Family Affairs

By Steven M. Moore

While the two detectives try to find Teresa and prove her innocence, a case in a different precinct involving a different Castilblanco relative surfaces. Are the two cases related? The cop’s uncle, other detectives, and the Coast Guard help sort things out, including one connection to an old mafia family.

Don't read this one if you're planning to go on a cruise soon...or crabbing in Chesapeake Bay. Otherwise, get ready for action and thrills that will keep you turning the pages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steven M. Moore
• Release date: Jan 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781772420586

Steven M. Moore

If you’re reading this, thank you. Not many people find me...or recognize me as an author of many genre fiction novels. Maybe it’s because my name is too common—I thought once about using a pen name...and probably should have. Maybe it’s because I don’t get many reviews. (It's not hard to write one once you've read one of my books: just say what you like and dislike in a few lines, and why.) I know you have many good books and good authors to choose from, so I’m honored and humbled that you are considering or have read some of mine.You’re here on Smashwords because you love to read. Me too. Okay, maybe you’re here to give someone the gift of an entertaining book—that’s fine too. I love to tell stories, so either way, you’ll be purchasing some exciting fiction, each book unique and full of action and interesting characters, scenes, and themes. Some are national, others international, and some are mixed; some are in the mystery/suspense/thriller category, others sci-fi, and some are mixed-genre. There are new ones and there are evergreen ones, books that are as fresh and current as the day I wrote them. (You should always peruse an author's entire oeuvre. I find many interesting books to read that way.)I started telling stories at an early age, making my own comic books before I started school and writing my first novel the summer I turned thirteen—little of those early efforts remain (did I hear a collective sigh of relief?). I collected what-ifs and plots, character descriptions, possible settings, and snippets of dialogue for years while living in Colombia and different parts of the U.S. (I was born in California and eventually settled on the East Coast after that sojourn in South America). I also saw a bit of the world and experienced other cultures at scientific events and conferences and with travel in general, always mindful of what should be important to every fiction writer—the human condition. Fiction can’t come alive—not even sci-fi—without people (they might be ET people in the case of sci-fi, of course).I started publishing what I'd written in 2006—short stories, novellas, and novels—we’d become empty-nesters and I was still in my old day-job at the time. Now I’m a full-time writer. My wife and I moved from Boston to the NYC area a while back, so both cities can be found in some novels, along with many others in the U.S. and abroad.You can find more information about me at my website: https://stevenmmoore.com. I’m also on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authorStevenMMoore; and Twitter @StevenMMoore4.I give away my short fiction; so does my collaborator A. B. Carolan who writes sci-fi mysteries for young adults. See my blog categories "Steve's Shorts," "ABC Shorts," and the list of free PDF downloads on my web page "Free Stuff & Contests" at my website (that list includes my free course "Writing Fiction" that will be of interest mainly to writers).I don't give away my novels. All my ebooks are reasonably priced and can be found here at Smashwords, including those I've published with Black Opal Books (The Last Humans) and Penmore Press (Rembrandt's Angel and Son of Thunder). I don't control either prices or sales on those books, so you can thank those traditional publishers for also providing quality entertainment for a reasonable price. That's why you won't find many sales of my books either. They're now reserved for my email newsletter subscribers. (If you want to subscribe, query me using [e-mail].)My mantra has always been the following: If I can entertain at least one reader with each story, that story is a success. But maybe I can do better than that? After all, you found me!Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!

Book preview

Teresa looked around the sports bar. Usual Friday night crowd, she thought, a mix of working people and students. She had never liked the place with its false Western ambiance, complete with old fashioned jukebox—it played CD singles—and waitpersons in cowboy hats and boots, the women in short skirts and tight blouses and men in T-shirts and tight jeans. They had a large selection of draft beers, though, and a bar menu with some reasonably priced items.

She spotted Nasir in a two-person booth toward the back. He seemed to be staring at the back wall, his beer mug untouched. She beat a path through tables and chairs in the center section where there were many extra chairs as well as highchairs. It wasn’t a typical New Jersey diner in the burbs, but people often treated it like one.

