Irish Eyes

by Mary Kay Andrews

  “Cops have never made any money in this town,” I pointed out. “What’s different now?”

  “The streets are different,” Rakoczy said. “You quit the force how long ago?”

  “Ten years,” I said, sighing.

  “You ever make an arrest in a crack house?”

  “No. Crack wasn’t that big back then. Not here.”

  “Ever have a twelve-year-old child wave a semiautomatic pistol in your face and threaten to blow your white ass to hell?”

  “Can’t say that I did.”

  “Ever stand in the middle of the street staring at a drunk yuppie driving a half-ton Mercedes SUV, praying he swerves in time?”

  “I get your point. It’s a big bad world out there.”

  “Everybody going into the academy knows young officers are underpaid,” Rakoczy conceded. “That’s part of the life. It’s understood. But it was also understood that if you did a good job, kept up your training, and advanced your rank, the pay would come along, eventually. What’s different now is you have career law enforcement officers, men who should be making a decent, living wage, forced to work two and three jobs just to make ends meet. And that’s bad. You can’t be alert on your shift if you just came off another job. It’s how people get themselves killed.”

  “You’re saying that’s what happened to Bucky Deavers?”

  “The day before he got shot, he worked his usual shift. Then he worked at the Bottle Shop till four A.M. Then he went home and reported for work again at nine A.M. He had maybe four hours’ sleep. His reflexes—how good could they have been under those conditions?”

  “I understand his service revolver was out in his car,” I said. “He was unarmed. It wouldn’t have mattered how good his reflexes were or how much sleep he’d had. The bastard shot him point-blank, in the head. And I don’t think it was just random violence either, since you bring it up.”

  He looked thoughtful. “I’ve been wondering about that. A buddy of mine showed me the original incident report. No money taken. And Deavers—he didn’t identify himself as a police officer, right?”

  “I wasn’t in the store at the time, and I don’t know what the clerk told the police when they interviewed her at the scene.”

  “And the clerk has disappeared.”

  “The only witness,” I pointed out.

  “I take it you have a theory,” he said.

  “Let me ask you a question,” I said. “Do you have a second job?”

  “Of course,” Rakoczy said. “And a second mortgage too. I have two kids in a private school. And my wife is a teacher. I work security at the mall near my house. Thursday and Friday nights. And I get off at midnight, so I have plenty of sleep.”

  “Do you know anything about an informal arrangement with certain cops who can line people up with all the security work they want?”

  “You mean John Boylan?”

  “Yes. Boylan’s group. What do you know about them?”

  His lip curled. “Drunks. Party animals. I was surprised when I heard Deavers was hooked up with them. He was always a good cop as far as I knew.”

  “But these other guys weren’t?”

  “I never thought so. They were always planning some function, golf tournaments, fishing trips, gambling junkets to Vegas and Biloxi and Atlantic City. Like a bunch of overgrown fraternity boys, with all that Irish rigmarole of theirs. It was offensive to a lot of people, I’ll tell you that.”

  “A guy with a name like Rakoczy probably would think that, wouldn’t he?” I said gently.

  “And a gal with a name like Callahan Garrity probably wants to sign right up and be Queen of the Shamrocks,” he shot back. “For your information, my mother was a Danaher from County Clare and a hell of a lot more Irish than any of those billy goats parading around in their green jackets and plastic derbies. No, what’s offensive about those fellas is what they stand for. Drunkenness. Bigotry. Amorality. All cloaked in the disguise of good-spirited fraternalism. Spare me, please!”

  “Somebody told me the Shamrocks locked up a lot of high paying security jobs. And unless you were one of them, you could forget about getting one of those plum jobs.”

  He nodded emphatically. “It was understood. The goodol’-boy network. The hell with ‘em, I say. The day I suck up to John Boylan for anything will be a cold day in hell. That’s what I told my wife.”

  I nibbled at a French fry. “You said these guys are amoral. What did you mean by that?”

