by Steven Henry
The three other Narcotics officers, two men and a woman, nodded greetings. Erin could tell they were wearing bulletproof vests under their coats. She’d put on her own body armor in the car. Rolf had his vest, too, which spoiled the plainclothes effect for him.
“You better get that K-9 out of sight,” Logan said. “How you wanna play this?”
“It’ll be two wiseguys in the truck,” she said. “Maybe do a surprise roadblock?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I figure we’ll put Piekarski up the block. She’ll call it in when she makes the vehicle. Then Firelli pulls out of that space there and blocks the street. Then you, Janovich, me, and the dog take ‘em from both sides. Quick and hard, don’t give ‘em a chance to resist.”
“Sounds good,” Erin said. “The truck’s going to be labeled ‘Speedy X-Press.’ You got that, Piekarski?”
Piekarski, a petite blonde in an old denim coat, grinned and winked. “Gotcha covered. I’ll give you a block’s worth of lead time.”
“Everyone make sure you got your radios up,” Logan said. “O’Reilly, you want to wait in your car with your dog?”
“Sure,” she said. “You and Janovich going across the street?”
“Yeah,” Logan said. “Okay, let’s set ‘em up and knock ‘em down, people.”
Logan and Janovich put their hands in their pockets and strolled across the street, acting like just a couple of ordinary New Yorkers. They leaned casually against the wall of the building across from the park and settled into a conversation.
Firelli glanced at Erin. “You ready to roll with us, O’Reilly?”
“Absolutely.”
“Shit’s gonna move fast once it gets rolling,” he said. “This ain’t paperwork, desk jockey.”
“I’m a detective,” she reminded him. “I work for a living.”
He smiled, showing a gap where one of his front teeth should’ve been. “Whatever you say. Just jump when we jump.” He walked to his car, a beat-up old Trans Am, spray-painted black. He got in and closed the door, leaving the engine off.
Erin put Rolf back in his compartment in her Charger and settled into the driver’s seat. Then it was time to wait again. At least this stakeout had an endpoint. If the truck didn’t show, or had already passed before they’d gotten there, they wouldn’t have to stay all night. She’d give it until midnight, she decided. If the truck didn’t show by then, it wasn’t going to.
“Desk jockey,” she muttered to Rolf. “You believe that?”
He put his snout between his front paws and stared at her.
“Com check,” Logan’s voice came over the radio.
“Firelli here.”
“Piekarski.”
“Janovich.”
Erin punched her car radio. “O’Reilly.”
“Okay,” Logan said. “Remember, this goes on Wopstat for the month.”
“Eat me, Irish,” Firelli said.
“What’s Wopstat?” Erin asked.
“Logan and Firelli got a pool running,” Janovich explained. “They keep count how many Irish and Italian guys they bust. Firelli counts the Irish, calls ‘em Mickstat. Logan counts the Italians…”
“Got it,” Erin said.
“It’s just the ethnic groups we got on the squad,” Logan said. “If we busted enough Polacks, we’d have a Polestat for Piekarski, but for some reason we don’t get many of them.”
“That’s ‘cause we’re too smart to get caught,” Piekarski said.
“That reminds me of a joke,” Janovich said. “So, this Polish guy’s in a bar, watching the evening news, and they’re talking about this guy who’s gonna jump off the Empire State Building—”
“Enough of that,” Logan said. “Save the jokes for later, and keep the channel clear. Just remember, if these guys are Italians, Firelli’s buying first round.”
Firelli muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath and silence returned to the radio net.
Erin sat back and smiled, thinking how much she sometimes missed ordinary street police work, the rough camaraderie, the sorts of things you could only say to guys you risked your life to protect, and who’d risk theirs to save you. She had that with Vic, but he was about the only one at Precinct 8. She’d been more and more isolated, and now, having lost Kira Jones to Internal Affairs, there just weren’t many people she could talk to at work.
