by Jamie Hill
"The sooner the better. I got to get out of here."
"You sure about that?" He raised his eyebrows at Allen. They both knew if the man talked to the DA, he'd be better off pulling up stakes and finding a new place to work. Brady didn't especially like that aspect of the job, but it was a necessary evil to get information.
"Fuck." Allen's hands fell loosely on the table.
"Yeah." Brady opened the door and spotted Costa at his desk. "Costa, you want to take Mr. Allen down for a smoke break, please? See about getting him some food. He's going to be here awhile."
"Sure." Costa stood and headed into the conference room as Brady walked out.
Rubbing his temples, Brady sat at his desk and placed a call to the DA's office. Lt. Forrest had already spoken to them. The paperwork he requested would be delivered as soon as Brady gave the word. That gave him the full afternoon to find out what Allen knew.
They couldn't hold him. If the man was really nervous, he was a potential flight risk. He might stick around, but either way, Brady needed to get into his head as soon as possible.
* * * *
Brady read over the notes he and Costa had taken while speaking with Allen for three hours that afternoon. If the business owner had been truthful, he hadn't known much. Yet, it wasn't a complete waste of time. A few key pieces of information gave them some leads to pursue that they hadn't before.
Costa walked by reading his own notes, and paused next to Brady's desk. "Did you believe him when he said he didn't know what happened to Roy Watts?"
Brady leaned back, crossing his arms. "Yeah, I did. He's a rotten liar. It was pretty easy to read his face."
"There's something fishy about that angle. I can't put my finger on it, but the Watts case bothers me."
"It was a homicide. It should bother you."
"Shut up." Costa barely looked up from his notes. "Did you read Watts' file? He'd been arrested a bunch of times and then it just stopped. Doesn't that strike you as odd?"
Brady nodded. It had, when he'd gone over the file. Now, hearing it out loud, things became clearer. "You think he had a cop friend taking care of business for him?"
"Probably not without a little quid pro quo. I'm sure the cop was getting something out of the deal, too."
"Son-of-a-bitch." Brady slammed his fistful of papers onto his desk. "He was a fucking snitch."
"Confidential informant," Costa corrected.
Brady rolled his eyes. "Whatever. You want to check that theory out? Mike Hampton up in Narcotics might be a good place to start. He's always been pretty helpful to me."
"Yes." Costa's eyes shone. He was obviously pleased that Brady hadn't snatched the lead out from under him.
"Stop up there on your way home." He glanced at his watch. "Hampton might be gone for the day. He can always call you tomorrow."
"Right. Thanks, Marshall." Costa grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair and rushed out.
Brady smiled. It'd been an astute pickup on the kid's part. Costa deserved a shot to investigate the theory. Looking at the stack of papers on his desk, he sighed. He had a dozen leads to follow up on, but nothing time sensitive. Tomorrow will be soon enough.
He slipped into his jacket and headed out the door. Since Gina was working, he decided to hit the club and get a bite to eat before going home. He lit up a cigarette in the car but put it out after a couple puffs. It tasted funny, and wasn't what he craved anymore.
The one thing he truly craved, couldn't seem to shake his mind off of, was nowhere in sight when he entered the club. Business was slow and he should have been able to spot Gina anywhere in the room. Julie waited on one of two full tables, and Randy manned the bar.
He nodded to the red-headed man as he took a seat at his favorite table by the wall. A blonde stripper gyrated against the pole on stage. The black-leather corset wrapped around her waist pushed her large, bobbing breasts up high. She wore black fishnet stockings held up by old-fashioned black garters, attached to a thin belt. That and a thong were the only scraps of clothing covering her obviously shaved genitals.
The outfit surprised him. Most of the strippers got down to panties and sometimes thongs, but this woman was as close to exposed as he'd seen in a long time. He wasn't actually interested but it was somehow like a train wreck—hard to look away.
"Good evening, Brady." Julie said softly.
He jumped, nearly upsetting his chair. His face heated in a warm blush. "Hia, Julie. I, uh, was looking for Gina."
