Smiling, Joe lowered his gun.
“Hi Yelena.”
2
DONNA WAS IN HELL. But at least she had her pal Andy there with her. He was the one who, as they walked into the training center that morning, had quoted Dorothy Parker, and whispered in her ear, “What fresh hell is this?”
Hell, at least for today, was FBI Terror Response Training. Important of course, and extremely serious business, but they’d been getting sent to new sessions every time the alert level bumped up to orange, which was rather often lately. And while it was supposed to be mandatory for all agents, those on active field assignments could postpone it indefinitely, which only reconfirmed how inactive her own career was, if she was back down here again, stuck in school while her teammates were out playing, catching, and scoring in the field.
Special Agent Donna Zamora worked the tip line in the basement of the FBI’s New York office, sorting through the avalanche of information that poured in every day and sifting for gold. Special Agent Andrew Newton was her best friend in the office, and as a gay Black agent and a Latina they felt the need to support each other in what often felt like the Fraternity of Boy Investigators. Even worse, Donna’s ex-husband, a devious CIA agent, had deliberately undermined her, planting doubts about her integrity, suspicions that she might be in league with mobster Gio Caprisi and sleeping with Gio’s known associate, Joe Brody. None of which was true. But what even Andy didn’t know was that Gio had, in his cockeyed scheme to protect New York from terror and keep it safe for crime, handed her key information in two investigations, and that she was, against her better judgment, entangled with Joe—emotionally, if not physically or legally. Even her mom had become pals with Joe’s grandmother. Their last interaction had led to several dead terrorists and a destroyed heroin shipment, all evidence of which Joe had conveniently made disappear. So she was clean—in her record and conscience. But still, confirming that you are not working for the Mafia is hardly the ticket to promotion. Which is how she ended up back at Terror Response Training. Again. Today’s topic? Neutralizing Explosive Devices.
Wearing safety goggles and gloves, with a small tool kit beside her, Donna was seated at a long table with her fellow trainees, each preparing to defuse a make-believe bomb. Hers was a cluster of wires, pipes, and electronics packed into a Hello Kitty rolling suitcase. Donna peered suspiciously at the clean-cut men around the table, earnestly bent over their suitcases, wondering if they’d deliberately given her the pink one.
“One minute . . .” the instructor clicked his stopwatch. “Go!”
As it happened, even if they did stick her with the girly-bomb, they’d done her a favor: she recognized this device as almost identical to one she’d worked on in her last course. She quickly unscrewed the cover from the timing mechanism, a cheap digital clock set for thirty seconds, and rewired it to keep it from knowing how much time had really elapsed, then located the main wire set to trigger the ignition. Her stomach grumbled. She’d been too busy feeding her daughter Larissa that morning to eat herself.
“Was that a bomb I heard?” Andy asked in a whisper.
“Shhh . . .” Donna answered.
“Ten seconds . . .” the instructor said. “Counting down to . . .”
“Lunch,” Andy whispered beside her, and this time she couldn’t help giggling.
“Something funny, Zamora?” the instructor barked.
“No, sir!”
“Okay then, two seconds . . .”
Suddenly flustered, Donna snipped the wire. Her bomb buzzed loudly.
“Trip wire, Zamora,” the instructor said. “You killed us all. At least you died laughing.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“And Newton . . .”
“Yes, sir?”
“At least you were right about one thing today. It is time for lunch.”
“I’m sorry, Donna, lunch is on me,” Andy told her as they walked to the choose-your-own-salad place.
“I’m getting salmon. Serves you right. Now I’ve got to retake that class next month.”
“I know, I know. Ari hates it too, always asking how come I have to be such a wiseass.”
“Exactly, listen to your husband. The secret to a happy marriage is less wisdom. More ass.”
Andy chuckled as they entered the powerfully air-conditioned deli. It was still hot enough outside to raise a little sweat walking here, at least in his suit, despite the hint of autumn in the early September air.
“Speaking of which,” he said as they got on line. “Ari has someone he wants to set you up with. A journalist.”
“Are you crazy? I’d be better off working for the mob than sleeping with a reporter.”