Time crawled. Erin thought about Liam, and Mickey, and Carlyle. Whatever happened tonight, her relationship with the O’Malleys was changing. If the NYPD got a good bust out of it, that wouldn’t do her any harm, but what about the next thing they asked her to do? The whole business felt like it was right on the ragged edge of control. One slip and the whole thing might spin out from under her. She’d have to sort this shit out, and soon.
“Heads up, guys,” Piekarski said. “I got a truck… no, forget about it. Says ‘Speedy Delivery.’ You sure about the name, O’Reilly?”
“I know what they told me,” she said.
They returned to their wait. Half an hour passed, then an hour. There was no sign of the promised vehicle.
* * *
“Wake up, fellas!”
Erin jerked upright. Piekarski sounded excited.
“I got a white truck,” the Narc continued. “Red letters, ‘Speedy X-Press’ on the side, coming your way.”
“Copy that,” Logan said. “Everyone ready?”
“Ready,” Erin said, her voice overlapping with Firelli and Janovich.
“Okay,” Logan said. “Firelli, you got the lead. Everyone else, move when the truck stops. Guns out. Violence of execution, people.”
Erin knew Logan wasn’t actually talking about violent executions. He meant they needed to move fast and hard, to overwhelm the targets with a show of force so they wouldn’t even have a chance to consider resistance. Paradoxically, if done right, it would mean very little, if any, actual violence. She drew her Glock and put a hand on the car door, feeling the familiar tingle of adrenaline.
The delivery truck was halfway up the block, moving with the flow of traffic. Taxis and other cars filled the street. Erin saw an awful lot of innocent bystanders. She hoped shots wouldn’t be fired. It was far too easy to imagine a stray round taking out some poor guy on his way home. She licked her lips and waited. She saw Firelli’s Trans Am start up, idling curbside.
Firelli let all but one of the cars in front of the truck go by. Then he abruptly threw the Trans Am into gear and swerved halfway out of his parking space, angling the car directly across the traffic lane. The car he’d cut off screeched to a halt, brakes screaming. The driver, predictably, laid down a heavy blast on his horn. Every other car behind, including the delivery truck, jolted to a halt, instantly gridlocked.
“Go!” Logan snapped.
Erin was already moving. She came out of the Charger, keying Rolf’s compartment release as she went. The truck was only a few feet away. She sprinted to the passenger side, reached up to grab the rearview mirror, and pulled herself up to window height. She shoved the barrel of her Glock against the glass and saw a very startled face staring back at her from the passenger seat.
“NYPD!” she shouted. “Hands in the air! Now!” On the other side of the truck, Janovich was doing pretty much the same thing to the driver. Logan stepped toward the front bumper so he could cover both guys through the windshield.
The guy facing Erin blinked a couple of times and considered his options, but only for a second. Then he brought up his hands, empty and open, and laid his palms on the dashboard. The driver was already holding the steering wheel, looking straight ahead.
“Unlock the doors!” Janovich shouted.
Maybe the driver would’ve done it, but Janovich didn’t give him time. Still holding his gun on the driver with one hand, he slammed his other hand into the window. The glass shattered into tiny pebbles that sparkled under the streetlights. Erin saw a safety hammer glass-breaker in Janovich’s hand and wished she’d thought of that. The Narc punched through the broken
window and unlocked the driver’s side door. He pulled it open and hit the unlock button for Erin’s side.
“Get out of the car!” he shouted at the two guys. “Keep your hands in the air!”
The men seemed dazed by what had happened. They offered no resistance whatsoever as Erin, Janovich, and Logan laid them against the hood of their truck and frisked them. Firelli and Piekarski had arrived by then, Piekarski having sprinted down the sidewalk. The two of them, plus Rolf, established a perimeter to keep the rubberneckers at a safe distance.
“What’ve we got here?” Logan said, pulling a revolver out of the driver’s waistband.
“That’s for protection,” the driver said.
Erin’s frisk of her guy turned up a nine-millimeter Beretta. “Got another gun here, Sarge,” she said to Logan.
“That’s a whole lotta protection,” Logan said. “What’re you protecting?”
“Nothin,’” the driver said. “Just normal delivery.”
