Page 87 of Ricochet

Cox stared at the sign inside the skinny stairwell to the apartment above Devil’s Pointe Bar. Apartment For Rent had been scribbled in large black letters onto a poster, nailed over the chipped and peeling paint of the wall.

“Empty apartment.” Cox shook his head, the irritation simmering inside of him flexing his fingers with the urge to punch something. “This asshole better not be leading us on some goddamn goose chase, or someone’s head’ll fuckin’ roll.”

“Want me to grab the owner, Chief?”

Burke’s ignorance had Cox rubbing a hand down his face, as he began his ascent up the stairs. “No. I don’t want you to get the fuckin’ owner.”

Newbie cops often made the mistake of thinking police could tread anywhere they wanted in the city. A rookie mistake. Some communities had their own laws, their own ways of dealing with law enforcement, and the neighborhoods that bordered Hamtramck happened to be a few of those places. Made of up of mostly Polish, they were a tight community with long-standing roots, and the Bojanskis were like the goddamn prom kings. Their connections could rival the mayor’s, and busting into their property, even with a search warrant, was enough to get a man killed.

Waving a hand, Cox signaled Burke and Corley to follow him to the upper level. Like most bars of Poletown—as it was commonly referred to—Devil’s Pointe was small, probably a maximum capacity of fifty people, if that, and something of a watering hole for the community. Only a single apartment stood above the bar, where it’s previous owner probably lived. No way in hell the Bojanskis lived in the shithole. The two brothers made more money than the whole damn neighborhood, combined.

“Where’s Riley? Thought this was his gig?” Burke asked, the heavy thud of his boots on each step toying with Cox’s edgy nerves.

Christ, Cox would probably have to kill Burke and Corley, if they stumbled upon the same shit he had at The Palms.

“Said something came up.” In truth, Cox had given him an ultimatum—stay back, or risk getting picked up on his way home from work some night and dropped off the end of a pier into the Detroit River. The eager bastard was still convinced that Achilleus X and the Eye for an Eye killer were connected, and Cox didn’t need the nosey agent dipping his hands into shit and stumbling upon something Cox had every intention of keeping under wraps. Besides that, Michael Culling and all his political connections would back the Chief on the threat—which meant the mellow son of a bitch could easily lose his cozy pot-smoking job.

The growing need to identify the little prick behind the murders—the one who’d made it clear he was next—had consumed Cox to the extent that he didn’t give a shit if Culling didn’t back him up. He needed to find the killer before the killer found him. Any longer, and Cox’d be shitting sticks of dynamite, with as many Nitro pills as he’d taken. If it meant taking out an intrusive FBI agent along the way, so be it.

The numbers still remained a mystery, too. With each member of the Seven Mile Crew getting snuffed, it didn’t take a genius to know it had something to do with The Cullings and Devil’s Night. But what did that have to do with him?

All three men climbed higher up the stairs, the search warrant tucked inside Burke’s back pocket.

“That’s weird,” Burke sneered, a wheeze of air confessing he was out of breath as they continued to climb. “Major case breaking here and the asshole … what? Had a fucking hair appointment he couldn’t miss?”

Cox kicked open the apartment door. “I didn’t ask.” Gun cocked, Cox made his way in first. Muscles tense, he prepared to blow away the first bastard that came into view.

Voices spoke from another room, and pausing, he straightened his stance and concentrated on the sound. Like laughter, maybe? He motioned Burke and Corley to keep quiet and padded across the room to the bedroom door. Muffled tones bled through the wood, and he kicked in the second door, gun aimed at a mostly empty room, aside from a table where a laptop had been set.

After a quick sweep of the vacant space, Cox approached the dark screen, where what sounded like a news report played over another video. He tugged a pair of gloves from his coat, donned them quickly, then swiped the mousepad. A box popped up, requesting a password.

“What d’you think his password is?” Cox stared down at the keys, mind swimming with what to type first.

“Ten thirty?” Burke’s voice arrived from beside him.

Cox pecked the numbers slowly. Carefully. The box disappeared, and the screen opened to two videos playing simultaneously on loop. One showed a news report and Pulitzer Prize winning journalist-turned-drunk, Bill Warden, talking about a murder on Theodore Street. Another appeared to be some kind of home video, only about ten seconds long, with a boy and a woman talking to the camera. In it, she smiled, while whispering into the boy’s ear, and the boy laughed, tipped his head back and said, “Go get ‘em, Daddy!”

“Damn.” Arms crossed, Burke shook his head as he watched the video. “Looks like the whole damn family was killed. I don’t remember this one, do you, Chief?”

“Nah,” Cox lied. “No idea who they are.”

“I do.” Hands on his hips, Corley sniffed, eyes glued to the screen before they flicked to Cox. “I remember them real well.”

Anger bubbled in Cox’s gut. Corley had been assigned to investigate the case a while back. The snooping bastard once tried to probe a little too deep into Cox’s affairs, an act that got Corley subtly demoted. Cox would’ve fired the self-righteous little cocksucker, too, if he hadn’t been second generation cop and son to the highly respected Chief who’d preceded Cox. Firing him would’ve sparked a mutiny, and worse, a visit from Internal Affairs.

Cox cocked his head toward where Corley stood. “What’s this guy’s name again?”

“Nick … Ryder. That’s his wife, Lena. The boy is his son, James,” Corley added, stoking the ire burning in Cox’s gut.

Pieces came together. Ryder. Theodore Street. Devil’s Night. The Culling.

Hell, Cox could hardly remember the details, except that he’d given the green light to Julius Malone, who’d broken into a family’s house, wreaking havoc. What the fuck made them do it, Cox didn’t know. Could’ve been a primitive savagery ingrained in the little bastards, or they may have been pissed off for getting stiffed on the last deal they’d made with Culling, where two of their guys had gotten shot in a drug bust gone bad. A dead family would’ve sabotaged Culling’s public support for more aggressive measures to curb the city’s out-of-control crime rate. The deaths had to be covered up and brushed under the rug. That was the last time Culling tapped the Crew for a job, and over time, they eventually disbanded, hiding out from the enemies they’d made along the way.

“Can I help you, gentlemen?”

The raspy voice from behind jolted Cox’s muscles, and he twisted to a group of three men in white shirts and black slacks. Standing in the doorway, all of them stared intently back.

“We’ve got a warrant,” Burke said, stepping toward the men like he couldn’t possibly be filled with lead in the next breath