Diamond Run: A Phil Mahood Novel, #1

By Michael Croucher

This terrifying spin through the ruthlessness of organized crime and the fright of a woman who finds herself the quarry is a story of underworld diamond heists gone wild. From New York City to Ontario, Canada, criminals and police are in a deadly race.

Caught unaware in their web, Sue Jensen is on her own chilling trail. Her beautiful Victorian house in Ontario's wine country is haunted and she needs to find out who is the ghost slipping into her bed at night. Will she discover far more than she ever imagined? Is it possible to put ghosts to rest?

Sergeant Phil Mahood is in a desperate undercover battle against  psychotic mobster-killers who will stop at nothing for diamonds. Phil is skeptical of Sue's ghost, but is falling in love with her and must protect her from the mob. In the mayhem, will Phil's gangster targets stay steady in his crosshairs?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Croucher
• Release date: Nov 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386663874

Michael Croucher

Michael Croucher was on the Metropolitan Toronto Police Department for 18 years, and served on The Combined Forces Special Enforcement Unit investigating organized crime.  An award‐winning writer, Mike writes novels and short stories. He lives with his wife Lynda in a small Ontario town within driving distance of two married daughters and five very active grandchildren. When he’s not writing, Mike reads extensively, follows ice hockey (Maple Leafs), baseball (Blue Jays), and keeps up with world events. Author photograph by Marney Massey Connect With Mike Website: www.michaelcroucherbooks.com Facebook: www.facebook.com/michaelcroucherbooks Twitter: @mikejcroucher

Book preview

DIAMOND RUN

Michael Croucher

Chapter 1 – West 47th Street, New York City, 1979

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Joseph Rose hunched over and dropped to his knees by the office safe, his eyes searching for intruders.  It was well past closing time. Joseph had found the buzzer controlled outer door unlocked, and his father wasn’t waiting for him as promised. He’d said he’d be working late, and would wait to review the day’s transactions with Joseph. Something was wrong. Fingers shaking, he worked the safe’s combination, sensing that his strange day had now turned dangerous.

The momentum he’d built early in the day was derailed by a disturbing meeting. The meeting started well. Joseph had been optimistic, anticipating ever-increasing sales to a Canadian retail chain, and a solid cash flow boost to Rodium Imports, the family business.  When Joseph announced that the customer’s proposal required further scrutiny by his father, the negotiations took an abrupt turn. From that point on, the man became confrontational, and occasionally hostile.

The Canadian was angry that Joseph couldn’t agree to a small deposit on the initial order of diamonds, or to a revolving credit option. Joseph said that his father must be the one to finalize the terms of the deal, and would not agree to such flexible terms without a sizeable down payment on the initial order, and never without a thorough review of the letters of credit. Furious, the Canadian slammed his clenched fist down onto the table. He shouted at Joseph, insisting that the terms he’d requested were a standard practice in the industry, and that with the number of retail establishments involved, the opportunity was too good for Joseph to pass up.

When the buyer calmed down, he reluctantly agreed to let Joseph take the letters of credit, to his father. The Canadian scowled when they shook hands, but agreed to meet the next day. Joseph had felt uneasy for most of the afternoon and evening. He’d tried to pinpoint the reason he felt so anxious. Was it because he hadn’t handled the confrontation as well as he should have? Or, had he sensed something else? 

He realized that he’d messed up; should have seen through the man’s promises and bluster, and not given out so much information about the quality of the company’s inventory, or the fact that his father was staying late at the office and would be meeting him there. His father would never have made those dangerous mistakes. The diamond business was an attractive target for fraudsters and thugs. Moishe Rose had learned to read people and situations with an accuracy that his son had not yet developed.

The look in the Canadian’s eyes when angered had shaken Joseph. They turned vicious; spiteful. Joseph pushed the incident out of his mind during the rest of his busy day. But now, in his alarmed state, the memory of the man’s anger seemed more ominous.

Still on his knees, Joseph reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket for the letters of credit. They should be locked away until morning.