The solution for Palestine’s not on that wall.

He frowned at her as she slid into the booth, his dark eyes sparking even in the subdued light. You’re late. I can’t touch this swill without your motivating presence, you know.

Traffic was heavy. You know how it can be.

He wouldn’t usually be so forgiving about her tardiness, but he knew traffic in the tristate area during commuting hours was torture no matter where you were.

They split a Caesar salad and chicken quesadillas. She watched as he slopped salsa onto both salad and chicken. Bland bar food meets spicy adjustment, she thought.

Half way through their meal, he said, Want a beer? I can order one and take part of it. They won’t think about carding you that way.

I’ll stick with water. She leaned toward him. I could follow you home, you know. My first class tomorrow is at eleven.

He laughed. We have a meeting. They won’t want you there.

I can take notes.

Boring for you. And we have to be careful. Every time Arabs get together, authorities think we’re planning another 9/11. He took her hand and caressed it. My friends are also sexist pricks.

"Maybe I should go home with you wearing a burqa."

"Palestinians are a bit more modern than that. Salafis are the ones who live in the past. They often hate Jews, but they don’t help us much either. But my friends have become westernized by studying here."

She freed her hand and put her palm against his cheek. "I wouldn’t look good in a burqa, I guess."

True. You don’t need clothes at all to look good. He patted her hand. I wish I could be as sure about others as I can about you.

You don’t fuck the others.

He laughed. I love it when you talk dirty. He looked around and then at his watch. But not here. Too many families. And I have to go. He put down enough to cover the cost of food and tip. I’ll walk you to your car.

***

What’s the matter, Teresa? Your own people not good enough for you? Can you only put out pussy for ragheads?

Nasir stopped cold. He didn’t know Felipe, the speaker, but she did. He had four companions, but he was the largest. Bulk gave him courage, but the bully wasn’t as buff as Nasir. All five were sophomores, same as Teresa, but probably Nasir only saw them as big Latinos, not Puerto Ricans. She had dated Felipe a few times. He was nice enough but even more possessive than Nasir. Jealousy is such a strong emotion!

She grabbed Nasir’s hand. Ignore him. He’s not worth our time.

He shook her hand off. What’s wrong? Does the little Latino boy need hired muscle to give him courage?

Felipe separated from the group. I can handle ten Arab wimps like you all by myself.

Oh, shit! High testosterone levels here, and adrenalin too.

I don’t think you can handle one. Although I’m not supposed to eat pork, I can chew you up and spit you out. Want to try to take me on?

Teresa sucked in her breath as Felipe produced a switchblade. And I dated this prick?

The two men circled each other. Felipe, in spite of the knife, carefully looking for an opening against Nasir, the smaller man.

She opened her purse and found her smart phone. Before she could punch 9-1-1, a hirsute hand grabbed the phone. Felipe’s pal wagged a finger at her. We don’t like cops, bitch. The whisper was like the hiss of a snake.

Felipe lunged at Nasir, who grabbed and pulled the bigger man’s arm toward him, but then stepped aside like a matador, giving his adversary a kick in the rear as he passed. Felipe stumbled, fell forward, and was still. One of his companions turned the body over, showing the knife protruding from the chest, the shirt still soaking up blood, a dark red in the dim light.

***

What’s going on? boomed a baritone voice.

Teresa swiveled and spotted a state trooper who had arrived and parked his patrol car in the gravel lot. Felipe’s friends scattered. Nasir took her by the hand and guided her between two commercial vans. They disappeared into the shadows.

Once she stopped to catch her breath. Nasir waited.

The-the cars!

Forget them, he said in a low voice, putting a finger to his lips. I didn’t kill him, you know.

They’ll think you did.

The trooper didn’t get a good look at me, he said. You were nearer, though. I don’t know if he saw the other four either.

Why did you have to stand up to him?

He insulted you. I didn’t know he had a knife. I could have trounced him without it, of course. He brought his agitated breathing back under control. He looked at his watch and took out his cell phone. I think you’d better come to the meeting with me. We know how to keep under the radar. The cop will ID you from your car.

