Risky Behavior

by L. A. Witt

I nodded. “I’m not proud of it. I was panicking, and I was worried about who would put my older kids through school and take care of the little one.”

  “Understandable.”

  “So I . . .” Heat rushed into my cheeks, and I lowered my gaze. “I knew there was some shit going down with Blake’s crew. Something big.”

  “Even back then?”

  “Yep. And I got it in my head that if I went in and singlehandedly busted them, I’d go down and, with any luck, so would they.”

  “Whoa.”

  “I didn’t want to get my partner killed, though, so I waited until she’d gone home for the night. Then I went in.”

  Darren folded his arms loosely across his chest. “What was your game plan? Go in guns blazing and hope for the best?”

  “I wasn’t that reckless.” I laughed dryly. “Doesn’t really say much, does it? Anyway, I knew Blake was receiving a big shipment at the regional airport. Montrose. We had plenty of evidence, but kept getting shut down when we tried to obtain a warrant.”

  Darren’s jaw went slack. “Wait, what?”

  “Stay with me. I knew something was up. And no matter how many times the DA’s office told us we didn’t have sufficient evidence to search the airport or any of the aircraft, I knew damn well there were narcotics moving through there. So, I took one of the body cameras that patrol officers wear, faked a call from an informant who wanted me to meet him there, and planned to ‘happen by’ when the drugs came in.”

  “Jesus.” Darren joined me on the table, sitting a few inches away from me, but close enough we could lower our voices.

  When he was situated, I continued. “The plane came in right on schedule. I took cover and made sure the body camera was catching everything. But then . . .” I stared out at the river, eyes unfocused.

  “What happened?”

  “Mayor Crawford showed up with Blake’s younger brother. The merchandise was exchanged. And . . . something happened. I don’t exactly know what, but suddenly everyone was agitated. Weapons started coming out.” I rubbed my hand over my face. “It’s all a bit of a blur after that—even the body camera couldn’t catch much because I took cover.”

  “I thought you were trying to get killed.”

  “I was. But then suddenly the mayor was about to get killed, and I . . . I froze. I thought maybe I could save him. Right up until I realized he wasn’t the one in danger.”

  Darren blinked.

  “Like I said, it’s all kind of a blur. One second, everything was in chaos. The next, Crawford’s security detail had the brother and the pilot on their knees, and they were about to take them down execution style.”

  “You . . . Are you serious?”

  “As a heart attack. I couldn’t save the pilot. By the time I realized what was happening, he’d already been shot. I opened fire, and Crawford and his boys ran.”

  “So you saved him? From the mayor?”

  “Yeah.” I leaned back on my uninjured hand, cradling the other across my stomach, and looked up at the mostly clear sky. “I grabbed him and got him out of there. Blake got in touch with me after that, and I guess he decided I was on his side. Or something. Anyway, he told me everything he knew. Which was basically that he wasn’t the kingpin we all think he is. He’s just a middleman like everyone else, and he’s caught up in enough wheels that he can’t get out.”

  “Sounds like the fucking Mafia.”

  “Pretty much. And it all goes back to corrupt government. The mayor is running the whole shit show, and he has no qualms about killing people in the process.” I turned to Darren. “In a way, it kind of gave me a new lease on life because I suddenly had this big thing that I had to stop or it would haunt me in Hell or wherever I ended up.”

  “Wow.” He paused. “Why haven’t you told anyone?”

  “Because I don’t know who to trust.” I hesitated. “The man who executed the pilot? He was a cop.”

  Darren’s breath hitched. “Are you sure?”

  “One hundred percent. There were others there who I recognized too. When I went in the next day to try to turn in the body cam’s footage, I realized I didn’t know who I could trust. For all I knew, the entire force was in the mayor’s back pocket.”

  “Where are those cops now?”

  “One’s dead. Took a round to the face during a routine traffic stop. Shooter was never caught.”

  Darren straightened. “So you think . . .”

  “Pretty obvious, isn’t it? The other one’s doing twenty-five to life for killing his wife.”

  “No shit?”

