by Frank Zafiro
Carson still didn’t move. “What about my car?” she asked, desperate for a last-ditch excuse.
“I’ll come in a little early tonight,” Battaglia explained. “I’ll pick you up at your house and drop you at your car. Then you can drive it to work. No fuss, no muss.”
Carson hesitated, but she was out of reasons to decline. Battaglia opened the driver’s door and popped the lock for her. She slid into the passenger seat. The cab had the slight scent of his cologne in it.
Battaglia let the engine idle for a few moments, staring straight ahead. Then he turned to Carson. “You asked me why I didn’t take you to Duke’s.”
She nodded.
Battaglia shrugged. “I guess I didn’t want people to talk.”
“Talk?” she asked, though she knew immediately what he meant.
“Sure,” he said, pointing to himself and then to her. “Man, woman. That sort of thing.”
“Oh. Of course.”
“I mean, if we’d invited another cop or two along, it’d be nothing,” Battaglia explained. “Just taking the rookie out for a beer, is all. If we did that, though, we couldn’t have talked about that stop with the Russians. But if we went to Duke’s together with no one else, the River City rumor mill would start up on us. You know?”
Carson knew about the rumor mill. She’d been the grist too many times. “I guess,” she said. “I suppose it’s the same everywhere.”
“People is people,” Battaglia agreed.
They fell silent. Battaglia took in a deep breath and let it out. “So there it is,” he finally said, then dropped the truck into gear. “Your address?”
Carson gave it to him, then said, “Just go up Division until you hit-”
“I don’t need directions,” Battaglia said. “I know this city like the back of my hand.”
“Oh. Right.”
“You will, too,” he said, his voice tender. “Soon.”
Battaglia drove unerringly to her address and pulled up to the apartment complex. “Curbside service,” he announced.
Carson was glad to see that he didn’t turn off the engine or make any sign that he expected to come inside. She absolutely wasn’t going to invite him-was she? — but it made it easier that he didn’t expect it.
“Thanks,” she said.
“No problem. When do you usually leave for work?”
“About eight.”
“I’ll be here. Just another fine service by Battaglia’s Beers ’n’ Cab.”
She smiled. “Thanks, Batts,” she said. His nickname sounded good to her ear, felt good rolling off her tongue.
“Anytime.”
She reached for her door handle, then stopped suddenly. She leaned across the seat and brushed her lips against his cheek. The beginning stubble of his beard raked her tender lips, and the scent of his skin and his cologne filled her nostrils.
Battaglia didn’t move.
She pulled away and popped open her door. “Really,” she said. “Thanks for everything.”
He met her gaze. “Anytime,” he repeated softly.
She flashed him a grin as she stepped out of the truck and closed the door behind her. He raised his hand in farewell and she returned the wave, then he nudged his truck forward and drove away.
A jumble of mixed emotions jangled around inside Carson’s chest. What the hell was that?
At her door she fumbled inside her purse until she drew out the key ring. She was grateful to be home. She resolved not to think about it. Just jump in the hot shower and get into bed. Sleep. She just needed to sleep. Another graveyard shift was coming.
But it wasn’t the shift she was worried about.
1214 hours
Valeriy Romanov sat at the table in the corner. The Zippo lighter with the Soviet logo turned slowly in his hands. He touched it with more than an absent-minded caress, but less than actual affection. He rolled and dipped it through his fingers slowly, because slow control was the mark of a man who had mastered an act. Anyone could blaze through something with a little practice. Slow control demonstrated mastery.
Dmitri was late once again. Val had already decided that if he did not come with the converted AK-47s, this would be the last meeting the fat man was ever late for in his miserable life. If he had the rifles, though… well, perhaps he could learn from a mere reprimand.
Pyotr hovered near the cash register, watching him but acting like he wasn’t. Whenever Val glanced his way, the old man gave him an ingratiating smile and a nod. Val returned his nod with a cool gaze.