And what about you?

I have a fake name on the registration. It’s Polish, I think, but definitely not Arab.

They’ll know I’ve been hanging with you.

He put a strong arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. You still will be.

Chapter Two

The knock on the door interrupted my slumbers. Killed the Yankees’ game with the remote and padded down the hall in stocking feet, a dangerous enterprise on hardwood floors, but I couldn’t remember where I’d left my slippers. Looked through the peephole. Saw the back of a scruffy man. Long hair streaked with gray, protruding ears, slumped shoulders. Returned to the hall closet where I hang my shoulder holster and grabbed my Glock. You never know.

Opened the door with the gun dangling at my side.

"Sobrino, como estás?" the disheveled guy said after turning around, meaning, Nephew, how are you? Uncle Ferri, my mother’s youngest brother. You going to shoot me with that?

I smiled and waved him in with my left hand. He went straight to the living room like he lived there. Settled into my recliner like he owned that too. After holstering the Glock, I took the wing chair across from him, the one Pam liked and I hated. Had a floral pattern that would attract bees if it were outside. Bumble bees. Haven’t seen cute little honeybees in ages, but I have a friend who nurtures hives on the roof of his apartment building—they like spring. Lord knows what they eat in Brooklyn, though.

"It’s been a while, Tio Ferri. What’s the occasion?"

I need some professional help.

I don’t know any therapists. Buddha knows I sometimes need one.

He laughed. Good one. Not that kind of help, though. Cop help.

I’m a homicide detective. Did you kill someone?

Wasn’t trying to be funny with that question. Fernando José Guerrero had lived a rough life as a merchant marine. Bar fights, drug use, false documents, avoiding child support, smuggling—he had an international rap sheet of misdemeanor offenses, nothing serious but enough to preclude a Pentagon security clearance. No murders, as far as I knew.

In a younger man, his gray stubble would appear a la mode, but that with his long hair made him look like an old hippy who was maybe homeless. A homeless guy might have some pride and look that way because he had a shitty life, but with Ferri I knew, one: he didn’t care, and two: the look was cultured. I rarely saw him. He wasn’t often in the New York area. In fact, he could be anywhere in the world. That meant he wasn’t part of my life most of the time. What’s his story?

Rolando Castilblanco, my sister wouldn’t be happy that you think I’m capable of killing someone.

OK, I’ll give you that the next logical thing to add to your resume is armed robbery, but murder is in your future, I imagine. You still have more friends than enemies, though. Mom wrote you off years ago. And how do I know what trouble you’re in?

Not me. Teresa.

Teresa Rivera was Ferri’s niece, my first cousin, and my mother’s sister Clara’s youngest daughter. Last I heard, she was in Rutgers. Why didn’t she come and see me directly? You’re not a logical spokesperson for her, no offense intended.

"None taken, sobrino. But Gustavo has passed on and Teresa’s mother is at her wit’s end. Teresa has disappeared."

Isn’t she a sophomore? A twenty-one-year-old coed with raging hormones? Did she meet some guy and elope?

Ferri pulled some sheets of paper from the pocket of his ragged jacket. Worse. She’s in deep with terrorists. These are emails Clara printed out.

I took them and nodded. Hadn’t seen Tia Clara in a while either. Too damn busy. Not much in common. Knew Gus, her husband had passed away; a blessing—the poor bastard was taken out by pancreatic cancer.

Scanned the sheets and frowned. I suppose my aunt found this on Teresa’s computer? He nodded. At the moment, I didn’t want to know why or how Clara had the computer. Half this shit is in Arabic. I’ll have to work my butt off to translate it. Other half looks bad enough, though. Looks like she became involved with some guy named Nasir Fakhoury. Know anything about him?

In a phone call, Teresa described him to Clara as intense. He’s Arab. It’s all I know. They’re all the same to me.

"That’s like saying Puerto Ricans are the same as Chileans. Come on, hombre. You’re a man of the world. You know better than that."

My uncle smiled. We don’t know that much about him. But he has some hold over Teresa. And his terrorist cell is planning something, I’m sure of it.

