Hard Bitten - Chloe Neill [88]
I hated the anticipation of violence.
I stopped beside the house’s black plastic mailbox. The red flag was raised, but I resisted the urge to open the box and see what he was mailing out. I had enough problems without adding mail tampering to the list.
Cermak’s garage was dark, as was the top floor of the house. The first floor glowed with light. The security door was open; the screen door was closed.
“Start with the garage,” I murmured, tiptoeing through the grass on the far side of the lot. The driveway, such as it was, consisted of two thin lines of concrete, just enough to give a car tire a bit of protection from the mud. I stuck to the grass to muffle the sound of my boots. While I planned to knock on the front door at some point, I wanted to check out the lay of the land first, and that required sneakiness.
The garage was narrow, an old style with a pull-up door and a row of windows across the top. I pulled out my flashlight, twisted it on, and peeked inside.
A thrill shot through me.
A gleaming Mustang was parked inside, the same car we’d seen on the security feed—a coupe with white racing stripes and the telltale Mustang side scoops. The car was gorgeous. Whatever Cermak’s problems, I couldn’t fault his taste in vehicles.
I snapped an image with my camera phone, and considered the “confirm vehicle” box checked. Next stop, the house.
I crossed the lawn and headed for the small concrete porch. A television show from the eighties—complete with laugh track—blared through the screen door.
When I reached the porch, I wrapped my left hand around my sword handle, squeezing it for comfort. I could see through the house to the kitchen and the avocado green stove and refrigerator. The house inside was simply decorated with motel-style furniture. Plain and thrifty, but serviceable.
“Can I help you?”
I blinked when a man stepped up to the door—the man from the Temple Bar video. He wore a Yankees sweatshirt that had seen better days and a pair of well-worn jeans. He smiled, revealing a mouthful of straight, white teeth. And he might have lived in Chicago, but the accent was all New York.
I decided to get to the point. “Paulie Cermak?”
“You got him,” he said, head tilted to the side as he took in my features . . . and then my sword. “You’re Merit.”
He must have seen the surprise in my eyes, as he chuckled. “I know who you are, kid. I watch television. And I expect I know why you’re here.” He flipped the lock on the screen door and pulled it open a little. “You wanna come in?”
“I’m good where I am.” I might have been curious, but I wasn’t stupid. I’d rather stay out here with the city at my back than willingly go into the home of a suspect.
He let the door shut again and crossed his arms on the other side of it. “In that case, why don’t we get to it? You were looking for me—now you found me. What do you want with me?”
“You’ve spent some time at Temple Bar lately.”
“That a question or a statement?”
“Since we both know you parked your car outside the bar, let’s say it’s a statement.”
He shrugged negligently. “I’m a small businessman, just trying to make my way in the world.”
“What’s your business, Mr. Cermak?”
He smiled grandly. “Community relations.”
“Is Wrigleyville the relevant community?”
Paulie rolled his eyes. “Kid, I got interests all over this city.”
All these questions, and I was beginning to feel like a cross between a cop and an investigative reporter—with none of the credentials or authority. “Is it any coincidence that you start popping up outside Temple Bar and a new drug hits the streets?”
“In case you ain’t already aware, the men and women in blue have been through my house from top to bottom. You imply that I’ve been distributing drugs, but don’t you think they would have found something if I had been?”
I sized him up for a moment. “Mr.