Damon: A Level Series Novel; Book 2, page 23
“My informant has advised that the gang member who pulled the trigger causing your wife’s death has gone missing.”
“You know who killed my wife?”
“Yes,” he replies calmly. “And I believe you do too. My mole advised me that a young man known as Jed Black had been undertaking the steps of initiation into the gang. The final step required the murder of someone perceived as innocent. His target was Connie McKinney.”
“And is this informant also a member of this gang?” the commissioner asks.
“Yes, he had been at the meeting where Jed was given his target and told when the job was to take place.”
“Job, you fucking mean murder,” I snarl, and slam a fist onto the table beside me. The coffee cups stacked on the cheap wood vibrate with the impact, then the top one falls onto the floor and smashes. “He fucking murdered my wife.”
“McKinney,” my boss says quietly. “Calm down or I will need to ask you to leave. Carry on, Menzies.” He gestures with his hand, implying Menzies should continue.
“Jed has gone missing, and my mole has reason to believe he was taken by Hunter Devane.” The room falls silent, all eyes in the room focused on the man beside me. “I have reason to believe that McKinney works with Hunter Devane.”
“Pull the fucking other one.” The Commissioner laughs. “You expect me to believe the head of the Irish mafia in London is a police informant. The man we spend hours trying to convict for anything we can pin on him?” My heart which jumped into my throat lowers back into my chest. “Did your informant tell you this?”
“Yes,” Menzies replies confidently. “And I believe him.”
White’s gaze returns to me, and he smirks. “Any truth in this, McKinney? Are you secretly an accomplice to the mafia?”
I chuckle and shrug my shoulders. “I’ve been called worse,” I say then turn to the man trying to end my career with the truth, all the while wondering how the fuck he knows. “I think you need to better vet your informants, Menzies. You’re lucky I don’t take offense easily.”
He takes a step toward me and looks me directly in the eye. “I know you aren’t what you appear to be,” he says quietly. “And I’ll fucking prove it.”
***
The Level
“You’ll need to make a decision soon,” Harrison says. It is only him and I here so far; we’re waiting for the others to arrive before heading to the launderette. “If someone is talking to the police and linking you to Hunter, it’s only a matter of time before someone follows up on the information.”
“I know,” I mutter, pissed that he’s right.
“What stops you from working with Hunter full-time?” he asks honestly. We’ve had this conversation so many times before. How I can’t continue to work both sides of the law. How I need to pick a side. How it won’t be long before my two worlds collide, and the risks to everyone I’m involved with.
“I always wanted to be a cop,” I answer immediately. “Ever since I was a kid, all I wanted to be was one of the boys in blue.”
My mind wanders back to the day I officially became an officer and swore my allegiance to the force along with my fairness, integrity, diligence, and impartiality. How the fuck things change.
Connie had stood with my mother and beamed throughout the whole boring process. She was so proud of me for achieving what I had set out to do, and that night she’d rewarded me well. Although she knew in the end that my career has taken a darker turn, she accepted the men I worked with outside the confines of the police. I was never sure how much she was aware of about my dealings. We rarely discussed my work; home was a place of calm and happiness, not blood, crime, and gore. Perhaps I shielded her from it, or perhaps she never truly wanted to know.
“In all honesty,” I say to Harrison, “if I leave the force that will be another connection to Connie gone, and I am not sure I am ready for that.”
“In what way?” he asks, clearly interested in my reasoning.
“Being Connie’s husband and a police officer has been my identity for two decades—it’s who I am. It was who I wanted to be. I’m no longer her husband, but I can still be the man she was so proud of.”
“Her pride in you will never change, Damon,” he says simply. “She loved you as the man you are, not the job you had. She was proud because you believed in good defeating evil. I don’t believe for one moment she thought you were one hundred percent on the right side of the law. I mean, look at the friends you keep.” He grins at me and I laugh. “If you’ve convinced yourself of that, you’re an idiot.”
“No, she was aware, though she never really wanted to know. She wanted to keep our home life separate, and I respected that, but then maybe if I had been more honest about the danger she might never have died.”
“Bullshit,” he snaps. “Don’t kid yourself. She was a tragic victim and would have been whether she knew or not.”
“Maybe,” I mutter, the familiar guilt consuming my thoughts.
“What about Emma?” he asks. “What does she know about you? Your job? Your life?”
“Not much, though she asks plenty of questions. I was interrogated before coming out tonight thanks to Hunter and his fucking mouth telling her we had a sting.”
Harrison laughs out loud. “She’s a lawyer, what do you expect? She also has experience in this world. There’s no way you will be able to tell her everything is okay and she’ll believe you. That woman will want evidence.”
“She wanted to come with us,” I tell him, and he presses his lips together in an attempt to hide his grin. “She demanded to know what’s going on. She knows everything is connected and that Moreno is involved. Luckily, I managed to convince her that Annie needed her at home more than we did here.”
“And how did you manage to leave without her?”
“I told her the sting was canceled.”
“Did she believe you?”
