Death by Chocolate

by Steven Henry

  “It’s protocol,” he said.

  “Mrs. Bianchi,” Erin said. “You’re under arrest for first-degree murder. You have the right to remain silent…”

  As she finished the familiar recitation, Vic snapped the bracelets on the Italian woman. Nina didn’t resist. She didn’t even seem angry anymore. As they walked her to the door, Erin on one side, Vic on the other, Rolf flanking his partner, Erin saw a smile on Nina’s face.

  “Something funny?” she asked.

  “I been married to a Mafia goon for going on thirty years,” Nina said. “And I finally made my bones. Take a good look, boys. Nina Bianchi just got made!” Then she actually laughed.

  Webb went ahead to call the elevator. He’d scarcely pushed the button when the doors slid open to reveal three men: the Bianchi family lawyer, Carlo, and Vinnie the Oil Man.

  “Well, this is awkward,” Vic muttered. He took a step to the side, freeing up his gun hand. Erin kept a grip on Nina’s arm with one hand and dropped her other to her holstered Glock. Rolf, sensing the mood, raised his hackles and tensed.

  “This is a surprise,” Vinnie said softly. “I have to say, Lieutenant, I wasn’t expecting you to target a widow this way.”

  “She’s under arrest,” Webb said. “If you’d care to step aside?”

  Vinnie didn’t move. His voice was as smooth and cultured as ever, but there was a cold, hard edge to it now. “I don’t claim to understand how things work in your sphere, Lieutenant Webb, but in mine, family members are off-limits.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Moreno,” Webb said. “That’s not in our Patrol Guide.”

  “You do the crime, you do the time,” Vic added.

  “I’ll be sure to remember all of this,” Vinnie said. “I do hope you haven’t told them anything which could cause problems, Mrs. Bianchi.”

  Nina gave him a scornful look. “I got made, you slick son of a bitch,” she said. “But don’t worry, I’m stand-up. I did what I did, and I’m doin’ the time. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.”

  “Mrs. Bianchi,” the lawyer said, “don’t say another word. Not one.”

  Webb turned to the attorney. “We’re going to Precinct 8,” he said. “If you’d care to follow us, I’m sure you’ll find plenty to keep you busy.”

  “Lots and lots of billable hours,” Vic said, giving Erin a sly smile.

  Chapter 13

  Getting Nina booked and sorting out the deal with the DA for Paulie’s release took the rest of the day and part of the evening. The Bianchi lawyer tried his best, but Nina wasn’t interested in his attempts to obstruct the process. She was proud of what she’d done, she said, and she’d do it again.

  Up in Major Crimes, Vic and Erin started boxing up the evidence, getting ready for the next case. Webb, as the ranking officer from the arrest, was filling out the lion’s share of the paperwork. Vic looked downright cheerful for a change.

  “You’re happy,” Erin said. “Considering you didn’t get to beat anyone up or shoot anybody.”

  He paused. “Erin, you really think I like shooting people?”

  “I can see how a guy might think you did,” she said.

  “Jesus.” He set down the file box he’d been holding. “You seriously think I get up in the morning and think, ‘Gee! I hope I get to shoot someone today!’ The hell is the matter with you? I’m not a goddamn psycho. I like the action, I like the juice, sure. I don’t mind mixing it up, throwing a perp across the room, but gunning down mopes is not how I get my kicks.”

  Erin was taken aback. “I didn’t mean…” she began.

  “I know, I know. I’m just Vic the crazy Russian, the guy who was too nuts for ESU. You have any idea how many guys I could shoot, without breaking the rules? Shit, when I was working ESU, I’d throw down on guys six, seven times a week. That’s every day, practically. Know how many times I fired my gun in the line, before I came to work with you?”

  “Zero?” Erin guessed.

  “Zero,” he confirmed. “So maybe I’m not as psycho as all that. Maybe we’ve just got a curse on us here in Major Crimes. Since I took up with you crazy bastards, I get in gunfights all the damn time. I’ve been shot more than once. I’ve taken guys down hard. And today I’m in a good mood because I didn’t have to mow down a perp. Or at least I was. So get off my back, okay?”

