Out of Exile: Hard Boiled: 2
Page 9
After twenty minutes, Jones shot up in his chair. His eyes were glued to the file in his hand, and he pointed at another. ‘Pass me that file.’
‘Which one?’ Lopez asked.
‘Campbell’s file,’ he said. ‘And Deacon’s.’
Lopez slid them both in front of him. He flipped through the pages of the first file, then the second, and reread the one in his hand. Then he stood up and pointed to each file as he spoke. ‘For the majority of the past fifteen years, Campbell, Deacon, and Hogan have been in the same division. Back in uniform, they were all stationed at the 5th Precinct. Then Campbell and Deacon worked narcotics, Hogan later joining them. Then, for the next ten years, they bounced from SC, to armed rob, then fraud—’
‘I know dozens of guys that moved from place to place like that,’ O’Conner said.
‘But did they have the same CO at every post?’
That got Sullivan’s attention. He leaned forward and scanned the files.
‘I thought that wasn’t allowed?’ Lopez said. ‘That you needed a gap of at least eighteen months before you could work with the same commanding officer again?’
‘These guys found a way,’ Jones said.
‘Who was the CO?’ O’Conner asked.
‘Des Kelly.’
‘Ahh,’ O’Conner said. ‘There’s no way Des Kelly has got anything to do with this. Christ, he would have to be getting on for seventy by now.’
‘Sixty-seven,’ Sullivan said, reading from the old man’s file. ‘Retired last year. Lives in Troy.’
Sullivan climbed to his feet. Jones threw on his sports jacket.
‘You two can’t be serious,’ O’Conner said, half laughing. ‘You can’t really make old Des Kelly into Hailstrum, can you?’
‘Not at all,’ Jones said. ‘He doesn’t have the brains. But he knew those boys for a long time. He may still be in contact with them.’
O’Conner laughed again. ‘You two are nuts.’
Chapter Forty
Jones drove. They hit the siren through the city and eased off once they pulled onto Troy Link. The freeway was jammed, but the emergency lane was wide-open, and with any luck, it would be a clear run all the way.
Sullivan remembered Des Kelly well. He had served under him for eighteen months sometime in the early nineties, when Kelly headed up the Longmire task force on organized crime, and a young Angus Sullivan had wanted to get some street time in kicking down doors—and he got plenty of it too. The task force was created to take down the mid-level of the drug trade, the shit kickers: guys that made a couple of hundred grand a year and thought they were Scarface. Des Kelly was a thirty-year veteran in his fifties then and was still going through the door first.
He was a tough bastard, and one night in late ’94 he proved it to anyone who had doubts. After a far too many beers at the Lincolnshire Arms, a couple of young upstarts, who recognized old Des from one of his Longmire raids, followed him home. They waited until he was inside his house before they hit him, then beat him so badly, he lost an eye. What the two fuck-ups didn’t count on was Des Kelly having a photographic memory or on him recognizing one of them. And if they didn’t count on those two things, there was no way they could have counted on Kelly remembering the home address of the little bastards. With a smashed eye and a towel wrapped around his head, he walked the twelve blocks over to Farmington and put both those boys in hospital for nine months. Kelly was suspended for six months on full pay; he spent the time fishing.
Sullivan and Jones listened simultaneously to the police radio and the radio news. Neither had anything new to report, but they let them play, just in case something filtered through. Jones pulled the unmarked car off the freeway and onto Troy Road. Fifteen miles out of the city, the traffic flowed as if it were any other normal day in the suburbs. He pulled into the quiet street that was the last-known address of Des Kelly. What had probably once been a nice house in a nice street was now in a state of decay, with an overgrown garden and peeling flywire screens hanging off the windows.
Sullivan climbed out of the car and headed across the lawn and up to the porch. Jones limped behind and, when he caught up, knocked on the door. There was no answer, and after a couple more knocks, there was still no movement from inside the house.
‘I guess he’s not home,’ Jones said.
