41. Messiah

It is dark and cold as shit when we open the metal door of the storage unit. To make sure Angel's MO isn't compromised, we haul Joe's carcass into the trunk of my car to leave somewhere in the city.

Wet wipes and some bottled water weren't enough to get her properly cleaned of all the blood on her body, but it was enough that she wouldn't be looked at too hard by the other cars that pass us on the streets.

A light flurry of snow is falling when we stop at the same park in Garfield where Holden was murdered. Angel glances toward the trees where she had left Holden's body just a few weeks ago.

"Did you kill that one here?" I ask, fixing the wool cap on her head before opening the car door.

"Yeah," she answers softly.

I scope the area out before popping open the trunk. Angel doesn't get out as I roll the body onto the ground and grab the legs to slide it down into a water drain just off the path. It takes less than a minute to close the trunk and drive away. Mission accomplished. Two more dicks to go.

Angel is on the couch eating dinner, her hair still wet from the shower we shared when we got back. Her bloodied clothes are in a bag near the door and I am just pulling on my sweatpants when the phone rings.

Mark's name flashes across the front and I sigh as I know the inevitable conversation that is about to unfold.

"A new body," he says.

I can hear the car noise in the background and the agitation in his voice.

"Where now?" I gripe, feigning that this is all new information to me.

Angel smirks from her place on the couch and I smile back, pressing a finger to my lips as Mark bitches in my ear.

"Same park in Garfield. I am on my way."

"Same."

I hang up the phone and Angel looks at me with her bright eyes and that fucking adorable pouty mouth.

"They found him," I tell her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Now, I gotta go for a bit."

"How long?"

"Shouldn't be too long," I tell her. "I just need to go get some notes on things, talk to Mark, send in the cleaners."

"Cleaners?"

I nod. "Since these men work for the mob, all of the murders are cleaned up by their men. Mark is an insider on the police force, he wipes any suspicious calls from the record. Joe and Holden were found in public areas, so we can't totally erase them, but we can keep their unsolved murders buried very deep."

"Oh." She tilts her head as she glances down at the crime documentary streaming on her computer. "I wondered why the news never spoke of it."

It takes a few minutes to stop kissing her. When I lean down to get a quick peck, she takes the full package. Once I manage to force myself away, she pulls me in again with that sweet smile of hers that I waited weeks to see. Now, she gives them to me willingly.

"I got to go," I smile at her.

"Fine," she mock groans, tucking herself back under her blanket and rewinding her show to where she left off.

The CSI vans are already swarming the area. Mark is standing near his police cruiser and I pull in beside it. Some people are on the other side of the park mulling around and watching as investigators weave in and out of the yellow tape surrounding the body.

"What now?" I ask, closing my car door.

"Same as always," Mark bitches. "Only different."

"That is a complete contradiction," I point out.

"Same R on the chest. Dick shoved down his throat. It is too clean though, this one didn't happen here. The body was dropped."

"You sure?" I ask, squinting my eyes to try and see where the body is laying.

I catch the edges of a foot covered in a white sheet but there are too many cops mulling around to get a clear image. Not that I really need it. I know exactly what that motherfucker looked like when I rolled him into the ditch.

"Coroner is on the way for the body," Mark continues. "Might have to wait till it is in the freezer to get a good look at it."

"Fuck."

Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a cigarette and tap it against my thigh before placing it between my teeth.

"This one was called in by a civilian," he explains. "I don't know how long it will take to cover it over. This one might break the news."

"Son of a bitch." I rub my eyes like I am distressed. "Charles is going to shit a fucking brick."

"Yeah," Mark turns to me, his eyes narrowed as he looks me over. "I just find it weird that someone whose job is to find people can't seem to find this guy."

"I did find him," I snarl. "Want to see the gash he left in my leg? This fucker is squirrely."

"If you give me a description, I can start looking through the database to see if this guy already has a profile."

He digs his phone out of his pocket and opens the notes app.

"Short," I tell him. I have to continue the charade. "Shorter than me."

I hold my hand up to about Angel's height. For a woman, it isn't unusual. But a male whose head barely reaches my chest and is a known serial killer – well, it would make him stand out.

"About five three you'd say?" Mark asks, typing on his phone.

"Yeah. Dark hair. Shaggy, but not long. He was wearing a jacket, jeans, black beanie. That was all I got."

"Race?"

"White guy. He has to be young. Ran away pretty fucking fast."

"You'd be surprised how fast anyone can run when they are running for their life," he comments.

I take a drag of my cigarette while he types on his phone. The sound of tires pulling up makes me turn and I curse as the cigarette drops from my fingers.

"What?"

Charles Hampton is a Consigliere. In the realm of the mafia, he is powerful but not untouchable. As far as Chicago goes, he is the iron fist running the fucking city. He stands out from others because of his fiery red hair, but his dark eyes are filled with murder. When he steps out of the black Audi along with two other blokes, I know shit is about to get way worse. The group eyes the scene as they walk toward us. Mark's shoulders tense as Charles steps toward me, pressing his glasses up his nose with a single finger.

"I'll give you two minutes to explain this," he tells me, fixing the pearl inlay button on his tan suit jacket.

"Well, I just got here," I answer.

Being a punk isn't the right way to act with him, but sarcasm is in my nature. Scratching the back of my head, I turn back to see a confused look on Mark's face.

"Body was dropped," I tell Charles. "Makes it different from the others. I just saw this fucker yesterday. This wasn't even the first attempt. This is the one that ran away last time. Looks like our killer caught up to him."

"And you didn't think to keep an eye on him to see if this killer showed back up? You realize that was the easiest thing to do?" Charles states.

He pushes past me and I glare at the two bodyguards still standing near the car. They both are wearing dark glasses and staring ahead like robots.

"You can't go in there," Mark tells him.

"Watch me," Charles snarks, dipping down to move under the yellow tape.

Mark glances at me, but I just follow Charles. The other investigators pause to look at him but the first one to comment about the area being closed is flashed with an FBI badge that Charles produces from his pocket. Slick.

Mark and I stand behind Charles as he leans down over the body. Pulling a pen from his pocket, he lifts the sheet covering the corpse and grimaces as he takes in the gruesome scene.

"Brutus knows something," I deflect. "It seems odd that the one guy always in the same place is the only one not caught."

"Who?" Charles asks.

He stands and tosses the pen down next to the body, too disgusted to put it back in his fancy suit.

"The leader of the Musketeers," I tell him.

Mark writes something down in his phone while Charles scans the area.

"Then bring Brutus in to talk to," Charles tells me. "And if one more person goes before you have an answer, I am taking your head next."

All I can do is nod in agreement as he pushes past me and walks back to his car. Mark gives me a worried look, but I brush it off as I turn and the Consigliere leave.