Jamie Hill Triple Threat (A Cop In The Family)

by Jamie Hill

  "Don't give me shit," Costa replied affably. "It's a real pain to drag those things in and out, and if Rose needs me to pick the kids up…"

  "I know, I didn't say anything bad." Brady thought for one moment what it might be like to have children with Gina and brushed the idea aside. Unless one of them was willing to change diapers, it was probably not a good idea.

  His mind drifted back to her. Also not a good idea, while working a case. He shook his head and said, "Let me read this sheet real quick and get up to speed."

  "Go ahead." Costa drove to their destination.

  "It doesn't say who owns this particular warehouse."

  "I don't think they had that information initially on the scene. I'm sure they do now, or we can call the office and get it."

  "They better fucking have it," Brady muttered.

  Costa glanced at him sideways. "You're not really going to ream the patrol officers like Forrest suggested, are you?"

  Brady smiled. "Nah. I remember what it was like when I was in their shoes. I try to treat them like I would have wanted the detectives to treat me."

  "Good." Costa's relief was visible. "I still got lots of friends over there."

  "No worries." He looked around as they approached the warehouse district, and targeted the one with the truck surrounded by a circle of patrol cars. Brady hopped out as soon as the vehicle came to a stop and walked quickly to the crime scene perimeter.

  He flashed his badge at the officer next to the orange cones. "Special Investigations."

  "Yes, sir." The uniformed man nodded him in.

  "Is the owner here yet?"

  "I believe so, sir. Over there, talking with the captain."

  Brady turned to where the small group of people converged. The owner was apparently a dark-haired, fifty-ish man with thick black glasses and a cheap suit. "Come on," Brady said over his shoulder to Costa, and they headed in that direction.

  The captain was someone Brady knew, a competent woman named Reiger. Dark-skinned with hair pulled back into a tight knot, she generally wore a no-nonsense expression. Today was no exception. She watched them approach and nodded. "Marshall, good. This is Richard Allen of Allen Imports. He's the owner of this property, where the burglary attempt took place today. He was just getting ready to tell us what he knows about the ten kilos of coke tucked inside."

  Allen's pudgy face reddened. "I told you, I don't know anything about the drugs. I run a clean operation here. Those parcels were brought in a few days ago, totally sealed, and were waiting to be processed and shipped out." He raised his hands in a shrug. "What can you do? I have to trust my customers to a certain extent. I can't search through each of the crates that come in here personally."

  Brady scanned the scene and then looked at Allen. "For one thing, you can get a better grade of customers. We need detailed records on who owns this shipment, or your ass is on the line for over two million dollars' worth of blow."

  "I'm having the records sent over here right now. Look, Detective, two mil might be the street value, but it's not worth that as is—maybe half that. I've done business in this town for over thirty years. You really think I'm going to jeopardize my outfit and my reputation by allowing this kind of shit to happen?"

  Brady rolled his eyes. "People have done a lot less for a million dollars. You can't expect us to believe this is the first time drugs have ever been smuggled through your little operation. A million a month, maybe a million a week—who knows what kind of profits you have stashed away for a rainy day?" He took a step closer to the man who'd started to perspire. "But we're going to find out. Starting right now, your business is an open book, Allen. I intend to find out what's passed through here, and what Roy Watts might have known about it."

  "Watts?" A confused look crossed Allen's face. "You know where that son of a bitch is? He up and disappeared on me a while back. I had to get someone else in here to figure out my computer stuff, change my passwords and all the shit that goes along with that. If I see Watts, that little fucker, I'm going to strangle him." He seemed to remember where he was and glanced at the faces of the cops watching him. "In a friendly kind of way, of course."

  "Of course," Reiger agreed.

  Brady stared at the nervous man. "Save you the trouble, Mr. Allen. Roy Watts is dead. Someone plugged him in the head and left him to die in an alley. I was just reading all about it this morning when we got this call. Unusual coincidence? We'll have to see."