Sullivan took a couple of careful steps across the porch and peeked through the yellowed curtains. An old man sat in a wheelchair, three feet away from the television.
Sullivan headed back to the front door. The top half was leadlight glass that had cracked and partly been replaced with cardboard. He peeled back the tape that secured it and slipped his hand through.
‘What are you doing?’ Jones asked.
‘He’s home.’
‘I’ll knock again.’
‘If he was going to answer, he would have done it already.’
There was a click, and the door bounced open a few inches.
Sullivan put a foot in the hallway and looked over his shoulder to Jones. ‘You can wait out here, if you like.’
Jones rubbed his face, muttered something under his breath, and followed.
The house was dark, and the carpet smelled wet. They followed the low murmur of the television into the lounge, where Kelly was planted in his wheelchair. He had aged twenty years in the twelve months since his retirement. His hair was white and thin. His clothes, torn and soiled. His face had so many creases and crinkles, it looked like a road map that would be a son of a bitch to use. His one good eye was closed, next to the empty socket of the other. He didn’t move.
‘Do you think he’s . . .’ Jones asked.
Sullivan put a hand on the old man’s shoulder and gave him a slight shake. ‘Sir?’
No answer.
Sullivan straightened up, looked to Jones, shrugged, then yelled, ‘KELLY!’
The old man snapped awake as if he had been whacked with a defibrillator. ‘Who in the fuck are you?’ His fists swung up, ready to fight, but he was in no shape for it, and Sullivan wasn’t looking for a fight.
He adopted a calming tone. ‘Sir, I’m Angus Sullivan.’ He thumbed to Jones. ‘This is Jim Jones. We’re here to ask you a couple of questions.’
Kelly lowered his fists and looked from Jones to Sullivan.
He pointed a crooked finger. ‘Sullivan. Ninety-four to Ninety-five.’
‘You were my CO,’ Sullivan said.
Kelly put a warm hand on Sullivan’s arm, shook it, and smiled. ‘Good cop.’
He didn’t look so kindly on Jones. ‘I know who you are as well . . . toecutter,’ he spat.
Jones ignored the insult.
‘Sir,’ Sullivan said. ‘We need some information about a couple of men who used to be under your command.’
‘What do you want to know? Remember everything, I do.’
‘We want to know about Campbell, Deacon, and Hogan.’
He nodded pleasantly at the sound of their names. ‘They’re good boys.’
‘Have you seen them recently?’
‘Oh, they drop in when they can. They’re busy, you know. Always bring a beer when they do come, though.’
‘Have you seen them in the last couple of months?’
‘Yes, ahh, no,’ Kelly stuttered while he fidgeted with his remote control. ‘I can’t remember the last time I saw them, come to think of it.’
‘What happened to remembering everything?’ Jones said.
Kelly flicked through the channels.
Hallmark movie.
Baseball.
Cheers re-runs.
‘Memory ain’t what it used to be.’
It sounded like bullshit.
Sullivan knelt down. ‘Sir, Campbell has done something very bad. He’s going to hurt Jones’s wife and his daughter. We need to find him very soon. If you know something that might help…’
‘Wish I could, really, but I can’t.’ Kelly aimed the remote at the television again and went back to channel-surfing.
‘Yeah, yeah, help yourself,’ Kelly said, waving them away.
The kitchen was representative of the rest of the dump. Filthy dishes lay on the flat surfaces, takeaway cartons on top of those, and an army of ants crawled over everything.
Jones took a breath, smelled the room, and regretted it. ‘He’s lying.’
Sullivan nodded. ‘He certainly is.’
‘The 5th Precinct is the closest.’ Jones pulled out his phone. ‘I’ll have them prep an interview room, and we’ll take Kelly over there. We’ll get more out of him with further questioning,’ he said and stepped off.
Sullivan grabbed his arm. ‘You’re wasting your time. That tough old bastard isn’t going to crack because you use stronger language.’
