‘Who’s the girl?’ he asked, subtlety never having been one of his strong points.
Wordlessly, Dodds extracted the photo from its nylon nest and handed it across.
‘She’s a looker ain’t she,’ he said.
For once Dale had to agree; she most certainly was a looker.
‘Obviously not related to you,’ responded Dale, with a smile.
‘She's my daughter,’ said Dodds seriously.
Dale was taken aback.
‘I didn’t know you were married?’ he queried.
Even though they had been working closely together for over a year, they never discussed personal business.
‘I'm not,’ said Dodds.
Dale waited, sensing there was more to come.
‘We were very young,’ he said at last. ‘Both of us were. We had been going together less than a year, when she told me. Of course, I immediately offered to marry her, but she was having none of it. Even if I’d loved her, she didn’t love me. So, we decided to bring our daughter up together, sharing the responsibilities.’
His expression softened, as he became caught up in the memories.
‘Her mother married when Joanie was about seven. She gets on great with her step-dad. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t have it any other way; it’s important for her that there is no conflict in the home.’
This time he smiled broadly.
‘But I make sure every day that she knows who her father is; that she is my little girl.’
He paused.
‘Her step-dad is very well off; I could let things slide if I wanted to and she would still be well taken care of, but probably because of that, I make sure I pay my way and then some. Steve understands and respects me for it, I think. He knows me and he knows her; she is my daughter, after all.’
Dale handed the photograph back.
‘She's gorgeous,’ he stated truthfully.
Dodds looked at him for a few seconds, searching for the punch line and eventually finding none. Putting the photograph back in its place, his expression softened, as he patted it gently.
‘You know something, Dale,’ he said.
He rarely called Dale by his first name.
‘In this job, I don’t think I could have been married. It hardens you; desensitises you. But do you know what? There is not a day goes by that I don't think about that girl. I have absolutely no regrets; to be honest she's kept me sane. She is the one person who accepts me for who I am and lets me be me; if you can follow that and understand what I mean?’
Dale nodded; he understood it alright, and wished fervently that he had something like it too.
They pulled up across the street from the station. As Dodds parked, Dale managed to get across the road with only two horns and one hand gesture from the rush hour drivers. Oddly enough, his older and slower partner got none; it seemed Dodds was more nimble than he looked.
As they walked into the foyer, they happened to bump into Detective Dempsey, their liaison officer from the fifth. As Dempsey ran past, he held up his hand with his fingers apart, and mouthed the words silently; the universal gesture for the phrase, give me five.
The two colleagues waited patiently, shuffling their feet and looking down at the floor. Dempsey catapulted through a door on the other side of the station and rejoined them, just before the five minutes had elapsed. He shook their hands vigorously as he always did.
‘Agent Foster, Agent Dodds, good to see you,’ he said, as he indicated an ante room.
Dodds and Dale settled themselves down into their chairs and Dempsey busied himself at the coffee machine. He placed two mugs of steaming black liquid in front of them, without asking whether they wanted anything to drink; they were policemen after all. He banged the sugar, sweetener and creamer in the middle of the table and then sat down opposite them.
He eyed them thoughtfully across the rim of his own mug, as they busied themselves with the ritual of coffee preparation, sipping occasionally as he did so. Dale placed his copy of the file, the one he and Dodds had discussed earlier, on the table in front of him. He gently slid it across to Dempsey, who picked it up and scanned it quickly.
‘Ah yea, this dude,’ said Dempsey. ‘I thought I might be hearing from you fellas on this one.’
‘So, what’s the story?’ asked Dodds. ‘Anything more you can give us, other than what appears in the file?’
‘Yea, interesting one this,’ replied Dempsey. ‘He gave his name as Sam Balboni. He was causing a scene outside a bar-nightclub; throwing his weight around, but apparently not exactly Mike Tyson, if you get my drift. To be honest, our guys, the patrolmen who were called to the scene, were of a mind to let him off with a caution. But our friend jerk-off continued to mouth off to them, and coupled with the fresh injuries to his face, it just made the patrolmen bloody-minded. They brought him in, routinely searched his car and, bam, one kilo of cocaine.’
