Page 36 of Any Means Necessary

“First Deputy Mayor Moore,” I use his full title, feeding into his need for recognition. His shoulders relax slightly, his grin broadening. “I hear your municipal budget hearing went well.” It’s light conversation, exactly something you hear at a function like this. Unless you know what I know. What Moore knows.

He laughs, eyes lighting like we’re in on a private joke together.

“It did. Our funding was approved, we got everything we wanted,” he boasts. Including the point one percent being funneled right into his offshore account. Point one percent of the hundred billion dollars per year city budget adds up. A hundred million dollars a year going straight into his fat pockets, and my ten percent is what makes it possible. Which is nothing to say for the full one percent going to the Mayor’s account in the Caymans. My ten percent of that is what keeps me on retainer.

And they wonder why there’s never any funding for arts programs in public schools.

“Who’s your date?” My eyes move to the redhead on Moore’s arm who looks barely legal. I wouldn’t be surprised if she isn’t. Russell looks over at his date, his eyes flickering in irritation that they’re almost the same height in her sky-high heels.

“Nina is an undergrad at Columbia. She’s writing a paper on the Mayor’s office, I’m giving her an inside look.”

“I’m sure you are,” I say, making eye contact with Robert Crenshaw over the Deputy Mayor’s head. Excusing myself, I get intercepted three more times before I’m able to successfully cross the room to be face to face with the Commissioner of Police.

“Good evening ladies, looking lovely as always.” I greet the two women he’s standing with, his wife, Mallory, and her best friend Trisha. I’ve met both on several occasions.

“Callum, you’re such a charmer.” Trisha is flirting with me, a common occurrence. “Flattery will get you everywhere.” I flash her a non-committal smile, my eyes moving to the man I’m after.

“Commissioner Crenshaw,” I nod, my eyes holding his meaningfully. “I’m on my way to the bar, I need a refill. Join me.”

“I could use another too,” he affirms, turning to kiss his wife on the cheek. “I’ll be back.”

Crenshaw follows me through the throngs of people, to a darkened back hallway meant for service staff. We both know why I’m pulling him aside, but I say it anyway.

“I need you to make an arrest.”

“Name?” Crenshaw’s eyes scan the corridor for other party goers, but there are none. I scouted the location beforehand, Roscoe locked the door leading out of the ballroom to this hallway. We’re alone. I note the way his jaw clenches, the muscle ticking tellingly. Crenshaw’s quick to ask for my services whenever there’s something in need of fixing, in exchange for favors of my own. His hesitation is only ever when it’s time for him to hold up his end of our arrangement. His nerves grate against my calm control.

“Alek Kozlov.” I hand him the envelope of information. “The drop is Thursday afternoon at two fifteen over in the canning district. The evidence log is in there, you’ll have what you need to convict at the scene.” He knows the drill. Unsealing the envelope, he takes a peek at the documents inside.

“Kozlov? That’s Russian,” Crenshaw comments, glancing up at me for my reaction. I give him none, and he knows better than to press the issue. “Fuck, arms dealing? You gonna give me the big fish in this minnow’s pond too?”

“No. Kozlov’s alone.” Viktor is off limits, Alek is a means to my end. A stepping stone to Anton and the girls. All of which Crenshaw doesn’t need to know.

“Arrest?”

“Conviction.”

“Who’s he going to?” he asks, putting the papers back in and resealing the envelope before it disappears into his coat.

“Just take care of processing. Judge Mitchell will handle the sentencing.” His Honor Judge Henry Mitchell already has his instructions—delivered to him by his favorite call girl, Cherry. “I shouldn’t need to say it, but Russian weapons dealers don’t show up unarmed. Make sure your men are prepared, I’m not paying for casualties.”

“Of course.” Crenshaw scowls at the implication, but I don’t miss the realization that flashes in his eyes. “Anything else?”

“I need this one alive. You lose a black and white before you lose Kozlov, understand?”

“Got it,” Crenshaw affirms tensely. “You’ll get your guy. I’ll call you when we have him.” My phone beeps in my pocket. Glancing down, I see a text that reads ‘Meet me outside the south entrance.’

“Good.” I don’t bother to offer Crenshaw any type of pleasantness in consolation, instead giving him a dismissing glance. There’s no need to pretend, I dropped the mask with him a long time ago. “Always a pleasure, Commissioner.” With that, I’m striding down the hallway.

Roscoe steps out from one of the darkened doorways, emerging from the shadows to fall into step beside me. “Turns out my dance card is full tonight.”

“Mayor?” Roscoe guesses as I shoot off a quick text in reply as we navigate to the back entrance of the venue.

“D.A.”

It’s perfect really, the District Attorney is just who I needed to speak to next, he’s saved me the trouble of tracking him down. Although, if he’s the one reaching out, that usually means he needs something from me. Not the most convenient timing, but I’ll do what needs to be done.

District Attorney Ford Barlow is leaning casually against the back of the building when we exit through the south door, a cigarette hanging from his mouth. Glancing over at us through black frame glasses, he takes a long drag and holds the smoke in his mouth before releasing it in a slow breath.

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