzed in his pocket, and Remus picked the phone out and flipped it open.

“Full Moon Investigations, at your service, Remus Lupin speaking. How can I help you? Yes. I see…understood. Great…just say when and where, and I can meet you to go over some preliminary explanations of costs for hourly expenses and retainer fees for longer jobs. Yes, sir! We’ll see you there. Good bye.”

Remus grinned from ear to ear as he put the phone away. One hell of a week alright! Some British sounding lawyer wanted him for a standard person search. Easy as pie. The guy obviously didn’t know the area that well, or he wouldn’t have offered such a large fee up front, but Remus wasn’t in charge of looking out for other people’s money, he was in charge of Remus. Finishing a job with pay like this would put him far enough ahead to look at real apartments! Find one missing deadbeat dad and hello good living!

Whoever that Pettigrew fellow was, he had money to burn, and Remus could help him burn it. Nobody knew the soft underbelly of Chicago like he did. If the guy Pettigrew wanted was here…by God, he’d find him…especially with five thousand dollars advance and ten thousand more plus expenses on the line! For that kind of money, he could get them God’s home address if he had to!

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The end of a cane arced through the air, connecting with the head of the plump, balding little fellow in tweed.

“OOOOWW! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m so terribly sorry, sir! I swear it! I’m working on it! Please! Patience, sir…patience. Remember your heart condition!”

“Bugger my heart condition, you miserable wretch! Incompetent! Pathetic! You abysmal little worm!”

The crack of it across the man’s head resounded through the hall. The old man could brandish a cane with best of them. He walked with two, needing them both since that unfortunate incident in New York. It had taken a lot of money and time just to get this much mobility back, but it was enough. He could still vent his frustrations on his employees and servants if he wished. Even in pajamas and a long bathrobe, hobbling along with his canes, the pale and withered gentleman still had an aura of power and clarity that others recognized.

Tom Riddle was vexed. Quite a bit past vexed actually. His solicitor, Pettigrew, had been tasked with hiring investigators to discreetly look for any of the Phoenix Corporation’s operatives, and the preliminary results were somewhat discouraging. Granted, they’d only just started, but Tom Riddle wanted answers. Once he had answers, he’d have targets, but until then he could only vent his rage upon his staff.

There was a limit to what could be imparted to law enforcement, at least through the channels available to him…unless he had something concrete to give them. Sending private investigators into the mix might get him a tidbit that the police didn’t have time for. He could also be a bit freer with the names and faces he wanted to erase…not that the hired help needed to know that. All he needed was lead to go on, and if the police couldn’t make us of it…well…there were people who could…and he knew them all.

Getting anything significant done in Chicago, from knocking a building down to starting construction on a new one, from zoning a business to acquiring a license to get started with one, took money. Not just a little money, but a lot of money. Just the bribes for mid-level officials and permission from organized crime in the area demanded a small fortune, but Tom Riddle had that. That wasn’t the point.

The point was that in the process to seemingly accomplish a major project, he’d spent weeks and weeks making deals and acquiring relationships with most of the significant players in the greater Chicago area. In just a few weeks, their total compliance with his interests had shifted to wary and reluctant stalling while they closed ranks, protecting their leaders and pointing fingers at rival groups. It was chaos, and his influence, newly won in this area, had been waning fast.

It the Phoenix Corporation, and he knew it. It had their fingerprints all over it, but they’d hidden themselves well as usual. False names, carefully crafted aliases to account for living quarters and office space. All obvious trails had been erased, but they were here. They had to be. And that meant Potter.

’That arrogant little shit…Potter! Seventy-eight years on this rock, and that little bastard comes along and has the brass to think he can toy with me!? I’ll mount his skull on my fucking wall! I’ll find him…oh, I’ll find him. He’ll pay for New York…in spades. I’ll make him beg for a death as clean as the one his parents got!’

His attention returned to the cowering man in front of him. Loathsome little rodent that he was, Pettigrew was loyal, and made a fine third party to operate through. As a solicitor and lawyer with licenses paid for in both countries, he could act discreetly, allowing Tom Riddle to remain in the background as always, letting dummy corporations and non-existent organizations funnel his money into projects that took his fancy.

