He looked back at the pit. Dukie was sitting on an overturned milk crate, counting crumpled bills. The boy was afraid. Mackey could see it in his shoulders.
"Run that Yukon's cell phone data," she said, breathless. "I pulled a subpoena from a friendly judge in Annapolis. The phone pinged near June Bug's body. But it also pings every Sunday at 6 PM at a warehouse on Pulaski Highway."
Mackey knew different. June Bug wasn't a drug slaying or a robbery gone wrong. June Bug was a CI—a confidential informant—who had been feeding Mackey low-level dirt on a West Baltimore crew run by a ghost named Marlo Stanfield. Two weeks ago, June Bug stopped calling. Three days later, they found him in a leaky rowhouse on Fulton Avenue, a bullet behind his ear, execution style. the-wire
"Tomorrow," he said. "We start a pattern. We get a Title III. We listen."
His phone buzzed. Rojas.
"What's there?"
Dukie ran a package for a mid-level dealer named “Fat Face” Rick. It was a simple job: take the re-up from the stash house on Monroe to the pit on Baker. But Dukie was light. Not by much—forty dollars—but in the system, forty dollars might as well be forty thousand. He looked back at the pit
Dukie’s mouth was dry. "The boys on Baker… they skimmed. I swear."
Rojas leaned in. She was good—too good for this place. She still believed in the puzzle. "What do you have?" Mackey could see it in his shoulders