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gonerunningaway) wrote2012-08-30 04:58 am
gonerunningaway) wrote2012-08-30 04:58 am
Tide-Water Dogs, Chapter Seventeen
Title: Tide-Water Dogs, Chapter Seventeen
Fandom: The Departed
Rating: NC-17
Word Count (this chapter): 1,566
Warnings this chapter (highlight to view): Mentions of murder and drug use, discussion of child prostitution.
Chapter Seventeen
“Hey, Dignam.”
Sean turns to see Figueroa, just outside the door of the break room. “Yeah?”
“Congratulations on Middlebrook and Williams. I heard sentencing’s today.”
“Yeah, the ADA hopes they’ll get life, between the murder and the drugs.”
“Must have been rough, witnessing all that and not being able to do anything to stop it.” Figueroa’s tone is almost sympathetic, not mocking or harsh.
Sean shrugs. “All kinds of shit happened. That was probably the worst.” He turns back to pouring his coffee.
“I couldn’t have handled being undercover, that pressure. Anyway, congratulations.”
“Thanks.” When Sean turns back, Figueroa’s gone, and Sean has no idea what the fuck just happened.
He stops in Queenan’s office and asks, “What’s on the schedule today?”
“We’re putting out a search on Lori Acardi,” Queenan answers. “We can’t do Hardison. If she’s alive, she won’t be if Nicastro gets wind of it, but we might be able to find out if Acardi is alive.”
Sean nods and sets his coffee down on the small desk. “What do you need me to do?”
“I’m going to write up a description of her. You’re going to get it faxed out to all departments—not precincts, the departments can distribute on their own—and morgues in Massachusetts.”
Sean groans inwardly. “So I’m hunting down a list of numbers.”
“That’s right.”
Since that’s apparently the entirety of his job for the day, Sean picks his coffee back up and leaves Queenan’s office to find a secretary who might have what he needs.
When Queenan has it printed up in a large sans-serif font, Sean reads it over. There’s a picture of Hardison on top, followed by text:
Queenan’s number is underneath, and Sean has to appreciate the efficiency of it. If she turns up, she’ll hopefully be turned over to them.
Queenan has to be getting desperate if he’s putting her face out there. Sean can’t imagine how he feels, one of his charges just vanishing like this. Sean would be pissed and, all right, worried as all hell.
He spends two hours faxing the damn thing to every police and sheriff’s department he has information for. Finally, when he’s done, he goes back to Queenan’s office and says, “They’re out. Efficient statement.”
“I just hope she turns up,” Queenan grumbles. “I have a meeting with a couple of other captains soon, but Silverman called and needs someone to meet with him. You’re up.”
Sean bites back his immediate response and instead says, “You haven’t sent me out alone before.”
“Is there a problem with that?” Queenan asks, glancing up. “You know what you’re doing. Just don’t antagonize him unless you have to and you’ll be fine.”
Sean smirks. “You know me, Captain. I can’t promise anything of the sort.”
“You’re standing in for me, Sean. Don’t make me look bad.”
That one hits him where it hurts. “I won’t. When and where?”
“At the Hatch Shell at one-thirty.”
Sean nods. Open area, but it’s not like pornographers are going to be following Silverman around. “Got it. I’ll be there.”
And he is, a little early so he can scope out the area. He only sees a few people, just families, and finds a tree to wait by.
Silverman’s hands twitch when he finds Sean. He keeps adjusting his glasses, pulling at the hem of his t-shirt, and Sean watches all that when he asks, “What’s going on, Silverman?”
“I got a job keeping records and sometimes working a camera for Prowling Kittens.” Silverman rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t have evidence yet, I’m too new, but three of the girls look no older than sixteen, and one has to be fourteen.”
Sean’s hands tighten. He can’t help imagining Ursula as one of those girls. She’s eleven now, almost the age of the younger girl if Silverman is right. Almost worse, he’s imagining Jamie in ten years. “Try not to work the camera,” Sean directs, “but talk to the girls, get an idea of their ages, and when you can, look at the records and see if they’re forged.”
Silverman nods. “I know. The temptation to arrest them all outright…”
“I know,” Sean says, gently for him. “Poor girls, right? Any boys who look under eighteen?”
