The Betrayers

by James Patrick Hunt

  Hastings told himself that it was necessary to bring Cain along. He was a sergeant detective under his supervision and there was nothing he could do about that. Work was a series of compromises and he couldn’t very well ask Karen to transfer Cain out because Cain got on his nerves. Cain would have to screw up first. And, considering Cain’s influence in the Department, that screwup would have to be more than substantial. Besides, it was too risky to leave Cain behind because Cain may not have been able to resist the urge to call the assistant chief or his dad or his uncle and tell them about the Treats lead and how they had just broken this case wide fuckin’ open. Keep your friends close, Don Corleone, and your incompetent careerists closer.

  About halfway there, Cain said, “I guess you don’t talk much in the morning.” Wounded, for God’s sake.

  “No,” Hastings said. “Sorry. I’m kind of tired.”

  “Thinking about the case?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, is it true you played baseball for SLU?”

  “Yes.”

  “So what was that like?”

  Oh, God, Hastings thought. He said, “It was okay.”

  “I guess it’s hard to make a living at that.”

  “Yeah, I imagine it is.”

  Hastings passed a truck, put some distance in front of it, then slipped the Jaguar back into the right lane. The windshield wipers were set on intermittent, knocking off the drops left by a light rain.

  Cain said, “So, you’re kinda young for a homicide lieutenant.”

  Hastings looked over at the young sergeant. Men with more experience and time on the street were nowhere near Bobby Cain’s rank. Hastings said, “Not really.”

  “Oh, no; I mean, that’s impressive. I mean, how does that happen?”

  “How does what happen?” Hastings said it mildly.

  “How did you become a lieutenant before turning forty?”

  “I took an exam and got promoted.”

  “Yeah, okay. That’s cool, that’s cool.”

  There was a silence. Hastings debated turning on the radio, wondering if the forced laughter of an FM morning show would be preferable to this conversation. He decided it would not be.

  Hastings said, “Bobby?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you review the officers’ reports?”

  “Yes. I did it the night you told me to.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “Neighbors heard the gunfire. Some of them thought it was kids setting off firecrackers. Probably old people, hearing aids on the blink. One witness saw a dark car drive by. Nothing more than that. No tags. Not even a good description of a vehicle.”

  “How many people in the car?”

  “Nobody saw.”

  “Well, that’s not good. What about the Pathfinder?”

  “Stolen that afternoon.”

  “Owner report it?”

  “Uh, yeah. As a matter of fact they did.” Cain removed a notepad from his inside pocket and flipped through pages till he found what he wanted. Hastings was almost impressed. “Yeah, here it is. Reported stolen at 1440 hours. No identifiable prints.”

  “But the deputies,” Hastings said, “did they know that?”

  “Did they know it was stolen?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, no, it appears they didn’t. I mean, they didn’t call it in.”

  “Right. But did they call in the tag when they pulled the vehicle over?”

  “No, they didn’t.”

  Hastings said, “Why not?”

  “Why not?”

  “Yeah. Why didn’t the deputies call it in? Right after they pulled the Pathfinder over, why didn’t they follow standard patrol procedure and call in the tag number?”

  Cain was uneasy now. “I don’t know.”

  Hastings shook his head. “No, you gotta help me here. We talk these things out; that’s how it works. Why didn’t they call it in?”

  Cain hesitated and looked at Hastings, wondering if they could go back to the part where he talked shit and Hastings got bored.

  “Come on, Bobby. We speak freely here.”

  After a moment, Cain said, “Okay. Well—I mean, I wasn’t there, so—”

  “So what?”

  “Well, so maybe they fucked up.”

  Well, Hastings thought, whatever Cain was, he was not totally brainless. And at that moment, at least Cain was aware of his youth and inexperience and the danger of second-guessing cops who died in the line of duty.

  Hastings said, “Yeah, they might have.” He didn’t enjoy saying it, but it was the most reasonable explanation.

