by Rex Burns
“Suzy?” It was hard to imagine her as anyone’s girl friend, let alone his. “She’s a real nice girl. Like a kid sister.” More like somebody else’s kid sister, because Wager’s was a real bitch who still blamed him for his divorce.
“Ah,” said Axton.
“She takes pictures in her spare time. Photography.”
“Ah.”
They sat in silence while Wager wondered what the hell Axton meant by “Ah.” The cubicle’s plywood partitions were covered with the familiar pale-green paint and various framed awards and certificates that marked the points of achievement in Ed’s professional life. Through the rapid thump of Suzy’s typewriter and the pop of transmissions from radios scattered around the old building’s second floor, Wager picked out the raw squeak of the electric clock’s hand as it lunged ahead each minute. It used to be a sound as persistent and steady as the pulse in his own ears, and he had grown just as unconscious of it in the hours and days and months spent at that desk beside the window. Now the noise was new again, and it irritated.
Ed finally came in, his sloping shoulders and neck as stooped as ever, his pale red hair a strand or two thinner in its sweep back from his forehead to cover the balding spot on his crown. As tall as Axton, he weighed half as much, and Wager thought again that Ed looked less like a detective than a rawboned dirt farmer broken by the hard prairie and bent under the weight of mortgages. As usual, Ed went through five minutes of preliminaries to find out briefly how Wager was doing, and to tell them at length how he was doing, the O.C.U. was doing, the inspector was doing, and finally to ask for a pat on the back for getting the unit re-funded all by himself. “Well, me and Sonnenberg worked hard on that budget presentation, Gabe. I did the pencil work and the inspector presented it. He’s the senior man, so I guess it’s the thing to do. And I guess they liked it. We’re still suited up, anyway, but I tell you it was a long fourth-and-ten.”
At last the sergeant asked, “What can I do for you?” and Wager told him.
“The Scorvellis?”
The wrinkle between Ed’s sandy eyebrows told him that the question had poked at a sensitive area. Wager said, “We’re still looking into the murder of Marco. We think there may be some connection with a homicide that happened last weekend.”
“Well, sure, we’re scouting the Scorvellis—we always are. The whole game plan’s to keep the pressure on, you know. But I don’t see that I can give you much that you don’t already have.”
“I haven’t heard a thing since I left a year ago, Ed. Max and I would like to be brought up to date.”
“Right, sure! Has it really been that long? My, my.”
“Let’s start with what happened to the organization after Marco was killed.”
“Wager, I’m not starting anywhere! This Scorvelli family’s a very touchy issue around here, and I’m not about to be called offsides on it.”
“Ed, we’re on the same side. I used to work here, remember?”
“Then you ought to remember the inspector’s security regulations. Sure, we’re working on the Scorvellis—I’ll tell you that much. But I’m not about to tell you what it is or what we know. Period.”
“If I have to, I can take this right up to the D.A., Ed. You know that. And you know Doyle over in homicide, too. If I tell him that you’ve refused to cooperate in a legitimate investigation run by his department, he will raise such a stink you’ll have to fumigate this place. Think about that when funding time comes around again.”
The stoop-shouldered man ran a hand up his narrow forehead and across the wedge of thin red hair, then patted it back down. “Maybe you’d better talk to Sonnenberg.”
“Maybe we had.”
The unit chief, Inspector Sonnenberg, was lighting a fresh maduro from one of the long kitchen matches he kept in a glass at the very edge of his almost vacant desk. Wager and Axton each were issued one of his rare smiles with their handshake, then Sonnenberg sat back down in his dark-green swivel chair. “I take it you’re after something that Ed won’t give you. What is it?”
Wager was just as direct. “We want to know what the Scorvelli organization’s done since Marco was killed. It may have some bearing on another homicide that happened last weekend.”
Sonnenberg swiveled so that they could see only his angled profile. He rolled the cigar between pursed lips and held it just off his mouth; out of its wet end a tendril of brown smoke curled like a small question mark. “I haven’t heard of their involvement in any recent homicide. What is it exactly that you’re looking for?”
