indicator lit up on his console.
“Hart,” he said.
“Mr. Hart,” the voice on the other end said. “My name is Ruben Setineri. I’m calling on behalf of a mutual acquaintance with info rmation regarding the itinerary of a subject that may be of interest to you.”
The man’s name alone was enough to garner Dylan’s undivided attention. He glanced at Hawkins, who looked equally intrigued. Ruben Setineri was a prominent, if somewhat notorious, New York attorney who represented Francis Tiburon, an East Coast mob figure.
What in the hell, Dylan wondered, would Frankie T’s lawyer be doing calling this office on a secure line? The look on Hawkins’s face said he was wondering the same damn thing.
“I’m listening,” he said.
“I have been instructed to tell you that a Tony Royce, traveling with five companions, has boarded Frontier Airlines Flight one-twenty-one from Las Vegas to Denver,” Setineri said. “The flight is scheduled to arrive an hour from now.”
“I understand,” Dylan said. “Anything else?”
“No,” Setineri said. “Have a pleasant evening, Mr. Hart.”
The indicator light winked out.
Dylan knew Skeeter had recorded the call, but he went ahead and jotted the info rmation down on a notepad anyway.
“Talk to me,” he said to Hawkins, tossing the pen aside when he was finished.
“Frankie T’s got it in for Royce,” his second in command said. “That’s obvious. There’s no other reason to give him up to us. So now we know Royce is trying to elbow his way in on Sin City’s drug trade, and with his usual charm, pissing people off left and right.”
“Why is he coming to Denver?”
“Because while he’s been pissing off Frankie T, Red Dog has been pissing him off, and somehow, somewhere, someway while she was in El Salvador, she let him know where to find her. Knowing Gillian, it was probably by engraved invitation with a self-addressed and pre-stamped RSVP card. I’ll put in another call to Smith, see if I can get through to him this time and find out what in the hell has been going on in San Luis these last four days.”
“What about the FBI encryption?”
Hawkins gave him a resigned grin. “Business as usual, boss. You know it, and I know it. FBI surveillance picked Royce up in Vegas, but a hundred bucks says they don’t have a warrant for him, and not enough balls to get one. The CIA has declared him strictly hands off. He’s got too many ‘insurance’ files on too many of the people he worked with, and too many of them are too close to retirement to take a stand. So the FBI goes to the mob and gets Frankie T to give him up to us. We get the dirty work, and all the Feds get to sleep at night. Like I said, business as usual.”
Yeah, that’s exactly the way Dylan had figured it, too. Business as usual—totally convoluted.
“You better call Grant,” Hawkins said.
“Yeah. And you call Smith.”
“Roger that,” Hawkins agreed. “And we’re going to need—”
“Yeah,” Dylan interrupted and turned in his chair to look out his office door. “Skeeter, get me Lieutenant Bradley.”
“Check line two,” she answered. “I’ve already got her on.”
That was Steele Street, a well-oiled machine.
Dylan hit two. “Loretta.”
“Mr. Hart,” came a cool, competent female voice on the other end.
“I need a favor.”
“Of course you do.” She didn’t sound any too happy about it, but that was just Loretta, his favorite lieutenant at the Denver Police Department. He’d been sixteen the first time she’d saved his ass, a skill she’d had plenty of opportunity to hone over the years on all the chop-shop boys.
“Flight one-twenty-one from Las Vegas is arriving at Denver International in an hour,” he said. “I need surveillance on a group of passengers.”
“Do you have names?”
“One. Remember Tony Royce?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” she said dryly. “As a matter of fact”—he heard papers being shuffled—“I received a
“Hart,” he said.
“Mr. Hart,” the voice on the other end said. “My name is Ruben Setineri. I’m calling on behalf of a mutual acquaintance with info rmation regarding the itinerary of a subject that may be of interest to you.”
The man’s name alone was enough to garner Dylan’s undivided attention. He glanced at Hawkins, who looked equally intrigued. Ruben Setineri was a prominent, if somewhat notorious, New York attorney who represented Francis Tiburon, an East Coast mob figure.
What in the hell, Dylan wondered, would Frankie T’s lawyer be doing calling this office on a secure line? The look on Hawkins’s face said he was wondering the same damn thing.
“I’m listening,” he said.
“I have been instructed to tell you that a Tony Royce, traveling with five companions, has boarded Frontier Airlines Flight one-twenty-one from Las Vegas to Denver,” Setineri said. “The flight is scheduled to arrive an hour from now.”
“I understand,” Dylan said. “Anything else?”
“No,” Setineri said. “Have a pleasant evening, Mr. Hart.”
The indicator light winked out.
Dylan knew Skeeter had recorded the call, but he went ahead and jotted the info rmation down on a notepad anyway.
“Talk to me,” he said to Hawkins, tossing the pen aside when he was finished.
“Frankie T’s got it in for Royce,” his second in command said. “That’s obvious. There’s no other reason to give him up to us. So now we know Royce is trying to elbow his way in on Sin City’s drug trade, and with his usual charm, pissing people off left and right.”
“Why is he coming to Denver?”
“Because while he’s been pissing off Frankie T, Red Dog has been pissing him off, and somehow, somewhere, someway while she was in El Salvador, she let him know where to find her. Knowing Gillian, it was probably by engraved invitation with a self-addressed and pre-stamped RSVP card. I’ll put in another call to Smith, see if I can get through to him this time and find out what in the hell has been going on in San Luis these last four days.”
“What about the FBI encryption?”
Hawkins gave him a resigned grin. “Business as usual, boss. You know it, and I know it. FBI surveillance picked Royce up in Vegas, but a hundred bucks says they don’t have a warrant for him, and not enough balls to get one. The CIA has declared him strictly hands off. He’s got too many ‘insurance’ files on too many of the people he worked with, and too many of them are too close to retirement to take a stand. So the FBI goes to the mob and gets Frankie T to give him up to us. We get the dirty work, and all the Feds get to sleep at night. Like I said, business as usual.”
Yeah, that’s exactly the way Dylan had figured it, too. Business as usual—totally convoluted.
“You better call Grant,” Hawkins said.
“Yeah. And you call Smith.”
“Roger that,” Hawkins agreed. “And we’re going to need—”
“Yeah,” Dylan interrupted and turned in his chair to look out his office door. “Skeeter, get me Lieutenant Bradley.”
“Check line two,” she answered. “I’ve already got her on.”
That was Steele Street, a well-oiled machine.
Dylan hit two. “Loretta.”
“Mr. Hart,” came a cool, competent female voice on the other end.
“I need a favor.”
“Of course you do.” She didn’t sound any too happy about it, but that was just Loretta, his favorite lieutenant at the Denver Police Department. He’d been sixteen the first time she’d saved his ass, a skill she’d had plenty of opportunity to hone over the years on all the chop-shop boys.
“Flight one-twenty-one from Las Vegas is arriving at Denver International in an hour,” he said. “I need surveillance on a group of passengers.”
“Do you have names?”
“One. Remember Tony Royce?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” she said dryly. “As a matter of fact”—he heard papers being shuffled—“I received a
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