Massacre

by Steven Henry

  “I think that’s it for now.”

  “Then I’m thinking it’s time for that drink I offered you when you came in.”

  Erin smiled. “Sorry. Still on duty.”

  “Erin, it’s past eight. How long have you been working?”

  “It’s my day off, so I didn’t exactly clock in. But I’m not done yet. At least I’m used to working nights.”

  “I live by night, too, as you’re well aware. Perhaps I’ll see you later on? I can come by your flat, if you’re wanting a bit more peace and quiet than you’d find hereabouts.”

  “That’d be nice.”

  “When should I drop by?”

  “I’ll call you.” She didn’t bother to ask if he’d still be up. He usually went to bed well after midnight.

  “That reminds me,” he said. “I’ve a new number.”

  Erin fished out her phone and pulled up his contact info. He was listed on her device as “CI” for “Confidential Informant,” with no other identifying information. Cautious man that he was, he insisted on changing burner phones every couple of weeks. On top of that, she knew he kept a couple of clean phones nearby for extra-sensitive business.

  “Some people might think you were a little paranoid,” she said, replacing the old phone number and saving the update.

  “Aye, they might,” he said. “But I’d remind them I’m an old gangster. That’s a mark of distinction. There are a great many young gangsters. The mathematics speak for themselves. You want to talk about paranoia? I’m living on top of a public house. The Corner was a speakeasy back in the Prohibition days, did you know?”

  “I didn’t,” she said with a smile. “But it doesn’t surprise me. You’re carrying on the old bootlegger tradition?”

  “Aye. They operated out of the cellar. Secret passages and the like, all manner of subterfuge. There’s even a hidden entrance to the building.”

  “How mysterious,” she said with a grin. It actually was kind of romantic, now that she thought about it. “I’ll give you a ring.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  Carlyle was right. It was late, and Erin had no wish to go back to the office, but this wasn’t an ordinary evening. A gangland shootout that left multiple bodies and a burnt-out building was going to get a lot of attention. Until they cleared the case, they’d all be working whenever they could.

  Erin tried to muster up her usual enthusiasm for the chase. Rolf was on board with the plan, eager and energetic, but what she really wanted was to go home and relax on the couch. A glass of Carlyle’s top-shelf whiskey in her hand, Carlyle giving her shoulders a massage with his gentle, clever fingers, and some soft music on the stereo sounded a lot better than doing detective grunt-work all night.

  “But that’s the job we’ve signed up for,” she said to her partner. Rolf cocked his head and perked his ears, giving her a quizzical expression. Of course this was what he’d signed up for. No question.

  So back to the precinct they went. Erin parked her Charger in the underground garage and took the elevator up to the second-floor Major Crimes office.

  The doors opened on semi-organized chaos. She’d expected activity, but this was something else. Uniformed officers swarmed around the desks, with a sprinkling of plainclothes detectives, most of them strangers. She saw a cluster of guys wearing DEA jackets near the windows, a couple of FBI guys hanging around outside Captain Holliday’s office, and some other Feds at Webb’s desk talking to Vic and the Lieutenant. Among them, she saw a familiar face.

  “Agent Johnson,” she said, coming up behind him. “I didn’t know Homeland was interested in this.”

  Paul Johnson, Homeland Security, turned toward her with a friendly smile. “Detective O’Reilly!” he said, offering his hand. “Glad you’re with us. Your partner, too,” he added, winking at Rolf.

  Erin shook hands gladly enough. Agent Johnson, unlike too many other Feds, believed in genuine cooperation between agencies. He’d been helpful in stopping a terrorist plot the previous year. But she didn’t understand why Homeland would be here now.

  “We were tracking a person of interest,” Johnson said. “I was just filling in your commanding officer. Most of the details are classified..."

  “Naturally,” Vic interjected.

  “…but I can tell you he’s associated with an organization of particular interest to my agency,” Johnson finished, ignoring the interruption.

  “Conti’s a terrorist?” Erin said incredulously. “He was Mafia.”

  “Conti?” Johnson repeated. “Who’s Conti? Oh, right, one of your victims. I’m not talking about him.”