“I fucking doubt it.”
***
Emma
Damon’s office is locked. Bastard. He gave me some cock and bull story about his sting being canceled tonight, and that he was meeting Harrison at The Level for a few drinks. I don’t believe him. My gut tells me this is his idiotic attempt at protecting me from a situation I’m already up to my neck in. After listening to his justification, I decided to use the opportunity of him not being here to my advantage and try to find out exactly what he and his friends are involved in.
The security team is onsite twenty-four hours a day. They walk the grounds and stand guard at both the front and rear doors of the house. Damon had tried to suggest one man should be stationed inside the house, but I told him no. When he challenged me, I won the argument by sucking his dick. “We couldn’t do this in the middle of the living room if a guard was in the house,” I mumbled around his cock. He’d groaned, grabbed my hair, fucked my mouth, shot his load, then agreed willingly. I had smiled to myself—one point to me.
Now, I am standing outside his office with a set of pliers and two paperclips wondering how the hell I can get inside. I searched everywhere for the key that would unlock the door. I’d hoped it would be in a plant pot or something, but I had no luck in tracking it down. I’ve watched a few YouTube videos on lock picking; I can get it to open with the tools in my hand.
The lawyer in me needs to know what’s going on, the teenager who lost her parents more so. I straighten out the metal and start fiddling with the lock in the doorknob. It bends and twists, but nothing seems to click or open.
After twenty minutes of battling, I stand back and glare at the still-closed door. The chrome is scratched from my attempts. I bristle, knowing he’s not going to be happy when he returns. Deciding that I may as well try again because I am going to be caught anyway due to my piss-poor attempt at lockpicking, I restart my task.
Five minutes later, the latch releases, and I open the door.
The office is meticulously laid out. His desk has nothing but his computer and a photo frame laid face-down on it. To the right-hand side is a wall of shelves filled with files. Each one is labeled with a code, a letter and a number. I walk over and run my fingers across the dark blue box files. The nosey bitch in me wants to start opening them and devouring what’s inside. I have no doubt in these files is a mountain of information on career criminals, but most importantly on Damon McKinney, the man I desire to know everything about.
I move to sit in the high-backed chair behind his desk. I lean back with my feet on the floor and place my hands on the armrests. He’ll be so pissed off when he finds out I’ve been in here, but I’ll need to tell him, because otherwise he’ll blame someone else, someone who may get the harsh side of his wrath. I’m confident I will be able to soothe him using other methods.
Unsure what I am looking for, my eyes roam around the room. There’s nothing obvious that has been recently moved or read. The desk has a drawer along the top; my fingertips crawl below the wood and pull. When it doesn’t move, I sigh, annoyed. Why the fuck would he lock a drawer in a locked office, inside a fucking security-protected home?
Probably to stop nosey little bitches looking at documents they’re not meant to. I giggle to myself—shit, I will be in so much trouble—but I start picking that lock too.
After the lock clicks, I slide the drawer open. Inside, I find a blank notepad, an electronic tablet, and a wooden box about the size of a breakfast cereal box. I remove all three items from their resting place. I stare down at each, wondering which to investigate first and decide to start with the mundane.
The notepad appears blank, but there are indentations on the surface. To my right there’s a lower shelf in the desk with a drinking glass filled with pens and pencils. I pluck a pencil from the container, then flip the first page of the notepad over and start drawing the lead across the back of the page. Once done, I return to the front page and begin tracing the lines to show the words on the paper below. I trace without reading, only wanting to ensure I have all the information before I become engrossed in it. When it is complete, I look.
The names Moreno and Brenton are written then joined with a line, then a third name Jed is connected but crossed out. There’s an address; I pull my phone from my pocket then type in the street, and a small family-run launderette pops up on my screen. There are various dates noted, then the name of a restaurant. Confused, I turn my attention to the box. As I lift the lid, I am taken aback by the handgun and bullets staring back at me. Focused on what I am doing, I don’t hear him approach.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Damon says, his voice deep, strong, and commanding. When I look up, he’s standing in the doorway, a furious expression on his face. My stomach somersaults, then I stand and square my shoulders.
“Looking for the damn truth. If you won’t tell me, I’ll find out my bloody self.”
Chapter twenty-five
St. Katharines and Wapping, London
Damon
The Top Wash Launderette is located underneath a tall apartment block in inner city London. The homes of the residents above climb to at least twenty stories. Each apartment has a balcony, and clean washing hangs over the rails of most. On the pavement beside the shop lies a broken washing line with t-shirts and jeans still pegged to it, obviously a victim of the high winds earlier today.
The area is well shaded due to every street being lined with similar high-rise buildings. Thousands of people must live in this small square footage of London, and the place is surprisingly quiet on a weekday afternoon. Every so often, someone walks past me sitting in my inconspicuous Ford Focus. I’m parked on the street adjoining the launderette; my position allows me a view of the entrance. The others are due any minute, but I decided to come early to survey the area and give myself time to think.
