Mob Lawyer 6: A Legal Thriller

by Dave Daren

  I’d replaced the long-time family lawyer as the primary attorney for Anthony, and my client’s father had been immediately distrustful of that. He’d finally started to be won over after I’d taken out a guard at Vlado Galic’s house when Anthony had broken in to steal the director of Gryffon’s personal computer. I’d proven that I was more than just a lawyer, even if I tended to advise his son to take the legal route.

  “Have a good night, Pops,” Anthony said as he waved goodbye to his father.

  The older man grunted, waved, and then climbed up the stairs to his bedroom without another look back.

  “I’m thinking of taking the Mercedes to Atlantic City,” I said as my client and I walked down the hallway toward the front door.

  “Oh?” the mafioso asked with a smirk. “Are you proposing a race? You know the Enzo will destroy you.”

  “I have a week,” I laughed. “I’m sure I can find a mechanic that can do a little work on the AMG.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Anthony said as he pulled open the front door. “Maybe I’ll give you a demonstration of how fast my new lady is on the way back to my--”

  I followed my client’s gaze to find out what had stunned him into silence, and my own mouth fell open in shock.

  The brand-new bright red Ferrari Enzo was gone.

  Chapter 3

  “What the--” Anthony muttered as he descended the steps of the townhouse.

  He’d parked his beautiful brand-new red Ferrari Enzo two spaces down from the building where his parents were temporarily living, but the spot where the car had been earlier that evening was filled with a beat-up white Buick that had been made shortly after the invention of the wheel.

  I looked up and down the street in the hopes that one of the bodyguards had moved it for some reason, but the two million dollar Ferrari had vanished into thin air. I pulled out my phone to make sure that I hadn’t missed any text updates from Hank or Big Tony while I’d been poring over paperwork, and then I sighed when I saw that there was nothing except for an ad for free delivery on DoorDash.

  “It has to be here somewhere,” I said calmly. “Did Big Tony text you? Maybe they took it to the DMV earlier or something.”

  “At two in the morning?” my client huffed.

  The veins in his forehead pressed against his skin, and his right eye twitched as he stormed over to the Buick that had taken his spot. He had his hands at his sides as he clenched and unclenched them, and in the dim streetlight I could see the muscles in his jaw tighten. His shoulders were tense as he glared up and down the street like the cherry-red car would suddenly appear, and his foot started to tap like he was five seconds away from screaming into the night.

  “I did say earlier,” I said with a shrug. “We’ve been here all night. There has to be a perfectly reasonable explanation.”

  “Yeah, somebody stole my fucking car, Hunter,” the mafioso snarled.

  I stuck my hands in my pockets and bit my tongue so that I didn’t say anything that I’d regret later.

  “Unless somehow a two million dollar Enzo Ferrari just magically turned into a crappy Buick from the beginning of time,” he continued.

  “Let’s go back inside,” I said in a calm tone. “Like you said, it’s two a.m.. We don’t want to wake the neighbors and give them an excuse to call the cops.”

  I thought that he might argue with me as he stared at me, but then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath before he started toward me.

  “You’re right,” he said. “It won’t hurt to call Big Tony. Maybe Pops has some detailing he wanted done or something.”

  “Exactly,” I said with a nod. “No one is stupid enough to steal your car.”

  “It’s not like it had my name on it,” Anthony said with a roll of his eyes.

  He stomped up the stairs and into the claustrophobia-inducing hallway, flipped on the light, and then marched into the sitting room. The emerald-green couch groaned when he plopped down on it, tugged out his phone, and then scrolled through his contacts before he hit the send button.

  I made sure the door was locked behind me, twice, and then joined him. The couch opposite of my client was empty so I sat there and watched his body language as I tried to decide how close he was to flying off the handle. I wouldn’t blame him for becoming homicidal after someone stole such an expensive car, but he’d managed to avoid becoming a made man, and I wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible.

  “Boss?” Big Tony’s voice came through the speakerphone as he answered, and he sounded groggy like Anthony had woken him up.

  I heard Hank in the background asking when the hell they fell asleep and who won the game. The large bodyguard muttered something and then cleared his throat.

  “Did you guys move my car?” the Italian mafioso asked in a surprisingly calm tone.

  “Move your--” the large man started. “No, Mr. Febbo. We stayed at the apartment like we said we would. We played cards, ordered pizza, and watched the game. Did something happen? Should we come over and get you?”

  “No,” Anthony sighed. “I think someone boosted my car. You two go ahead and go to bed. I’ll be fine.”

  “Yes, sir,” the other man said. “I’ll have my phone, just in case you change your mind.”

  “Thanks,” my client said with a shake of his head. “We’ll take the subway once we get this all sorted.”

  I was sure that the older man would sleep with the phone next to his head as he waited for an update. It would be a surprise if he showed up at our stop with Hank in tow, ready for a fight, and suspicious of anyone with us.

  “I’ll call the cops,” I said. “Maybe they’ll be able to help.”

  “Unlikely,” Anthony muttered. “The cops are notoriously terrible at catching car thieves.”

