The Betrayers

by James Patrick Hunt

  Regan drove his green 1972 Buick Skylark north on Lakeshore Drive and peeled off at the Lincoln Park exit. He parked then walked down the path past sailboats and yachts drydocked and wrapped up for the winter. A few weeks shy of Thanksgiving and the harsh cold wind already coming off the lake, whipping against his cheeks and neck. Regan kept his hands in the pockets of his navy blue pea coat. He had left his gloves at the bar.

  He came to a light blue BMW 745Li and stopped to look at it. A man inside, behind the wheel.

  Regan walked up, looked in the window, then opened the passenger door and got in.

  Alan Mansell said, “Cold out, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Regan said.

  “They say you get used to it,” Alan said, “But I’ve lived here all my life and I sure as hell haven’t. I need to move.”

  Alan Mansell looked like a lawyer. Balding, slight of build, glasses. He wore a tailored suit and an Italian silk tie, a black cashmere overcoat and leather gloves. Lawyer’s uniform, which he wore comfortably. He was partners with Lewis Dushane. Neither Alan nor Lewis was Italian, but the local media called them “Mafia lawyers” all the same.

  Regan said, “Where would you move?”

  “I don’t know. Arizona, maybe Miami.”

  Regan looked around him. “You got a new car,” he said.

  “Yeah,” Alan said, “What do you think?”

  “It’s all right.” Regan had never bought a new car in his life. He was not drawn to flashy things.

  “Yeah, I traded the Jag in for it. It drives better, but it’s got this goddamn i-drive thing. Had to have my son teach me how to use it.”

  “Hmmm.” Regan knew less about modern technology than Alan Mansell had forgotten. His own vehicle had the stock AM radio, which was good enough for him.

  Mansell realized the man was not going to say anything else about the car or its doodads. He said, “How you been?”

  “I’ve been good,” Regan said. “What’s up?” It had been almost a year since he’d seen the lawyer.

  Alan said, “Zans wants you to help him.”

  Zans was the nickname for John Zanatelli. He had been arrested and charged with racketeering and conspiracy to commit racketeering. The judge had denied bail and Zans was in county jail awaiting trial.

  “All right. Something new?”

  “Yeah,” Alan said, “you could say that. We got tapes in discovery. Tapes from the prosecution. Like over a hundred of em’. Lewis and I listened to them, but a lot of it’s Italian guys and we couldn’t understand what the fuck they’re talking about. We had a set of copies made for Zans and he listened to them too.” Alan said, “He understood them better than we did. Anyway. You ever heard of this listening device called a roving bug?”

  “No.”

  “What it is, it’s a portable microphone. Sits on the end of a sort of stick or boom. You point it at the people you want to hear and it picks them up. Sometimes clearly, sometimes not so clearly. The feds, they say all these tapes were obtained through legal process; that they had warrants and authorizations from a judge before they used their microphones. They’re only supposed to use the roving bugs if they don’t have enough information on where and when the suspects are meeting. The thing is though, feds lie to judges. They say they don’t know where or when, so they can use the roving bug as much as they want. Major violation of the Fourth Amendment. Well, that’s lawyer talk. The point is, if we could prove that these tapes were obtained wrongfully using the roving bug, if we could prove that the feds misled the judge, we could get the tapes suppressed and kept out of trial. Basically, take away their case.”

  Regan said, “Okay.” He didn’t see what this had to do with him. But he imagined the lawyer would get to it. If Zans had sent him.

  “Well,” Alan said. “On one of the tapes, Zans heard voices, real low, in the background. Two guys talking. And they’re not Italian. They’re not the guys that are supposed to be bein’ taped. They’re feds, whispering to each other. See, the feds were whispering to each other while they held the roving bug. Well, Zans played that tape over and over because he heard something that he thought was very important.”

  “Important to his defense?”

  “No,” Alan said. “Important to him.”

  They sat in the car quietly. Traffic went north and south on Lakeshore Drive in front of them, the gray lake and sky lay flat beyond.

  Regan said, “Why is that?”

  “Because Zans heard one fed say to another, ‘Dillon was right.’” Alan paused, said, “Do you understand now?”

  Regan said, “You mean Mike Dillon?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Mike Dillon was working for the feds?”