Behind him, a floorboard creaked.

Father, he said hopefully, not turning to the sound for fear that it might shatter any illusion that things were alright. He started to swing the safe door shut. Sit, Father, and I’ll tell you about my day.

A gloved hand gripped his shoulder from behind and squeezed. Joseph gasped in pain and let go of the safe’s handle. A familiar voice hissed in his ear. You dumb little prick. Do you know who you’ve been screwing with? Now, you’re going to know my terms.

Joseph whimpered and turned his head to the attacker. A vicious smirk, the glimmer of the gold-capped tooth. And those eyes. At times during the negotiations they’d been intense, yet convincing and reassuring. Now, they burned with rage. Cruel, savage eyes.

Francois, no. What are...?

Screw you.

A ball-peen hammer smashed into Joseph’s skull three times.

***

The man Joseph Rose knew as Francois Leduc leaned across the body and reached into the safe, being careful to avoid cranial debris and blood. He placed what he took from the safe into his wide briefcase. As expected, there was a good deal of cash, and almost four dozen packs of stones in a variety of cuts and sizes. He found the letters of credit, slipped them into his pocket, got to his feet, and went down a short hallway to the company washroom.

Before Joseph’s return, he’d forced the father to open up the big safe in his office. Francois had loaded more stones and cash into his briefcase, and marched the old man to the washroom. He too, had been dispatched by the hammer.

Francois knelt and completed the task he was doing when he’d heard Joseph come in. He searched Moishe Rose’s body, and removed cash and more glassine envelopes from his pockets. Everything he came for was now in the briefcase. He snapped the clasps shut.

At the sink, he rinsed the hammer and wiped it off with a paper towel. He tucked the tool into his belt. With another paper towel, he wiped away specks of debris from his clothes, and walked casually through the outside office doors to the elevator.

During the slow decent in the elevator’s ancient cage, he slipped the hammer through the folding gate that served as it’s door, and let it drop. It fell to the bottom of the shaft. No one could ever distinguish the noise made by the hammer from the bumps and clangs of the elevator’s mechanism. Besides, the only two people left in the building, were long past hearing anything.

He smirked as he left West 47th Street, confident that by the time the bodies were found, Francois Leduc would be someone else, and back across the Canadian border.

Chapter 2 – R.C.M.P. O Division HQ, Toronto

A buzzer broke the silence in the Project Zephyr listening room. It was time to check the tapes. Corporal Nolan Styles put down the report he was reading and moved along the line of monitoring stations. Predictably for a Sunday evening, none of the telephone reels were recording. Three listeners chatted quietly while another checked the call logs and placed them onto the appropriate clipboards. Styles was the shift supervisor for the crew manning the room’s fifteen telephone monitoring stations. Each station produced a master tape and a work tape for an assigned phone, either residential or commercial. The master tapes were to be removed when they reached seventy-five percent of capacity. At that level, they were labeled, initialed and noted on the log, and then placed into numbered and sealed tape boxes. The corresponding work tapes were changed at the same time and assigned for any required transcription and filing. There had been very little activity that day. Most of the masters were well below fifty percent full.

In addition, the project had two fixed audio monitors, or fams. A fam was a microphone hidden in a building, usually a business. One of Zephyr’s fams was hidden in the socket of a lamp in the offices of Sure Clean Systems, an industrial laundry company in the east end of the city, another was camouflaged in the frame of an interior window at the uptown office of Gus Greco, the president of Lustre Investments. Both were functioning businesses, but were also fronts for loan-sharking and other criminal operations. Gus often used the principals from Sure Clean to collect on delinquent loans, and to provide muscle wherever needed.

The fam listening stations were in an adjacent room. Styles checked the room every ten minutes because no listeners were assigned to the fam room on a Sunday. He looked in and noticed a green light flashing on the shelf beside the sure clean recorder. The recorder was picking something up. He put on a headset to see if it was ambient noise or a conversation.

