Also weird to see Kaz standing in front of her countertop wearing jeans, a long-sleeved V-neck T-shirt, barefoot, arms all speckled with white flour.
“Smells good,” Wildey says.
“It’s pirozhki,” she says. She pronounces it peeroshkee. “For a family dinner this weekend.”
“Ah. You going to see your family?”
“A couple of cousins are coming here, that’s all.”
“Just a couple?”
Kaz looks at him as if she’s considering sharing something, then turns her attention back to kneading a mass of dough that looks too large for her hands to contain.
“My maiden name’s Fieuchevsky,” she says, as if that explains it all.
And then a moment later, Wildey recognizes the name. Russian gang family, had a huge war with the Italian mob about ten years ago. Wildey was still at the academy during the worst of it. Also made sense that Kaz would keep her ex-husband’s name. Mahoney’s a fine cop name. Fieuchevsky, not so much.
Kaz glances over and sees that Wildey gets it. “So yeah, some of my family is otherwise engaged this holiday season. Let me just wash this flour off my hands and we can talk. Want a beer, something?”
“No, I’m good.”
“Go ahead into the living room.”
Which was a big box. Big windows, protected with steel bars, looking out onto a small porch and concrete patio. A staircase leading down to the basement, which must be the bedroom. There is no railing around the stairs—just a rectangle cut into the floor, with wooden steps leading down. More creative space-making, he supposed. Nice and everything, and the neighborhood is pretty great, but Wildey wouldn’t trade his busted-ass row house for this place, no way.
“This is coming from one thirty-seven,” Wildey says.
“What, did she ask for another extension?”
“You’re not going to like this.”
“I don’t like anything these days.”
Wildey spells it out for her. Indeed, Honors Girl has found something insane. “I think she’s onto our leak. A friend of hers has been dating Little Pete D’Argenio, and Little Pete’s been bragging about taking over the city’s drug scene.”
“Goombahs like to brag,” Kaz says.
“Well, this one’s bragging about having police protection. Like he’s untouchable. And then he goes on about how he’s even snitch-proof. That if anyone dares snitch on him, they’re basically walking around with an expiration date on their foreheads.”
“That’s a bit of a leap.”
“There’s more, and I can walk you through that later. But I came out here because time is tight. One thirty-seven got herself invited to a party that Little Pete is throwing later tonight. When he drinks, he brags. She wants to wear a wire, get some of that bragging on tape.”
“Why’s she doing this?”
“She wants out. She won’t give up her boyfriend, so instead she’s finding me someone else.”
“You ready to give up on Chuckie Morphine?”
“No. Not by a long shot. But if one thirty-seven serves up a mobster who’s about to start a drug empire who also has pull inside the department, you know, I’ll consider us even.”
“Christ on a bike,” Kaz says, sighing. “I thought we were done with this shit. It’s gotta be one of the other NFUs. I mean, right? Here’s what you do. You get her to get him talking about the cop who’s protecting him. I almost don’t care about Little Fucking Pete. But I want to know who’s so eager to sell us out. And swear to God, if it’s someone in our unit, I’m going to take a cheese grater to his balls and post it on YouTube.”
Man, Wildey thinks. You are a Fieuchevsky after all.
“So I have your okay?”
“Yes. But don’t tell a soul. This stays with you and me.”
“Understood.”
“You okay running her by yourself?”
“It’s just a party. I think she’ll be okay.”
Rembrandt “Rem” Mahoney fucking hates pirozhki. That’s one of the things he doesn’t miss. (There are plenty of others.) He can practically smell that awful cabbage and egg bullshit all the way out here in the Northeast. Just listening to her speak of it resurrects the awful odor in his nasal cavity. But Rem listens just the same.
And he can’t stop listening.
He tells himself it started because he worried about her. Honest. And, okay, he missed her. She was an insufferable commie psycho most days. But when she eased up—most often thanks to a shot or five of that Ukrainian firewater—there was nobody else like her. No drug, no high, no beating, no vice, even came close. Ten years later he could conjure the taste of her mouth, tinged with vodka.
Rem started the whole surveillance thing small. Keeping tabs, really, to make sure she didn’t end up in any kind of trouble. She was keeping his last name, so it was his duty to make sure she didn’t drag it into the mud. She moved into that place on Green Street, chose an apartment in the back, so drive-bys wouldn’t work. One night, after getting soused at a small sports bar on the corner of Twentieth and Green, Rem did something stupid yet life-changing. He hopped a six-foot wooden fence, stumbled into a cramped alley, then crept into her backward patio. Lights in the apartment were on. Wow. She was home. That was the night Rem became … well, okay, he’ll admit it … kind of a pervert. But only for his ex! No civilians.
At first it was just peeping through her windows, trying to listen to her conversations, that sort of thing. Slowly it escalated. Before he could talk himself out of it, he was breaking into the basement—the property owner had carved out a corner of the basement to serve as the one bedroom for the apartment above, Katrina’s apartment. The construction guys hadn’t done the best job in the world; the drywall was on the thin side. The rest of the basement was dusty storage that smelled like raw mushrooms. But Rem could easily slip inside and lean up against the flimsy drywall and listen to her breathe. Or talk on the phone—always curt, clipped conversations. Rem dreaded/hoped for the night Katrina would bring home a lover. Had to happen, sooner or later. The ex was a hellspawn, but she was still hot.
