by Rayna Morgan
The Kingpin was a racketeer linked to illegal gambling, drugs, and prostitution, but to the crime team’s great frustration, all previous attempts to identify and indict the gangster had failed.
Tom was still smarting over the escape of Mickey Flynn, a bookie long suspected of fronting the Kingpin's gambling operation. The homicide team had hoped to file criminal charges against the bookie strong enough to convince him to give up his boss.
But the bookie had anticipated the danger. By putting an undercover officer’s life at risk, Tom’s hand had been forced before the sting operation could be brought to a successful conclusion. The owner of the Card Club was still on the lam, and Tom was no closer to the Kingpin, his ultimate target.
“But the next time we get our hands on someone who might roll over on the guy,” Tom said, his voice as cold as steel, “I’m going to make sure they don’t get away.”
“Hold on, Lieutenant,” the newest member of the homicide squad argued, stepping forward. “Are you implying I’m to blame for Mickey’s escape?”
“Don’t worry, Pat,” Tom said. “No one here thinks you blew your cover. You did a great job, especially for a rookie, but Mickey Flynn was one step ahead of us. I won’t let that happen again. Until we get the opportunity to make a fool-proof arrest, we’re focusing on other cases.”
Pat Fisher relaxed and stepped back. No one felt the disappointment of losing the man who might have brought down the Kingpin more than she did.
Tom had assured her she had nothing to prove to her fellow officers, but she knew she still wasn’t accepted as a member of the team. She hoped the inside knowledge which only she and Tom shared would give her another opportunity to earn her stripes.
• • •
The officers dispersed after the meeting except Pat, who lingered behind at Tom’s request.
“You and I both know what we need to do to make sure the Kingpin won’t second-guess our next move,” Tom said.
Pat knew what Tom was referring to. Before being taken hostage by Mickey Flynn in his bold escape, Pat had recorded a conversation in which Mickey had accused her of being the mole the Kingpin had planted in the Police Department. Hearing about a possible traitor on his team had been a shock to Tom, but it explained how the Kingpin had been able to anticipate the homicide squad’s every move for the last year.
“You mean we have to find the snitch Mickey alluded to before he made his hasty departure,” Pat said.
“Any new attempt to identify and arrest the Kingpin will be useless if we don’t flush out the back-stabber.” Tom’s tone sounded unduly harsh.
“The Kingpin has really gotten under your skin, hasn’t he, Lieutenant?”
“You bet he has. That scum is into every illegal activity there is. You name it, he's done it. He's been poisoning kids with drugs, ruining young women’s lives by inducting them into his prostitution rings, and exploiting people's gambling addictions for over a decade in this county.”
“It’s one thing to have him on your radar,” Pat said. “It’s another thing to let catching him become an obsession.”
“That’s not what’s happening here. You need to quit worrying about my fixations and start focusing on a new plan to catch this dirtbag.”
Tom could see the harshness of his tone reflected in her pained expression, but apologizing would only serve to acknowledge how right she was. He was in the grip of an obsession he was powerless to resist.
“Ask yourself,” Tom said, steering the conversation back on track, “what’s the Kingpin's reason to plant a mole in our department?”
“To have eyes and ears on our investigation of him,” Pat said.
“We can use that to our advantage. We’ll let the Kingpin believe we’ve dropped further pursuit since his bookie skipped out. I told everyone in the division that I was backing off before I took vacation time. I’ll let the men keep thinking that.”
“You mean, we’ll let everyone believe that you've put him on a back burner—”
“Until we come up with a plan to point the finger at whoever is leaking information.”
“What do you have in mind, boss?”
“What have I trained you to do when you don’t know what your next move should be?”
“Go to the experts,” Pat said.
“Exactly. I’ll be talking with one tonight.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Paul arrived home to help Lea prepare an early dinner. His father-in-law was spending the night with them on his way to a policemen’s convention where he was scheduled as a guest speaker.