  “That’s what Zans thinks. And that’s all that matters.”

  Jack Regan smiled. Alan was a diplomat. He was not going to say that Mike Dillon was a rat, working for the FBI. That’s what Zans thinks. Very cautious, very clever.

  “How about you, Alan,” Regan said. “What do you think?”

  Alan stirred uncomfortably in his seat. “It doesn’t look good,” he said.

  “Okay,” Regan said. “Zans thinks Dillon ratted him out.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, it would explain some things, wouldn’t it. Mike disappearing, Zans’s arrest. Danny’s arrest. Yeah … it would explain a lot.”

  The U.S. attorney used something called the kingpin statute of Illinois along with a lot of federal codes to snag Zans and some other guys. Most of them Italians, some of them Irish. The local media and some law enforcement referred to them as “dinosaurs,” bit players trying to relive Mafia nostalgia. But even the U.S. attorney had said it wasn’t as simple as that. The counts filed by the U.S. attorney had asserted that John Zanatelli had been operating a “continuing criminal enterprise.” And he was right about that. The enterprise had many employees, principals, and agents. Some of them lawyers like Alan Mansell and some of them freelance assassins like Jack Regan.

  Though Jack Regan never thought of himself as an assassin. He didn’t think of killing in such high-minded concepts. He had quit counting how many times he had done it over the years. Some years, as many as five. Some years, none at all. He did count the money, though. He always counted the money.

  Alan Mansell regarded Regan now.

  “You believe it?” Alan said.

  “I don’t have trouble believing it,” Regan said.

  “But you know Dillon.”

  Better than you, Regan thought. Mike Dillon—Irish Mafia chief and federal rat. But anyone with sense enough to discard the blarney would know that Mike Dillon was capable of anything. Dillon, who spoke of Ireland like it was a mystical, magical homeland but had never once been there; who lived with his mother until she died, but had made widows of other mothers; who talked about keeping drugs out of the south side, but took weekly protection fees from every dope dealer south of Thirty-first Street. Jack Regan was no moralist, but he hated blarney.

  “Right,” Regan said. “Zans want him clipped?”

  Alan Mansell hesitated. He knew Jack Regan’s business and he knew that Zans had insisted that they use Regan. He got right to it, and maybe that was a good thing. Still, the man’s attitude chilled the blood.

  After a moment, Alan said, “Yes. That’s what John, what Zans wants.”

  “Okay,” Regan said. “You know where he is?”

  “Dillon?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No, I don’t know.”

  Regan knew Alan’s partner had once represented Mike Dillon. Regan turned slightly in his seat.

  “You sure?” Regan said.

  “Yeah,” Alan said, getting his meaning. “I’m sure.”

  “I don’t judge, Alan. I’m just asking.”

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Alan said. “Yeah, we’ve represented Dillon before. But that was years ago. Zans is our guy now.”

  Regan sighed, hid a smile. “Bloody mercenaries.”

  Alan sm
iled. “You in?”

  “How much?” Regan said.

  “Hundred.”

  “Hundred?” Regan said, “For Dillon?”

  “That’s a lot of money.”

  “Not for Mike Dillon. He’s a lot of things, but he ain’t dumb. He’s probably got bodyguards. It ain’t the same thing as a millionaire in a parking lot.”

  “Well—”

  “Well, what? I get clipped, my wife’s got to run our place alone. We eat up a hundred in overhead in less than a year.”

  “We’d make sure she’d get taken care of.”

  Regan stifled a laugh.

  “Would you now? Come on, Alan. I’ve heard that shit before. Remember Timmy Frears?”

  “That’s—”

  “They told him to keep his mouth shut and they’d take care of his wife and kids. Well, he did and his family went on welfare. Humiliating. Things like that make a man sitting in prison wonder who his friends are. And that’s a man who was alive. You gonna tell me you’d treat his family better if he were dead?”

  “Okay,” Alan said, “you made your point. What do you want?”

  “Well,” Regan said, “I’m not lookin’ to retire on it. Just fair treatment, that’s all. I’ll do it for two.”

  “Two hundred?”

  “Yeah. Half now, half when it’s done.”

  Alan Mansell made a face.