  It took him a minute to gather his thoughts. “They’re just … I don’t know. Rotten. Crooked. You know? Not all of ‘em, I don’t mean. But Boylan, that guy, he’s married, but he’s always got girlfriends. And he’s always working an angle. Kehoe, I don’t know as well, but I’ve heard stories.”

  He shook his head, gave a wry smile. “It’s nothing I can put my finger on specifically.”

  I leaned forward. “Can you give me a for-instance? I’m intrigued, because I’ve known Boylan a long time myself. And I’ve had the same impression as you.” I felt myself blushing, but decided to confide in him in the hopes he’d do the same for me.

  “Years ago, Boylan and I, uh, dated a few times. It’s embarrassing, but we got pretty intimate. Then I found out he was married, with kids. I broke it off right away, of course, but I never trusted him after that.”

  “That sounds like the guy,” Rakoczy agreed. “One time, he was back working in uniform, over in Zone Five where I worked. It was after one of those rap concerts at the Omni. They’d sold out all the tickets, and these kids that couldn’t get in went on a rampage. They ran up and down the streets, smashing windows and throwing rocks and beer bottles at passing cars. One kid got shot in the neck.

  “Hell of a thing. And one of the stores that got looted was a pawnshop on Central Avenue. The captain sent Boylan and two other guys over there to get things under control. There were some heads bashed. By the time the store owner got down there, the place had been emptied out. A couple weeks after that, I heard Boylan was bragging about the fancy camera he’d gotten out of there. And then I heard he was wearing a new Rolex watch too. Christ! The guy was no better than the kids whose heads he’d been bashing in.”

  The look on Rakoczy’s face was one of pure disgust.

  “Boylan helped himself to a camera and a watch when he thought nobody was looking,” I said, thinking out loud. “Petty theft, really. Do you think he’s capable of something bigger?”

  The suggestion seemed to take him by surprise.

  “Like what?”

  “Armed robbery?”

  Rakoczy ran his hand over his chin. “Maybe. Who knows?”

  We sat and watched each other warily for a while.

  “You seem to have a theory you’re working on,” he said finally. “Would you mind sharing it with me? Unofficially?”

  I wanted to, I really did. But all I had was half-formed ideas and half-baked theories.

  “Maybe later,” I said.

  “Fair enough,” Rakoczy said. He got up from the table. “I’m still at Zone Five. Call me if you want to talk.”

  “I will,” I promised.

  24

  I parked over on the side of the Kroger, near a cluster of shopping carts, turned off the motor, and rolled down the windows. It was still cold, but there was a damp green scent in the air; spring. An elderly man in a red apron came out and corralled all the carts into a row, rolling them slowly toward the front of the store.

  After fifteen minutes, Bishop drove up in a burgundy colored Dodge Aerostar minivan with a bumper sticker that read: “My Kid Can Beat Up Your Honor Student.”

  He parked in front, looked around, shrugged, then went inside. He came out of the store a short while later, lugging two plastic bags and a gallon of milk.

  I whistled softly. He looked, nodded, unlocked the van, and put his groceries inside. Then he walked over and got in my vehicle.

  “Is now good?” I asked.

  He swiveled his head around, surveying the park
ing lot. Besides his own van, there were two or three late-model sedans, a beat-up red Toyota, and two old clunker cars that looked as though they might have been abandoned there.

  “My luck, somebody will probably come along and think this is a drug deal,” Bishop said, popping a piece of gum into his mouth and handing a piece across to me.

  “Give me some credit here,” I said, batting my eyelashes. “Maybe they’ll think I’m a hooker and you’re my john.”

  “And then if my old lady finds out, I’ll really be dead,” he said.

  I unwrapped the gum and folded the foil into a tiny square. “So, what have you heard?”

  “It’s nothing,” Bishop protested. “I should have kept my big mouth shut.”

  “But you didn’t,” I pointed out.

  “Christ,” he muttered. “You know Amy Greene? Works the lunch shift at Manuel’s on weekdays? Blond ponytail? Nice-looking?”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t usually stop by there during the day.”

