by Jamie Hill
"Oh my," Moreno chuckled. "As I mentioned, I'm the CEO of the company. I'm sure I'd know if we'd been robbed that many times."
"I believe you'd know," Brady agreed. "I'm not sure I believe you'd admit it. I think maybe we need to talk to Mr. Moretti, and put all our cards on the table. We're interested in stopping the crime spree that's spreading through the warehouse district. If fine, upstanding businesses such as yours won't come clean with us, it makes our job that much harder."
Moreno's frozen smile slipped from his face. "We are a fine, upstanding business Detective Marshall, and I don't appreciate your implying otherwise."
"I wasn't implying anything." Brady looked at Costa. "Did you hear me imply anything?"
"No." Costa shook his head.
"Mr. Moretti is unavailable," Moreno snapped.
Brady removed another of his business cards and flipped it on Moreno's desk. "The man needs to make himself available within the next forty-eight hours. I can get a subpoena, and he can come to my office, or he can give me a call, and we'll stop back. Either way, my partner and I are going to be nosing around your warehouses. I suggest you let your security guards know we're coming."
Moreno stood and spoke with irritation. "Don't you need a search warrant for that?"
Brady nodded to Costa, who pulled a paper from his pocket and handed it to the man. "Yes sir, we do. Here you go."
As the surprised man looked over the legal document, Brady nodded toward the door and spoke while following Costa out. "Forty-eight hours, Mr. Moreno. And I'd like to speak to someone who knows something, if you please." He stepped out and smiled when he heard grumbled cursing from the office they'd just left.
Costa nodded to Jenny on the way out, but Brady didn't give her a second look. He wasn't in the mood to make nice.
"That went well," Costa said in the elevator, on the ride to the lobby.
"Right." Brady snorted. "I doubt we'll hear from them again. Did you notice how empty their offices were? Hell, in forty-eight hours that space will probably be vacant."
Costa's eyes widened. "You think?"
Brady nodded. "I do. I may be wrong, but I suspect we've seen the last of East Asian Imports."
"Son-of-a-bitch," Costa murmured, and they stepped from the building and into the sunlight.
"So now we visit Mr. Gianni Macchio. Where are his offices?"
"Actually, his address is in the warehouse district with his property. Wonder if he'll be available?"
Brady removed his sunglasses from his pocket and thrust them onto his face. "I highly doubt it, but we'll see." He stopped in front of Costa's shiny new Ford Explorer. "Want me to drive?"
"No thank you." Costa grinned, popping the door locks and climbing in.
Brady got in his side and buckled up. "But yours is so much cooler than mine. Don't you trust me?"
"With my new car? No, not one tiny bit."
He chuckled. "Remind me what we know about Macchio's operation."
"Um, Macchio's business is called East End Import Company. I think he runs it with his son, or he did. Maybe the son is running it now."
"What's the son's name?"
"I've got that." Costa felt in his pocket for his notebook and pulled it out one-handed while he drove. He flipped pages quickly and said, "D. Morrow."
"Dee? As in Dee Snyder or Sandra Dee?"
"Who?" The younger man glanced at him.
"Christ." Brady chuckled and shook his head.
"D., as in A, B, C, D. The letter 'D'."
"Gotcha. Okay, then. We're looking for Gianni Macchio or D. Morrow."
Costa turned into the run-down area by the river and began searching addresses. "Wonder why the son doesn't have the same name?"
"Who knows?" Brady stuck a cigarette in his mouth and waited until they stopped before lighting it. He climbed out and smoked it quickly on their walk to the company's office.
"Not nearly as nice as the last place," Costa commented, upon seeing the crumbling old building.
When he'd crushed out the butt under the toe of his boot, Brady opened the door and they went inside. "Looks can be deceiving," he murmured.
"No shit."
The East End Import Company offices had obviously been housed there for years. Large, overstuffed furniture filled the waiting room, and scenic pictures took up most of the wall space. The woman behind the desk was at least fifty, but Brady instantly liked her better than the last secretary.