  “You got an ID on someone else who was there?” Vic asked.

  “Diego Rojas.”

  “That’s not an Italian name,” Webb observed.

  “He’s Colombian,” Johnson said. “Or he was. I suspect he’s no longer living. I need to confirm his death. Then I’ll be out of your hair.”

  “But he was in the restaurant?” Webb asked.

  Johnson nodded. “We had intel he would be meeting with someone there today.”

  “What about?” Webb asked.

  “We don’t know. Probably some sort of narcotics deal.”

  “Since when does Homeland Security give a shit about the War on Drugs?” Vic asked. “Aren’t you too busy losing the War on Terror?”

  “One war at a time,” Johnson agreed good-naturedly. “And I could say you’re not doing much better with the drugs. But the Black Falcons, the group Rojas represents, occupy a gray area. They’re a paramilitary organization that finances itself with the drug trade. They’re not terrorists, technically, but we’re keeping an eye on them just in case.”

  “I hope we can get you your guy,” Webb said.

  “I hope not,” Johnson said ruefully. “We’ve been hoping Rojas would lead us to other contacts, helping us develop a sense of the Falcons’ reach in America. Instead, we’ve got a dead end. So to speak.”

  “We’re not going to be pulling any live bodies out of the scene,” Webb agreed. “FDNY is still trying to sort out the count.”

  “In the meantime, what can you tell us about Rojas?” Erin asked. “I know, I know, it’s mostly classified. But there has to be something.”

  “We think he’s a negotiator with the Falcons,” Johnson said. “We know he brokered deals with drug dealers in Miami and Tampa last year. That’s why he was so valuable to us. We wanted to let him run loose for a while, see who he led us to.”

  “That explains the DEA,” Vic said, pointing a thumb at the agents at the window. “Give those guys a sniff of heroin, it gives ‘em all hard-ons, especially interstate operations.”

  “We got NYPD Narcos here, too?” Erin asked Webb.

  He nodded. “They’re talking to the Captain in his office.”

  “You talk to Holliday?” she asked.

  “Only for a minute,” Webb said. “There’s a line around the block to talk to him. This one’s got all kinds of pressure. It’s not as bad as the City Center thing last year, but you know how it goes.”

  “Shit rolls downhill,” Vic said sourly.

  “The Captain gave me two sentences,” Webb said. “He said, and I quote, ‘Get these guys. Anything you need, I’ll get it for you.’”

  “Unlimited overtime,” Vic said. “That’s the first good news today. I’ve been looking at a PS4 for my man cave.”

  “Vic,” Erin said. “How big is your apartment?”

  “It’s a studio.”

  “How can you have a man cave in a one-room apartment?”

  He shrugged. “It’s pretty much all cave. With a bed in the corner.”

  “I’m surprised you don’t sleep on the floor. You got a kitchen, or do you eat your meals raw?”

  “I’ll talk to my people,” Johnson said, steering the conversation back to the case. “We’ll have to redact the file a little, but I’ll send you what I can. If you can let me know as soon as you ID the bodies?”

  “Will do,” Webb sa
id. He shook hands with the agent, who turned to go, accompanied by a pair of silent, black-suited fellow agents.

  “That takes care of Homeland Security,” Vic said, once they’d left. “Don’t you feel more secure, knowing they’re here?”

  “They don’t care about this case,” Erin said. “They just care about their guy.”

  “It’s interesting, though,” Webb said thoughtfully. He turned to Erin. “What were you able to find out from your CI?”

  “Not a whole lot,” she said. “I did hear Conti was a player in the heroin market.”

  “Sounds like he may have been making a deal with this Rojas character,” Webb said.

  “Maybe someone didn’t want the deal to go through,” she replied.

  “Or it was an unrelated hit on Rojas. Or Conti. Or both.” Vic frowned.

  “I’m going to meet with another contact tomorrow, or maybe the day after,” she said. “Maybe he can tell me more.”

  “Good,” Webb said. “We don’t want a drug war breaking out here. It’ll be just like the Eighties with crack.”