  Erin held up her hands. “Okay, I get it,” she said. “Sorry. It was a good collar and a good case.”

  “One thing I’m wondering, though,” Vic said.

  “By all means, elaborate,” Webb called from behind his desk. “Every clean, tidy case needs some loose ends tied onto it. We’re only two hours past quitting time as it is.”

  “Why was that slick Italian bastard so keen to shut this thing down?” Vic asked, ignoring his boss’s sarcasm.

  Erin had been thinking about that, too. “I have a theory,” she said.

  “Enlighten us,” Webb said.

  “I think he knew Nina killed Lorenzo,” she said. “Or at least he suspected it.”

  “How the hell would he know?” Vic demanded.

  She shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Just suppose for a minute he did. What was a guy like him gonna do in that situation? He’d protect his organization. If we figured out Nina was the killer, what would stop her making a deal with us?”

  “She did make a deal with us,” Vic said, giving Erin a funny look. “You were in the room. Were you paying attention?”

  “That’s not what she means,” Webb said. “O’Reilly’s talking about Nina giving up dirt on the Lucarelli family.”

  Vic blinked. “Oh.” For once, he didn’t have a smart remark.

  “Sure, she’s not directly connected,” Erin said. “But she was married to a wiseguy for three decades. How much dirty laundry you think got aired around her in all that time?”

  “You think she knows where the bodies are buried?” Webb asked.

  “Some of them,” she said.

  “Shit,” Vic said. “That’s a great idea. We gotta flip that girl.”

  “We’ll try,” Webb said. “She’s already admitted to the crime. Now it’s up to the DA to work out a separate plea deal with her. I’ll have a talk with him. Maybe he can get her to play ball, for her own sake.”

  “That’s what I think Vinnie’s worried about,” Erin agreed. “He wanted to keep her out of jail so she wouldn’t have a reason to talk to us.”

  “You heard what she told him,” Vic said. “She said she was stand-up, that she wouldn’t squeal on anyone.”

  “Lots of perps say that at first,” Webb said. “Then they start staring down the length of all those years.”

  “I guess maybe we’re not done with her yet,” Vic said. “You want us to leave this stuff out?”

  “Don’t file it away just yet,” Webb said. “Let’s see what develops. But we’re done for tonight. Good work, people.”

  “Buy me a drink?” Vic asked Erin as they headed for the stairs.

  “Why would I do that?”

  “To apologize for being a bitch.”

  She grinned at him. “To you? Never.”

  “Okay, I’ll get the second round,” he said.

  “Not tonight,” she said, remembering. “I’ve got a thing I need to do.”

  “Getting laid?”

  “No!”

  “You’re totally getting laid.”

  “You’d say that whatever I said.”

  He shrugged. “Probably.”

  “It’s nothing like that,” she said. “I’m meeting an informant.”

  “Oh.” Vic was suddenly serious. “You want some backup?”

  “That’s okay,” she said. “I got this.”

  “You sure?”

  “Hey. It’s me.”

  “Yeah, it’s you,” he said. “Sometimes when you go to meet informants you find bombs, or Nazi gunmen.”

  “No Nazis tonight.”

  “Promise?”

  “You worried about me?”

  “I’m worried I’ll
miss out on the fun.”

  “Okay, Vic. I promise, the next time I’m going to get in a fight with neo-Nazis, I’ll call you first.”

  “Deal. Take care of yourself, O’Reilly.”

  “Back at you.”

  * * *

  Erin was feeling good when she walked down the alley to the Corner’s back door. Two homicides were cleared, one perp deceased, the other in custody. That was a fine day’s work by any detective’s standards. She had Rolf at her side, and she’d be seeing her boyfriend soon. Granted, they had to clear up whatever business Liam had, but she was looking forward to a pleasant evening after.

  Ian wasn’t on duty. Caleb, another of Carlyle’s security guys, let her in. He was a typical Irish Mob guy; heavyset, tough-looking, tattooed.

  “Where’s your boss?” she asked.

  “Back room,” he grunted.

  Erin nodded, went to the indicated door, and knocked.

