Mob Lawyer 6: A Legal Thriller

by Dave Daren

  “What do you know about Dian?” I asked.

  I could skip the trip to the garage and go directly to the boss, and since he didn’t own the shop, he’d probably have his own base of operations. And with any luck, it would be filled with fewer weapons than what I’d find at Carlos’.

  “Not much,” the kid said as he looked around as he wiped his hands on his gym shorts and shifted on the bleachers to avoid eye contact with me. His legs swung back and forth a few times, sighed, and then straightened as he finally looked at me.

  “I’ll take what you know,” I said.

  The kid probably didn’t know much more than he’d already told me. He was a booster, the lowest ring on the totem pole, but I wanted to press him for anything he had before I let him off the hook.

  “I already told you everything I know,” he huffed. “Dian is my boss. He sends the lists. And then I take them to Carlos. They don’t tell me anything else! And Mr. Febbo’s car is probably long gone already. I’m really sorry that I took it. I didn’t know it was his. You’ll tell him that I’m sorry, won’t you?”

  The eighteen-year-old had a wild look in his eyes as he leaned forward. Desperation flashed on his face like he’d just seen his short time on earth go by, and he knew that the end was coming.

  “I’ll tell him,” I said with a frown. “But you need to be more careful about who you steal from. If something looks too good to be true… it is.” I watched the relief wash over Chris’ face as he nodded his head so hard his damp hair slapped him in the face.

  “I will,” he swore. “Thank you, Mr. Morgan. I owe you one. And you can come to collect whenever you want.”

  “Sure,” I said, even though I wasn’t sure what I would do with a favor from a thief, but it might come in handy later, so I nodded my head in agreement. “You’re sure that’s all you know about the theft ring?”

  “Yes,” the young man said. “You promise you aren’t going to hand me over to the Febbos? I heard that if you cross them, then you disappear. And that they had something to do with the mayor’s arrest because he went after them, but they couldn’t just kill him, what with him being a public figure and all.”

  “I wouldn’t know anything about that,” I said. “And rumors are dangerous things to listen to… and to spread.”

  “Right,” Chris said as he glanced over to the gate, and I followed his gaze to see the tattooed man was waiting for him.

  “You can go,” I said and lifted my hand in a wave to the beefy man, smiled, and then turned back to the thief.

  “Thanks,” the young thief said, and he jumped down, grabbed his duffel bag from by the fence, and then tossed his empty water bottle into the trashcan. His head was held high as he strolled toward his friend with as much bravado as he could muster, and he didn’t bother to look back.

  I followed the two out toward the street. “Hey, Chris,” I called as the duo turned in the opposite direction of my car.

  The teen flinched at the sound of his name, but slowly turned to look at me.

  “If this information doesn’t check out,” I warned. “Then I’ll be back. And I don’t have to remind you who I work for.”

  “It’s good, I swear,” the eighteen-year-old said with a glance at his friend.

  “Fantastic,” I said with a bright smile. “You two have an excellent day. I’ll catch you later… you know… for that favor that you owe me.”

  “Favor?” the tattooed man asked with an arched eyebrow.

  “I’ll tell you about it later,” Chris hissed. “Have a great day, Mr. Morgan. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  The two spun on their heels, and the young thief tugged his friend along while ignoring the barrage of questions aimed at him.

  I strolled back toward my car with my hands in my pockets. There was no need to hurry to return home since the construction crew would still be there, but I did have some research to do that I didn’t want to put off for too long. I looked around and then decided to head to one of my favorite coffee shops instead of staying out on the street or going home.

  The small hole in the wall was a secret from tourists, and it was almost always filled to the brim with college students who hunched over their computers and muttered to themselves. Booths were squeezed into every possible corner, and a long farm-style table right down the middle of the shop. All of the windows were tinted so that the customers could see out, but so no one could ogle anyone inside.

  I found a parking spot nearby and then made my way to the line. It was the perfect time of day to stop in because it was after the lunch rush but before the afternoon classes let out. I ordered a dirty vanilla chai latte and the last cheese Danish, and then I squeezed into a corner booth with a power supply.

  Trying to find anything on Dian was likely to be a pain in the ass since I only had his first name, so I started with Carlos and his garage. I sipped on my caffeine-spiked tea while I Googled the address that Jovanni had given me.

  The garage that came up looked just like every other New York car shop. It had its thick metal door rolled all the way up, and every picture was of an oil covered workspace with a car or tires. There were tools on the wall that seemed normal, and if I didn’t know that they ran stolen cars through there, then I would’ve assumed it was just another mechanic’s place.

  I clicked on the company website and was taken to the most mundane page that I’d seen since I designed my own as a school project. It had a plain yellow background with black block lettering that stated the name of the garage and its hours. There was a drop down menu that listed the types of tires that they had in stock, their services, and their partners.

  I followed the last link and grinned when I saw a list of companies that worked with the garage to help them purchase all the parts they might need. The website showed that they outsourced the tires and the American-made cars, but none of them listed a Dian anywhere. I clicked the last link, one for a shipping company, and read their spiel about being able to import/export anything.

