Mob Lawyer 6: A Legal Thriller

by Dave Daren

  I strolled over to the sliding glass doors but stopped as soon as I saw the pool and the garbage that littered the ocean-blue tarp. The area had been clear the night before since the guys had cleaned up their mess, so I suspected that the current chaos was thanks to my striped friend.

  I rolled my eyes and padded back into the living room for my cell phone. One call later, and the pool guys were scheduled to come out later in the day to clean up the mess. They’d told me they would have to charge me extra for the garbage, but it was worth it to have that eyesore taken care of.

  The rest of the morning I spent on the treadmill. I hadn’t had a proper run in months, and I was huffing and puffing by the time I finished the third mile. When I was done, I washed up, checked the time, and then said goodbye to the painters as I headed to my meeting on the Brooklyn docks.

  I called Gabriele on the way to let him know to keep an eye out for me, and the hacker told me that he’d watched three weeks of the camera feed without any signs of guys with machine guns. He’d seen several high-end cars come through late at night, but he hadn’t spotted the Enzo. There was a blind spot on the cameras, and he thought that the Ferrari might’ve been brought in that way as a precaution.

  The most interesting information that he’d managed to find was that the cars were loaded onto what looked like refrigerated containers. He said he’d dig into it more, but that there was definitely something suspicious about the way Dian moved the cars.

  I told him to email me anything he found and made a mental note to dive into conspiracy theories when I was back home. There had to be some kind of insane idea that would be closer to the truth than what was easily accessible in the public records, and I needed any edge I could find to trace the whereabouts of the Ferrari.

  The guard at the gate was exactly how Gabriele had described him. There was a permanent grease stain on the breast pocket of his uniform shirt, and a twenty-nine-inch TV sat in the corner of his little hut with reruns of The Days of Our Lives playing. He waved me through with barely a glance at my driver’s license, and then slid the plexiglass window shut as he went back to his soaps.

  Dian Pham’s office was easy enough to find. His parking spot was in front of the only building that wasn’t a warehouse, though it was close enough that he’d be able to run over if anything went wrong, and the top floor was lined with windows that looked out over the docks and the ships that had come into port.

  I parked in one of the guest spots, grabbed my briefcase, and then climbed the stairs to the office. The sound of my knock on the door echoed back down the hallway, and I waited until I heard Dian tell me to come in.

  The older Vietnamese man stood with his back to the door, his hands clasped behind him, and his eyes on a cargo ship that was still being unloaded. His metal and wood desk stood right behind him, and his high-backed leather office chair was facing him so he’d be able to sit right in it and spin around to see me.

  “Good morning,” I said as I walked over to one of the metal and leather guest chairs.

  “Good morning, Mr. Morgan,” Dian said as he turned around.

  He had more wrinkles around his eyes and mouth than the picture on his website, and there were streaks of gray in his black hair. He flashed me a smile and then sat in his chair.

  “I trust you slept well?” he asked.

  “I did,” I said. “And you?”

  “Very well,” he replied. “I suppose you want to get right down to business?”

  “I do,” I said as I set my briefcase down, sat back, crossed one leg over the other, and then folded my hands over my stomach in as relaxed of a pose as I could muster in the uncomfortable chairs.

  “I understand that there’s some need for haste,” the Vietnamese man said as he sat forward in his chair. “And that you have several barrels of olives that need to be brought over from Italy. I can help you with that. However, a rushed delivery will cost extra. And the Febbos will need to sign an exclusivity contract if we are going to work together.”

  “Actually,” I said with a warm smile. “I’m more interested in talking about your car theft business.”

  The dark-haired man blinked, but it was the only sign of emotion that crossed his face.

  “I apologize, Mr. Morgan,” he said in a calm tone. “But I have no idea what you’re talking about. I run an import and export company. I have nothing to do with stolen merchandise. At least, not that I know of. My clients are more than welcome to ship whatever they wish, as long as the port authority doesn’t come sniffing around.”

