“Oh, shit,” Hastings said.
Rhodes and Hastings got out of the Ford and approached the officers. They showed their identifications and asked what was up.
A heavyset deputy said, “He was caught shoplifting. You know him?”
Kody Sparks said, “Hi, Lieutenant.”
Hastings said, “Hi, Kody.” To the deputy he said, “Yeah. I know him. He testified for us in a case once.”
The deputy gestured to the Arab. “He owns the corner grocery store. This guy went in, stuffed some donuts into his pockets, and walked out. Mr. Awan asked him to come back and empty his pockets and Kody took off running. Right here.”
Hastings said, “You found the donuts on him?”
The deputy seemed to sigh. “Yeah. He never took them out.”
Kody’s mom yelled, “He didn’t steal nothing.”
The other deputy: “Ma’am, just stay there. Please.”
Rhodes said, “Well, this is bad timing.”
The first deputy took Hastings aside and said, “Listen, we have to arrest him. The store owner insisted. It’s his neighborhood too.”
Hastings said, “I’m not asking you to cover for him.”
Kody’s mother said, “He’s a goddamn liar.” She was pointing to the store owner. “They’re all goddamn liars.”
The second deputy muttered, “Oh, shit.”
The first deputy said, “Listen, Lieutenant, we’re about to have a fucking racial incident here. Can we clear the area, please?”
“I understand,” Hastings said. He walked over to Kody. “Kody, they gotta take you in. I’m sorry. Do you have a lawyer?”
Kody said, “Whoever they give me.”
“I’ll call Sam Hall. He’ll get you a lawyer to O.R. you out. We’ll try to do it tonight.”
“Thanks, Lieutenant.”
“But Kody, I need to talk to you. All right?”
“Sure, Lieutenant.”
The deputy put him in the backseat while Rhodes walked over to the store owner and told him that the suspect was being arrested and he needed to leave and that an officer would get a full report from him later. The store owner looked at the black detective warily and Rhodes decided not to notice it. The store owner said, “It’s my business. Mine.”
“Sir, we understand that. Now please leave. Please.”
The store owner glared once more at the detective before walking off.
The patrol cars left, taking Kody Sparks with them. And then Rhodes and Hastings stood awkwardly on the sidewalk as Mrs. Sparks began to cry.
Hastings said, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Sparks. It’s a minor charge. He should be home tomorrow.”
“He could have just asked me for the money,” she said. “I would have given it to him.”
“I know you would have,” Hastings said. “Listen, I think he’ll be home tomorrow.”
“You promise?”
“We’ll see,” Hastings said.
“He’s just a boy,” she sobbed. “Just a boy.”
Later in the car, Rhodes said, “Just a boy. He’s thirty if he’s a day.”
“Oh, Christ,” Hastings said. “Give her a break, willya?”
SIXTEEN
When Max Collins’s wife found out he was screwing his secretary, she made him fire her. She did not threaten to divorce Max or leave him; she liked his money too much for that. And she knew Max liked his money too and, consequently, would not divorce her. She knew her Max. He had to live with his wife—some of the time—so he fired Stacy Racine and set her up in an apartment. As Max said to a friend, “Hey, anyone can type.” A line he’d heard in a movie.
If someone had told a young Max Collins, say, in his college years, that he would one day support a mistress, he would not have believed it. To a chubby, ugly kid with glasses, such a thing seemed so remote as to be impossible. For his older brother, perhaps, who had always done well with women, it would seem not at all unlikely. But Max had been a virgin until his senior year of college. And that event had been embarrassing, to say the least.
Stacy Racine was twenty-three years old. Young and not quite slender with a stud in her belly button and implants Max had paid for. Max Collins, now thirty-nine, was still pudgy, still freckled, still devoid of charm. He wore steel-rimmed glasses and suits cut to hide the fat, but his posture still lacked confidence.