  The door swung open and Erin’s good feeling vanished. She was staring up into Mickey Connor’s flat, cold eyes. The O’Malley enforcer filled the doorway. He looked down at her. She looked back. Neither one spoke for a moment.

  “You gonna stand there all night?” Erin finally asked.

  Mickey made a sound that might have been either a snort or a low laugh, but there was no hint of a smile. “What’re you doing here?” he asked.

  “What’re you doing here?” she shot back. “I was invited.” But her thoughts were racing. Had something happened to Carlyle? Was she about to get jumped? She wondered how fast Mickey was. Could she clear her Glock before he got his hands on her? How many shots would it take to put that big body down?

  “Mickey,” Carlyle’s voice came from behind Mickey. “She’s the reason we’re here tonight. I’m thinking you should let her in.”

  “I don’t work for you,” Mickey said over his shoulder, without taking his eyes off Erin.

  “It was a suggestion, not an order,” Carlyle said quietly. “But if it’s orders you’re wanting, I’m certain we can get Evan on the telephone.”

  Mickey’s eyes finally shifted. A moment later, so did his body, making a path for Erin. She had to pass closer to him than she wanted. She caught a faint scent of sweat and cheap deodorant. Standing within a few inches of him, she could feel the physical menace that radiated off the man. Every instinct in her screamed to get away from him. She pretended not to feel the perfectly rational fear, keeping her face impassive. She even let herself give him a ghost of a smile. She remembered her dad’s advice for dealing with street thugs.

  “They’re like a pack of stray dogs. If they smell fear on you, you’re done. You gotta make them think you’re braver than they are. Or, if you can’t manage that, make them think you’re crazier than them. They respect crazy people.”

  Rolf didn’t feel the need to be as subtle as Erin. His hackles rose when he looked at Mickey and a low rumble came from his chest.

  Carlyle was sitting at the card table, opposite Liam McIntyre. On the table was a pair of glasses and a bottle of Glen D whiskey. Liam had a soda glass in front of him, filled with the same godawful chocolate liquor concoction he’d had poker night, a “death by chocolate.” It was topped with whipped cream and a maraschino cherry.

  Carlyle stood up to greet her. Liam didn’t. Mickey leaned against the wall by the door and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “So,” Erin said, still pretending to be nonchalant. “What’re we doing here?” She slid into the seat on Carlyle’s left. He was already pouring her a drink. She took a sip, only a small one. This was one time she really wanted a clear head.

  “Liam has something to say to you, Erin,” Carlyle said.

  “I’m here,” she said. “Start talking.”

  Liam gave her a quick glance. He seemed unable to hold steady eye contact. He was one of the twitchiest guys she’d seen, with the same manner as a hardcore meth tweaker.

  “We cool?” he muttered. “I mean, Cars says you’re cool, but I gotta know, right? ‘Cause if we’re doin’ business, we gotta have, like, an understanding.”

  “Liam,” Erin said, leaning forward. “Relax, okay? What is it you need?”

  “I heard there’s somethin’ goin’ down,” he said, shooting her another furtive, bloodshot look. “There’s some shit getting’ moved.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight.”

  “How much weight?”

  “Ten, twelve kees of H. Colombian, good shit. Ninety-five percent pure.”

  Erin did some quick math in her head. Twelve kilograms of high-quality South American heroin could wholesale for a million dollars, give or take. Not the biggest haul in law-enforcement history, not by a long shot, but significant.

  “Who’s moving the product?” she asked.

  Liam shifted uncomfortably. He really wasn’t used to talking business with cops.

  “Lad,” Carlyle said quietly, “it’s all right. This is precisely the sort of thing Erin can help with.”

  “Italian guys,” Liam said in a quick, low voice. “Lucarellis.”

  “Where’s this going down?” Erin asked.

  “East River docks.”

  “You got the dock number?”

  “Pretty close.”

  “Liam,” Erin said, “pretty close isn’t good enough.”

  “It don’t matter,” Liam said. “I know how they’re movin’ the shit downtown.”

  “How?”

  “It’ll be in a delivery truck. Marked Speedy X-Press. That’s an ‘X’ and then ‘Press.’”