  Bishop waved his hand dismissively. “Anyway, she’s putting her husband through Georgia Tech. He’s got a night job working for Alliance Bank. He reloads ATM machines. All over the city. Drives around in a little white van with these stashes of tens and twenties and fifties that he loads into ATM machines when they’re fixing to run out.”

  “I always wondered how they reloaded those things,” I said, “especially the ones that are in those freestanding kiosks in grocery store parking lots.”

  “Fiske, that’s the husband’s name, he doesn’t talk a lot about it,” Bishop said. “Some big security risk, I guess. He came in the bar Thursday night to grab some dinner. We got to talking, I was asking him how it was going driving the money mobile—that’s what Amy calls the bank van, the moneymobile. And Fiske says he quit. That very morning.”

  “Why’d he quit?” I asked, holding my breath.

  “Wednesday night, he got ambushed,” Bishop said. “He was down on the Southside, around seven P.M., had six machines he was supposed to service. He pulls into this little shopping center, drives up to the kiosk, gets out, and before he knows it, there’s a gun growing out of his ear.”

  “Jesus,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Bishop said, chewing loudly. “Fiske said the guy wore a mask. ‘Gimme the keys,’ he says. And then he pats Fiske down, finds his bank beeper, pockets that too. He took Fiske behind one of the stores in the shopping center, back behind a big Dumpster. He made Fiske lie down on the concrete, still at gunpoint, and handcuffed him, with his wrists behind his back. Then the masked guy, cool as you please, got in the money-mobile and drove away.”

  “With how much money?” I asked.

  “Fiske wouldn’t say,” Bishop said. “He’s still scared shitless. He laid in the parking lot all night long, rats running up and down his legs, roaches and stuff. Finally, seven in the morning, a garbage crew finds him there and calls the cops.”

  “My God,” I said. “And he wasn’t hurt?”

  “He looked okay to me. A little pale maybe.” Bishop said.

  “Wait a minute. How come there hasn’t been anything about this on the news?” I asked.

  “Fiske thinks the bank asked the cops to keep it quiet. They don’t want the general public to know there’s vans tooling around town loaded with dough—and no armed guard to protect it.”

  “What made you think I’d be interested in this?” I asked. “I mean, I am interested. But how does it relate to the shooting at the liquor store?”

  Bishop gave me a long, intent look. “The guy wore a mask, but no gloves. I told you Fiske was scared. He thought the guy would kill him. He kept his eyes on the gun the whole time. And the hand that held the gun was wearing a ring. Sort of like a class ring, big and heavy, with engraving and a colored stone. All night long, he’s lying in that parking lot, thinking about what he’s gonna do if he gets out of there, and he’s thinking about the gun and the hand that held it. And he knew he’d seen a ring like that before. But he couldn’t think where.”

  “And then he remembered?” I suggested.

  Bishop nodded. “When Fiske came in Thursday night, there were a bunch of cops at the big table in the back. You know how they come in at the end of their shift, to kind of blow off steam? Fiske went into the bathroom to take a leak, and when he came out, his face had a funny look. Like he might pass out. I asked him what was going on, and that’s when he told me the whole story about the hijacking and the money-mobile.”

  “You’re leaving out the best part,” I accused him. “What about the ring?”

  “One of the cops was at the sink in the bathroom, washing his hands. He was wearing the same kind of ring. That’s what freaked Fiske out. But he couldn’t tell what was on the ring. After he told me, I took a pitcher of beer and some clean glasses over to their table, and just happened to ask the guy wearing it where he got the ring. FBI Academy, he says. Real proud.”

  “The holdup guy was a cop,” I said slowly. “And not just any cop. A detective, probably. It’s a real big deal for a cop to be invited to attend the FBI’s police academy up in Quantico, Virginia. They only choose so many cops a year, from all over the country. They have a graduation ceremony, and the graduates all buy class rings.”

  Bishop snapped his gum loudly, and I jumped.

  “Did Fiske tell anybody else about the ring?”

