Page 110 of Oddly Fine

Something dark passed over Matthew’s face, and Hayes was worried he’d leave the question unanswered.

“There was an incident,” Matthew said tersely. He cast a look towards the chef in the kitchen who stood at the sink washing dishes.

Hayes gave Kyle another look. He’d met him earlier that morning when he’d gotten up to go on his run. They’d exchanged tentative smiles, as the chef had been in the middle of preparing breakfast. He’d offered Hayes a toasted bagel or yogurt as a quick snack, but he’d politely declined and then headed out for his run.

“Perhaps some privacy?” Hayes proposed, looking furtively at the hard-at-work chef.

Matthew sighed, then nodded. He gestured to get Kyle’s attention and signed a few words. The man gave a curt nod before he turned on his heels and immediately walked out the front door.

“A couple of weeks after my father died, my uncle had a meeting with a Serbian contractor we sometimes deal with for some of our imports. It was supposed to be a straightforward deal. But then Uncle Mario was offered a gift.” Matthew sounded thoroughly disgusted. “She was young and confused as to how she ended up as my uncle’s arm candy, but he was very pleased. A couple of days later, she turned up dead in the Bronx. It was made to look like a mugging—but she had defensive wounds and restraint marks. She’d clearly been tied up—drugged too.” He shook his head. “My uncle was pissed, but the next thing I knew, that same Serbian contractor was sitting at our family’s dinner table, talking about the advantages of a two-way trade deal. It took a while for me and my sister to understand what he was talking about. See—trafficking is only one part of the problem—housing and stashing them is the other one. Wherever they’d stashed the young blond girl hadn’t been secure enough. I think it sparked the idea for the deal.”

“What did the Serbian contractor want?” Hayes asked.

“He would continue to import for us—our regular stock, but he’d also be bringing live cargo which he was hoping we could house temporarily. Trafficking isn’t like it used to be. People going missing in the dead of night raises too many questions. Nowadays, it’s easier to make people believe they’re coming to America to make it big as a movie star or a model. Put them up in private condos—feed them, clothe them, and wait for the right buyer so they can be shipped out to their new owners. My family owns a large number of properties. I suppose Sergei—the Serbian contractor—figured it would be easy for us to house them.”

“You have got to be fucking with me!” Beckett exclaimed angrily. “We’re talking about people here! You’re talking about them like they’re furniture!”

“Please don’t mistake my calmness for acceptance. I’m as revolted by the proposition as you are. So is my sister. The twins—” he waved his hand dismissively.

“So, you shut him down,” Beckett said, seeking confirmation.

“Firmly,” Matthew agreed.

“But you’re still suspicious,” Hayes said, getting a good read on his expression. “Why?”

Matthew blew out a heavy breath.

“A couple of days after our refusal of the deal, my uncle began buying property in Montreal. We’d already been looking around—the market in New York is saturated, and we needed to expand to other areas—especially since I’m strongly advocating that we move away from importing. Still—we were just beginning the process of looking into new cities when he showed up with four new acquisitions in Montreal, of all places.”

“What do you mean, of all places?” Beckett asked, not understanding where he was going with this.

Hayes had to admit he was clueless as well.

“I’ll give you three guesses as to which mob controls the ports in Montreal,” Matthew said.

Ah, there it is.

“Starts with Serb—ends with motherfucking—ian?” Beckett sighed, rubbing the back of his neck like he did when overly stressed.

“Bingo!”

“Still—if you have that many properties in New York, couldn’t he have just—done it without your consent?” Hayes asked, trying to understand the move to Montreal.

“Most of those properties are owned by the family. That is how we operated in the past. We’ve since learned to divide the shares—that way if one goes down, not everyone suffers. If he’d housed the cargo in New York, my sister and I might have gotten wind of it.”

“Whereas in Montreal—you have nothing to do with his properties,” Beckett summarized simply, a bright gleam in his eyes.

“Why didn’t you tell us all of this yesterday?” Hayes asked, though truly, the better question was, “Why hadn’t they asked about it before?”

“In my world, the less you know—the better your chances are of floating if you get thrown into the river.” Matthew neatly sidestepped Hayes’ question.

Beckett rolled his eyes, obviously annoyed.

“We should start there,” he said, turning to Hayes.

“There where?”

“With the port and the Serbians,” Beckett replied flatly.