Billy counted six men. Twelve had entered the brownstone.
“Crowley, how we doin’?” he called into his radio.
“Main level clear. Fenton took care of the only two goons.”
“Sosh, the top floor?”
“All clear. Only one up here’s the manager.”
Twelve men had entered the brownstone, not including the three oafs they had subdued. They weren’t upstairs or on the main floor. So where were they?
Then he noticed another door in the corner of the room.
BILLY PUSHED THE door open. It was thick, as was the wall—more soundproofing, he figured. It would make sense for a sex club … or whatever the hell this was.
He walked into a long hallway with three doors on each side.
Six more men to find, six bedrooms.
He signaled Sosh, Katie, and some uniforms into the hallway, everyone taking a door. Everyone with guns drawn, the detectives with their stars hanging from their necks.
Billy gave a nod, and all at once, six members of the Chicago Police Department kicked in six different doors.
“Police—don’t move!” Billy said, entering a dark room illuminated only by the glow of the street lamp outside. He saw movement on a bed. He flicked on the light and yelled his command again. Two people scrambling to cover themselves, naked, the man on top of the woman. But unarmed. They posed no threat, other than to their own dignity.
> The woman looked young. Very young. Possibly underage.
The man was three times her age.
“On the floor! Both of you! Facedown on the floor.”
They complied. Billy cuffed the man behind his back. “Miss, how old are you?”
“Twenty-two,” she said, her voice shaky.
He didn’t really want to, but he cuffed her as well. “You’re twenty-two like I’m the king of Spain. And you, sir, what’s your name?”
“What?”
“What is your name, sir?”
“My name is … John Barnes.”
Billy squatted down next to him. “John Barnes, you say?”
“Yes … yes.”
“Okay. My mistake. For a minute there I thought you were Archbishop Phelan. But this city’s highest-ranking member of my church wouldn’t be soliciting a prostitute. Especially one who, it seems to me, is underage. Because that’s worse than a prostitution beef. That’s statutory rape.”
“Oh, no. Oh, God. Oh, God, help me …”
“Yeah, so good thing you’re John Barnes instead.”
Billy backed up and peeked out into the hallway. By now it was filled with police. He motioned over a uniform to secure his room.
Detective Soscia, stepping out of another room, nodded to Billy. “The mayor wants to speak with the man in charge,” he said, a smile spreading across his face.
Billy popped his head inside. The mayor, Francis Delaney, was sitting upright against the bed, a sheet wrapped around his waist, his hands cuffed behind him, what remained of the hair atop his head sticking nearly straight up. His ruddy complexion was flushed, maybe from the sex but more likely from the humiliation that was quickly enveloping him.