She smiled at them warmly and said, "Hello! May I help you?"
He stopped close to her desk and removed a business card from the flap behind his badge. "I'm Detective Marshall with the W.P.D. Special Investigations Division. This is my partner, Detective Joe Costa. We're looking for Mr. Macchio, or perhaps his son Mr. Morrow."
She nodded. "Mr. Macchio is basically retired. Mr. Morrow is the man you'll want to see. I assume this is about that awful business with Damon Jones?"
Brady's mind clicked. Damon Jones, the security guard killed recently. "Yes ma'am," he agreed. "Was he a friend of yours?"
"Not really a friend. We have quite a few employees. I knew him, though. He had a wife and a baby on the way." She shook her head sadly.
"I'm so sorry." Brady hadn't read that in the file. Usually he was on top of every detail in his cases. He needed to get his mind totally in the game. "We're very interested in finding out who did this."
She spoke with some agitation. "It's all tied in with the recent burglaries in the warehouses. Mr. Morrow increased security because we've had so many—"
"Margaret?" A tall man approached her from behind.
She jumped. "Oh, you startled me, Mr. Morrow."
Brady looked over Macchio's son, the man in charge. He was swarthy, a good looking man who was obviously Italian. His eyes were as dark as his black hair, which was slicked back and long, well past his collar. "Mr. Morrow?"
"Yes?"
"I'm Detective Brady Marshall with the WPD. This is my partner Detective Joe Costa. We hoped we might speak with you for a moment."
The suspicion in Morrow's eyes dissolved and he smiled. "Sure. I wondered who Margaret was dishing out so much information to." With a quick look at her, he motioned the detectives ahead of him into his office. As they passed, he spoke in a voice loud enough for her to hear, "I think she'd give away trade secrets faster than Duke, the dog in the Bush's Baked Beans commercials."
She snorted and Brady laughed, winking at her as they parted company. He would have liked another couple of minutes with the woman. She did seem open to sharing whatever information she had. Hopefully, her boss would be just as open.
"Have a seat," Morrow offered. "Can I offer you something to drink? We have coffee or soft drinks if you prefer."
"No thanks, we're fine," Brady said, and Costa shook his head. "We're sorry about Damon Jones. Horrible thing, let alone his having a wife and a child on the way."
Morrow dropped into a third chair in front of his desk. "It sucks. She's a sweet lady. The funeral was a real tearjerker. My father and I set up a fund for her and the baby. Hopefully it'll help her out. Damon's friends and coworkers have been very generous."
"That's great," Costa commented.
"It is," Brady agreed, and glanced around the office. It was full of nice furniture and decorations, everything the last office they visited lacked. He felt surer than ever that East Asian Imports was probably half packed up and gone by now. "How long have you been in business, Mr. Morrow?"
The man gazed around the room proudly. "My father started the company forty years ago. He made it what it is today. I was lucky enough to step into a good thing, and the business has continued to do well."
"Apparently," Brady agreed. "Sure couldn't tell that from the outside."
Morrow laughed. "We've talked about fixing up the exterior, but as my father says, why advertise what's inside? We've got some expensive artwork and pieces here, but most people would never guess it."
Costa nodded. "Doesn't look like anything worth
breaking in for, when you drive by."
"Exactly. Now our warehouses, that's another story. Someone knows when our good shipments are arriving. We've lost more than I've had time to list recently."
"Have you considered the possibility of an inside job?" Brady asked.
"You bet I have," Morrow acknowledged. "I think it's very possibly someone who's hacked into our computer system. We're in the process of changing software and installing new encrypting devices, but that all takes time. Meanwhile, we're getting ripped off, right and left. Margaret was right, I have added more security. Some of them are not exactly the kind of people I'd hire if given the choice. But they don't have access to information, they're basically watchdogs."
Brady looked around thoughtfully. He could be mistaken, but Morrow seemed to be a straight shooter. There was no reason the man shouldn't be leveling with him, they were both after the same goal. Either Morrow didn't have much to hide, or it was hidden so well he wasn't concerned about a cursory investigation. He decided to toss some information out and see what it got him. "We just came from the offices of East Asian Imports. They've got a completely different setup than you have."
