Fractured Read online

  Yeah, this woman had it rough with all the people parading around in the Brooks Brothers suits and ties. How could she possibly keep track of all the clones? Isabella would love to give her a tour of 12th and State where, at any given moment, complete bedlam could break out. Then again, the girl might break a fingernail, or have to answer the phone, or get cursed out by a whack job.

  “What happened to your arm?” The girl chewed on her lip as if she were breaking protocol to ask Isabella a personal question.

  “Ah, this.” She tapped at the half cast covered by the bandage and sling. “Got attacked on Lower Wacker. But you should see the other guy.”

  Based on the look on the girl’s face she didn’t know whether to laugh or be shocked. Instead her face morphed into somewhere in-between.

  While Isabella was having a good time enjoying the girl’s discomfort, Malone snuck up behind her.

  “Detective Sanchez, I wasn’t expecting you.” He didn’t look uneasy, only mildly annoyed. “I understand you’re back in your home. Is there something else I can do for you?”

  “Let’s start with the truth, like why a couple of your guys tried to kill me the other day.” She let the statement sink in for a moment, although judging by his neutral expression she hadn’t even nicked the surface. “Then we’ll go on to meatier issues like sending an imposter into Stateville. Actually, I have quite a long list.”

  He sent the receptionist a glance that must have conveyed ‘don’t call security yet but maybe later’ before he ushered her into his office. “Have a seat, Detective Sanchez, and we can talk about your ridiculous allegations.”

  “Ridiculous?” She shook her head. “Two of your men T-boned a car I was in yesterday, then chased me through Chinatown.”

  “Why do you think it was two of my men?”

  “Let’s say they didn’t look like any gangbangers I know. Besides, who else would have the authority to get a black and white to turn off their siren while your minions were searching for me?”

  “Maybe the siren annoyed the businesses in the area. That kind of thing can’t be good for business.”

  “You don’t really expect me to believe that, do you?”

  He shrugged. “Apparently you’re going to believe what you want to believe, no matter what I say.”

  She realized she wasn’t going to get him to admit to anything, so she chose the path of least resistance, and possibly the one where she had a small chance at an opening. “I’d like to see the video you showed me of Stateville. Since I know it wasn’t me there, I want to know who you sent to impersonate me.”

  “Detective Sanchez, you are giving me more credit than I deserve. I do my job like every other public servant. Much the same as you.”

  She wasn’t, nor could she ever be, like him. Didn’t he get that? Rage simmered through, forcing her to a standing position. “I need to see those tapes and I need to see them now.”

  “Sit down, Detective. Nothing can be accomplished by losing your temper.”

  She wasn’t sure which made her madder: losing her temper like that, or his condescending attitude. Either way, it wasn’t a feel-good moment.

  And now she was in a no-win situation. If she sat back down she would be obeying his command, which didn’t seem like a viable option. If she didn’t sit down, she might be at risk of getting hauled out and possibly face some kind of federal charges.

  What to do?

  Without a plan in the Isabella Sanchez playbook for this kind of situation, she opted for pacing the small office and focused on the fact that Special Agent Malone didn’t even rate a window office. Chump. She’d sit down when she was good and ready. “I have the right to see those tapes.”

  “We no longer believe you were responsible for killing your father.” He spoke the words like that explained everything.

  “That’s peachy, but I still want to see the tapes.”

  “Listen, I’ll be honest with you, Detective. Your father was a member of the Aces. One of his best friends was Jacob Lacey. Mr. Lacey had quite a legacy, both in and out of prison. I’m sure I don’t have to elaborate any more about that.”

  At some level she knew her father must have been involved in gangs. He’d lived in a neighborhood where it was a means of survival, so it wasn’t too surprising, but still it took a few moments for the information to sink in. If Lacey was his best friend, that was frightening information. Lacey was the worst of the worst. He was like the equivalent of Osama Bin Laden in today’s language.

  They say Lacey directed more hits on people while he was in prison than when he was out. He had ‘associates’ everywhere on the streets and in the police force. The name alone struck fear into nearly everyone until they finally moved him to the middle of nowhere in a super max prison where he had no communication with the outside world.

  “I don’t see the connection.”

  “Isn’t it obvious? Your father Tyrone Samuels and Jacob Lacey were best buds. Your grandfather was a founding member of the Kings. The two gangs hated each other for decades.”

  “Wait a minute. You’ve got to be wrong. My grandfather, Hector Sanchez? There’s no way he was a gangbanger.” She shook her head. This guy had to be crazy to think that her grandfather would be a part of something like that. He was the epitome of a law-abiding citizen. Her grandfather didn’t even jaywalk without feeling guilty.

  “You’ve got to know the history of gangs and how they started. Sure, at first they were born of self-protection for themselves and for the neighborhood. They kept the areas safe from encroachers. They were kind of a pumped-up version of Neighborhood Watch. It was only later they turned into what we know them as now—homegrown terrorists.”

  Truth is she hadn’t studied the origins of gangs because the past didn’t really matter when she was faced with how they operated now: they were the main distributors of illegal firearms and drugs in the area. When they got pissed off and shot at each other, it didn’t bother her much, except when an innocent person got stuck in the middle.