It would have been a lot easier if they had questions on specific points, Wager knew. But just now they were groping, and that was on a rumor from an uncorroborated source. “We’re not sure,” he admitted.
The inspector swiveled back quickly. “You mean you’re fishing?”
“We have a tip, but … yessir, a lot of it’s fishing.”
“I can’t allow you to blindly poke around, Wager. The subject is extremely sensitive, and I don’t want anyone making waves right now.”
“A good informant told me that Marco Scorvelli’s hit and this latest homicide were linked.”
“What informant?”
“Tony-O. He told me Sunday afternoon that one Frank Covino knew something about Marco’s death, and on Sunday night Covino was killed.”
“Lord, is that old man still around? He goes back as far as the Scorvellis. Further, even.”
“Yessir.”
“But he’s also been out of the action for a long time. His tip could be wrong; we never had a whisper to indicate who actually killed Marco.”
“Yessir, he could be wrong. But Tony-O knows the street, and you have to admit it’s a weird coincidence. So there’s a chance that he could be right, too.”
“Wager, if you had some specific questions, I could answer them. But as it is …” Sonnenberg shook his head.
“It’s the only lead we have on a class A felony, sir. Homicide.” Wager did not spell out the threat the way he’d had to for Ed.
The inspector played with the cigar again. Wager heard Axton beside him shift his weight in the groaning captain’s chair. Ed, restless as ever, slowly rocked from one thin ham to the other.
“All right. I’ll let you have as much as I feel you need to know, Wager. But for God’s sake keep the lid on it.”
That wasn’t necessary, Wager kept his mouth clamped and gazed back into Sonnenberg’s blue eyes.
“We have a contact inside the Scorvelli organization. You know what it would mean for him if anything I tell you gets out.”
“I know.”
“Well, you remember it. And remember this, too: the only reason I’m telling you is that you’ve worked with us before and I trust you.” The chill blue eyes shifted to Axton. “And if Wager’s told, his partner has to be let in. But nobody else. Absolutely.”
“Yes, sir,” said Axton.
“All right.” Sonnenberg drew another mouthful of smoke and then lowered his voice and leaned across the desk toward them. “The contact is an agent—not local, but you don’t have to know anything more than that. He tells us that Dominick had his brother Marco killed because he—Marco—objected to the direction in which Dominick wanted to take the organization. It involved a possible loss of local autonomy, but you don’t need to know about that, either. Who the hit man was, we have no idea. A local soldier, somebody from out of town—we just don’t know. Apparently Dominick made the arrangements very surreptitiously in order not to create any divisions in the organization after his brother’s death. But the fact, if not the details, leaked out, and Dominick had to convince a lot of people that the move was the right one. In the last few months, it’s become clear that he’s consolidated his position and now feels that he can develop whatever it was that Marco objected to. Apparently, Dominick’s organization is looking for new capital to finance a major expansion, but in what direction, our man hasn’t found out yet. As usual, Dominick’s very close-mouthed about his plans. But here’s why things
are so very sensitive just at this time: our agent has a chance to be promoted when the expansion does occur. The organization trusts him that much. Dominick told him that the expansion’s going to be in an entirely new direction, one that will require new personnel, and that he has our agent in mind for a very responsible position in the new division.”
“That’s really something!” said Axton.
Sonnenberg said with emphasis, “It is. And we don’t want anything to shake him out of that position. Anything!”
“It’s not a takeover of somebody’s territory?” asked Wager.
“No. From Dominick’s point of view, that’s the beauty of it. The move won’t cause any territorial disputes because so far nobody else has thought of it. And he’s not about to let the idea out until the last minute, when the whole operation is set up and can be activated without opening doors for someone else to move in. He promised our man that he’ll be—and these are Dominick’s words—‘in on the ground floor of a major new operation, a very big operation.’ It’s supposed to happen soon, but only Dominick knows when. Our man thinks Dominick’s waiting to make sure of some out-of-town negotiations before he says go. At any rate, Dominick passed the word that nobody in his organization is supposed to stir up anything without his personal approval.”