“Then you won’t mind if we take a look,” Logan said.
“You got a warrant?”
“Don’t need a warrant. We got you on a weapons charge already. Gives us plenty of cause to search the vehicle. Janovich, cuff this guy.”
Erin snapped her bracelets on her man. “What’s your name?” she asked him.
He didn’t say anything. Now that he’d recovered a little from his surprise, he just glared at her. He was a youngish man, probably in his early twenties, and definitely looked Italian. She glanced at Firelli.
“Afraid you’re buying,” she said to him.
Firelli shrugged. “That’s okay. Logan got the last one.”
To the accompaniment of increasingly irritated honking of car horns, they finished securing the prisoners and opened the truck’s loading door.
Someone primed by Hollywood images of drug busts would’ve been expecting the whole back of the truck to be full of bags stuffed with white powder. But Erin knew twelve kilograms didn’t take up that much space. What she saw, when the door rolled up into the ceiling of the truck, was boxes of chocolate.
“Candy?” Logan said, looking over Erin’s shoulder.
“Candy,” she agreed. She pulled on a pair of latex gloves and climbed into the truck. She opened the first box she came to, holding it toward Logan. “Hungry?”
He looked at the small baggies of powder inside and grinned. “Starving.”
Chapter 15
“So,” Logan said. “Who gets the collar? SNEU or Major Crimes?”
“You can have it,” Erin said.
They’d moved the truck to the side of Saint James so traffic could get moving again. Now they were standing in the park, looking at about a million dollars’ worth of heroin spread on a wooden bench.
“You sure?” Piekarski asked. “This is a solid bust, good weight, plus the guns. It’s gonna look good on your record.”
Erin shrugged. “It kinda fell into my lap,” she said. “Besides, it may be better if this is a Narcotics op.”
“Protecting a source?” Logan asked, giving her a keen look.
“Something like that.”
“I’m not gonna lie,” he said. “You want to give us this, we’ll take it. Hell, I’ll take a double felony collar with this kind of weight any night of the week. But I gotta have something to put on my DD-5s for the reason for the stop.”
“Okay,” she said, recognizing it wouldn’t be possible to keep Major Crimes entirely out of the paperwork. “We’ve been working a narcotics angle on a dual homicide, connected to the Lucarellis. Say we got a tipoff from one of the Lucarelli sources.”
“Sounds good to me,” Logan said. “It’s obvious you had good intel. I’m a little surprised you didn’t work through Precinct 8.”
“We’re in Precinct 5 territory,” she said. “It’d be rude for the Eightball’s Narcs to roll on your turf.”
Logan nodded, but looked unconvinced. He knew she wasn’t giving him the whole story.
“Hey, Sarge,” Firelli said. “O’Reilly’s giving us this righteous collar, I think she gets an invite to the bar at the end of the shift.”
“What time’s your shift end?” Erin asked.
“Depends,” Janovich said. “You ever work the dog watch?”
“All the time,” she said, scratching Rolf behind the ears.
“Then you know how it goes. Rack up an hour or two of unpaid overtime.”
“Tell you what,” Firelli said. “If you’re up early…”
“Or still awake…” Piekarski added.
“…we’ll be at the Final Countdown at six,” Firelli finished.
“That’s 0600,” Janovich clarified.
“For drinks,” Erin said, deadpan.
“Damn right,” Firelli said. “Not beer, either. We’re talking straight shots.”
“Maybe,” she said. “You guys will be ending your shift. I’ll be starting mine. But what about the liquor laws?”
Piekarski laughed. “It’s more of a club than a bar, that time of morning,” she said. “The barkeep’s a retired cop, runs a special service for officers who work nights. It’s not open to the public.”
“Isn’t that still illegal?” Erin asked.
The SNEU team looked at each other and shrugged.
“If you change your mind, you know where to find us,” Logan said. “And Firelli’s buying the first round, remember.” He offered his hand. “Y’know, it occurs to me, you could just be throwing us this collar to dodge the paperwork.”
“Is it working?” she asked, smiling at him and shaking hands.