“They don’t cater to that crowd,” Silverman says, almost bitterly. “I asked, and Edie Hicks—she hired me—laughed and asked if I’m ‘into that’, if I’m a fag.”
Sean’s eyes narrow. “There’s a woman involved?” He shouldn’t be surprised. At least one prostitution ring they know is run by a madam, but they don’t think that Marie Vipond has any underage girls. This, though…
“She’s high up.” Silverman scrubs one hand over the back of the other. “I don’t know exactly how high. It’s hard to figure it out—Prowling Kittens is privately owned. I think she’s sleeping with Lester Wade, the owner.”
Lester. There’s a name that almost screams ‘predator’. “Got anything else?”
Silverman shakes his head. “Sorry. I’m working on it. I should get into the files soon, though. I’ll call when I do.”
“Stay safe. They might be protective of their business.”
“Of course they are. They asked if I’m a cop, which was my first red flag.”
Sean blows out a breath. “You didn’t think to fucking mention that?”
“I just did,” Silverman says flatly, “and it hints at girls being underage without guaranteeing they are. It’s not evidence.”
He has something of a point. “Keep your eyes open, do your best to keep these girls safe, and call me or Captain Queenan as soon as you have a damn thing, got it, Silverman?”
“I know,” Silverman says, almost testily. “I may not have been undercover before, but I’ve been a detective for three years. I know what I’m doing.”
“You better. Don’t fuck this up, Silverman. Stay off their sets as much as you can, stick to the records, get back to us. Now walk away first, and I’ll wait a few minutes.”
Silverman nods jerkily and strolls off. He looks just as nervous as usual. Sean figures it’s as close to normal as he gets. He jots himself notes to give to Queenan when he gets back to the department and Queenan’s out of his meeting, and then waits before he leaves in the opposite direction.
Queenan returns to his office a few minutes after Sean’s leaned up against the door to wait. He follows Queenan in and shuts the thing behind him. “Silverman’s in with Prowling Kittens.”
“Prowling Kittens,” Queenan repeats. “What a name.”
“He says some of the girls look seriously underage—one can’t be over fourteen.” He meets Queenan’s eyes. “Have to tell you, Captain, it’s taking serious effort not to bust them right now.”
“I know, Sean.”
“He’s in charge of records,” he continues, “so he should be able to get us something soon. If those girls are that young, I want them out of there as soon as it can happen.”
“We’ll get the warrant as soon as he gets us evidence,” Queenan says quietly.
“It’s basically child prostitution,” Sean says, “and that carries a pretty big penalty.”
“Child pornography is worse, and worse the younger the child is. If we can get the studio’s distribution list when we take them down, it’s a big bust.” Queenan shrugs. “We’ll keep meeting with Silverman and take them out as soon as we can.”
“I need to write this up in his file.”
“Do that,” Queenan agrees. “Is there anything else?”
“How was your meeting?”
“It was fine.” His tone forbids further questions, and Sean briefly considers asking anyway. Instead, he holds up his notepad.
“If you need me.”
“I know. You did well, Sean.”
Sean nods and turns to head for his office. This isn’t nearly what he wants to be doing on this case, but there’s nothing else he can do.
He fucking hates his job sometimes.
He hates it much, much less the later that day, though. He leaves the office to head to court and slips into the back, standing with his arms crossed while Judge Goldstein goes through the charges and convictions again. Then he looks at the defense table, at Middlebrook and Williams.
“You killed a man because you claimed, after never discussing it before, that he was moving in on your so-called territory. The facts of the murder are indisputable. So are the facts of your drug-dealing and major movements of cocaine, among other illicit substances. Because of the grievous nature of your crimes, I hereby sentence you to fifty years in prison for the murder and twenty for each count of selling drugs, to run consecutively, to be served at a location determined by the Department of Corrections. You will be eligible for parole after eighty years.” He slams his gavel and stands; so does the rest of the court.
Sean manages not to do more than smile a little as he turns to leave. It’s not a perfect sentence, but they’ll never live to be eligible for parole, and that’s something. And he’s pretty sure that, even if they somehow do, they won’t get it.
