Deep Dark Night Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  About the author

  Dedication

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  66

  67

  68

  69

  70

  71

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  DEEP DARK NIGHT

  Lori Anderson Book Four

  Steph Broadribb

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Steph Broadribb was born in Birmingham and grew up in Buckinghamshire. Most of her working life has been spent between the UK and USA. As her alter ego – Crime Thriller Girl – she indulges her love of all things crime fiction by blogging at crimethrillergirl.com, where she interviews authors and reviews the latest releases. She is also a member of the crime-themed girl band The Splice Girls. Steph is an alumni of the MA in Creative Writing (Crime Fiction) at City University London, and she trained as a bounty hunter in California, which inspired her Lori Anderson thrillers. She lives in Buckinghamshire surrounded by horses, cows and chickens.

  Her debut thriller, Deep Down Dead, was shortlisted for the Dead Good Reader Awards in two categories, was a finalist in the ITW Awards, and hit number one on the UK and AU kindle charts. The sequels, Deep Blue Trouble and Deep Dirty Truth, soon followed suit. My Little Eye (2018) and You Die Next (2019), written under her pseudonym, Stephanie Marland, were then published by Trapeze Books.

  Follow Steph on Twitter @CrimeThrillGirl and on Facebook at facebook.com/CrimeThrillerGirl or visit her website and sign up for her readers’ club: crimethrillergirl.com.

  Also by Steph Broadribb

  Deep Down Dead

  Deep Blue Trouble

  Deep Dirty Truth

  For Nanna,

  with love x

  Prologue

  Sure they knew they shouldn’t go down to the basement.

  It was damp, unsafe, their parents said. And there were rats – a whole bunch of rats. They knew for sure about the rats because they’d seen them with their own eyes. But they’d lived in the neighbourhood their whole lives, and the warnings didn’t make no difference – the place being off limits that way made them want to go down there even more.

  Danger was cool, they thought. They were young and wanted adventure and fun is all – something to give them a break from school and studying and exams. And the tension at home – the anger and the resentment, the frustration and fights.

  And it was huge down there in the basement – a dark space that stretched out the whole way under their apartment building, maybe a whole lot further. They wanted to explore it all, see what was hidden down there in the far corners, inside the mouldy cardboard boxes and shielded underneath those thick plastic-covered stacks. They broke in all the time. Picked the lock if they had to. It was all a part of the thrill.

  This one time, though, something was different.

  They smelled it first.

  Sometimes when they opened the door to the basement and stepped inside, it just smelled of damp cardboard and old, stale air. Every now and again there’d be something else – bleach or some kind of chemicals, a dead rat, a garbage sack forgotten and left to fester rather than getting put out with the rest of the trash. From time to time, when they left they’d leave behind the aroma of the mellow smoke from their joints, or the smell of young bodies experimenting with sex for the first time.

  But on that day, the smell was different. And instinctively, a primal sense within them told them it was bad.

  Still, they didn’t turn back. Because, well, curiosity, you know.

  The five of them huddled closer together; the one with the nickname Hawk in the front, and the one they called Lookie at the back. And they kept on going, scanning the dark void of the basement with their flashlights. No one wanted to be the one to suggest they turn back.

  Every step further, the smell got stronger. Acrid. It clogged in their throats and made their eyes water. And as it did, they figured it was more than one smell – it was like skidding tyres and bonfires and bacon, all mixed up together, but not in a good way.

  They found him a few steps later.

  He was on his knees. Hands roped behind his back.

  His blackened lips were wide. His contorted face twisted mid-scream.

  An old tyre had been hung around his neck. It had gotten damaged by the fire, but it was still intact. The man hadn’t fared so well. He was dead – they could tell that much for sure – nobody could have survived. But who he was once, beneath the burnt, blackened flesh, that they couldn’t tell, at least not right then, anyways.

  Lookie vomited. One of the girls started crying. The rest of them just stood and stared and didn’t know what to do. Hawk – always the bravest of the group – took a few steps closer. Said they needed to call the cops. Give a description. Do the right thing.

  The others were just about to agree.

  Then Hawk began to scream.

  1

  Cloud Gate, Millennium Park, Chicago

  Chicago isn’t a one-mob kind of a place. There’s a whole bunch of them, all vying for the top spot, but the Cabressa crime family – for whom FBI Special Agent Alex Monroe has a major hard-on – has its history written in blood among the bricks and bridges of this windy city.

  But right now there’s no sign of blood or the infamous wind. Here in Millennium Park the sun’s out and the breeze is a gentle whisper. Still, I shiver. In spite of the cloudless sky, fall in Chicago just doesn’t come close to matching the intensity of the Florida heat.

  Beside me the gigantic metal ‘Bean’ sculpture, so called because it’s shaped like a kidney bean laying on its side, towers upwards. It’s way taller than me, many times over, but compared to the size and scale of the buildings in this city it seems kind of like a dollhouse miniature.