  Cain seemed to feel better after that.

  Steve Treats had the boyish good looks of a surfer. Blond hair, good teeth. He wore the light blue prison fatigues casually and comfortably. In the interview room, he sat leaned back in his chair, his hands in his pockets, legs stretched, his feet crossed. Hastings sat in a chair at a right angle to Treats, his body also relaxed and his legs crossed, the two men doing a dance, striking poses and staking out territory. Blocking and acting, as wolves do. Necessary tasks for detectives conducting interviews and suspects wanting to prove how clever they are.

  Bobby Cain was young and had not yet learned these things. He started out in another chair, restless, wanting to strike.

  Treats said, “So somebody whacked Chris. Well, anyone can tell you I didn’t do it.” Treats gestured to the walls.

  Cain said, “You could have had it done.”

  Treats glanced at the younger policeman, as if he just now noticed him. More wolf behavior. “Think so, junior?” he said. “Who am I gonna find that will whack two cops?”

  Cain said, “Money can buy anything.”

  “Not security,” Treats said. “One thing I’ve learned in this wonderful life is that if someone wants you dead, you’re gonna die. They may not get you today, but they’ll get you tomorrow. You’re marked, you’re marked. Something else I know: you kill a cop, the cops kill you. I know the rules.”

  Hastings said, “That’s not what we’ve got in mind.”

  Treats said, “Yeah? You know what happened in Soulard four years ago, don’t you. That guy shot a cop in the alleyway and they made Swiss fuckin’ cheese out of him. After he surrendered. After he put his gun down. Tell me if any of those cops got charged with murder.”

  “No,” Hastings said, affecting mock curiosity, “I don’t believe they did.”

  Treats said, “You ever hear about Murray Flint? He jumped bail on a grand theft auto charge. The cops came to get him, and he ran onto the roof of his building. Tall building on the North Side. Well, Murray, he happens to kick one of those guys in the nuts. They get mad and, as they put it, there was a ‘scuffle’ and poor Murray fell off the building. But what really happened is they just plain got pissed. So they grabbed his feet and his hands”—Treats mimed it—“one, two, three! And threw his ass off.”

  Hastings smiled. “Come on, Steve, cut the jailhouse gossip. That happened about fifteen years ago.”

  “I know what I know.”

  “You know what you heard in here. They’re all innocent in here.”

  “Those cops that threw that fucker off the roof, were they innocent?”

  “It’s an old wives’ tale, Steve. Why don’t you get to the point?”

  “All right, Lieutenant,” Treats said. “The point is, I wouldn’t go in for killing cops. I’m getting out of here before I turn fifty. Every day I think about that. Every day. It’s the only thing that keeps me going. I’m not going to fuck that up to get even with a piece a shit rat fuck like Chris Hummel.”

  Cain leaned forward. “You better watch your mouth,” he said.

  “Ah, fuck you. What are you going to do to me, junior?”

  “We can make things hard for you,” Cain said. “You want to find out, you keep pushing it.”

  Treats said, “Junior, I can lawyer up and end this interview right now and you know it. You are here because I let you come.�
� Treats looked at Hastings as he said it. Then he spoke to Hastings directly. “You’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  Hastings said, “What do you mean?”

  Treats said, “Hummel was dirty, man. He was taking money from dealers all over South County. Selling cases. It ain’t hard to figure out, even for a cop.”

  Hastings said in a flat tone, “Is that right?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. My guess is, he finally got too greedy, asked for too much. There’s your homicide case.”

  Hastings regarded Treats for a moment. Then he said, “That’s quite a theory you have there, Steve.”

  “It’s the truth, man.”

  Hastings said, “You have proof of this?”

  “The proof is out there, if you’re willing to see it.”

  Cain stood up. “Oh what is this,” he said, “the fucking X Files? Out there if we want to see it? You’re just talking shit.”

  Hastings said, “Okay, Steve, tell me this: did this … smart bomb of yours ever come up at your trial?”

