Cover Up (2 page)

Slumping back in his chair, Ivan stared at Martelli. This was so completely against regulations it wasn’t even funny. If this went south, Ivan could lose his job. But police work wasn’t always clean and proper, no matter how much they might wish it so. And if he lost his job over this, well, this wasn’t the first time he’d considered moving into another line of work. He’d wanted to be a cop to fix things, make things better, but he’d never realized he’d have to give up his personal life.

“What’s the job?”

“We got word that one of the suspected up-and-comers in Razhin’s organization has advertised for a roommate. I want you to get in there and see: one, if the connection is real; and two, if you can find some inside information on Razhin. If we can’t take him down, we’re going to have more incidents like today.”

As head of the Russian mafia in Toronto, Viktor Razhin was ultimately responsible for any drug or human trafficking the Russians had a hand in.

Martelli tapped a finger on his desk. “The information I have is that this new kid owns two properties and has spent the past few months delving into the marijuana market.”

“Marijuana? That’s a little small-time for Razhin, isn’t it?”

“From what I can tell, the kid’s an independent operator, and pot’s less dangerous and requires less capital to get started than major coke, crack, or meth operations.”

“And now he’s grown big enough for Razhin to take an interest? Savvy little entrepreneur. But why would a guy like that need or
want
a roommate?”

Rolling his eyes, Martelli handed over a sheet of paper. “No idea. Look into that if you get a chance, but the Razhin connection is your primary concern. Here’s the vitals. Make sure you shred it before you leave the office.”

“Not even a file?” Ivan frowned.

“Can’t afford one. I’m afraid even entering this into the system will alert the mole.”

Ivan scanned the sheet, but aside from a couple names, addresses, and contact numbers there was little for him to form an opinion. Parker Wakefield. Not a picture, not a driver’s license, not a school transcript, not even a credit report. Not a damned thing except for a notation that he attended the University of Toronto, was twenty-two, and had a boyfriend named Neil Travers. Ivan tried to keep the grimace off his face. Presumably Martelli trusted him, but the bullshit about being the best detective was no more than that. Martelli had chosen him for this operation because he was the only one on the team who was openly gay. Ivan knew of one other, and suspected a couple more, but no way was Martelli putting one of the homophobic asswipes on this.

“I’m a little old to be a college kid, or to need a roommate. How did you want me to play this?”

“Divorced man whose wife took him to the cleaners. I’m hoping he’ll have some sympathy for you, but either way, the housing coordinator at the university owes me a favor. You’ll be presented as the most viable candidate.”

“Wife?” Great. Back in the closet for yet another fucking undercover mission. “Does that mean I’ve got Trish as backup?” His partner would make the ultimate scorned wife. Most of the department thought Trish was a right royal bitch, but Ivan enjoyed her outspokenness, her willingness to call bullshit, and her quick wit. They got along great.

Martelli shook his head, and a tight band squeezed at his heart. If Trish was dirty, Ivan would know, dammit.

“If I don’t have Trish as backup, why can’t I go in as a gay man who just broke up with someone?” Nothing like the damned truth to sell an undercover story.

Martelli snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. That doesn’t have the same devastation as a divorce. We want him to be sympathetic and off guard.”

If Ivan hadn’t been sitting down, he would have fallen. His breath fled as though he’d been kicked in the gut. He’d lived with Colin longer than most departmental marriages lasted. Yet somehow, his relationship was less valid? Sure, he and Colin had never gotten married. Ivan wasn’t sure how that would work for a gay cop, but Colin had never pushed, and Ivan had been content with the state of their relationship. Until he came home early one day last fall and caught Colin fucking someone else in their bed. How was his pain, his sense of betrayal, not as valid?

Why was being gay always an uphill battle? This whole job wore him down, today more than most. Especially since Martelli’s urgency meant it was unlikely he’d be able to stop by the hospital and find out how Kurt was… if he was even going to live.

“So, I guess you don’t need me to seduce him?” Ivan tried to suppress the sour twist to his sarcasm but didn’t entirely succeed, given the puzzled look Martelli directed at him.

“No! I mean, no. Even if that pillow talk thing worked between two guys, he’s way too young for you.”