  I shook my head. “And somebody’s got some dirt on him, because I’ve tried talking to him. He knows something—he damn sure knows something—but he won’t say a word.”

  “Not even when he’s already in prison?”

  “Nope. My guess? He was going to blow a whistle, but someone took out his wife, framed him for it, and threatened to go after the rest of his family if he talked.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Darren ran an unsteady hand through his hair. “No wonder you’re so paranoid.”

  “Yeah. I mean, I had a reputation for not playing well with others long before this, but after I watched a cop kill a man in cold blood on the mayor’s order . . .” I shook my head. “I have to watch my back.”

  Chewing his lip, Darren stared at the grass below us. “Now I see why you didn’t trust me.”

  “I probably still shouldn’t.”

  He eyed me.

  “I have to protect myself.” I shrugged. “I can’t trust anyone just because they say I can.”

  “But you’re telling me now, so you must . . . You do trust me?”

  I locked eyes with him, then nodded. “Yeah. Probably more than I should. But my instincts . . .”

  We held each other’s gaze for a long moment.

  Then I cleared my throat and focused on the river again. “I can’t do this by myself. Things are about to blow up, and we have to shut it down before people get killed. I have to be able to trust you.”

  “You can,” he said softly. “I promise. That shit with the tracker—it won’t happen again.”

  “I know.” We were both quiet for a while. Then I took a breath and went on. “Blake knows he’s going to jail when all this is over. He’s caught up in the wheels just like everybody else. The only reason he stayed involved is the same reason I stayed alive.”

  “To take down the mayor.”

  I nodded. “As long as Blake is working for him—delivering the goods, keeping his boys in line, doing the mayor’s dirty work—his family is safe. The minute he tries to disappear, Crawford will make sure anyone who’s ever had so much as a three-minute conversation with Blake winds up dead in a ditch.”

  “Including you,” Darren breathed.

  “Including me.”

  “Does Crawford know you’re involved?”

  “I’d like to say no, but somebody knows.”

  “How do you know they—” His teeth snapped together. “The business card.”

  “Yep.”

  “Shit. Any idea who made that connection?”

  “Could be anyone. And it wasn’t just the card that was meant to send a message. That warehouse is where I’ve met with a number of informants. I might’ve had a few . . . informal interrogations in there too.”

  Darren’s eyebrow rose. “‘Informal interrogations’?”

  “Sometimes the end justifies the means.”

  “Right.” He drew back slightly, and the uneasiness in his eyes was palpable.

  I sighed. “Listen, no matter what IA or anyone else has told you, I’m not a dirty cop. Yes, I’ve done some things that could get my ass terminated, if not shot in a back alley. I’ve roughed up suspects when no one could hear us. I’ve threatened people. I’ve—”

  “Bought heroin from kids so you could arrest someone on false pretenses.”

  “Yeah. But do you understand now why I did that?”

  He stared down at his hands as he tugged
a stray thread on his sleeve. “I get it. But goddamn, Andreas. There’s lines, you know?”

  “There are. And I tried to walk those lines for a long, long time.” I paused. “I’m not a dirty cop. You’ve got to believe me, Darren.”

  “You need me to trust you.”

  I swallowed. “Yes. I need you to trust me.”

  He turned his head and looked me right in the eye. “I do trust you. I have from the start. Probably more than I should have.”

  “But do you still?”

  He nodded. “As some crotchety old detective once said—instincts.”

  We both managed a quiet laugh.

  “Trust your instincts, then.” I resisted the urge to give his knee a gentle squeeze. We were out in public. Too out in the open for one man to put a hand on the other. And after last night, God only knew where I stood with Darren anyway. That was something we’d have to sort out later.

  “Well.” Darren cleared his throat and hoisted himself up off the table and onto his feet. “We should go. We’ve got a widow waiting to chat with us.”

  The Grand Royal Hotel downtown was a monument to the decadence of an earlier age. Built in the 1920s, it looked like someone had stolen it out of Italy and then dumped it, slightly more dilapidated, in the middle of a bunch of soulless square skyscrapers. We arrived just in time to meet Mrs. Kramer for the hotel’s famous afternoon tea.