  The color drained from Allen's face. "Now wait a minute! Watts was a good man. I spout off sometimes, but I would never have done anything like that to him. I trusted the guy. He knew a lot of details about my organization."

  "Only confirming my suspicions that this wasn't a coincidence." Brady surveyed the area. The morning sun appeared from behind the clouds and all of a sudden it was bright. He pulled sunglasses from his jacket pocket and slipped them on. He turned to Reiger. "Costa and I will escort Mr. Allen to his office so we can get started going through his files. You'll finish things up here?"

  "Yes. We'll let you know if anything else turns up."

  "Thanks, Captain." He faced Allen. "Shall we go? With this new development, I think we'll have a lot more people to talk to today. Might as well get started."

  Chapter Three

  Gina stood under the shower until she was fully awake. She dried off and dressed in jeans and a light sweater. It was spring, but the early morning air was crisp and cool. After her conversation with Brady the night before, there was something she needed to do. She set out with determination, driving the twenty minutes it took to get to the big house sitting high on a hill.

  She pulled around to the circular drive in back, where she'd always parked as a teenager. The grass was turning green after a long winter, and the two large flower beds lining the back of the house were neatly trimmed. She wondered if her father or his hired hand had done the work.

  Rapping sharply on the back door, she waited a moment then stepped inside. "Fran? It's Gina." She glanced around, expecting to see the housekeeper in the kitchen at this time of day.

  "Fran went to the grocery store. Will I do?" Her father came into the room, looking at her. Growing up, she thought he was a formidable man, tall and broad. Now he'd lost weight, and his slight frame made him look older and anything less than intimidating.

  She smiled at him. "Of course you'll do. I came to see you, Saputo." She crossed to the older man and kissed his cheek.

  "The language." He shook his head. "I would never have called my papa a smart ass like that."

  "You call me that every chance you get." She fastened a loose button flapping open on his shirt pocket and patted his chest.

  "That's because you are one." He shuffled to the sink. "Want some juice and toast? Fran got it all ready for me before she left."

  "Yes. You sit down, I'll get it."

  He shuffled to the table slowly, and she noticed how stooped over he'd become. He was only seventy, but his health had deteriorated the past few years. A surge of guilt nagged at her, realizing she didn't visit as often as she probably should.

  She prepared the toast and juice, carrying it to the table on a tray. "How have you been?" She set his food in front of him.

  "Still alive and kicking." His hand shook as he lifted his glass.

  Gina studied him for a moment. His thinning gray hair was combed neatly across his head. He looked scrawnier than she remembered. Another wave of guilt washed through her. "Feeling good?"

  "I never feel good anymore. Every day I just hope to feel a little better than yesterday."

  Sighing, she nibbled her toast. The head of steam she'd worked up on the drive over was gone. It was probably her brother she needed to confront, anyway. "So Papa, do you go into the office at all anymore?"

  He shook his head. "I haven't been there in ages. Your brother handles everything for me now."

  "I figured," she murmured thoughtfully, wondering if she should mention her concerns.

  His eyes locked on
hers. "Tell me what brings you here so early today? I'd like to think it was a social call, purely to say hello to your old pappy. Unfortunately, knowing you, I won't believe it if you tell me it was."

  She watched him over her glass of orange juice. "Nope, not really. I worked last night, and there was a police detective there. He had a list of warehouse owners in a neighborhood he's investigating. Seems there's been a bunch of burglaries lately, and the cops are checking it out."

  "And?"

  "Your name was on the list. You're one of two people he's particularly interested in."

  "Is that so? Affascinante. Fascinating. But I can't help wondering, since when is owning property a crime?" He ate his toast slowly.

  "Come off it, Papa," Gina snapped. "You know damn good and well, he's not concerned about you owning it. It's what you're doing with it that's in question, just like it always has been."

  He pointed a shaky finger at her as he raised his voice. "Don't talk to your father that way!"

