A former private in the United States Army and a Purple Heart recipient, Hightower had once been considered an American hero. He’d dragged several unconscious soldiers to safety after an explosion had detonated near their camp, an explosion that had left him with a severely mangled left leg and a nasty limp. Willis had seen the pictures—it was a miracle he’d ever walked again.
“No respect,” Parker muttered, shaking his head.
“Of course they don’t have any respect for us. They don’t respect the law, they aren’t going to respect the people enforcing it.”
“I think he did it,” Parker said, frowning at the clubhouse. “I think that son of a bitch offed his own damn parents. These guys are sick.”
Parker was referring to was Damon Fox, better known as ‘Preacher’, the eldest of the three Fox brothers, and recently appointed president of the Silver Demons. Six months earlier both of Preacher’s parents and a fellow club member had been brutally slain at a state park in upstate New York. And the case had since gone cold. In fact, the case had started out frigid. Many people had been questioned, yet despite the sheer number of people in attendance, not one had come forward with any information. Without a murder weapon, without any witnesses, there’d been very little to go on.
Willis stared down the street, rubbing his chin, mulling over the facts. Did he think Preacher had killed his parents? Maybe. But he doubted it. A family of criminals was still a family. And Willis had observed the Fox family long enough to know that, despite the healthy amount of tension between Gerald Fox and his sons, not one of those boys would have ever harmed their mother.
“No,” Willis eventually replied. “I was at the funeral. I saw them—they were grieving. My best guess is they pissed someone off, someone high up. Maybe the Rossi family, maybe even higher. Maybe whoever is bringing in the drugs from overseas.”
Parker blew out a steamy breath full of frustration. “The Rossi family is who we should be going after, or the Columbos. Not these lowlifes.”
Willis shrugged. “The U.S. attorney doesn’t agree with you. These lowlifes are working for the Rossi family—we get them, we finally get a shot the Rossis.”
Parker continued to huff. “There’s no fucking proof they’re even working for the Rossis!” His clenched fist came down on his thigh. “Both families are locked up tighter than a nun’s pussy. We can’t get a single one of these pieces of shit to turn rat. Hell, we still don’t know where they’re getting their dope from! We don’t know a goddamn thing!”
Parker was right; they had no substantial proof that the Silver Demons were confirmed Rossi associates or vice versa. Yet it was still well known that they were. The Rossis owned several restaurants in all five boroughs, and the Demons had been spotted at almost all of them at one time or another, meeting with the Rossi underboss or other Rossi family affiliates. Furthermore, the Demons owned several small businesses of their own—a couple of gas stations in New Jersey and a garage in Brooklyn—that employed known Rossi soldiers. The Bureau had obtained warrants to raid the garage twice now, hoping to find something to charge someone with—the Demons or the Rossis—but had come up empty both times.
Parker was also correct in stating that none of these men were going to turn on one another. The Rossi crime family seemed impenetrable, as did the Silver Demons. Much like the mob foot soldiers, most of the Demons had been busted for one thing or another. In fact, one of the Demons’ own, a biker named Gunny, was currently doing a 15-year stretch at Ossining. The Bureau had offered him everything under the sun, including his freedom, if he’d sing. Hands and feet in chains, the bastard had leaned across the table and told Willis to “go fuck his mother.”
Willis released a heavy sigh. The Bureau had hit at a dead end. Having already exhausted all their usual avenues of investigation, they were left with surveillance.
Facing the clubhouse, Willis looked over the small group of people gathered on the front stoop. Despite the cold temperatures, Douglas “Tiny” Williams was dressed in only a T-shirt and jeans. Seated in a lawn chair, he was catcalling any woman who had the misfortune to walk by. Nearby, Sylvia Fox was talking animatedly with another young woman—Preacher’s live-in girlfriend.
Willis elbowed Parker. “Did we ever find out who Preacher’s girl really is?”
“Name’s Deborah Reynolds,” Parker said and snorted. “Goes by Debbie. Nineteen years old, from Akron, Ohio. Only Akron hasn’t ever heard of her, and she’s not in the system. Her papers are fake—bought and paid for by Preacher, I’m guessing. Not that it matters. We’ve been down this road before. They don’t tell their women a damn thing. So unless we’re going to charge her with forging documents, she’s irrelevant.”
They watched as Debbie gave Sylvia’s infant son a quick kiss on the cheek, then as the two women briefly embraced. Then Tiny jumped up out of his seat and offered Debbie his arm. Arms linked, they started down the sidewalk.
Beside him, Parker was squinting. “Jesus, Don, she’s got a bun in the oven.”
Willis tilted his head to get a better look. Sure enough, there was a telltale bulge beneath her coat.
Quickly straightening, Willis started the car.
“We’re gonna tail some broad?”
Pulling the car onto the street, Willis shrugged. “Why the fake papers? What’s she hiding? I want to find out who the hell she really is.”
“And then what?”
“She’s pregnant, Jim. I’m willing to bet this one means something to him.” He shrugged again. “Who knows… maybe we can use her.”
Chapter 27
“More cookies, please?”
Tiny fingers beckoned Debbie from just below the edge of the countertop. Leaning over, she found a pair of dark eyes framed in long, thick lashes blinking up at her from beneath a messy mop of brown hair.
“Frankie,” she cooed, grinning at the toddler. She crooked her finger. “Come here, you.”
Little legs, thick with baby fat, wobbled around the kitchen counter. Scooping Frankie into her arms, Debbie set him down on the countertop. After a quick glance toward the hall, ensuring no one would catch her, she slipped her hand inside a large metal tin and handed Frankie another cookie, which he promptly put in his mouth.
“Good?” she asked, ruffling his hair. Frankie smiled around a mouthful of cookie. Eyes wide, he nodded vigorously.
“Aw, Debbie!” Storming into the kitchen, Sylvia sent Debbie a scathing look. “Those are for the church potluck tomorrow!”
Balancing her son Trey on her hip, Sylvia began checking through the numerous tins full of goodies she’d spent the entire weekend preparing. “God bless Ginny and this giant kitchen. Or thanks to you two, I wouldn’t have any cookies left!”
The clubhouse kitchen was spacious, with ample counter space, wall-to-wall cupboards, and every appliance under the sun. It was also oddly mismatching, with country wooden cupboards, green tiled walls, and a red linoleum floor. Ginny’s unique, colorful tastes had even extended to her kitchen.
“I could never do all this in my kitchen at home,” Sylvia continued. “You hear that, Joey? Can’t even cook a decent lasagna in that glorified closet you call a kitchen!”
Both Debbie and Frankie cringed as Sylvia’s voice turned shrill. Trey only opened his tiny mouth in a wide, toothless yawn.
“I swear that man is hidin’ from me,” she muttered. “Only time I ever see him anymore is when he’s crawling into bed at night wantin’ somethin’. He gets his rocks off and all I get is pregnant.”
Sylvia glanced sideways at Debbie. “Not that I need to tell you about that.”
Reflexively, Debbie’s hand went to her stomach. Whereas Sylvia was only two months pregnant and couldn’t stop talking about it, Debbie was nearly six months along and still having a hard time coming to terms with the fact that she was pregnant at all.
She didn’t want a baby. She was only seventeen and didn’t know the first thing about being a mother. She couldn’t even think about the birth or what would come after without feeling anxious and breaking out in a cold sweat. What if she was as horrible a mother as her own had been?