Styles settled into a chair, picked up the notations clipboard and pen, and listened. He heard footsteps, the rustle of paper, and then voices. He noted the time on the clipboard and turned up the volume on the recorder. These were voices he knew well: Vince and Paulo, two of Arturo Mello’s enforcers. They were also big-ticket collectors and heavies for Lustre Investments. Corporal Styles listened closely.

***

Vince and Paulo sat in Arturo Mello’s office at Sure Clean Systems waiting for the boss to return from the washroom. Legs crossed at the ankles, Vince admired the shine on his shoes, bent forward, and flicked a speck of dust from a toecap. He turned towards Paulo in the next chair and watched him shake the remnants of a bag of chips into his mouth.

Hey Paulo, this guy down in New York. Marco, or whatever damned name he’s using. I’m worried. I’m not sure how long he’s going to stay out of shit. I want him back up here, on a tighter leash, so we can keep him focused.

Paulo shrugged. That could be a mistake, Vince. He’s cleaning up down there. A great producer. Keeps our lines full.

It’s not his production I’m worried about, said Vince. He’s a basket case. And when he loses it, he goes nuts. You never know what a guy like that’s going to do next. Always shooting off his mouth, or busting someone’s face. And when he’s really pissed off, he’s like a fox on a fucking chicken. And that chicken is gonna be history. He has a wicked temper.

Paulo stuck a finger into the chip bag, scratching for more crumbs. I hear you, Vince. But let’s give him another run down there. There’s too much coin in this for us to call it off yet. Besides, he’ll be back soon, we can give him a little guidance session before he heads back down.

Vince shook his head. New York’s risky as hell, especially if he hangs around too long. The guy attracts heat when he stays put, but he’s okay when he’s moving. I want him on the move. And I want him north of the border.

He’s smart, Vince. Keeps his mouth shut. Could stay on the run for years.

Oh yeah, he’s smart, and he’s greedy, the kind of jerk who’s capable of screwing us out of our cut. I’m telling you, him being down there is a problem. He needs a god-damned ringmaster.

"Then it’s good he’s coming up, but just for a bit. Those merchants have been turning over nice consignments of diamonds on nothing but bullshit and bogus letters of credit. We should get him back down there soon.

"And, I’d be more worried about the street crews he’s got knocking down jewellery stores up here. Now that’s high-risk shit, and it’s usually smaller crap. I like it better when he’s down there and concentrating on bigger stones, he needs our sources overseas to off those. See Vince...for now, New York’s right up Marco’s alley. And you know what else?"

What?

He knows the consequences if he plays games.

Vince didn’t answer. He looked at Paulo and rolled his eyes.

Paulo spread his hands. Aw come on. There’s nothing to stew about, here.

Yeah? What about that idiot he used as a fence in Hamilton, and the jeweler down in Niagara? Both went down for possession on Marco’s deals.

Yeah, said Paulo. But they’re both on Lustre’s books. Big numbers, lots of vig. And, we have people inside, watching them like hawks. Everybody’s ass is covered. Gus and Artie have nothing to worry about.

For Christ’s sake. Paulo, think about it. You know how some guys flap their gums when the pressure’s on, especially soft pieces of crap like that jeweler. The cops keep on guys like that.

The jeweler doesn’t know much, Vince. Just that Marco kept him supplied with decent stones at a great price. He’s not sure how the rest of the game is played.

He knows he owes Lustre a boatload of cash on business loans, Paulo. Let’s hope he doesn’t connect all the dots between Lustre and Marco... If he does, he’d better know enough to stay quiet. You can’t fuck with these guys like they’re a corner bank.

That’s true, but don’t forget, there’s a whole bunch of merchandise the jeweler got from Marco that still hasn’t been found. That, right there, is reason enough for him to keep his trap shut.

