Jack of Spades

by James Hankins

  Wagner turned his glass around and around on the bar and watched the liquid slosh around inside. “You think you could ever do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “What your Galaxo guy is doing.”

  “Kill innocent people?” Spader asked. “Cut parts of their bodies off? No, I don’t. Do you?”

  Wagner frowned. “You telling me you never came close to snapping? Never once when we were standing up to our necks in all that Eddie Rivers shit, you never wondered if you might slip over the edge?”

  Spader shook his head.

  “Not even when he killed those two kids after he got out?”

  Spader looked into Wagner’s muddy eyes. “I take it you wondered that about yourself.”

  “I think everybody does at some time or another. Most people just don’t do it, that’s all. But everybody wonders what it’d be like to do something like your guy’s doing. Or maybe walking through a mall with a shotgun and just letting loose. But, like I say, most people only think about it.” Spader didn’t think most people thought about doing that kind of thing at all. Then Wagner chuckled. “Aw, hell, John, I’m just messing with you, you know that. You should see your face. Damn.” He let loose a dry-throated laugh.

  “You ever go to college, Oscar?”

  “College? Why are you asking?”

  “Did you?”

  Wagner shrugged. “Yeah, a long time ago. For a couple of years. Why?”

  “Just wondering.” Spader tipped his pint glass back and drained the last of his Guinness and listened to the voice again, the voice replaying his conversation with Wagner from the other day, Wagner bitching and moaning about other people making choices that affected his life, caused him grief. He looked at Wagner’s yellow face and said, “Where were you the other night?”

  “What other night?”

  “Monday night.” The night Jeff Golding had to suck on Galaxo’s prick.

  “Home, I guess. It’s where I usually am.” Same thing Eddie Rivers had said back then. “Yeah, I think I was home. Why?”

  “Tried to call you,” Spader lied.

  “Yeah? What for?”

  “Wanted to tell you I left a message for the mall security director I dealt with on that RadioShack thing. If you were home, why didn’t you answer?”

  “Probably fell asleep. He call you back yet?”

  “You didn’t hear the phone?”

  “Guess not. Don’t always. I might have had a couple that night. Sometimes I don’t hear the phone if I’ve had a couple.”

  Spader nodded. He almost asked where Wagner was the night of Peter Lisbon’s murder, and Andrew Yasovich’s. And the night Stanley Pendleton lost an ear. But, thankfully, he was just sober enough to stop himself. “Hey, I meant to ask you the other day. How’s your dad doing these days?”

  A funny look crossed Wagner’s face. “My dad? You ever even meet him?”

  Spader pretended to give it a second’s thought. “I think so, a few years back. So how’s he doing?”

  “Still living in Florida,” Wagner said. “And he can stay there, far as I’m concerned. Last time I saw him was a couple of years ago when he was up here on some trip with his seniors group. He was here a day or two. Maybe you met him then, huh? He and I had lunch one day.”

  “Yeah, I think that was it. Nice of him to visit you, huh? He ever visit your brothers or sisters like that?”

  Wagner eyed him for a moment. “The old bastard wasn’t visiting me. He was taking a trip with his old coot friends and they just happened to be going to Boston. Caught a game at Fenway, I think. I was surprised he even had my number to call me when he got to town. And brothers and sisters? I never had any.” He looked as though he was about to say something but changed his mind. Finally, he said, “So did the mall guy call you back yet or not?”

  Spader shook his head. “I’ll let you know when he does. Funny you ran into me here like this tonight. I mean, I come here once or twice a week, and I don’t think I’ve seen you here since you left the job. Lucky, I guess.”

  Wagner nodded and turned and leaned back against the bar, facing the door. His face was in shadow now, the yellow glow gone.

  “So you’ll let me know when the guy calls then?”

  Spader nodded.

  “Thanks, buddy. Knew I can count on you.” He finished his whiskey and put his glass on the bar, giving Spader another quick flash of his yellow face, smiling again, before he turned his back to the bar once more. “I’m taking off. Give you a ride home?”

  “No, thanks. Got my car.”

  “You sure you’re okay to drive? You don’t look so good.” He should talk. “You got a lot going on right now. A lotta stress you’re dealing with. You got some psycho out there, leaving you messages in blood. And who knows? Could be our old friend is back in town, eh? That’s what people are saying, right? That’s gotta be eating at you. Maybe you should let me drive you home.”

  Spader looked into Wagner’s eyes, older than they should have been, colder than they used to be. “No, I’m fine, Oscar. Thanks. How’d you know about the message in blood?” That fact had been kept from the press.

  “Still got friends on the force, John, don’t I?” He smiled. “I mean, you’re my friend, right?”

  Maybe it was the alcohol or the late hour, or maybe it was the stress he was under, or maybe Spader’s eyes were playing tricks on him just for kicks, but something didn’t look right in Wagner’s mud-colored eyes.

  “Course I’m your friend, Oscar,” Spader said.

  “Well, I got others, too. Must have heard about that message from one of them.”

  They stared at each other a moment longer, then Wagner smiled again. “Good seeing you, John. Drive careful.”

