Queen Of Hearts

Chapter 1

To have peace you have to prepare for war. -Punisher

FDR Highway: NYC

A lifeless chill in the November night swirled around the pier like a vulture fully aware of its prey. Police sirens crept at a distance, growing louder with each passing moment. Searchlights flooded the breaking waters of the East River, sweeping the area decisively left to right. Divers plunged into the frigid and murky depths near the club’s pier, breaking through the reckless surface in smooth, practiced lines.

Uniformed and plainclothes officers from NYPD’s Homicide Department and the FBI were scattered over the pier’s concrete surface, relishing the fact that they, at least, were on dry land. News choppers battled with police helicopters vying for the best vantage point to show this latest grisly piece of news. Each time the NYPD copter circled the water, the air became just that much colder as waves ran from what possibly lay underneath.

Traffic on the FDR Highway stood bumper to bumper. Drivers honked, while some got out of their cars to see what had caused the traffic to become a parking lot. Roads from 71st to 23rd Streets were blocked off as officers diverted the more adventurous drivers to the main streets of New York City. Many motorists voiced their anger as a quick peek at the situation showed absolutely no hope of getting to their destinations anytime soon.

Near the pier, Detective Garfin, a portly, blue-eyed man with thirty years at the 19th Precinct, stepped out of a black Chevy Impala. He adjusted the silver belt over his protruding stomach as it struggled to hold up the black pants, which had definitely seen better days. His once shiny black hair now revealed shades of gray. Scenes like the one unfolding before him had more to do with the process than pure aging alone.

What’ve we got here, boys, he asked, crossing the bright yellow tape that separated grim reality from everyday certainty. Police Line—Do Not Cross was almost always followed by dead on arrival.

Patrick Flynn, a tall sliver of a man, was wearing a police slicker. He stood with green eyes scanning the area as men with slick black body suits continued searching the cold waters for more bad news. Just like you said, there might be three bodies in the river.

Garfin sighed, reached for a pack of cigarettes, and then rubbed a weathered hand over his scruffy beard. Placing the cigarette to his mouth, he lit it, took a pull, then held it between his fingers. Why don’t these motherfucking drug dealers take this shit to another precinct? The last thing we need is bad publicity in the newspaper for Christ’s sake!

Pulling one last drag on his cigarette, Garfin flicked it to the ground and crushed it under the soles of his once-so-shiny black wingtips. Just like his life and this job, they too, had lost their luster a long time ago.

Garfin, the divers are bringing the bodies to the surface. Frosty air punctuated Flynn’s every word. The man popped his uniform collar before pulling the navy blue police issued coat tighter around his body.

That bit of news was met with a weary glare. Good, maybe we won’t be here all night. Garfin pushed past Patrick, carving his way to the officers closest to the end of the pier. Officer Warren, a man with short blonde hair, blew into his cupped hands as he stood just behind another, even taller, detective surveying the scene. It’ll take a lot more than hot, stale breath to thaw out in this freezing weather, Garfin said, before glancing to the left and noticing the crime lab technician who was chuckling at the comment.

Fuck you, Warren shot back with a grin. If I was lying next to your wife, then I’d be melting by now.

Watch it, slick, Detective Garfin said, Lieutenant O’Brien chuckling along with the two men as he stood. You’re not above me putting a foot up your ass, Warren

"Now that place could keep everyone warm," Garfin teased.

Garfin and O’Brien, Agent Schwartz yelled, sprinting toward the group with a fistful of paperwork.

This isn’t looking too good. He slapped the forms into the waiting hands of Detective Garfin. "The captain’s already on the phone complaining that this is the type of attention his precinct doesn’t need."

Running pudgy fingers through his thinning hair, Garfin went closer to the edge, trying to get a good look at the bodies that had caused all the commotion.

The DEA is going to get a kick out of this one. It seems like the 19th precinct is having a hard time handling the case. Agent Schwartz taunted.

Garfin had wished upon hope that the call he’d received earlier was just a prank, but the sound of the woman’s voice on the other end, the details she gave about how the victims had suffered, and the urgency with which she said that one of them was possibly still alive, spurred him to action. With one call, four cars were on the scene and a swarm of others followed. The first body that turned up meant the rest of the police force followed, along with the FBI and DEA—the latter he could certainly do without.

Contemporary Jazz music drifted across the busy area. Garfin’s gaze followed the happy sounds. People dressed in clothes he couldn’t afford on three month’s salary had been celebrating at the ritzy Water Club just minutes ago, but were now flocked out onto the balcony to see what the excitement was about. Sons and daughters of the richest people in New York society, who were decked out for a memorable evening, now had their opportunity to come closer to real life than their rich parents had hoped. Officers intercepted the staggering and demanding crowd, ushering them back to the confines and safety of the bright white building.