Morrow chuckled. "Those guys are schmucks. My father's gone round and round with Victor Moretti over every little God damned thing you could imagine."
"So there is a Victor Moretti," Costa said.
"You bet there is. He's older, like my pop, but they both started in this town about the same time. Like I told you, he's a schmuck. The people who work for him are schmucks. I'm being polite, here."
"Are you acquainted with their CEO, Anthony Moreno? We got as far as him before we were stonewalled."
He nodded. "The few dealings I've had with them have been through Tony, the CEO. King of the schmucks. Gives good Italian boys a bad name."
"Any idea why they call themselves East Asian Imports? I didn't see much Asian about them."
Morrow smiled. "I'm sure the name deals with where their goods are primarily shipped to and from. The Asian market has always been one of the biggest."
"Ah ha. That explains it." Brady felt stupid for not making that connection. His preoccupation with Gina had caused him to lose focus more than once on this case. He had to turn things around. "So, Mr. Morrow, just a few more questions. Are you familiar with a guy named Roy Watts?"
A strange expression flittered across Morrow's face but quickly disappeared. "I don't think so."
Brady smiled. For the first time, he knew the man was lying. He wasn't sure why, but it was obvious as hell. He stood and moved around the room. "All right. Oh, just for the record, what's your full name, Mr. Morrow? All we got was 'D'."
He followed Brady's movements with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "My legal name is Dominic. Everyone simply calls me D."
"Well, D., we appreciate your time in speaking with us. My partner and I need to take a sniff around your warehouses, if you don't mind."
Morrow stood and faced him. "I don't mind a bit. I assume you have a search warrant?"
"Do we need one?" Brady eyed him levelly.
Morrow smiled and shrugged. Costa got to his feet and handed the document over. "Here you are, sir."
"Fine." Opening the door for them, Morrow said, "Please, let me know if I can be of further help."
"We will. Thank you so much." Brady shook hands with the man, and Costa followed suit. Margaret was not at her desk, so they went on outside. "Did it get considerably chillier in there, or was it just me?" He slapped his sunglasses on and looked at his partner.
"Wasn't just you. Started with the mention of Watts and went downhill from there."
"That's what I thought. Well, come on. Let's get this over with. Twelve warehouses could take a while."
"No shit," Costa grumbled, and they headed for the first one.
The warehouse was dusty and dark. Crates were stacked in long rows higher than Brady's head. He couldn't see much, and mentioned it to his partner. "They could have at least flipped the overhead lights for us. But then again, I'm not sure how much cooperation we were bound to get."
"I've got a flashlight in the car," Costa replied. "Let me go get it."
"Hang on," Brady said. He examined the label on one box and shook his head. "This is all Greek to me. Even with a flashlight, these labels won't tell us anything. I think our best bet is to come back with a drug sniffing dog and let him do his thing. If that doesn't do it, we'll bring back some help with flashlights and crowbars." He dusted off the sleeve of his jacket, in no mood to get filthy going through warehouse crates.
"Sure." They walked slowly toward the exit. "I haven't dealt much with the canine unit. Watching them work this morning was pretty interesting."
Brady chuckled. "Those are some smart animals. They can sniff drugs out of places that are impossible for humans." He stopped to look at one more crate before they reached the door. "My friend Jack owns a retired cop dog, Zeus. He's a great pet and an even better watchdog, which is nice, considering—" A shot rang out and Brady heard the whiz of a bullet. He felt a sudden stinging sensation. He grabbed his arm as he and Costa hit the floor.
"Shit!" he muttered.
"Are you hit?" Costa asked frantically.
"I think so." Brady lifted his hand and saw a hole in the bicep area of his jacket, with blood oozing out. "Son-of-a-bitch!"
"Is it bad?"
"I can't tell. I don't suppose you have a radio on you?"
"It's in the car," Costa replied sheepishly. His face was flushed.