  “Come on, Alan. We both know Zans clears fifty a week with his operation. He can spare two hundred and more.”

  “Okay,” Alan said. He took an envelope out of his coat and handed it to Regan. “There’s fifty in there. We’ll get you another fifty tomorrow. You get the other hundred when it’s done.”

  Jack Regan put the envelope in his pocket. “Good seeing you, Alan.” He got out of the BMW and walked back to the Buick .

  NINE

  There was a plaque on the wall behind Karen Brady’s desk that said WHEN YOU ASSUME YOU MAKE AN ASS OUT OF U AND ME. It had been there for two years and Hastings wondered what it would take to get her to take it down. Joe Klosterman had once suggested that they break into her office after shift and replace it with a sign that said WHEN YOU PUT DATED LAME-ASS SLOGANS ON A WALL, YOU MAKE ASSHOLES OUT OF ALL US. For a while, Hastings actually feared that Joe would do it.

  He was in her office now because she had called him in right after he got back from Fenton and asked to “assess the case.” Hastings told her about the lead from narcotics.

  “That’s great,” she said.

  Hastings had a concern. He debated bringing it up because he did not want to show her disrespect.

  “Well,” he said, “it’s just a lead.”

  Karen frowned. “What?”

  “I mean,” Hastings said, “I don’t think we should tell the assistant chief just yet. Certainly not the department spokesman.”

  “Is that what you thought I was going to do?”

  Yes, Hastings thought.

  “Oh, no,” Hastings said. “I mean, no—I didn’t think you were going to suggest that.”

  “What’s your concern?”

  “My concern is, it’s just a lead.” Hastings said, “Frankly, my concern is with these guys.”

  “You mean Lieutenant Elliott?” Karen said. “Why? Is it a race thing?”

  Jesus Christ, Hastings thought.

  “No,” he said. “It has nothing to do with—no. Elliott’s okay. I think Gibbs is okay too. The thing is, they feel responsible. They knew Hummel. They liked him. And they hate Treats. They want it to be Treats, is what I’m saying.”

  “So you don’t think Treats did it?”

  Hastings mentally sighed.

  Hastings had worked for Karen Brady for two years. He did not dislike her. She was ambitious to be sure, but there was little about her that was ugly or cold. She was, at root, a nerd who wanted to both belong and be respected, and this is a difficult mix for a person in a position of leadership. She had never been more than a mediocre detective. She was inoffensive and unimaginative and she was not especially strong. In the upside-down world that is often police administration, these traits helped her float, more or less unnoticed, to the rank of captain.

  “No,” Hastings said. “There’s good reason to think he did do it. We’ve got a motive. And I want to check him out. But it’s just a lead now. That’s all it is. What I’m worried about is word leaking out that the case has been solved. Because it hasn’t.”

  “How would that happen?”

  Hastings thought of one Bobby Cain. And he worried about Karen too. Ambitious people wanting credit for a closed case, moving quickly, screwing it up and making fools of good people.

  “It can happen,” Hastings said. “And if it leads to nothing, we’ve given the victims’ families a false hope.”

  “I’m not going to lie to my superiors.”

  “Karen, I’m not asking you to. They ask, we answer. People are scared and they want answers. I understand that. But … well, you see where I’m coming from?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” she said. Her tone dismissive now; she didn’t like it when you made sense. “Where is Treats?”

  “He’s in Marion. I’ll go out there tomorrow.”

  “Alone?”

  “No. I’ll take Cain with me.”

  Karen Brady looked at him, confused. But she didn’t ask why and he didn’t tell.

  TEN

  Dillon liked the Stouffer’s prepackaged macaroni baked in the oven because if you heated it in the microwave, you couldn’t get the cheese to brown on top. Sharon had cooked it in the microwave once, thinking he wouldn’t know the difference, but he had, and he threw it against the wall and made her clean it up. Sharon Dunphy had wiped the sauce and noodles off the wall and floor and told herself that Mike had never hit her. Never slapped her or cuffed her on the head. She just had to remember to do things properly.

  Dillon had said to her once, “What do I ask from you? Huh? Come on, tell me. What do I ask of you?”