Vince worked his fingers around his jaw, searching for stubble. Maybe your right. But it bugs me how that jeweler copped a plea. He’s might walk in three years. To me, Paulo, he made a deal, gave someone, or something up. If the cops go balls to the wall on him, and get a few breaks, they could be kicking down our doors in a few months. I want that prick Marco to stay out of New York, get his ass up here and find that jeweler’s stashes. Then we can keep the goods flowing while we cover the tracks... and our asses.

Ok then, run it by Artie. But just to make you feel a bit better, that jeweler is scared shitless of Marco.

Vince leaned back in the chair. Whatever.... But, there’s something else I heard from the pen about the jeweler. Could be useful. That broad he lived with, a university prof or something. They were common-law for a long time. He took a shit kicking in the split. And get this, now the bitch is banging one of the cops who took her boyfriend down. A guy named Mahood.

No shit. That... I didn’t know, Vince.

Oh yeah. You can bet the jeweler’s more than a little pissed about that. Word is, that before he got busted, she opened some safety deposit boxes for him around Stoney Creek and Hamilton. Anyway, Marco knows the scoop on this chick. It’s one of the reasons he’s coming up.

Paulo scratched at the back of his hand. Okay, if we keep Marco in line, there’s one hell of an upside. We get enough to cover both of their loans, and pick up a huge pile of inventory, gratis. We’ll have to give Marco his cut. But screw the jeweler.

Let’s think this through, Paulo. Maybe we should ...

The door bounced open. Arturo walked in and sat at his desk. What are you two idiots yacking about?

Despite a warning nudge from Vince, Paulo spoke up. We’re kicking around that thing down south, and some possible complications.

Arturo slammed both of his palms onto his desk. His face flushed. Well, shut the fuck up about stuff like that.

Vince looked straight ahead to the window and the deserted street.

Paulo held up both of his hands. Come on, Artie. We weren’t on the damned phone here. We were just shooting the shit, that’s all.

Yeah, well if you want to keep your asses covered and stay on the outside, you’d better learn when and where to wag your tongues. And it’s not here. It’s never fucking here. This place hasn’t been swept for months.

Arturo stood and waved his arms, a nasty scowl on his face. Let’s get out of here.

***

Corporal Styles listened until he heard the sound of a door closing. He waited five minutes to make sure there was no more conversation, then removed the master, boxed it, initialed it, sealed the box, and took the work tape from the bottom machine. He installed fresh tapes and walked into a small room that was equipped with a Uher tape player.

Styles phoned Staff Sergeant Dick Petzold, who was in an office on the same floor. Staff, could you come over here and listen to something. I’ve got a fam hit from Sure Clean. A gem, real heavy. There’s also crap on it about Phil Mahood and his girl. You’d better have a listen.

Ok, Styles, I’ll be there in ten. I’ll bring some coffees. And get the transcribers on that tape right away. Make sure there’s a copy and a transcript on my desk by morning.

CHAPTER 3

An empty Greyhound bus waited to take on passengers. I leaned against a wall by a row of payphones in the concourse, watching the driver. He stood outside the bus door, sucking on a roll-your-own that appeared soggy even though he’d just lit it. He scratched his big belly through the button gaps on his shirt, looking like he couldn’t stay awake for a crosstown trip, let alone a six-hour run to Montreal.

I needed to take a leak, but couldn’t leave. A long line of people waited to buy tickets for that bus. We had ident pictures of four guys, but only one was expected to get on the bus. So far none of the four had appeared. But if the carrier already had a ticket, and I left, even for a minute, he could board without lining up, and I would miss him. I had a radio handset in my jacket pocket. We used them when we were away from the car, or if we were working with a surveillance crew and were out on foot, or in an undercover vehicle that hadn’t been equipped with a radio. My handset was turned off. As a member of the project Zephyr team, I was dressed down. Zephyr was classified as an old clothes detail. But, no matter how casually I was dressed, any static or transmissions on the radio would have given the game away.