  “That’s not what I hear,” I said while I pulled out my phone. “In fact, I have a video here that shows your men loading several very nice cars into a shipping container.”

  The grin he’d maintained faltered as he glanced at my phone. He frowned, sighed, and sat back in his chair with a huff.

  “What do you want?” he asked. “Do you want me to get you a specific car?”

  “Actually, yes,” I said as I slid my phone back into my pocket. I hadn’t asked Gabriele to send me any of the footage, but the bluff had worked, and I knew that the hacker could have it to me in seconds if I needed it.

  “What are you looking for?” the businessman asked. “You seem like a Porsche man. I could have one for you within the week.”

  “Actually,” I said. “I’m looking for a Ferrari Enzo. Specifically, the one that your boy Chris stole from Anthony Febbo.”

  The color drained from Dian’s face, and he licked his lips like they’d suddenly gone dry. He leaned forward for his water glass, chugged it, and set the empty cup back on his desk before he laid his hands flat on the surface of his desk.

  “The Enzo belonged to Mr. Febbo?” he asked in a strained tone, and his calm bravado had evaporated as he realized just who he’d stolen from, but he ran a hand through his hair and did his best to regain control of himself, though his eyes were still wide with fear.

  “Yes,” I said. “It was a present from his father. He hadn’t had it for a full day before your employee stole it from in front of his parents’ townhouse.”

  The businessman started to mutter what I suspected were Vietnamese curses as he stood and started to pace the area behind his desk.

  “I can’t help you,” he said and then stopped pacing to grip the back of his chair as if to support himself.

  “Oh, I think you can help me,” I said with a calm smile and relaxed shoulders.

  “The Ferrari Enzo is already gone,” he continued in a thick accent that made me think he’d come to the country a lot later than his website proclaimed. “It left the same night that Chris brought it to me. You have to understand, a car like that sells quickly, and a buyer was ready the moment that it was listed for sale.”

  “I do understand.” I stood and straightened my suit jacket before I leaned down to grab my briefcase. “But you must know that Mr. Febbo will not accept that as an answer.”

  “I don’t know what you want me to do,” Dian said. “I can’t turn the ship around. It’s already halfway there.”

  “That is quite a predicament,” I said in an icy tone as I stared across the desk at the nearly hyperventilating man. “But that’s not my concern. I can give you until Monday to have the Ferrari Enzo back in Mr. Febbo’s custody, or I’ll have to bring this matter to one of my associates. And Mr. Pham… I promise you that he will not be as courteous as I am.”

  Dian’s face was almost white as I left him behind in his office. He probably had no way to retrieve the car if it was already on a ship, but Gabriele could monitor his computer, and that would give me a clue of how his operations worked and how to track my client’s stolen car.

  I just hoped that Dian would stay alive long enough for me to figure it out.

  Chapter 8

  “What did you find out?” Anthony asked, and I waved at the guard on my way out of the import company’s gates, but the big man didn’t even bother to look away from his small TV.

  “He doesn’t have your car anymore,”
I said and rolled my eyes as I pulled out into traffic.

  “Where the hell is it?” the mafioso snarled.

  “According to him, it’s halfway to its destination,” I said. “It’s on one of his ships.”

  I weaved through traffic on my way to Nordstrom. With the snowstorm on its way, I needed to move buying a new winter wardrobe up on my list of things to do. I’d looked online and found a couple of jackets that I liked at the well-known store, and I finally had enough money to actually shop there, so I decided to treat myself before I had to head back to the house.

  “What’s your plan?” my client asked after he’d finished cursing in Italian.

  “I gave him until Monday to get it back to you,” I said, and there was a long pause on the other end of the line, and I could hear the tap of a pen on a desk. I forced myself to focus on the road rather than the silence, but my fingers started to tap on my steering wheel in time with the pen.

