Presumed - part 3
Dief was not the happiest wolf when Fraser finally returned to the Consulate. He had whined incessantly when he realised Fraser's intentions, dropping him off in the evening with an apologetic pat on the head and a promise of doughnuts later. Strangely, the wolf was highly uninterested in the offer of junk food, knowing perfectly well where Fraser intended to head, knowing he could need back-up, and being denied the chance to act as that back-up infuriated the wolf intensely. He was sulking when Fraser arrived, sniffed him disinterestedly to make sure he was still intact, then retreated quickly to the warmth of the inner office. Fraser was about to chase after him, muttering something about 'pay and pay,' when a sharp voice from another room called him back.
"Constable? Can I speak to you?"
He entered her office looking down at his feet, busy in the act of removing his hat. "I'm sorry sir. I thought the place was empty, it being so late."
"Yes, well . . . I was waiting for you." She sat behind her incredibly neat desk, her arms folded, dressed in an extremely flattering suit of powder blue. If it wasn't for his current haste, Fraser might even have appreciated the outfit. "I guessed that you wouldn't be leaving your wolf here overnight."
He took a position on the other side of her desk, to attention, eyes focused on a point somewhere behind her left ear.
"You have a choice, Constable."
Thatcher paused for a moment, unable to deal with the uncomfortable sinking sensation in her stomach. She wasn't an emotional person, preferring to keep her inner thoughts, well - inner - and trying to deal with other's emotions was a duty she downright avoided. But here, standing opposite a man she had shared a stolen kiss with on the top of a speeding train . . . Thatcher would have rather faced down an angry lioness than be here, now, a woman with a job to do.
"At ease, Constable," she suggested helpfully. If he heard her he made no movement. Giving an inward sigh, she sat back behind her desk, to at least try and make herself feel more relaxed. "Tell me, Fraser" - she decided to drop the formalities - "were you aware that during your time as liaison here you have accumulated over forty days of holiday?" No reply. She shifted in her seat uncomfortably. "I suggest you take some."
He spoke for the first time since the start of her lecture, his gaze never leaving the wall above her head. "I assure you sir, there is no reason for myself to neglect my duties."
"My seniors don't agree - and frankly, neither do I." Her shoulders stiffened, as she continued: "Fraser, Steven Benedetti has filed a harassment suit against the Consulate. Now, whilst our lawyers have assured me that his case will never go to court, on the basis of, well, this current situation, and with Mr. Benedetti's own reluctance to air this publicly, this is not the first time you have been found to be . . . bending the rules of RCMP conduct."
"Sir, I believe Mr. Benedetti lied when he formulated his report to the police. He did not see Ray Vecchio being attacked -"
She sighed. "Constable, Mr. Benedetti told me how upset you seemed when he described what he saw. He insists that he only repeated what is already included within the police reports, yet you decided to take it differently." No reaction. "Whilst I don't know for what exact reasons you decided to interrogate Mr. Benedetti, I do have my suspicions, and frankly I don't believe you were acting upon your full . . . sensibilities."
She softened slightly, allowing her normally irritating maternal feelings to surface. "Fraser, you may have formed certain . . . opinions about me during our time working together, but I assure you I am not entirely without feelings. I know Detective Vecchio and yourself were very close, and this must be a very difficult time for you, so I think it's best you give yourself some time to grieve . . ."
"With all due respect sir," he interrupted, "you have no idea what is best for me."
She stopped, shaken by the relative outburst. "Perhaps not," she continued icily, "but I do know when to recognize one of my officers behaving in a reckless manner, endangering themselves and possibly the lives of others on what is certainly a futile cause."
He said nothing, continuing to stare into apparent space. Thatcher hardened. "Vecchio has been officially declared dead, Fraser. You yourself identified his body. His death has been investigated by the full attention of this city's police force - according to his lieutenant it was the result of a mugging that went tragically wrong. There is a witness, a motive, and any multitude of suspects. The case is airtight. But rather than taking time off to grieve for your loss, I find my best officer running around Chicago threatening citizens, copying police documents . . ."
