When I looked up I saw Claire propped against an unmarked police car. She was dressed like a plainclothes cop. Son of a bitch. She was a cop. An undercover cop. The realization brought with it a wave of nausea. The woman who I’d invited into my business, into my life, and into my bed was a motherfucking cop.
“She’s a fucking cop,” dad said, growling in my ear. “Christ, son, your fucking girlfriend is a motherfucking cop.”
I didn’t say anything. I just stared at her until a cop grabbed my arm and shoved me into the back of a van.
The door slammed.
I closed my eyes.
We drove away.
Son of a bitch.
Claire Goodman, or whatever the fuck her real name was, was a cop.
I had to smile.
How utterly ironic.
* * *
My attorney was an old law school buddy named Tim Reed. Tim had graduated at the top of our class and had become a top-class criminal defense lawyer in the ten years since law school. I called him the moment I saw the SWAT van pull up outside the warehouse. I wasn’t surprised to see them. To the contrary, I had wondered what had taken them so fucking long to find us.
By the time we arrived at the police station, Tim was already there, waiting with a confident look on his face and his briefcase in hand. He demanded that dad and I be put into separate interrogation rooms, and gave the cops strict instructions that no one was to speak to either of us without him present. The officer in charge clearly knew better than to fuck with Tim because he grunted orders to a couple of uniformed cops and I was put in one interrogation room and dad in another. The Stooges and the warehouse workers were put in a holding cell all together.
Thirty minutes later, I was sitting next to Tim in the small interrogation room with my hands free and an unopened bottle of water on the table in front of me. I guess they figured that I was going to be doing a lot of talking and would need to wet my whistle. They were sorely mistaken.
Across the table from Tim and I was a detective in an ill-fitting gray suit who identified himself as Lieutenant Ed Henry of the Organized Crime Task Force. Next to him was a lanky Irish cop named Lester Shanahan.
I recognized his nasally voice immediately, but he didn’t recognize mine. Each time we had talked I had used a digital voice changer on a burner phone. He had no clue he was talking to his inside man; his source. He would never know it was me feeding him little tidbits of information for the last few months.
“So, Lieutenant Henry,” Tim began, folding his manicured hands together on the table in front of him. “What are the charges?”
Ed Henry crossed his arms over his chest and gave Tim a smug look, then directed his dark eyes at me.
“Well, let’s see. We have a warehouse full of counterfeit designer merchandise,” he said arrogantly. “Your client and his father were onsite, directing the operation. We found filing cabinets full of fake bills of lading going back thirty years signed by Patsy O’Connor. And I’m pretty sure we can trace ownership of the warehouse back to your client or his father. And I expect the worker bees we brought in will be more than willing to testify that they were working for the O’Connor family, once they find themselves facing five years in the state pen for smuggling and distributing counterfeit goods.”
Tim listened quietly, then spread his hands. “Is that it?”
Henry gl
anced at Shanahan, then gave Tim a frown. “Isn’t that enough?”
Tim smiled and opened his briefcase. He brought out a single slip of paper and lay it on the table facing the two cops. At the top of the page was the letterhead for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. At the bottom of the page was the signature of F. Lee Bradley, Assistant Director, FBI, New York Division.
“What the fuck is this?” Henry said, picking up the paper and frowning as he read the words between the logo and the signature. His face flushed blood red as he handed the paper to Shanahan.
“This is bullshit.” He aimed a stiff finger at me. “He’s a goddamn confidential information for the FBI? Him?”
Tim reached across the table and plucked the letter from Lester’s hand. He slid the letter back into his briefcase and closed the latches.
“My client has been working as a confidential informant with the FBI for nearly ten years, Lieutenant Henry,” Tim said. “He is an integral part of an ongoing investigation the FBI is conducting into all manner of smuggling at the ports, as well as corruption within the Port Authority itself.”
“Does that including smuggling and racketeering done by his own father?” Henry asked.
Tim looked at his watch as if he were bored. “Lieutenant Henry, I hate to burst your bubble, but when you have the time to go through that warehouse you’re going to find that it does not contain counterfeit goods as you claim. It contains cheap handbags, shoes, and watches from a reputable company in China. There is no attempt to pass these goods off as anything other than what they are, which is basic flea market fare.”
“This is bullshit,” Henry said again. “I don’t know anything about an investigation at the docks by the feds.”