Lynch held the paper out to Bernstein.

“This shit with Hardin and the mob, that went down yesterday early, right?” Lynch said.

Bernstein nodded.

“So who was pulling up surveillance shots before we even knew who we were looking for?”

“Good question,” Bernstein said.

“And what were a couple of goombahs doing with Hardin’s license number and location before we even had it?”

“Could see where that might kinda eat at you,” said Bernstein.

The pound attendant came back down from the office. Lynch had sent him in to run the VIN.

“Got reported stolen up at Old Orchard three days back,” the attendant told them. “Retired couple up in Glenview. Plates are off a junker, scrapped better than a year ago.”

Lynch pulled out his cell and called McCord. “Hey,” Lynch said. “We found your car from South Shore, or at least one of them. You’re gonna have to get some techs over to the pound and process it.”

“Got something for you too,” said McCord. “That pen? Got a hit on the prints. Michael Xavier Griffin. He’s in the DoD database. Marines, 1986 through 1994.Nothing in CID, so he’s been a good boy, far as we know.”

“Sure, except he used to be Michael Griffin and now he’s Nick Hardin. You know a lot of good boys who change their names?”

“Don’t know too many good boys who know how to kill somebody with a pen either,” said McCord.

CHAPTER 25

Hernandez watched out the window of the Gulfstream as it made its descent into DuPage Airport, coming in from the southwest, over the east side of Aurora. From the air, he picked out the parking lot where his brother had died. Where his brother had been killed. The brother he had never avenged.

Sandoval, he was dead. Hernandez had been with the crew that grabbed him, had watched while they used the blowtorch on him, had used the torch himself. He’d cut Sandoval’s throat himself, holding Sandoval’s head up, starring into the one eye he hadn’t burnt out, making sure the cabron’s last vision in this world was Hernandez’s face. He’d learned all there was to learn from Sandoval.

All these years. His brother in the ground all these years, and Griffin alive and breathing somewhere. Hernandez had never stopped looking. Or so he told himself. But was it true?

You forget, just a little, he had to admit that to himself. His power grew. His wealth grew. The complexities of running the business grew. Whole states in Mexico where he was the power as much as the government, more than the government. Distribution networks – into Mexico, into the US. The gangs in the major cities all over America, managing those relationships, trying to keep over-armed teenagers focused on moving his product instead of on their silly imaginary wars with the gang up the street that looked sideways at their girls.

Had he done all he could? Who could know? He had contacts looking all over the world. Every night, before he slept, his last thought was of his brother. And it was in that moment, the night before, that this Lee had called. Griffin’s fingerprints. In Chicago. He’d read through the email package from Lee. The Hardin identity, the murder scene, Corsco’s people involved. Hernandez would talk to Corsco.

The wheels hit the tarmac. Lee would be waiting. Hernandez’s Chicago contacts would be waiting. Soon, very soon, he would be Griffin’s last vision of this world. And by that time, Griffin would be glad to see this world go.

CHAPTER 26

“Is Hernandez on the ground?” Agent Jeanette Wilson asked from the back of the room at the emergency DEA briefing at the Chicago field office.

“Don’t know yet,” said Brad Jablonski, head of Chicago’s DEA field office. “Still sorting through what’s coming in from the CIs. We do know this – he’s got his whole organization on a war footing, and it’s all about finding this Griffin. You guys want to fill us in there?”

Lynch and Bernstein were seated up front. Lynch took the podium.

“We got a hit on a set of fingerprints at a murder down in Area 2 – the South Shore thing down at the old US Steel site, the business with the Corsco soldiers. You’ve all heard about that. Anyway, the fingerprints match those of a Michael Xavier Griffin in the DoD database.” Lynch hit the button to advance the slide show on the screen, a split-screen shot with Griffin’s official Marine photo on one side and screen grab from one of the city cam shots on Columbus on the other. “Griffin was in the Marines from ’86 to ’94, his last six years as a scout/sniper in Force Recon. So he does qualify as a genuine bad ass. You guys already know the story on Hernandez’s kid brother. This Griffin was home on leave, out for dinner with some other guy…” Lynch turned to Bernstein.

“Esteban Sandoval,” said Bernstein.

“Sandoval, right,” Lynch said. “Anyway, Griffin gets in a beef with Tiny Hernandez, that’s Jamie Hernandez’s kid brother. Thing ended up with Tiny and two of his goons DOA – and it was Griffin who killed all three of them.” He hit the advance button again: Sandoval’s driver’s license picture from ’93, and then a crime scene shot from the basement of the crack house on the west side where they’d found his body in March of ’95.”Cops say Sandoval had nothing to do with it, other than he happened to be out with Griffin the night it happened, but I guess that was enough for Hernandez. This is what Hernandez did to Sandoval.” In the back of the room, Jeanette Wilson turned away for just a beat. Surprised Lynch a little. He knew Wilson’s rep. She wasn’t anybody’s idea of a shrinking violet.

“Here’s what else we know,” Lynch continued. “Griffin has been living for almost ten years as Nick Hardin. French national. Been in West Africa pretty much that whole time, some kind of glorified gofer for TV news guys. Between ’94 and the TV gig, we got nothing. Rumor is maybe the Foreign Legion. Which would explain his having a clean French ID. Evidence indicates he was here to see Abraham Stein – got a witness that puts him in Stein’s box the night of his murder. Hardin may have been trying to sell some diamonds, but we don’t have everything on that yet.”

“You like Hardin for the Stein hit?” One of the DEA suits about halfway back.

Lynch shook his head. “Possible, but we don’t think so. Our witness saw Stein alive after Hardin left. Could’ve snuck back in, but it doesn’t feel like it. So we don’t think it was Hardin, Griffin, whoever–”

Jablonski butted in. “Let’s just say Hardin, keep the confusion down.”

Lynch nodded. “So, Hardin. With Stein, it could be diamonds. Don’t know what’s behind the business with Corsco. But whoever shot Stein also killed Beans Garbanzo down at the South Shore site after Hardin had left the scene – left in a different car than the shooter was driving. So again, could it be Hardin, some kind of three-rail shot with multiple vehicles? Could be, but I’d give that about a five percent chance right now. We do know this. Our shooter, Mr .22, whoever he is, he took out an African refugee named Membe Saturday a couple blocks west of the Stadium the same night he shot Stein. So it looks like we got a second party involved here, a shooter with an agenda around Hardin. That’s all we know so far. You guys have any tie in on the narcotics side that might clear any of this up?”

Jablonski blew out a breath. “Hernandez and Corsco, they gotta play ball to some degree. Could be Corsco made a run at this Hardin for Hernandez and blew it. Don’t know what to tell you about the other guy. Anybody got ideas?”

Some general mummers, but nobody ready to put a hand up.

“OK,” said Jablonski. “Work your networks. We got no warrants on Hernandez, but we know how this guy works. If this is about his brother, then he’s gonna be hands- on. So it’s a real chance to take him down hard. I’ll be coordinating with Chicago PD on this, so I want what you got when you got it. We’re putting a BOLO out for Hardin. We get him in the bag, get him to play ball, we got a real leg up. Let’s hit it.”