  What he asked of her was that she have a decent meal on the table every night at six o’clock. Not much, he said, considering that he was paying for the food as well as her mortgage. In fact, he didn’t even press for sex. Once every couple of weeks or so, he would take her to bed. Which she didn’t mind so much. Mike Dillon was older than she was, but he was not a mean-spirited lover. No rough stuff. And he looked good naked for a man of his age. There were times when Sharon wondered if Mike even enjoyed doing it. She wondered if he was making love to her not because he wanted to, but to prevent her from thinking he was a fag or something. They said it happened to some men when they served long prison sentences. Get used to things men shouldn’t get used to. He had told her he spent most of his twenties and early thirties in Leavenworth.

  Tonight, she had cooked the macaroni in the oven and she didn’t take it out until a brown crust had formed on top. She took it out of the oven and transferred the steaming pile from its plastic dish to a dinner plate. She took asparagus from the stovetop and put it next to the macaroni. Then she put a dinner roll on the side. One roll, not two. Mike was always careful about keeping dinner portions small. Fifty years old and no stomach on him.

  Mike Dillon put the St. Louis Post-Dispatch down as Sharon put his plate in front of him. He said, “Where’re the kids?”

  Sharon said, “Matt’s at band practice. Lee’s at her friend’s.”

  Dillon frowned. “They should be here for dinner,” he said.

  They weren’t his kids. But he was funny about these things. The family should eat together, he said, even if the family was not his. Sharon shrugged, hoping he would leave it alone for now, and he did. At another time, he might have lost his temper and told her she was a shitty mom, maybe broken something and walked out. But tonight he let it go. You could never tell what Mike was going to do.

  At thirty-two, Sharon Dunphy was eighteen years younger than Mike Dillon. She was an attractive woman with blond hair she usually wore in a ponytail. In makeup and nice clothes, she would hav
e been very pretty. Prettier still without a look of fear and dread wearing down her expression.

  The father of her children, Matt Senior, had worked for one of Dillon’s associates years ago. But he got caught driving a truckload of stolen cigarettes near Kansas City and had to go away for a seven-year stretch. Before that, Matt had introduced her to Dillon like he was the pope or something. Dillon had made a point of remembering her when he showed up in St. Louis a couple of years ago—this time to stay, apparently. Dillon said it was a shame about Matt getting caught, but he was here now and he wanted to take care of her and the kids. He had his own place, but he liked to have dinner at their house at least three times a week.

  This night, he finished his dinner and put his plate in the kitchen sink. Rinsed off the gunk and put it in the dishwasher. Sharon remained at the table. Dillon put his windbreaker on and kissed her on the top of her head.

  “I’ll see you later,” he said.

  She looked at the window and watched him get into his car and drive away. It gave her some relief. But only some because he would be back. He always came back. She sometimes wondered if it would be better if he did hit her. If he did get violent with her. She wondered if that would relieve some of the pressure she felt. Her life had not been one of contentment or happiness or quiet comfort, but until she met Mike, she had never known the burden of feeling so scared. Not just sometimes, but all the time. Even when he was gone, the fear remained. It was constant, overwhelming. It was like a prison. Bad enough before, but now it was beyond bad. Now it was a nightmare. She had learned to control the crying, had learned to be quiet. And sometimes she thought that having to be quiet was the worst of it. Like watching a horror film, but you’re not allowed to cry out or scream or even draw breath. You just have to remain silent and hope he doesn’t notice. Sit quietly in your own horror movie.

  ELEVEN

  It was a two-hour drive to Marion, and it didn’t take long for Hastings to figure out that he did not want to use that time to foster some sort of friendship with Bobby Cain. Cain talked about work, college, high school, football, the Rams, Mizzou, Coach Woody, his father, his father’s law firm, his wife, and other women. He was vulgar when he spoke of women. Holding forth on a previous fiancée who was a runner-up in the Miss Missouri pageant, he said, “I had a good ride on that, lemme tell ya.” And so forth. Hastings, who had seen a number of things inexplicable and gross, wondered how this man had ever gotten a woman to marry him. He wondered if the man had close friends and, if so, did they talk this way also? They had taken Hastings’s car, so Hastings was driving and could not pretend to take a nap to get the guy to be quiet. He made a note to ask Cain to drive on the way back. If he didn’t kill him before then.