Mob Lawyer 3: A Legal Thriller Page 3

  “It could be,” Anthony replied carefully. “I guess we’ll find out.”

  “Yeah, I’ll feed him the intel,” I offered, and Anthony’s face registered his doubt. “No, I got this. I’ll buy a burner with cash and text the drop info to him.”

  “From the same store you bought your Hello Kitty phone?” He pursed his lips as he considered his options.

  “If there’s a rat in your operation, you can’t give this information to very many people,” I pointed out. “I can go to a different store, send the text, tank the burner, and go home. No one would be the wiser.”

  “You really want to do this?” Anthony persisted with his questioning.

  “It’s not illegal to send information about a crime to a cop,” I shot back. “And then the information is safe. I don’t have anything to worry about.”

  “Alright,” he finally agreed. “No changes to the plan. Text, drop, home. Got it?”

  “Got it,” I replied with a grin. “I won’t let you down.”

  “I know.” A shadow passed over Anthony’s face before he brushed past me to return to the patio. “Let me know when it’s done.”

  “I will,” I confirmed as I headed for the front door. I slipped out the large wooden doors and walked toward my car.

  “Be safe, Mr. Morgan,” a low voice said from the shadows next to the house.

  “You, too,” I murmured before I slid into the leather seat of my car and pushed the button to start it.

  The engine purred, and I had to keep myself from stomping on the gas to get out of there. Anthony was not one to trifle with, and despite our budding friendship, I was still a bit terrified I would piss him off. I’d already seen his temper reach its peak when he pulled his gun on Kroger a few weeks ago, and I had no intention of setting myself up to be on the other end of that barrel.

  I followed the gently winding road back to the LIE and joined in with the frenzied pace of the highway. I started to Google a store to buy the burner phone when I realized that would leave an electronic footprint leading back to me. I decided instead to turn off the expressway toward JFK and find a bodega shop in Wakefield, a town too out of the way for either me or Anthony to be linked with buying something there.

  After a few minutes of searching, I found the perfect place. It looked older, and it was tucked between a few rowhouse-style homes on a street off the beaten path. I drove past it and parked a few blocks away, then I walked back and glanced around for cameras.

  When I didn’t see any, I kept my head down and pushed open the door. As I walked inside, a customer standing at the counter turned to stare at me, and I realized I was still out of place here with my Canali slacks and Burberry button-up. I’d taken off my tie and unbuttoned my collar, but I still looked like an attorney. I nodded a silent greeting and headed for the glass-covered display of cheap phones at the end of the counter.

  They whispered a few words to each other before the customer left, and the man behind the counter strolled over toward me. He was well over six feet tall and spoke with a slight Caribbean accent.

  “Can I help you find something?” he asked.

  “Just need one of these.” I gestured to the prepaid phones. “Whatever you have is fine.”

  “Okay, sir,” the man replied as he pulled a box out from under the counter. “Will this work?”

  “Yep,” I answered without even looking at the box.

  I was pleased to see the store used a standard register, not one of the fancy electronic ones, and after I dropped some cash on the counter, I walked out with a plain black Motorola flip phone. By the time I reached my car, I’d already activated it and pulled up Google.

  I still had Detective Gomez’s business card from when he was handling Anthony’s murder case, and I quickly typed out the number and a short text.

  Serbian cocaine shipment. Tomorrow night. Red Hook Terminal.

  Satisfied with the simplicity of my information, I pressed send. I wondered briefly if I should wait for a response and decided against it. It wouldn’t take long to ping towers and see where the phone was located. Before I could finalize my decision, the phone buzzed in my hand.

  The number I’d just texted appeared on the screen. I panicked for a moment and then hit answer.

  I breathed into the speaker but didn’t say a word. I’d spoken to the detective several times, and I couldn’t be sure if he’d recognize my voice.

  “Hello?” Gomez’s tired voice sounded in my ear. “Where did you get your information?”

  “It’s solid,” I whispered. “Get those thugs off the streets.”

