Burners - A Jack Daniels/Alex Chapa Mystery

by Henry Perez

  James had turned a bright shade of red, and his body hummed with obvious rage. I knew he was looking for an opening, any opportunity to raise his weapon. If he did that, I’d have to match his movements. Then things could turn really ugly really fast.

  “Care to make a statement, Officer James?” Chapa asked, as he retreated a few steps.

  “You can’t prove any of that,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “I can prove enough to get a warrant. They’ll look at your bank account, and all the nice things you have. They’ll find the money, one way or another. And once Luzinsky talks, other merchants will follow.”

  James seemed ready to pounce.

  “Throttle down, Officer,” I ordered. “It’s over. You try anything right now, it’ll only be worse for you later on down the line.”

  I stared him down, and for a moment I thought he was ready to give himself up. Then—

  “Jack!”

  Chapa yelled just as I saw the movement.

  Maybe it was my deep-seeded distrust of police officers, a prejudice I’ve carried with me since I was a very young boy in Castro’s Cuba, when a man in uniform usually meant trouble.

  Or maybe I read James’ mind, knew the man was not ready to stand down. Never would be. His type simply isn’t wired that way.

  Could be I just got lucky.

  I sensed James was about to make his move, so I reached back for the duffle bag on the evidence table. The cans shuffled around inside as I picked it up, made some noise, but not enough to get anyone’s attention.

  I meant to bring the bag down on his hand, hoping to knock his weapon to the floor. But then he sprang toward Jack, and I just reacted.

  I swung, grazing his arm and continuing in an upward arc until I connected with his chin. I hadn’t clocked James hard enough to knock him out, but with enough force to make him forget his plans of going after Daniels, loosen a filling or two, and spin him around—which it did. James involuntarily pirouetted one-hundred-eighty degrees, until he was facing the bench, his back turned toward Jack.

  I was bringing the bag up, ready to whack him again, when his gun discharged. There was screaming and swearing, and everyone either ducked or froze.

  Everyone except Malvo, who dropped like a bag of wet sand behind the bench, and Jack, who let go with a roundhouse to the side of James’ head that knocked the man to the floor.

  James lay on his back, his eyes open but unfocused. Jack squatted and took the gun from his hand. James offered no resistance.

  “Give me those handcuffs,” Jack ordered the bailiff.

  The old guy hesitated for a moment. No doubt he’d worked with Officer James for a while, and this unusual turn of events had screwed with his bearings. Then he shrugged and handed the cuffs to Jack. She pounced on James, yanked his hands back and cuffed him.

  “Go check out the judge,” she said to me without taking her eyes off James, then yelled, “did anyone call an ambulance?”

  I walked past Tony Beniquez on my way to look in on Malvo. The kid was cradling his father’s head in his blood-soaked arms. Carlos’ eyes were half-open, which was a good sign. He was in a bad way, but at least he was still alive. From the looks of it, Carlos had taken one in the right shoulder.

  “Tony, take off your sport coat.”

  “No, I need to—”

  “You need to take off your coat, bundle it up and use it to put pressure on your father’s wound.”

  “Here, use mine.” It was Milledge, stepping up to the plate. He was kneeling next to his client when I left them to go to Malvo.

  I found the judge sprawled out on the steps leading down from the bench. Then I saw the large dark spot across the front of his robe. I didn’t see and entry hole, but the blue cloth was shiny and wet with…

  Blood?

  No, wait. That’s not blood. That’s—

  The judge held out a pale, wet fist. Then he opened it, revealing a tiny pebble resting on his palm. Like a clam showing off its pearl.

  “I passed the stone,” he said and smiled.

  At that moment Malvo had to be the happiest person in the courtroom.

  “Are you hurt?”

  Malvo shook his head. “Not anymore. Here, help me up.” He held out his free hand and signaled for me to take it.

  Not a chance. Not in this lifetime.

