Jamie Hill Triple Threat (46 page)

Brady glanced down at the stack of invoices. The shipment the cocaine had been stashed in was out of
China
, and was nearly impossible to trace to any one individual. After hours of interrogation, he was satisfied Allen hadn't known it was there. What exactly the man
did
know was another story.

"Look," Brady started when Allen returned. "I'm inclined to believe you about this particular load. But don't piss down my leg and tell me it's raining. I'm not buying your suggestion that this is the first time it's happened. You know other shipments of drugs have been smuggled into the country that way. If the importer goes along, making the crates accessible at certain times, keeping his eyes closed at others, it'd be worth a nice chunk of change to whoever's doing the dealing."

Allen's face reddened. "I would never consent to such a thing!"

Brady kicked the door shut with his foot and dropped into the chair next to Allen. "Enough of this bullshit. Cards on the table, man. Your operation is small potatoes and not what the district attorney's really interested in. If I could get him to put that in writing, would you be willing to play nice and tell us what you know?"

"I told you I don't know anything!" Allen insisted.

Brady stared at him. He had a knack for not blinking that often drove his interrogation suspect nuts. Cracking the tough nut was one of his favorite parts of the job. He waited patiently.

"Son-of-a-bitch!" Allen swore. "I'm no snitch."

"The guys in prison will be happy to hear that. Keep repeating it. You'll be popular."

"Prison? God damn it,
Marshall
, you said yourself you believed me. If you think you're going to railroad me—"

"Not me." Brady shook his head. "I just make recommendations to the DA. He decides who to prosecute."

Allen slammed a fist on the table then stood up so fast his chair flipped over with a crash. He paced the small room. "You've got my balls in a vise, here,
Marshall
. I don't see that I have much choice."

Brady stood the man's chair up and winced. "Such an ugly image. You have plenty of choices, Dick. Only one that's going to allow you to walk out of here a free man. But listen up. The DA will tighten that vise faster than you can pull your shriveled balls out, if you start yanking us around. We'll be straight with you, work an honest deal, but you have to extend the same courtesy."

Allen sank into his chair. "I don't know that much. I really don't. There have been some rumblings that the burglaries have been inside jobs. One of the local dagos getting a little too big for his britches, and all that."

"One of the local dagos?" Brady repeated. The Italian slur had him bristling for the first time ever.

Allen shrugged. "Some of the bigger import/export companies are run by grease balls. They get pretty territorial. But, hey, I'm not saying any more until I get a piece of paper signed by the DA. I have to be careful."

Brady scowled at him. "No shit. Talk like that could be very bad for your health."

A gleam sparkled in Allen's eye. "You want to hear what I have to say, or not?"

"After I talk to the DA. My partner Detective
Costa
and I will be back. You can tell us more about the local dagos and grease balls."

He frowned, suddenly appearing uncomfortable again. "Look, I didn't mean anything."

Brady held up a hand, stopping the man's babble. "Save it. I'll send someone in to get your lunch order. We'll see if we can get started this afternoon."

"The sooner the better. I got to get out of here."

"You sure about that?" He raised his eyebrows at Allen. They both knew if the man talked to the DA, he'd be better off pulling up stakes and finding a new place to work. Brady didn't especially like that aspect of the job, but it was a necessary evil to get information.

"Fuck." Allen's hands fell loosely on the table.

"Yeah." Brady opened the door and spotted Costa at his desk. "Costa, you want to take Mr. Allen down for a smoke break, please? See about getting him some food. He's going to be here awhile."

"Sure." Costa stood and headed into the conference room as Brady walked out.

Rubbing his temples, Brady sat at his desk and placed a call to the DA's office. Lt. Forrest had already spoken to them. The paperwork he requested would be delivered as soon as Brady gave the word. That gave him the full afternoon to find out what Allen knew.

They couldn't hold him. If the man was really nervous, he was a potential flight risk. He might stick around, but either way, Brady needed to get into his head as soon as possible.

* * * *

Brady read over the notes he and Costa had taken while speaking with Allen for three hours that afternoon. If the business owner had been truthful, he hadn't known much. Yet, it wasn't a complete waste of time. A few key pieces of information gave them some leads to pursue that they hadn't before.

Costa walked by reading his own notes, and paused next to Brady's desk. "Did you believe him when he said he didn't know what happened to Roy Watts?"

Brady leaned back, crossing his arms. "Yeah, I did. He's a rotten liar. It was pretty easy to read his face."

"There's something fishy about that angle. I can't put my finger on it, but the
Watts
case bothers me."

"It was a homicide. It should bother you."

"Shut up." Costa barely looked up from his notes. "Did you read
Watts
' file? He'd been arrested a bunch of times and then it just stopped. Doesn't that strike you as odd?"

Brady nodded. It had, when he'd gone over the file. Now, hearing it out loud, things became clearer. "You think he had a cop friend taking care of business for him?"

"Probably not without a little
quid pro quo
. I'm sure the cop was getting something out of the deal, too."

"Son-of-a-bitch." Brady slammed his fistful of papers onto his desk. "He was a fucking snitch."

"Confidential informant,"
Costa corrected.

Brady rolled his eyes. "Whatever. You want to check that theory out? Mike Hampton up in Narcotics might be a good place to start. He's always been pretty helpful to me."

"Yes." Costa's eyes shone. He was obviously pleased that Brady hadn't snatched the lead out from under him.