But he was a wizard with numbers. Graduated second in his class at Caltech, then got his MBA at the University of Chicago before working in finance. He made enough money by the time he was thirty to retire comfortably. But he went on and became a venture capitalist. He could support a few Stacy Racines if he were so inclined. But just one was wearing him out.
On this evening, Max called Stacy from his Mercedes G500 SUV (“the big one,” he would tell people) to make sure she was in the apartment. Make sure she was alone. One time he had come over to find her with another girl and some kid of about twenty wearing his jeans low on his hips. Clothes were still on but Max did not like the shit-eating grin on that kid’s face. After they cleared out, Max said, with a nervous chuckle, “Gee, you guys weren’t about to have a threesome, were you? Heh-heh.” He was relieved when Stacy denied it and told him he was “sick in the fuckin’ head.” Max pretended to believe her.
Stacy answered the phone.
“Yeah,” her tone unenthusiastic, insolent.
“Hey, baby,” Max said.
“Hey, Max. Did you get the boots?”
He had ordered her a pair of boots from Marshall Field’s because when they had been there earlier the store didn’t have her size. Max agreed to pick them up later.
“Yeah, yeah. I got them.”
Max pictured an airbrushed version of Stacy, sitting on a milking stool in a barn, legs slightly apart, wearing just the boots … . He said, “You gonna model them for me?” Heh-heh.
Stacy said, “Why? You saw me wear them in the store.”
Jesus, it was hard. She never seemed to get his jokes. The Playboy photographer looking over at Max now, shrugging his shoulders because the model wasn’t cooperating, the photographer telling Max, I can’t work with these people.
Max said, “Well, I just thought that …” He gave it up. Maybe he had to say it to her in person. He said, “I’m coming into the Towers now. I’ll see you in a minute.”
In rare lucid moments Max could admit to himself what Stacy was. Or had become. Still, he wished she could at least humor him once in a while. Okay, so she didn’t want to model the boots for him. Couldn’t she at least feign interest in the idea? With all that he had given her, all that he had spent on her, would it be so difficult to show a little consideration?
Stacy Racine was the third girl he had ever slept with. The second was his wife. The first was the girl in college who never spoke to him again. That encounter had seemed, well, short. And if he hadn’t understood that himself, the girl certainly made it clear to him afterward. She apparently mistook him for someone else.
Linda, his wife, was strictly a missionary position, Catholic girl. They were together once every three weeks or so. Linda would not take her top off because she was shy. She remained shy throughout their marriage.
Stacy Racine was anything but shy. For Max, Stacy Racine was a whole new world. She did anything and everything. Some things she wanted Max did not particularly enjoy, but if he didn’t comply, she’d call him a fag. Which seemed a little ironic to Max, given her penchant for anal sex. It did not occur to Max that in her own way, Stacy Racine found sexual intimacy every bit as indecent and unpleasant as his wife did. For Linda Collins, it was dirty. For Stacy Racine, it could only be dirty.
Max drove the Mercedes in ascendant circles up the spiral of the south “corncob” of the Marina Towers. He parked on the eighteenth floor, the vehicle’s front looking out to the Chicago River. It was dark now and the city was lit up. A train crossed the river and auto traffic bustled over the Michigan Avenue Bridge. Max got out and closed the door of the Mercedes, heard the sound of the chara
cteristic, satisfying thunk that justifies the cost of the vehicle. He felt the chill of night air, coming off the lake and cutting through the open space of the high-rise garage.
“Hello, Max.”
Max felt his stomach jump involuntarily. He turned to see Regan standing behind him. A big man, standing in the space between the Mercedes and a Ford van parked next to it. Blocking that space.
Max tried to swallow away the quivering of his chin. He said, “Hey … do I know you?”
Regan said, “We met before. At McNamara’s. Don’t you remember?”
“Uh … I don’t know.”
“Jimmy Rizza introduced us. You remember him, don’t you?”
“Uh, Jimmy—”
“Rizza,” Regan said, staring the man into recollection. He wasn’t going anywhere.