  “How do I know that?” he demanded. “You can’t just--”

  I quickly ended the call and stared at the home screen for a moment. That was risky. I had to get rid of this phone now.

  The screen lit up again as Gomez tried to call back, but this time, I bitch-buttoned him and turned off the phone. Then, I pulled the sim card out from the back and pulled out into traffic. I followed street signs toward Hamilton Beach and tossed the sim card off one of the bridges and the phone off the other before I looped back around and headed north toward Brooklyn.

  I live in the neighborhood known as DUMBO, and I breathed a sigh of relief when I had reached familiar streets near the bridge. I shot Anthony a confirmation text as I pulled onto my street and into the parking garage for my apartment building. I still got a few looks from my neighbors when I whipped the Mercedes into my assigned spot, and I offered a neighborly wave as I retrieved my briefcase and jacket from the passenger seat.

  As I headed for the door, I started to whistle a casual tune and realized that might seem a little too casual. I was pretty new at this incognito thing, but I was pretty confident no one could trace the text back to me or my client. I reached for the door to the lobby when my phone buzzed in my pocket. I waved to the doorman on duty as I answered Anthony’s call.

  “Did you get my text?” I asked.

  “Yeah, just wanted to make sure you got home,” he replied.

  “Just walked into the lobby,” I confirmed and headed for the stairs. “I got a call back before I, uh, sent it swimming.”

  “He called you?” Anthony’s voice had raised in both pitch and volume. “What did you say?”

  “I said it was legit and hung up,” I answered. “But I was whispering, so he wouldn’t know it was me. I didn’t even expect him to call.”

  “Yeah, me, either,” he agreed. “What do you think? Will he go through with it?”

  “The tip?” I unlocked the door to my apartment and walked inside. “Yeah, I think if he was serious enough to ask about it, he’s serious enough to check it out.”

  “Good,” Anthony murmured. “I’ll get eyes on the dock. You come out to the house tomorrow for dinner again, and we’ll wait for the info.”

  “See you then.” I hung up and plopped onto my couch with a sigh.

  Did this officially make me a mob lawyer? I’d run an errand for my Mafia boss client, and while it wasn’t illegal, it felt almost dirty. Yet, I’d still done it. As I stripped off my clothes and headed for the shower, it occurred to me that I’d do just about anything to keep Anthony safe.

  Maybe it was because I knew he’d already been railroaded twice by NYPD, or maybe it was something else I couldn’t put my finger on.

  After a while, the warm water had washed away the tension and relaxed my strained muscles, and I took a deep breath of the steamy air as I stepped out into the bathroom. Then a new feeling seemed to overtake me.

  Excitement.

  It sizzled through my skeleton like a jolt of electricity, and I wondered if I’d even get any sleep waiting for the bust to go down in less than twenty-four hours. I slid into my bed and tossed and turned for at least an hour before I flipped on the TV. I watched mindless reruns of shows I’d seen a hundred times before I finally felt myself start to drift off.

  The next morning, I opened my eyes and rolled over to see that some awful morning show had taken the place of the co
medy I’d been watching the night before. Apparently, some celebrity had cheated on her husband with a female celebrity, and that was a big deal.

  I rolled my eyes as I scooted off the bed and debated what to do next. I had hours to kill before I headed out to the Febbo estate, but I didn’t have much action going on at the moment other than my hospice cases. A few weeks ago, I’d signed up to help with a pro bono clinic for hospice patients who couldn’t afford their own attorneys, and now that Anthony was my only source of income, I found I had a lot more free time. I pulled on some sweatpants and a t-shirt before I headed out into the living room and rifled through my briefcase to double check my files.

  A quick perusal revealed I’d already filed everything I could for each of the power of attorney cases and was waiting on the judges’ orders, and all the wills had been filled out and sent to the clinic for final review. I snapped the briefcase shut with a sigh and scrolled through the various social media feeds on my phone. More election bullshit filled my timelines, so I turned off the screen and stared out my window.