  The cop at the seventy-eighth precinct had said something about the car being shipped out. His confidence made me think that he was right and that whoever stole the Ferrari would send it out of the country. And it would be convenient for them if they already had a company where they could move their illegal merchandise.

  I pored through the website until I found the owner of the company, and a smile broke out on my face as I saw the picture of a Vietnamese man named Dian. The quick blurb about the man helped me to decide what my approach tactics should look like. I doubted that I could intimidate him like I had Chris, especially if he was the boss in a car theft ring, but he had to have a weakness.

  His biography on the website said that he was fifty-three years old with a beautiful wife and daughter. He’d come to America when he was only six years old, and been a self-made man since the time that he turned eighteen. He’d started his shipping company using the connections that he’d made with his overseas family, and had worked hard during his MBA to make connections all around the world.

  The blurb was flattering, but it did give me what I needed. He was proud of his company, and if I threatened it, then he’d crack under the pressure. He’d have come across the Febbo family name during his years of importing goods, and he’d know well enough that they could destroy his entire business if they wanted, or they could make him millions of dollars.

  I had what I needed to work him for information, but I also had a hacker at my disposal that could find out even more for me. It was important that I made sure that there weren’t going to be any surprise goons with machine guns when I went to the office, and Gabriele would be able to give me a heads-up before I even arrived.

  I closed my laptop, swigged the rest of my now cold dirty chai tea latte, and then scooted out of the booth. My computer was shut down by the time I stood up, so I slipped it into my briefcase, tossed the empty cup, and then strolled out into the afternoon while I fished my phone out of my pocket.

  �
��What’s up?” Gabriele asked on the first ring.

  The hacker sounded more alert than he had at eleven a.m., and I checked my watch to see that it was already two-thirty p.m..

  “I need some information,” I said as I walked down the street toward the nearby park.

  It was a beautiful day out, and I wanted to stretch my legs a little while I talked with the computer whiz.

  “No prob,” the hacker said. “What or who am I looking into?”

  “Dian Pham,” I said. “He owns a shipping company named Phoenix Imports. It’s on the Brooklyn docks.”

  “Got it,” the purple-haired man said.

  I heard the click of his keys as he typed in all of the information, and the soft hum of his techno music in the background.

  “What kind of information are you looking for?” Gabriele asked after a few minutes.

  I had to pull myself out of my thoughts and back to the moment. The calm rhythm of my shoes slapping against the asphalt pathway had lulled me into a steady calm, and I’d managed to forget for a moment what I was even doing. I looked up and blinked in the dappled sunlight that poured through the maple leaves as I thought about a self-made man who shipped stolen cars overseas.

  “I need to know what his shipping company looks like,” I said. “I’m going to pay him a visit as soon as I set up a meeting, and I don’t want to be caught off-guard.”

  “Is Hank not coming?” the hacker asked.

  “No,” I said. “He’s doing something for Anthony.”

  “Understood,” the young man said. “Well, his security is shit, I can tell you that right off the bat. I’m already into his records. It’s like he wants to get hacked.”

  “What about his on-site security?” I asked.

  “It looks like it’s pretty standard,” the purple-haired man said. “There’s a guardhouse, cameras, and a couple of motion detectors in the warehouses.”

  “No men with machine guns?” I pressed.

  “Nah,” Gabriele said before he slurped at what I assumed was another Monster. “The live feed just shows some fat dude at the guardhouse. I think the dude is watching TV.”

  “Good,” I said. “Can you access their video records? I want to double-check since I’ll be on my own.”

  “Sure thing,” the hacker said. “Let me know when your meeting is, too, and I’ll watch to make sure they’re not planning any crazy ambush or anything.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll text it to you as soon as I know anything. I’m just going for a casual business meeting, as far as they’ll be concerned, so I don’t think he’ll have any reason to call in goons. But, it’ll be nice to have you watching my back.”

  “Anytime,” the young man said. “Talk to you later.”

  I looked up the phone number to Phoenix Imports and then started back toward my car. The same red beater that had followed me home the other night rolled down the block, but the car turned the corner before I could get a good look and make sure that it was the same driver. I picked up my pace just in case it was the same guy, but whoever it was didn’t make another appearance while I watched and waited.

  It was almost three p.m. already, and the website for Phoenix Imports said that they closed at five p.m., but I figured I could still make an appointment for the first thing in the morning. I dialed the number just as my phone connected to the bluetooth in my car, and I listened to the ringer as I pulled out of my parking spot.

  “Phoenix Imports,” a melodic voice answered, and I had started to think that no one was going to pick up, so I had to work to keep the irritation out of my voice when I responded.

  “Good afternoon,” I said with a smile. “My name is Hunter Morgan. I would like to schedule an appointment with Mr. Pham.”

  The woman popped a bubble into the receiver and then proceeded to chew loudly as she mumbled to herself about Mr. Pham’s schedule.

  “I’m sorry,” she said after a few minutes. “He doesn’t have an opening in his schedule for three weeks. I can book that for you right now, if you want.”

  “There’s nothing earlier than that?” I asked since I doubted that the import company was that busy.

