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My gut tells me solving one case could crack the other wide open. Either we'll find evidence proving Lazaro's guilt, or we'll clear his name and open up new avenues of investigation.
A part of me feels like I’m letting Lana’s unwavering devotion to her brother impact my objectivity. Yes, he could be a victim, but I don’t want to sympathize with a man who terrorized others. But I can’t stop seeing the pain in Lana’s eyes, the hope in them when I said I’d help. Criminal or not, Lazaro’s case should be solved if only to shed light on other cases like Hartley’s.
I lean forward in my chair, fingers flying across the keyboard as I access the police database. My eyes scan the screen, searching for any dark-colored vans matching the partial plate number from the shopkeeper's report.
The search narrows down to the timeframe around Lazaro's disappearance. I scroll through the results, and one entry catches my eye—a black van reported stolen just days before Lazaro vanished. I click on the report to get the details. A delivery company had reported the van missing from their lot. No signs of forced entry, suggesting the thief had access to keys. My mind fills with possibilities. Chicago has lots of stolen vehicles all the time. But if the witness is right and Lazaro was abducted in a dark van, it’s not out of the realm of possibility that the van was stolen, and this one was stolen the day before the abduction.
I jot down the full plate number and the company name. It's not much, but it's a start. Any self-respecting car thief would change the plates.
The stolen van angle opens up new avenues of investigation. Who had access to the delivery company's vehicles? Were any employees connected to rival crime families who had grudges against the D'Amatos?
My gut tells me I'm on to something here even if it’s all just speculation right now. The next step is to track down where this van ended up after it was stolen. The report doesn’t indicate it was ever found, so the likelihood was that it was chopped up for parts or taken over state lines.
I pull out a fresh notepad and start jotting down names.Mickey's Garage. That seedy joint run by the Kowalski brothers near the docks.Big Tony'son the outskirts of town. I list every chop shop I've encountered in my years on the force. Some we've busted, others we haven't been able to pin anything on yet. But they all might have information on a stolen van from three years ago.
It's a long shot, I know. Most of these places move through stolen vehicles faster than you can blink. Plus, they’re not eager to talk to cops. But maybe I’ll get lucky and one will remember something about this particular van.
I turn back to my computer, expanding my search. If the van was used to transport Lazaro, there's a chance it was abandoned afterward. I input the parameters—dark vans, reported abandoned, within a 300-mile radius of Chicago, twenty-four to forty-eight hours after Lazaro's disappearance.
Several hits come up, scattered across the Midwest. I lean in closer, scrutinizing each report. Three locations catch my eye, all within a reasonable distance from Chicago. Naperville, and two in Indiana, Lafayette and Fort Wayne. I grab a pen and jot down the details for each, circling them for priority follow-up.
The Naperville van was found in a mall parking lot, reported by security after it sat unmoved for two days. Lafayette's was discovered on the outskirts of town, partially hidden in a wooded area off the highway. The Fort Wayne report describes a van left in an industrial park, keys still in the ignition.
I lean back, studying my notes. Any of these could be our van. Or none of them. That's the thing about detective work. There are more dead ends than evidence, but each dead end closes off one idea so I can move on to the next.
I reach for my phone, ready to start making calls to the local precincts to see if they had any reports of anyone related to the van. To be honest, it feels like a waste of time. If Lazaro was in any of these cities, surely, we’d know. But that’s assuming he’s alive.
Fucking hell. I’d hate to have to tell Lana I found Lazaro but he was dead. I suppose she’d at least have closure.
Before I can dial, my phone rings. Peter's name flashes on the screen.
“Lutz here.”
"Henry, we've got another call involving the D'Amatos," Peter's voice crackles through the receiver. "Just came in on the radio. I’m on my way, but traffic is a bitch.”
My heart rate kicks up a notch. Is this another one of those damn anonymous tips, or something more serious? After all the false alarms lately, are we being played? I’m pissed that someone is fucking with Lana, giving her and her family reason to file complaints against us for harassment.
I need to get to the scene. I wonder if she’s even there. I can see her fiery eyes now, defiant and challenging, taunting even. The D’Amatos didn’t become successful by being stupid. They’ve covered their tracks for years… generations. It's odd to think that Elio and Lana were raised to be criminals. They know no different. No wonder it seems normal to them. It's because it is.
And then an unsettling feeling grows in the pit of my stomach. What if we’re not being played by some force out to get the D’Amatos? What if I’m being played by Lana? What if she’s using my obvious attraction to her to distract me from my job? Holy hell, hadn’t I worried earlier that my feelings were clouding my objectivity regarding Lazaro?
I recall our interactions. It was Lana’s idea to go to my place the first night. Last night, she drove me to Northerly Island. Yes, I kissed her first, but she has to know her effect on me. Is that how she plans to stay out of jail? Once her attorney knows I fucked her, our case is gone, as is my job.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. "What's the situation?"
He rattles off the address, which I know is the D’Amatos’ main office where all their legitimate businesses are run from. It doesn’t make sense that there would be anything incriminating there. Elio and Lana are too smart for that.
“Two officers are on site. I can swing by to pick you up, but it will be twenty or thirty minutes,” Peter says.
“I’ll meet you there. I’m ten minutes away.”
“In that case, I’ll be at the D’Amatos’ offices in about fifteen… maybe twenty.” He barks out an obscenity to someone blocking the road.
I hang up and want to throw my phone across the room. Instead, with calm composure, I stand and put on my suit coat. I make my way with purpose out of the station and to my car. As I weave through the city, I’m reviewing every moment of last night, wondering if I missed Lana’s guile. Her eyes filling with tears talking about her brother. Was that real? Her telling me our age difference didn’t matter. Did she mean it? I damn near told her I loved her, but she didn’t respond. Goddammit.
I shake my head to clear it from everything except what is important. What am I walking into this time? Another setup against the D’Amato family? Or is this a legitimate bust? And ifit is the real deal, if we have the evidence we need to bring down the D’Amato family, is Lana going to expose me and ruin our case?
Fuck!