  “I was in grade school in the Eighties,” Erin reminded him.

  “And I was in Los Angeles,” he replied. “I was a new boot, a rookie fresh out of the Academy, working Patrol. We picked up a lot of bodies back in those days.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Vic said. “You were never a boot. You’ve always been a middle-aged gumshoe.”

  “Neshenko,” Webb said, looking at him as if he’d just remembered he was there. “Don’t you have some use-of-force paperwork to fill out?”

  Vic muttered something unintelligible.

  “Care to repeat that?”

  “I said, doesn’t the high profile of this case take priority over routine paperwork, sir?”

  Erin was pretty sure that wasn’t what Vic had said the first time.

  “Good point,” Webb said. “This is a high-profile investigation, which means there’ll be more than the usual scrutiny. Which means someone will wonder exactly what Detective Neshenko was shooting at in that burning building.”

  “I’ll get on the paperwork,” Vic growled, slouching off to his desk like an oversized scolded schoolboy.

  “The Captain’s going to give a statement to the press in time for the ten o’ clock news,” Webb said to Erin. “It won’t be anything substantial.”

  “Our investigation is ongoing?” Erin guessed. “No effort will be spared, et cetera?”

  “Something like that. He’s doing high-level liaison work with all these alphabet agencies. I need to coordinate manpower on the ground. You need any bodies? I can throw some Patrol cops your way.”

  “I need a Narcotics detective,” she said. “Someone who knows Little Italy.”

  “I’ll talk to SNEU,” Webb said.

  “I actually know a guy there,” she said.

  Webb raised his eyebrows. “Really? How?”

  “We did some stuff together,” Erin said. She didn’t want to explain she’d done an extracurricular drug bust in February. Her reasons for evading the question were that she hadn’t gotten Webb’s permission, or even informed him, and a guy had been murdered over it immediately afterward. She hadn’t gotten him killed, not directly, but it was weighing on her conscience.

  “I have to say, for a cop who’s been a gold shield less than a year, you’ve got a pretty good network set up,” he said. “By all means, call your guy. I’ll give you any top cover you need. I can probably get him detailed to you, at least for a while.”

  “That might be helpful,” she said. “He’s got a good team. But right now I just need to pick his brain.”

  “Pick away. Is this guy a street officer?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s fortunate. Sensible people are home and getting ready for bed. He may still be working. Drop him a line, we’ll see if we can get him in here.”

  Chapter 4

  “Detective O’Reilly. Get bored behind that desk of yours?”

  “Sergeant Logan,” Erin said, standing up and offering her hand.

  The Street Narcotics Enforcement Unit man grinned and shook with her. He was dressed for work, which meant jeans, sneakers, and a T-shirt topped with a beat-up leather jacket. He looked around the room at the representatives of various city and Federal agencies.

  “I get why these guys are here,” he said. “Why me? I got a buy and bust going down in an hour. Piekarski’s gonna kick my ass if I’m not there.”

  “You outrank Piekarski,” she reminded him.

  He shrugged. “In the office, sure. On the street, depends on the situation. We got a saying in SNEU: a beat cop on the move outranks a sergeant who doesn’t know what’s going on. And that’s me right now. What’s the score, Detective?”

  “Thanks for coming in, Sergeant,” Webb said. “And I know you’re busy, so we do appreciate this.”

  “Sure thing,” Logan said, looking Webb up and down. “And you’d be…?”

  “My commanding officer,” Erin said. “Lieutenant Webb, Sergeant Logan.”

  “Gotcha. Pleasure, Lieutenant.” Logan immediately turned back to Erin. “So, you were saying?”

  “We’re working the Little Italy firebombing,” Erin said. “We think it was connected to a possible drug deal. I wanted to see what you can tell me about the players in the area.”

  “Who’s the victim?”

  “A Lucarelli associate, name of Marco Conti.”

  “The Mouth?”

  “I’m sorry?” Erin didn’t quite follow.

  “Marco the Mouth. Talkative guy, I guess.”

  “So you know him?”

