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“Aye!” I snap when there is a knock on my office door. Patrick, my second in command and closest friend, walks in.
“Oy, a bit testy today, aren’t ya?” His accent is even thicker than mine. It’s total bullshit, he’s been in the US just as long, I think he just likes it. He’s not wrong though. I’ve been bloody distracted all day.
I should be focusing on the multitude of problems currently sitting on my desk, and the ones I’m expecting to get worse sooner rather than later. I should be dealing with the Russians and their perpetual attempts to expand into our territory. I should be doing just about anything other than thinking about the girl that crashed into me this morning in the park. I’m the head of the Irish mob, for Christ’s sake.
Bloody hell, she was beautiful. Tiny little thing, probably only comes up to my chest if she was on her toes. Long chocolate brown hair, hazel eyes. With her skin flushed from the run, her eyes almost looked green. I imagine what they would look like with her face flushed from more enjoyable reasons. Like my cock fucking her throat. Christ, I’m never going to get anything done today.
“Well, this isn’t going to make ya any happier.” He makes himself comfortable in the chair across the desk. “Got a call from O’Malley at the precinct. Seems they served a warrant on some MS13 arseholes and found a few RPG-27s.”
“What fucking moron would sell those dickheads RPGs?” The mob has been known to traffic arms from time to time, as have the Italians, Russians, and just about everyone else in organized crime in history. Typically, no one is stupid enough to provide heavy munitions to violent street gangs. They don’t get any more violent than MS13. It’s bad business, guaranteed to involve the police at some point, and probably going to get civilians killed. Basically, it’s bad for everyone.
“Got their heads up their arses for sure. I’m beating the usual sources for information.”
Smiling, I tell him, “I think the expression is ‘beating the bushes.’”
“Aye, it is, but I’m not beating the bushes.” Patrick laughs, obviously pleased with himself.
“When you talked to O’Malley, did you ask after his mother?” Having a sympathetic friend in the department is a good thing.
“I did! He says she’s doing much better with the new hip, and the agency nurse you sent over to stay with her has been a godsend. O’Malley wanted to make sure you were aware he was grateful.”
“Good. See that the nurse gets a bonus from us as well.”
Patrick stands, buttoning his coat “Aye, I’ll do that. I’ll see to it personally.” He gives me a wink.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, does your dick ever get sick of leading you around the city? For fuck’s sake, the poor girl’s a professional.”
Patrick doesn’t respond, just laughs on his way out.
CHAPTER5
Rocky
The incessant chiming of my alarm wakes me a little after nine p.m. All my best sources work night shifts. People talk more when the boss isn’t around, and the boss never works the night shift.
The NYPD police morgue is a sprawling nondescript government building. Aside from a suspiciously large loading dock and a small, battered sign, you could miss it entirely. It’s also a secured facility, without visitor access, and certainly not visitor access close to midnight.
I’m casually leaning against the wall, out of sight behind a garbage can watching the loading bay. My opportunity comes in the form of a young, pimpled funeral home employee struggling to navigate a stretcher through the door. He clearly hasn’t learned about the handicap button to open the doors for him. All the better for me. With a serious expression on my face, I step around into view, my cellphone held to my ear as if I was mid conversation.
“Yes, sir, I’ll make sure the detective gets the report immediately. Yes. Ok, thank you. Goodbye, sir,” I say to absolutely no one.
Looking at the struggling kid, I smile. “Oh, here, let me get that for you.” He mutters a thanks while I hold open the door. I disappear inside, the door closing behind me with a bang.
With the heels of my boots clicking on the dingy linoleum floor, I wander deeper into the building. If she’s not actively prepping a body, Maggie should be in the office working on reports. She’s been the morgue technician for as long as I’ve been a reporter, her quirky humor and unflappable nature a perfect fit for the often grisly job. Finding her hunched over the computer, soft classical music drifting from her speakers, I rap on the door.
She jumps clear out of the chair.
“Oh, my god! Rocky! Jesus, don’t sneak up on people like that! Why didn’t you just call me so I could buzz you in?” She’s still standing, holding her chest.
“I just like to remind people that I have mad skills. How ya doing, Maggie?” I pull out two watermelon energy drinks from my purse and hand them over. Her eyes light up at the sight of her favorite beverage.
“Oooh, come to Mamma!” Maggie is in her mid thirties, with a thick head of curly red hair, barely restrained by a scrunchie. I have a feeling she would be pale even if she didn’t work nights in a morgue, but that certainly doesn’t help. “Thanks, love, you have no idea how much I needed these today.”
“Well, I might have an idea actually.” I give her a conspiratorial wink.
“Oh, Christ, what have you heard and who told you?” She sighs and plops back into her chair.
“Maggie, you know I don’t share my sources.” She’s known me for years and is well aware of that. “As to what I know, I know y’all have been swimming in bodies lately, enough that the ME can’t keep up by himself anymore.”