  In the past, as she understood it, there was a ‘gentleman’s agreement’ about not shooting randomly into a house or neighborhood. They had to have a specific target in mind before releasing a bullet. But now, all bets were off. Innocent people were being killed at a faster rate than the gangbangers themselves.

  “I’m not sure what you’re alluding to.” She had the sense Malone was trying to tell her something in a cryptic way, but the message still wasn’t sinking in.

  “Your grandfather might have been a founding member of a gang, but that didn’t make him a bad person. Given his age, I would suspect he founded it for all the right reasons. Being Mexican in this area couldn’t have been easy when he was growing up. I can get the kind of logic that goes with self-preservation.”

  “I still don’t believe it. There has to be at least a hundred men named Hector Sanchez living in the Chicago area. Any one of them could be the one you’re talking about. I’m sure it wasn’t my grandfather.”

  In her mind, she tried to reconcile this new information with what she’d remembered about her father yesterday. Could the few good memories of her father negate the fact he was a member of a gang?

  Gang members came in all shapes and sizes. Some were predestined by their family to be a part of the gang at birth. They didn’t know any other way. From a very early age, some fought for survival, living in households of drug users, dealers and thugs. Some were initiated into the lifestyle as young as seven by doing dirty work for their older siblings or even parents.

  Those kinds of gang members were hardcore. As much as she hated the notion of anybody being a lost cause, they didn’t stand a chance of being anything but what they were. There were others, however, who got caught up in the gang because they had to. Those were the ones who had choices but went down the wrong path because of circumstances or just being young and foolish.

  Did any of her knowledge of the inner workings of gangs mesh with what Malone told her? Could she even contem
plate for a second that her grandfather could, at one time, be part of the problem? Could she talk to somebody about the ideas tumbling through her head? Not Malone, for sure. But maybe the lieutenant or Landry would be a good impartial judge.

  He shrugged. “I could be wrong about your grandfather, but I don’t think I am.”

  She shook her head. “Are you telling me all this to get me distracted?” If he wasn’t, it sure felt like it. She’d gone in there with one specific goal, and now her head was spinning so fast, she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to think straight again.

  “I’m telling you this because you’re a good detective. Maybe you can help us figure out who killed your father.”

  “Yeah, after the stellar way you treated me, I’m going to help you do your job.”

  “Nope. I’m thinking you’re going to figure it out because he was your father and you have to know.”

  She huffed, unable to make sense of anything he’d told her. Instead, she opted for a little diversion to get her brain jump-started. “Are you a lawyer, Malone?”

  “Yep, Georgetown Law. Why?”

  Figures. Another reason to hate him. She shook her head, ignoring his question. “One last thing. Tell me why you framed me for visiting the prison. Tell me why you planted a gun in my apartment with my fingerprints on it.”

  “I’m sure you won’t believe me, but I did none of those things.”

  It wasn’t until much later that she remembered he’d never shown her the tape.

  Chapter Sixteen

  As she walked towards the El, she wasn’t sure of anything anymore. Malone didn’t give her any information on the one hand, but gave her too much information on the other.

  Her dad was best friends with Jacob Lacey? If they ran together in the same circles, that meant her dad was one really bad dude and she’d been right all along to assume the worst about him. That was some scary stuff. Lacey was the worst of the worst. He re-wrote the correction officer’s guidebook on how to handle high level gang members once incarcerated. Even though it was scary to contemplate, that man had given the command to kill countless numbers of people while being held in a prison cell. No incarcerated Mafioso kingpin had been able to accomplish that kind of power and control.

  Her grandfather was a founding member of the Kings? The FBI actually thought mild-mannered Hector Sanchez was a gang member? She could almost laugh at the lunacy of it, if the concept weren’t so darn frightening.

  For the first time in her life, she was glad her grandfather was dead. She wouldn’t want to have to be in the uncomfortable position of asking him about his past.

  How could she have so many skeletons in her closest? Certainly she had more than the average Joe on the street. Every family had secrets to hide, but her family had taken that concept to a whole other level.

  On impulse, she headed toward the Newberry Library. The place was huge, with more information than anybody could read in several lifetimes.

  But maybe she could find something that would either prove or disprove Malone’s assertions. Knowing she had to have some guidance in her search, she stopped by the research librarian’s table near the center of the building to get some direction before starting.

  Several hours and a mountain of information later, Isabella had confirmed part of the equation. She’d found several pictures of her father standing side by side with Jacob Lacey. From what she could tell, they lived next door to each other growing up on the west side. In the book she’d scanned, early reports of the gang put them side by side together and in and out of trouble.

  She knew enough about Chicago history to know the west side was a notorious haven for trouble, even back then. Over the years it had been cleaned up somewhat. But deep pockets of gang infestation still lurked around every corner.