"You won't find her up there," the friendly brunette teased.
He shook his head. "I know, sorry. That getup caught my eye for a second."
"Minnie catches lots of eyes in that outfit. Lots of dollars, too. Look at her feet. Pretty good considering how slow it is in here."
Brady saw the layer of bills scattered over the stage. When Gina told him how much strippers could make in a week, he was astounded—and happy that she had opted for the lower-paying waitress job. "Not bad," he agreed.
Julie leaned forward. "It doesn't leave much to the imagination, though, does it?"
He cleared his throat and glanced away, offering her a smile. "Not much at all. So where's Gina? She called me on her way to work, so I knew she'd be here."
"She's in the back with Warren, going over the schedule or something. He told me to let them know if I got busy. So far, I've managed to handle it. Can I bring you something, or should I get Gina?"
He nodded. "I'd like an order of nachos and a light beer on tap, please."
"You got it." She wrote out the ticket and took it back to the cook in the small kitchen.
Brady looked around, relieved to see that song had ended and the black-leather clad chick was gone. He had no business checking out other women, but he was a man in a strip joint, for Christ's sake. Like a kid hanging around in a candy store, he couldn't be prosecuted for merely looking. Gina got that. She might give him a bad time, but then she'd look with him. Gina was cool.
And nowhere to be found. He'd drained half his beer and eaten a few nachos when voices rose from the back room. The show was between dancers and the club was quiet, so the hushed, angry tones carried.
"You need to leave me the fuck alone!" someone muttered.
"Get back in here, bitch. I'm not done talking to you." Warren's voice was easily recognizable.
"Stop that!" she protested.
Brady sprang to his feet when he realized the voice was Gina's. Taking long strides, he made it to the owner's office quickly and knocked firmly on the door.
"Busy!" Warren snapped.
Brady turned the handle and the door opened. He stuck his head in and saw Warren holding Gina by the wrist. "Too busy to let go of her so I can punch you in the nose?"
"Marshall." Warren shook his head in disgust.
Gina's eyes flashed. "Brady, no! It's not what you think. We were just having a little disagreement."
He gazed from her back to the club owner, his gaze steely. "I said, let go."
Warren's hands dropped.
Gina stepped back, rubbing her wrist. "Brady, listen. Nothing happened here. We were having a discussion about the schedule."
He raised his hands. "That sounded like quite a discussion. But, hey, it's not my business. If you need me, I'm out there choking down some greasy nachos. Otherwise, carry on."
"We're done." She cast an irritated glance in Warren's direction and walked toward Brady. "I'll take my break now. I can sit with you while you eat."
"Great." He placed one hand on the small of her back and guided her out. With one last look at Warren, who did not appear pleased, Brady closed the office door.
"Cretino," she muttered as he led her to his table.
"I'm assuming that's a bad thing." Brady smiled and they sat.
Gina picked at his nachos. "He's an ass. But I need this job, so I put up with it."
"Put up with what, exactly?"
She rolled her eyes and licked cheese off her finger. "Nothing like that. Warren's a mic
ro-manager, sticking his nose into everything. He lets me make out the schedule and has Randy ordering booze. Then he chews our asses once a week because things aren't exactly how it wants them."
"I see." Brady felt a little better, but still irritated. "Look, Gina. This is your job, and I know you're a big girl who can take care of herself. But that doesn't mean I won't step in when I hear yelling, or see some asshole put his hands on you. I always will. I'm afraid you're going to have to deal with that."
She batted her lashes. "Gotcha. I'm sure I can handle it. Thank you, caro."
"No problem." He shoved his plate toward her and they both ate.
Julie approached their table and set a soft drink down in front of Gina. "Thought you might want this."
"Great, thanks." Gina smiled up at her friend.
"So, Warren's on the warpath tonight?"
Gina shrugged. "Same old, same old. Give him some space, he'll blow over like a big old bag of wind."
Julie grinned and looked at Brady. "I can't imagine why he gets irritated with her, can you?"
He shook his head. "Nope."