  “You know where they’re going?”

  “Little Italy. They’ll probably take Saint James to Bowery to Canal.”

  Erin looked closely at the nervous little guy. “You know a lot about this move. How good is your info?”

  Liam’s eyes flicked toward Mickey, then Carlyle, then down to his own hands. “I talked to a guy.”

  “How many guys in the truck?”

  He shrugged. “Dunno. Two, probably.”

  “Armed?”

  He shrugged again. “Probably.”

  “What time is the pickup?”

  “Dunno. Depends. Could be in half an hour, could be an hour, maybe two.”

  Erin stood up. “Okay. Thanks. I’ll call it in.”

  Mickey took a step away from the wall. “Who you gonna call?” he growled.

  “My people,” she said.

  “And tell ‘em what?” he retorted. “The Oil Man finds out Liam told you this, you’re gonna be pullin’ him outta the East River in a day or two.”

  “Then what the hell did you call me here for?” Erin shot back.

  “I didn’t want to call you. Cars said you take care of things for him. Take care of this.”

  “That’s what I’m doing.”

  “Not your people.” Mickey uncrossed his arms and thrust one massive finger at her. “You.”

  “That’s not how the NYPD does things,” she said. “I’m not going to take down a couple of armed thugs by myself on your say-so.”

  Mickey nodded. “That’s what I told him,” he said. “Take away the badge and you’re just a naked pu—”

  “Careful, Mick,” Carlyle interrupted in a deceptively soft tone. “You open that door, I don’t think you’ll like what’s behind it.”

  Erin sized up the man in front of her. She could ignore Mickey’s instructions. Chances were, he’d let her and Rolf walk out without a fight. By herself, she didn’t think she could take him, but with her K-9 she bet she could. But that wasn’t the point. This was a test, to show Evan O’Malley how useful she could be. If she fought with Mickey, the O’Malleys wouldn’t trust her, and that could get both her and Carlyle killed down the road.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll keep Liam’s name out of this. I can play it as a tip from a guy we snagged earlier. I won’t say a word about this meeting. But I have to bring the Narcs in. I’m going to need a few more bodies to make the stop. And I have to get on this now, if you want me to get it
done. So, would you mind getting out of my way?”

  Mickey didn’t smile, but he did nod to her with just a little respect. And he stepped aside.

  “Catch you later,” she said to Carlyle.

  “Thank you, Erin,” he said, rising. “Be careful.”

  * * *

  If Erin had really wanted to be careful, she wouldn’t have found herself meeting up with the Street Narcotics Enforcement Unit. SNEU had a reputation for reckless behavior, as Erin’s dad had warned her. But they were also unconventional enough to go along with a tip from a dodgy source in Major Crimes on very short notice. Erin knew Lieutenant Webb would be pissed at being kept out of the loop, but there wasn’t time to explain up the chain of command. She got in touch with Narcotics, who patched her through to Sergeant Logan, one of the guys on duty on the Lower East Side. She called him from her car, already en route.

  “Logan here.” He sounded awake and alert. It was middle evening, about nine thirty. For a street Narc, the workday was just getting going.

  “This is O’Reilly, Major Crimes,” she said. “I got a hot tip. You got some guys willing to make a street bust?”

  “Hell yeah. How much weight?”

  “Could be twelve kilos.”

  “I’m in,” Logan said. “Where and when?”

  “It’ll be in a truck on Saint James, headed toward Bowery. It’s happening soon, sometime in the next couple hours.”

  “Copy that. I can have my guys there in twenty. Meet you at Triangle Park, next to the cemetery?”

  “Copy,” Erin said. “These guys may be armed, so be ready to come heavy.”

  “Copy, O’Reilly. See you there.”

  Chapter 14

  Sergeant Logan and his squad were hanging around the Saint James Triangle Park when Erin got there, looking like overage delinquents.

  “Okay,” Erin said. “Which one of you cowboys is Logan?”

  “O’Reilly?” Logan said, coming forward and offering his hand. He was a tall, lanky guy with a black leather jacket and a silver skull earring. “Glad to meet you. Paul Logan. This is Janovich, Firelli, and Piekarski.”