Free Deadfall by Patricia H. Rushford

his killer used the saw to send a message loud and clear.”
    â€œYeah, like, ‘Cross me and you get the saw.’ ”
    â€œOr something worse.” Kevin sighed. “If we’re right and this guy is a con, his list of enemies could be a mile long. I’m gonna let you take the lead on this one, Mac.”
    Kevin looked tired and distant. Not that being tired was a problem, but Kevin’s weariness, accompanied by Mac’s own instincts, set Mac on edge. “You feeling okay, Kev?”
    â€œWhat?” Kevin fiddled with the crease in his slacks. “Oh, yeah. Fine.”
    The set in his jaw told Mac to butt out. Fine. If Kevin didn’t want to talk, Mac wouldn’t ask. Still, it hurt to think that the friendship they’d developed these past few months meant so little to him. Mac’s thinking took an abrupt turn. What if Kevin had somehow found out about Mac’s family history?
    Mac glanced over at him. That might explain the surliness. Had Eric, Kevin’s former partner and Mac’s cousin, told Kevin about the McAllister family tree? Mac’s father, Jamie McAllister, had been a dirty cop and a drunk. He’d left his wife and Mac when Mac was a kid. Worse though was Mac’s namesake, Antonio: the mobster who thought he could rule Chicago. He did too, for a while. He had the mayor and most of the other politicians in his back pocket.
    My past shouldn’t matter,Kevin, he wanted to say. I’m clean. I put myself through school. I never touched a dime of Antonio’s money.
    That wasn’t quite true. As a kid, Mac had been placed in a private Catholic school and given all he needed by his grandmothers, Dottie DiAngelis and Kathryn McAllister. But getting into college was another matter. Antonio had expected him to become a lawyer and join the family business. Antonio had insisted on sending Mac to Harvard, but Mac chose a different path: law enforcement. Though he hadn’t been the one to take down the old man, he applauded those who had.
    MAC AND KEVIN ARRIVED at the twelfth floor of the Justice Center in downtown Portland in less than fifteen minutes. They walked into the reception area of the state police forensic lab.
    â€œAnybody home in latents?” Kevin asked the receptionist.
    â€œWell, hello yourself, Kevin, Mac. I’m doing fine, thanks for asking.”
    â€œSorry, Sarah. We’re looking to identify the murder victim from last night.”
    â€œOh, yeah,” she grimaced. “Heard about that. Let me check.”
    She dialed a three-digit extension. “Hey, Pete. Mac and Kevin are here looking to talk with you. Okay, thanks.” She turned back to the detectives. “Go on back. Pete’s in the latent print office.”
    The Portland crime lab looked like a business office, filled with cubicles and work stations. The first tip-off that dozens of forensic scientists worked in the building were the wall hangings that depicted photographs of detectives from days gone by processing their crime scenes. The enlarged black-and-white photos showed stern-faced men wearing thin ties and fedoras, using what was then state-of-the-art equipment to catch criminals in the 1930s and ’40s. “Things have changed a bit since then,” Kevin said to Mac while they walked back to the latent examiner section.
    â€œNo kidding.” Mac chuckled. “Do you still have your hat?”
    â€œThat picture was a little before my time, smarty, but a lot of the methods are still the best in my book.” Kevin was sounding a little perturbed again, so Mac let it drop.
    â€œHey, guys.” A slight man in a white lab coat looked up from his papers when Mac and Kevin walked in the ID office.
    â€œHi, Pete.” Mac stepped inside the spacious room. “Sorry about coming in unannounced, but we lifted some prints from a murder victim at the post this morning and were hoping to get a name from you.”
    â€œSure.