The crime scene had already been complicated with the swarm of media just beyond the tape and the camera crews circling overhead; another headache the precinct didn’t need, and one of the main reasons he downed almost half a bottle of Tums every day.

We got one … with a … weak pulse, one of the divers said, holding on to the handrails of the rickety metal ladder, gasping for breath. The man they fished out of the water was huge; his skin flushed a lifeless grey. Water poured off the victim’s clothes, pooling around to the tip of the Garfin’s shoes.

Get an EMT over here now! Garfin barked, as men in the van with white, red and blue writing on the side sprang to life, carting over equipment and a stretcher. A wool blanket soared through the air, landing on the diver’s back as his feet steadied on the concrete. He wrapped it around his broad shoulders as the officers escorted him to a heated van.

News teams rushed forward, only to slam into the blue wall of officers blocking their path as well as their view.

Paramedics worked in feverish unison, trying to save the victim’s life. Garfin glanced briefly at the victim stretched out on the ground like a fisherman’s catch of the day—a bad one at that, and turned to walk away. A flash of memory made him turn back. The dark wavy hair, the football player sized frame, the normally golden skin now turned pale, and chiseled, distinctively Latin features all seemed that of a man he knew too well.

The second diver made it to dry land, he took a glance at the victim and said, Damn near got a hernia from pulling his ass out of the water.

Garfin’s step picked up as he went back to stand next to Warren and the paramedics. For the past three years, he had tried to bring down the top dogs at Tha Hustle Records but through some fancy footwork by their lawyer, they came up clean every single time. He couldn’t wait to get a hold of her.

Finally, one of the paramedics looked up at Garfin. His pulse is still weak; we’ve done as much as we can for now. He was lucky the water was cold.

I don’t care if you have to go to Jesus for a miracle. Garfin leaned over so his nose almost touched the mocha-skinned man. You save his ass. Garfin’s steely gaze locked with the younger man’s conveying the message that it would be his ass if he didn’t comply. That’s Tony Moreno. He’s the key to cracking a case I’ve been working on. Then he gestured to his fellow officers, lowering his voice as he said, And keep them out of it. He motioned toward the FBI and DEA. This one’s ours." A light-skinned guy who was inches away, turned and looked at Garfin, Garfin hoped he hadn’t heard what was said. The same light-skinned guy, unbeknownst to Garfin, then wrote in his note pad and walked over to a dark-skinned female, comparing notes.

A splash of water made both men’s head whip around. A heavy threaded net settled on the space beside them. Two more bodies had emerged from the water. Another team of medics rushed over, checking the watery forms for any signs of life.

Moments later, one medic turned to Garfin and shook his head. The two newcomers hadn’t been so lucky, no pulse, no struggle for breath. Dead on arrival.

The two men leaning on the coroner’s white van flung open the back doors, pulled out a stretcher, then walked in unison until they reached the first of the bodies. The first was a black woman in her late twenties with long dark hair, a killer curvaceous body, and a fresh wound on her forehead. Placing the lifeless body in the black bag, they slid it into the back and came back for the last one—a young black male with braided hair, still decked out in a white Fendi shirt and black pants. All three were there just like the caller had said. Garfin still wondered who had placed that call.

Minutes later, the vans took off, hauling the bodies to their new home in the morgue.

Fucking shame, Garfin grumbled, pulling out yet another cigarette. Turning toward Patrick, he pointed to the last coroner’s van just before it disappeared along the path the police had cleared leading to the FDR Highway.

You see how that fucker was dressed? Garfin’s eyes scanned the area once again. He was in a rage at the unfairness of it all, unsettling in his gut. I can’t even afford that shit on a year’s pay. With that kind of money, you’d think they’d be smart enough to save their own asses. He lit the cigarette, hoping the nicotine rush might calm his nerves. No, they think they’re almighty and the money can protect them.

Patrick fell silently in step with Garfin as they maneuvered between the straggling remainder from the force.

I’ve been on this force thirty years, Garfin said solemnly, a frosted blast of air filtering out with each breath. And plenty of opportunities came my way to make extra money and I turned down each one. He paused, taking a short puff of the cigarette. You know how many men working in my unit I personally arrested for being involved with Tha Hustle Records? ...and I’m pretty sure there are more

Patrick stopped in his tracks. This wasn’t news to him, and he was sure it wouldn’t be news to the chief, the man he sometimes supplied with information on the inner workings of this particular precinct. Hoping to garner more information, he gave Garfin a non-committal, No shit?