She nudged his arm. "Minnie's coming on stage again soon. I think you'll like this next getup as much as the last one."
"Oh, thanks." He rolled his eyes as she walked away, laughing.
Gina pinched his arm. "Checking out Minnie, were you? I thought I was the only show you were interested in, here."
"Ouch!" He jerked away. Even through his jacket and shirt, she had one mean pinch. "I was waiting for you. I couldn't help but notice…"
"Donnaillo." She popped a chip in her mouth. "Some things never change, eh?"
Brady shook a finger at her. "You're the only woman I've looked at for a while now. Admit it, you know it's true."
She grabbed his finger and squeezed. "Aw, I know it, you big flirt. So tell me, how was your day?"
"Long, and full of meetings."
"Good. When you're in the office, at least I know you're safe. So, did the meetings go well?"
"Eh." He shrugged. "Hard to tell. We might have something, or we might not. Can't be sure until we dig a little deeper."
"Was Mr. Allen cooperative?"
He blinked. "How did you know I was talking to Allen?"
Gina tossed a strand of hair over her shoulder. "You told me, scemo. On the phone earlier."
"Stop calling me a fool. I've figured out these names you insist on using, so either dredge up some new ones…or maybe you should talk a little nicer to me."
Gina grinned. "Ah, ti amo, caro. You want to be sweet talked? Meet me at my place, later tonight. I'll sweet talk your ear off, and then I'll…" she leaned in and whispered a naughty suggestion in his ear.
He chuckled and felt the heat of his face blushing. "I let you kiss me with that mouth? I must be mad. I wish I could be there when you get home from work. It'll be awfully late, and I have a busy day tomorrow."
She shrugged and threw up her hands. "Don't say I didn't offer."
He winked at her. "I'd never say that. Oh, and I love you, too."
Gina smiled.
* * * *
Brady had a message from Joey Costa the next morning, explaining he had an early meeting with Mike Hampton in Narcotics. Going over the files again, with a lukewarm cup of coffee in his hand, Brady hoped Costa came up with something. They could use a break on this case.
He remembered a question he had for Richard Allen and dialed the man's number. The phone simply rang, no answering machine or voicemail kicked in. Brady looked at his watch. Not yet eight-thirty. Is it strange that Allen's not answering, or am I being paranoid? Before he could dwell on it further, his cell phone rang. Brady reached into his pocket and pulled it out, looking at the screen. Costa. He answered it. "Marshall."
"I think you should get up here. Mike Hampton has some information about Roy Watts, and you're going to want to hear it from him."
"On my way." Brady pocketed his phone, and headed for the elevator. He ascended to the Narcotics Division and looked around the bullpen, not spotting Mike or Costa.
"Can I help you?" a secretary asked.
"Mike Hampton?"
She nodded. "They're in the conference room to the back and left."
"Thanks." He nodded to her and as he walked off, realized he'd forgotten to check her out. Brady smiled. Gina would be proud.
He approached the conference room and rapped on the door.
"Come in," someone called.
He entered and saw Costa and two other men around the table. Hampton he recognized, dark hair, glasses, a decent fellow. The other man was younger, in casual clothes, with longish sandy hair. "Hey," Brady acknowledged.
"Marshall, good to see you." Hampton motioned to a chair. "I had no idea you were working Roy Watts' case. I tried to talk to that little fucker, Stone, in Homicide, but got nowhere. Frankly, I let it drop."
Brady sat. "Let what drop, Mike?"
"Watts was a CI." He nodded toward the other man. "Grossman, here, was working undercover. Watts reported to him."
"A CI?" Brady processed the information.
Costa nodded knowingly. "Confidential Informant."
Brady shot an eye roll at Costa. "I got that much. I'm thinking this through." He looked at Grossman. "You're a cop? Not sure we've ever met. You look about twelve."
Grossman smiled. "I'm twenty-five, sir. I stay pretty deep undercover most of the time. I was working with Watts for several months. He was the financial guy for Allen Imports but got caught running a little side business of his own. When the arresting officers figured out he might be willing to squeal instead of take his lumps, the lieutenant hooked him up with me."