Warren Conley had suffered a stroke shortly before his retirement from a distinguished career with the San Diego Police Department. The partial paralysis which resulted prevented him from pursuing his dream of sailing a boat to South America, but he had re-channeled his energies into writing a book about his exploits as a policeman and lecturing at police academies and conventions.
“I see your father’s here already,” Paul said, entering the kitchen.
“He’s upstairs playing chess with Jon.”
“I’ll get the grill started. You know Tom has to leave early; he’s got late patrol tonight.”
“We can eat as soon as he gets here. The meat’s marinating, and the veggies are cleaned and ready to grill. As soon as I finish frosting this cake, I’ll toss a salad.”
“You always have everything under control,” Paul said, dipping his finger in a bowl of cream cheese frosting. “I’m glad you made Tom’s favorite dessert. I want him in a good mood when I ask him if he considers Jim Mitchell a suspect.”
Lea glanced toward the front door. “Here he comes. Get a move on with the grill.”
Tom walked through the front door without knocking, sliding his lanky frame onto a bar stool at the kitchen counter. “I saw Warren’s car. Is Maddy coming?”
The front door flew open as Maddy entered, carrying a hot dish.
“Scalloped potatoes,” she told Tom, placing the casserole on the counter. “Just the way you like them.”
“Hey, you two,” she greeted Lea and Paul. She sat on a stool next to Tom. “What’s up? I haven’t heard from you all week.”
“I’ve been busy sorting out the murder at the rodeo. Some of us spend our time getting into messes,” he said, tweaking her nose, “the rest of us spend our time sorting messes out.”
“Making any progress on possible suspects?” Paul asked.
“Yeah,” Maddy said, “as in removing someone from your list?”
“To answer Paul’s question first; yes, things are moving along,” Tom said. He turned to Maddy. “As for you, sweet thing, I haven’t scratched the cowboy off my list, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Who have you added?” Paul asked, holding his breath as he handed Tom a frosted mug of beer.
“You look a little anxious, buddy. Afraid your client is on my list?” Tom asked. “Is that why you didn’t stop by my office like I asked?”
“I got tied up, that’s all,” Paul said, reaching for another mug.
“If I had guys like you in my interrogation room, my job would be a breeze. You’re terrible at telling a lie. So you want to explain why you’ve been avoiding me?”
“Because I thought you’d jump to the rash conclusion that Jim Mitchell should be one of the names on your list of suspects,” Paul responded, testily.
“Let me guess,” Tom said, sipping foam dripping down the side of the mug. “You’re going to tell me why he shouldn’t be.”
“That’s exactly what I’m—”
“The only way I drop someone from my list is if they have an airtight alibi or no motive.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Paul argued. “Jim Mitchell had no motive.”
“Save your breath. While you were busy avoiding me, I was gathering information of my own. I found out what was causing hard feelings among the ranchers; a proposed development to be built on three pieces of land: the Benson spread, Cliff Hudson’s property, a
nd part of the Miller ranch. The property owners disagreed about selling.”
“Here we go again,” Maddy objected, hearing the Miller name.
“Don’t get riled up,” Tom said. “The parcel on the Miller ranch is too small to warrant anyone getting killed over, but it’s a key piece of the overall development. The river flows over that strip of land. Whoever owns that parcel has access to water which would make the builder’s job a whole lot easier.”
“From that aspect, purchase of Miller’s piece isn’t crucial to the project. A water right can be granted authorizing water to be diverted from a specified source and put to beneficial, non-wasteful use. A builder could get a permit to divert the water from the Miller property during the development period.”
“Good point,” Maddy said, punching Tom’s arm. “Sounds to me like Paul’s blown holes in your theory of accusing Scott.”
“Believe me or not, Maddy,” Tom said, “but I’m not biased toward building a case against Scott.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Maddy pouted.
