Dark White

Prologue

October 5, 2019 5:38 P.M.

He was asleep. A post coitus nap after an hour of afternoon lovemaking. So typically male. She had held him afterwards, pressing her body against his, stroking his salt and pepper hair, whispering sweet nothings as he drifted off. It was sweet, she thought. It was vulnerable.

Sweetness wasn’t something she normally found attractive in a man and she wondered why she found it so charming now. In truth he wasn’t really that sweet. If he had been, she wouldn’t be here now. He had to be a little bad for them to end up together. Their relationship, after all, was wrong. The circumstances of their meeting and the conflict of interest that lay between them; they should never have slept together in the first place.

She gently pulled her arm from under his pillow and sat up in bed. Her long hair fell softly on her neck and tickled the tops of her shoulders. On the nightstand was a crumpled, almost empty pack of Parliaments. She grabbed it and withdrew one, straightening it slightly before placing it between her lips and lighting it.

She stood, naked, and walked across the apartment to a cozy armchair and sat down. She cozied up, smoking and gazing out the huge window at the cold October waters of Lake Michigan thirty stories below. The choppy waves were gray and silent from the warm apartment and she reflected on how that made her feel.

Her life had been like those waves; cold and hard, driven by tidal forces she couldn’t control. Now she felt something different. Contentment? Was that what it was? Was that all it was?

No.

What she felt now was something more. It was something she hadn’t felt in a very long time. So long that she almost didn’t recognize it. Love. She was in love. The revelation startled her.

She looked back at the bed. The man, her man, lay sleeping peacefully. Dreaming perhaps. Dreaming of her. It had been so long since she felt this way that she wasn’t sure what to do next. Tell him she supposed, but that seemed so childish.

When she had felt it before, all those many years ago, she had said it. She had said it so often. Declaring it, insisting it, and demonstrating it. What had it gotten her? He had been taken from her. Torn from her. Stolen away by powers beyond her control.

She had lost that love, and with it her capacity for love. Or so she thought, but now, here she was feeling it all over again. It had never occurred to her that it would happen again and one thing she was sure of- she wasn’t going to let it slip away this time.

The clock on the nightstand said quarter to five in the afternoon. She wanted to remember. She wanted this moment to freeze in her mind's eye forever. She was happy again, and this was going to be the moment she grabbed that happiness and held on to it for good.

She pounced from the chair and ran to the bed. She dropped the cigarette butt into a half full glass of leggy chardonnay and leaped onto her sleeping love.

He jerked, surprised at the waking.

Boo! she exclaimed with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

Oh Jesus, you scared the shit out of me, he said, breathing heavily.

She laughed and dropped down pressing her slender naked body against his and kissed him softly on the mouth.

Mmm, you taste like smoke, he said.

She sat up and straddled him.

I know, she said. So, I was just thinking.

He wiped sleep from his eyes, then put his hands behind his head and stared at her.

Oh yeah? About what? he asked with a yawn.

I was thinking, she said again and cracked a huge smile, that we should get married.

His phone rang.

Part One

Gavin

Chapter One

October 5, 2019 6:29 P.M.

The rain fell in sheets, straight as pinstripes through the narrow canyons of glass and steel. It battered the pavement making blisters on the cracked asphalt, turning it dark and heavy. Small puddles formed in the cracks and ragged uneven surfaces reflecting the hazy streetlights and glowing windows of the high-rises. It was a cold rain with October winds driving it down like spikes from the ever-blackening slate gray sky.

I burst out the flimsy alley door of the warehouse and stumbled before tripping sideways into the stone wall of the next building. A pain like hot needles shot through my shoulder and down my arm forcing my fingers into a tight uncomfortable fist. I bent over wheezing and forced them open again, one at a time, then pressed them against my ribs taking short sharp breaths. The rain ignored me and continued, hammering against my, now heavy, felt fedora and charcoal wool overcoat.

I looked up bleary eyed, squinting through the deluge, gauging the distance out of the alley to the main road, and then on to my car. I wasn’t sure I was in any condition to drive, but I knew I had to get away from that place and out of the rain. Holding the wall of the building I hobbled down the rough gravelly ground towards the clean smooth concrete sidewalk and the lights of the traffic.

Out in the weather I couldn’t differentiate between the wet of the rain and the wet of the blood, but the pain in my side told me that both were present. The wound wasn’t too deep, not life threatening, but it hurt and more than just physically. It hurt my pride.

Look, I hated my job, but I was usually pretty damn good at it. It had been years since I’d let something go that wrong and it bothered me.

It was done. I hadn’t failed, but I’d fucked up and I had a concussion and a bone deep gash in my ribs to prove it. I needed a break; some time to get my head back in the game and to stop feeling sorry for myself. Everyone hates their job, I thought. Why should I be any different?

