Stolen from the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance(172)
“On the contrary, Genn,” I say, a stony expression on my face, “that’s exactly what we’re going to do.”
“What?” Cherry asks, shocked. “After all that talk about keeping the police out of this? Land disputes are one thing, but Leon...this is serious. Really serious. A full-blown investigation could get out of hand. If you were worried about the FBI being in town, this would have them swarming all over us.”
“I don’t think they came to town to investigate this, though,” I say, crossing my arms and looking the dead man in the face. “So we’re going to play them at their own game. We’ll make this public, and we’ll kill two birds with one stone—we’ll get justice for the victims here with unmarked graves, and making this place a crime scene will shut down the NexaCo branch for so long they won’t even want it by the time they’re finished investigating.”
Cherry seems uncertain for a while, but finally, her expression softens, and she nods. “It’s risky...but these people need justice. I’ll bet there are some families that want closure over this, too.”
A smile tugs at my face as I look at her. “I agree. Alright everyone,” I say to the patches around me, “let’s clean up and head back. Come tomorrow, we’re doing something the union Club has never done before. We’re gonna reach out to the police.”
34
Cherry
Going to the police this morning was nerve-wracking. I have been fortunate — or boring — enough to never have a real run-in with the cops. Even in the crime-laden city of New York, I managed to stay on the straight and narrow, keeping my business to myself. I’ve never had so much as a noise complaint or a parking ticket in all my years on this earth, and it’s a point of pride for me. So walking into the police station in Bayonne was terrifying. A totally unfamiliar experience.
Especially since I was there to report a murder.
Granted, the detective I spoke to was quick to assure me that the case could not definitively be labeled a homicide until a full investigation and autopsy were completed. Which is police slang for: “Okay, crazy lady, you’re the fifth person today to walk in here all wide-eyed trying to report some bizarro crime just for the attention.” The detective, who introduced herself as Maria Hanson, took down my name and details on a little chart.
“Name?” she prompted, not looking up from the clipboard.
“Uh, Cherry LaBeau.”
She immediately looked up, a flicker crossing her dark features. I waited for the usual incredulous “Cherry? Really? Your name is actually Cherry?” But it never came. And then I realized she was noticing my last name. Because my father recently died. I didn’t get a chance to ask about his case — or whether the police even had a case for him — before she reassumed her previous nonchalance and continued the interview.
Detective Hanson took all my information and nodded through my description of the shallow grave on the NexaCo plot of land. She did raise an eyebrow at my explanation of the upturned earth and shoddy attempts to cover it up. Of course, I don’t tell her that union Club members exhumed the body themselves just to make sure. I conveniently left that part out. I had a strong inkling that the cops wouldn’t be too pleased with the prospect of civilians digging up bodies in the middle of the night. Especially civilians who happen to have a rough relationship with the authorities. I hoped she would believe me, at least enough to get a team out there to check it out.
And luckily, she did.
Now I’m standing in the field with my hands on my hips, biting my lip nervously as the forensics team starts the exhumation process. There’s a group of several guys with digging equipment, along with a couple of skeptical cops standing around shooting the breeze. I can tell they all think this is most likely a waste of time.
“You sure there’s a human body down there?” pipes up one of the cops, a fresh-faced young rookie with a name badge that says WILLIS. The older, paunchy man next to him elbows Willis in the ribs.
“Could just be some poor kid’s dead dog or something,” he adds gruffly. His badge says his name is NELSON. I want to slap both of them for joking around about this.
Detective Hanson is here, as well, instructing the forensics team and taking down information. She’s a tall, soft-spoken black woman with a graceful presence. I hope to God she’s one of the good ones, because she seems to actually have some idea of how serious this is.
“Alright, let’s get started,” she calls out, holding her clipboard under her arm. She gives me a respectful nod and goes off to chat with the two cops, likely to chastise them for being so flippant about a homicide accusation.