The clattering of beads announced the arrival of his waitress. Natalia slid a cup of Turkish coffee in front of him, her jasmine perfume washing over him. She placed her hands on the edge of the table and leaned forward slightly, giving him a perfect view of her cleavage.
“Will there be anything else?” she purred.
“No,” he replied.
An exaggerated pout appeared on her face and she turned away. As she walked, the sway of her hips was as pronounced as her expression.
“Natalia,” he grunted after her.
The dark-haired beauty stopped and turned around, smiling. “Yes, Valeriy?”
He waved her over. She sashayed back, resting her elbows on the table and batting her doe eyes at him.
“What is it?” she whispered huskily.
“I will gladly take you to my bed,” he said matter-of-factly. “You are most beautiful. You might even make a good wife.”
Her expression went from insulted to flattered within the space of his sentence, and her eyes grew sultry.
Val raised his finger. “But,” he said, “this is a coffee shop. Not a whorehouse. Just be pretty and a little bit friendly. That will be enough to bring the business in.”
Natalia gave him a hurt look.
Val waved her away. “Get back to work.”
The waitress turned and walked away. This time, the sway of her hips was noticeably muted.
Good, Valeriy thought.The less attention to this place, the better.
The door swung open and Dmitri strode in. He sat down without asking. After a moment he realized what he’d done and scrambled awkwardly to his feet. “May I join you?”
“Of course,” Val said, waving him to the chair he’d already claimed.
Dmitri sat gratefully and wiped a bead of sweat from his temple. “I am late,” he said.
“I noticed,” Val answered, injecting just a hint of disapproval into his tone.
“My apologies,” Dmitri added quickly, “but I was just finishing up the job.”
“Finishing?”
Dmitri smiled. “Da. I didn’t want to bring you anything less than your full complement of arms.”
Val nodded, impressed. He took a long, noisy sip of his harsh Turkish coffee. “Even so, Dmitri,” he said, his voice pleasant but laced with danger, “it isn’t wise to keep someone waiting. After all, I might think that perhaps you went to the police.”
“Never!” Dmitri said forcefully. “I am no stukach!”
Val shrugged. “Or perhaps it is a sign of disrespect.”
“No, no, no!” Dmitri objected, waving his hands. “I just wanted to finish the last rifle. That’s all! If I could have called you, I would have, but you won’t use the telephone.”
Val’s eyes narrowed. “Are you taking me to task, Dmitri Yuskevich?”
“Nyet, nyet!” he cried, waving his hands even more fervently. “I am only saying that… oh, I don’t know what I am saying. Please forgive me, sir. I am an armorer. I know firearms. I am not so good with people.”
Val sat back and gave the fat man a long look. Then he nodded slowly. “Very well. Tell me what you have.”
Dmitri smiled, a hint of pride shining through his previous concern. “All ten,” he whispered. “In my trunk.”
“Tested?” Val asked.
“Dry-fired, yes.”
“But not with live ammunition?”
Dmitri shrugged. “It is hard to find a place to fire such weapo
ns. And I had thought that you wanted these as quickly as possible. Was I wrong?”
“No,” Val answered. “You were not wrong. You guarantee that they will work?”
“Absolutely.”
Val removed a slip of paper from his shirt pocket. He scrawled an address on it, then pushed it across to Dmitri. “Deliver them to the garage behind this address. Knock three times, loudly, on the garage door.”
Dmitri studied the address.
“Do not knock twice or four times, Dmitri,” Val cautioned, “or you will not like their response.”
Dmitri swallowed hard, but nodded. “Yes. I understand.”
“Very well. You may go.”
Dmitri rose in his chair and started to leave. He paused for a moment and turned back toward Valeriy.
“Sir?”
“Yes?”
“I am truly sorry for being late. Please know it was only so that I could finish the final rifle. To serve you better.”
Val simply nodded. “I accept your apology,” he said, then added, “This time.”
Dmitri smiled nervously and left.
