Page 67 of Deep (Chicago Underground 8)
The older man was faintly perspiring. I was worried he might collapse. “Mr. Murphy,” he said, wheezy.
“The cameras?”
“They’re off. The metal detectors
too. No one will bother you, I made sure of it. I did just like you asked.”
Philip’s voice was almost gentle as he said, “I knew you would.”
“Thank you,” the guard said in a tremulous voice. Tears glistened in his eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Murphy.”
Had they threatened this man? God, he looked like a frail old grandfather. I managed to restrain myself until we had walked away. “What did you do to him?”
“Worried about him?” Philip asked, almost taunting me with it.
“Yes. Why shouldn’t I be? He looked terrified.”
Philip strode over the marble floor and through the metal detector—which didn’t go off—as if he owned the place. And I supposed he did own the place. When you could command the people inside it, when you could come and go as you pleased with a group of trained soldiers, you were the true owner.
“He was terrified,” Philip said, “especially when his oldest son crossed the Cavallero family. If they couldn’t find him, they’d have killed the entire family just to make a point. He has a daughter.”
I blinked, trying to take in this side of him—this Philip who did good deeds for people in the city, the same way he did for me. A kind of underworld protector who saved not quite innocent fish from the evil sharks in the water. “You saved her?”
Philip reached up to caress the back of my neck. Then his hand squeezed and he pulled me close. His mouth was an inch from my ear. “I saved her,” he whispered, “by handing her brother over the Cavallero’s so they didn’t have to look for him. They were appreciative. I earned a favor from them that day—and one from the old man outside too.”
A chill ran through me. So he had sent a man to his death. But he’d saved innocent lives in the process, hadn’t he? It all felt dirty to me, especially the fact that he had used that favor to break into a city courthouse to do God knew what. To find out who was pulling the strings, but I didn’t know exactly what that would entail.
Honorable Judge Lawrence Alonso, read a placard outside an office. Inside there were three separate desks—for secretaries and paralegals, maybe. All empty. They had been vacated as part of Philip’s preplanning to come here, maybe the same way that he’d swayed the security guard to let us in unseen.
Philip opened a heavy wooden inner door, half blocking me with his large body. I couldn’t see around him, could only hear an older man’s voice protesting, “Hey, you can’t come in here. Who do you think you—”
There must have been some kind of signal. Or was this all choreographed ahead of time?
Either way, something changed in an instant. The men who had been trailing behind us, quiet and watchful, suddenly sprang into action. They charged past Philip and entered the room, heading straight for the desk. The office was spacious, clearly luxurious with wood paneling and an elaborate rug on the floor, but the armed men overwhelmed the large space.
Marcus dragged the man out from behind the desk by the lapels of his suit, hopelessly crushing and tearing the fabric in his iron grip.
The judge gasped and growled with frightened indignation. “How dare you? Do you know who I am?”
Philip took a small step forward, and that was their cue—the men tossed the judge onto the floor like a sack of garbage. He tumbled and cried out in pain as his knee twisted. He landed awkwardly on his ass in the middle of a rug that probably cost as much as a car.
The judge glared up at Philip, clearly struggling to maintain his bravado. “You have no right.”
“I have every right,” Philip said, almost mild in tone. His relaxed manner was in sharp contrast to the judge’s bristling anger and fear. “When a judge signs an illegal warrant, I have a right to know why.”
“Illegal?” A trembling sneer. “How dare you question me? How would you know—”
“It’s my business to know the law,” Philip said. “Just like it’s yours. And I know as well as you do that the warrant is bunk, that the arrest would never stand. There isn’t enough evidence. There isn’t any evidence. No judge would have granted it based on its merits, so you must have had another reason. What was it?”
“Now see here. If you’re so sure it wouldn’t hold up, why not arrange a meeting with the DA?”
“Is that what you wanted?” Philip asked calmly. “For me to settle this calmly and peaceably and no one would ever have to know about the bribes you took.”
“Bribes?” he gasped. “I would never—”
“The fact remains that someone wanted to see me in handcuffs. They wanted me incapacitated, unable to protect what is mine.” He sent me a meaningful look, and the judge seemed to notice me there for the first time.
The judge’s eyes widened as if suddenly more afraid by the presence of a young woman than by dangerous men. “You brought someone here? She’ll tell. How are you going to keep this quiet now?”