“In fact,” the detective said, turning to Paul with a menacing tone, “I’m more than happy to shift the focus of my investigation. Your client stands to make a seven-figure profit on that housing development. Is that reason enough to knock off the person standing in the way of getting the land he needs? It sure floats my boat for a motive.”
“You’ve got it all wrong,” Paul argued.
“As for an airtight alibi, I’ll find out about that when I pull your client in for questioning.”
“Hold your horses,” Lea cautioned. “You may be looking at the wrong person.”
“I guarantee he’s looking at the wrong person,” Maddy said.
“I’m not talking about your friend, Sis.” Lea turned to look directly at Tom. “I’m talking about Jim Mitchell. I met with Mitchell’s associate, Mike Young, this afternoon.”
“Why in sam hill would you do that?” Tom asked, throwing an angry glare in Paul’s direction. “Did you give your wife some half-baked reason to butt into this case?”
“I was trying to save you from falsely accusing an innocent person,” Paul said.
“You were trying to save your client,” Tom said with disgust. “You can tell Jim Mitchell it’s not a real estate consultant he needs to retain; it’s an attorney.”
“Why would my client need an attorney?” Paul asked. “An innocent person has no need for a lawyer.”
“Stop, you two,” Maddy said. “You sound like two boys squabbling over who’s right. Shut up and listen to what Lea has to say.”
“Thanks, Sis.” Lea handed Maddy a glass of wine, giving the men a moment to cool down. “Mike Young gets profit-sharing from Jim Mitchell’s projects. He’ll really clean up if the ranchette project goes through.”
“What are you suggesting?” Tom asked.
“I’m suggesting that when two of Mike Young’s three offers were rejected, Mike pursued the ranchers without Jim’s knowledge. The vibes I get from the young man suggest a willingness to cross the line to get deals done. I don’t think intimidation would be beyond the realm of tactics he’d use. He may have been behind Albert Benson’s crops and livestock being poisoned, and the stream on the Miller ranch being blocked.”
“I appreciate your trying to help,” Maddy said, “but that sounds like a bit of a stretch.”
“You and I have found out what strange things greed leads people to do,” Lea insisted.
“She’s right,” Maddy said, looking at Tom. “Besides, not listening to her has cost you before.”
“So far, I don’t know if your sleuthing is clearing the air or muddying the water,” Tom complained to Lea. “Are you asking me to lay off Jim Mitchell?”
“I’m asking if his associate, Mike Young, could have gone too far in his intimidation tactics with Albert Benson—”
“And ended up killing him,” Tom finished.
Paul leaned over and whispered in his wife’s ear. “Good job, babe.”
• • •
“I thought I heard familiar voices,” Warren said, coming down the stairs. “How are you, Tom? Good to see you.”
Tom and Maddy stood up, and Tom shook hands with the retired policeman.
“And there’s my other beautiful daughter,” Warren said, giving Maddy a hug. “Glad you could make it. I missed you last time I was here. You were rehearsing to be in a play, on your way to becoming the next star in the theatrical world.”
Maddy grinned. “I turned out to be the fastest shooting star in history.”
“The murder that shut down the production was hardly your doing,” her father said.
“No, but it was the undoing of my venture into acting,” Maddy said.
“The foul act couldn’t have happened at a worse time,” Paul agreed. “Maddy had only delivered three of her five lines. The audience was waiting breathlessly to hear her other two lines.”
“There will be other productions,” Warren said, ignoring Paul’s sarcasm. “Your mother and I would love to come up and see you in one.”
“Sorry, Pop. The whole scene left a bad taste in my mouth. I’m afraid my acting career is over, all three days of it.”
“It’s okay by me,” Tom said, looking at Maddy. “Less chance of you running off to Hollywood leaving me with a broken heart.”
“My chances of going to Hollywood are as slim as my chances of breaking your heart,” Maddy said. She raised her face to look into his eyes.
“If you think you’re not capable of breaking my heart …” Tom said, lifting her chin with his finger.