Both Dodds and Dale raised their eyebrows.
‘So, definitely not for personal use,’ stated Dale. ‘I always wonder when it says that in a report. How much is too much?’
‘Anyway, we figured we definitely had him for possession, and maybe intent to supply, too,’ said Dempsey. ‘So, we left him stewing in the cells for a few hours. He didn’t seem to be the most robust of criminals, if you get me. We thought it might soften him up a bit. But when we eventually got around to processing him, we realised very quickly that the little weasel had given us a false name.’
‘Really?’ inquired Dodds, his eyebrows coming together in the middle.
‘Well, not so much a false name, as a misleading name,’ Dempsey finished. ‘Balboni is his mother’s maiden name. His real name is Rudino.’
They collectively let that statement lie fallow for a minute or so, until Dale broke the silence.
‘So, why lie about your name?’ he asked. ‘That is, unless you have something to hide.’
‘That’s exactly what we thought,’ said Dempsey. ‘So we took a look into his background, and that’s when it all started to make a little bit of sense to us.’
Dale raised his eyebrows in a questioning manner; almost a carbon copy of his colleague moments earlier. Dempsey reached behind him for the plate of cookies. He placed the dish in the middle of the table, took one and bit it clean in half.
‘Yea, he flagged up as being a known associate,’ said Dempsey, through a mouthful of crumbs.
He swallowed hard and took another swig of his coffee.
‘Or rather,’ he continued, ‘he flagged up as being related to a known associate.’
He accentuated the word related.
‘It’s his father who triggered the flag.’
‘Associate of who?’ asked Dodds interestedly.
‘Guido and Ernesto Mancini,’ said Dempsey.
Dodds and Dale stared at each other, coffee mugs pausing in mid air.
Chapter 18 – Corroboration
13th May 2011 – Three Days after the Storm.
There can be no theory of any account unless it corroborate with the theory of the earth. – Walt Whitman.
They watched him closely through the one-way glass. The first thing that struck Dale as odd was his general demeanour. Normally, the guys they interviewed were jumpy and nervous. This guy, despite his injuries, had an aura of casual self assuredness. As far as this guy was concerned, he had nothing to fear.
‘Do you mind if we rattle him a little?’ Dale asked Dempsey directly. ‘If we can, that is?’
‘Like I said,’ answered Dempsey. ‘We’ve already got him on the possession and maybe intent. If you can pin something else on him as well, and we get some of the credit, so much the better.’
‘Do you want to sit in?’ asked Dodds.
‘Yea,’ said Dempsey, ‘but not because I don’t trust you,’ he finished quickly. ‘It’s just that station protocol demands it. You know how it is?’
He shrugged dismissively and opened the door, allowing the two agents to go ahead of him.
‘Interview started with suspect Sam Rudino. Date is thirteenth May, 2011.’
He glanced at the clock on the wall.
‘Time is approximately eleven fifteen. Interview is being overseen by Detective Dempsey 56227. Also present are agents Foster and Dodds of the DEA.’
Dale couldn't be sure, but he thought the suspect’s self-satisfied smile slipped just a tiny bit, when he heard the letters DEA. Dale made a show of shuffling the file on the desk.
‘So Sam,’ he said at last. ‘Looks like you’ve got yourself in a bit of a jam.’
‘Depends what side of the table you are on, I suppose,’ answered the suspect.
‘Listen carefully,’ said Dale. ‘I’m not going to beat around the bush, it’s not my style. How do you know the Mancini’s?’
As he spoke, Dale’s eyes never left Sam’s face. If he hadn’t been looking for it, he’d have missed it, but he saw it; plain as day. A slight frown appeared between Sam’s eyes. He recovered it well, but he was definitely rattled.
