Queen of Humbolt Page 9

  “That’s right. And then there was a judge in small-town Lisle who extorted defendant’s families with the threat of longer prison sentences. Taking bribes to keep their jail time short.”

  “Judge Alan Owens.” Sloane didn’t look convinced, even as she recited the details. “He missed several weeks of work after a bad car accident. His clerk found audio recordings in his office while looking for case files.”

  “Then there’s the Black Sun Gang.”

  “Who?”

  “They never made it to your desk, but I remember them. They were a rival Chicago gang. They popped up quickly and got into some of the things we didn’t touch. Prostitution. Kidnapping. Extortion. They were wiped out just as quickly as they arrived. Not pushed out, mind you. Wiped out. Every single one of them dead.”

  “What does any of this…”

  “Then, of course, there was Akron Eddie.”

  Marisol stiffened at the name.

  “Who?” Sloane asked impatiently.

  “He’s out of your jurisdiction, of course,” Jordan said, pacing the room. “But he was a particular friend of my employer’s. He was quite put out when Eddie showed up in that underground parking deck poked full of holes. Know anything about that, Marisol?”

  “Never much cared for Ohio.”

  Jordan shook her head as she walked. “Eddie was a piece of shit, but…”

  “So you were friends.”

  Jordan continued as though Marisol hadn’t spoken, “But he was good at moving our merchandise. Nobody could sell a girl like Eddie.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “I saw his body after you popped him,” Jordan said. “It looked personal.”

  Marisol kept her features carefully neutral, but she knew where she’d made her mistake. Fucking Akron Eddie. She had enjoyed killing him and it must’ve shown. Only someone like Jordan, who enjoyed causing pain, could have spotted the one time Marisol let her guard down.

  “You’re implying that Marisol had something to do with all of these?” Sloane sat like a statue, her back rigid and her distaste clear. “I’ll remind you that several of those matters were my work.”

  “Yes, but they are just the appetizer.” Jordan came and sat in front of Marisol again. “I’m curious, though, about other events.”

  She stared into Marisol’s eyes and Marisol stared back.

  “I’m very interested in certain events involving Governor Sloane. Those puzzle me.”

  Marisol held her body as though she were frozen.

  “I assure you, there are no events that involve Marisol Soltero and me.”

  Marisol had no intention of telling Jordan about their weekend and clearly Sloane was going to act like it never happened. As much as denying it burned Marisol, at least Sloane was smart enough to keep it secret from Jordan.

  “No? Are you sure about that?”

  Sloane finally looked over at Marisol, searching for some answer, but Marisol was not about to give it.

  Jordan was all too willing to continue playing storyteller. “You’ve made a good many enemies through the years, Governor. Did you know that?”

  “All State’s Attorneys and politicians have enemies.”

  “Yours seem rather inclined to assassinate you.”

  “You’re the only person who’s ever tried to.”

  “Not true. Quite a few of them have tried. Marisol here has saved your life six times.”

  Sloane’s voice was barely audible as she croaked, “Nonsense.”

  “In fact,” Jordan said, ignoring Sloane’s skepticism. “If there is one thing Marisol does particularly well, it’s stop people from killing you.”

  Sloane just stared at Marisol, her mouth agape. She seemed to search for something in Marisol’s face, but she’d spent years making sure there was never anything there for anyone to read.

  As the silence stretched, Marisol decided it was time to have a little more fun. “Who knew I had such a big fan? Maybe I shouldn’t have given you such a hard time about fucking like a dead fish.”

  The veneer of confidence cracked and Jordan’s eyes went wild. She shot to her feet, her flimsy chair skittering across the metal floor. She slammed her fist into Marisol’s midriff, maniacal laughter bursting covering Marisol’s grunt of pain.

  Over and over again her fists pummeled Marisol’s abdomen, each blow landing like a freight train. Marisol kept her eyes locked on Sloane’s—horrified and disbelieving—to keep herself distracted from the hurt.

  After what felt like a lifetime, a loud knock at the door stopped Jordan short. She straightened, gasping for breath. She turned on her heel and marched out of the hold.

