“How much pull did he have?” she asked.
“It’s my understanding that if you wanted to invest in a good horse in Little Italy, he was a fine lad to know,” he said, using one of the many street euphemisms for heroin.
“Have you heard anything about a drug war? Anything getting talked about on the street?”
He shook his head. “As you know, Erin, I keep well clear of the stuff.”
“But your people don’t,” she said. “What about Liam?”
Liam McIntyre was the O’Malley narcotics man. Erin had met him twice. He hadn’t made a good impression either time, but he’d been useful in tipping her off to the drug shipment she’d taken down.
“Are you asking me what he knows, or are you asking me to set up a meeting with him?”
“Either. Both.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Carlyle said. “It may take a day or two, but I imagine I can sit the two of you down somewhere.”
“Do that,” she said. “I’ve got a feeling this might have something to do with what happened in February.”
“Continuation of the unpleasantness surrounding the loss of their product, you mean?”
“Maybe,” she said. “We’re not ruling anything out. Mostly I need to know if this was a one-off, or if there’s going to be more bodies getting dropped.”
“I understand your concerns. I’m afraid I’ve no idea what goes through Liam’s head these days, though I’ve a suspicion more than a little of his own product goes up his nostrils. The lad would hardly confide in me. He’s more comfortable with the likes of Mickey and Miss Blackburn.”
Erin suppressed a shudder. She’d met both the O’Malley associates he’d named. Mickey Connor in particular was a nasty piece of work. “I don’t want to see Mickey,” she said. “Just Liam. Set it up.”
“I’ll be about it,” he said. “Does that conclude our business?”
“I think that’s it for now.”
“Then I’m thinking it’s time for that drink I offered you when you came in.”
Erin smiled. “Sorry. Still on duty.”
“Erin, it’s past eight. How long have you been working?”
“It’s my day off, so I didn’t exactly clock in. But I’m not done yet. At least I’m used to working nights.”
“I live by night, too, as you’re well aware. Perhaps I’ll see you later on? I can come by your flat, if you’re wanting a bit more peace and quiet than you’d find hereabouts.”
“That’d be nice.”
“When should I drop by?”
“I’ll call you.” She didn’t bother to ask if he’d still be up. He usually went to bed well after midnight.
“That reminds me,” he said. “I’ve a new number.”
Erin fished out her phone and pulled up his contact info. He was listed on her device as “CI” for “Confidential Informant,” with no other identifying information. Cautious man that he was, he insisted on changing burner phones every couple of weeks. On top of that, she knew he kept a couple of clean phones nearby for extra-sensitive business.
“Some people might think you were a little paranoid,” she said, replacing the old phone number and saving the update.
“Aye, they might,” he said. “But I’d remind them I’m an old gangster. That’s a mark of distinction. There are a great many young gangsters. The mathematics speak for themselves. You want to talk about paranoia? I’m living on top of a public house. The Corner was a speakeasy back in the Prohibition days, did you know?”
“I didn’t,” she said with a smile. “But it doesn’t surprise me. You’re carrying on the old bootlegger tradition?”
“Aye. They operated out of the cellar. Secret passages and the like, all manner of subterfuge. There’s even a hidden entrance to the building.”
“How mysterious,” she said with a grin. It actually was kind of romantic, now that she thought about it. “I’ll give you a ring.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Carlyle was right. It was late, and Erin had no wish to go back to the office, but this wasn’t an ordinary evening. A gangland shootout that left multiple bodies and a burnt-out building was going to get a lot of attention. Until they cleared the case, they’d all be working whenever they could.
Erin tried to muster up her usual enthusiasm for the chase. Rolf was on board with the plan, eager and energetic, but what she really wanted was to go home and relax on the couch. A glass of Carlyle’s top-shelf whiskey in her hand, Carlyle giving her shoulders a massage with his gentle, clever fingers, and some soft music on the stereo sounded a lot better than doing detective grunt-work all night.
“But that’s the job we’ve signed up for,” she said to her partner. Rolf cocked his head and perked his ears, giving her a quizzical expression. Of course this was what he’d signed up for. No question.
So back to the precinct they went. Erin parked her Charger in the underground garage and took the elevator up to the second-floor Major Crimes office.
The doors opened on semi-organized chaos. She’d expected activity, but this was something else. Uniformed officers swarmed around the desks, with a sprinkling of plainclothes detectives, most of them strangers. She saw a cluster of guys wearing DEA jackets near the windows, a couple of FBI guys hanging around outside Captain Holliday’s office, and some other Feds at Webb’s desk talking to Vic and the Lieutenant. Among them, she saw a familiar face.
“Agent Johnson,” she said, coming up behind him. “I didn’t know Homeland was interested in this.”
Paul Johnson, Homeland Security, turned toward her with a friendly smile. “Detective O’Reilly!” he said, offering his hand. “Glad you’re with us. Your partner, too,” he added, winking at Rolf.
Erin shook hands gladly enough. Agent Johnson, unlike too many other Feds, believed in genuine cooperation between agencies. He’d been helpful in stopping a terrorist plot the previous year. But she didn’t understand why Homeland would be here now.
“We