  “Afternoon tea,” Andreas muttered for probably the fifth time as the hostess escorted us to our table in the all-pink Rose Room. “Jesus Christ.”

  “Just think how jealous your daughter will be when you tell her you ate tiny sandwiches and petit fours at a fancy tea party,” I teased. “You could bring her next time. It would probably make her day.”

  “There won’t be a next time.”

  “Well, not looking like that, maybe. You’d need to dress up, put on a suit . . .” Actually, the thought of Andreas in a suit was almost enough to make me forget how to walk. I would have run right into the hostess if Andreas hadn’t grabbed my arm.

  “Your party, ma’am.”

  “Thank you.” Mrs. Kramer gestured to us from where she sat on the other side of the lace-covered table. “Do sit down, gentlemen. You’re attracting enough attention as it is, looking that way.”

  “What way?” I asked as I pulled out my chair. I had to stop myself from pulling out Andreas’s as well. Injured or not, he wouldn’t appreciate it.

  Mrs. Kramer smiled. It didn’t seem natural on her. She looked like ancient, disdainful elegance wrapped in a mothball-scented tweed dress, and not the sort of person who made a habit of smiling. “Why, looking like undereducated, roughneck cops, of course.”

  Oh yeah, this was going to be great. A woman who hated the police and a partner who hated politicians. I’d be lucky if they didn’t smash me to pieces between them by the time tea was over.

  A silent waitress came by with a plate of pastries and set it down. Mrs. Kramer used a pair of silver tongs to take one of them. “The madeleines are excellent, by the way.”

  “This is bullshit.” As the waitress passed by again, Andreas motioned her to a stop. “You serve sandwiches here?”

  “We have cream cheese and cucumber—”

  “No, I mean real sandwiches. With meat.”

  “Um . . . I could get you a chicken salad sandwich?” she offered. “It’s just, the kitchen is kind of in high-tea mode, so all we’ve got are things that don’t need to be heated up.”

  “That’s fine. We need two of them. And coffee.”

  “Is black tea okay?”

  “If that’s the best you can do.”

  She thought about it for a moment. “I think we’ve got Nescafe in the break room.”

  “Perfect.” She walked off, and Andreas turned to stare at Mrs. Kramer, who had one eyebrow raised. He matched her expression flawlessly. “Problem?”

  After a frigid moment of silence, she started to chuckle. I breathed a sigh of relief. “You remind me of my husband,” Mrs. Kramer said as she added milk to her tea. “He couldn’t stand this sort of thing either. Take my advice, dear.” Now she was looking at me. “Don’t let people railroad you into doing things you’re not comfortable with. It’s better to stand firm than be beaten down. Unless, of course, you’re the one doing the beating.”

  It was an imperfect segue, but I’d take it. “Your husband lost his last election and was indicted at the end of it. How did that happen?”

  “It happened because Wendell Crawford is a dirty son of a bitch who might as well have been running a Mafia as a political campaign.” She said it like someone might say, Hey, the sky is really blue. Like it was simply accepted fact. “It wasn’t that we weren’t used to playing hardball. My husband was a career politician who had already weathered a recall campaign six years earlier. I thought we had seen it all. I thought we’d prepared for everything. But . . .” She shrugged daintily. “It turns out you can’t prepare for the devil.”

  “You’re saying he was framed.”

  “I’d have shouted it from the rooftops if I thought anyone could have helped us at the time. Yes, of course he was framed. Embezzlement? Pssht. Jonathan was a professional accountant before he was first elected. If he’d been embezzling money, no one would have ever found out about it. And I would be a lot better off than I am right now,” she added before eating a tiny dark chocolate truffle.

  “He was found guilty,” Andreas said.

  “During a trial overseen by Judge Carmilla Harrison, yes. Carmilla. God, what were her parents thinking?” Mrs. Kramer tutted. “Of course he was found guilty. Between the evidence that she didn’t allow the defense to present, and the witnesses Crawford bribed or coerced into lying for him, a guilty verdict was inevitable.”

  Well, it sounded good, but sound wasn’t substance. “Can you prove any of this?”