  Marisol relaxed her stomach muscles one at a time, inch by agonizing inch, trying not to vomit and ruin her bravado. She stared at the blank wall, forcing herself to breathe evenly. It was harder than she’d anticipated and she felt sweat collecting on her brow. She took an experimental breath and her muscles immediately seized again. She dropped her head, closing her eyes as she breathed. With each deep breath the pain lessened, or she became used to it—she wasn’t sure which.

  “Marisol…”

  She shook her head and winced, stopping Sloane’s question before it began. While she fought a second round of nausea, Marisol distracted herself by focusing on the feel of the plane descending. The pitch of the engine changed dramatically and she felt the pull of gravity as they pitched forward. Their destination was fast approaching. They were running out of time.

  “Was all of that true?”

  Marisol refused to look up, even though Sloane’s voice held a quality Marisol had never heard before. It was curious and inquisitive, but also quiet. Unsure.

  Marisol weighed her options. It seemed easier to fall back on old habits, so she responded through clenched teeth, “Yes, it’s all true. Jordan’s worthless in bed. I should’ve just faked it to get out of there.”

  “You know that’s not what I meant.”

  “Are you sure about that, Governor? Don’t worry, it was before you and me.”

  Sloane let out a frustrated huff and turned her head away, staring at the closed door. Marisol allowed herself a moment to admire the graceful lines of her long neck and the waving beauty of her hair.

  When Sloane didn’t look back, Marisol gave in. She sighed, defeated, and said, “Look, I…I’m not a fucking saint. Don’t expect so much of me. I will admit that I am…more than just the Queen of Humboldt.”

  Sloane sprang to her feet, making Marisol tense, pressing her body back into the chair at the unexpected movement. She marched across to the chair Jordan had used, throwing herself into it and getting right into Marisol’s personal space.

  “Answer my question.”

  “I don’t…”

  “Did you set up that Russian businessman?”

  Sloane’s tone was so commanding, Marisol nodded before she knew what she was doing.

  Sloane’s shoulders relaxed a fraction, but she didn’t let up. “Did you expose Judge Owens’s blackmail?”

  Marisol locked her gaze and nodded. She’d spent so long hiding who she was, she couldn’t quite bring herself to say the words out loud. Still, it seemed pointless to deny those facts from Sloane when they were already out in the open.

  “That Eddie person? And the gang?”

  Marisol hesitated. It was one thing to admit exposing criminals, it was quite another to confess to killing dozens of people. Sloane looked at her with a defiance she knew would not be satisfied until she had the truth. Marisol nodded deliberately.

  Sloane asked in a small voice, “Have you really saved my life six times?”

  “Governor…”

  “Please…just answer me.”

  “No.” Sloane’s confusion was evident, so Marisol continued. “Counting tonight and your Inauguration Day, I’ve saved your life eight times.”

  Sloane’s brows knitted in confusion and she opened her mouth to inquire further, but the door slammed open, banging against the wall. Just as Jordan
and the Hulk marched in, she sprang back out of the chair as though she’d been electrocuted.

  “Time to move Marisol and I think we need the rabid dog leashed for this journey.”

  Hulk marched toward Sloane, whose eyes filled with terror as she backed away. He reached out and she yelped.

  “Get your hands off her you…”

  Marisol couldn’t concoct an eloquent insult for him. The plane tilted sharply as they descended, but Jordan’s hand was coming up much faster than the ground beneath them. The cloth in her palm covered Marisol’s mouth and nose, filling her senses with a suffocating sweetness. She didn’t have a chance to cough. She didn’t have a chance to shout or jerk away. She breathed reflexively and her vision blurred and shivered at the edges. Another breath and blackness enveloped her.

