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I said, “Sounds like my son Brian got the straight scoop.” I wouldn’t have chosen these circumstances, but I’d been grateful to see Brian in the Buffalo hospital at least twice a week.
Sergeant Marcia said, “I don’t want to admit that a Homicide puke came up with an explanation for what’s going on in the narcotics trade. This is embarrassing.”
“You help me find this killer, and I’ll never tell a soul.”
Sergeant Marcia laughed. “We go back too far. I have too much on you. You won’t tell a soul no matter what happens.”
“But you’ll help me just the same?”
“I’m insulted you even have to ask. We’ll figure this out, and I’ll write an official report saying that we got the original information from Brian. Maybe we can use that as a way of showing the court how much he’s cooperated. Who knows? Maybe we can cut that crazy sentence down a little bit.”
That was the mark of a true friend.
Sergeant Marcia said, “Synthetics are a part of the drug trade I don’t have a lot to do with. All my experience is with heroin and cocaine. I can predict what those users and dealers will act like. The synthetic drugs like ecstasy attract a new kind of seller and affect all users differently. I knew the Canadians were heavily involved in that market, but they tend to stay under the radar, and we haven’t made any serious arrests.
“It’s just semantics when we’re talking about drugs. People are going to use them whether they’re in the form of prescription pills or black tar heroin. Sometimes I feel like we should just legalize all drugs and take the consequences.”
“What kind of consequences?”
“A surge in overdose deaths. A much higher percentage of the population that doesn’t contribute anything to society. A bunch of drug dealers looking for a different crime they can commit because the government has taken over their jobs. Who could tell what would happen? I don’t even like to think about it.”
Listening to the narcotics sergeant, I remembered an old-timer in Vice talking about how the Dutch handled some of their crime problems. He had said, “The Dutch had a problem with prostitution, so they legalized it. Then they had a problem with drugs, so they legalized them. Let’s hope they never have a problem with homicide.”
Chapter 37
Alex reached a few conclusions after her first day following Michael Bennett. The detective was as busy as any man who ever lived. Between work and a huge family, Alex wondered when the man slept. She would probably not use her stiletto unless she could catch him by surprise, because he was tough and in shape. A gun would be the safest avenue.
That was why she was meeting with these two Dominicans at a White Castle off Webster Avenue in the Bronx. She would’ve preferred a busy Starbucks in Midtown, but she understood what they were doing. They wanted to meet her on their turf.
Alex sipped a coffee while the men worked their way through a plate piled high with tiny hamburgers. They spoke in Spanish, but in this neighborhood, that wasn’t any shield against someone listening in. Their Dominican accents were a little difficult for Alex to understand, but she had explained who the target was and where they might intercept him. Then she said, “I want just the two of you involved. The fewer the better.”
The older, pudgier man, with tattoos running up and down his arms, said, “We’ll need a driver. My cousin Julio will do it. But…”
Alex was losing her patience. “What? What’s wrong now?”
The man said, “A cop is a big deal. We took the job before, but now it’s going to be a second cop. There’s heat building.”
“You told me your crew was the toughest in the city. That any one of your men would die rather than be dishonored and not finish a job. I’ve already paid you a lot of cash up front.”
The man interrupted her. “And we have three men dead because of it.”
“That’s not my issue. That’s why I hired you as contractors.”
“What about Cesar, who was killed in the hospital? Did you do that so he wouldn’t talk?”
Alex had lost her cool. She snapped, “Give me back the money.”
“What? I don’t have it just lying around.”
“If you’re not going to give it back, do your job. Do what I tell you or I’ll make sure no one ever hires you or any of your crew again. Is that what you want?”
The younger man started to say something, a vein on his forehead popping out. But the man with the tattoos put a hand on his chest.
“We’ll do it. And we’ll expect you to come up with the rest of the cash quickly when it’s done. Then we’ll be square. At least as far as money is concerned.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“We have some questions we’d like answered. After we get paid.”
