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But in all of the media noise about police departments, one thing was true: they were family. They looked out for each other, covered for each other, did favors for each other.
Whether they liked each other or not was irrelevant.
Paulie shut the door behind Adam and led the way past a simple but neat living area into a room that was clearly his private domain. Department certificates and awards lined the walls and the bookshelves were practically groaning under the weight of what looked like at least a hundred books on true crime.
A desk sat in front of the bookshelves, an open laptop on its surface.
“Not trying for formality here,” Paulie said, raking a hand through his thick gray hair. “But the wife and daughter will be home soon and I'm assuming this is private.”
His meaty frame spoke of his years in the department, a once-fit man now gone to fat from hours sitting in a cruiser or behind a desk, countless department barbecues and birthday celebrations adding up over the years to a soft middle and fleshy face.
“You could say that,” Adam said.
Paulie gestured to one of the chairs in front of his desk and Adam sat while he made his way around to sit in front of the laptop. “What can I do for you?”
"You worked the organized crime beat for almost a decade,” Adam said. It wasn't a question because Adam already knew it was true. He wouldn't be here otherwise.
“My last decade in the department,” Paulie said.
“And narcotics before that right?” Adam asked.
“You want my fucking resumé?” Paulie asked.
“Just confirming,” Adam said. “This is off the record.”
Paulie raised his bushy eyebrows. “Off the record in an open investigation or off the record personal?”
“Personal,” Adam said. “For now.”
Paulie scrubbed his fleshy face. “Okay, hit me.”
Adam pulled out his phone and pulled up the picture he’d taken of Roman. He handed the phone to Paulie. “Ever see this guy before? First name Roman?”
Paulie stroked his chin and studied the picture. “You got a last name?”
“No,” Adam said.
Paulie set Adam’s phone down and turned to his computer. He tapped at the keys for a couple of minutes before clapping his hands together. “Knew it.”
“Knew what?” Adam asked.
"I thought I recognized him, but I wanted to be sure,” Paulie said. He turned his laptop around so Adam could look at the picture on the screen.
It was him. And his name was Roman Kalashnik, son of Igor Kalashnik, head of the Russian Mafia in New York.
“Motherfucker,” Adam murmured. "Does he have any priors?”
“Fuck you does he have any priors,” Paulie said. “I'm retired. You have access to the database.”
"Off the top of your head,” Adam said. “Guy’s fucking Ruby. I'll do my own digging when I get back to the office.”
Paulie sighed. “No priors that I know of, but it's been a while. I only recognized him because we had to kick an investigation over to the Feds back in 2019. Got a lead on a cargo ship full of guns from Algeria. Heard it was tied to Igor Kalashnik's operation.”
“Was the son involved?”
“I have no idea,” Paulie said. “He was working the street back then. Igor wanted him to work his way up. After we kicked it over the fence I never heard anything else about it. But we had the son's name on the wall along with Igor and all of his brigadiers for a few months before we turned it over.”
Maybe Adam should have been worried that his ex-wife and daughter were spending time in the company of a Russian crime boss, but he wasn't worried, and he wasn't worried because as soon as Ruby — whose mother was murdered by a bratva bullet — found out that the guy she was fucking was a member of that same criminal syndicate, it would be over.