“Oh, yeah,” Max said. He spoke as if they were at a party, as opposed to a garage ledge eighteen floors up. He forced a smile on his face. “Yeah, I remember now. How you doing?”
Regan didn’t answer. He didn’t smile either. He said, “You remember what we talked about?”
“Uh, no. No I don’t.”
“I do. Actually, I didn’t say much then. But you and Jimmy, you talked about burning down a nightclub. A nightclub you and Stan owned.” Regan said, “You remember that?”
Max was silent for a few moments.
Regan said it again. “I remember it.”
“Hey,” Max said.
Regan walked in between the vehicles, closing in now, and Max stepped back, looking over his shoulder as he did so, into the void.
Regan said, “You kept in touch with Jimmy after that. Didn’t you?”
“No, I did not. I never saw him again.”
“Ah, Max. That’s not what I heard.”
“Well, I don’t know what you heard, but—”
“You were losing money in another venture of yours. Another business. And one of your partners talked about reporting you to the SEC.” Regan said, “And that fellah disappeared, didn’t he?”
“I don’t—”
“Convenient for you, huh?”
“I don’t know what happened to him.”
Regan said, “You happened to him, Max. You and Jimmy Rizza. You paid Jimmy to clip him.”
“What are you, a cop? There’s no proof …”
“I’m not a cop, Max. I’m not interested in proof.”
Max Collins should have known better then. He had dipped his toe into the criminal underworld, enjoyed associating with the bad boys, had taken a certain pride in it. So he should have known something about them. But he remained a man unaware of his own lack of awareness. Had it been otherwise, he would not have asked Jack Regan this next thing.
Max Collins said, “Hey man, are you wearing a wire?”
Regan stepped forward, quickly, and grabbed Max by the lapels of his camel’s hair overcoat, pushing him off balance so that he stumbled and then Max’s upper body was out and over the edge of the precipice, feeling the pull of gravity on his shoulders. All Regan would have to do was drop him …
Regan said, “You ever even suggest I’m a rat again, I’ll kill you. Last warning. Understand?”
“Yes, yes,” Max cried. “I understand. Jesus, please.”
“I don’t wear wires for nobody. I handle things me own self. Understand?”
“Yes, yes—”
“Where’s Jimmy?”
“What?”
“Where is Jimmy?”
“I don’t know.”
Regan relaxed his hold.
“Jesus! I don’t know. He disappeared.”
“I know he disappeared, you fucking idiot. But he kept in touch with you. Don’t tell me he didn’t because I know he did.”
“He—”
“You know how I know, Max? You know why you’re still alive now? Because I understand Jimmy. When a man like Jimmy does a man like you a ‘favor,’ he puts it in the book. He comes back and asks you to pay for it and keeps coming back. Right?”
“—right—”
“Now where is he?”
“He left Chicago—”
“And?”
“He left town. Two years ago, he left. You know, when the feds issued warrants for him and Dillon. Somebody tipped them off and they left town.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. Don’t! I don’t—I think they’re in St. Louis.”
“Where in St. Louis?”
“I don’t know where. I swear to Christ I don’t. I’d tell you if I knew. I just know he has a safety deposit box in St. Louis. I swear that’s all I know.”
Regan stared into the face of raw terror for a moment, Max’s ears shrinking back like an animal’s. He pulled Max back from the edge and let him slump against the Mercedes. Max slipped to the ground. He was still crying.
Regan said, “I’m going to assume you’re being honest with me. But if there’s something you left out, tell me now. Tell me now and I won’t be mad. If you don’t tell me and I find out later, you’ll die.” Regan said, “Okay?”
“I’ve told you everything I know. I swear on my kids.”
Regan left the man on the ground, crying.
SEVENTEEN
The wine hissed and spattered when Hastings poured it into the pan. He stirred it around with the olive oil, onions, garlic, meat, and peppers. He would let it simmer until the alcohol burned off. Then he would add the tomatoes and the paste. It was a recipe Eileen had taught him. She was a good cook when she wanted to be.