Rem couldn’t spend all of his time in his ex-wife’s basement. His clothes were starting to smell funny. So he went to the police supply shop and got himself a basic surveillance setup. Drilled a tiny hole in the cheap drywall when he knew she was on duty. The rest was easy, and tumbled along. Bugging the basement soon turned into bugging the living room, and then the bathroom (yeah, Rem already admitted he was a perv, big deal, let’s move on), and then her car. Then … and okay, yes, Rem Mahoney crossed a line here … her office. Then he ran a tap on her cell. Not through the PD, of course, but a fed he knew. Rem kind of hinted that his ex might have been a bit more cozy with the rest of her family in the Russian mob than she let on.
End result, oddly enough, is that Rem feels like he knew his ex better now than he did when they were married.
Including pretty much all of the identities of her two hundred snitches. He had to hand it to her, the strategy was clever. And it was so like Katrina to respond to a citywide snitch crisis by, guess what, yeah, signing up even more snitches. Snitches to sniff out major cases, snitches to make sure her team was on the up-and-up. Airtight.
So was this CI #137? Rem was sure he could break into her place later tonight when she was taking her evening shower and dig up the name himself, but time is of the essence here. Besides, he’s willing to bet there’s someone who’ll know the snitch’s name straightaway.
Transcript of phone conversation between Captain Rembrandt “Rem” Mahoney and Peter D’Argenio
MAHONEY: It’s me.
D’ARGENIO: Hey.
MAHONEY: You alone?
D’ARGENIO: Yeah.
MAHONEY: No you’re not. You’re with that college girl you’ve been banging.
D’ARGENIO: What are … wait wait, how do you know about that?
MAHONEY: There’s a lot I know. Like how you’ve been shooting your fucking mouth off in front of girls, trying to
impress them. Christ on a crutch, you fuck, this is how I caught your stupid ass back in 1996. Thought you would have learned something in finishing school.
D’ARGENIO: Slow down and explain what the fuck you’re talking about, man.
MAHONEY: No, no, there’s no time to explain. You’re about ready to get our shit hung out in the open so shut the fuck up and you do some explaining. Who is this college chick?
D’ARGENIO: You want her name? For what?
MAHONEY: Yeah, I want her fucking name. And a couple of others, too. Whoever you were showboating for.
D’ARGENIO: I ain’t braggin’ in front of anyone, man.
MAHONEY: Fuck, just give me her fucking name, we have to start somewhere.
D’ARGENIO: Jesus … okay, not that it matters, because I don’t tell anybody shit about our business, but her name is Tamara Pleece.
MAHONEY: Spell that.
D’ARGENIO: Which name?
MAHONEY: Both.
D’ARGENIO: T-A-M-A-R … I don’t know if it’s two Rs or what.
MAHONEY: Doesn’t matter. Last name?
D’ARGENIO: I think it’s P-L-E-E-C-E.
MAHONEY: You meet any of her friends?
D’ARGENIO: A couple, yeah.
MAHONEY: College kids, right.
D’ARGENIO: Some of them. Why?
MAHONEY: Give me some names. Every name you can remember. Even first names will do. Whatever.
D’ARGENIO: I don’t know. I don’t really pay attention when we’re out. Tammy knows half the city.
MAHONEY: (sighs) Do you really want things to end right here because you’re shy about giving me names?
D’ARGENIO: I just wish you’d give me the respect to tell me what the fuck this is all about.
MAHONEY: One of your girlfriend’s gal pals is a snitch. I’m trying to find out which one it is.
D’ARGENIO: Fuck me.
MAHONEY: Uh-huh. Yeah. You and me both, if we don’t figure out who it is.
D’ARGENIO: Shit, I think I know who it is. It’s the one with all of the questions.
MAHONEY: What!?
D’ARGENIO: Keep it in your pants, Mahoney, I don’t say shit. But she figured out who I was, so she was asking about my life. I asked what, are you writing a paper? And she tells me yeah, she is, in fact. It was kind of flattering.
MAHONEY: You stupid asshole. What did you tell her?
D’ARGENIO: Nothing about our business, swear to Christ!
MAHONEY: (sighs)
D’ARGENIO: Swear to Christ, Mahoney, not a word.
MAHONEY: What’s her name? The curious one?
D’ARGENIO: Sally.
MAHONEY: Sally what?
D’ARGENIO: (lengthy pause) I don’t know. But I can find out.
MAHONEY: Never mind. Call you back in 20.
Mahoney consults the best source in the world: Facebook.
Seriously, you’d be surprised how many people hang ridiculously incriminating shit out there in cyberspace. If he’d had Facebook back in the 1990s he could have doubled his arrests, easy. Bad guys can’t resist bragging, and social media gives them the perfect opportunity.
It also is a blindingly easy way to come up with a perp’s associates.
