“A DEA agent you’re working with is moving more drugs than a Colombian cartel.”
It was an overstatement, of course, but it made his intention clear. “No,” I groaned.
“Yes,” Morgan said almost cheerfully. “Goes by the name Sandell.”
“No, no.” It was getting worse, not better.
He gave me a quick nod with an accompanying grin.
Godfuckingdammit.
No one wanted to hear a DEA guy was dirty—even though in my experience most of them were—but I especially didn’t want to hear that it was the one guy I was in town to work with. When Sandell had met me at the airport with a couple of his men, I’d thought he was okay, ordinary, not a thing remotely interesting about the man. Nothing he’d done or said had tripped any alarms in me or put me on edge. But apparently my instincts were for shit if Morgan was to be believed, and really, it was obvious I should.
“And the worst part is,” he continued, still eating my food. Clearly the man had skipped dinner. “I have a string of dead girls his men used as mules, but I just need a bit more evidence to connect the dots so we can take him down.”
He was already saying “we.”
Jesus.
I turned my head to appraise the man sitting beside me. With the glossy jet-black hair and blue eyes, I bet he had lots of men and women doing whatever he needed or wanted. But I was both very taken and very much by the book.
“Sounds like you need my help.”
“What do you think I’m doing here? I mean, the mac ’n’ cheese is good and your company is charming, but come on.”
I ignored the last bit. “Is there someone local here you can tag? In the DEA? Do you know anyone besides him?”
No response, but it was hard to tell if he was hungry or thinking.
“I’m just in for a quick op,” I explained. “So unfortunately I don’t know all the players. I mean, his whole team could be dirty, and I couldn’t tell you a damned thing unless they were holding a kilo of coke in their hands.”
He cleared his throat. “Let me tell you about my local DEA contact, Alex, and the shit he’s been handed.”
Clearly he’d been thinking about a response and was hungry to boot.
I listened as he told me about a buddy of his, Alex Brandt, laid up in a nearby hospital and fighting for his life because he’d been hit enough times to actually be classified as a piñata.
Brandt had been tracking product while Morgan was looking into a string of drug mule murders when their investigations crossed paths. Already friends, they shared information instead of doing the usual posturing and figured out someone in Brandt’s office was ten kinds of dirty.
Once Brandt turned up tenderized nearly to death, Morgan was pretty sure he knew who it was. At that point he didn’t have jurisdiction or clout, and once his unofficial partner went to the hospital, he was left swinging in the wind, not knowing who he could trust. So Morgan reached out to Kohn, whom he knew from before he transferred, who in turn handed him my name.
That was seven days ago.
After lots of skulking around the office, some easy hacking, and help from Brandt’s best friend, Cord Nolan—a private investigator—to break into Sandell’s house, Morgan and I found the go-to guy. So we started Thursday there, traipsing up six flights of stairs to an office where we hoped we could convince Tommy Hein, money launderer, that turning on Sandell was in his best interests. Halfway up Morgan passed me an earpiece.
“What is this for?”
“What do you think?”
He was a smartass just like Ian—that’s what I thought.
“Stop for a second and I’ll pair it to your phone. We’ll keep a line open between us for in case we get separated, I can guide you back in. Especially since you’ve no idea where you’re going and this part of town is like a damned maze.”
He was right; I knew nothing about San Francisco. I took it and hooked it over my ear. “I feel like a real douche with this on.” I hated being in line for coffee somewhere and thinking people were talking to me, only to turn around and get a look like I was a leper—that sneer of contempt—because they were talking to the person in their ear.
His inelegant snort made me smile. “Yeah, well, you’ll be thanking me if you end up standing in a back alley smelling of piss and cabbage and can’t find your way out.”
There was that.
He got us connected as we closed on the office. Once at the door, I went to knock, but Morgan raised a hand to stop me.
“Better way of doing this, Jones.” And he kicked it down.
“Really?” I said drolly. Why? When had subtlety become not a thing in police work?