Luke informed Hunter that the collection team he’s part of had been allocated the job of attending the launderette this evening to collect payment—or dispense justice. The family who own the business have maxed both their lending limit and the time allowed to make payment. After a little digging, I was able to ascertain that the owners’ surname is Clarke. They’re an elderly couple in their seventies, and their granddaughter, who is nineteen, lives with them in the apartment above the shop. It’s their dependent’s addiction to cocaine that has pushed them into this debt.
Stephanie Clarke is the only daughter of her parents, both of whom are deceased due to a fatal fall while on vacation in Spain. It’s thought an argument broke out between the couple near a cliff edge; after an altercation, both fell over into the ocean. The impact on the rocks below was believed to kill them instantly. Their death meant Stephanie moved to live with her grandparents at the age of sixteen.
Mr. and Mrs. Clarke have had never-ending trouble since Stephanie came to live with them. Various reports from social workers concluded that although her grandparents were providing safe accommodations, Stephanie’s behavior became gradually worse over the past three years. Her acting out started with skipping school and minor shoplifting offenses, but more recently she has been arrested for possession of cocaine for personal use. She’s currently on bail awaiting trial. Her list of convictions includes theft of cash from the launderette. My assumption would be that this was to pay for her drug habit.
The launderette business itself is in high levels of debt to both the HMRC for unpaid taxes and to their suppliers. Whatever happens today, there’s no doubt that this business is going under. The added pressure from Moreno to pay makes me suspect he’s aware of the situation; according to Luke, he plans to visit today along with the collection team. He wants to leave no doubt in his debtors’ minds that their time to pay is up. My gut tells me that he’ll take the opportunity to make an example of this family, to show his other clients what can happen when payments aren’t made.
Roger Brenton frustratingly manages to keep his hands clean. Our intelligence suggests he could be at the top of the money laundering chain, but we have no concrete evidence to prove it. He and Moreno have been difficult to connect beyond the use of an office Brenton’s company owns to transfer funds once each week.
This task has continued on schedule. Each Friday, Moreno attends the remote working office and transfers the payment to Bermuda. Brenton's company rents him the office space. This was the sole connection up to now, until Russell of all people came through with new information earlier today.
***
My phone rang this morning at six o’clock. I’d extracted myself from being wrapped around Emma to find it on my bedside table. The loud ringtone echoed around the room, but Emma merely stuck her fingers in her ears and screwed her eyes closed tighter. I scrambled from the bed and answered the call.
“I have information,” Russell said bluntly before I could speak.
“Good morning to you too,” I replied, my tone dry.
“Brenton is connected to Moreno’s new restaurant. He’s invested.”
“What? Are you serious? I can’t imagine he would be as transparent,” I countered, disbelieving.
“We share accountants, would you believe,” he continued, “and I had a meeting with him last night. It is amazing how chatty someone can become once you ply them with whiskey and women. He was brimming with excitement about Moreno’s new eatery—let’s just say he likes food as much as he likes numbers.”
“That’s fortunate. And when is this new venture due to open?” I asked.
“January,” he replied.
“Any idea why it’s taking so long to open?”
“The place is being fully refurbished. From what the accountant said, they are spending a small fortune on the place. The chef coming to run the kitchen has been poached from a five-star resort in Dubai. Moreno is throwing money around, and we both know it won’t be his. Now we know exactly who is holding the purse strings.”
“So, they open in January? What date?” I say, trying to get him focused back on what he knows, not his opinions.
“It’s December really,” he says, “New Year’s Eve. A massive opening party is being planned. Everyone of importance to Brenton in London will be invited. And if I get my way, I’d love to help them bring in 2023 with a bang. It will be something to look forward to.”
“It’s good to have something that connects them,” I say, almost to myself. I’m relieved that we potentially have a link on paper between Moreno and Brenton.
“That it is, McKinney. And now we have a connection to the chain of command of who killed Connie. Every single one of them will pay. We will take the bastards out one by one.”
***
Connor opening the passenger door of my car brings me back to my present situation, sitting outside the launderette. He climbs into the seat beside me and slams the door closed.
“Anything happening?” he asks.
“Nothing, just a few people loading laundry. Where is everyone?”
“Russell, Hunter, and Greyson are at the gym. They’ll be here in twenty minutes. Harrison has been delayed at the office with a client; I doubt he’ll be here.” Connor chuckles under his breath. “He is very upset at missing his first stakeout.”
“Not exactly a stakeout,” I say. “But I suppose for a guy used to wearing a five thousand dollar suit every day and talking in riddles, this is exciting. Sitting in a back street in London watching people wash their underwear.”
“I think Harrison fancies himself as the next Liam Neeson. You know, the man that fights crime. Steals from the rich to give to the poor and all that shit.”
“Is that not Robin Hood?” I ask, and he shrugs.
“Who cares, I just want to get home to a beer tonight. Hunter is very excited about the possibility of hand-to-hand combat.” I roll my eyes at him. “Russell too. Greyson, well, he’ll do as he’s told.”
“Greyson will mop up Hunter’s mess you mean?”
