“Naturally,” Vic interjected.
“…but I can tell you he’s associated with an organization of particular interest to my agency,” Johnson finished, ignoring the interruption.
“Conti’s a terrorist?” Erin said incredulously. “He was Mafia.”
“Conti?” Johnson repeated. “Who’s Conti? Oh, right, one of your victims. I’m not talking about him.”
“You got an ID on someone else who was there?” Vic asked.
“Diego Rojas.”
“That’s not an Italian name,” Webb observed.
“He’s Colombian,” Johnson said. “Or he was. I suspect he’s no longer living. I need to confirm his death. Then I’ll be out of your hair.”
“But he was in the restaurant?” Webb asked.
Johnson nodded. “We had intel he would be meeting with someone there today.”
“What about?” Webb asked.
“We don’t know. Probably some sort of narcotics deal.”
“Since when does Homeland Security give a shit about the War on Drugs?” Vic asked. “Aren’t you too busy losing the War on Terror?”
“One war at a time,” Johnson agreed good-naturedly. “And I could say you’re not doing much better with the drugs. But the Black Falcons, the group Rojas represents, occupy a gray area. They’re a paramilitary organization that finances itself with the drug trade. They’re not terrorists, technically, but we’re keeping an eye on them just in case.”
“I hope we can get you your guy,” Webb said.
“I hope not,” Johnson said ruefully. “We’ve been hoping Rojas would lead us to other contacts, helping us develop a sense of the Falcons’ reach in America. Instead, we’ve got a dead end. So to speak.”
“We’re not going to be pulling any live bodies out of the scene,” Webb agreed. “FDNY is still trying to sort out the count.”
“In the meantime, what can you tell us about Rojas?” Erin asked. “I know, I know, it’s mostly classified. But there has to be something.”
“We think he’s a negotiator with the Falcons,” Johnson said. “We know he brokered deals with drug dealers in Miami and Tampa last year. That’s why he was so valuable to us. We wanted to let him run loose for a while, see who he led us to.”
“That explains the DEA,” Vic said, pointing a thumb at the agents at the window. “Give those guys a sniff of heroin, it gives ‘em all hard-ons, especially interstate operations.”
“We got NYPD Narcos here, too?” Erin asked Webb.
He nodded. “They’re talking to the Captain in his office.”
“You talk to Holliday?” she asked.
“Only for a minute,” Webb said. “There’s a line around the block to talk to him. This one’s got all kinds of pressure. It’s not as bad as the City Center thing last year, but you know how it goes.”
“Shit rolls downhill,” Vic said sourly.
“The Captain gave me two sentences,” Webb said. “He said, and I quote, ‘Get these guys. Anything you need, I’ll get it for you.’”
“Unlimited overtime,” Vic said. “That’s the first good news today. I’ve been looking at a PS4 for my man cave.”
“Vic,” Erin said. “How big is your apartment?”
“It’s a studio.”
“How can you have a man cave in a one-room apartment?”
He shrugged. “It’s pretty much all cave. With a bed in the corner.”
“I’m surprised you don’t sleep on the floor. You got a kitchen, or do you eat your meals raw?”
“I’ll talk to my people,” Johnson said, steering the conversation back to the case. “We’ll have to redact the file a little, but I’ll send you what I can. If you can let me know as soon as you ID the bodies?”
“Will do,” Webb said. He shook hands with the agent, who turned to go, accompanied by a pair of silent, black-suited fellow agents.
“That takes care of Homeland Security,” Vic said, once they’d left. “Don’t you feel more secure, knowing they’re here?”
“They don’t care about this case,” Erin said. “They just care about their guy.”
“It’s interesting, though,” Webb said thoughtfully. He turned to Erin. “What were you able to find out from your CI?”
“Not a whole lot,” she said. “I did hear Conti was a player in the heroin market.”
“Sounds like he may have been making a deal with this Rojas character,” Webb said.
“Maybe someone didn’t want the deal to go through,” she replied.
“Or it was an unrelated hit on Rojas. Or Conti. Or both.” Vic frowned.
“I’m going to meet with another contact tomorrow, or maybe the day after,” she said. “Maybe he can tell me more.”
“Good,” Webb said. “We don’t want a drug war breaking out here. It’ll be just like the Eighties with crack.”
“I was in grade school in the Eighties,” Erin reminded him.
“And I was in Los Angeles,” he replied. “I was a new boot, a rookie fresh out of the Academy, working Patrol. We picked up a lot of bodies back in those days.”
“I don’t believe it,” Vic said. “You were never a boot. You’ve always been a middle-aged gumshoe.”
“Neshenko,” Webb said, looking at him as if he’d just remembered he was there. “Don’t you have some use-of-force paperwork to fill out?”
Vic muttered something unintelligible.
“Care to repeat that?”
“I said, doesn’t the high profile of this case take priority over routine paperwork, sir?”
Erin was pretty sure that wasn’t what Vic had said the first time.
“Good point,” Webb said. “This is a high-profile investigation, which means there’ll be more than the usual scrutiny. Which means someone will wonder exactly what Detective Neshenko was shooting at in that burning building.”
“I’ll get on the paperwork,” Vic growled, slouching off to his desk like an oversized scolded schoolboy.
“The Captain’s going to give a statement to the press in time for the ten o’ clock news,” Webb said to Erin. “It won’t be anything substantial.”
“Our investigation is ongoing?” Erin guessed. “No effort will be spared, et cetera?”
“Something like that. He’s doing high-level liaison work with all these alphabet agencies. I need to coordinate manpower on the ground. You need any bodies? I can throw some Patrol cops your way.”
“I need a Narcotics detective,” she said. “Someone who knows Little Italy.”
“I’ll talk to SNEU,” Webb said.
“I actually know a guy there,”