Brady could tell the man was nervous as hell. "I don't have one, either." Holding his upper arm tightly, he peered around but saw no one. "You've got to get to the car and call for backup. I'll stay put." He reached into his jacket and pulled out his firearm. He nodded for Costa to do the same. "Be prepared."
The nervous junior detective pulled out his gun and flipped the safety off.
Brady raised his weapon. "I'll cover you, but stay as low as you can. I'm not sure where the shot came from."
"Guess we'll find out." Crouched down, Costa waddled to the nearest exit. He exchanged glances with Brady, and slowly stood to shove the door open.
Another gunshot echoed through the building, and Brady got a read on where it came from. Taking cover behind a crate, he let loose with a volley of return gunfire giving Costa the cover he needed to make a dash from the warehouse. Dropping to his knee, Brady waited.
His arm burned, but he could move it. He didn't think the bullet had penetrated it, hopefully just grazed him, but couldn't be sure until he removed his jacket. Breathing in long, slow swallows to calm himself, he leaned against the crate and assessed the situation. Before he really had a handle on everything, sirens pierced the air, growing louder.
Brady sighed with relief. Costa was good, but he wasn't prepared to handle this by himself. The backup had arrived just in time.
He heard the siren's wail getting closer and closer, until it was right outside the building. More followed. He couldn't count the number once all the sirens joined together in a noisy racket. One by one, just as they'd started, they stopped until there was silence. Brady clasped his arm and waited an interminable length of time.
The warehouse door opened and Costa appeared with two other uniformed policemen. "Marshall?"
"Yeah."
"It's all clear. We'll get you out." They moved in toward him.
"You sure?" He looked around warily.
"Yes. We have the shooter outside. He's a security guard on duty here. He thought we were breaking in."
With one officer on each side of him, Brady got to his feet. He thought he'd be lightheaded, but he wasn't. They started for the door and he muttered, "The bastard thought he'd shoot first and ask questions later?"
"Pretty much," Costa replied.
He saw the guard standing next to more police officers and Brady stomped over to him. "You stupid son-of-a-bitch! You could have killed one of us!"
"I was just doing my job! I was hired to protect the wareh
ouse, and I saw the two of you sneaking around—"
"We were not sneaking around," Costa insisted.
"We had a search warrant and had already spoken to your boss. Did you ever think about questioning us before using your weapon?"
"I—I'm new," the man stammered.
"You're also under arrest," Brady snarled, and turned to one of the uniformed officers. "Take this jackass down to the station. If his boss wants to bail him out, fine. But I'm not dropping the charges."
"Yes sir," the officer replied, and handcuffed the guard.
"Okay, Marshall." A female paramedic approached, reaching for his hand. "The jacket's ruined. Let's have a look at your arm."
"It hurts," he complained sourly.
She smiled and led him to the back of her ambulance. "I know. Do you think we can get this jacket off, or do I need to cut it away?"
"Don't cut it!" he growled, and attempted to remove it one-handed.
"Here, let me help you." She peeled away his jacket gingerly, followed by his shirt sleeve. "Oh, it's not so bad. Bullet just grazed you."
"It's bleeding."
"Yes, but it won't even need stitches. Look." She wiped the wound with an antiseptic towelette. More blood appeared, and she wiped it again.
He watched the bleeding slow, and she inspected the area. He had to admit it looked pretty minor, but he was furious and not ready to let it go. "It stings like fire."
She smiled again and applied ointment to the scrape. "I'm sure it does. It'll be sore for a few days. If you want, we can run you to the emergency room for some tests, just to make sure. I don't really think you need them, but it might get you a few days off from work."
He watched her bandage the wound, and then raised and lowered his arm a few times. "Nah." He finally smiled back at the woman. Her name tag read Beverly Lewis, and her face was vaguely familiar. He thought he may have dated her at some point, but couldn't exactly remember in his agitated state. "I'll be okay."
"Are you sure?" She helped him back into his shirt, buttoning it carefully and staring into his eyes. "I'd be happy to run you in, or anywhere else you needed to go."