Martelli’s emphatic words and fierce blush had Ivan raising his brows. He’d been half joking, but he wasn’t sure why his boss was against a honey trap. If it weren’t for the fact thirty-four was practically dead by most gay men’s standards, he might be offended Martelli thought he didn’t have what it took to pull a twenty-two-year-old. Hell, the way he felt right now, he wasn’t sure he could pull a half-blind
ninety
-two year old.

He’d gone a little hog wild the past couple of months, but his recent practice with one-night stands didn’t provide the same skills required for a successful honey trap. To be fair, most operations didn’t require any of them to sleep with someone for the job. Too easy to lose perspective.

“Whatever. What about the SIU investigation? How am I going to participate? What about my gun?”

Martelli pulled out a cheap, generic cell phone and slid it across the desk. “Use this. I’ll call you from another burner phone and keep you apprised of your appointments. It’s not like anyone’s expecting you to hang around the house all day.”

Appointments. Had he lost his job along with his hypothetical wife? Or was he seriously going to have to hang out somewhere all day, pretending to fucking work? This op got shittier by the minute, but he wasn’t exactly anxious to get back to his half-empty apartment.

“What about a car?” If he was going in undercover, he couldn’t take his own car. It was one of the few indulgences he had, and not only was he not inclined to get it in the line of fire, he wouldn’t put it past Razhin’s people to discover his real identity through his car.

Martelli shook his head. “No car.”

No, of course not. Why the fuck would he get to have a car? The whole op was unsanctioned. The dread and unease, which had begun churning in his stomach as soon as he realized his bullet had taken down that kid, kicked into high gear. What the hell was he doing this for? Risking his job—the only thing he had left—for a half-assed undercover operation and a boss who didn’t think his relationships were worthy of regret or emotional trauma when they ended.

“Sir, I….”

“You have to.” Martelli shot him a pleading look. “I don’t have anyone else I can trust.”

Holy hell. How had he forgotten about the mole? His discomfort and possible reprimand were nothing compared to protecting his fellow officers from a traitor. Kurt might be a new friend, but he deserved nothing less than Ivan’s full attention to this case. Not when the departmental leak might be the reason Kurt had gotten gunned down.

“Fine.” He couldn’t even ask to be kept informed about Kurt’s status. Too much intersection with his real life would only be dangerous for everyone involved, and he didn’t want anyone to trace numbers on his burner phone. Then again, if Kurt didn’t make it, all Ivan would have to do is open a newspaper. “I’ll get you your report before I leave, Sarge. Anything else I need?”

A key and a piece of paper with an address and a phone number on it joined the nondescript cell phone. “Liz arranged everything; you can move in tomorrow.”

“Liz? Who is Liz?”

“The housing coordinator at the university. She’s how I found out about the opening.” Martelli’s gaze dropped to his desk, focused, apparently, on the stapler he hadn’t stopped fiddling with over the past few minutes. Jesus. Was this Liz person his new girlfriend? For a man depending on his wife’s money and connections to launch a political career, he was surprisingly incapable of keeping his pants zipped.

“Whatever. I’ve got a report to write.” Ivan tossed the information sheet on the desk, scooped up his meager tools, and blew out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

The other officers and detectives suddenly looked a whole lot more sinister after his meeting. Home had ceased being a refuge after Colin betrayed him, and now he’d lost the comfort of work. He was too old and beat down for this shit.

I
VAN
quietly unlocked the door and stepped inside the house. This mission had come together fast and easy. Too easy. Ivan was partly suspicious and partly impressed. Maybe that’s what happened when stings didn’t need to have forms signed in triplicate and notarized by God himself. Just yesterday, he’d been sitting in Martelli’s office, agreeing to his unorthodox undercover operation, and today, he was a divorced straight man. Despite the lack of departmental support, he was able to use a fake ID from his last undercover bust, so he didn’t have to go in with his own ID with his real address on it.

Shaking his head, he closed the door behind him. Parker had, seemingly out of the blue, advertised for a roommate. Was it good luck? Or was it a sign this op was going down the shitter, with Ivan at the vortex? His years as a detective had taught Ivan that easy was a trick. A dangerous trompe l’oeil. But Martelli was less superstitious. Or just more sanguine when
Ivan’s
safety was on the line. Besides, maybe this was what happened with off-the-books ops.