At the mouth of the alley I leaned upright against the corner stone and surveyed the scene. Traffic was heavy, headlights and taillights smeared together in wide bands of scarlet and violet-white between fuzzy dots of red and green that punctuated the intersections. Foot traffic was light, almost non-existent in the downpour which was good. It meant I could move slowly without the questioning stares of other pedestrians on the three-block exodus to my car.

After about a block the anchor of anxiety from the nearly botched job fell away and disappeared in the runoff, down the sidewalk in narrow streams and off the curb joining the greasy gutter water at the edge of the road. All I had left was the weight of my bloodied ribs, waterlogged hat, jacket and shoes, but that was enough. It took me twenty minutes to cross the next two blocks. I had to stop and rest from time to time, leaning against buildings, trying my best not to look drunk or deranged. The last thing I needed was a concerned law enforcement officer coming over to check on me. I wasn’t worried about being arrested, not in this town, but I really didn’t need the hell she would put me through if I ended up featured in another official report. That would be worse than a night in jail.

Jesus Gavin, why are you doing this? Why am I still doing this shit? I mumbled to myself.

It wasn’t getting easier anymore. I’d crested that hill seven years ago. No, now it was starting to get harder again. Harder and more tiresome.

Finally, soaked to the bone and beginning to prune, I crept up on my car. It was parked near the corner on a side street in front of a yellow fire hydrant. A restored 2005 Chrysler 300; black with custom deep brown leather seats, it had been a gift of sorts; donated after I put the previous owner out of someone else’s misery. It was right where I had left it and as always, free of tickets.

I opened the driver’s door and dropped myself in the seat. Water ran off my face and hands and squeezed out of the dense wool of my overcoat, pooling in the seat and running down the leather into the black carpet on the floor. I wheezed and coughed and pulled my legs into the car slamming the door behind them. The rain continued to pound on the roof and windshield creating a rattle like a broken garbage disposal.

It was ten minutes before I found the energy to put the keys in the ignition. Another three before I could turn them. Then, summoning all my effort, I dropped the transmission into gear, spun the tires, and headed towards Lake Shore Drive. I was going home.

6:04 P.M.

It was the sound that woke her. The explosive crash that pulled her out of unconsciousness and slammed her into reality like a raw egg hitting a tile floor. Her mind was blurry, and she couldn’t remember where she was. She tried to open her eyes but they were sealed, sticky and dry. She tried turning her head, but her neck ached and cracked with the effort. Her whole body felt sore and worn. Her lips were dry and cracked. She licked them, but her tongue was leather, and it stung while the taste of copper filled her mouth.

Where the hell was she? She strained to remember, but her focus drifted back to the pain in her body. She tried again to open her eyes, but they still would not comply. They felt swollen and damp, and they stung at the corners. She concentrated on her surroundings. She was on her back, but not in bed. The surface was hard and sturdy; the floor. She felt a sickly anxiety crawl over her.

Why was she on the floor, what kind of floor? Not carpet, it was hard and smooth. Tile? The bathroom maybe? Had she fallen in the bathroom? Time felt like it was moving very slowly, maybe she’d knocked her head on the sink? She closed and opened her hand letting her fingertips and nails feel the surface below her. It was hard wood, smooth with tiny seams between the narrow planks. It was warm.

It was wet.

A chill ran down her aching spine. Her body jerked painfully with an involuntary surge of panic. Her lungs gasped air that felt like broken glass in her throat. Her heart began to race. Adrenaline filled her veins and almost instantly the fog in her mind lifted. Panicking, she tried to stand up, but her body felt like it was made of clay and she found her head too heavy to lift. With effort she managed to pull her knees up towards her chest and lay her feet flat on the floor. She felt wetness between her toes.

She was barefoot!

She pushed hard with her legs and slid backward half a foot before she lost traction on the slick floor. She tried again, and again, slowly creeping backwards until her head slammed sharply on the wall behind her. She winced at the pain from the impact, but kept pushing, pressing the palms of her hands on the floor for assistance. Gradually she managed to upright herself to a sitting position. She paused for a moment and listened to herself breathing. She wiped her eyes with the side of her hand. Pain shot through her skull, but she pressed hard to clear away the dry flakes and forced her eyes open.

Her blood ran cold, and her breath vanished.

The room was vast. It looked like it took up the entire floor of the building. It was, at the moment, dimly lit by nothing but city lights streaming in through the floor to ceiling windows that made up the outside walls. In front of her everything was open, no walls separating the living spaces. She could see into the bedroom and the kitchen. A huge fireplace in the living room and a long table in the dining room she was in. The floor was mahogany covered in spots by expensive looking oriental rugs. There was a large sofa that looked like it was upholstered in Italian tapestry next to a large high-backed leather chair. In the far corner was a huge king-size four-poster bed with the sheets and blanket half on the floor next to...

