My Arrogant Father-in-law Kicked My “poor” Dad Out Of The House. He Didn’t Realize My Dad Was A Retired Dea Agent On A Mission. Did He Deserve The Fbi Raid?

“I raised my son to be kind,” I said. “To be honest, to work hard. Maybe that doesn’t mean much in your world, but it means something in mine.”

“Your world?” Frank’s voice was getting louder. “Your world is obsolete. Men like you are dinosaurs. You worked in a factory, you got your pension, and now you’re just taking up space. Men like me, we build things. We create wealth. We matter.”

“Is that right?”

“That’s right. And I’m tired of pretending otherwise. I’m tired of having you around, dragging down the tone, reminding everyone of where Michael came from. So here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to leave, you’re going to stop showing up uninvited, and you’re going to let me raise my grandson the right way.”

The Logistics of a Secret Life

Tommy was watching from the patio, still crying. Michael was pale. Jessica looked torn.

And Frank was standing there, chest puffed out, waiting for me to back down. I’d spent thirty years of my life dealing with men worse than Frank Morrison. I’d dealt with drug lords and gang leaders and cartel hitmen.

I’d learned when to fight and when to wait, when to speak and when to stay silent. And I’d learned that the most dangerous thing you could do was underestimate someone. “Okay,” I said.

Frank blinked. “Okay?”

“Okay, I’ll leave.” I started walking toward the house.

“Good. Finally, some common sense.”

I stopped at the patio and looked at Michael. “Son, can I use your home office for a minute? I need to make a phone call.”

Michael nodded, confused. I went inside, passed Jessica and Tommy down the hall to the small office Michael used for working from home. I closed the door and pulled out my cell phone.

The number was one I hadn’t called in three years, not since I’d retired, but it was still in my contacts, and I knew it was still active. He answered on the second ring. “Curtis.”

“Marcus? It’s Richard Brennan.”

A pause. “Rich? Jesus, it’s been a while. How’s retirement?”

“Complicated. I need a favor.”

“Name it.”

“I need you to run a name through the system. Frank Morrison, sixty-eight years old, lives in Connecticut. Real estate developer.”

I could hear Marcus typing. “Any particular reason?”

“Just a hunch.”

More typing, then a low whistle. “Oh, Rich. Your hunches were always good. Give me an hour. I’ll call you back.”

I hung up and sat there for a moment. Through the door, I could hear raised voices. Frank was still going, probably feeling triumphant.

I’d seen it a hundred times before, people who thought they’d won. When I came out of the office, Frank was on the couch, another glass of wine in his hand. Michael was cleaning up the dinner dishes.

Jessica was putting Tommy to bed. Frank asked. “Phone call done? Good. Now get out.”

“I’m leaving,” I said. I looked at Michael. “Can I talk to you outside for a second?”

Michael followed me to the driveway. He looked miserable. “Dad, I’m sorry. I should have said something, but Frank—he’s just—he’s Jessica’s father, and she really values his opinion, and I didn’t want to cause problems.”

“Michael.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “I need you to trust me on something. Tomorrow things are going to change. Can you trust me?”

He looked confused. “What do you mean?”

“Just trust me. And keep Tommy home from school tomorrow. Call in sick if you have to.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m asking you to. Please.”

Michael searched my face, then nodded slowly. “Okay, Dad. If you say so.”

I hugged my son. He hugged me back, and for a second he was ten years old again, hugging me after I’d come home from a long assignment. That was back when he thought I just worked in an office, back before I’d made the decision not to tell him what I really did.

I’d retired from the DEA three years ago. For thirty years I’d worked undercover operations, investigations, and bust coordinations. I’d been part of teams that had taken down some of the largest drug operations on the East Coast.

I’d testified in federal court nineteen times. I had commendations from three different presidents. Michael didn’t know any of that.

When he was young, I’d told him I worked for the government in an administrative role. As he got older, the lie became easier to maintain. I traveled a lot and I couldn’t talk about work, but the paychecks were steady.

When he’d asked directly what I did, I’d told him I worked in logistics at a federal facility. He’d assumed some kind of warehouse or manufacturing, and I’d let him assume it. It had been for his safety and for mine; the less he knew, the less anyone could use him to get to me.

But it also meant that he’d grown up thinking his dad was just a regular working-class guy with a boring government job. Frank Morrison thought I was a factory worker. He thought I was nobody.

That was fine. I’d learned a long time ago that being underestimated was an advantage.

Badges in the Driveway

My phone rang at 9:30 that night. “Rich? You still there?”

“Yeah.”

Marcus said. “Frank Morrison is interesting. Real estate developer like you said, but here’s what’s interesting. Three of his properties are flagged in our system.”

“We’ve been tracking large cash transactions going through his holding companies for the past 18 months. The field office in Hartford thinks he’s laundering money for a criminal organization. They just haven’t been able to prove it yet.”