Fandom: The Departed
Rating: NC-17
Word Count (this chapter): 1,566
Warnings this chapter (highlight to view): Mentions of murder and drug use, discussion of child prostitution.
“Hey, Dignam.”
Sean turns to see Figueroa, just outside the door of the break room. “Yeah?”
“Congratulations on Middlebrook and Williams. I heard sentencing’s today.”
“Yeah, the ADA hopes they’ll get life, between the murder and the drugs.”
“Must have been rough, witnessing all that and not being able to do anything to stop it.” Figueroa’s tone is almost sympathetic, not mocking or harsh.
Sean shrugs. “All kinds of shit happened. That was probably the worst.” He turns back to pouring his coffee.
“I couldn’t have handled being undercover, that pressure. Anyway, congratulations.”
“Thanks.” When Sean turns back, Figueroa’s gone, and Sean has no idea what the fuck just happened.
He stops in Queenan’s office and asks, “What’s on the schedule today?”
“We’re putting out a search on Lori Acardi,” Queenan answers. “We can’t do Hardison. If she’s alive, she won’t be if Nicastro gets wind of it, but we might be able to find out if Acardi is alive.”
Sean nods and sets his coffee down on the small desk. “What do you need me to do?”
“I’m going to write up a description of her. You’re going to get it faxed out to all departments—not precincts, the departments can distribute on their own—and morgues in Massachusetts.”
Sean groans inwardly. “So I’m hunting down a list of numbers.”
“That’s right.”
Since that’s apparently the entirety of his job for the day, Sean picks his coffee back up and leaves Queenan’s office to find a secretary who might have what he needs.
When Queenan has it printed up in a large sans-serif font, Sean reads it over. There’s a picture of Hardison on top, followed by text:
WANTED: LORI ACARDI ON SUSPICION OF DRUG-RUNNING
FIVE FEET SIX AND A HALF INCHES TALL, DARK BROWN HAIR, LIGHT BROWN EYES, SLIM BUILD
LAST KNOWN LOCATION: CHICOPEE, MA
CONTACT CAPTAIN CHARLES QUEENAN, MASSACHUSETTS STATE POLICE, IF LOCATED
Queenan’s number is underneath, and Sean has to appreciate the efficiency of it. If she turns up, she’ll hopefully be turned over to them.
Queenan has to be getting desperate if he’s putting her face out there. Sean can’t imagine how he feels, one of his charges just vanishing like this. Sean would be pissed and, all right, worried as all hell.
He spends two hours faxing the damn thing to every police and sheriff’s department he has information for. Finally, when he’s done, he goes back to Queenan’s office and says, “They’re out. Efficient statement.”
“I just hope she turns up,” Queenan grumbles. “I have a meeting with a couple of other captains soon, but Silverman called and needs someone to meet with him. You’re up.”
Sean bites back his immediate response and instead says, “You haven’t sent me out alone before.”
“Is there a problem with that?” Queenan asks, glancing up. “You know what you’re doing. Just don’t antagonize him unless you have to and you’ll be fine.”
Sean smirks. “You know me, Captain. I can’t promise anything of the sort.”
“You’re standing in for me, Sean. Don’t make me look bad.”
That one hits him where it hurts. “I won’t. When and where?”
“At the Hatch Shell at one-thirty.”
Sean nods. Open area, but it’s not like pornographers are going to be following Silverman around. “Got it. I’ll be there.”
And he is, a little early so he can scope out the area. He only sees a few people, just families, and finds a tree to wait by.
Silverman’s hands twitch when he finds Sean. He keeps adjusting his glasses, pulling at the hem of his t-shirt, and Sean watches all that when he asks, “What’s going on, Silverman?”
“I got a job keeping records and sometimes working a camera for Prowling Kittens.” Silverman rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t have evidence yet, I’m too new, but three of the girls look no older than sixteen, and one has to be fourteen.”
Sean’s hands tighten. He can’t help imagining Ursula as one of those girls. She’s eleven now, almost the age of the younger girl if Silverman is right. Almost worse, he’s imagining Jamie in ten years. “Try not to work the camera,” Sean directs, “but talk to the girls, get an idea of their ages, and when you can, look at the records and see if they’re forged.”