“Don’t you think you’re irreplaceable! Get me those answers. I want names…locations…or even someone close to them. I want an ’in’, and we’ll let slip the dogs of war upon them this time! Get that obedient little dog…Malfoy. Wants to be a Senator? We can pour bundled contributions into every group that will back him. A few phone calls and I’ll have think tanks across the country babbling his praises! He’s got the mayor’s ear…we’ll get this back on track yet…at least we moved Scrimgeour into place. Handy thing, a call to the president. Let the federal boys pick apart the details, already seeing it our way. The people interrupting progress…they are the enemy! I’m telling you, Pettigrew…if you don’t get me what I want…and quickly…I’ll find someone who can! MacNair!”

Riddle bellowed for his head of security, who always waited nearby, small headset in place while he listened to reports from the men on the ground around the mansion. The huge black-haired man moved forward with the grace of a hunting cat.

“Sir!”

“Fetch my wheelchair! Take me back to my office! I’m done with this…this…refuse!”

“Right, sir.”

The man rolled the wheelchair into place and waited while his employer made himself comfortable, canes in his lap while he adjusted a blanket for his legs. Technically, it was beneath him to cart the old man around this way, seeing as he’d worked in contract security and various mercenary outfits for almost twenty years, but for what he was being paid, he’d have eaten a mile of shit without complaint. A few years of this and he could retire…possibly on an island that he’d own outright…preferably with a population of dancing girls and a giant freezer that would never run out of beer. He rolled the old man down the hall without a word while Pettigrew scurried off to get back to business.

“Good man, MacNair. Get me to my office. I’ve a few calls to make. I want Asian currency stronger by the end of the week. It’s time to pull some strings. And bring me a brandy. Not the swill I keep out for company…the dusty bottle in the back of the cabinet. I’ll make something productive of this day yet!”

“Right. As you wish, sir.”

’Potter. How much would it grieve that self righteous old bastard if he knew I’d scoured the earth of his favorite little protégé? Eh, Brian? You old codger! What have you got in mind this time? Think you’ll take me out of the great game, do you? I think not. I’ll make it to dance on your grave, and all the pathetic little dreamers of your ilk will watch and see the future shaped by my hands! Hmmph. Potter. I see the last of that line erased…if it’s the last thing I do. Potter…’

MacNair rolled the old man down the hall. Riddle had nodded off again…price of getting old, MacNair supposed. He’d likely wake up in another hour, but he’d find himself at his desk with a brandy waiting for him. Aside from managing the personnel around the mansion, this was far, far from the worst job he’d ever taken.

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Neville Longbottom rather liked his life. He had a fairly nice cottage in a lovely neighborhood, with just enough room to grow a half decent sized garden and still be able to landscape a bit in his off hours. He didn’t have all that many of those, since Scotland Yard was a demanding mistress at times, but he rose early every morning to take time with his children.

It wasn’t an unmanly thing, liking plants. He’d always rather liked making green things grow healthy and strong, and he’d fancied that, in years gone by, he’d have made a fine country farmer. Sadly, those days were largely passed, and England was a different place theses days. His grandmother had pushed him hard, raising him alone after his parents had passed on, and while it hadn’t been easy, he’d made it into the respected ranks of England’s finest law enforcement branch.

Neville was a man of only average height, and just a little soft about the middle, but still quite fit. He had a friendly face, and was given to smiling a bit more often than some, but not excessively. Never minding the troubles of any given day, he was generally quite cheerful, and well liked by the vast majority of people who worked with him. In spite of this, he still hadn’t married, which had bothered his grandmother to no end, but Neville was in no hurry to rush into anything. He might be a bit overcautious, but in his own way he was methodical and plodding, inevitably accomplishing each goal set before him. When the time was right, he’d see to that too. He just had other things to do right now.

When the last of his ‘children’ were watered and spoken to, (Neville believed in talking to his plants…not because they answered back or anything daft like that, but because studies had shown conclusively that they responded to pleasant stimuli, and it was worth the effort to him just to see them grow just a little stronger and healthier.) Neville washed his hands and made ready for the trip to work.

It was always something, and while the paperwork involved was dreadful, it was rewarding to be a part of an organization that genuinely did its very best to make a safer world for people to live in. It was a more peaceful place these days, and he loved working with people who had made it that way. It was very much what his parents would have wanted, had they still been alive to see it.