“This time,” he said, returning the smile. “Take it easy, O’Reilly.”
* * *
With the prisoners handed over to SNEU and the drugs on the way to Precinct 5’s evidence locker, it was back to the Barley Corner for Erin. She wasn’t sure what to expect. Being honest with herself, she was a little pissed at Carlyle for blindsiding her.
She went in the front door this time. What was the point in sneaking around back? The O’Malleys already knew about her, and Vinnie’s Mafia goons would hardly be hanging out at the Corner. She and Rolf walked right in like they owned the place.
They almost ran into Corky on his way out. With that smooth, astonishing speed he had, the Irishman nimbly sidestepped and touched a finger to his forehead in salute.
“Evening, love,” he said. “If you’re looking for the publican, you’ll find him upstairs.” He lowered his voice a little. “He’s not given you a key, has he?”
Erin smiled thinly. “No, Corky, he hasn’t.”
“I think he’s expecting you,” Corky said. “I’d stay for a chinwag, but we’ve both business to attend to. I’ll be seeing you, love.”
She crossed the main room, trying to identify the wiseguys. She recognized a couple of O’Malley goons at the bar, and a side booth had four more. She hoped they were all Carlyle’s guys, not Mickey’s. At least Mickey Connor wasn’t present.
The door to Carlyle’s upstairs apartment was a solid piece of engineering. Since she didn’t have a spare key, as she’d told Corky, she needed either a cutting torch, a big chunk of explosives, or for him to open the door for her. She pushed the bell on the intercom.
“Evening,” his voice came from the speaker.
“It’s me,” she said. “I’m back.”
“Grand,” he said. “Come on up.” The door’s heavy bolts clanked back. She opened the door and climbed the stairs, Rolf keeping pace.
Carlyle was looking disheveled. By his standards, this meant he’d taken off his suit coat and slightly loosened his tie. He was in the living room, a glass of whiskey in each hand. He extended one to her. She took it and knocked back a mouthful, savoring the fierce heat in her throat.
“You look well,” he said. “No trouble, I take it?”
“It went down fine,” she said. “Just the way Liam said it would. Look, Carlyle, what are we doing here?”
“Sharing a nightcap,” he said, motioning her to the couch
.
She took a seat, but kept her back straight, sitting on the edge of the cushion. Rolf eyed her warily, sensing her nervous energy. Carlyle surely saw it too, but he gave no outward sign. He sat beside her on the couch and took a sip of his own drink.
“What the hell was Mickey doing here?” she burst out.
“Observing,” Carlyle said.
“Who? Me? You?”
“Both, I imagine.”
“Whose idea was this?”
“To what, precisely, are you referring?”
“Can we put away the bullshit, just for tonight?” she asked.
He smiled. “Old habits, darling. But I assume you’re talking about the tipoff regarding a shipment of illegal narcotics?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m not certain. Liam came to me with his information, but I’m thinking it wasn’t his brainchild. You may have noticed, he’s not precisely the most well-balanced lad in the family.”
“He’ll be dead or in prison in two years,” Erin predicted. “Maybe less.”
“Probably,” Carlyle agreed. “Given Mickey’s presence, I’ve an idea Liam was operating on Evan’s instructions. So you know, I’d no idea he’d be coming until he showed up on my doorstep. I’d have warned you otherwise. He’s rather an alarming lad to come upon unexpectedly.”
“He is that,” Erin said. “So what was it, another test?”
“Partially,” Carlyle said. “I think Evan’s feeling you out, finding what you can and can’t be relied upon to do for him.”
“I don’t work for him,” she said, bristling. “Hell, I don’t work for you.”
“I know that, Erin,” he said, laying a hand on her wrist.
His touch was gentle, but she still almost threw him off. “Do you?”
“Aye,” he said. “It’s simply part of the difficult situation in which we find ourselves. I admit it’d be much tidier if I didn’t love you, but I do.” He gave her a rueful smile. “And I hope you feel the same. But love, as I’m sure you know, isn’t enough. There’s safety to consider, and our respective careers to balance. That means making allowances.”