  I decided to track down the bailiff, figuring that this particular duty had to be part of his job description. But as I turned to look for ol’ Rusty, or whatever the codger’s name was, I heard Jack call out—

  “Lewis is gone! I’m going after him!”

  And she ran out of court just as uniformed cops began pouring in.

  The cute suede wedges I was wearing turned out to be a bad choice for pursuing a perp. I managed to get outside without breaking an ankle, then kicked them off as I searched for Emmanuel Lewis. There was a crowd outside the building, not just the people who fled the courtroom, but a new group drawn by all the commotion. Lots of yelling, lots of crying.

  I headed for the parking lot, figuring he was going for his car, and stopped abruptly when I realized someone was trailing me.

  Chapa.

  I took off again. He fell into pace beside me, and I said, “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I figure there’s a story following you around twenty-four-seven, Lieutenant. In this case, it should end in the capture of Officer Emmanuel Lewis, who I’m now certain is not the same guy who played Webster.”

  We ran into the maze of several dozen vehicles, searching for Lewis.

  “When he finds his car, he’ll have a gun inside,” I said. “If I tell you to get down, do it.”

  An engine started up, one aisle over. I swung the .32 in its direction, pointing at a Volkswagen Beetle. Definitely not Lewis’ ride.

  “There!” Chapa pointed in the other direction, at Lewis running toward a classic Corvette Stingray.

  It was thirty yards away. A difficult shot with a snub-nosed .32. And risky, too; bullets liked to ricochet off of concrete and metal.

  But I couldn’t allow Lewis to get to his car. James had broken into my room and threatened my life. I didn’t want to spend countless, sleepless nights waiting for his partner to make good on the threat.

  I grabbed Chapa’s arm and slowed both of us down, then fell into a Weaver stance, two hands on the revolver, aiming, exhaling as I squeezed the trigger.

  There was a BANG, followed immediately by another one—the Corvette’s fat rear tire popping.

  “Freeze!” I yelled.

  But Lewis didn’t freeze. He veered away from the car, cutting behind an SUV.

  Chapa and I pursued.

  Lewis fled the parking lot, hauling ass down Main Street. He had a good head start, and seemed to be picking up speed. As expected on a beautiful summer day, there were a lot of people out. If we didn’t catch up to Lewis, fast, we would lose him in the crowd and he’d get away.

  Luckily, Birch Grove did a good job maintaining their sidewalks, so running wasn’t as painful as it might have been. Chapa kept pace beside me, and I was grateful for the back-up.

  But fast as we ran, Lewis was extending his lead. When he got a full block ahead of us, I lost him.

  “You see him?” I said between huffs and puffs.

  “He turned,” Chapa pointed, “north on Lawndale.”

  We made it to Lawndale Avenue without either of us having a heart attack, and when we rounded the corner we both almost tripped over Lewis, who was sprawled out on the sidewalk, bleeding from his forehead.

  I quickly patted him down, confirming he wasn’t armed, then asked Chapa to help me roll him over.

  “Check his pulse,” I said, pulling the zip tie from my purse that I kept for occasions just like this one.

  “He’ll live,” Chapa said, his fingers on Lewis’ neck. “What the hell happened?”

  I cuffed Lewis’ hands behind him just as he began to groan.

  “Looks like a Good Samaritan helped us out,” I
said, and indulged in a private smile.

  I’d told Phin to keep an eye out for anything suspicious. This apparently qualified. I thought about looking around for him, but figured he’d be gone by now. Phin tended to shy away from authority.

  “So,” Chapa said, staring down at Lewis. “Alex Karras wasn’t here to help him out this time.”

  “Who?”

  “Former football player. Detroit Lions. He played Webster’s dad on the show.”

  “You know that this isn’t really—”

  “Yes, Jack,” Chapa said through a smirk. “Of course I know this guy isn’t that Emmanuel Lewis.”

  “I was thinking about pointing at him and saying, you’ve been cancelled.”

  “Or, as Alex Karras might have said,” Chapa made his face stern and spoke in a baritone. “Webster, you’re grounded.”

