“What if there’s something in the apartment?” she said suddenly.
“Huh?” Vic blinked at her.
“As long as we don’t have enough evidence for a homicide investigation, we won’t get a search warrant,” Erin said. “That means we can’t get our hands on whatever’s in the apartment.”
“What do you think is there?” Webb asked.
She shrugged. “Beats me. Drugs? Guns? A secret lasagna recipe?”
“Stop it,” Vic said. “You’re making me hungry.”
“We’ve got to get eyes on that apartment,” Erin said. “It might already be too late.”
Webb nodded. “I’ll call Patrol division, get them to send a plainclothes unit. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“I like plans that go, ‘I hope we get lucky,’” Vic said. “Those are the best plans.”
“Should we go over there?” Erin asked.
Webb shook his head. “I don’t know that it matters,” he said. “Maybe one of us can chaperone the Patrol guys.”
“I’ll do it,” she said, before Vic could chime in. Anything was better than hanging around the office. Erin hadn’t become a cop to ride a desk all day, and Rolf could use the exercise.
“Okay,” Webb said. “I’ll put you in touch with the plainclothes guys. Keep your eyes open, and will you please, as a personal favor, try not to get in any gunfights?”
“I’ll give it my best shot,” she said.
Vic grinned. “Word choice, O’Reilly. Word choice.”
Chapter 11
Erin had plenty of time, over the course of that endless day, to reflect and regret that the only thing more boring than office work was manning a stakeout. She sat in her Charger, half a block down the street from the Bianchi apartment, and waited for something to happen. She couldn’t read a book, or surf the Web on her phone, or catch up on paperwork. The whole job boiled down to keeping her eyes on the building and watching. She didn’t even know precisely what she was looking for. Ultimately, it was anything that triggered her instincts, honed by more than a decade on the Patrol beat.
Another unmarked car was on the other side of the building, with a pair of officers doing the same thing she was. At least those two could have a conversation. Rolf was a great listener but didn’t contribute much.
She glanced over her shoulder at the K-9. He was lying on the floor of his compartment, chin on his paws. He gave her a mournful look.
“Hey, it could be worse,” she told him. “Most dogs have to sit at home all alone. At least you get to come with me.”
The tip of his tail wagged slightly. He knew the words “come with.” They were two of his favorites.
“I don’t even know what the hell we’re doing here,” she said. “Unless they’ve got, like, two tons of cocaine in the basement, they probably shifted anything incriminating hours ago. Now we’re just sitting here like assholes.”
Rolf didn’t disagree.
“I guess I could call someone while we wait,” she said. “Ask some questions about drugs.”
Rolf cocked his head at her.
“It’s not just because he’s my boyfriend,” she said. “He might be able to help with this. And I don’t need your permission.” She pulled out her phone and called Carlyle. He changed burner phones every month or so, texting her the new number. She’d asked him about that, since the main reason for doing it was to avoid police attention and she was, in fact, a cop. He’d just shrugged and said it was force of habit. It was one of the quirks of dating a mobster.
“Afternoon,” he said, picking up on the second ring.
“Hey there,” she said. “Staying out of trouble?”
“If I’m not, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Are you somewhere you can talk?”
“I’m upstairs at the moment. If you must know, you caught me just out of the shower. I’d been to the gym, and now I’m sitting on my couch in a dressing gown, a glass of Scotch in my hand, talking to a sweet colleen. I daresay life could be a good deal worse. What is it you’re wanting, darling?”
She smiled at the mental image. “They ought to use a picture of you in a cologne ad in Esquire,” she said. “I’m afraid this is about work. I want to know about drugs.”
“That’s rather a broad topic, and one beyond the reach of my personal expertise.”
“What do you know about Lorenzo Bianchi and Vinnie the Oil Man being involved in drug smuggling?”
“I heard some stories, back in the old days. My understanding is that Bianchi never had more than a sideline in the business. Strange to say, being a dustman was more lucrative.”
“Dustman?”
“Garbage collector, darling.”
“More money in garbage than drugs?”
“It’s the world we live in,” he said. “Not everyone takes drugs, but every household needs its waste hauled off. America’s a culture of consumption, and that means it’s a culture that throws a great many things away.”
“So Lorenzo wouldn’t have been in the drug-running business now, as far as you know?”
“Not that I’ve heard. I’ll make inquiries. But from what I understand, it’s his son that’s a bit more in that line these days. Strictly small-time, of course.”
Erin sat up in her car seat. “Paulie? Yeah, we thought he and Rocky Nicoletti might be into that. You hear much about them?”
“They’re not big players,” Carlyle said. “Go into a bad neighborhood and toss a half-brick. Odds are it’ll land near a lad like him.”
“So why would Vinnie be protecting him?”
“The Oil Man’s a canny lad,” he said. “He’s a bit too young to be one of the true old guard of the Family, but he’s one they look to as a man of respect. He has to keep them happy, while keeping abreast of the changing times. He’s got one foot in each camp, old and new. It’s a delicate balance he’s keeping. I’d imagine he’s wanting to curry favor with his boss by keeping Lorenzo’s bairn out of