  "I'm not a child any more. I've been wise to the ways of the world for a few years, now. I didn't want to change my name, but you said it was for my safety and in my best interest. That pretty much told me you were involved in something shady, Papa. We've never talked about it because I didn't want to know. Now I do."

  "There's nothing to talk about. Had you chosen to join your brother in the family business, things would be different." He stopped talking and a smile flitted across his face. "Perhaps you can be useful in another way. That cop. Does he frequent your place?"

  "No." She stood up, feeling the need for space. She'd never been able to lie to her father effectively. "I barely know him."

  "Why was he discussing his case with you? Sounds unprofessional to me."

  "We were just talking. I don't even know who he is. When I saw your name on his list I decided it was time to find out exactly what your import/export business does."

  He smiled. "We import and export, exactly like we've always done. I welcome your police officer friend's scrutiny. He'll find nothing amiss at our offices."

  "He's not my friend! I told you, I don't even know his name."

  Her father shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not. If he shows up at your place again, perhaps you can find out. I'm sure your brother would be interested in any other information you can get out of the detective, as well."

  "There's no way that's going to happen." She backed up to the door. "I won't spy on anybody for you."

  "Not for me, cara, for the family. You just said you wanted to get involved—"

  "I changed my mind," she announced decisively. She'd never discussed business with her father before, and she didn't like the ruthless look in his eyes as they talked now. She'd had suspicions of illegal activities in her younger days. Danny paid much more attention than she did, and he bragged to her several times when he overheard snatches of their father's conversations. As she got older and more involved in her own life, she hadn't given the family business a second thought.

  The name change threw her. At her father's request, both she and her brother assumed new, separate identities. She pulled the name 'Morris' out of the air, and used a shortened variation of her real first name. At first, it was strange, and then she discovered it was like a clean slate. Gina Morris didn't have a history. The new beginning was the chance of a lifetime. As the days passed, she settled into her new identity without giving much thought to her father or his business.

  She saw him occasionally, and her brother less often. Danny had taken over the business, demonstrating to everyone that no matter what his name, he truly was his father's son.

  Her brother's wedding had been an ostentatious event. His then-fiancée, Teresa, lived with a maiden aunt and had no one to throw the wedding of her dreams. The groom's father happily footed the bill, and it was a day to remember. Clad in layers of peach chiffon and taffeta, Gina fulfilled her maid of honor duties then proceeded to get drunk, hanging over the champagne fountain.

  The whole affair was a showy extravaganza. If I ever get married, it won't be a three-ring circus like Danny's wedding. A small, dignified ceremony with a couple of witnesses would be her preference.

  Gina brushed a lock of hair from her face and wondered where the wedding idea sprang from. She never planned on getting married. Since the fiasco with her boyfriend at college, the words 'happily ever after' had been stricken from her vocabulary. Men were liars and opportunistic bastards who let their pricks do most of their thinking. Besides, her family was screwed up, and she wouldn't inflict that on anyone.

  Brady's face appeared in her mind and she couldn't help but smile. He wasn't just anyone. He wasn't a bastard, either. For the first time in her life, there was someone who had her thinking marriage might not be so bad after all.

  "You're smiling. Have you changed your mind, cara?"

  She glanced at the old man and his piercing gaze. Something in his eyes scared her, more for Brady than for herself. She'd been wrong to come here. There was no way she'd ever spy on Brady for her father. Stark realization dawned on her—Brady and her family would never meet. They couldn't. It would ruin everything. "I've got to go," she said suddenly, reaching for the doorknob.

  "Bella figlia," her father called after her, but she allowed the door to slam between them.

  Beautiful daughter. The words raced through her mind. She didn't feel beautiful at that moment. She felt sick—and dirty. Tears streamed down her face as she ran to her car, slammed it into gear, and peeled out of the long driveway.

  * * * *

  Brady looked over his information sheet as Costa drove them to their stop that afternoon. Victor Moretti was listed as the owner of East Asian Imports, and his offices were located in a nice building on the west end of town. Brady wouldn't be surprised if there was no Victor Moretti. They'd have to talk to someone, and go from there.