  “You’d think with all of the traffic cams that it would be easier,” I said. “And a Ferrari isn’t exactly inconspicuous.”

  “Right?” the young Febbo said. “We used to have cars stolen outside of the bar all the time. I learned to drive a beater or a family car anytime I came into the city.”

  “A good idea,” I said as I pulled my phone out of my pocket. “I don’t think that we’ll need to go down to the station, but we do need to report the theft.”

  “Go ahead and make the call,” my client ran a hand down his face. “I’m going to go take a shower and then brew some coffee.”

  “Good idea,” I said. “Do you think your mother has any leftovers that we can munch on?”

  The Italian man lifted an eyebrow at me and then chuckled as he headed toward the stairs and the upstairs bathroom. The townhouse had been his home for a few days, and his mother had insisted that he leave clothes in his room just in case he decided to stay the night.

  I looked up the number to the nearest Brooklyn precinct, dialed, and then waited for someone at the station to pick up.

  “Seventy-Eighth Precinct,” a tired woman’s voice said on the second ring.

  “Hello,” I said. “I need to report a car theft.”

  I didn’t want to give the officer my name, or my client’s name, because it might influence how fast they actually came out to the townhouse.

  “Sure,” the cop said in a thick Brooklyn accent. “I need an address.”

  “Of course,” I said before I recited the address.

  “Alright,” the woman said. “It might be a little while. We’re a little short-staffed tonight. Is the address a residence or a business?”

  “It’s a residence,” I replied.

  “Good,” the officer said. “Stay in your house. Uniformed officers will be there as soon as they can. Don’t go outside. The thief is unlikely to return, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

  She sounded as if she was reading off of a script as she prattled off the warning, and she punctuated her bored speech with a yawn.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate your help.”

  “Sure,” she said before she hung up.

  I s
hook my head and stuffed my phone back in my pocket. My watch showed that it was almost three a.m. now, but the cop hadn’t seemed like she was going to make me a priority call. I hadn’t made enough calls to the Brooklyn police to know how fast they’re response time was, but I didn’t have high hopes for getting this over within the next hour.

  “How’d it go?” Anthony asked as he trotted down the stairs.

  He had donned a pair of jeans and a black polo instead of another suit, and he was still in the process of drying his hair as he made his way to the kitchen.

  “They’ll get here when they get here,” I huffed.

  “Did you tell them who I was?” my client asked while he started to brew us some espresso.

  “No,” I said. “I thought that might be a little counterproductive.”

  “Good idea,” the mafioso said. “They’d probably take until tomorrow if they knew it was me.”

  “Exactly what I was thinking,” I said. “I’m going to get the files from your father’s office and post up in the dining room while I wait. There’s no sense in wasting time. I might as well get some work done.”

  “I’ll make the coffee extra strong,” Anthony said.

  I sat down at the table for six and read through the companies that his father wanted to liquidate. It didn’t take long for a decent plan to form, and I’d noted the accounts where the money would go, but I wanted to see if there might be a faster way to accomplish my task. I was so wrapped up in my work that I didn’t realize an hour and a half had passed since I had reported the theft.

  “About damn time,” my client snarled when someone knocked on the door.

  I looked down at my watch, shook my head, and then followed the mafioso into the tiny hallway.

  “Good morning, we apologize for your wa--,” the officer said as the door was pulled open.

  The middle-aged cop stopped mid-sentence when he recognized me as I stood behind my client. His dark brown eyes shifted from my face to Anthony’s, and I could tell that he was trying to place the Italian man’s face. The cop wouldn’t recognize my client from any public appearances, since he didn’t make many, but there was no doubt that he’d recognize the Febbo name.

  “We appreciate that you were able to come help us,” I said.

  “Yeah,” the officer said with a frown.

  His thick mustache pulled down at the corners as he glanced back down the stoop toward his female partner, who waited on the bottom step. His hands rested on the handle of his gun and his nightstick, and he sniffed with disdain as he turned back to look at us.

  “We understand that one of you had a car stolen?” the female officer said as she joined her partner.

  Her bright green eyes widened a fraction when she saw my face, and her attention darted over to Anthony as she realized why her companion was suddenly so irritated.

  “Yes,” Anthony said in a surprisingly patient tone. “It was my car.”

  “Alright,” the male cop said. “If we can just come in, then we’ll take your statements.”

  “We can give you our statements outside,” I said before my client could respond. “There are people sleeping, and we don’t want to wake them up.”

  The man looked like he wanted to argue, but the woman gave a small shake of her head and forced a grin onto her face as she gestured for us to lead the way down to the sidewalk.

  “Of course,” she said. “It is early. We wouldn’t want to disturb anyone.”

  Anthony went first with the male officer right behind him, but I waited until the female cop had followed before I stepped out into the chilly early morning and shut the door quietly behind me. I had no intention of letting them into any of the Febbo houses so that they could find a reason for a warrant, not that there was anything incriminating just out in the open, but the NYPD had already proven that they were after the Italian mob, and I didn’t want to make that easier for them.