  “Yeah. He moves a lot of product for the Lucarellis.” Logan hesitated. “Not anymore, sounds like.”

  “He caught one in the head outside the restaurant,” Erin confirmed. “Along with two others, his bodyguards we think.”

  “He was the mark?”

  “Looks like it. Who’s his competition?”

  Logan rubbed the back of his neck. “Geez, O’Reilly, you want the phone book? There’s the other four families, for starters. Then you got the Colombians, the Mexican cartels, half a dozen major street gangs, the Irish… It was easier back when it was just the Mob, y’know?”

  “You saying monopolies have advantages?” Erin teased.

  “It’s the natural end point of capitalism, without government interference.”

  “But we are the government.”

  “Exactly. Busting up the five families with RICO made things a lot more complicated.”

  “Okay,” Erin sighed. “You know anyone who had a particular beef with Marco, or with the Lucarellis in general?”

  “Depends,” Logan said. “We talking business, or revenge?”

  “Could be either.”

  “Well, if it’s business, could be any of the guys I just said. If it’s revenge… Can’t think of anyone off the top of my head. The Mouth is… was a popular guy. He didn’t have any personal enemies I know of.”

  “You think maybe someone might’ve been trying to send a statement to the Lucarellis?” Erin guessed. “This was a pretty definitive hit, lots of collateral damage.”

  “Hell of a statement,” Logan agreed. “Tell you what. I’ll keep my ear to the ground, see what the street’s saying the next couple of days. You can bet the Italians are gonna be going crazy over this.”

  “Firelli’s going to be buying a lot of drinks,” Erin said.

  Logan laughed at the reference to his Italian squad member. Logan’s team had a tradition where its Italian member paid for drinks when they busted Italians. Logan, being Irish, had to buy when they took down his own countrymen.

  “Sorry to keep you off the street,” she said. “But if you do hear anything, let me know.”

  “Will do. And if you get any juicy narcotics action, remember who loves you.” Logan winked. “Catch you streetside, O’Reilly.”

  “Be safe,” she replied.

  Webb watched him go. “Cowboys,” he muttered.
>
  “They get results,” Erin said, feeling a little defensive on Logan’s behalf.

  “They get headlines,” Webb retorted. “Buy and bust, small-time stuff. They take low-level dealers off the street, and new guys take over their corners before the arrests are even processed. They don’t make a damn bit of difference.”

  “That’s police work,” Erin said. “You see us running out of criminals any time soon, sir?”

  A thin but genuine smile crossed Webb’s face. “I see you’ve still got your idealism, O’Reilly. That’s good. Hold onto it.”

  “I get it from my partner,” she said, scratching Rolf behind the ears. “He never gives up.”

  “That’s because it’s all a game to him,” Vic said, catching the tail end of their conversation. “I’m the same way. I’m still a cop ‘cause I’m still having fun.”

  “And you have no other marketable skills,” Erin said.

  “That’s not true!” Vic said. “I can do lots of stuff.”

  “Such as?”

  “I’m a great shot. I’m good in a fistfight. I’m an expert at ESU tactics, especially dynamic entry. I’m proficient in long and short firearms. I’ve got a brown belt in krav maga…” He paused and sighed. “Okay, you’re right. I can’t do anything else.”

  “There’s always the private sector,” Webb said.

  “Maybe once I put in my twenty,” Vic said. “By then maybe I’ll be tired enough of government guys and go be a security consultant for wealthy hedge-fund managers. They’ll still be assholes, but they’ll be a different flavor.”

  Webb winced. “Flavored assholes, Neshenko?”

  “When you eat shit for a living, you acquire the taste,” Vic replied.

  Webb’s phone buzzed. He held up a hand for the other two to be quiet. “Webb here. Yeah? You sure? Okay, thanks.”

  He hung up and looked at them. “That was the search-and-rescue boys. They think they’ve got all the bodies out of the restaurant. They won’t be able to ID them for a while, of course.”

  “What’s the damage?” Vic asked.

  “In addition to the three out back, we got seven more from inside.”

  Vic whistled softly. “Seven?”