  “Hell, no,” Bishop said. “He only told me because I happened to be sitting there when he came out of the bathroom. He even made me swear not to tell Amy. If he knew I was talking to you, he’d wring my neck.”

  “Who was the cop?” I said.

  “What do you mean?” Bishop was playing dumb.

  “The cop in Manuel’s Thursday night, the one wearing the FBI Academy ring,” I said. “Who was it, Bishop?”

  “Don’t know his name,” Bishop said. “Thinning blond hair, eyebrows a shade lighter, like the kind of eyebrows that almost aren’t there. Maybe six-one, kind of skinny. Dressed in jeans and a denim work shirt.”

  “Who was he with?” I asked.

  “Just some of the cops from City Hall East,” Bishop said. “Half of ‘em, I don’t know their names. A little short guy with a clipped mustache, everybody calls him Ace. A couple of Fulton Sheriffs deputies, Whiteside and Singletary, and Darryl McKenzie. You know him? I think he used to work for Atlanta, but now he works for the DeKalb S.O.”

  None of the names meant much to me. I’d heard McKenzie’s name, but couldn’t put a face with it. A thought occurred to me.

  “Were all the cops white?”

  Bishop gave me a funny look. “I guess. I didn’t really think about it at the time. Yeah, sure, now that you mention, it was all white guys. Have they got some kinda KKK thing going? Is that why you ask?”

  I laughed. “KKK? No. Nothing like that, I don’t think. If the original ring guy came in again, could you do me a favor, find out who he is?”

  “I can try,” Bishop said. “But remember, Fiske didn’t say it was that exact guy. He just said the guy was wearing the same kind of ring.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  “Good,” Bishop said. He opened the van door. “I gotta go. My Fudgesicles are melting.”

  “Thanks, Bishop,” I said, blowing him a kiss.

  He made like he’d been smacked in the face. “Ow. Cut it out, or you will get me in trouble.”

  I was almost home when I heard the sirens. Dozens of them. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

  I pulled into the driveway and raced into the house. Edna was in the den, watching an old black-and-white movie on the television.

  “Turn the channel to WSB,” I said, out of breath.

  “What? This is my favorite Lana Turner movie,” Edna said, moving the remote control from her right hand to her left, and out of my reach.

  “Turn the channel, please!” I said. “You hear those sirens out there? That’s not just a cop chasing a speeder.”

  She turned the channel, but the newscaster was droning
on about tomorrow’s weather.

  I reached for the phone, called the Hunseckers.

  Linda answered. “Hey, girl,” she said.

  “Do you know anybody in dispatch?” I asked.

  “Sure,” she said, sounding puzzled. “What’s this all about?”

  “I just heard maybe two dozen Atlanta cruisers heading out on Ponce de Leon,” I said. “Can you call and find out what’s going on?”

  “Call you right back,” Linda said.

  Edna flipped the channel back to Madam X, but she turned the sound down. “What’s happening?” she asked. “Does Linda know anything?”

  The phone rang again before I could answer her.

  I picked it up.

  “Officer down,” Linda said, her voice cracking.

  “Where?”

  “A Vietnamese market on Buford Highway, just inside the city,” Linda said. “That’s all I know. What’s happening in this town, Callahan?”

  “Something bad,” I said.

  25

  The television news stations had the sketchiest of details. The cop who’d been killed was an Atlanta officer. He and his partner were answering a suspicious-person call at a Vietnamese market on Buford Highway and had apparently walked in on a burglary. The burglar shot one officer and killed him, fired at the other officer, missed, and fled the scene.

  Edna turned the television off and sat there, tsk-tsking. “Maybe we should reconsider about staying here in Atlanta,” she said, giving me a sidelong look.

  “Because of this?” I asked.

  “I’m serious, Jules,” she said. “That’s the second cop shot in a week. Crime’s awful. Drugs everywhere. Children carrying guns and knives to school. Look at what happened to you yesterday at that Memorial Oaks. And don’t even mention the traffic. Lord have mercy. I went out to your Aunt Olive’s house yesterday and it was like to have taken me an hour just sitting there in traffic on Georgia 400.”