  “So,” the male cop said as he narrowed his eyes at us. “Can you give us your version of the events?”

  “Our version?” Anthony asked.

  “Yes, sir,” the woman said with a pointed look at her partner. “We need to have all of the details so that we can try to locate your missing vehicle.”

  “Are you sure that it was stolen?” the mustached man asked.

  “Yes,” my client said. “I’ve already checked with my bodyguard. He said that he didn’t move the car, and the rest of us were in the house the entire night.”

  “When did you notice that the car was missing?” the blonde woman asked.

  “Around two a.m.,” I said.

  “That’s late,” the dubious man said with a lifted eyebrow. “What were you doing that kept you out that long?”

  “Work,” I responded. “We came out and saw that white Buick in the spot where my client’s car should’ve been.”

  “Can you describe the vehicle that was stolen?” the female officer asked.

  “It was a brand-new red Ferrari Enzo,” Anthony replied as he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

  “A Ferrari?” the woman repeated with a glance to her partner.

  “Yes,” my client said. “It was a gift. I just received it tonight. I haven’t even had the chance to take it to the DMV.”

  “Oh,” the male cop said, and he flipped his notepad shut and then slid it back into its holder on his utility belt.

  “Alright,” the female officer said. “And what’s your name?”

  “Anthony Febbo,” the mafioso said.

  “Febbo, huh?” the mustached man muttered. “Are you sure one of your rival mobsters didn’t steal it?”

  “I believe it’s your job to discover who the thief is,” I said as I lifted an eyebrow.

  “Yeah, yeah,” the male cop said with a shrug. “Don’t get your panties in a wad. We’ll keep an eye out for your Ferrari, but something like that is going to sell fast, so I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

  “We’ll let you know if we find anything,” the blonde woman added after another glance at her partner.

  They nodded to us almost in unison and then strolled over to their patrol car, and I could hear them talking about grabbing a bite to eat before they headed back to the station.

  “They’re useless,” Anthony said.

  “Yes,” I agreed. “But if we didn’t report it, then it would be suspicious. I’ll call my friend Alessia tomorrow. She’s the DA around here, so she might have more information about car theft rings than I can dig up on my own.”

  I’d helped Alessia, an old law school buddy, to win the election to become the district attorney for Brooklyn. She had been the perfect candidate to take over the DA’s office since I knew that she wasn’t on anyone’s payroll, and she was just as likely to go after the Serbs as the Italians. A little fairness was all my client asked for, and Alessia could deliver that.

  “Good idea,” my client said as he turned back to the house. “Let’s grab our stuff. We can take the subway back to my apartment.”

  We cleaned up the files, washed out our coffee mugs, and then quietly left the townhouse behind as we made our way to the subway station.

  The underground railway smelled like stale beer and piss as we left the cold early morning air behind. The walls were covered in graffiti tags, old posters for concerts that had come and gone, and the trash cans were overflowing with garbage.

  I had never liked the subway as most New Yorkers didn’t. It was simply the most convenient way to get around the city, unless there was a sick passenger or police action somewhere on the line. The cars were almost always filthy and stuffed to the brim with people that had sticky hands, but at nearly four a.m., we’d managed to miss the bar patrons, and it was still too early for the work rush. I breathed in as little as possible as the train rushed from station to station, and I tried to ignore the stench of sweat that hung in the air.

  “We should’ve taken a taxi,” I said when we finally reached our stop.

  “The subway was cheaper,”
Anthony said with a shrug. “And a taxi wouldn’t have been much better.”

  I didn’t have any arguments for that, though I’d take the stale musk of a yellow taxi with its greasy takeout food smell over the questionable smells of the subway any day. The clean air that we breathed when we emerged from the underground hellscape was like heaven, and I almost laughed when I saw Hank and Big Tony leaning against the wall with their heads bowed together. I wasn’t surprised that they’d come to meet us, or that they’d fallen asleep, but I was impressed with how quickly they snapped awake when they heard us.

  “I told you two to go home,” my client chuckled.

  “I thought it was a suggestion,” Big Tony said with a shrug. “How’d it go with the cops?”

  “They’re completely useless,” Anthony huffed. “We’re going to have to take care of this ourselves.”

  “Any idea who did it?” Hank asked

  We all fell into step beside each other as we walked the few blocks back to the renovated warehouse where Anthony’s temporary home was located.

  “No,” I said. “It was gone when we came out. Whoever did it was smooth enough that they didn’t set off the alarm, and smart enough not to rev the engine as they took off.”

  I wasn’t sure that I would’ve been able to resist that urge if I’d been behind the wheel of the powerful car.

  “I’m going to call Jovanni,” my client said as we reached his building. “He’ll put his ear to the ground and find out who boosted it.”

  “And then we’ll tell the cops?” I asked.

  I knew that the mafioso would probably want to take care of it himself, especially when he shot an irritated look my way, but the cops had their uses.

  “You saw the way they reacted when I said my name, Hunter,” Anthony said as we climbed into the elevator. “They’re not going to spend more than two seconds on this. Even if we gave them the name of the thief.”