Cell? Here in our area? Both questions were followed by nods. Can you read Arabic?

No, but Teresa fought with her mother on the phone not long ago and said she wished her whole family was in a target zone.

I mulled that one over for a bit. Young daughter with attitude defends her lover? So, what do you want me to do? Better stated, what does Clara want me to do? I don’t give a rat’s ass what you want.

Stop her, of course, before she kills someone or gets killed.

***

I offered Ferri a drink, but he said he couldn’t stay. He was shipping out from Elizabeth the next day. He left. The big goodbye hug felt weird. Like I said, hardly knew the guy. Guess he had a good heart, although Mom thought he was the black sheep of the family. My mother always said she didn’t approve of her brother because he didn’t put much stock in the importance of family. Not a crime in my book, and I identified with his opinion a little if he thought that. My family was large and as varied as New York City itself. Too big and unwieldy, sometimes, and a bit old-fashioned. Family’s nice; clans, not so much.

Looked at my watch. Had no idea when Stuart, my wife, would be home, so called her cell. No answer. Left voice mail.

Pam Stuart was a busy woman. Probably off to some crime scene. Bible says we should rest on Sundays, but criminals don’t put much stock in that. Always thought the TV station took advantage of her, but saw other reporters being hassled too—their perks, I guess.

It was my day off. Things were slow in the office. The stack of unsolved cases on my desk kept growing, of course; Chen and I would have new ones by Monday. Had learned to live with it. Not enough detectives, and the bosses always underestimated the time needed to solve a case. Rising in the hierarchy too often implied forgetting what goes on in real police activities. Maybe the same in all jobs.

Called Ashley Scott. The DHS agent and I were on good terms ever since we’d worked on a task force together in Las Vegas. She had connections I needed and would do things on the sly, knowing I was one of the good guys. You have to work around bureaucracy.

I know you’re not calling for a social chitchat, but how are you, Rolando?

Good. You? She said she was well, so I didn’t dwell on old times. Went straight to business. Can you search in your counterterrorism databases for a guy named Nasir Fakhoury? He might be a student at Rutgers.

I hope not. We’re too lax about following international students. The 9/11 guys were here studying how to fly planes—some in a little airport in Jersey, in fact—and those two kids in Boston were students too. Maybe we’re too generous with our educational system.

Lots of schools like diversity and maybe carry it a bit too far, but he might not be a student either. And if he’s on a student visa, he can still be on a watch list, right?

I guess. FBI handles most of that, but we share data. Can you give me any more information about Mr. Fakhoury?

A girl named Teresa Rivera might be connected with him. She’s definitely a Rutgers student.

Is this a personal request?

Yeah. Teresa’s my cousin. She’s disappeared, but before she or the boyfriend made threatening terrorist remarks. I need to brush up on my Arabic. Her mother’s worried.

Kids. Drugs, alcohol, terrorism. What’s next? Lots of misplaced idealism where young people run off to join terrorist groups. She coughed. Spring cold, she explained. I’ll get back to you ASAP. Hi to Pam. She signed off.

I needed to make one more call.

***

I’d met the Dutchman Bastiann van Coevorden during a vacation trip I took with my wife that went south because of a terrorist. The Interpol agent also helped me on another recent case.

I’m heading to dinner, Castilblanco. Is this urgent? Not even a howdy-do-how-are-you. This guy was all business. Loved that.

I can call back in a couple of hours, I said.

He sighed. I prefer to keep the rest of the evening free. What is it this time? I gave him a concise summary. Yes, I can check that tomorrow. I might find someone at HQ willing to check it earlier, but not likely on a Sunday. You might want to give Hal Leonard a call too. You do realize there’s a bad possibility here.

What’s that?

This might be a way to lure Teresa and use her as a future hostage. They might behead her if they don’t receive a ransom, for example. It’s been known to happen.

You’re an unpleasant fellow tonight, suggesting something gross like that. But yes, the thought had crossed my mind. Maybe the mother’s too. Will you call, or do you want me to?

