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?
“What kind of organization?”
“You remember the Vero family?”
I remembered. Old school organized crime trying to modernize. They were still operating.
“They’ve been looking for legitimate business fronts. Real estate is perfect for it. Buy a property with dirty money, flip it, sell it with clean money.”
“Morrison’s been doing high-volume transactions, always just under the reporting threshold. Textbook laundering.”
“Have you made a case yet?”
“Not yet. We’re building it, but it’s slow. These guys are careful. Why? What’s your interest?”
I told him about the evening, about Frank threatening my grandson, and about the way he’d talked to Michael. Marcus was quiet for a moment. “Rich, I can’t just arrest someone because they’re an asshole.”
“I’m not asking you to. I’m asking you to look at him closer. If he’s dirty, find it.”
“We’re already looking, but I can make sure the Hartford office knows he’s a priority. Maybe they move a little faster. Maybe they start watching his movements a little closer. Would that help?”
“It would.”
“Consider it done, Rich. Good to hear your voice, man. Don’t be a stranger.”
I hung up and sat in my living room. I lived in a small house about twenty minutes from Michael’s place. It was old and needed work, but it was paid off.
I’d bought it with cash when I’d retired. My pension was decent, not extravagant. I drove a fifteen-year-old pickup truck and I wore clothes from discount stores.
To someone like Frank Morrison, I looked like exactly what he thought I was: a nobody. The next morning, I got a call from Michael. “Dad, I kept Tommy home like you asked, but I don’t understand what’s going on. Jessica’s confused, too.”
“Frank’s acting weird.”
“Weird how?”
“He got a phone call this morning. He won’t say who from, but he’s been in the guest room ever since making more calls. He looks worried.”
“Okay. Just stay there. I’m coming over.”
When I arrived, Frank’s Mercedes was still in the driveway, but there was also an unfamiliar black sedan parked on the street. As I walked to the door, two men in suits got out of the sedan. One of them asked. “Richard Brennan?”
“That’s me.”
They showed me badges. “FBI. We’re looking for Frank Morrison. Is he inside?”
“He’s staying with my son. What’s this about?”
“We have some questions for Mr. Morrison regarding his business dealings. Your name came up in our files. DEA retired?”
“That’s right.”
The agent smiled. “Small world. Listen, we’re going to need to talk to Morrison. You might want to wait out here.”
But I went in with them. Michael opened the door, saw the badges, and went pale. “What’s happening?”
“FBI,” I said. “They need to talk to Frank.”
Jessica appeared in the hallway. “What? Why?”
Frank came out of the guest room. When he saw the agents, his face went white. “What is this?”
The first agent said. “Frank Morrison. We need you to come with us to answer some questions about financial transactions associated with your real estate holdings.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“We have evidence of structured cash transactions, sir. We have warrants to search your business premises and financial records. You’re not under arrest, but we strongly suggest you cooperate.”
Frank looked at me. Something in his face changed. The arrogance was gone, and in its place was the sudden understanding of someone who just realized they’d made a massive mistake.
“You,” he said. “You did this.”
“I made a phone call,” I said quietly.
“You son of a—”
“Dad!” Jessica moved between us. “What’s he talking about? What’s going on?”