No shit, Garfin replied, weary blue eyes scanning the officers who were gathered near the Water Club and watching as a luxury yacht that was delayed due to the unexpected events bypassed the river’s frantic activity and disappeared into the night fog. Night and day I sat up trying to crack this case, while countless bodies turned up right here in the East River and everywhere else, but there was never anything substantial enough to build a case on. Sometimes, it feels like they had a connection within the department. Tony Moreno and Andre Chin were always one step ahead. Garfin paused, watching the yacht race recklessly over the water then disappear into the fog. Even their own boys turned up dead, he said, And a UPS man…who in their right mind kills a UPS man?"

Patrick leaned back on the Impala, which was now parked next to several NYPD cars, crossing his arms over his slender chest.

Garfin took another long drag before pointing to the spot where the boat had raced into the night before docking. See, these young motherfuckers think their lives are just like that boat, all luxurious and nice. Everything flies by so fast; they practically kill themselves to keep up and to get it all in before they die. He gazed out in the East River for a quick second, warming to his subject. But what they fail to realize is, just like that boat, their lifestyles can disappear. Then it comes crumbling down.

Tossing the cigarette away, he glanced back at the EMS wagon carrying the only victim they were able to save that night, and shook his head. Tony motherfucking Moreno, he said with a bitter but revengeful chuckle. Let’s see how you get out of this one.

Chapter 2

New York Hospital

Bright rays of sun poured into the hospital room awakening Anthony Luis Moreno from a peaceful sleep. Rubbing his eyes, he slowly lifted to a position where he could summon for a nurse to close the blinds. The smell of eggs, bacon, and hot coffee lingered under his nose and immediately sent a message to his stomach that he was hungry. Reaching for the button which hung from the edge of the silver railing, he pushed the button and lay back waiting to see which one of the gorgeous nurses would answer his call. The stark white walls, semi-comfortable bed, and small flat screen television were far better than the amenities in most hospitals but the embarrassing bedpan and gown that didn’t try hard enough to cover his ass were enough to drive any man insane.

As much as Tony hated hospitals, he didn’t mind the special treatment he received from one nurse in particular. Three days had passed since he’d come out of a three-month coma. He was angry as hell with an appetite for food that was only matched by his hunger for sex.

Tony tried to lift his right hand, aiming for the remote but the handcuffs kept him securely latched to the rail.

Fuck! he shouted, yanking at his restraints. How the hell was he was still under arrest? Fuck this shit, he yelled at the top of his lungs. "I want my attorney right now!"

The door to his hospital room swung open as a nurse with smooth dark skin, short cut hair, and a face and shape similar to Halle Berry walked in. She automatically adjusted the blinds, checked his monitor, and then pulled the blanket back up to his waist, tucking it around him before asking, Is everything alright Mr. Moreno? With a voice as sweet as syrup and a smile that actually lit up the joint, not even Tony could stay angry.

No, everything is not alright, nurse. He glanced up at the badge over her right breast.

Beating him to the punch she quickly added, Haywood, Nurse Haywood.

He should have been embarrassed that he didn’t remember her name, but what he remembered most was the way her hands had caressed his body and the way she washed around his erect penis soothing it every time she touched him, whether it was intentional or unintentional. He was getting stiff just thinking about the bath she gave him yesterday, and the one he would receive later.

What seems to be the matter? she asked with only a tinge of concern lingering in her voice. He could tell she was trying not to grin.

Tony gave her an are-you-serious look. He raised his right hand and grimaced.

Oh that, she responded, as if being handcuffed to a hospital bed wasn’t all that serious. Well, the doctor discussed it with the police to see if they would uncuff you, she said while running a hand over his thighs and trying to get him to calm down. Now he knew her touches were intentional. Unfortunately, Detective Garfin wants you handcuffed while you remain in this hospital and until you’re well enough to go to jail.

A sliver of alarm gripped him. Jail, for what?

I’m not sure, I thought they discussed it with you. she responded slowly, taking in the spike on the monitor.

Tony ran his free hand over what used to be his waves, ignoring the fact that Nurse Haywood’s hands lingered right on his dick. No they didn’t, they fucking buggin’.

He reached down, stopping Nurse Haywood’s movements so he could think straight. Where the fuck is he? I requested that he bring his ass down here three days ago and this motherfucka still ain’t here yet. Tony’s voice raised an octave above normal; something that always put the fear of God in his enemies. Well, that along with the follow-up bullet to bring his point home, but that was beside the point at the moment.