"Stop up there on your way home." He glanced at his watch. "
Hampton
might be gone for the day. He can always call you tomorrow."

"Right. Thanks,
Marshall
." Costa grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair and rushed out.

Brady smiled. It'd been an astute pickup on the kid's part. Costa deserved a shot to investigate the theory. Looking at the stack of papers on his desk, he sighed. He had a dozen leads to follow up on, but nothing time sensitive.
Tomorrow will be soon enough
.

He slipped into his jacket and headed out the door. Since Gina was working, he decided to hit the club and get a bite to eat before going home. He lit up a cigarette in the car but put it out after a couple puffs. It tasted funny, and wasn't what he craved anymore.

The one thing he truly craved, couldn't seem to shake his mind off of, was nowhere in sight when he entered the club. Business was slow and he should have been able to spot Gina anywhere in the room. Julie waited on one of two full tables, and Randy manned the bar.

He nodded to the red-headed man as he took a seat at his favorite table by the wall. A blonde stripper gyrated against the pole on stage. The black-leather corset wrapped around her waist pushed her large, bobbing breasts up high. She wore black fishnet stockings held up by old-fashioned black garters, attached to a thin belt. That and a thong were the only scraps of clothing covering her obviously shaved genitals.

The outfit surprised him. Most of the strippers got down to panties and sometimes thongs, but this woman was as close to exposed as he'd seen in a long time. He wasn't actually interested but it was somehow like a train wreck—hard to look away.

"Good evening, Brady." Julie said softly.

He jumped, nearly upsetting his chair. His face heated in a warm blush. "Hia, Julie. I, uh, was looking for Gina."

"You won't find her up there," the friendly brunette teased.

He shook his head. "I know, sorry. That getup caught my eye for a second."

"Minnie catches lots of eyes in that outfit. Lots of dollars, too. Look at her feet. Pretty good considering how slow it is in here."

Brady saw the layer of bills scattered over the stage. When Gina told him how much strippers could make in a week, he was astounded—and happy that she had opted for the lower-paying waitress job. "Not bad," he agreed.

Julie leaned forward. "It doesn't leave much to the imagination, though, does it?"

He cleared his throat and glanced away, offering her a smile. "Not much at all. So where's Gina? She called me on her way to work, so I knew she'd be here."

"She's in the back with
Warren
, going over the schedule or something. He told me to let them know if I got busy. So far, I've managed to handle it. Can I bring you something, or should I get Gina?"

He nodded. "I'd like an order of nachos and a light beer on tap, please."

"You got it." She wrote out the ticket and took it back to the cook in the small kitchen.

Brady looked around, relieved to see that song had ended and the black-leather clad chick was gone. He had no business checking out other women, but he was a
man
in a
strip joint
, for Christ's sake. Like a kid hanging around in a candy store, he couldn't be prosecuted for merely looking. Gina got that. She might give him a bad time, but then she'd look with him. Gina was cool.

And nowhere to be found
. He'd drained half his beer and eaten a few nachos when voices rose from the back room. The show was between dancers and the club was quiet, so the hushed, angry tones carried.

"You need to leave me the fuck alone!" someone muttered.

"Get back in here, bitch. I'm not done talking to you."
Warren
's voice was easily recognizable.

"Stop that!" she protested.

Brady sprang to his feet when he realized the voice was Gina's. Taking long strides, he made it to the owner's office quickly and knocked firmly on the door.

"Busy!"
Warren
snapped.

Brady turned the handle and the door opened. He stuck his head in and saw
Warren
holding Gina by the wrist. "Too busy to let go of her so I can punch you in the nose?"

"
Marshall
."
Warren
shook his head in disgust.

Gina's eyes flashed. "Brady, no! It's not what you think. We were just having a little disagreement."

He gazed from her back to the club owner, his gaze steely. "I said,
let go
."

Warren
's hands dropped.

Gina stepped back, rubbing her wrist. "Brady, listen. Nothing happened here. We were having a discussion about the schedule."

He raised his hands. "That sounded like quite a discussion. But, hey, it's not my business. If you need me, I'm out there choking down some greasy nachos. Otherwise, carry on."

"We're done." She cast an irritated glance in
Warren
's direction and walked toward Brady. "I'll take my break now. I can sit with you while you eat."

"Great." He placed one hand on the small of her back and guided her out. With one last look at Warren, who did not appear pleased, Brady closed the office door.

"Cretino,"
she muttered as he led her to his table.

"I'm assuming that's a bad thing." Brady smiled and they sat.

Gina picked at his nachos. "He's an ass. But I need this job, so I put up with it."

"Put up with what, exactly?"

She rolled her eyes and licked cheese off her finger. "Nothing like that.
Warren
's a micro-manager, sticking his nose into everything. He lets me make out the schedule and has Randy ordering booze. Then he chews our asses once a week because things aren't exactly how it wants them."

"I see." Brady felt a little better, but still irritated. "Look, Gina. This is your job, and I know you're a big girl who can take care of herself. But that doesn't mean I won't step in when I hear yelling, or see some asshole put his hands on you. I always will. I'm afraid you're going to have to deal with that."

She batted her lashes. "Gotcha. I'm sure I can handle it. Thank you,
caro
."

"No problem." He shoved his plate toward her and they both ate.

Julie approached their table and set a soft drink down in front of Gina. "Thought you might want this."