The room began to spin. On the floor next to the sheets and blankets and pillows were her clothes.

She looked down at herself in horror and found that she was naked except for her underwear. She was covered in crimson and sitting in a smear of blood that she had apparently made while pushing herself back to the wall. In front of her was a large pool of scarlet and the body of a naked man with a cell phone in one hand and a small pistol in the other. He was lying face down in the wide puddle of blood. In front of him, right next to where her smear print began, lay a heavy looking black handgun. Then the sound again.

CRACK!

The doorjamb splintering was like dynamite. The girl lost her balance and fell back to the floor, catching the back of her head on the baseboard as she went down. Pain shot like daggers through her scalp and into her eyes. There was commotion all around her now and blinding bright lights. She jerked her head, which only served to reopen the wounds over her nose and eye. Blood streamed down her face again and she squinted through the warm liquid.

There were a dozen figures in black surrounding her and moving around the room. Then there were hands on her, touching her body, her neck and arms and waist. She squirmed to free herself, but it was useless.

She’s alive. She heard.

He’s not. Came from someone else.

Look at this. From right next to her. She felt her arm being pulled and her fingers pried open. The pattern matches the grip.

There was a flash and the distinct sound of a camera shutter. She tried to scream, but she couldn’t make a sound. Now the hands were pushing her, rolling her, flipping her on her chest. They pulled her arms behind her. There were bright flashes and more sounds of camera shutters, then the feeling of cold metal on her wrists and she couldn’t move.

Miss...Miss? She heard the voices but couldn’t speak to answer.

Lady, what’s your name?

She tried to struggle free of the handcuffs, but something heavy and solid came down on her back and held her still.

Lady, your name?

Found a purse. Another voice said. I.D. says her name is Rose. Weather Rose.

Miss Rose, you are under arrest for the murder of Special Counsel Brandon Grayson. You have the right to remain...

And again, everything went black.

6:41 P.M.

State’s Attorney Maureen Adalet was stalling. She was grateful that her job gave her a legitimate excuse for long hours and late nights. There was always a set of briefs that had to be filed last minute, a witness that needed to be interviewed, or a judge that needed a conference after court. When one of those things didn’t exist, she could always say they did. There was no way to prove otherwise, least of all by her family.

She wasn’t proud of her behavior. There was a shame in avoiding your family, staying away because you couldn’t look your daughter in the eyes or tell your husband the truth. Her life weighed on her and no amount of work, no rate of conviction, no balance of blind justice’s scales could make her forget what she had failed to do and what she had done to atone for that failure.

Justice wasn’t blind. Justice had twenty-twenty vision and she stared down at Maureen day after day holding that goddamn sword and threatening her with the scales that would judge her in the hereafter. She knew she was damned and every day that she pushed the weak little pawns around the chessboard of the city she felt the albatross of her fate hang heavier and heavier around her neck.

It wasn’t always like this. She was a different person before. A different lawyer, a different mother, a different wife. She was kind and loving and determined and fearless, but that was before this job and before… before it happened. It was before Gavin, before she realized that only the foolish are fearless and the one thing everyone should fear is what they have inside themselves.

She was thinking about all this, thinking about where it all went wrong and how any of it could ever be fixed when her door opened, and her assistant walked into her office. The intrusion startled her, and she spun around from the wide window behind her desk. Her assistant was a mousy little thing, rail thin and auburn with bare shoulders and a stupid fucking crystal hanging in a wire basket around her neck. She annoyed Maureen and would have been fired a dozen times over if she wasn’t so fucking good at her job.

Oh, Ms. Adalet, Lauren said, seeing her turn around behind her desk. I’m so sorry, I thought you had stepped out.

Well, usually good at her job anyway.

I was just coming to drop a message on your desk. Detective Megan Hinde called and wanted you to get back to her as soon as possible. She said there’s been an incident involving a… she glanced at the handwritten note she was holding. Weather Rose. She sounded pretty alarmed. Apparently, she looked down at the handwriting again. Brandon Grayson has been shot. I think he’s the-

Yes Lauren, Maureen snipped, feeling all the blood rush out of her face. I know who Brandon Grayson is. You’re sure she said Weather Rose?

Lauren nodded a firm affirmative.

Oh yes ma’am. Quite sure. That’s a very unusual name and I wouldn’t mix it up.

Maureen was breathing heavily now and felt a light layer of sweat form between her skin and her clothes.

Okay Lauren, she said dismissively. I’ve got it, you’re dismissed. Go home and get some rest.

Alright Ms. Adalet. I’ve just got to finish up-

It can wait, Lauren. Go home. You’re done here for tonight.