Terrorism, rife at the time then, had resulted in his parent’s tragic deaths when he was quite young. They’d been traveling abroad for work, and he’d been in the care of a nanny when his father and mother were caught in a pub blast that killed eight and injured eleven others. He might have preferred botany or work as a naturalist or something of the like if he’d really done as he’d wanted, but he was content with his lot, and rightfully proud of what he did for a living. He did it well, and he was fairly sure that someday he’d see a promotion come his way. Terrorism was once again on the rise in some places, and England had seen a bit of it too, but in the main, it was one of the safer countries to live in in this world, and being a part of making it that way was something to look on with pride.

The music in the halls as he walked through the office complex made him want to tap his feet, but he restrained himself while he nodded or waved hello to others on the way to his office. He’d always liked dancing. Admittedly, his grandmother had been his teacher, but it had certainly paid off in school when dances had been held. Shame that he hadn’t the opportunity to exercise his talents in that department more often, but Scotland Yard wasn’t all parties and tea on the veranda, and that was just how it was.

“Good morning, Susan,” he chirped, greeting his secretary on the way into his own office.

“Good morning, Neville. How are the little ones?”

“Not bad, not bad. I’ve a bit of pruning to see to this weekend, but otherwise green and good. And you, my dear Ms. Bones?”

“Very well. There are two new files for you…on your desk. And a memorandum on top of them. I’ve got your itinerary ready after you’ve had a chance to have a look at them.”

“Tsk. Busy, busy, busy. Here’s to it being nothing of substance.” So many things they looked into these days. Most often it turned out to be nothing, but it was the price to pay for dramatically increased pre-investigation of rumors and possibilities.

Another day would go by, milling through endless possibilities, and if they were very fortunate, the majority could be dealt with by local authorities and a few phone calls. Occasionally he traveled about England with various partners, but unless something very serious was underway, his day would be spent here, and that was just how he liked it.

It would be a pity to wind up calling the sitter to look after his plants again, especially after that three week stint in London just a little while ago. He just hated leaving his plants alone so long, but what else could one do? Sometimes duty called…and Neville Longbottom always answered faithfully.

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“Ma…Ma….Ma?! Come on! Everything is fine. Don’ worry about it! The club’s a nice joint…no trouble…all legit. Nothin’s gonna happen to me. I promise. Maaaa!”

Blaise Zabini held his cellphone in one hand and a cigarette in the other while he walked through his townhouse in slippered feet and his good bathrobe. His mother was well-connected to one of the most powerful families in Chicago, and even as a widow in her declining years, she was treasured and respected by some of the heaviest hitting men in town. It had helped his ‘career’ a lot, having a mother with friends in high places, but there were times when his mother was just a little…smothering. She was worried, and when Mama Zabini worried, everybody worried with her…or else.

“Okay…okay…okay, already!! I’ll get a couple of my fellas to stick around the place an’ look after me…maybe Greg an’ Vinny. I got no idea what’s goin’ on either, but I ain’t in on it…so I should be just fine. I run a nightclub, ma…it ain’t a big thing. Nobody’s gunnin’ for me, and I’m doin’ just fine. Relax, okay?’

It took a few more assurances and some solemn oaths about his undying love for his mother to get off the phone and back to his breakfast, but Blaise took his own safety fairly seriously anyway. Maybe calling Greg and Vinny and having them stay in the guest rooms for a little while wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

He finished off his eggs and toast, then gulped the last shot of coffee before heading for the shower in his bedroom suite. The teenage tramp he’d picked up last week was still out cold in the bed, snoring softly. No stamina. Nice ass though.

It was annoying…sometimes…keeping the bed warm with whatever seemed nice at the moment. Not that he didn’t get what he wanted out of it…but he didn’t really have anyone that ‘knew’ him. Not really. All the tarts he met these day were practically dead from the neck up…all attitude and no brains, just a good piece of ass with legs handy to move ‘em around. Not like Dee.

Dee had been smart. Funny…the right ways. Good in any kinda crowd, smooth and cool in any situation. Classy. The kind of class you could take to dinner anywhere in the world. He hadn’t really seen it when he was seventeen…but what the fuck? He’d been seventeen! Who can see anything clear at that age? And the ass on that boy never quit! He’d fucked plenty of good looking guys in his time…but Dee…Dee was the kind of lay that stood out in your mind for the rest of your life!

Dee was back in town…and might just swing by someday. There were things to talk about…offers to put on the table. Taking a hit to his pride…well…it might just be worth it…to have the same person around at the end of the day. Cute sluts were good and all, but something better…something better would be nice…wouldn’t it?

TBC!!!