“Sort of. The Italian Mafia used to put property in the name of their wives or parents, even their children. Some of the California gangs have done it, too.”
“Why?”
“It helps hide the gangster from the IRS, for one. Plus, it makes the paper trail harder for law enforcement if a RICO case ever comes down. They also figure that if they get busted, there’ll be something there to take care of the family.”
“That’s noble enough, I suppose. I mean, for a crook.”
“There might be some nobility in it somewhere,” Browning said, “but mostly it was about covering their own backsides.”
Hoagland nodded. Both men remained silent for a moment. Then realization crept into Hoagland’s eyes. “Wait a minute. Are you telling me that the husband might be a gangster?”
“It’s possible.”
“And we have a Russian gang problem here?”
Browning smiled. “Last I heard, we had ten or fifteen thousand Russian, Ukrainian, and Georgian immigrants here in River City. Now, unless they are an extraordinarily virtuous people, there are going to be a hundred or more criminals in a population that size. And if that many criminals are operating in a city like ours, some of them are going to get very organized.”
“But that’s all theory, right?”
Browning shrugged. “We don’t have anything solid, no. But we’re pretty sure there’s an organized group operating here in River City.”
“Why would you think this husband, if he exists, is one of them?”
“I don’t,” Browning said. “Not necessarily. But follow the logic. One possibility is that there is no husband. But if there is a husband, why wouldn’t his name be on the deed? Especially in such a patriarchal culture?”
Hoagland pursed his lips in thought, but said nothing.
“You see,” Browning continued, “our role as investigators is to read the evidence, imagine probabilities, and then eliminate them. If there’s no husband, you’ve reached the end of that particular road. If there is…” He trailed off.
“If there is,” Hoagland finished, “then I’ve got some more digging to do.”
“Exactly.” Browning picked up his sandwich and took a bite.
Tower returned to the table and sat down. He pushed the napkin across the table toward Hoagland. “Oleg Tretiak,” he announced.
Hoagland looked down at the name, then up at Tower. “Who’s he?”
“According to the Department of Licensing computer, he’s a guy who calls 1409 West Grace home,” Tower said, his tone slightly smug. “And I’ll bet that Tretiak is the same last name as your other three victims, right?”
Hoagland nodded.
Browning swallowed his food and gave Hoagland a long look. “So now you’ve got yourself a little mystery, don’t you?”
Hoagland nodded again, his eyes glazed over in thought. “I need to find out who Oleg Tretiak is.”
Tower shook his head. “No, you know who he is. You need to find out where he is.”
Hoagland sighed heavily. “And how am I supposed to do that? I mean, I know I can check for him in our computer system, but-”
“Already done,” Tower announced.
Both Browning and Hoagland turned their eyes toward him. Browning waited while Tower let Hoagland squirm a little. Then the younger detective smiled and said, “He’s flagged with a 629 code.”
Hoagland let his chin flop forward onto his chest. “Please. In English. Cop talk is about as foreign to the fireman here as Russian.”
“It’s an FBI flag,” Browning explained. “It means that anyone who comes into contact with this person has to report it to the FBI immediately.”
“So if I find the guy, I have to call the FBI?”
Browning nodded. “Yes. But if this guy is in the wind, it might be worth giving the local office a call anyway. Just to touch base. Maybe they know something that will help you out.”
“Yeah,” Tower said sarcastically. “They’re really good about sharing information.”
Browning chuckled. “Touche. But you never know. It’s worth a phone call.”
Hoagland nodded. “All right. I will. In fact, I’ll go do that now.” He rose from his chair and extended his hand to Tower. “Thanks for the help.”
“Anytime,” Tower said, and shook it.
Hoagland reached for Browning’s hand. Browning gave him a firm shake. “You’ve got a good gut for this, Art,” he said.
“How so?”
“The physical evidence told you this was accidental. Maybe it was. But something on the people side didn’t add up, so you’re following out the lead.” Browning smiled. “That’s what a good investigator does. So keep it up.”
“Thanks.” Hoagland gave Browning’s hand one final, short pump, then released it. “See you later.” He turned on his heel and left the sandwich shop.
Tower watched him go. “Not bad for a hose hauler,” he admitted.
Browning nodded. “Not bad at all.”
2212 hours
Officer Katie MacLeod sat on her couch with her leg propped up on pillows. She stared at the television, watching a hospital drama but not really paying attention. She wondered if the writers took as much dramatic license with the medical profession as they did with hers. Mostly she didn’t care.
She glanced at the clock. Twelve minutes after ten.
What she cared about, mostly, was that her platoon mates were already out on the street, patrolling River City. Which is where she belonged. Not sitting on her couch, half doped-up on pain meds and with an ankle the size of a volleyball.
“This sucks,” she said.
She wasn’t surprised that she missed being at work. What did surprise her was how much she missed it. She missed the feel and smell of her wool uniform and the leather of her belt. She missed the reassuring weight of her gear on her waist. The anticipation of the possibilities that awaited her on each shift. The opportunity to make a difference. The uncertainty. The chance for action.
More than that, she missed the camaraderie of roll call. Saylor’s confident leadership. Chisolm’s steady presence. The twins cracking wise in their terrible accents. Matt Westboard’s quiet diligence. Hell, she even missed Kahn’s gruffness.
She looked down at her swollen, discolored foot. Six to eight weeks, minimum. That’s what the doctor told her. And that was if they didn’t have to operate. If she didn’t need a pin or two to hold things together.
Katie frowned. She didn’t belong on the couch. She belonged in a police cruiser.
On the television, a crew of doctors and nurses rushed to the bedside of a dying patient. They worked feverishly, the actors spouting jargon that Katie didn’t understand. But the sense of purpose and the unity of action that the entire team exhibited only made her feel worse.
She reached for the remote and changed the channel. Maybe there was some sappy romantic comedy on one of the movie channels. At least there was nothing in her life she could compare that to.
Katie MacLeod flipped through her cable stations, wondering how there could be a hundred and seven channels and nothing on.
2304 hours
Graveyard Shift
The belch came out as a wet, flapping croak. Battaglia glanced over at Sully, his gaze a mixture of concern and disgust. “You feeling all right?”
Sully shook his head. “My stomach is bugging me.”
Battaglia sniffed the air. “Whew. Now it’s bugging me. Roll down your window.”
Sully hit the power switch and slid his window down halfway.
“You want me to drive?” Battaglia asked.
Sully shook his head. “No, I’m okay.”
“What you most certainly are not, brother, is okay. What’d you eat?”
“Lasagna,” Sully answered.
Battaglia scowled. “What?”
“I had lasagna,” Sully repeated.
“And you’re sayin’ that’s why your stomach hurts?”
“Probably. Why?”
Battaglia frowned. “You can blame it on my people’s food all you want. I think it has more to do with your delicate Irish tummy than anything wrong with the lasagna.”