  “Monday should be fine,” Anthony said with a sigh. “Mom’s going to be irritated that we’re still not going on vacation.”

  “True,” I mumbled. “But we’ll go as soon as you get your car back. And we’ll take plenty of pictures.”

  “If it takes more than two weeks, then we’re going to have to spend an entire day at the spa,” the mafioso chuckled.

  The matriarch of the Febbo family had given us a brochure of everything that her favorite spa offered, and most of it sounded more like torture than relaxing. There was waxing, which thankfully Gulia said we could skip, but there were hot stones and full body wraps that looked like it was the start of the mummification process rather than a healing treatment.

  “That’s just cruel,” I mumbled. “I’m sure she’ll schedule that two hour deep tissue massage, too.”

  “Of course,” my client said. “It’ll be payback for not taking her up right away on her generous offer. At least the masseuses at her spa are hot.”

  I snorted into the phone and shook my head because there wasn’t a woman beautiful enough to make a deep tissue massage worth the pain. I’d had to have a few of them for an old injury, and the tiny woman that had worked out the knots in my back had given me a bamboo stick and told me to bite on it while she drove her knuckles into me. Granted, two days later I’d felt like a million bucks, but that two days was nothing but aches and bruises.

  “Maybe we can do that on the last day of the trip,” I said. “That way we can actually enjoy the casinos instead of feeling like we went nine rounds with Mike Tyson.”

  “That’s going to depend on how long it takes for us to get to Atlantic City,” Anthony said. “Check back in with our new friend on Sunday to make sure that he’s on track.”

  “I will,” I said. “I have Gabriele digging into the operations, and I’ve already got some great leverage.”

  “Good,” the mafioso said. “See you for dinner?”

  “Not tonight,” I said with a shake of my head. “I need to do some paperwork.”

  “Sounds good,” Anthony said and then hung up.

  I hunted for a free parking spot in the popular shopping district and tried not to groan out loud when I saw the Fifth Avenue women with their armfuls of shopping bags. It was like a sport to them, and I could only imagine the credit card bills that they were piling up. Although, I did like all of the outfits that Liz and Alessia wore, so it was at least worth the cost.

  “Hello, welcome to Nordstrom,” a young woman said when I walked through the door.

  Her platinum-blonde hair was styled into a stick straight bob that brought out the sharp lines of her cheekbones. She’d done her makeup in soft hues like she wanted to seem more delicate, but her eyeliner was just as piercing as her blue eyes.

  “Hello,” I said with a smile.

  “Is there something that I can help you find?” the saleswoman asked, and I looked around at the clothes that lined the stark white walls.

  There were more colorful coats than the ones that I’d seen online, but I was pretty sure that I was just going to stick with the usual black. I would need help figuring out what sweaters would be best, and the beautiful woman could probably point me in the right direction.

  “I need a winter wardrobe,” I confessed.

  “Of course,” she gave me a bright smile that made her seem more approachable. “My name is Sheila. Where would you like to start?”

  “I saw a few coats online that I liked,” I said and walked toward the rack of heavy jackets. “I think one of them was a peacoat or something.”

  “I have one that would look amazing on you,” Sheila said. “It’s ebony with oversized buttons that will show off your slim waist and broad shoulders.”

  The beautiful woman gave me a long look over and chewed on her bottom lip. Her lipstick somehow managed to stay on, and there was none on her teeth when she flashed another smile. She pulled the coat in question off of the rack and held it up to me.

  “It’s perfect,” she said. “It does come in other colors, but you strike me as a classic black kind of guy. We have some sweaters over here that will be perfect on you, too. There’s a beige cashmere that your girlfriend will just love to cuddle up to. Would you be willing to try a cream color? I think it’ll be perfect with your complexion and those gorgeous eyes of yours.”

  “I’m used to wearing white undershirts,” I responded and followed her around the store.