“When did this word go out?”
“Perhaps a month ago. So you see why I’m not inclined to lay your homicide at Dominick’s door.”
“Unless it was an emergency. Unless Covino somehow found out something about Marco’s death.” But, Wager wondered, how in the hell would a straight kid like Frank Covino learn anything about the Scorvellis?
Sonnenberg puffed out another stream of yellow-white smoke. “I suppose that is a possibility. I suppose you will have to consider that angle. But you can see what it will mean for us if we get our own man promoted to a lieutenant in Dominick’s organization. If we can penetrate that far, we stand a good chance of getting Dominick himself, a good chance of flushing a big wad of filth down the toilet. And by God, I’d like that!”
Axton let out a long breath. “Jesus. It’s like a pile of toothpicks. We can’t wiggle one without shaking the whole mess.”
“That’s exactly why I don’t want any wiggles at all. At the present time, anyway. And you realize that if you do find your killer, it won’t be Dominick himself. He doesn’t do his own work, even on his brother. Our only chance to nail someone as big as Dominick is through a conspiracy charge, and this is the best opportunity we have ever had.”
“Jesus,” said Axton again. “That really puts Gabe and me between a rock and a hard place, Inspector. The Bulldog’s going to want to know why we’re not chasing down that Scorvelli rumor, and you don’t want us near the guy.”
“I know Chief Doyle,” said Sonnenberg. “And of course there’s absolutely no question about his reliability. But, Wager, you know as well as I do that the greater the number of people who know something about an operation, the greater the chance is for a leak. It may be unintentional, but all it takes is a hint or a careless word; and the Scorvellis have ears everywhere—clerks, janitors, perhaps even some officers. The Scorvellis pay well for information, and this item would be worth a very great deal.”
What Sonnenberg said was true, and Wager went along with it. From the last estimate he had seen, the Scorvelli organization had a payroll half the size of the police department’s. Tax free. They could—and did—buy people wherever they needed them. “I suppose we could keep searching for other leads for a while, and the chief wouldn’t get uptight about it. For a few days, anyway. But what you’re asking for is anything from a couple of weeks to a couple of months. I don’t see how we could stall for that long if Scorvelli’s name keeps popping up.”
“I’ve tried to explain the necessity of it.”
Wager said, “Let me ask you, Inspector: What’s the first thing that happens whenever there’s a gang killing?”
Sonnenberg studied the ash of his cigar. “You mean it’s routine to pull in a Scorvelli for questioning?”
“Yessir.” It was just as routine to let him go again, too, but Wager didn’t like to admit that. “And if Tony-O heard that rumor about the Covino kid and Marco, there’s a good chance Scorvelli picked up on it. After all, Covino ended up dead, didn’t he?”
Sonnenberg shifted his study from the cigar to Wager, and the sharp angles of his face drew closer in a frown. “So despite what I’ve told you, you want to pursue this rumor? Despite the strong probability that the rumor’s false, you still want to step in and stomp around?”
“What I’m saying is, if we don’t follow the routine of picking him up, he might want to know why. And if, on top of that, he’s heard that rumor, it would tell him that we’re holding off for some reason. He’d begin sniffing for something rotten somewhere, and that would really put your man’s tail in a crack.”
The inspector spoke with increasing anger. “I disagree, Wager. I think you’ll arouse far greater suspicion by forcing it on his attention. But it’s obvious that you intend to continue despite the danger you might cause a fellow officer. I hope that you still have enough sense of professional responsibility to keep what I’ve told you absolutely confidential. Because if you don’t … if my man gets hurt …” He jabbed the threats back in his mouth with his cigar and glared at the two homicide detectives.
If Wager had not noticed the distance between him and his old unit before, it was stark now.
Axton broke the tense silence. “Our interest is in the murder, Inspector. Most of what you’ve told us doesn’t bear on our case, so there’s no need for us to say anything about it.”
“See that you remember that.”
Wager drove.
“Is Sonnenberg always that way?” Max asked.