  Hastings saw the man’s body language shift. Just for a moment, but he saw it. After a moment, Treats shrugged and said, “No.” Like it was no big deal.

  “I see,” Hastings said. “Why not?”

  “Ahhh, my fuckin’ lawyer. I told him to use it, but he wanted to go another route.”

  In addition to innocent men, the prisons were also filled with guys who had dipshit lawyers. Hastings shook his head at the man.

  “But you check it out,” Treats said, “if you got the balls to do it. You’ll see what I’m talking about.”

  “We’re gonna check you out, fuckhead,” Cain said. “Count on it.”

  Steve Treats turned and looked at Cain again, deciding to acknowledge him with a blank expression. Then he turned back to Hastings.

  Treats said, “We’re done talking.”

  TWELVE

  It was around eleven thirty in the morning and there were four people in the bar. Couple of guys in a corner booth drinking Old Style, the bartender, and Stanley Redd drinking an Amstel Light. The girl behind the bar was a twenty-four-year-old chippie with a stud in her lower lip and a white stomach bulging out of her tight white T-shirt. She looked good to Stanley Redd, who was in his mid-thirties, balding, and with bad skin. He had the Chicago Reader in front of him and his eyes went from the football scores to the girl’s chest like a dotted line from a comic book character. He thought he had a chance with the girl.

  At eleven thirty-seven, Regan came in and took the barstool next to Stanley’s.

  The girl walked over and gave Regan a smile that depressed Stanley Redd, not least of all because Regan was older than he was.

  Regan said, “Cup of coffee, with cream. And get this fellah another beer.”

  Stanley Redd said, “Thanks, guy.” And felt a bit of a stone in his heart. He hoped the guy was a fag or something, not because he liked men, but because it would explain a complete stranger sitting next to him when there were a dozen other barstools the man could have taken.

  Regan looked up at the television behind the bar. Fat white people being interviewed by Maury Povich. The trouble with young people today, Regan thought, is they’ll watch anything on television. Like old ladies.

  The bartender brought back coffee in a white cup on a white saucer with the spoon on the side. Regan liked that. He preferred coffee in cups, with a spoon to stir rather than a wooden stick. She set another bottle of Amstel in front of Stanley Redd.

  Regan said, “Taking the day off?”

  Stanley Redd said, “Uh, yeah.”

  “Cold out,” Regan said.

  “What?”

  Regan turned to look at him. “I said, it’s cold out.”

  “Yeah, it’s getting cold.”

  “Good to be in a nice, warm place like this. Know what I mean.”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’ll snow soon. We’ll have to drive through all that snow. That Range Rover you drive, has it got four-wheel drive?”

  Jesus. He’s not a homo, Stan thought. His heartbeat quickened.

  Regan said, “I mean, you can’t drive that little convertible of yours in the snow, can you?”

  Stanley Redd looked at the fresh bottle of beer in front of him, the sides sweating. He managed to force a smile as he said, “Yeah, well that’s cute.” He started to get off the stool.

  Regan put a hand on his wrist.

  “Where’re you going?”

  Stanley Redd said, “What do you care?”

  “Stanley, sit down, finish your beer. We can handle this like gentlemen or we can go put you in a back room for three of the worst days of your life. We’ll get what we need either way.”

  Jack Regan spoke quietly to Stanley Redd. He did not use the word “torture” or explain what it is they did for three days. In his experience, people’s imaginations worked better for him. Particularly for people who did business with criminals. Most of them understood.

  Regan said, “We know where you live, where your parents live.” Regan gestured to the bar around them, “We know where you go. You can leave town, go on a vacation, but you can’t leave home forever.” Regan spoke in a gentle tone, not unlike that of a priest, letting the confessor know he would feel a whole lot better getting that sin out of him. “Okay?”

  Regan kept his hand on the man’s wrist and he could feel it quivering now.