There was a flicker of emotion in his eyes, an emotion unbetrayed by his voice. "Sir, Ray Vecchio is my closest friend. I would do anything to protect him. If there is a chance that he is still alive, then I intend to find him." He turned his head to face her eyes, a hard stare. "Wouldn't you?"
There was a catch in her voice as she replied. "Perhaps. But what I would or would not do is irrelevant. The simple fact is that Raymond Vecchio is dead. There is no indication otherwise. On the other hand, my chief liaison officer seems to have let his feelings he had for his friend to seriously cloud his judgement. Whilst I might understand the motives behind your actions, it does not mean I will tolerate them. And neither will my seniors. So I'm offering you a chance. Accept the offer of leave. Two - no, make it three weeks."
Was it stubborn pride or simple, down-to-earth honesty that made the choice, she wondered. "Sir, you know I won't ask you for that."
"You don't have a choice." She paused, hating herself every moment. "Don't make me suspend you."
Silence.
"Please, Fraser . . ." But his eyes appeared to have glassed over, his shoulders set. "So be it," she decided. "Constable, I am officially suspending you from you duties as an RCMP officer from this moment onwards. You are not permitted to act as representative of the RCMP, nor use any of the privileges hitherto offered. You will return your uniform to the consulate; is all that understood?" A quiet nod. "Fraser," she said gently, "I don't want to see this suspension become permanent - but the decision may be beyond my control. I hope you won't do anything else to endanger your return."
"Is that all, sir?"
No it's not all! she wanted to scream at him. How can you stand there so emotionless when I'm sitting here doing this to you? Just say something, do something, anything, hell break down into tears for all I care but this! I can't deal with this! I can't do this! She gave a curt nod. "Dismissed, Constable." And all the time hated herself.
* * * *
"What the hell do you think you're doing? Get back in there, take the damn holiday, grovel for all I care . . . she wants to take your job! Your duty!"
"It's only a job, dad. Some things are bigger." Fraser was back in his apartment, taking down his spare jacket from the closet and placing it beside the already neatly folded pile of uniform on his bed. Dief sat on the rug in the kitchen, watching him with interested eyes.
"Only a job. Don't bullshit me, son - I'm your father."
"You're also dead."
"So? Just because I'm dead it doesn't mean I've lost my wits - unlike some people I could mention . . ."
"Please, dad, I'd rather not argue about this -"
"Tough! That woman's about to destroy you, and it looks like you're going to let her! That uniform . . . it's more than just a job, son! It's a way of life, it's a belief, it's duty and honour . . . it's everything any Fraser family member stands for! And you're going to give it all up for some dead guy-"
"Just leave it!" Fraser turned sharply, and found, rather unexpectedly, that his father had vanished. He paused for a moment, allowing the empty echoes of his shout to bounce about the room. Closing his eyes, he sank onto his knees, leaning his back against the bed, sinking his head into his hands. Alone.
* * * *
It was late, almost nearing the early hours of the following day. For the most part Chicago had retreated to a sanctuary behind closed signs and dark curtains, the shadows cast by streetlights. There were a few shops that remained open; twenty-four hour grocery stores, filling stations, various take-away shops with strange and often repulsive smells rising to the darkened windows above. The roads were still reasonably busy, full of taxis taking their passengers home, sober or not, but aside from a couple of street kids and several homeless, the Mountie and wolf struck out across the city on their own.
Fraser knew where the warehouse was. Ray had once accused him of having memorised the entire Chicago A to Z, knowing as he did almost better than the native cop himself. True, he didn't know the shops, or the various distinguishing landmarks, not the ones shown in the tourist guides, but the ones recognised and used by those living in the city. But he did know the street names, and this street, if you knew where, was easy to find. Except for an occasional whine, Diefenbaker remained silent throughout the long walk to Fraser's destination. He kept close to the Mountie, rubbing up against his legs, almost as a reminder that with a wolf by his side, Fraser would never be truly alone. That he, of all people, would never leave him. They managed to make good time, reaching their destination about twenty minutes before the meet.
