LITMIR.BIZ

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in the morning news.

      Luckily, Violet’s diligent search of area newspapers had paid off with a photo of Jade Summers—the very-much-alive twin sister of the murder victim—standing next to her beau, Deputy U.S. Marshal Micah McGraw. In the forefront of the picture sat swarms of preschoolers watching a clown at the library where Jade worked. The kids were cute, but Violet was only interested in the woman at the marshal’s side. Slender frame, expressive eyes and a crown of russet hair that swept over her shoulders. At least now, Violet knew what Jade’s murdered twin—Ruby Summers—had looked like.

      Inserting her flash drive into her home laptop, Violet pulled up the file containing Carlie Donald’s autopsy report—acquired through another contact.

      …remains of a slender female…cause of death strangulation…abrasions and contusions of the anterior neck…no foreign materials evident beneath the fingernails…graphite noted on the right hand…froth in the trachea and bronchi…

      Closing her eyes, Violet tried to block out the details playing through her mind. Her day had started early with a five-mile run before church. She had spent the afternoon working on the story, which had stretched the long day into an even longer night.

      Right now, she needed to go to bed and forget about the two Mafia hits in-state since the New Year. And it was only February. Most folks believed bad luck came in threes. So, who would be the next to die?

      Life was sacred, and those who preyed on the weak needed to be apprehended and brought to justice. If the police couldn’t handle the job, Violet would.

      Her cell rang. She glanced at her watch—twelve-fifteen—and reached for her phone, noting the caller’s Chicago area code. “Kramer.”

      “It’s Gwyn.”

      “I planned to check online in case you left a message,” Violet said. The informant had told her never to phone lest her boyfriend—a mobster who worked with the Martino family—answer the call.

      “Angelo’s away for the night. I bought one of those nontraceable cell phones. Wanted you to know the latest.”

      Violet’s stomach tightened, hearing the wariness in Gwyn’s voice. “You’re okay, aren’t you?”

      “Angelo’s acting strange. He said everyone’s on edge. Vincent Martino’s making changes. Angelo knew where he stood when the old don, Salvatore, was in charge. With Vincent, things aren’t so clear. Angelo said the new don has to prove himself to his father before Salvatore dies. Somehow it involves those women who were killed in Montana.”

      Just as long as Gwyn didn’t get hurt.

      Although Violet had never met her informant in person, she and Gwyn had connected online a little over a year ago when Violet had researched a possible story lead on the mob. She’d never completed the story, but the mobster’s girlfriend had kept in touch, providing more and more insider information. With Violet’s encouragement, Gwyn had recently admitted she wanted to make a new life for herself free from Angelo and the mob.

      “Some of the capos are upset,” Gwyn said. “Evidently, the hit men went after the wrong women.”

      “You mean, Ruby Summers Maxwell and Carlie Donald weren’t supposed to die?”

      “The target was someone else. A gal named Eloise Hill. At least that’s what Angelo heard. She testified against Salvatore years ago.”

      “And Vincent wants her dead to gain favor with his ailing father?”

      “Vincent lacks Salvatore’s charisma. Some say he’s more interested in women than in running the organization.”

      “Can you find out more about Eloise for me? And let me know if any other women are being targeted?”

      “I’ll see what I can do.” Pulling in a deep breath, Gwyn continued. “Remember Cameron Trimble, that sleazy pimp I told you about?”

      “The guy who’s in the hospital?”

      “That’s right. He’ll be laid up awhile thanks to the undercover cop you know.”

      A rush of warmth fluttered over Violet’s midsection. “You mean, Clay West? We met a couple times, that’s all.”

      “Whatever.” Gwyn paused for a moment. “You called him, didn’t you?”

      “Three nights ago. I thought he’d tell me something new about the shake-up in the Martino family.”

      “Did you…?” Gwyn’s voice hitched. “Did you mention my name?”

      “Of course not. I promised you the first time you contacted me that I’d never divulge your identity. I told Clay I’d heard his cover had been compromised, that’s all.”

      “No one’s upset about Cameron getting hurt. What they’re upset about is your cop friend infiltrating a portion of the mob operation. Evidently, Clay West was after the guy who runs prostitution in the city. The cops had a sting planned that would have exposed him.”

      “So because Clay went after Cameron, the cops lost their opportunity and had to back off?”

      “That’s right. Now the mob’s worried Cameron might talk. The family sent in one of their high-power lawyers who plans to have the pimp sue for damages. A concussion, three cracked ribs and a broken jaw constitute police brutality. At least that’s the argument the lawyer will use.”

      Violet hated hearing about any law-enforcement officer shoving his weight around, but Clay West didn’t seem the type to lose his cool. There had to be more to the story.

      “What about that feature you’re writing?” Gwyn asked. “You said it would be picked up by papers across the country. The mob would be forced to lay low for a while, which would give me a chance to make my break from Angelo.”

      “An overview of the story is on my editor’s desk. I’m hoping he’ll give me the go-ahead soon. As I’ve told you before, Gwyn, if there’s any way I can help you, just let me know.”

      Once Gwyn had disconnected, Violet placed the phone back on the cradle. The main obstacle keeping the story from print would be her editor. Stu was more interested in local news than what was happening in Chicago. Hopefully, the tie-in with two in-state murders would make the difference.

      Three nights ago, Violet had called Clay, hoping he would provide additional information to beef up her submission. But instead of helping, he’d accused her of being an idealist. Not the worst name in the books but her spine had stiffened when he threw naive into the mix. Déjà vu of what he’d told her two years ago in Chicago.

      Of course, back then, she had been naive and foolish. Closing down her computer, Violet smiled at her own audacity the night she’d stopped by the hole-in-the-wall Chicago bar and grill some of the Martino soldiers had been known to frequent. Luckily, God had been watching out for her.

      Instead of the Mafia, she’d found Clay. Scruffy beard. Unkempt hair. Piercing black eyes. The guy in the corner had “don’t mess with me” written all over him, along with rugged good looks that made him impossible to forget.

      He’d stopped by her table long enough to warn her she was out of her element and to hightail it back to safer parts of the city. A hardcore Mafia-type wouldn’t have worried about her safety. The concern she heard in his voice had said more than words.

      Putting the investigational skills she’d learned in journalism school to the test, she’d come upon an old photo of the graduating class at the Illinois Police Academy. The too-considerate mobster was none other than Detective Clay West.

      Once she had a name, she learned he’d married young and divorced soon thereafter. His ex had died a few years later. The handsome cop fought crime with as much passion as Violet had searching the Internet for clues to the mob’s corrupt control.

      Realizing the wealth of information an undercover cop could provide if they teamed up, Violet had staked out the grill and tried

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