“If you’re working for him, he’s behind you. The bastard got sore when he saw I wasn’t still working for him.”
“Well, I don’t know as I ever want to work against him.”
“He’s wrong about Scorvelli.” Wager was still angry at Sonnenberg’s crack about professional responsibility; a lot of times that phrase meant “Do what I tell you,” and that was one of them. It was as though he believed Wager had used his past ties with the O.C.U. and then betrayed Sonnenberg when he had the information he wanted. Well, Wager thought, maybe he had leaned on his old relationship for the information; but that stuff about betrayal was nothing more than crap. Because Wager knew that Sonnenberg was wrong in his reading of Scorvelli. If the police did not question him as always about any professional hit within a five-hundred-mile radius, Scorvelli would grow more suspicious than he already was by habit.
“Where are we headed?”
“Back to the office. We need a probable cause warrant,” answered Wager.
“You still want to talk to Dominick?”
“Hell, yes.”
“Jesus. Today was the day I should have called in sick and practiced my bagpipes.”
The p.c. warrant was routine. The familiar Scorvelli name and the familiar phrase “known criminal activity” ensured a judge’s signature without a lot of questions. However, it still took time for the departmental clerk to find one free to sign; and while he and Axton waited in the homicide office, Wager called down to Baird in the police lab. “Did the autopsy on Sunday night’s shooting come in yet, Fred?”
“Wait one.” Wager, holding the telephone to his ear, nodded when Axton gestured to ask if he wanted more of the office’s hard, bitter coffee. “Right,” said Baird. “It came in this morning. It doesn’t change the cause of death; I’ll get it right up to you.”
A secretary brought it five minutes later. Wager untied the brown routing envelope and dumped out the Xeroxed sheets. His glass desktop was gritty from next door’s construction dust and the dirt constantly churned by the traffic two floors below, and the heavy sheets crackled slightly as they slid over the surface.
“Anything new?” Axton’s wide figure loomed at the corner of the desk.
> “Not much.” The description of the wound was more detailed, the path of carnage ticked off by a list of parts mutilated and missing from inside the victim’s head. Lead pellets picked from the brain and various bones gave evidence supporting the shotgun theory. Not that it was needed; one look at the entry point and you knew what had done it. The analysis of body fluids revealed no drugs, no alcohol. The stomach contents showed he’d eaten about one to three hours before he was killed, and that was a little something. Wager thumbed back through his notebook to find his interview with Covino’s mother: before he left for the movie, they had finished supper at about six o’clock. Wager tapped the entry in his green notebook and held it for Axton to read.
“That puts the time of death at between seven and nine, Sunday night,” Axton said.
“Yes.” Wager skipped down to the conclusions section of the report and scanned through it. “And the doc says absolutely that the body wasn’t moved after it fell.”
Axton rubbed a thick finger down the line of his jaw to scratch at the bump of an ingrown whisker. “Seven to nine … The time fits what the kid at the movie told you.” Then a second thought came. “That’s pretty early, even for a deserted place like the warehouse district.”
A lot of winos prowled the loading docks, especially the fruit warehouses, looking for rotting oranges and grapefruits to mix with gasoline drained from pump hoses when they couldn’t find anything better to drink. A chance existed that some had been prowling that early.
“Detective Wager?” The office clerk, in her mid twenties, short and chesty like a pigeon in the starched blue shirt, handed him the probable cause warrant. “Chief Doyle said he’d like to see you before you go.”
“Oh, Lord,” muttered Axton.
“Thanks, Kay.” He waited until the squeak of her crepe-soled shoes was well down the hall before asking Max, “Any suggestions?”
“Yeah—you do the lying.”
“Thanks.”
The Bulldog looked up from one of the numberless forms that pattered onto his desk like bird droppings and were just about as useful. Wager had heard the chief complain about them, but the man also seemed to find a deep pleasure in the process of itemizing, totaling, charting, and cross-referencing data. It was one of several reasons why Wager never thought seriously about straining for a gold badge. “Good morning, gentlemen. What’s your progress on that homicide?”