I’ll call tomorrow if I find anything. Otherwise, Nasir Fakhoury is clean as far as Interpol is concerned.

So, how can Leonard help me?

Leonard was involved in the same cases where I met Scott and van Coevorden.

He has some interesting connections outside Interpol. Arms dealers, for example. We have different informers too—snitches, I think you call them. We’re just cops at heart.

And good guys too. OK, I’ll give Hal a call.

Leonard wasn’t available. Left him a message to call me.

***

My last recourse was NYPD’s counterterrorism databases. Our information was shared with DHS, FBI, DEA, ATF, and other federal agencies, so Feds would most likely have all our data and then some. Should have accessed our databases first, of course.

Nasir didn’t appear there, though. He didn’t even have pending parking tickets. Just for giggles, I tried searches for Teresa. I was still staring at the BOLO when my ringtone made me jump.

I’m Detective Larry McAdams, New Brunswick PD. You accessed my case file on Teresa Rivera. Do you have any intel, Detective?

What the hell do you do? Babysit your case files 24/7?

McAdams laughed. In the tiny cell screen, I could see he was a bald-headed black guy with gray eyebrows that danced in synch with his words. Ex-military too? Cops didn’t often use the word intel.

No. I happened to be accessing the same files. I use Sundays to review old cases.

Sounds like you need a life, fellow. What’s your wife say about that?

I can say the same about you. So, what’s your answer? I explained the situation. Oh, an interesting wrinkle. This Nasir might be Teresa’s accomplice. She was with someone that night.

Might be the murderer too. If there was a murder.

Definitely a murder. Switchblade to the heart. But we haven’t released all intel we have. A witness from the sports bar said her companion looked Middle Eastern. I wrote that off. White guys often aren’t reliable witnesses and mistake Arabs for Jews and Latinos and vice versa all the time.

True—in fact, Arabs controlled most of Spain at one time in history. Unreliable witnesses are ethnically neutral, I’d say. You can have ten people swearing to different things. You don’t know if her companion in the bar was this Nasir and, if he was, whether he was the killer.

Understood. It can be a lot of things. For example, look at the victim’s last name.

I checked. Felipe Ramirez. Yeah, could be Puerto Rican. Think this was a fight over a girl, said girl being Teresa?

My notes say she dated Felipe a couple of times. Could be some anti-Muslim vitriol too, because Felipe’s also from the City. He meant the Big Apple, of course. Most city dwellers didn’t like what happened on 9/11. Or both. The case is heating up again. He rustled some papers and jotted something down. Are you going to pursue it?

I can’t officially. I’m NYPD Homicide. It’s your case. I’m asking for more intel from some contacts, though. I’ll share with you—no sources named, of course.

Ditto. Army?

Navy. Ex-SEAL. You?

Army. Ex-Beret and Special Ops. Yeah, I’d like any intel you can share. Your cousin, and now this Nasir, are obvious persons of interest.

Maybe that’s why they’re on the run. They figure they killed him.

I’m pretty sure one of them did, and I’m now thinking it’s Nasir. Keep me informed.

Chapter Three

Dao-Ming Chen arrived at the office Monday morning wondering about relationships. She had headed off to work after trading parting words of anger with her live-in lover, Eric Kulmala. She knew he wanted her to meet his parents. Not unreasonable. So, why am I resisting?

Her relationship with Kulmala had lasted longer than any other. They’d been together long enough to go beyond passion, always there, and be comfortable with each other as domestic partners who planned how to confront the world and problems of everyday living. Eric’s parents represented an intrusion into their life of domestic bliss, though.

Both Dad and Mom want grandchildren, Eric had said.

They had talked about children before. The pair’s consensus was that there was still time and that adoption was always a viable option—there were plenty of little kids who needed a loving home. But Chen didn’t need Eric’s parents’ pressure to make a decision. Her own relatives provided enough pressure, especially her mother.

She had never met Eric’s parents. The idea of meeting strangers and launching into a discussion about having kids didn’t appeal to her.

I can’t guarantee they won’t talk about it, Kulmala had said, especially Mom. The General will probably be more sensitive.