  Maybe the gym.

  I laced up some tennis shoes, grabbed my bag, and headed down the street to my regular gym. I scanned my card at the door and spent the next two hours lifting weights and running on the treadmill. By the time my shirt was soaked in sweat, I hopped off the treadmill and rinsed off in the shower. I pulled a clean t-shirt and jeans out from my gym bag and got dressed before I strolled out of the gym and checked my phone.

  I still had at least six hours before I could head out to Riverhead.

  With a sigh, I glanced around me and made my way toward the coffee shop. I stepped inside the swanky building and stepped into the line full of a wide variety of customers. From business suits and pantsuits to sweatpants and even a muumuu, the line for caffeine fixes was the epitome of New York City.

  America might be the melting pot, but New York was the whole pantry. So many different kinds of people walked the streets of the city every day going to their jobs, hobbies, shows, concerts, or any one of the hundreds of things to do here. It had a certain beauty to it, and I missed my name twice as I thought about how most of them had no idea of the forces at play in their everyday lives.

  I normally got my coffee to go, but today, I sat down in a window seat and grabbed a copy of the Daily News from the table. I flipped through a few pages, and Brenda Borowski’s name jumped out at me from the crime section. She’d written some namby-pamby article about a string of car break-ins that had gone unsolved for several weeks.

  When the hell was she going to publish her corruption story? This wasn’t the groundbreaking expose she said she wanted to announce to the world. This was, well, lame. Maybe I should text her and ask what was going on. She was supposed to update me when she had the story ready for the press, but I hadn’t heard from her even when I was back in the world of regular cell service. I pulled up her number and sent a message.

  Hey, haven’t heard from you in a while. Everything ok? Your story hasn’t shown up yet.

  The response was almost immediate.

  Gotta get my facts straight. Or so they say. I’ll keep you posted.

  So, someone had told her to back off. I made a mental note to hit her up for lunch and get more information soon.

  Then I checked the time and realized I’d spent another hour at the coffee shop. There was already another set of people forming a line, and I still needed a real shower before I went to the Febbo estate.

  I grabbed my gym bag and jogged to my apartment. By the time I toweled dry, another hour had passed.

  Perfect, if I drove slow, I could get to Riverhead just a little early without appearing too anxious.

  A few minutes later, I started my Mercedes and threw it into reverse. I zipped out of the parking garage and onto the road. The late afternoon traffic helped me keep a slow pace, and I resisted the urge to hop into the fast lane once I hit the LIE. I cruised along at the speed limit as I headed for Anthony’s family home. He hadn’t reached out all day, and my mind wandered to anything that could have gone wrong in the last twenty hours since I’d dropped the tip to Gomez.

  If the detective had figured out it was me, he may not have taken the tip seriously. It could have simply been a ploy to divert attention from a Febbo operation, but if he’d figured me out, surely he would have come by my apartment demanding answers.

  The waiting was killing me, and I gave up on going slow.

  I weaved in and out of traffic as I sped toward the Febbo house. I pulled into the drive and hopped out with a casual wave toward the shadowy bush. I couldn’t see the guard standing there, but he always seemed to be around.

  I pushed through the large wooden doors just as Michael made his way out to greet me.

  “Oh, Mr. Morgan!” He grabbed his toupee with a startled step back. “We weren’t expecting you yet.”

  “Yeah, sorry,” I replied and looked past his current dark-brown hairdo. “Is Anthony here?”

  “He’s on a call,” Michael said as he ushered me inside. “You can wait down here. Gulia is about to start dinner.”

  “I’ll just head up to his office,” I insisted with a wide smile and started toward the stairs. “I’m sure we’ll be down soon.”

  “Ah, okay, um, if you say so,” he stammered before he scuttled toward the kitchen.

  I cocked my head to the side, then shrugged and headed upstairs to Anthony’s office. I tapped on the door and waited a few moments. I couldn’t hear anything through the solid oak barrier, which I took to be a good sign since I would have been able to hear if he was yelling.

