Quinn Hardy knew trouble was waiting inside when he opened his door.
His apartment was small—one room, with a bathroom hardly wide enough to turn around in. Small enough for him to feel when anything was out of place. Not that he had many possessions to keep track off—just a mattress on the floor, a dresser with dirty clothes scattered across the top, a square table with a few books and a laptop for watching movies, a lamp. Just the basics.
He stood in the doorway and flipped on the light, casting shadows over the walls. The room was still, silent. Hardy closed the door and reached around behind his back. He still carried the gun he’d stolen from his uncle in his 20s. “Who’s there? Who is it?”
No answer. But he felt a puff of air across the back of his neck, and he whirled around. How could anyone get behind him?
Before he could turn all the way, a pair of big hands shoved at his shoulder, and he hit the floor with a hard thud. A shoe kicked at his ribs. Hardy grunted, grabbed for the foot but missed, and punched at the air.
Years ago he’d been able to beat anyone stupid enough to challenge him. Now he was old, weak, and on the floor, gasping for breath. What the hell?
He blinked. A face loomed over him. He rubbed his eyes, and a face came into focus. Hardy blinked again.
“Howard?” His voice was a dry croak.
Lips curled in a humorless smile.
Hardy stared up. “I thought—they said—”
The figure leaned down, and Hardy saw the long knife in his hand.
“No. No! I didn’t tell anyone, I swear! No! No!” Hardy lifted his arms, tried to push the blade away, grabbed for the man’s wrist but it slid through his fingers.
Then the knife plunged down. Once into his chest. Hardy tried to scream, but the knife slashed across his throat. Once, twice. He stared up at the man above him in disbelief. It can’t be. Can’t be. Can’t—
Michael Chapman’s uncle was dead. “He was murdered last week.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said.
Chapman was in his 30s, the owner of a two small health clubs on the north side of Chicago. He was solidly built, with a short beard and dark eyes. We were in the coffee shop near my apartment where I meet with a lot of clients.
“His name was Dan. Dan Hoffman. I was taking some food over to his place, and I walked in, and he was—” Chapman shuddered. “On the sofa. Covered in blood. But he was still alive. I was trying to stop the bleeding, but it was too much. I mean, the guy slashed his throat.” He paused for a sip of water and a deep breath. “The thing is, before he died, he managed to say something. Oakes.”
“Oakes.” I waited.
“My uncle, he was a, well, a crook.” Chapman rolled his eyes. “He was in jail a couple of times. Drugs, theft, firearms. He didn’t walk about it much, but I’m pretty sure he was involved with the Outfit. You know, the Mafia? At least around the edges. The thing is—” He leaned forward. “He used to talk about a guy named Howard Oakes. Just a little. He worked with him on a lot of ‘deals.’ He called them deals, but he meant—you know.”
“Right.” I was getting nervous. I’m used to running into vampires and demons occasionally, but I try to steer clear of the Chicago Mob.
“I told the cops, but the thing is—Dan always said Howard Oakes was dead. He was vague about what he did for him, but I definitely remember him telling me about Oakes being dead. He heard it from friends. It must have been two or three years ago.”
I made a note. “So what did the police say?”
“They think it’s a revenge thing, for something Dan did a long time ago. I don’t know for sure how, uh, how he made money these days. He was living in a garage apartment down the street from us, but I bought groceries for him a lot, and helped with the rent. Anyway, they didn’t think ‘Oakes’ means anything. But I know what I heard, and I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“So how can I help you?” I hoped he wasn’t going to ask me to catch the killer.
“Can you find out if Oakes is really dead?”
That was something I could do. “I can try. I can’t guarantee a definite answer, but it’s usually easier to prove someone’s dead than prove they’re not.”
“That’s fine.” Chapman seemed relieved that someone was taking him seriously.
He provided some background on his uncle, and we talked about the financial details. I got a retainer, he got a receipt, and we finished our coffee and left.
Back home Rachel was working on some paperwork—she’s a therapist. She’s also my girlfriend: red hair, hazelnut eyes, and mild psychic powers. Plus, she’s my fiancée.