  Stanley said, “Who are you?”

  Regan shook his head. The question was not relevant. He said, “I know about you, Stan. I know who your friends are. Believe it or not, I’m the best friend you have. You’ve got a situation now and I’m going to help you out of it. You understand?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “You and your friend Max, if you want to call him a friend, you hired Jimmy Rizza to torch your nightclub three years ago. Relax … I’m not here to blackmail you. I’m just letting you know that I know. Okay? I know a lot of things.”

  “Man, that was—”

  Regan lifted his hand, gesturing for silence. He knew the guy was wondering now how Regan knew him. They had never met before. But Stanley Redd had never quite gotten a handle on mob culture. It was not a thing you could just dip your toe into, then walk off.

  Stanley Redd and Max Collins were pals—a sort of Ben Affleck/Matt Damon combo who had been moderately successful entrepreneurs. Nightclubs, start-ups, that sort of thing. Quick money, cocaine, strippers. They were smart, book smart, but they had been lucky too. But like a lot of young types who get rich, they tended to discount the luck factor.

  Moreover, they wanted to be cool. Having money wasn’t good enough. They wanted to be hip. They wanted to be street. It was when they got into the nightclub business that they hooked up with Jimmy Rizza and his little brother. Stanley and Max were attracted to the Rizzas. Not in a physical way, per se. But because they were dangerous, funny, raucous, lively. They were interesting. The way they talked, the stories they told, so … entertaining. Stanley said they should have their own show. He liked introducing them to women, and enjoyed later having to put rational fears at rest by saying, “No, he’s all right. He’s just from a different world than you and I.” Showing them that he wasn’t afraid because he understood them, you see. It was neat being part of that world, maybe persuading yourself that you were only near it and not in it.

  But Regan knew it didn’t work that way. Once you let guys like Jimmy Rizza in the door, they stayed. And the favors that Jimmy Rizza did for you usually became common knowledge in the criminal enterprise. It was its own little community and secrets were often shared.

  Regan said, “Stan? I just need to know one thing: where is Max going to be tonight?”

  “What?”

  Regan squeezed Stan’s wrist, watched the man wince as he fought the urge to cry out. Regan knew it was not hurting him that much, that the tears came more from fear of what else Regan would do. Again, imagination.

  “Stan? Don’t test my patience, all right? You don’t want to
do that. Where is Max Collins going to be tonight?”

  Stanley Redd pictured himself sitting on a stool in a back room, naked and bloody, bruised and broken and humiliated. It was working on him and they both knew it.

  “He’s got a girl. Jesus, uh, he’s got a girl. He keeps her in an apartment—”

  “Where?”

  “Marina City. The Towers.”

  “Which one?”

  “What?”

  “Which apartment?”

  “I don’t know. Christ, I swear I don’t know.”

  “You’ve been there, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, but—uh, wait. It’s on the forty-second floor. That’s all I remember. The south tower.”

  “What’s the girl’s name?”

  “Stacy. Stacy Racine. He goes there usually between six and eight in the evening. That’s all I know, I swear.”

  Regan looked into the man’s eyes for a moment. Then he released his grip.

  “Okay, Stan. I hope you’re right.”

  Regan stood up and placed a five dollar bill on the bar before walking out.

  Stanley Redd, hearing his heart thrum in his ears, hoped he was right too.

  THIRTEEN

  They walked out of the penitentiary and past a crowd of activists holding signs that said FREE VICTOR. Got in the car and left the smell of the correctional system behind them.

  It was still drizzling.

  Hastings looked over at Cain and said, “You can’t do that.”

  “Can’t do what?” Cain said.

  “You can’t let people like Steve Treats rattle you. He called you ‘junior. ’ Okay, so what? We got black police officers who get called nigger. You think they like that? When I was in patrol, some turd once said my mother sucked a mean cock .” Hastings shrugged. “It doesn’t mean anything, Bobby. The guy doesn’t even know you.”