  Forrest had assigned the other warehouse owners to various detective teams in the Special Investigations unit. He saved the ones with the most promise, Moretti and Gianni Macchio, for Brady and Costa. As one of the most experienced detectives in the WPD, Brady knew Forrest counted on him to get to the bottom of whatever was going on. He also knew it'd be a good teaching case for his new partner.

  "Here we are." Costa pulled into the parking lot of the tall building. He gave a low whistle as he looked the surroundings over.

  "No shit." Brady threw off his seat belt and got out when the car came to a stop. "East Asian Imports must do a hell of a business."

  Costa hurried to catch up. Inside the building they studied the locator map outside the elevator. "Looks like we want the tenth floor."

  "Yep." Brady punched the call button, and they entered when the elevator arrived. There was no one else in sight as the doors closed, and they ascended. "I thought Moretti sounded Italian," he commented.

  "It is Italian," Costa confirmed.

  "Then I wonder why the 'East Asian Imports' name? Suppose he has a bunch of Asians working for him?"

  "Seems unlikely."

  "Yeah." Brady thought so too. When the elevator stopped and they found the right office, the blonde woman who greeted them confirmed it.

  "Hi." She smiled. "May I help you?"

  "We'd like to talk to Victor Moretti." He returned her smile, taking in her appearance and the surroundings at the same time. Not a thing said 'Asian' about the office, nor the shapely secretary whose smile faded.

  "He's not in. May I help you with something?"

  The answer was not unexpected. Brady reached into his front pocket for his badge. Flipping it out he showed it to her, and said, "Then we need to speak with whoever's in charge."

  The petite woman examined the badge for a moment. "Mr. Moreno is in. Who shall I say is calling?"

  He removed a business card from behind his badge and handed it over. "Brady Marshall and Joe Costa, W.P.D."

  She nodded and stepped toward the hallway closest to her desk.

  Pulling out a notepad, Joey repeated, "Mr. Moreno? What's his fi
rst name?"

  She looked at the younger detective briefly before replying, "Anthony." Strolling down the hall, she stopped at the first door and knocked.

  Brady saw her step inside, and when she returned a few minutes later, a man was in tow. Medium height with thick black hair, he could possibly have been Italian. He certainly wasn't Asian. Brady continued to be intrigued.

  "Detective Marshall? I'm Anthony Moreno, Chief Executive Officer of East Asian Imports."

  Brady extended his hand and they shook. "This is my partner Joe Costa." The two men shook hands and Brady continued, "Could we speak with you for a few minutes?"

  "Of course," Moreno said. "Jenny, hold my calls please."

  "Yes, Mr. Moreno." She watched the detectives follow her boss to his office.

  Costa looked back and smiled. "Thanks, Jenny."

  "Sure," she replied, sounding flustered, and Brady bit back a chuckle. He was the one who taught Costa that flattery would get him everywhere with women. For some reason, the idea of flirting with her hadn't crossed his mind. Damn, was he that whipped already? An image of Gina standing over him with a leather whip caused him to smile, but he quickly put the thought out of mind. He had business to attend to.

  Stepping into Moreno's office, he glanced around. For such a nice building, their offices were plain and sparsely furnished. He took one of the two seats the man motioned them to, and watched Moreno sit in front of them, perched on the edge of his desk.

  "What can I do for you gentlemen?"

  Brady took the lead, as usual. "There've been a series of break-ins in the warehouse district. Several of your properties have been burglarized, and we're investigating."

  "Is that so?" Moreno walked behind his desk and opened a drawer, removing a file. "I'm aware of problems on January twenty-seventh and February eighth, but nothing other than that. Is that what you consider a 'series'?"

  Costa flipped back a few pages in his notebook and Brady nodded to him. The younger man said, "Besides the dates you mentioned, we show burglaries on January thirty-first, February seventeenth, nineteenth, twenty-fourth and twenty-eighth. There are also a few dates in March—five more to be exact."