“Not a real reporter. He’s like a culture critic. You know, analyzes TV shows or whatever. Anyway, he showed me a picture. Handsome. And . . .” Andy touched her shoulder as if making his key point, “. . . he told Ari he likes strong women.”
“So? What am I, a wrestler now?”
“He means strong in character, dummy.” They were at the counter now and the cook was waiting. “Go ahead, order your salmon.”
Back in the office after lunch, sipping a plain black double espresso—Donna usually had Sameer, the coffee cart guy, make her a latte with two sugars, but all that talk about asses and possible dates got to her—Donna settled into work, scanning the logs she kept of calls and emails received and turning over something she’d been thinking about for the past few weeks. Finally, she stood, downed the last of her coffee, and marched into her boss’s office.
“Excuse me, sir, can I ask you something?”
“Shoot,” Agent-in-Charge Tom Foster answered without lifting his eyes from the report on his desk.
“What do we know about White Angel?”
He looked up, frowned, and removed his reading glasses. “That a trick question? I get enough riddles from my kids. What’s next, knock-knock jokes? They love those.”
“I’d call it more of a rhetorical question,” Donna said, sitting across from him. “The answer is nothing. But we should. It’s a brand of dope. Apparently very powerful, very pure, and whoever’s behind it is taking over a lot of territory, muscling in on the usual crews.”
“So?”
“I’d say we have a major new player in town. And the rumor on the street is that junkies are calling this dope Persian.”
“What do junkies know?”
“About junk? A lot. And that case we just closed? The heroin smuggling? Also Persian.”
“As I recall, all we recovered was a couple grams of stuff, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the ring are all dead or missing?”
“Right.”
“That sounds like a closed case to me. Congratulations.”
“I’m just saying, it feels like there could be a connection. Maybe I should arrange an undercover buy, get a sample, and compare it.”
Tom stood up, sighing dramatically. “Donna. What is today’s date?”
“Sir?”
“The date. Today’s date.”
“September second?”
“Good.” He swept his hand over the window that looked out onto the crowded, bustling square. “And what major event is about to turn this whole area into a giant pain in my ass in exactly nine days?”
“September eleventh, sir.”
“Right again. And just like every year, every federal, state and local agency from the NSA, CIA, and Homeland Security down to the MTA, sanitation, and parks department are squeezing my balls about one thing—terror threats. Is this a terror threat?”
“Not yet,” Donna admitted.
“Not at all,” he corrected. “It’s a drug case. And not even a federal one, as far as I can see.” He looked out the window, peering bitterly at the people walking, talking, eating snacks, sitting on benches, and taking photos of each other, as if he were angry at them for providing such nice soft targets. “If they start selling that Blue Angel or whatever to tourists in Ground Zero
, let me know. Otherwise, refer it to local PD.” He glanced back. “Anything else?”
Donna shrugged. “Knock, knock.”
He frowned. “What?”
“Knock, knock.”
He sat down with another sigh. “Who the hell is there?”
“To.”
“To who?”
Donna pointed a stern finger at him. “To whom!”
He blinked a couple times then grinned widely. “Hey that’s pretty good.”
Donna saluted and left.
3
DETECTIVE GERALD PARKS WAS in hell. Or close enough. He was stuck in a filthy unmarked car, baking in the sun, with a partner who not only had BO but insisted on smoking, which was clearly against regs, explaining that being on stakeout constituted exigent circumstances, since he couldn’t take a cigarette break. Not only that, but after ordering a double beef burrito for lunch, which stank the car up even more (Parks was vegan and competed for the department in long-distance races), he had clearly farted, despite ardent denials. Then he claimed that the smoke from his cigarette would help cover the smell.
“Isn’t that what they say?” Detective Fusco, his senior partner, asked. “To light up after you rip one?”
“That’s a match. And you just denied farting anyway. If this was an interrogation you’d be caught contradicting yourself.”
“Match, cigarette, it’s the same idea—you actually need smoke. And if this was an interrogation, my lawyer would argue the first law of evidence: he who smelt it dealt it.”