‘I don't really know them,’ said Sam. ‘I am only acquainted with them as customers.’
‘What type of customers exactly?’ asked Dodds sharply.
Sam ignored the comment.
‘My father runs their favourite restaurant,’ said Sam. ‘I deliver their order to them pretty much every night; nothing more, nothing less. No law against that is there?’ he sneered.
‘You expect us to believe that,’ said Dodds incredulously.
‘I don't care what you believe,’ said Sam. ‘The facts of the matter are that my father owns Rudino’s restaurant. The Mancini's like our food and I deliver it; simple as that.’
Dale sat back slowly, as Dodds and Sam kept talking. A fragment of speech wafted into his brain; Ryan at the diner.
‘I got a job too, cleaning dishes in a place called Rudino’s.’
And further on in the conversation.
‘Well it turns out the place is connected.’
‘Is your father a gangster?’ asked Dale.
Sam looked at him and laughed at the old fashioned phrasing. The other two smiled as well, but Sam quickly realised that Dale’s expression wasn't changing.
‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’ sneered Sam incredulously, a slow mocking smile spreading over his face.
‘Well I fail to see how else you could get your hands on a kilo of cocaine,’ said Dale. ‘I am in the DEA and I couldn't. So if your father didn’t give it to you....’
This time he looked at Sam directly. Sam couldn't hold his gaze; his stare broke and his eyes flicked away guiltily. Dale suddenly clicked his fingers and slapped his forehead.
‘You stole it from the Mancini’s, didn’t you?’ he stated softly.
Sam said nothing, but his Adams apple bobbed a couple of times.
Dale pressed home his advantage.
‘Do you know what, Sam?’ he intoned slowly. ‘I thought you were in a bit of a jam, but if you stole from the Mancini’s, you’re fucked.’
‘I didn’t steal it,’ Sam blurted out suddenly.
Dale tried to hide his delight; he was getting better at this interrogation lark.
‘So what would you call it, Sam?’ asked Dodds, joining in, as he realised what Dale was doing.
He emphasised the word Sam.
‘You now have a kilo of cocaine that belongs to them.’
‘I....’ Sam's mind blanked.
His eyes flickered, as he searched for the words.
‘....I borrowed it,’ he said finally. ‘I was going to sell it and give them the profits, honestly I was. I wanted to prove to them that I wasn’t just a pizza delivery boy.’
‘So, where did you get it?’ asked Dodds.
‘A couple of the guys who work in the kitchens,’ said Sam. ‘Outwardly, they are waiting staff and kitchen porters, but they are also delivery mules. They take a package, hold it for a couple of days, and then deliver it onwards to its destination. These guys think they are in an episode of the sopranos; made guys, what a laugh!’
Sam spat the words out with vitriol.
‘They are so pathetically eager to demonstrate how mobbed up they are, it makes me sick. One of them showed me his latest stash. Stupid prick even left it in his locker, unlocked.’
The cogs in Sam’s head seemed to be whirring slowly; finally they caught up.
‘You’re not going to tell them, are you?’ asked Sam, the tremble audible in his voice. ‘I’m a dead man if you do.’
‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Dale. ‘I’ll arrange a bust on the kitchens of Rudino’s Restaurant. We’ll take the two guys in and we’ll pretend to seize the stash in the raid. In return, you’re going to tell me everything you know about Storm.’
Sam stiffened.
‘How do you know about that?’ he asked.
Dale was silently exultant. He glanced across at his two companions. Dempsey was looking at him with interest, but Dodds was leaning forward intently.
‘It doesn’t matter how I know,’ answered Dale.
He could feel Dodds eyes boring into him, but he ignored the stare for the present.
‘The problem for you is that I know. So tell me what I need to hear; and don’t give me this garbage that I’ve been getting off other people.’ said Dale. ‘A storm is coming; crap. Something big is about to blow; shit. I want specifics.’
Sam thought about it for a brief instant and then seemed to make up his mind.