The warehouse, for it was here Carter had scribbled down, had once been a food production company, producing airline meals. There was a large access drive at the back, fenced off by an empty security box and high walls. It was not difficult for Fraser to make the leap - obviously whoever owned the building cared little for the security of its contents, and there was no CCTV, no electric fence, not even an alarm. Graffitti, expletives scrawled across the back wall, and the multitude of empty pizza boxes and cigarette packets attested as such. Keeping close to the wall, Fraser made his way across the small area of concrete to the back door, a thick, steel affair he assumed correctly lead to a disused freezer unit. It took several long minutes struggling with the lock before he could open the door. The windows of the building were all caged in, inaccessible despite the wirecutters he carried in his bag.
A small whine broke the night air. Dief looked up at him, slightly accusingly.
"Yes, I know. It's worse than Milk Duds. But it has to be done. Don't look at me like that. You do want to be here, don't you?"
The wolf shuffled his paws, giving the distinct impression that he was as worried and fearful as Fraser.
"Good. Then don't complain. There is a goal to breaking in." There was suddenly a distinct, metallic clang, that reverberated from the walls, sounded so loud to Fraser he feared it might wake the entire neighbourhood. Fortunately, if anyone heard, there was no response, and a moment later he was able to lift the metal door jamb and make his way inside.
The room was dark, almost pitch back, with no windows on any side. He chose not to turn the light on, however, his eyes adjusting slowly to the shadows. A large, tiled refrigeration area, piled high with empty trolleys and shelves, disused hoses coiled loosely on the floor. Disused for several months, the place still seemed cold, and there was a distinct smell of defrosted meat that was not entirely comfortable.
Proceeding to the next room was not hard, pulling a safety release catch on the side of the inner door to allow escape for any unfortunate freezer workers caught inside. The room beyond was obviously the assembly area. The ceiling was low, and suspended from it hung a multitude of hoses and wires and machinery. Six conveyor belts, now collecting dust, took up the majority of floor space, surrounded by a dozen or so metal tables. However, here, unlike the freezer room, Fraser could hear the distinct hum of electricity, suggesting that somewhere in the building, somewhere close by, the building was occupied.
The next door lead to a small corridor, at first as deserted as the previous rooms, but as Fraser walked softly down the route laid out, towards the low hum, he started noticing footprints in the dust, eventually reaching an area that was swept clean completely. Here the impression was one of comfort, rather than the unhealthy sterilised atmosphere of before. The shadowy rooms beside the corridor were all carpeted, and the walls adorned with various PR posters and calenders. There was another door at the very end, and as Fraser pressed himself to the glass he could see tables and chairs beyond, a filing cabinet, several comfy looking sofas. A staff room, he guessed, but recently used, with a few newspapers folded neatly on the table, several empty bottles, and an ash tray full of remains. Very, very slowly, he inched the handle down, breath caught in his throat, Diefenbaker completely silent beside him, hairs on end.
"Freeze! Police!"
A flashlight caught him in the eyes, blinded him. Blinking, Fraser raised his hands above his head, trying to make out the source of the familiar voice.
"Fraser?"
"Detective Huey?"
The light was dropped, allowing Fraser to make out the features of the dark cop, dressed in long coat and trousers, slipping the gun back into its holster.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Huey hissed, patting Dief absently on the head as the wolf greeted him.
"I was intending to meet a Mister Marchiello."
"Marcus Marchiello?" He shook his head. "It looks like we've both been set up." Something about Fraser's blank prompted him to explain: "Over here."
He lead the way to the front window, shuttered by dark blinds. Kneeling, he indicated that Fraser should do the same, then raised a hand to push the blind back, just enough to give a glimpse of outside. Across the street from the front of the building, sat a dark van, and in front, a well-polished, somewhat expensive looking car. All in too-familiar black.
"Federal Agents?"
Huey nodded. "They pulled up just after I got here. At first I thought it was Marchiello, or some of his people, but they've been sat out there for half an hour now. They're watching the place." He glanced at Fraser. "How did you get in here?"
"There is a refrigeration area at the back of this building that is accessible from the street behind."