Val watched him go, pleased. One person at a time, he was solidifying his own grip on this small empire, independent of Sergey’s power and reputation. All was going according to plan.
He sipped the Turkish coffee, his mind spinning. From the cash register Pyotr eyed him with gratitude and hatred. At the end of the counter, Natalia’s look was of lust and hatred. Neither one affected him as he examined and re-examined his strategy. His plans within plans within plans.
1239 hours
Officer Anthony Giovanni replaced the microphone and cursed. Less than two hours to go and he had just been nabbed for a special detail. And the worst part was that the dispatcher who nailed him for it was Irina, who was still mad at him for casually sleeping with her four years ago. She was as bad as Ridgeway when it came to letting things go. Ridgeway was still stewing about his messy divorce that happened around the same time Gio dated Irina. Some people really needed to let things go after a time.
Gio hung a left and headed up north toward the Costco. The heavy daytime traffic slowed his response, but eventually he swung into the Costco parking lot and pulled up next to Sergeant Michaels’ vehicle. “What’s up, Sarge?”
Michaels sighed. “Well, we’re being tapped to help the feds with a babysitting detail.”
“Babysitting?”
“Yep. Apparently they have a high-profile witness or informant or whatever, and they want extra help in keeping him safe.”
“Where?”
“At the Quality Inn just up the street.”
“So why are we meeting here?”
“Because they want you to park here and walk in.”
Gio grinned. “Are you kidding?”
Michaels shook his head. “Nope. The guys relieving you will get the word to come up plainclothes in an undercover vehicle, but you’re first on the hit list.”
“What the hell, Sarge?”
Michaels raised his hands. “I know, I know. Fuckin’ feds.”
“Exactly.”
“But the chief is on board. So we have to play. Park your car here and walk in. They’re in room 420.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Though I’m sure the irony is lost on the feebs.”
“Probably.”
“And Gio?”
“What?”
“It’s mandatory overtime. Graveyard will relieve you around nine thirty tonight.”
Gio sighed. He was supposed to meet a girl for drinks at seven thirty. Tricia. Or Trina. He couldn’t remember, but either way worked. He figured she’d probably reschedule for nine thirty. If not, he could always call Angela.
“Fine,” he said.
“Thanks for not bitching, Gio.”
Gio smiled tightly. “You should have picked Ridgeway instead. He doesn’t have a life.”
Michaels laughed. “Yeah. Ridgeway and a fed. That’s not going to be a problem.”
“At least he won’t have to reschedule his personal life.”
Michaels grinned. “She’ll wait for you, Gio. Whoever she is, she’ll wait. She thinks you’re the answer to her prayers.”
Gio smiled and shook his head as he rolled up his window and killed his engine. Sergeant Michaels gave him a two-fingered salute and pulled away.
Gio removed his wallet from his patrol bag and began the two block trek north to the Quality Inn. As he walked, he reminded himself that he was being well paid for his troubles, though probably not as well as the federal officer that he was pretty certain he wasn’t going to like one little bit.
He arrived at the front door of the hotel a little bit sweaty and in a worse mood than when he left his patrol car. The door swung open and a rush of cool air washed over him. He reveled in it for a brief moment, then met the eyes of the front desk clerk.
“Elevator?” he asked.
The young clerk, who resembled Ebenezer Scrooge at twenty with some acne issues, pointed a wavering finger to his left. “Is there, uh, some problem?”
“Nope,” Gio said. “Just meeting my girlfriend.”
The clerk swallowed.
“Just kidding,” Gio told him, walking toward the elevator. “I’m taking a theft report.”
“Oh,” the clerk replied, obviously relieved. “Okay.”
Gio found the elevator and punched the number four. Room 420 was nestled at the end of a hallway. Gio rapped on the door. There was a long pause before a cautious “Who’s there?” came from inside.
“Rent-a-cop,” Gio announced.
After another pause, a rattling chain told Gio he’d guessed the secret password. The door swung open. A small, dark-haired man in a black suit greeted him with a nod. “Officer. Come on in.”
