Chapter 2

The scene had been processed, documented and cleaning was underway.  As Frank had predicted, Chief Higgens soon knew the identity of the victims and immediately called us off.  Unfortunately, things were a little more complicated than even Frank knew.  I now waited under the Clark Street bridge, waiting in the dark amidst the rest of the garbage and filth.  I only had to wait half an hour before a car pulled up, lights scattering the gloom around me.  The door opened and a figure climbed out, walking to me, leaving the car on.  The lights made the man's details hard to pick out, but I didn't need light to know those details.

Ethan Moro was tall, and lean, built for speed, not strength.  His well trimmed mustache and goatee framed a mouth held in a perpetual smirk.  His amber eyes under light eyebrows and short, slicked hair.  All these added to his expensive, well tailored suit made him look respectable.  He was a Capo in the Torrio  crime family.  He was my contact.  My handler.

"Detective."  He greeted me, his voice smooth as the expensive liqueurs he was in charge of "distributing" before it became legal again.  I kept my hands at my side and inclined my head in response.  I couldn't see his face well, but I could imagine that smug smile of his.  He waited for me to speak, but when I didn't he tried again, "Why did you call me here, Arthur?"  I spat to one side and growled, "Martin Keyes is dead.  Murdered."

There was a pause, then Ethan snapped, "What?"  I spat again, "You heard me.  The b*****d's dead.  Your truce is over."

The Torrio family had been waging a bloody war with an upstart Campanale family.  They were small, but growing quickly, emerging as a rival.  The war had been erupting onto the streets of Chicago for the past two years.  Before that it had been opposing businesses, but things had become bloody when some Campanale punks gunned down some of the Outfit's bookies.  After that, blood was regularly shed on both sides.  A few weeks ago, the two groups had settled into an uneasy truce.  Their middleman had been Martin Keyes.

Ethan swore, "Are you sure?"  I nodded, "I saw his body myself.  It'll be front page in tomorrows papers."  Ethan rubbed his forehead, "I need to tell the family.  This means the war is back on."  I waved a hand, "Not necessarily, we don't know it's-"  His hand slashed at the air, "Who else could it be, Arthur?  Ferrucci?  Cullotta?  No, we're on good terms with everyone but the Campanale family.  It is the only thing that makes sense."

I didn't bother reminding him of the many other criminal organizations operating in the city, but to Ethan, only the Italian families were worth mentioning.  Instead, I let him swear and think.  I never liked the a*****e.  He finally snapped, "Find out who did it, Detective,"  he turned the word into a sneer, "I'll tell the family.  If you don't figure out who did this, it's your a*s!"  He spun on a heel and stalked back to his car.  I briefly played with the thought of gunning him down there and then, but forced the impulse down.

He climbed into the car and roared away.  I walked out from under the bridge and looked down the street as his car disappeared down another street.  I lit another cigarette and looked up at the sky, thick clouds barely visible through the haze of lights.  Thunder rumbled and I turned away from where Ethan's car had left my sight and walked down the street.  Rain began pattering down, striking my coat and hat.

On one side, the police were officially withdrawing from the investigation, on the other, my standing with the family demanded I investigate.  Finally, my partner and I were determined to find the killers.  Not for Martin Keyes.

But for Alice.