‘What do you suggest?’
Sullivan let go of his arm, took a step back, and scratched the back of his shaved head. ‘Something a little harder than language.’
‘No, no, no. This has to be by the book.’
‘What book? This is about getting your family back, or not getting your family back. The other side are not playing by any book.’
‘We take him in for questioning, break him in the box.’
‘We don’t have time to break down a seasoned detective and . . .’ Sullivan pointed toward the lounge room. ‘There’s nothing that man has got to lose that you can take away.’
‘But there’s something you can take away that’ll make him talk?’
Sullivan looked at the ground. ‘Campbell is going to kill your family in less than two hours, and that old man knows something that may be able to stop them.’
Jones put his hands on the sink and drew in a breath. ‘This is not the way things should be done,’ he said.
Sullivan nodded. ‘But sometimes they just need to be done.’
Chapter Forty One
Des Kelly had settled on watching the Cheers. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t have been of more help to you,’ he called over his shoulder when Sullivan and Jones walked back in. ‘My memory is just about as useful as tits on a bull these days.’
Sullivan squatted by the old man’s wheelchair and looked into his one good eye. ‘We appreciate your help so far, sir. I just wanted to stress again the importance of finding Campbell. He has kidnapped a fellow police officer’s wife and child.’
‘I’m sure that’s just a misunderstanding,’ Kelly said. ‘He’s a good boy. I wish you fellas luck with your investigation, though.’
Sullivan looked to Jones for permission. For a moment, it looked like Jones had cold feet and was going to back out, but then he slowly nodded.
Dinner from three days ago sat on the coffee table. Sullivan pulled the steak knife off the plate and pounced on the old man. His wheelchair rolled back, hit the couch, and they both fell into it. Kelly struggled. Tried to kick loose, kick free. Sullivan was too heavy and Kelly too old.
Sullivan put the knife to Kelly’s one and only good eye. His hand was steady, and he held it an inch away from the pupil.
‘Tell me what I want to know!’ Sullivan yelled.
‘Don’t take my eye.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I don’t know anything.’
‘Where’s Campbell?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Where’s Campbell!’
‘He’s a good boy.’
‘Where is he!’
‘I don’t know.’
‘When was the last time you saw him?’
‘What?’
‘The last time you saw him?’
‘A year ago.’
Sullivan pushed the blade closer. ‘Sir, I do not believe you.’
‘I swear I’m telling you the truth. It’s the truth!’
Sullivan shot a look at Jones. ‘How far!’
Jones stared, eyes wide.
‘JONES!’ Sullivan yelled. ‘How far do you want me to go!’
Jim Jones looked at the blade, inches away from making Des Kelly a blind man. He thought of his wife, he thought of his daughter, and he thought of never seeing either one of them again.
‘JONES!’
‘Go as far as you need to.’
Sullivan angled the blade to his eye.
‘WAIT! WAIT! WAIT!’ Kelly yelled. STOP! I’LL TELL YOU, I’ll TELL YOU!’
Sullivan drew back the knife.
‘Three months ago, Campbell and Deacon came to see me. They were after a con man. Someone suave, who could sweet-talk a lady, but dumb enough for them to control.’
‘What did they want him for?’
‘I don’t know.’
Sullivan held the knife to Kelly’s eye again.
‘I swear I don’t. I knew a guy I busted from when I was in fraud. A real slimy piece.’
‘What was his name?’
‘Phil Masi.’
Sullivan climbed off and tossed the knife aside.
The old man muttered, ‘They’re good boys. They’re good boys.’
In the front yard, Jones fell to his knees and vomited.
Sullivan felt fine. Even the shake in his hand had gone.
Chapter Forty Two
Sullivan had heard the name Phil Masi earlier that morning, from the lips of Sarah Jones. She was having an affair with the man and had been at the Westin to meet him. He had never showed, and Sullivan was starting to think he never planned to.