Gio stepped into the hotel room and the agent closed the door behind him. Gio scanned the room. Two king-sized beds dominated the main area; a desk and a TV stand filled out the rest. The TV was on, playing a popular music video that Gio vaguely recognized and happened to like.
The agent stepped forward and extended his hand. “I’m Greg Leeb,” he said, his elfin features breaking into a smile. “Looks like we’re cellmates.”
Gio reached out and shook the agent’s hand. It was firm but not overbearing.
“Who’s our principal?” Gio asked.
Leeb jerked a thumb toward the bathroom. “Oleg Tretiak. He’s… incapacitated.”
“Sick?”
Leeb shrugged. “Nerves. He’s been through a lot.”
“Like what?” Gio asked.
Leeb gave him a curious look. “They didn’t brief you?” Gio shook his head. Leeb smiled. “Well have a sit, brother. I shall enlighten you.”
Gio smiled back. He was going to like this guy.
2101 hours
Graveyard Shift
Chisolm watched Lieutenant Robert Saylor step up to the lectern. The chatter around the drill hall dried up as the officers in the room gave the shift commander their full attention.
Saylor looked out at the assembled group, meeting their eyes as he spoke. “Number one on the hot board tonight,” he said, “is a bulletin from Renee in Crime Analysis. It is twofold. The first is an officer safety warning from a CI. You all have a copy of the details in front of you. Apparently some of the Russian criminals in our city have devised a strategy to disobey minor infractions.”
Chisolm had already skimmed the memorandum. He waited while the rest of the shift did so. A few astonished exhalations were the only sound.
“Now,” Saylor said, “a situation like this puts the officer in a difficult position. You have to be able to justify your use of force based on the behavior of the suspect. What can we do in this type of situation?”
Chisolm raised his hand.
Saylor nodded at the veteran officer. “Tom?”
“Don’t go code four, for starters,” Chisolm said. “That way, you always have adequate backup. After that, I’d say you have to judge each si
tuation by its own merits. If you can act decisively and take someone into custody, then you should. But if the risk outweighs the reward?” Chisolm shrugged. “Forget it. We’ll get them eventually.”
Saylor nodded and looked around the room. “Is everyone listening? Your safety is number one.”
There was a murmur of understanding throughout the assembled group.
“That said,” Saylor continued, “if any events such as what this CI describes do occur, I want to know about it immediately.”
Heads bobbed collectively. Chisolm knew Saylor cared about his men and took care of them, which is one of the reasons he respected the shift commander.
“Okay,” Saylor said. “Now, secondly, Renee is reporting that we now have the assistance of the Federal Bureau of Investigation at our disposal when it comes to issues of organized crime.”
A smattering of groans and a titter of laughter went through the room. Chisolm couldn’t resist joining in. “An FBI agent, El-Tee?” he asked.
“That’s right,” Saylor answered. “Why?”
“Well, sir,” Chisolm replied, “excuse me for saying, but those guys are about as helpful as a hostage negotiator with Tourette’s syndrome.”
The room exploded in raucous laughter, and a slight smile appeared on Saylor’s face. Chisolm tipped him a wink. He knew one of his roles was to keep roll calls loose and that his commanding officer appreciated it. Some things weren’t very different between the military and police work.
Once the guffaws tapered off, Lieutenant Saylor turned up his hands to the assembled group. “Their effectiveness aside, the Bureau is at our disposal.” His voice turned slightly more serious. “If we get anything on the intel side, they might actually be helpful, so forward it to Renee. Any questions?”
No one raised a hand.
“All right, then,” Saylor said. “All that potential support from the feds doesn’t come free, though. We’ve got a babysitting detail to rotate through up at the Quality Inn on Division. Sergeant Shen will have the assignment. It’s an all-nighter.”
“Glad I work south side,” Officer Aaron Norris quipped from the Charlie Sector table.
“You’re assigned south,” Chisolm shot back. “I don’t know about the work part.”