  “No. Not precisely.” When she spoke again, Mrs. Kramer sounded less prideful and more simply tired. “I know that you were hoping for more from me, but I don’t have a silver bullet that will take down Crawford and his gang of thugs. If I did, I’d have used it years ago to save my husband’s life.”

  “Then you don’t believe he committed suicide.”

  Mrs. Kramer rolled her eyes. “He was found lying on our couch with a hole right in the middle of his forehead. The gun was still in his hand. Of all the insulting ways to stage a suicide, I have to admit that it rankled. It’s like they didn’t even care whether I believed Jonathan killed himself or not. I’m telling you, it’s a slap in the face.”

  Andreas and I exchanged a brief Is she fucking serious? look. “So it’s not that suicide wasn’t a possibility, it’s the way he did it that you don’t buy?” Andreas asked.

  “Jonathan was very low after the trial. Very, very low. People thought the worst of him, his lifelong friends wouldn’t speak to him, and the fact that Veronica Martin—she was a young woman interning in the office that summer—had actually testified that he’d molested her was the last straw. He thought the world of that family,” Mrs. Kramer said sadly. “We both did. He would never have touched Veronica that way, never. She lied, and it just about broke his heart.”

  “So suicide was on the table,” I prompted.

  “Yes, I suppose so, but shooting himself in the head? Moreover, using his left hand to do it?” She scoffed. “Jonathan had a mortal fear of guns, gentlemen. He had a bad experience with a handgun when he was a child, accidentally wounding a friend while playing with his father’s revolver. Jonathan refused to handle them, or to have them in the house at all. And while we kept it out of the papers at the time, the reality is that my husband suffered a minor stroke one year before the election. He recovered quickly, but he was significantly weaker on his left side afterward. He could barely lift a pen, much less raise a gun, steady it in front of his head, and then pull the trigger. Lazy, I tell you. Just plain lazy.”

  I could hear Andreas gritting his teeth. “This is interesting, but it doesn’t actually help us.” />
  Mrs. Kramer delicately wiped her lips with the edge of a linen napkin. “How much do you know about the way a Mafia is run?”

  Andreas grimaced. “More than I’d like to.”

  “The concept of loyalty is paramount in the Mafia. Loyalty can be reinforced in a number of ways, but the best way to do it is with blood. Family rarely turns on family. One person, if he or she is clever enough, can use those family connections to manipulate people into not only giving them their loyalty, but becoming so tightly bound to them that they would never dream of trying to break free, for fear of losing the people they love.”

  I followed, but . . . “How does that help us?”

  “It’s just a matter of finding the weakest link. Judge Harrison is tighter than a blood-filled tick. She is very cognizant of her own strengths and weaknesses, and mitigates them accordingly. You could rummage through her trash and you wouldn’t find a single receipt. You could break into her house and search for incriminating files or documents, and find nothing at all. She’s too careful. Her family, on the other hand?” Mrs. Kramer smiled her not-smile again. “Not so careful.”

  Andreas leaned forward a bit. “Go on.”

  “You know, Veronica died a few years ago. She was only nineteen. Another suicide.” Mrs. Kramer shook her head. “She apparently shot herself through the head. Right between the eyes, actually. Gossip at the time said it was because her boyfriend broke up with her. Their relationship was a bit scandalous; he was a decade older than Veronica.”

  “Who was she dating?”

  “Oh, I think you might know him, actually. His name is Trent Newberry. He’s a detective with the Thirty-Second Precinct. He is also―” Mrs. Kramer paused for a moment, making sure we were both completely focused on her “―Judge Harrison’s nephew. She never married, never had children of her own, but she’s always doted on that young man.”

  I knew my mouth had dropped open, but I couldn’t quite coordinate myself enough to close it. Trent? Really? Bro-tastic, ass-kissing, ladder-climbing Trent? Trent who I’d spent a pleasant few weeks exchanging blowjobs with years ago?

  Andreas certainly seemed to like the news, if the wolfish grin on his face was anything to go by. “You think Newberry killed both Veronica Martin and your husband.”