“Enough,” Maddy said, color flooding her cheeks. She picked up her glass and walked into the kitchen. “Pour me another glass of wine, Sis. I’ll help with the salad.”
“Let’s go out to the patio, guys,” Paul said. “This conversation is going to turn into women talk. I’ve got to get the grill going.”
• • •
Warren and Tom sat at a glass-topped wicker table sipping beer while Paul tended the grill.
“I’m glad for a chance to talk to you,” Tom said. “I’ve got a situation at the precinct I’d like to run by you. Do you mind talking shop for a minute?”
“You know cops are always willing to swap war stories,” Warren said. “What can I help you with?”
Wrinkles creased Tom’s brow, and his jaw tightened. His response was blunt.
“I’ve got a mole in my division.”
“That’s rough, the worst possible scenario for a senior officer,” Warren said. His smile faded as he leaned back. His voice grew husky, close to a whisper. “I’ve been there. I know how gut-wrenching it can be.”
“Yeah, it’s hard. Right now, only me and a rookie know that one of my guys is selling out our moves to the worst possible source.”
“Let me guess,” Warren said, “the Kingpin.”
“You got it.” Tom shook his head, and his shoulders drooped.
“When did you find out?”
“During our undercover operation at the Card Club. We were trying to bust the scumbag running the Kingpin’s illegal gambling operation. The rookie recorded a conversation where the club owner talked about a mole at police headquarters.”
“He obviously didn’t identify the mole,” Warren said, “or you would have busted his chops by now.”
“Working with the guys in my squad every day wondering which one is ratting me out is driving me crazy.”
“Hard as it is, you’ve got to stay detached,” Warren advised. “Otherwise, you’ll start questioning your judgment about the men. You’ll start wondering how well you know them. Worse, you’ll start questioning if they can be trusted, or whether they’ve got your back. You can’t run operations with those doubts plaguing you. The longer it goes on, the more dangerous it becomes for you and your crew.”
“I know,” Tom said. He clenched his right hand into a fist and punched it against his palm. “I’ve got to unravel the mole’s identity, and I’ve got to do it in a hu
rry. What do you suggest?”
“How many in your division are involved?”
“It’s obviously not the rookie, which leaves my other two homicide detectives and two who rotate in from narcotics when I need them.”
“The only advice I can give you is based on a similar situation I went through. I reviewed my officers’ backgrounds, tracked daily reports, and noted irregular movements or changes in living conditions. I was getting nowhere fast. The uncertainty was destroying me.”
“What did you do?”
“I set a trap.”
“To flush the traitor out?”
“Exactly. I gave out bogus information regarding the arrival of a valuable cargo shipment to each of the potential moles, telling them they would be assigned to the safe transport of the cargo. The location of the cargo varied for each officer.
“Surveillance cameras were set up at all of the addresses. When armed gunmen showed up to pull off the heist at one of the locations I’d disseminated, we had our mole.”
“Was it the one you suspected?”
“No, it wasn’t,” Warren said. “It taught me a valuable lesson.”
“What’s that?” Tom asked.
“As policemen, we pride ourselves on understanding human nature; it’s essential to our success. But understanding human nature and truly knowing another person are two different things.”
“I learned that the hard way,” Tom said, flashing a brief smile, “the day I went home, and my wife told me she no longer wanted to be married to a cop.”
• • •
“Great grub, honey, as always,” Warren told Lea, pushing his chair back from the table and patting his stomach.
“Thanks, Dad, but this was nothing special. Too bad you won’t be here Saturday; you could sample dishes from the best chefs in the city.”
“Are you talking about the ‘Wine and Dine at the Pier’ event?” Maddy asked. “I’ve heard my customers talking about it.”
“Lea prepared all the promotional material for it this year,” Paul said, patting his wife’s hand. “Some of the best brochures she’s ever produced.”
“They better be,” Lea said. “The charities hit up all the big-wigs in the county for this event. It’s the biggest fundraiser of the year.”