Rejected, Nurse Haywood stood and righted his charts, saying, We called for him sir, and he said he’ll be here as soon as he can.

Call him again.

She only stared at him, seeming a bit disappointed, He realized that maybe he shouldn’t have been so quick to stop her little games. Tony tried to turn to his left side and reach for the phone when the door opened, this time, a slender, Hispanic police officer filled the entrance. What’s all the commotion?

And what the fuck are you supposed to do, with your toy cop self? Sarcasm laced Tony’s every word. If he hadn’t been handcuffed to the bed, Tony would have slapped the man just on general principle. How were they going to send a little willow of a man to keep Tony Moreno in line? What an insult!

Nigga, you better watch who the fuck you talking to before I put one more bullet in your ass and let you lay asleep for the rest of your life.

Not if I can get to you first. Tony tried to get up off the bed. The man might have been little but he had some nerve—but men with more balls than what the officer displayed had already met their maker.

Not under my watch, Nurse Haywood interjected, doing everything in her power to settle a squirming Tony back onto the bed. His monitor had spiked up.

Sitting upright, Tony’s voice became deadly, Tell Garfin to get here now, or else what went down at Tha Hustle Records will be nothing compared to what I’m gonna do next …

The officer glared at him, moving toward the bed, his body flexed for the challenge.

Before we take it there, Nurse Haywood said, placing her body between Moreno and the officer, let me check your blood pressure. Officer Hernandez, would you mind leaving the room, please?

Officer Hernandez continued to stare as if Nurse Haywood’s request did not compute. What did he expect to accomplish with a witness still in the room? When the officer didn’t give way, Nurse Haywood placed a hand on her hip, pursing her lips while throwing him an I mean-right-now-look. Eventually he got the hint, whipped around to the door and stormed from the room.

She turned to Tony, giving him a harsh look. A lot of hard talk from a man who doesn’t have a lot to work with. she said as she lifted his restrained hand.

It doesn’t take much to handle business, Tony said with a shrug, then reached out and stroked her ample hips with his free hand. He hoped his attitude didn’t turn her off. She chuckled then moved out of his reach.

Cut it out with all the drama. We don’t need your pressure skyrocketing today, she warned. People will think I’m not doing my job. A flirtatious smile flashed across her face.

Chastised, Tony gave her a sheepish grin. Listen, I just need to know what I’m being charged with. That’s all. Is that too much to ask?

The door opened yet another time and Tony was all set to go off on the toy cop. Instead, his wife, Maribel, and his attorney strolled in as if they didn’t have a care in the world.

Well it took you long enough, Tony fired at them, ending his rendezvous with the nurse.

Unfazed by his client’s sarcastic tone, the Caucasian attorney walked over to the small table and wheeled it to Tony’s bed. I had to ensure that I’m on point with everything before getting here.

Okay, but what’s her explanation? Maribel looked away as if Tony words flew over her head.

Tony had hired Jacob Goetz to protect his interest when he first learned that Porsha was handling the paperwork for Tha Hustle Records.

***

Chin had refused to give up the empire; he felt he worked too hard to obtain it just to lose it so easily. He wanted to make sure Porsha finished up all the paperwork before he moved on to any other business venture.

I’m not saying that we should give up anything, Chin. I’m just saying, maybe it’s time we pack this shit up. Focus on music, clothing, and your nightclub. Tony tapped the cigarette pack, pulling out a single smoke and putting it between his lips. "We’re already making crazy loot. We have three of the hottest rappers in the industry right now, so why are we still holding on to el juego? We should’ve been out of the drug game months ago. I don’t see what’s taking Porsha so long."

Personally, Tony didn’t trust Porsha, and if the bar ever got wind of what she was doing, they would toss her faster than a baseball to a catcher’s mitt. Often times he would question Chin on how long it would take her to finish up paperwork. Chin never had a good enough answer; he would just keep saying soon.

Andre Chin, his former—and now very much dead partner—had grown tired of constantly being under the watchful eye of the FBI and the NYPD. He decided that Porsha Hilton could help turn the empire into a legal and more profitable one. But from the moment Tony laid eyes on Porsha, he didn’t trust her. This was for two major reasons: one reason was that she was way too eager to help out. The second reason was because Chin was sleeping with her. Tony’s instincts were right on the money. The moment she learned Chin had been unfaithful, the work she had handled was put on hold and certain portions of their operation were compromised. Pussy and business never did