  Turning, I scan my surroundings, double-checking I’ve gotten into the right position. Huge skyscrapers rise like glass-and-steel mountains behind me and on both flanks of the park. Ahead of me, dwarfed by the giant buildings all around but determined not to be upstaged, the trees look real fancy in their fall colours of burnt gold, bronze and red. I gaze past them, across the great lawn, to the edge of the park and South Lakeshore Drive. I can’t see it from here, but I know from the map I committed to memory on the way here that just beyond the street lies the shimmering water of Lake Michigan. I exhale. I’m in the right place.

  In the distance, I hear a clock chime. It’s noon. This is the rendezvous point. They were very clear: Millenniu
m Park, twelve o’clock, in front of the Bean, facing towards the lake. The person I’m meeting should be wearing a Chicago Bulls ballcap and carrying a go-cup from Starbucks, but that’s all the intel I have. I scan the people around me – three ladies, clad in bright Lycra shorts and crop tops, jogging, a bald guy walking five dogs of assorted sizes, a couple of families – obvious vacationers from the way they’re pointing at things and stopping to look, and a load of folks walking along the pathways or sitting at the wooden benches eating lunch. At least five of them are wearing Bulls caps, but none is carrying a Starbucks.

  Damn. I need to meet the contact. I have to get this job done.

  I check my watch: near on five after twelve. Turning, I glance at my reflection in the huge mirrored surface of the Bean. Flick my gaze to the right. The reflections of people further from the sculpture are more distorted because of the curving sides, but JT is still easy to pick out – tall and athletic with dirty-blond hair – he’s a little ways across the grass, joining in with a park yoga class. He’s the only one wearing Levi’s.

  You won’t be alone.I’ll be hiding in plain sight, JT had said. And I’m glad he’s here. Because even though I guess there’s more safety in meeting in a busy public place like this, you can never really be safe when you’re waiting on a meeting with a mobster. A mobster who, right now, is late.

  I wonder if they came and didn’t like what they saw. I know how these old crime families tend to be real patriarchal. Could be they took a look at me and decided they didn’t want to do business with a woman. I’ve had that before – a female bounty hunter just isn’t macho enough. It’s dumb-as-a-stump talk, obviously, but you get burned that way a few times and it sure does begin to irritate.

  Or maybe they won’t show. Could be that calling them up cold and telling them I had something Cabressa wants didn’t pique their interest enough. I think of the debt I owe to FBI Special Agent Alex Monroe for helping me out on my last job in Miami, and the fact I’d do just about anything right now to be free of that debt and back home with my daughter, Dakota. I glance again at JT, who’s clumsily attempting a downward-dog yoga pose, and wish that we could have stayed home in Florida, away from the mob, with more time to work through the past decisions that’ve recently come back to haunt us.

  I adjust my weight from foot to foot. Press my palm against the outside of my purse and check that the contents are safe. I feel the curves of the metal object inside and exhale. Hope to hell our plan works out. After what happened just a couple of weeks ago in Miami – me getting caught in the middle of a three-way shoot-out between law enforcement and two fractions of the Miami Mob – I’m not sure I have the stomach for much more violence. But I’m no quitter. This isn’t my first rodeo, and I’m damn sure that it won’t be my last.

  ‘Miss Anderson?’

  Turning as I hear my name, I see a man approaching me from the other side of the Bean. He’s almost as wide as he is high, and in all truth he’s not that short. His Popeye arm muscles look like they’re about to bust clean out of his shirt sleeves, and his thighs are stretching his pants to the max. There’s a red Chicago Bulls ballcap propped on top of his mop of curly black hair. He’s wearing shades, and I’d reckon on him being in his mid-forties. He’s swigging an iced coffee from a Starbucks plastic go-cup.

  My stomach lurches but I keep my voice strong, professional. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m Critten.’ He takes off his shades. ‘I hear you got something you want to tell my boss?’

  His cold blue eyes take a predatory sweep of me, like a shark does a free diver. I hold my ground, square my shoulders and straighten my spine. ‘Sure do.’

  He jerks his head towards the path leading out across the park to the water. ‘Let’s take a walk.’

  I do as he says, and once we reach the pathway I start talking. ‘Like I said on the phone, I’ve got the gold chess pieces from the 1986 Vegas Legends game. Word is your boss is in the market for a set of pieces like that.’

  Critten says nothing, but there’s a muscle pulsing in his neck.

  ‘It’s the full set, all one point three five million dollars’ worth.’ I glance at Critten again – he’s staring straight ahead, giving nothing away. ‘I’ll take eight hundred thousand, and your boss will think you’ve brokered him a real bargain.’

  ‘How do we know you’re for real?’ Critten says. He’s still looking along the path, not making eye contact.

