Frank Zafiro - And Every Man Has to Die

The chief shrugged again. “So the Russkies are tearing off a small piece for themselves. Why should I care? Beyond asking the patrol captain to stomp on them a little bit, that is.”

“Because they are highly organized,” Renee said, forcing herself to keep an even tone of voice. “This exactly mirrors their operations back in Russia. Their criminal organization over there was incredibly diversified and very secretive. They still believe in the concept of Omerta , the code of silence.”

The chief shook his head. “I still don’t see-”

“Sir, they clearly have a foothold now,” Renee interjected, speaking rapidly. “But because they aren’t focused on just one revenue source, they can grow quickly. And there’s something else. Probably the most important thing, actually.”

The chief scowled. “Well, if it was the most important thing, you should have started with it. What is it?”

“They’re ruthless,” Renee said, her voice flat.

The chief stared at her again, then looked up at Reott and Crawford. “Is she for real?” he asked them, motioning toward Renee. When neither man answered, he turned his attention back to her. “Ruthless? Like all gangsters aren’t?”

“They’re not like other gangsters, sir. They operate in a different way. They have a completely different frame of mind.”

“They’re criminals,” the chief said.

“They’re ruthless,” Renee repeated. “They’ve been known to assassinate entire families in horrible ways in order to make their point, both to their enemies and the people in the community. And, for this generation at least, the community will listen to them and understand.”

“So I’ve got fifteen thousand ruthless Reds to worry about?” the chief asked. “Is that what you’re telling me?”

“No. The vast majority of the Russian immigrants here are hardworking, law-abiding people.”

“Then how many are criminals?”

Renee shrugged. “I don’t know. A few hundred, at most. And I would speculate that perhaps thirty or so are directly involved in organized crime.”

“But those thirty are ruthless, according to you.”

“Yes,” Renee said, “they are. And they have tentacles that reach deep into that community of fifteen thousand.”

The chief sighed. “All right. Thank you for the briefing… Renee, was it?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you. I still don’t see why I should be so worried, but thank you.”

Renee made no move to leave her seat. “You should be worried, sir, because this is a group of men that were able to function under the oppressive Soviet government. Not only function, but thrive. Now, here in America, they are unfettered by that iron grip. The freedom of our country gives them virtually unbridled opportunity. Our laws don’t matter to them. Our jails don’t frighten them. And our police don’t worry them one little bit.”

The chief sat in his seat for a long moment, staring at Renee. She held his gaze, her chest afire. Finally the chief said, “Don’t think you can come in here and educate me about the world. I spent twenty years preparing to go to war with these people. Are they tough? Yes. But they were also disorganized and inefficient, while quite capable of deceiving themselves of that very fact. Their soldiers were sloppy and lazy and served under duress, not willingly. That is the type of warrior that country produced. I don’t believe that they’d produce a criminal who was very much different. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another appointment in ten minutes.”

He turned his attention to the notepad on his desk and tossed her briefing paper haphazardly onto a loose stack on the corner of his desk.

Renee sat in shocked silence for a moment, then rose. She met the eyes of Captain Reott and Lieutenant Crawford, giving each of them a stunned nod before turning and leaving the office. She closed the door behind her and walked down the short hall. When she passed Charlotte’s desk, the secretary raised her eyebrows questioningly.

“Can we send him back to the army?” Renee asked.

1146 hours

Detective Ray Browning set down the telephone receiver just as Detective John Tower poked his head around the corner of his desk.

“You want to grab some lunch, Ray?”

Tower was the newest member of Major Crimes, having pulled duty in the Sexual Assault unit previously. Browning had worked with him in the past and knew him to be a good detective, if a bit emotionally driven. Since being transferred-some would say promoted-to Major Crimes, he’d been adrift in a new environment.

Browning understood why. Homicide detectives were somewhat clannish to begin with. On top of that, there was the natural confidence-some would say arrogance-that came with being a first-string player. And then there was the hierarchy. Detectives Finch and Elias were partnered up, but most of the detectives flew solo. Lieutenant Crawford threw together ad hoc partnerships when cases merited it, but ever since the Crime Scene Forensics Unit took over processing the evidence, the age-old practice of automatically putting two detectives on every case went by the wayside.

“Ray?” Tower repeated. “Lunch?”

Browning smiled and shook his head. He rarely ate out. Instead, he brought a brown bag lunch and stored it in the small refrigerator near the coffeepot. Some days he made his lunch, other days his wife surprised him and did it. On those days, he usually found a note tucked away somewhere in the bag, signed by his Veronica.

“Brown bagging it again?” Tower asked. “Don’t you ever get tired of the same old thing?”

Browning shook his head. “No. Besides, where do you go when you eat out? The same old places?”

Tower shrugged. “I suppose.”

“You wait until you’re married,” Browning told him. “You might start bringing a brown bag lunch, too.”

“So I can save money for my future?” Tower asked, teasing.

“Nope,” Browning answered. “So you can bring a little piece of home with you to work.”

Tower paused, considering. “I guess that’s why Stephanie’s picture is on my desk.”

“Could be. When’s the big day?”

Tower smiled hugely. “One week.”

“Getting close. How’re you feeling about being a married man?”

“Great,” Tower said. “I feel great. She’s wonderful. She understands what this job can do to you, too.”

“That’s a rare thing, man or woman.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.” Tower shrugged again and turned to go. “Well, anyway, I gotta get something to eat.”

“Where?”

Tower paused. “Why? You change your mind about coming along?”

“Sort of. I just got off the phone with the arson investigator, Art Hoagland. You know him?”

Tower shook his head.

“He’s a longtime fireman,” Browning said, “but new at the investigator gig. Sometimes he likes to bounce an idea or two off of me.”

“So?”

“So,” Browning continued, “I figured you might like to come along. We can meet Hoagland for some lunch at whatever trendy location you young detectives are eating at nowadays.”

Tower gave him a curious look. “I wouldn’t ever have figured that the only way I’d get you to go out for lunch would be invite along a second responder.”

Browning shrugged. “You don’t have to come.”

“No, I’m in,” Tower said.

“All right.” Browning stood and reached for his jacket. “Wait a second. Second responder?”

Tower grinned. “You’re familiar with the term ‘first responder,’ right?”

“Sure. Police, fire, medics.”

“Well,” Tower explained, “the guys on patrol decided that should be amended, on account of how every time they’re called to a scene, fire is standing off, waiting for the cops to check things out and make them safe. So instead of calling them first responders, they’re-”