Lopez pulled Masi’s file and radioed in with the details.
NAME: Phillip Masi
DOB: 09/04/1969
HAIR COLOR: Dark
EYE COLOR: Brown
OCCUPATION: Real Estate Agent (current)
Masi’s sheet showed fifteen years in and out of the can, for a variety of confidence scams. Low-level bullshit stuff. Non-violent. His speciality was cleaning out the bank accounts of lonely women. Even after he’d sent them broke, most of them refused to press charges. He was currently employed by Harris & Wagner in Hazel Park, fifteen minutes away. Jones drove.
‘Have you heard of Phil Masi before?’ Sullivan asked.
Jones shook his head. ‘The name is news to me.’
The poor bastard, Sullivan thought.
They pulled the vehicle to a stop outside the Harris & Wagner office and walked through the doors and into the tacky reception area. The woman behind the front desk was hunched over her phone, tapping away at a text message.
‘We’re here to see Phil Masi,’ Jones said.
She didn’t look up. ‘He’s in a meeting.’
Sullivan ignored her and headed down the hall.
She looked up. ‘Hey! Where’s he going?’
Jones flashed his badge. ‘Relax, we’re the police.’
The offices running off the corridor were all empty, and by the time Sullivan reached the last one, Jones had caught up.
Sullivan went through the door first.
Masi climbed to his feet. His suit, his clothes, his hair; it was all perfect. His face was full of the results of plastic surgery done on the cheap.
‘Sit down,’ Sullivan said, pointing to the chair.
Masi froze.
‘SIT!’
He was a coward at heart; Sullivan could see it in his face. Masi sat, pretending it was his choice.
When Jones pulled a badge, Masi was even more scared. ‘Shit. I didn’t do anything.’
‘How do you know William Campbell?’
Masi paused.
Sullivan slapped him—open-handed across the face.
‘What are you doing?’ Masi screamed. ‘You didn’t even give me a chance to answer. Christ! I was going to answer. You need to give me a chance.’ He looked to Jones but pointed at Sullivan. ‘Keep this one away from me.’
‘I don’t know how,’ Jones said.
‘What is your relationship with William Campbell?’
‘I thought you guys were cops?’
‘I am.’ Jones thumbed at Sullivan. ‘He’s something else.’
‘Which other one? Deacon?’
He nodded. ‘They gave me ten grand to seduce some bitch. I’m pretty good at that kind of thing,’ he said with some pride. ‘They wanted me to pump her for information, and other things, if you know what I mean.’ He shrugged. ‘It wasn’t a tough gig. I mean, she was easy, real easy, and a looker as well.’
‘What information were they after?’
‘Her husband was some sort of big-shot cop. Any information they could blackmail him with.’
Masi continued to ramble, but Jones wasn’t listening. Sullivan watched as he went pale and both his legs grew weak. The photocopier was helping him stay on his feet, and he looked as if he were going to cave in on himself at any moment.
Masi finished his ramblings and saw that Jones was pale. ‘What’s with him?’
Sullivan ignored the question. ‘When was the last time you saw Campbell?’
Masi shifted his attention back to Sullivan. ‘Last week. He wanted me to convince Sarah to leave her husband. She was hot, but I ain’t the settling-down type. I told her to meet me at the Westin last night and didn’t turn up.’ Masi’s eyes widened as if he had just realized something. ‘She’s not fucking dead, is she?’
‘Do you remember the locations where you met with Campbell?’
‘We met just once. Some dump of a bar in the city that one of them owned. A real shithole, called The Facility.’
Jones wiped tears from his eyes and mustered the power to stand up straight.
‘Do you want to have a crack at him?’ Sullivan asked.
‘What?’ Masi protested. ‘Why?’
Jones shook his head. ‘No.’
‘What did I do?’ Masi asked.
Sullivan yanked the telephone cord out of the wall and wrapped it around the unit. ‘Do you watch the news much, Phil?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Maybe you should fucking start.’