Page 54 of The Hidden Heir

“Staged robbery?” Victor asks Dempsey.

“Looks like it,” Officer Doyle chimes in, as he walks over and turns the body cam off. “But the driver… It’s overkill, if you ask me.”

I follow his gaze to the front seat of the truck. It looks gruesome enough from far away that I don’t want to get any closer. I’ve seen worse. In fact, I’ve seen a lot worse in my line of business. It doesn’t mean I’ve come to accept or enjoy the view in any way. On the contrary, all this violence makes my stomach churn, making Valentina’s idea of a cleaner future sound less crazy than it used to, especially if I intend to raise Michael as my own.

“Any suspects?” I ask Doyle.

He scratches the back of his head and heaves a tired, heavy sigh. “Honestly, I don’t know. Are you having any issues with some of the newer up-and-comers?”

“Like whom?”

“Maybe the Dominican players?” Doyle asks.

Dempsey shakes his head. “The Dominicans prefer knives and machetes. And they never venture out to these parts. They know better than to risk crossing streams with the Irish.”

“Granted, we’ve got our deals in place with the Irish,” Victor mutters, “which is why we’re able to go through Canaryville without raising eyebrows.”

“We were able,” I correct him. “Clearly, that’s not the case anymore.”

The street is deserted. This attack was planned to be as discreet as possible by the looks of it.

“What’s the estimated loss?” I ask Victor in a low voice.

“About $2.4 million in street value,” he mutters.

It could be worse, but it’s not chump change either. I curse under my breath.

Dempsey watches us with curiosity. “We’re dusting for fingerprints and all that jazz. Doyle’s gonna go over any CCTV footage in a three-mile radius. Maybe we can connect the movements, or maybe we’ll at least see if anybody was following the truck.”

“Some canvassing might yield something, as well,” I suggest. “Most of these buildings may look abandoned, but some people still live in them.”

“Yeah, homeless guys mostly. They don’t want to deal with us, though. There could be dealers in the area, too, but we’ll have the same issue. The badge and the denizens of Canaryville’s darker streets don’t really mix.”

I check my watch. “Considering that I still have an hour before I’m due for a meeting, what do you say we hit the streets, Victor? Maybe they’ll talk to us.”

“Just like old times, eh?” Victor replies with a sad smile.

Old times. When I was barely twenty years old and eager to prove myself, my father would send me out in the streets with Victor and the rest of the Petrucci grunts to secure transports, chase down debtors, put the fear of God in our rivals, and generally stir things up. It was raw, and it was violent, but it made me feel alive and useful.

“It’s where we all started,” I say, then give Dempsey and Doyle a polite nod. “Thank you, Officers. We’ll let you know if we find anything.”

Dempsey chuckles dryly. “Yeah, right. Just stay clear of the detectives.”

“We’ll be out before they get there,” Victor assures him. “Please, give your wife, Lindsay, my best regards. I hope your daughter is settling in nicely at that academy.”

Dempsey replies with a slight nod and a tight smile.

It’s the game crooked cops have to play while working for us. They get financial perks and favors that open doors that would otherwise be closed to them. In return, they keep us apprised of what’s going on and give us a heads-up whenever law enforcement tries to stick their noses into one of our businesses in the city.

It’s a simple but efficient deal.

We leave the patrol officers to do the rest of their jobs. Victor and I walk along the sidewalk, heading south, carefully checking the buildings along the way.

“Do you think we’ll find anyone?” he asks me in a low voice.

“The streets have eyes. We just need to pay attention,” I say, my gaze wandering over to a residential building wedged between two abandoned stores—one is a butcher shop and the other is a once-thriving bodega. Some of the old signs are left in the grimy windows, but the front doors have long since been boarded up with plywood.

“Look up,” I tell Victor.