“Whatever,” Parks said, rolling his eyes. He was trapped in hell with a gross fat infant. “You want to talk about dealing it. Tell me why we’re here.” He nodded at the scene unfolding down the street, which Fusco and he had been discretely observing from afar. It was a corner in Sunset Park. A couple of teenagers in drooping, pegged jeans and hoodies were standing on the corner. Most folks walked right by. But a steady string of more scraggly characters approached the youths, who directed them into a nearby alley. A minute later the same person would emerge and quickly rush away.
“Because,” Fusco said, unbuckling his belt. “My gut tells me something isn’t right here.”
“Yeah it tells me that too. I’d say it’s the burrito and coffee for starters.”
“Out there, genius.” Fusco nodded at the usual hustle playing out. Parks shrugged.
“Looks like a pretty standard cop spot and some friendly neighborhood dope fiends to me.”
“Yeah but who are the guys working it?”
“I don’t know. Nobodies. Kids.”
“Chinese kids.”
“So?” Parks braced himself for some racial shit. Not that he was Chinese. He was African-American, from Fort Greene. His father was a retired high school principal, his mother a nurse and community activist. A lot of his friends wondered how he could be a cop, considering all the conflicts it raised for a politically-conscious Black man, but Gerald had always wanted to be a detective. It sounded simple, but seeing his sharply dressed father head out to work each morning, tie and pocket square and polished shoes, and come home drained and exhausted gave him a simple goal: he wanted to wear nice suits to work, but he didn’t want to sit in an office. He liked being out in the fresh air, in the street. Though not in a car inhaling some fat-ass’s farts. He also had a gift for solving puzzles, for analytical thinking. And he was brave. So he excelled on the force, rose quickly, and landed this assignment, as junior partner with Fusco in Major Case as a prize. Because despite everything—the bad jokes, the bad breath, the farts and cigarettes, and even the suspicious phone calls from what sounded like angry bookies—Fusco was a top investigator and a legendary detective. He was the real deal and Parks was determined to learn from him, if there was anything left in him but gas.
“Chinese neighborhood, Chinese drug dealers. Standard,” he told Fusco.
“And the last spot I took you too? In East New York? Who was selling there?”
Parks gritted his teeth. “Black kids.”
“Right,” Fusco said. “Black neighborhood, Black kids. Also standard. Selling what though?”
“Dope, man. Heroin. What is this?”
“What brand?”
“The touts were yelling White Angel. It’s the bomb, apparently.”
“Right.” Fusco checked his gun and took the keys from the car. “Come on, let’s take a walk. Get some fresh air. That cologne you wear is driving me nuts.”
Chuckling, Fusco lumbered from the car and started walking down the street, while Parks followed, trying to control his temper and, yes, taking some deep, cleansing breaths. Maybe this was Fusco’s brand of ball-busting. And okay, he was new on the squad. But he was no rookie, and he didn’t plan to sit still for any hazing. He’d knock him right on his ass.
But Parks’s attention shifted quickly, and he jumped into high alert when he realized where his new partner was leading him—right into the bustling little operation they’d been observing.
“Five-O, Five-O.”
“Cops yo!”
“Police coming!”
The lookouts and touts—immediately recognizing that a heavy white guy in a rumpled, blue suit, food-stained white shirt, and creased red tie walking with a well-built, six-two Black man in a glen plaid with a subtle dark green woven in the gray, with a crimson tie and matching pocket square, could be nothing but cops—vanished, as did the customers, scurrying off like roaches in the light.
“What the fuck?” Parks asked as Fusco walked into the alley. It was empty. “You really think they were going to hang around, answer your questions?”
“Don’t need them to,” Fusco said. Eyes on the ground, he walked to the end of the alley and downstairs into a stairwell. He drew a utility combo knife from his pocket then bent over, grunting a little, and came up smiling. “Here,” he said, holding a small, torn glassine envelope by the corner with the knife’s tiny tweezers. “Got a small evidence bag?”
Parks took one out and held it open. Fusco dropped in the envelope, then held it up. It was stamped with a small, poorly reproduced image: an angel, wings spread.