“Hello?” Ivan called out. He’d yet to meet Parker, the owner of the house. The housing coordinator at the university had facilitated the entire transaction. He’d called her while filling out his report, and she confirmed she’d tell Parker he was moving in immediately. Presumably, Ivan would meet Parker’s boyfriend, but he didn’t want to meet them together. He needed to establish a rapport with his erstwhile roommate because Martelli suspected Parker had a soft spot for the underdog that Ivan intended to play up.

“Hello?” Ivan called again, but he heard nothing. The housing coordinator had assured him moving in on short notice wasn’t a problem, confirmed by the key his boss gave him yesterday, but Ivan expected a welcoming of some sort. One more indication Parker wasn’t a decent human being. As if the drug dealing wasn’t enough to convince him. Maybe the boyfriend could be saved from Parker’s dangerous aspirations.

Ivan glanced quickly into the living room and kitchen. Everything was neat and tidy, not even a dish in the sink. Somewhat unexpected, but even drug dealers might have standards for cleanliness. Ostensibly, Parker was going to university, but this didn’t look like any frat house he’d ever seen. Despite the lack of transcripts, Martelli believed Parker wasn’t taking a full course load, and he had no visible means of income. The lack of income might explain the need for a roommate, but it didn’t explain how Parker owned a house, nor why an up-and-comer in Razhin’s organization would need or want a roommate during the summer semester. Beyond finding out who Parker’s associates were, Ivan wanted to discover the answer to that question. Something wasn’t right here, and Ivan wanted to know what it was before he was staring down the barrel of a gun.

The row house, around a hundred years old, was tiny. A small kitchen, dining room, and living room-turned-media room made up the first floor, along with a small bathroom, which Ivan hadn’t expected. Most houses like this only had a single bathroom upstairs with the bedrooms. The first floor facilities weren’t original, and there was an incredible amount of wood trim—likely original—painted over in white in some sort of decorating travesty. A door led to the basement, but Ivan would have plenty of time to explore down there.

“Hello?” Ivan walked up the narrow staircase, the carpet doing nothing to muffle the creaking treads. This would have been a shit house to live in as a teen who wanted to sneak in after curfew. No one replied.

At the top of the stairs a small landing, too square to be considered a hallway, led to three rooms and another bathroom.

One of the bedrooms on the left had a futon, a couple of bookshelves, and a desk with a computer. Next, Ivan found a plain, sterile bedroom, devoid of any character. Presumably his. He’d been assured he was the only roommate, but this could be a guest room, and he could be stuck in the basement. Nevertheless, he dumped his duffle bag beside the bed and gave the functional and surprisingly clean bathroom a cursory peek before standing in front of the only closed door. When no one responded to his light knock, Ivan opened the door and stuck his head into the master bedroom.

The bed was huge. E-fucking-normous. One of those California king-size beds. Or some sort of optical illusion heightened by the narrowness of the room? Either way, he’d never known a college kid to own a king-size bed. Two narrow bedside tables flanked the barge of a bed, and they had to have been greased to slide into the space between mattress and wall.

Then there was the mess. Without the time to make any kind of search, all he could do was observe. After a moment, the jumble sorted itself into merely… stuff. Lots and lots of stuff. Lush pillows and richly colored drapes accented the room, but cardboard boxes draped with T-shirts and jeans mingled with an extremely feminine vanity table and an exotic looking Asian folding screen. The headboard looked like wrought iron but was an IKEA catalogue standard. It didn’t match the wardrobe and dresser, both with a distinct Asian flair that matched the folding screen. The room didn’t scream drug-dealing university student, that was for fucking sure. Ivan didn’t have a clue what it all meant, aside from the fact that it was going to be a bitch to search Parker’s haven. God only knew what resided in the closet, but Ivan would have to find out eventually.

Ivan retreated and silently shut the door. He’d have to make time to thoroughly inspect Parker’s bedroom, but later. He had no idea when his roommate might return, and getting caught snooping his first hour in the house would not spell mission success.