  I scan the people near us, figuring there must be more mob guys around. But there’s no one real obvious, just some parents hand-in-hand with young kids, a couple of joggers with their dogs trotting alongside them, tongues lolling out, and a group of college kids in #NotMyPresident T-shirts, chattering loudly. None of them looks like a threat. Critten, on the other hand, moves his hand to his belt, and as his jacket flaps open, I see the gun at his hip.

  Sliding my hand into my purse I feel the cool, hard metal inside and pull out the proof that I’m not bluffing. I hand it to him. ‘Here, this should convince you.’

  He stops walking and examines the pawn. It looks tiny in the middle of his meaty palm.

  Stopping beside him, I wait. Feel my heart punching faster against my ribs. Trying not to think about his gun, just inches from me, I calculate how long it’d take for me to grab the Taser from my purse and fire it into him, if things turn bad.

  Ten seconds pass, then another twenty, as Critten examines every bit of the pawn. Suddenly there seem to be fewer people around. I notice a man in a sport coat a little ways from us, taking pictures on his cellphone; there are bulges beneath the coat, exactly where a double shoulder holster would hold a pair of guns. As our eyes meet, I look away. Then I see another guy, sitting on a bench, watching us. There’s a gun at his hip, same as Critten. He sees me looking, but he doesn’t glance away. Nor do I. I might be in these boys’ city, but I’m not a woman to back down easy. Let them watch us; I’ve got a job to do.

  A full minute goes by and still Critten doesn’t speak. Like a girl all dressed for prom and standing on the front porch looking out for her date, I’m getting real sick of waiting. My mouth’s as dry as gator hide in the sunshine. Everything hinges on this. I need for Critten to take the bait.

  Finally, he looks at me. ‘Tell me how’d you get this?’

  I act coy. ‘Let’s say I procured it.’

  ‘How?’

  I glance away. Not sure how much to tell, or how much I want to tell. I decide to stay as close to the truth as I can without giving away my involvement with the Feds. ‘I took them from Marcus Searle – the man who butchered your employee and stole them.’

  Critten shrugs. ‘What employee?’

  ‘Patrick Walker, your accountant. I know what happened to him and his family on board the yacht Sunsearcher. I saw the pictures on the news. And I know Searle was behind it and took the pieces.’

  ‘How the hell you know about that?’

  I don’t tell him that I made the discovery when I was on an off-the-books job for the FBI – tracking down the escaped convict, Gibson ‘The Fish’ Fletcher, before he crossed the border into Mexico. And I stay silent on the fact that Gibson had been working for Special Agent Alex Monroe – stealing the chess pieces to facilitate an elaborate sting operation in Chicago – and that messed-up situation, and the one I’m now in, was all due to Monroe’s hard-on for Cabressa. Instead I smile real sweet and say, ‘Word travels fast, especially when the items are high value and blood gets spilled.’

  Critten frowns. ‘Way I heard it, the man who took them ended up dead. You do that?’

  I shake my head. ‘He was already dead when I found him, but the pieces were no place to be seen. I figured if I could find them there’d still be people interested in buying. Your boss is top of that list.’

  ‘We haven’t seen you in our city before.’ Critten narrows his eyes. His fist clenches around the pawn like he’s trying to choke it. ‘Are you with Herron?’

  I shake my head. ‘Herron? I’ve no idea what the hel
l that is.’

  Critten looks unconvinced. ‘So you just a thief then?’

  I stare into his cold, hard eyes. Force myself not to look away. I try not to think how many people have already paid for these chess pieces with their blood, that I must be outside my head to do this job. ‘I don’t work for anyone. I’m more of an opportunist.’

  We stare at each other for a long moment. I hold my breath. The tension makes my stomach flip.

  ‘Okay then,’ says Critten. He thrusts the pawn back into my hand.

  I frown. Confused. ‘Okay?’

  Critten doesn’t reply. Instead he leaves me standing on the path, watching him walk away. For the first time in a long while, I don’t know what to do next.

  They haven’t taken the bait. I’ve blown it.

  I can’t pay my debt to FBI Special Agent Alex Monroe.

  How the hell am I going to get myself free?

  2

  Back at the hotel things are going to hell in a handbasket. JT sits on the narrow desk beside the coffee maker. I remain standing. I’ve filled JT and Monroe in on what happened at the park. Now JT and me are watching Monroe as he paces back and forth across the room. His black suit is crumpled, his tie crooked.

  ‘What the hell – there isn’t a plan B?’ I say. ‘I don’t get it. This was never a dead cert anyways.’

  Monroe shakes his head. Keeps pacing side to side across the room. It’s a nice room in a mid-price chain hotel – big enough for JT and me to remain anonymous but small enough for us to make a quick getaway if we need one. And even though it’s got a decent square footage, with a king bed and a good-sized closet, with all Monroe’s frenetic energy it’s suddenly feeling a whole lot smaller.

  ‘We should go home,’ says JT, running his hand over the dirty-blond stubble on his jaw. ‘No sense staying if they’re not going to play.’