  “Yeah?” Anthony’s voice finally rang out into the hallway.

  I pushed open the door and offered a small wave. “Done with your call?”

  “You’re here early.” My client smirked as he motioned toward the chair across from him. “Couldn’t wait?”

  “I’ve been waiting all day,” I sighed and plopped into the seat. “Is it always like this?”

  “Like what?” Anthony’s gray-green eyes twinkled with amusement.

  “I don’t know,” I muttered. “Like exciting, I guess.”

  “It can be,” he replied with a grin. “One of my guys is set up across from the dock in an old warehouse. He got there this morning, so the cops wouldn’t see him, but he’s already seen them come and hide out around the dock.”

  “So, they took the tip,” I said. “That’s a good start.”

  “All we know is they’re there,” he reminded me. “Someone could still be fishy, trying to make sure the Serbs don’t get caught by Port Authority on the way in. We don’t really know yet.”

  “Alright,” I grumbled.

  Despite being an attorney for the Mafia boss, I still believed the cops should be the good guys. I wanted Gomez and his men to do the right thing.

  Anthony’s phone buzzed on the desk, and he snatched it up and put it on speaker.

  “The ship just pulled in,” a grizzly voice whispered on the other end. “It’s docking now, but there’s got to be twenty or thirty containers on that thing. It might take some time for them to search it.”

  “If they’re smart, they’ll wait to see which one the Serbians check first,” I murmured. “The coke one will be the one they’re most worried about.”

  Anthony nodded his agreement. “Do you see any Serbs at the dock?”

  “Two,” the man replied. “But there are at least four more guys docking the ship that I can’t see for sure and who knows how many are— wait, there’s another three guys that just came out of one of the buildings.”

  There was a shhhh sound as though the man covered the phone for a few seconds, and I realized I was holding my breath.

  “Shit, there are at least ten Serbian guys here now,” the man continued in a breathy voice. “Oh, you were right, boss. This is going to get ugly.”

  It was like listening to a football game on the radio, and my adrenaline was pumping as we waited for our next update.

  “You don’t th
ink we put the police into danger, do you?” I found myself whispering as well.

  “Not when they’re the ones doing the ambushing,” Anthony snickered.

  I pursed my lips and stared at the screen.

  “Cops just went in,” the man declared. “Ohhh, hell, they’re rounding them up now. A few took off running, but it seems the five-oh was ready for that. One group just got on the ship. Looks like they’re about to clip the lock on the first container. Well, wait, that cop is pointing at a specific one. The rookie was paying attention, eh?”

  I wasn’t sure if he was referring to a rookie cop or calling me a rookie, but either way, I couldn’t think about anything else but how the scene was unfolding on the other side of the city.

  “There it is!” Anthony’s buddy whistled and chuckled. “They got the fuckers red-handed.”

  “How many are getting arrested?” Anthony pressed.

  “I see the ten from the dock going into the van now,” the man replied. “And four more getting walked down the ramp off the ship in cuffs. All Serbians.”

  “Hell, yeah!” I exclaimed and lifted my hand for a high-five.

  Of all the things I’d done since becoming an attorney, helping bust this operation was easily in my top three most exciting moments. I’d worked some sketchy deals for McHale, Parrish, and I’d worked the system in Folsom, so it felt good to do something that I knew was right. The added benefit for the Febbo family was just the icing on the cake.

  “They passed the first part of the test,” Anthony laughed and smacked my palm.

  “Boss, you wouldn't believe how much weight they’re pulling off that boat right now,” the man said in an excited whisper. “There has to be a million dollars’ worth getting tagged right now.”

  “Call me if anything changes.” Anthony hung up and rubbed his hands together, and the motion reminded me of a cartoon villain. “Oh, they’re going to be so pissed.”

  “Especially anyone who was in on it,” I agreed. “Not just the Serbians, but whoever is helping them squeeze their way out of trouble. I don’t know how they’ll manage that with this big of a bust.”