"And you didn't see anyone watching you?"
Fraser shook his head.
"That's a plus, at least. They must be waiting for Marchiello to come in through the front exit, waiting to catch him in the act. But if we're caught here . . ." He paused. "IAB would take my badge if they thought I was giving information to Marchiello. And your Inspector -"
"Would likely transfer me to Siberia," Fraser admitted.
"Well even if we can get out the same way you got in, that still leaves us a problem." He pointed across the street, to a small alley to the right, just behind the black van. "My car is down there. If the Feds ask questions about it, call up the registration . . ."
"Can we open the front door?"
Huey raised his eyebrows. "Sure, from inside that's no problem." He showed Fraser the front lock, a simple catch mechanism, pushed it open a tiny fraction, indiscernable from the street but enough to leave the door on its hinges.
Fraser looked down at the wolf. "Can you create a distraction?"
The wolf gave him a scathing look, then turned tail and disappeared around the corner. Huey looked up at the Mountie disbelievingly.
"You're sure about this?"
No reply. He gave a small, hidden sigh. Quickly, keeping out of the dim light, the two cops made their way back down the corridor, past the shadowy rooms and their hidden interiors, through the assembly area, into the refrigeration unit. It did not take Fraser long to open the door from the other side, pushing it open a fraction, enough to survey the surrounding area for likely surveillance. Eventually satisfied, Huey led the way, gun drawn but down, keeping close to the shadows cast by the building behind them. Reached the barbed wire gate, slipped through the gap, out onto the street. They paused on the corner, Huey with one hand out, glanced at him.
"So the distraction . . ."
A bark, then a streak of white burst out of the front door of the building, shot across the street. Four heavily armed Federal Agents, complete with flak jackets, burst out of the back of the dark van, with the other two officers in the front car opening their doors. Dief bounded up to them, apparently joyously, sniffing the first agent all over before he had chance to shut the door. Continued to bark, very loudly.
"Where the hell did he come from?"
"Can't you get him to shut up? The entire neighbourhood is going to know we're here, let alone Marchiello!"
"I'm trying, I'm . . . hey! That was my doughnut!"
"Get back int he van, will you, Jesus, it's only a dog . . ."
Slipped down the side street, shrouded in darkness, away from the eyes of the Federal Agents. Gun pushed back into holster, keys pulled from pockets.
"Okay."
They were settled in the car, finally, Huey taking the driving seat, Fraser sat behind him. The car was cold, and the small heater in the dashboard steamed the windows with heavy condensation, effectively enclosing the occupants from the outside world.
Huey shook his head. "That was way too close," he breathed, softly. "Will your wolf be okay?"
Fraser nodded. "I'm sure as soon as they give him something to eat then he'll leave them alone." Frowned, gently, his mind on other things. "Our encounter with the Federal Agents . ."
"A set-up for sure." He shook his head, then looked back up. "What were you doing there, Fraser?" Broke off, then before he could answer: "Oh. Vecchio."
Silence.
Glanced at him. "I know Elaine copied those reports for you. The whole station house knows. I guess you want more details."
Fraser hesitated, fingering the hat he held in his hands. "Yes."
"You know it was an undercover job. We were after these two dealers, Williams and O'Neill. You know about the recent club deaths, those teenagers?"
Fraser nodded. The deaths had been well reported, the media stirring the issue up until it was hounding the police to catch the suspects. "The papers said it was another case of rohypnol."
A nod. "The Date Rape drug. Roofies are relatively easy to get your hands on, if you know where to look. - cheap too. Only it wasn't the only stuff these guys were selling - ketamine too, mixed with ecstasy. With the whole deal in the media over Date Rape, and with the race for States Attorney on, Welsh was pretty much under a time limit to catch these guys. Me and Vecchio were posing as potential buyers, testing their stock. Williams though, he's a small time guy, and O'Neill just provides the muscle." He shook his head. "It doesn't makes sense for these guys to have kidnapped Vecchio."
Fraser was silent for a moment, choosing his next question. "What happened at the stakeout?"