Silverman nods. “I know. The temptation to arrest them all outright…”
“I know,” Sean says, gently for him. “Poor girls, right? Any boys who look under eighteen?”
“They don’t cater to that crowd,” Silverman says, almost bitterly. “I asked, and Edie Hicks—she hired me—laughed and asked if I’m ‘into that’, if I’m a fag.”
Sean’s eyes narrow. “There’s a woman involved?” He shouldn’t be surprised. At least one prostitution ring they know is run by a madam, but they don’t think that Marie Vipond has any underage girls. This, though…
“She’s high up.” Silverman scrubs one hand over the back of the other. “I don’t know exactly how high. It’s hard to figure it out—Prowling Kittens is privately owned. I think she’s sleeping with Lester Wade, the owner.”
Lester. There’s a name that almost screams ‘predator’. “Got anything else?”
Silverman shakes his head. “Sorry. I’m working on it. I should get into the files soon, though. I’ll call when I do.”
“Stay safe. They might be protective of their business.”
“Of course they are. They asked if I’m a cop, which was my first red flag.”
Sean blows out a breath. “You didn’t think to fucking mention that?”
“I just did,” Silverman says flatly, “and it hints at girls being underage without guaranteeing they are. It’s not evidence.”
He has something of a point. “Keep your eyes open, do your best to keep these girls safe, and call me or Captain Queenan as soon as you have a damn thing, got it, Silverman?”
“I know,” Silverman says, almost testily. “I may not have been undercover before, but I’ve been a detective for three years. I know what I’m doing.”
“You better. Don’t fuck this up, Silverman. Stay off their sets as much as you can, stick to the records, get back to us. Now walk away first, and I’ll wait a few minutes.”
Silverman nods jerkily and strolls off. He looks just as nervous as usual. Sean figures it’s as close to normal as he gets. He jots himself notes to give to Queenan when he gets back to the department and Queenan’s out of his meeting, and then waits before he leaves in the opposite direction.
Queenan returns to his office a few minutes after Sean’s leaned up against the door to wait. He follows Queenan in and shuts the thing behind him. “Silverman’s in with Prowling Kittens.”
“Prowling Kittens,” Queenan repeats. “What a name.”
“He says some of the girls look seriously underage—one can’t be over fourteen.” He meets Queenan’s eyes. “Have to tell you, Captain, it’s taking serious effort not to bust them right now.”
“I know, Sean.”
“He’s in charge of records,” he continues, “so he should be able to get us something soon. If those girls are that young, I want them out of there as soon as it can happen.”
“We’ll get the warrant as soon as he gets us evidence,” Queenan says quietly.
“It’s basically child prostitution,” Sean says, “and that carries a pretty big penalty.”
“Child pornography is worse, and worse the younger the child is. If we can get the studio’s distribution list when we take them down, it’s a big bust.” Queenan shrugs. “We’ll keep meeting with Silverman and take them out as soon as we can.”
“I need to write this up in his file.”
“Do that,” Queenan agrees. “Is there anything else?”
“How was your meeting?”
“It was fine.” His tone forbids further questions, and Sean briefly considers asking anyway. Instead, he holds up his notepad.
“If you need me.”
“I know. You did well, Sean.”
Sean nods and turns to head for his office. This isn’t nearly what he wants to be doing on this case, but there’s nothing else he can do.
He fucking hates his job sometimes.
He hates it much, much less the later that day, though. He leaves the office to head to court and slips into the back, standing with his arms crossed while Judge Goldstein goes through the charges and convictions again. Then he looks at the defense table, at Middlebrook and Williams.
“You killed a man because you claimed, after never discussing it before, that he was moving in on your so-called territory. The facts of the murder are indisputable. So are the facts of your drug-dealing and major movements of cocaine, among other illicit substances. Because of the grievous nature of your crimes, I hereby sentence you to fifty years in prison for the murder and twenty for each count of selling drugs, to run consecutively, to be served at a location determined by the Department of Corrections. You will be eligible for parole after eighty years.” He slams his gavel and stands; so does the rest of the court.
Sean manages not to do more than smile a little as he turns to leave. It’s not a perfect sentence, but they’ll never live to be eligible for parole, and that’s something. And he’s pretty sure that, even if they somehow do, they won’t get it.