I’m Phil Mahood, a Toronto cop, a sergeant who works organized crime investigations. I was on assignment to the Combined Forces Special Enforcement Unit, CFSEU for short. I’d been there for almost a year. The CFSEU operated out of RCMP O Division, on Jarvis Street in downtown Toronto. I loved the work. After seven years of working from a divisional detective office, sifting through stacks of files, and having only enough time to chase down the fresh cases or promising leads on older ones, I hoped I could stay with the CFSEU for a few more years. They handled investigations that you really got your teeth into.

I’d left my regular partner, Sergeant Ernie Smyth. Holed up in a tenth-floor apartment on Wood Street, not far from the bus terminal. A few hours earlier, after a tip from an informant, we’d made an arrest and recovered a haul of stolen jewelry. Now I was out with the team hoping to nab at least one other suspect from the same score.

On arrival at the Wood Street apartment building, Ernie and I had shown the building’s super our search warrant. He’d happily given us the key. It was a decent building in a trendy part of the city, and he’d had lots of problems with that apartment.

It would have been nice if the idiot had warned us there was a damned dog. It wouldn’t have changed much. But in a job full of surprises, heads-up are appreciated, especially in a situation that could cause bowel accidents. As soon as we put the key in the door, that dog went crazy. It sounded huge.

We went in with our guns drawn. A German Shepherd on a long chain, secured through the open balcony door to an outside railing, had the run of most of the front room. It took one look at us coming through the door and lunged for our nuts. The chain stopped the dog about three feet short of us. It flew backwards, choppers flashing. We dodged right, guns trained. My hands were shaking like a paint mixer. That’s not great for accuracy, even at close quarters. I love dogs, but if that chain hadn’t held, I would have squeezed the trigger as many times as it took to take him down.

The dog’s chain gave us a small margin of safety. We moved with our backs pressed to the wall, inching towards the protection of the bathroom. We left the door ajar enough to see some of the apartment without the dog seeing us.

Ring-and bracelet-sized boxes and jewelry display trays were piled on what we could see of the kitchen table and countertops. In just that area, I guessed there were well over two hundred of them. More boxes and trays filled small shopping bags lined up along both sides of a hallway off the kitchen. But with the dog there, we weren’t able to get a close look at any of the goods, or check the rest of the apartment.

Based on information I had, the loot came from a jewelry store robbery in the east end of Toronto. My informant didn’t know which store had been hit, but he knew the two guys who lived in the apartment were in on the job. He’d told me that a guy named Clifford would be back to the apartment first, and that Clifford’s partner, a kid he knew only as Shaky, would be back later.

Ernie and I got settled in the bathroom. The dog eventually quietened down, and we started our wait for Clifford. Just over an hour later, we heard a key in the front door. The dog started up again.

We slipped out of the bathroom and moved quickly, this time our faces tight to the wall. The tethered dog snapped at our backsides, but the chain held. We charged through the opening apartment door and right into a guy’s face. Ernie moved like a linebacker.  He slammed the kid up against the hallway wall, the business end of his snub-nose pushed hard into one of his nostrils. It split like a grape.

Clifford? I asked.

He nodded, his eyes like saucers. Blood poured from his nose. But more than his nose leaked; a hot stream splashed out of his pantlegs, over his shoes and onto the hallway carpet. Clifford had pissed himself.

Ernie wasn’t impressed. With all the commotion at the door, the dog was going ballistic. If you don’t settle that dog down, son, I’m going shove this damned gun up your other nostril.

I cuffed one of Clifford’s wrists and held the other loop of the handcuffs, keeping Clifford between us and the dog as it was shooed onto the balcony. Clifford shouldered the balcony door closed. The other cuff applied, I shackled his hands behind his back. We called for the uniforms: a two-man car to transport our prisoner to 52 Division, and a beat man to wait with Ernie.

Ernie and the beat man holed up in the washroom as well, with their weapons drawn. Although the dog couldn’t get at them, they needed to stay out of its sight. It could see though the glass of the balcony door, but not to the bathroom. Too much barking might scare off Shaky.

***

I’d left the apartment and found a payphone two blocks away on Yonge Street, opposite a go-go bar. I watched