"We'd been meeting with these guys on and off over the past two weeks, and that night was the night of the buy. They'd given us a couple of wraps before, try before you buy, and after the boys back at the precinct confirmed it was ketamine Welsh got us in there to pull them in. We got to the warehouse about eight, as requested. Both Williams and O'Neill were there, together with some back up. Our liaison was a guy named Swinden, offered us a route to Williams in return for overlooking a couple of possession charges. Anyway, I was wired, and the three of us go in there, the meet goes perfectly. Williams hands over the ketamine, a dozen bubbles of Roofies, we hand over the cash, then SWAT come in and take them down." He shook his head a little vaguely. "Everything went according to plan."
"And Ray?"
"He never liked undercover ops, and I don't blame him. Said he was going out to get some air, told Welsh he'd deal with the statements the next day. It wasn't like Williams was going anywhere. Last I saw he was walking out around the corner of the building. But there were a lot of cars there, Fraser. I mean, it was busy. I never saw where Vecchio went, or what happened to him after. I figured he was just gonna hitch a ride back to the station house, pick up his car, and go home."
The other man lowered his head, studying his hands intently. Huey watched him for a moment, but his impatience got the better of him.
"Tell me what you know, Fraser."
A small shake of his head. "I wish I knew something concrete, Detective. But all I have are some vague clues and . . ." He cut off, about to use the word 'hunch,' but stopped himself. Huey seemed to catch his meaning anyway.
"Look, Fraser . . . Maybe we're both wrong. I mean, it could be that Vecchio's dead, and we're just clinging on to straws. On the other hand . . ." This time he turned away, dark eyes reflected in the window of the car. "When the Riv exploded, and I knew Louis was inside . . . I know I would have given anything to save him. When you're a cop, you can have brothers, you can have wives, but there isn't anybody like your partner, and Louis was one of the best partners I ever had. Vecchio . . . I'm not gonna pretend we're even close to friends. But I trust him, because he's a cop. And I know if I was you, and it was Louis who was missing, then I'd want all the help I could get."
There was another, even longer silence. Fraser could have said anything at that point, but really, there was nothing that needed saying. He took a deep breath, began:
"There is an alley, to one side of the warehouse. It's separated from the access way to the building behind by a wooden gate. The marks on the wall imply that the door, until recently, hung against the warehouse wall rather than being shut - one side of the gate is rotting, whilst the other remains relatively fresh. Also, the ground beneath the gate bears two large scrape marks, that have remained despite the recent rain, which implies that the gate was opened recently and in some hurry. On the other side of the gate, the ground of the yard bears signs of tire tracks and a scuffle."
Huey's eyes widened. "You think someone was waiting for him? After the meet?"
Fraser chose not to reply. "There is also the witness to the mugging, Mister Benedetti. He claims to have seen a man matching Ray’s description arguing with another man near the lake."
"You think he’s lying." It wasn’t a question so much as a statement. Huey frowned. "His statement was pretty clear cut. Car broke down, walked down to the station, saw two men struggling by the lakeside . . ."
"I confronted Mr. Benedetti. He admitted to me that he was lying, that he never witnessed any mugging. He was acting on the orders of a relation, his brother-in-law."
"Let me guess. He's sticking to his original story."
"He has also filed a harassment suit against the Consulate."
"Typical." Paused. "His brother-in-law? Benedetti, Benedetti . . ." He clicked his fingers triumphantly. "I’ve got it! Paulo Benedetti, he’s a known associate of Marcus Marchiello. Benedetti, about a year ago he was nothing more than a wannabe, but since Zuko’s fall he’s become a major player in the Mafia; poker rings, a couple of strip joints, protection rackets, and that’s the stuff we know about. As for Marchiello . . . well, he’s always kept pretty much to himself.
"Do you think we're onto something?"
Huey turned, looked him in the eye. "Fraser, if this Benedetti is lying for Paulo, then there's gotta be a reason. This is part of something bigger, something bigger than Williams and O’Neill." He hesitated, his sudden elation evaporating as quickly as it had arrived. "Of course, we can't go to the Lieu about any of this. Paulo is going to cover his tracks - starting with his brother-in-law." Glanced at him. "So what were you doing here?"