“My mom insists we come to dinner before the wedding,” she told me as I sat down at my desk.
“Well, if we have to.” I turned on my computer. “Honestly, you seem to be dreading it more than I do.”
“You didn’t have to grow up with her.” I’d never met Rachel’s mother, and she didn’t like to talk about her childhood. I only knew that for several years after her parents’ divorce, Rachel’s life had been unpleasant, thanks to her mother’s succession of boyfriend and her psychic powers rising up before she could understand what was happening to her.
“We’ll just have to endure it. Or we could break the engagement off. That seems extreme, but—”
“You getting cold feet? I knew it.”
I turned in my chair. “Hey, we can go down to city hall right now. Get a license, find a judge, say ‘I do,’ and be back in time for Jeopardy.”
“Meh.” Rachel shook her head. “You’ve got a new client. I’ve got tons of paperwork. Maybe tomorrow.”
“Any time.” I blew her a kiss.
Actually I was relieved. We’d been engaged for a month, but we were having trouble setting a date. I guess we both still have issues we’re working out.
So we turned back to our computers and went to work.
First I looked up news reports on the uncle’s murder. There only one short article that just hinted at the details of the stabbing. No mention of his criminal past. Police were exploring leads.
Then I started searching for everything I could find about Howard Oakes.
The name was distinctive enough to let me filter out unrelated people. Yeah, Howard Oakes had been a crook, arrested multiple times for theft, robbery, assault, and other offenses. He’d served two terms in state prison, but dropped from sight after that.
I dived deeper. Oakes really did have ties to the Chicago Outfit, mostly through one brother-in-law, who’d been a major player in the mob before going to prison for 15 years; he’d died shortly after his release. Oakes had apparently beaten some people up for the guy, but the charges never stuck. Then he stabbed another gangster in front of too many witnesses to be ignored. The victim lived, and the case got plea bargained down from attempted murder to assault. Oakes did three years.
After getting out, he worked with a crew robbing restaurants and stores downtown and in the suburbs. I found the names of two others in his crew, but there were more who weren’t identified. Dan Hoffman wasn’t one of them.
Then I noticed a cop’s name: Zack Getty, a detective with the organized crime unit. He’d spent more than a year investigating the robberies, looking at surveillance tapes, finding witnesses to testify, and finally tracking Oakes down in Rantoul to arrest him. Oakes spent seven years in prison. After getting out, he dropped out of sight as far as the internet was concerned.
Getty was retired, but I found an email address for him on social media. Then I did a quick search for the two members of Oakes’ crew, Jake Reilly and Quinn Hardy. Reilly worked at a bar on the west side, and Quinn Hardy—
Quinn Hardy was dead.
I read one article. It was just like the story about Dan Hoffman. The victim lived alone, and neighbors had found him stabbed to death after not seeing him for a few days. The story did mention that Hardy had done jail time, and police were looking at that angle.
I called my client. “Did your uncle ever mention a man named Quinn Hardy?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. Who’s that?”
“He was stabbed to death a few days before your uncle. I don’t have a lot of details, but it’s—interesting.”
Rachel turned in her chair. “What was that?”
I gestured her to stay quiet. Chapman said, “What do you think’s going on?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s a coincidence. Did you say something about your uncle’s throat?”
“Yeah, his throat was, uh, slashed, I guess. Is that what happened to this other guy?”
“I don’t know. I’ll check into it and let you know.” We hung up.
Rachel was next to my chair down, leaning down. “What kind of case are you working on, shamus?”
I lifted my arms in case she started to hit me. “So far, I’m just trying to confirm that an ex-mobster is really dead.”
“And if he isn’t?” She cocked her fist. Rachel likes to punch me. Mostly it’s harmless fun. Sometimes it’s scary.
“I don’t know. He might not have anything to do with the two murders—” I stopped.
She dropped her arm. “When we’re married, we’re going to have a rule about you taking murder cases without talking to me first. Or anything with the mob. Especially both.”
“Agreed.” I backed my chair away. “For right now, though—”
“Back to work.” She turned for her desk. “Just keep me up to date. My mom’s going to be really crazy if I finally get engaged and my fiancé gets killed.”
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