  The situation surrounding her grandfather was a little blurrier. A Hector Sanchez had definitely founded the Chicago branch of the Kings a very long time ago. They did have a grainy picture of the man, but it was impossible to tell whether or not it was her grandfather. On that score, she couldn’t prove or disprove what Malone had told her. It seemed like the roots of that particular gang hadn’t been historically documented. Some of the references indicated it had been born out of a Mexican gang. Others reports stated it had been started within the United States and grew throughout the country.

  Personal family issues aside, she found several references portraying the Aces and the Kings as fierce rivals since the Stone Age, it seemed. Numerous shootings, stabbings, beatings were all chronicled in newspaper clippings throughout the decades, making what Landry said the other day even more confounding. Why, after all this time, would they suddenly be playing nice with each other?

  Too exhausted to think about it any longer, she shut off the computer she’d been working on and got up from the desk. She stretched and her stomach growled. Not surprising. It was nearly three o’clock. She’d been too wired to eat before she left the apartment.

  For the first time in a very long while, she felt a need to tell somebody about the information she’d found. She walked out of the building and called Landry.

  “What did you do all day?” Based on the background noise, he’d already started work. Jonas piped up in the background. “Hey, Sanchez.”

  “Tell Jonas hello for me, would you?” She paused. “I went to meet with Malone.”

  “I figured as much. I was hoping he didn’t throw you into the river or something.”

  “Come on, I could have taken him.”

  “Yeah, right.” He muttered something under his breath. “What did you find out?”

  “Not much, and yet a whole lot. My dad was best buds with Jacob Lacey. Can you believe that?”

  “The Jacob Lacey? The bad dude that had a hit list rivaling Tony Soprano’s?”

  “The one and only.” A kind of revulsion settled low in her belly.

  “Are you sure?”

  She nodded, even though she knew he couldn’t possibly see her. “I verified it with a trip to the library. I’m on information overload right now.”

  “There’s something else, Isabella. What is it?”

  She hesitated. Could she trust him? “He told me some stuff about my grandfather.” Even though she wanted to share this was Landry, she couldn’t force out the words.

  “What?”

  “Just some BS Malone made up to screw with my head.” It had to be. To consider anything else would be ludicrous.

  There was silence on the other end of the line. He sucked in a breath and waited a few more seconds before he finally spoke. “Then I guess I’ll talk to you later. And, if you call me later tonight, say when I get off work, for a booty call, I promise I won’t feel cheap and used.”

  Leave it to Landry to make her chuckle despite the circumstance. “I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

  * * *

  “Why did Isabella call you about Jacob Lacey?” Jonas asked as Landry drove through the streets on the South side.

  Landry didn’t exactly know what to make of the new information. “She was doing some research in the library and found out that her father and Jacob Lacey were lifelong friends. Did you ever hear anything about that?”

  “Now that you mention that, it explains why Samuels took the plea deal. Probably figured there’d be a whole lot more skeletons in the closet if CPD kept looking.”

  “He didn’t go to trial? I didn’t know that.” He tried to sync the latest information inside his brain. “I thought you didn’t remember him?”

  “Not much, but I do seem to recall a deal being struck. It surprised everyone. We all thought he’d go to the jury and try to intimidate his way into a not guilty verdict,” Jonas said. “Instead the guy cuts a deal, and not a very good one at that, and does his time.”

  * * *

  Before work on Tuesday morning, and despite what she’d learned yesterday, Isabella convinced herself it was the right thing to do. Considering how she’d felt for the last twenty some years, it f
elt odd to be at his burial service. After winding her way through the massive grounds, she finally located a caretaker and asked for information. He inspected her badge then pointed her in the right direction. Weird. She didn’t expect this kind of security in a cemetery.

  It didn’t take her long to find the spot once she had a direction to follow. One woman stood along with a minister outside a gravesite. She parked and took a position behind a clump of trees about thirty feet away. She was undecided what, if anything, she wanted to do.

  While she didn’t expect to feel much at the final goodbye for her father, a weird mixture of emotions enveloped her as she looked on. She brushed off the sensation and surveyed the woman’s face, searching for telltale signs of familiarity. But nothing came to mind.

  The woman sniffed a few times and touched a small silver urn, while the minister read some passages from the Bible. Dressed in a stylish black skirt and heels, she looked to be around forty or so.

  The minister finished quicker than Isabella had anticipated and when the woman turned to leave, she glanced around and then paused. A sense of fear was obvious in the woman’s furtive movements as she scurried toward an awaiting taxi.

  Suddenly she stopped and turned toward Isabella, then hesitated. Isabella took tentative steps in the woman’s direction and tried to tamp down the unexpected rush of emotion that pulsed at the base of her spine. This might be her one and only chance to find out more about her father. But did she really want to know more?

  When she got within ten feet of the woman, Isabella suddenly became mute. She felt a little like a deer in headlights, not knowing what to say or how to say it.

  The woman filled in the silence on her own. “Isabella?” Her voice held a sense of bewilderment more than anything else. “You have Ty’s build. His beautiful latte-colored skin. His soulful brown eyes.” She sniffed.

  While she wanted to ask about him, and about the family she never knew, she remained silent, rummaging through thoughts that didn’t want to surface. Why did she come her here in the first place if she was going to remain too scared to talk, like some five-year-old kid?