"Steven Benedetti gave me the location of his contact to his brother-in-law, a man named Carter. I requested an audience with Mr. Benedetti, and was sent to this address."
Huey's hands clenched tightly. "Dammit! This must have been a set-up from the start. No member, not even Marchiello, is willing to kill a cop, not if they can help it. So Carter does the only thing he can think of - sends you here. Right into the arms of IAB."
Fraser looked slightly surprised. "You believe Mr. Carter saw this as a method of getting rid of me?"
"And me." He winced at the thought. "I should have known it wouldn't be this easy. I have this contact, Costello, he's a low level player of Marchiello, barely worth the bother, but he listens. And sometimes when he hears something big, he'll pass the info on to me, in return for me . . ." He paused, suddenly realising who he was talking to. "Well, Welsh always looks over contacts," he finished, uncomfortably. "Costello told me about a possible deal involving a perp I'm looking at for a double homicide. Only I guess Marchiello must have been on Costello's back, because he sends me to a dud joint and I'm left hanging for IAB."
"The Federal Agents outside?"
"This is a known hang-out of Marchiello's - at least it was. Obviously he got wind of the Feds plans and used it against them. The place is abandoned, but the Feds are still waiting, and in walk the two of us. What are they going to think?"
Fraser considered silently. "Your contact, Costello?"
"Long gone, if he's got any sense." He sighed. "What about yours, this Carter?"
Another hesitation. "Ah."
There was a sudden scrabble of paws against the car door, making Huey jump. He swore, under his breath, then leaned over to let the wolf into the car. Breath steaming in the cold air, Dief took up a position on the back seat, gave both men a smug look.
"If that's sugar on your whiskers then you can forget about receiving congratulations," Fraser told him, sharply. Dief's smugness turned into a glare as he lay down, buried his head in his paws. Huey, to his credit, took the conversation in his stride, turning back to the wheel.
"So where do we find this Carter?"
* * * *
The Bada-Bing, if anything, was even more crowded at this time of night, presumably full of all the people thrown out of their previous venues, now retreating to one of the few places in town that was exclusive enough to run its own opening hours. Huey found somewhere to park, eventually, with Fraser choosing to say nothing about the fire hydrant only a metre away. He was tired, the events of the past few days beginning to catch up with him, rubbing his eyes just one too many times for comfort, Dief dozing in the back seat. He was almost certain that Carter had not remained at the club, but disappeared just like Huey's contact, but at the moment, it was their only lead. Opening the car door, Fraser headed towards the front stairs, Dief waiting somewhat less than patiently in the back seat, found that Huey had stopped, staring at him.
"Detective?"
"Are you gonna go in there wearing that?" He waved a hand at the Stetson.
"Oh." Fraser looked slightly embarrassed, removing the hat and putting it carefully on the seat beside the wolf. "I almost forgot." Turned and headed up the stairs. Huey stared after him for a moment, muttering something about never working with Canadians, then ran after him.
The smoke was the first thing, stinging the eyes and clogging the back of the throat. And the noise, music pumped from every speaker, in every corner. The lights were kept deliberately dim, leaving what couldn't be seen up to the imagination, and it wasn't clear which was the more suggestive. The smell of alcohol and extremely close-contained, hot men, was almost but not quite submerged by the odour of tobacco, and the carpet had the tendency to stick to shoes. A good night then, for all concerned.
At some point, in the middle of the crowd, Fraser found himself separated from Huey, the detective pushed up against the bar chatting to a waiter, himself lost in a sea of tables and men yelling at him to get out of the way.
"Constable?"
He turned, a hand on his shoulder. Looked into the eyes of a short, plump little man with breath that smelt of peanuts. "I'm sorry. Do I know you?"
A sharp, sudden shake of the head. "No, but I believe we may have mutual friends. Leave your cop friend at the bar, Constable. My employer, Mister Galfidino, wants to speak to you."
He started to push his way through the crowd, giving people sharp prods in the back until the moved out of the way. Fraser followed in his wake, glancing back at Huey but finding the Detective lost in the throng at the bar.