‘There are only two things I know. They are not certainties by any means; I overheard most of it at the dinner table and they talk very softly, but I’ll tell you anyway.’
He composed himself before continuing.
‘The first thing that I am pretty sure I understood; Storm is a drug. How it works, what it does and how it is made, I have no idea.’
He stopped to gather his thoughts, lids closing and eyes flicking from side to side.
‘The second thing I heard is that it has something to do with Ireland; a place called Cork specifically.’
Dale blinked in surprise; the first time he had shown emotion of any kind. He had been expecting to hear a lot of things, but that wasn't one of them.
#
‘And you were going to tell me this when?’ hissed Dodds, through clenched teeth and compressed lips.
The annoyance drifted palpably across the partition separating their desks. They were both back in the office, after a very strained car journey.
‘I’m not hiding anything from you Dodds,’ said Dale. ‘You need to listen to me; I’m trying to tell you what happened. I only learnt this stuff myself last night.’
‘We can’t be partners with no trust,’ said Dodds flatly.
‘I know that,’ said Dale.
He ushered Dodds into a side room and told him the whole story. The tip offs from James and Ryan, and the subsequent putting of two and two together in the interview room. Dodds sat back and thought about it for a couple of minutes. He finally gave a small flicker of a smile.
‘So, did you corroborate this stuff in any other way?’ he asked.
Dale breathed a sigh of relief; even though his story was true, it was good to have Dodds back onside. He hated petty rivalries between partners. He was glad Dodds believed him.
‘Yeah, I went through some of the files. The word Storm was sort of mentioned in passing in a few places; nothing concrete. When Sam mentioned the delivery guys, the same dudes that Ryan was talking about, I took a punt. Honestly, I wasn’t expecting his reaction; he was genuinely scared.’
‘Even so,’ said Dodds. ‘The link is tenuous at best and extremely slim at worst. Given your recent history, is it worth going to bat with a few half baked rumours? Apart from anything else, this is the Mancini’s we’re talking about here. These guys are bullet proof. You’re going to have to be seriously solid in your evidence to try and take them down.’
�
��But that’s just it,’ said Dale. ‘I don’t have any evidence yet. I’m just looking for approval to collect the evidence; approval to start an operation.’
‘Well, you know what I think,’ said Dodds evenly. ‘I think you’re mad.’
Dale turned to his computer and started typing. The words flowed out of his head and straight into the report.
Two hours later, Dodds had proof-read the document, with nothing more than a raised eyebrow at the end; what could he say?
Thirty minutes after that, Dodds watched with a mixture of amusement and pity as Dale came out of the office of the special agent in charge. While he didn't actually slam the door in frustration, Dodds could see the intent written all over his face.
‘So what did he say?’ asked Dodds, already knowing the answer.
Dale sat down heavily opposite him.
‘To use his exact words and I quote, a tissue of half baked rumour and conjecture. He actually laughed out loud when I mentioned the Mancini's. He literally couldn't stop; I had to wait for five or six minutes to continue.’
‘Anything else?’ asked Dodds.
‘Apparently, the only case to answer in this half baked report is lodged deep in my paranoid and delusional imagination, and that I need to take an immediate two-week leave of absence, starting right now.’
Dodds got up and patted him on the shoulder, as he walked towards the coffee station.
‘Probably not a bad idea, my friend,’ he said. ‘It would do you good to get away from this place for a while.’
Dale watched Dodds retreating back. Maybe the boss was right; maybe he did need to get away for a while. He opened the drawer of his desk and pulled out his passport. He’d got it when he’d joined the DEA. His head had been filled with images of drug busts in exotic locations; a heady mix of glamour and danger. But he was lucky he had done it in some ways. Most Americans didn't own a passport. He glanced down at the discredited report in front of him. He made his decision, twirling the Rolodex on his desk to the letter T. He dialled the number and waited three rings.
The Storm Protocol Page 16