  Spader watched Wagner leave, then turned back to the bar, where he found a cup of hot coffee waiting for him. He looked up at Carmichael, who was leaning against the bar in front of him again.

  “Not sure I ever liked that one,” Carmichael said, nodding at the door through which Wagner left a moment ago. “Maybe I did, but if so, I don’t remember it.”

  “Used to be okay,” Spader said.

  “And what do you think of him now?”

  “Now? I’m not sure what I think now.” He looked down at the black coffee on the bar. “Thanks, but I don’t drink coffee, Ian.”

  “I hate to contradict a friend, especially in my own bar. Smacks of a lack of hospitality. But I have to differ with you, lad. Tonight, you do drink coffee. That is, unless you want me coming after your keys again.”

  Spader thought about it, then lifted the cup to his mouth.

  THIRTEEN

  “Good morning, Spader,” Detective Captain Struthers said, looking like it had been far from a good morning for him. “Where the hell do things stand on this fucking Galaxo case?”

  Struthers looked a year older than he had nine days ago, the last time he’d called Spader into his office. Spader considered his question for a moment. He honestly wasn’t sure where things stood. He thought about discussing his suspicions concerning Oscar Wagner, who had served under Struthers for a little while, but figured it was too early. It was little more than a hunch at the moment, based as much on a creepy vibe Wagner gave off as on anything substantive. Spader decided to hold that one back for a little longer.

  “You ever hear that thing Edison said about the lightbulb, Cap?” Damn if he didn’t almost say Sally.

  “About the ten thousand failures, or successes, or whatever.”

  Spader nodded.

  “You’re telling me you’ve got a bunch of failures so far.” He wasn’t judging or subtly reprimanding, just stating the fact.

  “I guess that’s fairly accurate. We’ve made a lot of progress. I just don’t know that it’s forward progress.”

  “Hmm. I just realized I’m not in the mood for riddles this morning. Why don’t you just tell me what we’ve done and what we’re going to do.”

  Spader recounted their efforts so far, the diggin
g into the victims’ lives, backgrounds, and most recent activities, the interviewing of anyone who might have insight into such things, as well as FBI Special Agent Dwight W. Daniels’s profile and the investigative avenues it suggested. He kept his report concise but tried to be thorough. Struthers listened closely, asked insightful questions now and then, made a few suggestions, and when Spader had brought him up to speed, he nodded thoughtfully. Spader waited to be dismissed. He waited some more as Struthers studied the immaculate surface of his desk. He spotted a stray paper clip peeking out from beneath a precisely stacked pile of papers and removed it, placing it carefully into the top drawer of his desk. And still Spader waited. Finally, the captain looked up into Spader’s eyes.

  “I probably don’t have to tell you that the governor’s riding DA Rawlings pretty hard about this case. And ever since this fucking Galaxo killed his second victim, the deceased trooper’s son, I’ve got Rawlings up my ass about it. He’s been up there so long I think he’s having his mail forwarded there now. In fact, I just spent fifteen minutes on the phone with him assuring him that we didn’t make a mistake putting you on this, reminding him why we gave it to you in the first place. He never got comfortable with the choice. He went along because I pushed it and he trusts me. But that only goes so far. He has to watch his backside, too. I’m not telling you any of this to worry you. It’s my concern. I tell you this so you know what’s what. The DA doesn’t want blowback, doesn’t want anyone to be able to say we made a critical error at the very beginning of this investigation, an error in giving you the case.”

  He paused.

  “I told him we didn’t. And I don’t think we did. There are sound reasons I wanted you on this, not the least of which is that you’re a good detective.”

  Spader waited.

  “What I’m saying is, I’m under pressure on this, as you certainly must know. I haven’t bothered you with any of it so far, but it’s starting to get hot for me, which means I have to make it hot for you. This case is making a lot of headlines. And they’re starting with that Jack of Spades shit again. And Galaxo, the bastard, he’s screwing around with us, which I don’t like one bit, and I can assure you the DA likes it even less.”

  “With me.”

  “Huh?”

  “He’s screwing with me personally.”

  “He screws with you, he’s screwing with all of us.” Struthers shook his head. “This is all anyone in the news can talk about, as you know. The goddamned mask the son of a bitch wears guaranteed him the front page from the moment the media jackals got a sniff of that little tidbit. Now he breaks wind and it gets two days’ coverage, front page, above the fold. I’m not saying you’re not doing everything you can to find this shitbag because I know you are, but every day that goes by and he’s still out there is another day some dickhead journalist finds another angle to write about.” He dropped his eyes to his desktop. “And they continue to beat to death existing angles.”

  “Eddie Rivers,” Spader said.

  “That’s one, sure.”

  Spader had read some of the articles. They all rehashed the details of Rivers’s crimes and the monumental fuckup that led to his serving less than nine months in prison instead of spending the rest of his life behind bars. Not a single article failed to pin the blame on the state police in general and on Spader in particular.

  “I know you know this already,” Struthers said. “I know you’re taking a beating, and it sucks. You and I both know that Oscar Wagner’s the one who fucked up that warrant, not you.” Spader shrugged.

  “I’m not sure everyone’s totally wrong, sir.”