  I winced. “Don’t use that one in your story,” I said, tugging out my cell and calling for back-up.

  I sat in my car waiting for Lieutenant Daniels to arrive for our lunch date. Engine running so I could get some heat to blow around inside my Celica, its hum just a bit quieter than the Clifford Brown CD in the player. It felt like a jazz day.

  The parking lot at Jake’s Bagels in Aurora was almost entirely empty. The lunch crowd had come and gone, which was fine by me.

  It had been more than four months since that day when a couple of crooked cops, a well-meaning though somewhat misguided father, and a crackpot judge with a gun under his robe turned the Birch Grove courthouse into a shooting gallery. In that time, there had been arrests, indictments, and a series of front page stories.

  Once it was all over and I’d gained some distance from the events, I realized I’d taken the risk of getting shot, or worse, by jumping into the middle of it all. I still wasn’t sure why I had done something so dangerous, and got no comfort from the knowledge that given the opportunity I’d most likely do it the same way all over again.

  I’d spent a lot of time thinking about Carlos Beniquez and the sacrifice he made for his son. He’d risked everything for Tony, like every parent should be willing to do for their own.

  Any thoughts I’d had of giving in to my ex’s demands, of going along to get along, vanished after that day in Birch Grove. I’d spent much of the past four months devoting my time, energy, and money to fighting Carla in court, and had no plans to back down any time soon.

  Sometimes you’ve got to put it all on the line for the people you care about most.

  Clifford Brown was winding through his lush version of What’s New? when Daniels rapped her knuckles against my window. I hadn’t seen her walk up. She smiled when I jumped just a little, and I wondered whether I’d ever seen a smile on her face before.

  I climbed out of my car. “Lieutenant, you’re late.”

  “Don’t start on me with that, Chapa. This is my fourth trip out here to the suburbs over the past month.”

  The brisk wind off the Fox River greeted us as we began to walk toward the restaurant, her high heels clacking against the blacktop.

  “Deposition?”

  “Same damn questions each time, asked in different ways by different attorneys. Now the feds are involved.”

  “I heard they’re investigating the police department.” I held the door open for her. “Everyone from the commissioner to the coroner who got the cause of death wrong.”

  “They are, as well as the town’s entire power structure. The crooked apple doesn’t fall far from the crooked tree.”

  Except for an elderly couple sitting in the corner, and a mail carrier at one of the high tables, Jake’s was ours. The place was usually quiet, with only the sound of conversation from behind the counter and the crackling of the fireplace interrupting the silence.

  “What’s good here?” Jack asked

  “You can’t go wrong with any of the food, though they do make a unique sandwich you may want to try.”

  We walked over to the counter where Millie was waiting. Like always.

  “Chapa, you have a friend?”

  I looked at Jack who was trying to suppress a laugh.

  “Let’s just say we’re,” I searched for the right word, wasn’t sure I’d find one.

  “Associates,” Jack chimed in.

  “Yeah, I figured it was something like that,” Millie said with a smile. “Let me guess, the usual sandwich?”

  “You mean The Alex Chapa? Of course.”

  Jack glanced at me, then scanned the large menu behind the counter.

  “It’s not up there, Jack, but it should be.”

  Millie closed her eyes and shook her head.

  “So how many Alex Chapas do you sell in a typical month?” Jack asked through a smirk.

  Millie thought about it, then looked at me and asked, “How often do you come in here, Alex?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Once, sometimes twice a week.”

  “Then I’d say we sell about six Alex Chapas a month,” Millie said, making air quotation marks around my sandwich’s name.

  I had my usual—Ham, Swiss, onion, light mayo on a garlic bagel, warmed not toasted. Jack ordered something else.

  We sat at the much-coveted fireside table and waited for the food to arrive.

  “That was some day we had in Birch Grove,” she said, rubbing her hands together near the fire.

  “A lot of people are going to jail.”

  “At least four, by my count.”

  Officer Nicholas James had been indicted for extortion, four counts of arson, assault with a deadly weapon, and breaking and entering. The last two indictments were the result of his attempt to intimidate Jack.