Fusco grinned. “A Chinese crew in Sunset Park and a Black crew in East New York, both selling the same brand of dope? That, my tofu-eating, nonsmoking, perfume-wearing young friend, is not standard. Is it?”
“No,” Parks said, examining it more closely. “It definitely is not.”
“Interested now?” Fusco asked, lighting a cigarette as they headed back to the car, a chorus of whistles alerting the block to their progress.
“Very interested,” he said, and grinned.
Unfortunately, their boss, Captain Maureen O’Toole, didn’t share their interest.
“Who cares?” she asked, looking at the small collection of used baggies they’d laid on her desk.
“Captain,” Fusco said, “this White Angel crew is all over. Not just Brooklyn. They’re in Harlem. On the West Side. Maybe the Bronx too. They’re organized. And the product is strong. Junkies are dropping right and left.”
“He’s right,” Parks added. “I checked around, and everyone on the street is saying White Angel is the bomb.” It was a bleak truth of the dope business—killing off some of your customers was the best advertising there was. Junkies heard about ODs and knew that meant the brand was legit.
“I repeat, who cares?” O’Toole repeated. “I’m asking. Literally. I know I don’t. Junkies OD’d? In other news, drunks threw up and pigeons shit on a statue.”
“But you have to admit,” Parks added, “for a gang to be crossing ethnic lines like this, taking on different groups in different neighborhoods. It’s highly unusual.”
“But this isn’t the highly unusual case squad, is it? This is the Major Case squad. And what they meant by Major Case is a case where anyone with a rank of major or up is going to catch shit from the press or the politicians.”
Fusco glared. “So you’re saying come back when some rich white kid or celebrity dies.”
The ca
ptain pointed at him. “Now that is inappropriate and discriminatory, right detective?” She winked at Parks. “Teach your new partner some manners.” She pushed the baggies toward them. “And file this crap under NHI.”
As they walked back to their adjacent desks in sullen silence, Parks muttered to Fusco. “What’s NHI again? I don’t remember it in the manual.”
Fusco snorted. “It’s not in the fucking manual. Dealers killing junkies? NHI means No Humans Involved.”
4
GIO WAS IN HELL. As boss of a Mafia crime family, one of the youngest in memory, he was used to having people fear him. And since he was the one who had organized the city’s other organized crime bosses in a joint effort to stop terrorists, much of the credit for thwarting a recent attack and for blocking a dope shipment that would fund a terror network had gone to him, at least in his world. Not to mention that in the process, two rats who’d been talking behind his back were eliminated, one a powerful Irish boss named Pat White who’d now been replaced by the Madigan Brothers, his allies. Gio’s power and glory had never burned so bright.
So why had he woken up with a groan, full of dread at opening his eyes today? Why was his stomach in knots? The truth was he was heartbroken. And he was scared.
He was heartbroken because the other rat, the second government snitch talking about his business behind his back, had been his accountant and his secret lover, Paul. Since his early teens, Gio had nursed and smothered a hidden desire, a need to take a break from being a man and, as a woman, to be dominated, abused really, by a handsome young man, ideally blond and blue-eyed, like Paul. With him, he’d fulfilled that desire and more, he’d found intimacy and love. Until his love betrayed him and had to die. But Gio hadn’t killed him. His wife had.
Carol, Gio’s college sweetheart, his partner and the mother of his children, was his other true love and the other half of his broken heart. Discovering the truth of their affair as well as the fact that Paul had been pressured into feeding the government information on Gio’s crimes and hidden fortune, his wife, a harmless civilian afraid of guns, a child therapist for Christ’s sake, had shot Paul, and Gio had disposed of the body. Since then things had been a little weird around the house. Finally, after a few failed attempts to talk it all over, Carol had come up with this plan—the worst idea Gio had ever heard—but Carol reminded him he’d said he’d do anything, which is why he was sitting here now, scared shitless. Gio Caprisi, feared mob boss and deadly criminal, was heading into couple’s counseling.
Against the Law Page 2