  Chapter Fifteen

  2015

  Sloane waited behind the wheel of her car until she could take a full breath. She’d known how hard this would be and she thought she’d prepared herself, but clearly she hadn’t done as thorough a job as she’d intended. She’d stayed in her office late last night, reviewing her notes for today’s deposition. She had wasted nearly an hour staring into the distance, chewing on her pen and remembering in exquisite detail a particular weekend five years ago. She gave herself a pep talk. When her thoughts had wandered back to a hotel room bathed in moonlight she’d changed the pep talk into a reprimand.

  It hadn’t worked. She’d dreamed of Marisol last night. That hadn’t happened in over a year. The very thought made her ill. It was bad enough that she’d been tricked into bed. The knowledge that she’d shared those intimacies with a murderous criminal enraged her again. Once she was able to channel that disgust away from herself to where it belonged, she wrenched her car door open and marched toward her office.

  Just as she had expected, Marisol Soltero had arrived in the conference room before her. Once again she cursed the circumstances that brought the two of them together like this. Facing Marisol again in a crowded courtroom would have been infinitely simpler, but nothing with Marisol was simple. She’d refused to give her evidence in court, inventing an excuse to be out of the country during trial. Had she been the defendant, Sloane could have issued a subpoena, but Marisol was only a witness. A key witness and likely just as guilty as the man on trial, but until she could prove some crime, Sloane would have to settle for this deposition rather than a chance to spar with her in open court.

  Sloane took one last, shuddering breath and steeled herself to see that face again. Marisol sat across the table with her lawyer, a snake in a suit if there ever was one. Marisol was lounging in her chair, blithely ignoring the court reporter and the defendant’s attorney.

  “State’s Attorney Sloane,” Marisol’s lawyer said, hopping to his feet and buttoning his triple-breasted suit jacket. “How kind of you to join us.”

  Sloane shook his damp palm and promptly turned her attention to defending counsel. If the other lawyer was a snake, this man was a rat. His hair was oiled down, pulled back from his high forehead and his sliver of a nose. His small, puckered mouth didn’t move as he shook her hand. At least his client wasn’t present for the proceedings. Though it was a defendant’s right to face his accuser, Brent Willow had declined. Sloane would like to have believed he was intimidated by her, but it was equally possible he didn’t want to face off against Marisol. By all accounts he, like so many other rivals, was terrified of her.

  Marisol neither stood nor offered her hand. Sloane kept her eyes carefully averted from her broad shoulders and full lips.

  “Thank you both for your promptness,” Sloane replied, pleased to see that ignoring the rebuke made Marisol’s lawyer squint his beady eyes.

  She further provoked them by turning her attention to the court reporter, checking to see all his needs were met before they began. She set an antagonistic air by spending just enough time with him to ensure the two lawyers were forced to return to their seats.

  The only hitch in her plan was Marisol, who remained unruffled. In fact, as Sloane took the seat directly across from her, Marisol smiled, her right cheek dimpling ever so slightly. She’d noticed the dimple the day they’d met. While they’d shared an overpriced bottle of wine, she’d pressed her cheek against that dimple and whispered an invitation to the hotel a block over.

  But then that day in court, Detective Krone had filled her in on the woman sitting with the reporters, the woman with whom she’d just spent a weekend. She’d been sick over how much more than wine they’d shared.

  Sloane cleared her throat, forcing her attention away from Marisol. “Thank you for taking the time to offer this deposition, Ms. Soltero. I’m sure the sworn testimony you provide will be of value to the prosecution.”

  “Please,” she sat forward, the dimple deepening with her widening smile. “Call me Marisol.”

  Sloane had no intention of doing so. As far as she was concerned, this deposition was merely a warmup for putting Marisol back in prison. The more evidence she gathered on this case, the more Marisol’s name and business interests popped up. It wasn’t a coincidence and Sloane would prove it. She of all people knew how nasty Marisol was. Far worse than the defendant. She would put Marisol in jail, and she would use every weapon she could find to do it. Brent Willow, nothing more than a low-rent pimp, was going to jail first, however.

  “Before we begin, I’d just like to express again that the court would prefer in-person testimony at the trial.”

  “As much as I strive to assist the State’s Attorney’s office, I’m afraid Dominique’s trip cannot be rescheduled. She’s a Goodwill Ambassador for the UN.”