  “Warrant uncovered night vision goggles in his house, and more than ten thousand dollars stuffed into his mattress. Also found a pair of combat boots, matched a print found in the backyard of the Weatherby House, where I was staying. I hear he’s pleading not guilty. Bad call. He could have gotten off easier if he confessed, and I’ve heard they don’t like cops in prison.”

  Millie brought our food over. “You need anything else?” she asked Jack.

  “Thank you, but I’m good.”

  Mille nodded and walked away.

  “Is it hard to testify against a fellow cop, even a scumbag like James?”

  Jack took a bite of her sandwich and stared hard into my eyes.

  “Can I assume all of this is off the record?”

  “Absolutely.” As usual, my sandwich was excellent.

  “I hate seeing one of the good guys go down. But the fact that he went down means he was never a good guy in the first place.”

  Officer Emmanuel Lewis had been hit with four counts of arson and extortion. He and his partner were going away for a very long time.

  The murder charge against Joel Luzinsky had been reduced to second degree. The big guy was cooperating with authorities and planned to testify against James and Lewis in exchange for a reduced sentence. Alice Braun would not be waiting for him, though. As far as anyone knew she’d been questioned by police, cleared of any role in her husband’s murder, and moved out of town.

  The poor sap had committed murder for the woman he loved and would have nothing to show for it but several lost years in a maximum security cell.

  “How did you know about Luzinsky and the widow?”

  I chewed slowly, mulling over the question. “Part observation, part hunch. I studied that layout the prosecution presented of the print shop, and thought almost anyone could have gotten out of there before the smoke took them down.”

  “Unless—”

  “Unless they were already dead. I noticed the glances between Luzinsky and Alice, and the fact that he’d been coloring his hair. A big bad ex-marine isn’t the sort to do that unless he’s trying to impress someone.”

  I signaled to Millie that I was running low on coffee—she ignored me, like always.

  “That’s pretty good observation, Chapa.”

  “The best reporter I’ve ever known told me that ninety percent of all crime
s are committed for love or money. I figured out the first of those two motives, you nailed the second.”

  Jack picked up the pickle, took a small bite. “The signs were all there. Nervous, frightened shop owners, young cops with too much money. I’d like to say I hadn’t ever seen it before, but wherever there’s power, there’s corruption.”

  “James and Lewis must have been as shocked as hell when the firefighters pulled a body out of the fire.”

  “Tony was a target of opportunity. Figured they knew him from his gangbanger days, saw him in the crowd, and tried to pin it on him so they didn’t have to deal with a murder rap if things ever came to light.”

  “It’s a lot harder to sweep a murder under the rug than the latest in a series of arsons.”

  “They almost got away with it, too, if it wasn’t for us meddling kids.”

  “For a minute there I thought Malvo might be involved somehow,” I said, and heard the disappointment in my own voice.

  “Really? I pegged him for an idiot, not a crook. I was ready to pin it on Vincent Corelli, the locksmith.”

  The name was new to me. I think Jack saw the confusion on my face.

  “Believe me, he looked like prime suspect number one. Turns out the guy had an alibi. He drives nearly two hours every week to teach a pottery class to underprivileged youth.”

  “Doesn’t sound like the homicidal type.”

  Jack shook her head. “So what’s the deal with the D.A., Lebanon?”

  “He’s still being investigated, but it doesn’t look like he was directly involved. He just wanted the glory of helping to put away an arsonist and murderer, whether they got the right person or not.” I downed the rest of my coffee. “The guy wanted a political career, but that’s over now.”

  Jack finished her sandwich, put her napkin on top of her plate, and pushed it away. “So I’m guessing you’ve hit a journalistic jackpot with all of this.”

  “You’re right about that. I may not have to do any bullshit feel-good stories for a year. I’ll be filing a daily journal once the trial starts. And then there’s the ongoing effort to get the courts to go easy on Carlos Beniquez.”