  By the time Sheila was done with me, I had four full bags of clothes, and I’d had the two coats that I picked out taken in by the on-site tailor. The black one with the big buttons I wore out of the store, but the other one I stuffed in one of the oversized paper bags with the Nordstrom logo.

  I tossed everything into my trunk and then checked the time. It was still early afternoon, and I wasn’t quite ready to go back to the house and the smell of paint, so I retrieved my briefcase and headed to one of the nearby cafes.

  It wasn’t a place I’d visited before, but every coffee shop was basically the same, so I figured that I could find a corner and plug my laptop in. There were a few tables lined up against the whitewashed brick walls, but most of those were taken. I spotted one in the back and hoped that it would still be open by the time I put my order in.

  I was third in line, and the people in front of me seemed like tourists, so it was a toss-up whether they wanted to enjoy the atmosphere or not. The couple talked excitedly about the place and how it offered classes for how to make coffee, but I zoned out as I looked at their menu.

  “What the hell is a deconstructed latte?” I muttered to myself.

  “Oh, my gosh,” a preppy teen said from behind me. “It’s like, totally the best thing in the world.”

  She had bleached-blonde hair with dark brown roots, gray eyes compliments of her contacts, and her makeup was done so well that she looked like she had a filter on. The freckles across her nose were strategically placed over blush to give her an innocent look, and her heart-shaped face added to that impression. She was probably some Youtube fashion icon that Liz would know, and I thought about asking her what her name was to see if my part-time girlfriend had told me about her, but I was more interested in the coffee.

  “But what is it?” I asked with a lifted eyebrow.

  “So, like,” the girl waved her hands in the air to illustrate everything she was telling me. “You get your shot of espresso in one cup, and they put your foam in the other cup, and then you like, mix it yourself so that you can have your own perfect ratio of coffee to milk. I always like a lot of milk. And sugar. But I also get an extra shot. Oh! And they put them in these super cute wine glasses that just add something to it, you know?”

  “Sure,” I said with a noncommittal shrug. “It sounds interesting. I might come back and get it another time.”

  The teen put a hand over her heart like I’d struck a mortal wound because I didn’t want to try the deconstructed latte, but I was finally up to the register so I just flashed her a smile and ignored the shocked expression on her doe-like face.

&
nbsp; “Hey,” I said as I turned to the barista. “Can I just get a cortado with vanilla?”

  “Sure,” the bearded man said. “Anything else?”

  “Uh,” I glanced back up at the menu, because I’d been so focused on the deconstructed latte that I’d forgotten to look at the food. They had an impressive array of sandwiches and breakfast foods, but I just wanted something simple that would hold me over until dinner. “Can I get the ham and provolone croissant?”

  “Good choice,” the barista said.

  He rang me out, gave me a number, and then gestured to the table in the back that I’d seen. I was surprised that the couple hadn’t taken it, but then I spotted them taking selfies at one of the outdoor tables.

  The food and coffee were out in no time, and I plugged my laptop into the outlet before I dug into my sandwich. The croissant was perfectly flaky, and the ham was just the right amount of sweet that worked well with the creamy provolone. The only thing that it was missing was a tart mustard, but overall it was a decent lunch.

  I finished the last bite and sighed as I turned back to my fully charged computer. My email was mercifully empty of any new court dates, but there were some updates on clients from their parole officers. I’d asked to be copied on every report that they filed so that I could make sure my clients weren’t being hardballed, and so far the POs had been on the up and up, unlike the prison guards in Rikers.

  The construction company had sent me a bill and a few pictures of the final results. The extension to the office was exactly what the at-home workspace needed, and I made a mental note to have Tommaso order himself a desk since there was enough space now. I followed the link to pay the invoice online and marveled at the fact that I could pay it all at once.

  I was about to exit out of my email and dive into the paperwork Sal had given me when a new message popped into my inbox with an attachment. The username was vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place it until I clicked on it and saw Gabriele’s signature pop up with a message to call him.