  The name sent a cube of ice into Sloane’s gut. Marisol could brag about her famous girlfriend’s status all she wanted. Sloane was certain the trip had nothing to do with goodwill and everything to do with removing Marisol from Illinois during the trial. Her palms itched to throw this smug liar in jail, but she’d covered her tracks far too well for that. At the very least Sloane could get rid of a pimp who “employed” women kidnapped from their home countries, transported to the United States illegally and sold into sexual slavery.

  “Shall we get started?” Willow’s Defense Counsel asked.

  With a nod to her assistant manning the camera, Sloane began the deposition. She was barely through the standard swearing in and discussion of the usual stipulations when she knew this would be a long day. Beyond the fact that Marisol sat her chair like the queen she pretended to be, her lawyer was sharper than Sloane had anticipated. While Defense Counsel was antagonistic from the outset, Marisol’s lawyer was perfectly calm. The longer the discussion continued, the surer Sloane was of two things—first that she would annihilate Defense Counsel at trial and, second, that she was happy not to be facing Marisol’s lawyer.

  Formalities out of the way, Sloane started in on Marisol. She was careful not to show her strategy too early, but Marisol was almost as slippery as her lawyer.

  “How are you acquainted with the defendant, Ms. Soltero?”

  Sloane focused on the tapping of keys from the court reporter rather than the wide smile across from her. “I expect I know him the same way you do. He has a reputation.”

  “A reputation as what?”

  “Objection. Hearsay,” Defense Counsel shouted.

  “I’ll rephrase. Are you involved in any business dealing with the accused?”

  Marisol leaned back in her chair, crossing an ankle over her knee. “I don’t know of any businesses he runs. Do you?”

  “I’ll ask the questions. Mr. Willow has not been cooperative with the authorities but…”

  “Criminals can be so stubborn sometimes,” Marisol drawled.

  “You would certainly know about that, Ms. Soltero.”

  “That’s out of bounds,” Marisol’s attorney piped up.

  “I’ve reformed, Mrs. Sloane.”

  “That’s Ms. Sloane.”

  “Is it?” Marisol leaned over the table, her voice coming like a purr. “Even
better.”

  Marisol just wanted to get a reaction and Sloane’s cheeks had provided one. She thought of faking anger to cover the blush but that wasn’t playing to her plan. Marisol was only trying to provoke her. Surely she knew Sloane wasn’t married just as well as Sloane knew about Dominique and all the other women Marisol flaunted around town.

  “We’ve subpoenaed Mr. Willow’s phone records.” She slid a thick folder across the table. “He’s used your courier service quite often in the last eighteen months, then he abruptly stopped. Can you explain that?”

  “We were a new business,” Marisol replied, flipping open the folder and scanning the pages. Bright yellow highlighter stood out against the white. “We took all the work we could get. Now we’re more established, we can be more selective with our clientele.”

  “And why was Mr. Willow deselected?”

  “He seemed unsavory.” She slid the folder back across the table, but Defense Counsel shot out of his chair to intercept it. “It made me uncomfortable. I have excellent instincts, wouldn’t you say, Ms. Sloane?”

  “Let’s discuss the nature of your business.”

  An hour of grilling passed and Marisol wove a pretty picture of her business dealings. No matter how Sloane quizzed her, she was no closer to revealing the illicit nature of her work. That there was an illicit nature, Sloane was certain. Everyone in Chicago knew Marisol had a hand in every criminal activity there was. Not just her dealings with Willow. He was scum, but low-level scum. Sloane’s last case as ASA involved the importation of stolen goods. Marisol’s name had come up, but Sloane couldn’t pin anything on her then either. For it to happen again now was too much of a coincidence.

  “How do these questions pertain to the case?” Marisol’s attorney asked. “My client is not on trial.”

  “Ms. Soltero seems to have an inordinate number of business dealings in countries that have problems with human trafficking. Do you have a response?” Sloane asked, forcing herself not to scowl.

  “I didn’t hear a question.”