  It was all just a tactic that was used to make the small business seem like it was more lucrative than it actually was. I’d seen it used a million times before in the white shoe law firm that I worked for before I took Anthony on as my primary client.

  “I might be able to schedule you next week,” the woman said.

  I gritted my teeth as she continued to chew loudly in the receiver. I was glad that it was coming through my car’s speaker, because if it was directly into my ear I would’ve screamed at her.

  “How about tomorrow morning?” I suggested.

  “He’s all booked,” she responded.

  “He’ll make the time,” I said. “I represent the Febbo family. They’re thinking about using Phoenix Imports for their Balsamic vinegar company.”

  There was a long pause where even her loud chewing went silent.

  “I’ll have to ask,” she said.

  “That’s fine,” I said as I forced the smile back into my voice. “I assume you have a caller ID. You can call me back at this number. The offer will only be good for the next hour, and then we’ll move on to the next company.”

  “Hunter Morgan?” the woman asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “And I represent the Febbo family. We would really like to do business with Mr. Pham, but time is of the essence. We have olives waiting for someone who can ship them for us.”

  “Yes, sir,” the loud chewing woman said. “I’ll let him know.”

  I ended the call before she could and then merged onto the LIE. Traffic was slow and plodding, so I rolled down the window and hung my arm out into the cool air as I trudged along. I kept an eye on my rear-view mirror but the red beater didn’t make another appearance, and no one else seemed to be paying more attention to me than normal.

  My phone started to ring thirty minutes later, just as I was finally taking the exit to Floral Park, and I let it almost go to voicemail before I answered.

  “You’ve reached Hunter Morgan,” I said in my most professional voice.

  “Mr. Morgan,” a man responded with a light Asian accent. “This is Dian Pham. My secretary said that you’d like to schedule an appointment with me for tomorrow morning.”

  “I do,” I said. “But I only have availability between nine and eleven a.m..” I had the whole day open, but I wanted to put a fire underneath him, and throw him off the game he was clearly trying to play with me.

  “That is a busy time for me,” Dian mumbled. “But I may be able to make ten a.m. work.”

  “Perfect,” I said. “I’ll be there. I hope that we’re able to come to an agreement.”

  “I believe we can,” the older Vietnamese man said. “But we’ll go over the details in the morning. I have another meeting that I must get to.”

  “Have a wonderful evening,” I said before I ended the call.

  Tommaso had just gotten to his car when I pulled into the driveway. The curly-haired man stopped to look up at me, and his shoulders relaxed when he realized that it was me. A bright smile overtook his momentarily intimidating features, and he waved as he tugged the door to his car open.

  “Hey, Hunter,” my paralegal said when he saw my rolled-down window.

  “Hey,” I said. “Heading out for the night?”

  “Yeah,” the young man said with a slight blush. “I have a date. I’ve filed all the paperwork that you left. And the construction crew is almost completely done. The house smells like plaster, and tomorrow it will smell like paint.”

  “You should take the day off, then,” I said. “Actually, you can take a long weekend. It’s been a long few weeks for both of us.”

  “Thank you,” Tom said. “I’ll have my phone on me if you need me for anything. And I’ll be in the city, so I can be out here in an hour if anything comes up.”

  “I’ll let you know,” I said. “I’
ll be going on my own mini-vacation soon. I don’t have the dates yet, but I’ll let you know as soon as it’s all finalized.”

  “Great,” the paralegal said, and he waved goodbye and climbed into his car while I edged forward into the garage.

  I closed the door behind me, turned off the alarm, and then strolled inside. I didn’t have to turn on a light, and for the first time in a few days there were no shadows to make me think that there was someone in the house.

  I tossed my briefcase onto the dining room table, tugged my phone out of my pocket, and called the number of the local Chinese place. Water was my first go-to since I was as dehydrated as the desert, and then I changed out of my suit before I settled in on the couch. The rest of the night I spent catching up on my DVR.

  I woke up on the couch to the doorbell ringing, glanced at my watch, and realized that it was seven a.m.. My eyes burned as I rubbed the sleep out of them, and I had to force one foot in front of the other until I reached the door.

  “Good morning, Mr. Morgan,” a vaguely familiar man said with a smile.

  He had on a paint-covered shirt, cargo pants, and combat boots that had several shades of gray paint splattered on them.

  “Good morning,” I said. “Here to finish up the office?”

  “Yes, sir,” he said. “The rest of the guys are right behind me. Do you mind if I start bringing in the paint?”

  “Not at all,” I said as I took a step back and let him in.

  I followed after him and then veered off toward the kitchen in search of my first cup of coffee. There was an entire pot ready to brew, but I decided against it since there were still several bottles of premade cold brew in the refrigerator. I snagged one of those and a leftover cruffin. The pastry was just as delicious on the second day, and I made a mental note to have Tommaso bring them at least once a month.

  The rest of the painting crew had arrived by the time that I’d finished my breakfast, and the house already stank of the strong fumes. There were two guys inside and three outside, and I decided that I’d take a look at what they’d done since it was still daylight.