So a search on Tamara Pleece in Philadelphia gives her up straightaway—why hello there, blond darling—along with her circle of friends. Little Pete is right. She knows half the fucking city. But a lot of scrolling turns up exactly zero Sallies. Fuckin’ Pete. Maybe she’s not on Facebook, but that seems unlikely. The goombah probably just botched the name. So let’s narrow it down. Sully? Last name Sullivan, maybe? Nah, only guys go by last names. Sally, Molly, Mary, Marie …
Then he sees it: Sarie Holland. Close enough to be promising.
Clicky-click and he’s on her page. Which she hasn’t updated since December of last year. And after that, a lot of condolence messages to her, none of them replied to. The girl’s mom died, apparently. Sorry stuff.
But that’s not the most interesting thing on her page. Instead it’s a series of hate-posts from a dude named Ryan Koolhaas, all of them a profanity-laced variation on a single theme: SARIE HOLLAND IS A CUNT SNITCH.
“This sneaky bitch came to me for a couple of pills and the next thing I know I’m arrested and thrown out of school! Don’t trust this frigid cunt! She’s working off her own shit and taking down everyone she can.”
Well, there we go.
Hello, mysterious confidential informant.
MAHONEY: I found the girl.
D’ARGENIO: Yeah?
MAHONEY: You’re going to need to take care of her.
D’ARGENIO: (lengthy pause) Why me?
MAHONEY: Because apparently she’s coming with your friend Tammy to a party you’re throwing tonight. And by the way, I’m hurt, dude. You didn’t invite me.
D’ARGENIO: Fuck.
MAHONEY: So what you’re going to do is cancel that party and throw a smaller, more intimate affair. Meanwhile, I’ll follow up with my ex to make sure she doesn’t have any other surprises in store for us.
D’ARGENIO: Fuck. Alright. I’ll let you know.
MAHONEY: You do that.
The names Rem Mahoney and Peter “Little Pete” D’Argenio have already been linked in the media dozens of times. And with good reason: He was the one who busted him back in the naughty nineties—the era Mahoney now refers to as “the good old days.” Because let’s face it, Mahoney’s city is going to hell.
So Mahoney made a side deal with the Italians, who wanted to come back strong. Better the wops than any of the other ethnic screwheads—especially the Mexican cartels. Bring some order back to this crazy city. Confine the junkies to Pill Hill, the Badlands, and let the mob run the rest … so Mahoney can run the mob himself. In Philadelphia, law enforcement isn’t so much about busting gangs as containing them. No straight citizen cares when it’s not happening in his or her part of the city. Life’s rough in Killadelphia. You don’t like it? Don’t be a fucking junkie. Don’t sell drugs. You’ll be fine. Mahoney’s family had a long history of tangling with the mob families over the years. They tend to be greedy and stupid and easily controlled. And Mahoney knows he’s the cop who can control them and bring order back to the city. But not if this college girl fucks with it.
It won’t be a big deal. In this town, CIs die all the time.
DECEMBER 12 (later)
Not much time to write, Mom, but let me just say this:
Everything comes down to what happens tonight. And everything feels like it’s exploding around me. Dad’s not talking to me (and I guess I can’t blame him). Marty’s looking at me like I’m the daughter of the Devil.
And then there’s this text I just got. I don’t recognize the number, but I know it’s from Partyman:
—Whatever you’re doing … don’t.
Which really inspires confidence, doesn’t it?
But I have to go through with tonight. What choice do I have? I’ve worked too hard to set this up.
Wish me luck.
I’M NOT DOWN
THE WATERFRONT
THURSDAY, DECEMBER 12
Ringo spends the afternoon getting the Rat Receiving Station all ready, hanging new plastic sheets, sweeping the concrete slab floor, making sure the industrial-sized drain is clear. The work goes quickly, leaving Ringo enough time to wonder: Who’s the guest they’re expecting? Usually it’s him and Frankenstein (or Bird and Lisa) scooping up their rats right from the street. That was most of the fun, truth be told. But Little Pete said no, just wait there, I’m bringing the rat to you.
And apparently Frankenstein is sitting this one out, which makes Ringo wonder: Has ol’ Franken-face turned traitor on them? Is he the surprise guest tonight?
Ringo ponders and sweeps, ponders and sweeps.
Night comes faster than I want it to.
I don’t want to make the mistake of underdressing for the occasion (again), so I dig out the black cocktail-length dress I wore to an honors formal two months
ago. (Mom, you would have really loved this dress.) It’s not exactly appropriate for the time of year, but who cares—I’ll be moving straight from warm car to overheated apartment in a matter of seconds.
Thing is, I can’t get dressed at home without Dad asking a million questions. So I go to the only warm and reasonably safe place I can think of: the nearest Wawa bathroom.
This time, thank God, there’s no wire hidden in my clothes. Wildey managed to get his hands on this pen with a radio transmitter hidden inside. (How very Jason Bourne.) If I start to think that somebody’s about to check me for a wire, it will be a lot easier to ditch a pen than tear off a chunk of my dress—and one hell of a lot less suspicious. Not that Wildey would be happy if I tossed his fancy spy toy. Otherwise this whole thing will be for nothing.
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