  Struthers looked at him for a moment. Spader knew his captain wouldn’t mention his testimony about the warrant. Whether Spader had lied or been mistaken would never be discussed openly.

  “Anyway,” Struthers said, “we need to find this asshole and we need to find him fast. And not just because we’re getting the shit kicked out of us for something that happened two years ago, but also because the longer that piece of shit is out there, the better the chance there is he’ll do some more seriously twisted shit to somebody before we get him.”

  “I know, Cap, and I want him as badly as you do. Besides, I don’t want you climbing up my ass. What with all the members of the fourth estate in there, it’s getting awfully crowded.”

  Struthers cracked a small smile but it faded a moment later. “You touched on it very briefly in your summary a few minutes ago, but what do you think the chances are that under that fucking yellow mask is Eddie Rivers?”

  Spader didn’t hesitate. “Not good.”

  Struthers nodded and was silent a moment. Then he frowned and said, “Wait, you said ‘not good.’ You mean it’s not good, meaning that it probably is Rivers, which we all know wouldn’t be good, seeing as any new body he adds to his count is put on us, or do you mean the chances aren’t good that it’s Rivers doing this?”

  “The latter.”

  “The what?”

  “The second thing you said.”

  Struthers nodded again. “But it’s still a possibility, yes?”

  Spader was forced to admit that it was.

  “Shit. The press already has the whole goddamned state wondering about that theory, which means the DA and the governor are both wondering about it, too, and neither one of them loves being reminded what a clusterfuck that case turned out to be. We don’t look good right now.”

  “We’ll look better when we nail Galaxo and send him to prison for the rest of his life. That should get everyone out of both our asses.”

  “We gonna do that before he strikes again?”

  “Gonna try like hell. Can’t lie to you, though, Cap, we might not win that race.”

  “Shit.”

  “Where you been?” Gavin Dunbar asked as Spader stepped into the locker room. Dunbar was sitting, naked and sweating, on a wooden bench that ran between two rows of lockers. A white towel lay on the bench beside him and Spader wished he’d pick it up and cover himself. Spader was far from being either a prude or a homophobe, but he’d rather not look at a slightly overweight, sweaty, naked guy if he could avoid it.

  Spader dropped his canvas briefcase onto the bench and began to unbutton his shirt. His sport coat was back at his desk, hanging on his chair.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I saw you go into the captain’s office first thing this morning, then you disappeared. So I went for a run. Thought I’d look for you when I got back. What did Sally want?”

  Spader shrugged out of his shirt, which the unusually hot day, even for late summer, had soaked through with sweat on his chest, back, and under his arms, though it wasn’t even nine thirty in the morning yet. He balled up the shirt and used it to wipe residual sweat from his torso, then tossed the dirty garment onto the floor of his locker.

  “The captain would appreciate it if we’d catch Galaxo soon,” Spader said. “You went for a run?”

  “Sure.”

  “How come I’ve never seen you run before?”

  “I do it every month. Thought you knew.”

  “You go for a run every month? One run?”

  “Hey, it works for me.” Dunbar finally wrapped the towel around his waist and grabbed a bottle of shampoo from a shelf in his locker. “So where were you this morning, after Sally’s office?”

  “The range.”

  “The firing range? Why?”

  Spader closed his locker. “Need to keep my skills sharp.”

  “Yeah, we all do, of course. But why this morning? When was the last time you even pulled your gun on the job?” He closed his eyes and grimaced. They both knew the last time was when he’d shot Eddie Rivers, shot him without killing him. They both also knew that Spader had relived that shot a thousand times since then, wishing he hadn’t left Rivers alive, hadn’t left things up to the system…wishing he’d aimed just a little higher and to the right. “Sorry, man.”

  “I do good thinking on the range. You should try it.”<
br />
  “Thinking at the firing range?”

  “Thinking at all.”

  “Funny. What were you thinking about?”

  Spader looked around. Two cops were at their lockers farther down. A third walked by their row on his way to the showers. “Take your shower and come find me. I’ll tell you what I was thinking about.”

  “Oscar Wagner,” Spader said.

  Dunbar coughed in surprise, sending iced coffee dribbling down his chin. He wiped at his mouth with a paper Starbucks napkin. Then he saw that he’d stained his shirt. “Fuck. I just put on my last spare after my shower. Oscar Wagner?”

  They were walking along the street, each with an iced coffee in hand. Spader didn’t want to talk about this at Ten Fed and he didn’t want to sit in a public place, like a coffee shop—especially one so close to where they worked, one that was frequented by every cop and detective he worked with—so they got their drinks to go and were walking around the block.

  “Just an angle I’m working,” Spader said.

  “Oscar Wagner? Where’d this come from?”

  Spader thought about it. It was a hunch, really, fueled by what might have been nothing more than mere coincidences, bolstered by a trick of the light at the Green Hills last night. But coincidences were often more than that, and his instincts had always been sharp. There was a definite vibe Wagner was giving off, one Spader couldn’t afford to ignore at the moment.

  “I’m not saying it’s him, Gavin, keep that in mind. But there are some things that are bugging me about the guy.”

  “The guy always bugged me, but I never accused him of being a psycho who cuts people up.”