Up some stairs, away from the noise below, lay a small sanctuary of relative quite. A few nests of tables, booths, hidden from each other. The short man led him to a cluster at the back, occupied by a group of middle aged men in well-tailored suits and large hands.
"Constable Fraser?"
The man in the middle stood up, offered a hand which Fraser shook accordingly. A strong shake, with well-manicured hands that had seen little hard labour, deep eyes with too many wrinkles, eyes that spoke of intelligence, that watched Fraser's every movement closely, catalogued and recorded each one, passed judgement. Dark hair, balding, cropped short.
"I'm sorry," Fraser apologised, with the now familiar sensation of being watched. "I'm afraid I don't know -"
"James Galfidino." A smile, wide, genuine. "Can we talk?" Gestured at the seat in front of him. Fraser sat, as he was bidden, the other men pushing themselves back far enough to leave their boss and his guest the impression of privacy.
"You've been here already tonight, Constable. Not exactly the sort of place I'd expect an RCMP officer to attend."
"You have me at a disadvantage, Mister Galfidino," Fraser confessed. "You know of me and yet -"
"You've been asking to see Marcus Marchiello. I would imagine you were given a wild goose chase."
Fraser looked down at his hands, splayed on the table top. "It would seem so."
"Marcus Marchiello doesn't like to be found."
"Do you know where I can find him?"
A small, snort of laughter. "Don't get ahead of yourself, Constable. What I want to know is why you think it's of such great importance that you see Marcus? Thinking you can get some extra income from him?"
"No. I'm looking for a friend of mine. I believe Mister Marchiello may know where he is."
"Is that so?" Galfidino leaned back in his chair. "You friend would be a Detective Ray Vecchio. of the Chicago PD."
"Yes."
"Marchiello won't give you anything. Oh, I'm sure he knows what happened to your friend, I'm sure he was responsible, but he's not about to admit to a cop killing."
Fraser felt his heart lurch. "A killing?"
"I'm guessing. Of course, if Marcus had other plans . . . Marcus always has other plans." He shook his head, a little despairingly.
"Mister Galfidino, if you know anything -"
"I have to apologise on that front. I know no more about what happened to your friend than, it seems, you do, Constable. However, I can tell you more about him, if that's what you want. I have an idea of why Marcus wanted him. But the information requires a certain . . . return."
Fraser hesitated. "If there is something I can do for you within my powers as an RCMP officer -"
A wave of one hand dismissed that sentence. "Canadians aren't very . . . flexible when it comes to things of that nature. I was suggesting more an exchange of information. For Marcus to go after a police officer suggests a corrosion within his business, one I'm keen to exploit."
Fraser rubbed one finger across his right eyebrow. "You and Mister Marchiello -"
"We're not friends, Constable. Rivals, perhaps, but friends . . . no. I'm sure if you mention my name to your friend at the bar and he'll immediately recognise my position, but as it is, he remains in the dark and we two can continue our conversation with no bias."
"Forgive me, for asking, but, um, I was led to believe that this establishment was frequented by Mister Marchiello. If, as you say, you and he are enemies, then . . ."
He shrugged. "The Bada-Bing is a place of business only. Whether the business is carried out on that stage, or up here at these tables, makes no difference. Even rival companies have to negotiate occasionally and it always helps to have a place of neutral territory. Now . . ." He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Are you ready to tell me what I want to know?"
Fraser hesitated, could almost hear his father's disapproval. Then again, he reminded himself, he was temporarily no longer of the RCMP, and doubted whether after the events of tonight he would have a job to go back to at all.
"Yes."
"Good." He pressed his fingertips against each other. "Your friend, Detective Vecchio, was working an undercover case at the time of his disappearance. The two men involved were named Williams and O'Neill. You know this?"
A nod.
"O'Neill is a small time player, not much on the side of brains but he knows the protection racket. Williams, on the other hand, has ambition. Dope is his main trade, but his name keeps cropping up in other areas, businesses run by Marcus Marchiello. If he hadn't been so naive as to trust your friend Detective Vecchio, he might have become a bigger player. This is where Marcus's fear lies."