"Watts was importing drugs?"
"Oh, no, my friend. Watts was a small cog in the big wheel of drug running that's been going on. The man in charge also has an import company, but was smart enough not to involve his own business, exactly because of something like what happened last week. When the drugs are discovered, the company goes under a microscope. So Mr. Big uses Watts who uses Allen Imports, and they all get along fine."
"Until…?" Brady rapped his fingers on the table. These things never stay fine for long.
Grossman shrugged. "Apparently until Watts started two-timing Mr. Big, who he was using to two-time Richard Allen."
Hampton looked at Grossman. "Does that make him a four-timer?"
"At least." Grossman nodded. He looked at Brady. "Watts had been keeping records of all the illegal transactions from day one. He had a notebook with names, dates, shipment instructions and values."
"Had." Brady could tell by the look on Grossman's face not to get too excited.
"Exactly. He was prepared to hand it over to me, when, viola, he turns up dead in an alley behind the Pink Banana Strip Club."
Brady nodded, all too aware of the details from that point on. "So the notebook is gone. Did he give you any information? Names, companies, anything? Do we know who Mr. Big is?"
"Watts was pretty cautious when we spoke. He knew gathering Intel was hazardous to his health, and was making plans to disappear to the Bahamas, as soon as we broke the case." Grossman opened a file on the table in front of him. "There are a couple of possibilities for Mr. Big. The first is Gianni Macchio. Runs a place called East End Imports."
Brady and Costa exchanged glances. "We know it well," Brady informed the men. "Costa and I were there last week when their security guard took a shot at us. Grazed my arm, and royally pissed me off."
Costa nodded. "We understood that Macchio isn't involved anymore. His son has taken over. Dominic Morrow. Goes by the name D. Morrow."
Grossman shook his head. "Don't know about that. Watts talked about two people, Macchio and Victor Moretti. He made it sound like these guys were into more than simple import and export."
"Ah, the elusive Victor Moretti." Brady folded his arms across his chest. "We spoke with his CEO. Not nearly as friendly a guy as Morrow. But we never got to Moretti, either."
Shoving his file across t
he table to Brady, Grossman raised his eyebrows. "You might want to tread lightly with these guys. Watts led me to believe there's some kind of an Italian mafia thing happening there. He was never tight enough with them to be in on it. But he was aware of it, and very, very afraid."
"As he should have been," Hampton commented wryly.
"No shit." Brady took the file. "Can I keep this a while?"
"I made you copies." Grossman nodded.
Costa stood and paced the room, an irritated expression on his face. "Italian mafia. That's such a fucking stereotype. Totally pisses me off."
Brady rose and looked at him. His situation with Gina gave him empathy for the Italian detective, but it was tough to refute evidence. "Sometimes stereotypes are based in fact, man. That's where they come from to begin with."
Costa smiled at him grimly. "Still pisses me off."
Grossman leaned back in his chair. "You won't find a lot of cold, hard evidence in that file, which is why we haven't acted on anything yet. Watts gave us a couple of names with some rumblings. I'm sorry to say we didn't get further."
Holding up the file, Brady shook it. "More pieces to the puzzle, kid. We just have to make them all fit. Thanks for the information."
They exchanged pleasantries and Brady left.
Costa hurried to catch up. "What do you think?"
"I think we need to find Macchio and Moretti and have a chat." He punched the elevator button and they rode back to their floor.
"You weren't sure East Asian Imports was going to be there when we got back."
Brady shrugged. "Let's find out. I want to try to call Richard Allen one more time." He punched the buttons on the phone at his desk and listened as the phone continued to ring.
"It's pretty early," Costa offered, tossing a fragrant bag on his desk.
"What you got there?" Brady asked as if he didn't know.
"I brought crullers." Costa fetched two cups of coffee and returned, opening the bag.
"Thanks." Brady disconnected the still-ringing call. He shuffled through the papers on his desk and found the phone number to Allen Imports. If Allen was going to work, he might be there by now. He dialed the business number.