Lauren looked at her skeptically, then with a shrug of her bare shoulders turned and walked out of the office. Maureen heard her close her laptop and put on her coat. A moment later the sound of the elevator opening and closing again left her finally and completely alone. She picked up the phone on her desk and dialed.

6:55 P.M.

Detective Megan Hinde screamed down Lake Shore Drive at eighty miles per hour, her lights and siren filled the darkness of the October night and made the rest of the traffic part in front of her like the Red Sea. She was in a panic, furious with intention and worried that she might be, already, too late.

Her phone rang with the ominous melody of the Star Wars Imperial March. It was a special ring that she used as the signature tone for her boss. Not the Lieutenant at the precinct, her other boss. She glanced at the screen of the phone in its cradle on the dashboard and read the caller ID.

SA Maureen Adalet

A sense of dread churned in her stomach as she punched the large green button that accepted the call.

Meg-

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, right? the voice on the other end of the line bellowed.

Detective Hinde winced and looked at the phone as if it were the actual person.

Afraid not, she said. Vic is Brandon Grayson. He’s the Special Pros-

I know who the fuck Grayson is, the woman on the phone said. And the perp?

Yeah, looks like it’s her, the detective followed.

Are we sure?

Detective Hinde took a long breath and let out a sigh.

Yeah, we’re sure. It’s Weather.

There was a long silence then. Detective Hinde stared at the phone waiting for the tirade she had been expecting since she had arrived at the crime scene. It didn’t come. Eventually she broke the quiet.

Mrs. Adalet?

Does he know yet?

It took the detective a minute to catch up.

I’m sorry?

Gavin, the voice was sharp. Fucking Gavin Gayle, does he know about it yet?

I don’t know ma’am. I- I don’t think so. I don’t know how he could.

But you’re on your way there now?

Detective Hinde hit the lever next to the steering wheel activating the left turn signal and swung the wheel flinging the old Crown Vic off of LSD and onto the side streets of Chicago’s South Side.

Yes ma’am, I’m on my way to The Club right now.

Okay.

Silence.

Okay, I’m heading down to the precinct station now. You just make sure he understands that this is off limits. It’s going to be enough dealing with the Feds, I don’t need to play triage nurse to his bull shit too.

The detective bit her lower lip.

Ma’am, all due respect, that might not be the best idea.

Excuse me, came the belligerent voice on the other end of the call.

I’m just saying, having the Cook County State’s Attorney show up for a routine interrogation, it could draw extra attention. Someone might start wondering why this girl is so important.

There was a pause and Detective Hinde wondered if her boss was actually considering her advice.

The victim is a Special Prosecutor for the Justice Department of the United States. The case and the questioning are anything but routine. How about you stick to the responsibilities I assign to you and let me make the decisions about where my time is best spent?

Hinde nodded to herself in the car.

Understood ma’am, she said.

Good. Text me when you’re done with our associate.

Will do ma’am, she said.

And Megan, the State’s Attorney added, Don’t use your personal phone.

Hinde sighed.

Of course, ma’am.

Hinde wound herself through the smallish squat brick homes of Calumet Heights. She had killed the lights and sirens so as to not attract too much attention, but she was still traveling at a clip well above the posted speed limit. Once she rounded the curve where Colfax turned into Torrence though, she slowed down. She was getting close to Gavin’s neighborhood and she didn’t want him getting wind that she was coming.

In this part of the city everyone loved Gavin and with good reason. As far as they were concerned, he kept them safe. No one messed with the locals down here. No one wanted to end up on Gavin’s list. Megan chuckled to herself at the thought.

What they didn’t know, of course, was that Gavin didn’t have a list. He didn’t even have a say. He took care of business, sure, but not of his own choosing. He took care of what SA Adalet told him to, and it was Megan that delivered those instructions. It wasn’t Gavin that kept things clean and tidy, it was the State’s Attorney.

Still, everyone assumed it was Gavin and if they saw a cop car heading down his street looking anything other than lost, he’d almost certainly get a phone call. For this news it was better that he did not have advanced warning.

She pulled over a few blocks from The Club in front of Saint Kevin’s Parish Church on Torrence. She didn’t want to tip anyone off that she was there by parking her unmarked in front of The Club directly. She hopped out and spanned the last couple blocks on foot.

The street level face of The Club was an abandoned storefront. It had a faded red awning and red wood facade with a small wide window papered over in old yellowing newsprint and wrought iron next to a heavy green wooden door. She stared at the door, not wanting to touch it, knowing that this was not going to go well. She looked at her phone and thought about everything that was about to happen, sighed and raised her hand to knock.

Chapter Two

December 31, 2006 9:41 P.M.

It was brisk I remember. Chicago has cold winters, but I don’t remember it being frigid, just brisk. Weather and I