Fraser followed the logic. "Mister Marchiello is anxious that his affairs not become the knowledge of the Chicago Police Department."
"Williams isn't likely to want to do jail time. Marcus, well, he doesn't like rats, but if Williams decides it's worth the risk . . ." He paused. "Business isn't as easy as it once was, not in the time of my family before me. The FBI are constantly down our necks, and there have been rumours for a while that Marcus was under investigation. Williams wasn't nearly that far up, but . . ." He broke off, stared at his guest. "This is where you come in."
"I don't understand."
"This friend of yours, the Detective. He brought down Williams. This bust . . . this was with the Feds?"
Fraser suddenly realised what had Galfidino so worried. "You believe Mister Marchiello saw Detective Vecchio's interference as more than a coincidence. As part of an ongoing investigation by the FBI?"
Galfidino's face never flickered. "Was it?"
Simply: "No."
He heard the other men hiss, sharply. "Then it appears plans have changed." Stood, draining his drink. "Thank you for your time, Constable."
Fraser rose automatically. "Please, if you know anything more about what happened to my friend -"
Galfidino glanced at him. "I'll keep you in mind. Now, I think your friend at the bar may be looking for you."
Huey grabbed Fraser as soon as he managed to squeeze through the crowd. "What the hell happened to you?"
"It's . . ." Paused. Huey shook his head.
"I can't find either Costello or this guy Carter. Whoever sent them, they've long gone." He swore, something lost beneath the noise of the crowd. "What about you?"
Briefly, Fraser outlined all that Galfidino had told him. Huey listened with impassive face, silent for a long time after he finished, and somehow the silence was even louder than the crowd noise.
"I know Galfidino. If what he said to you was true . . ." Broke off, avoiding Fraser's gaze. "We should get out of here."
"Agreed." Fraser started to follow, then stopped, staring at him. "Detective -"
Looked back. "What?"
"You think he's dead."
Huey glanced back at the door. "Let's not talk about it here, okay?"
Someone jostled Fraser's shoulder, glared at him when he didn't move.
"Fraser!"
Started to walk, slowly. Isn't dead. Not like this.
"We haven't got any more leads."
Out in the car, Dief strangely silent, watching the two men in the front seats. Cold outside, the noise from the club muffled by a layer of walls and glass. Breath, frosty in the air, despite the malfunctioning heater built into the dashboard. Huey, shoving his hands into his pockets, refusing to look at him.
"If what Galfidino said to you was right, then Marchiello will have . . . he'll have acted by now. If that's what happened at all."
He shook his head. "Ray is still alive, I'm sure of it. If we can contact Marchiello, go to Lieutenant Welsh with what we know -"
"On the word of a mob chief and a witness who is just going to take back everything he said?" Huey closed his eyes for a moment, drew a hand across his eyes. "Look, Fraser, are you sure you want to go on with this? You don't know whether Galfidino was telling you the truth. Even if he was, Ray. . . " Forced himself to say it. "Ray is long gone by now. But if you bring this up, in front of his family . . . It might be better -"
"No." Fraser's hands tightened. "It can't be better."
A small, heavy sigh. "Alright. Look, we're both tired. I figure we go get some sleep tonight, then tomorrow morning we go and see Welsh, get the body re-examined, dig up some snitches, see if we can get anymore leads."
And in the mean time . . .
Fraser closed his eyes, looked out the window, away from Huey's well-meaning but concerned look. "Tomorrow." Tried to shake the pain at the pit of his stomach, the slow burning, the knowledge that tonight, and for the nights after, he would be unable to sleep.
Huey, for his part, looked away, back to the misted up window in front. In the mirror, neon lights blazing a trail across the darkness, the Bada Bing continued its trade. He stared at the lights for a moment, the warm glow from inside, the shadows of men inside. Turned back, and started the engine with a soft growl. Raindrops on the windscreen.
These characters are not mine, I only borrowed them and promise to put them back when I'm done! Comments appreciated.