The telephone rang.
“Amy,” Hastings said. “Get that, will you please?”
A moment later, Amy brought the receiver. “It’s someone named Sam Hall. You know him?” At twelve, Amy was good at screening out telemarketers.
“Yeah.” Hastings gestured for the phone, wedged it between his head and shoulder.
“Sam?”
“Yeah, George. You page me?”
“Yeah. Listen, I gotta guy got arrested this evening by county deputies on a minor shoplifting charge.”
“Okay. You want him bonded out?”
“Yes. I want him out.”
It was an unusual request for a police officer. But Sam Hall did not push it. He had been on the force himself years earlier before he left and started a bail bonds business. Hastings imagined he made a lot of money, though he seemed to end up with more cars than he did cash, clients valuing freedom more than their vehicles.
“When?” Sam said.
Hastings said, “Tonight. His mom’s upset.”
“They all got mothers.”
“Just help me, all right?”
“Well, okay. Let me see what I can do. You say he’s at county?”
“Yeah. His name is Kody Sparks.” Hastings spelled it out.
Sam said, “Okay. You gonna be at this number for a while?”
“Should be here all night.”
Sam hung up and Hastings handed the phone back to Amy. Then he asked her to cut the French bread up and put it in the oven.
Amy said, “You want a beer?”
“Yeah.”
She got a Heineken out of the refrigerator and popped the top off. She set it next to the stove so he could sip it while he cooked. Then she sat back down at the dinner table with her friend Jennifer, a frequent guest at Amy and George’s evenings together. They chatted about kids at school and other things Hastings made no attempt to listen to.
Sam called back after dinner.
“Okay,” he said, “I got a lawyer who’ll O.R. him out tonight. Her name’s Carol McGuire. You know her?”
“Carol McGuire … isn’t she with the P.D.’s office?”
“She used to be. She went out on her own a few months ago. She doesn’t need the business; she’s doing it for me.” Sam said, “She can meet you at county jail at nine o’clock. She’ll want money.”
“How much?”
“Two hundred for the trip. Can you handle that?”
“What’ll she be wearing?”
“What?”
“Nothing.” Hastings said, “Two hundred’s okay.”
“Listen, don’t be mad at her. She’s all right. And she’s driving out there at night.”
“I’m not mad at her. I don’t even know her.”
“Okay. Well, surely the kid’s mom can come up with the two hundred.”
Hastings gave Amy the standard instructions before he left: don’t unlock the door for anyone, let the answering machine answer telephone calls, and call his cell in case of emergency. He drove the Jag to a bank kiosk and cursed with resignation as he withdrew two hundred in flat, crisp twenties.
He saw a willowy looking woman of about his own age sitting in the waiting area at the county detention center.
Hastings said, “Carol McGuire?”
The woman said she was and stood up to meet him. She gave him a mechanical handshake.
Carol McGuire was pretty without makeup. She wore jeans and a gray sweater under a mackintosh raincoat. Her hair was dark and short and straight.
Hastings said, “Thanks for coming.”
She gestured a never mind and said, “I’ve already checked in with them. They’re getting him now.”
“Great,” Hastings said. He reached into his jacket pocket. “I brought your fee.”
She looked at him.
“Why are you paying it?” She still wore the wary expression public defenders have around law enforcement officers.
“I don’t know,” Hastings said. “I really don’t. He’s helping us on a case.”
“What kind of case?”
“That’s confidential.”
The woman shook her head. “I’m not going to let you talk to him alone,” she said.
Hastings said, “It’s not up to you. It’s up to him.” He was getting irritated now. Two hundred dollars poorer and now a lady lawyer was giving him heat. He wished Sam Hall was here to explain why he had sent this woman.
The McGuire woman was still looking at him.
Hastings said, “Ma’am, I need to question him about the murders of the two deputies who were killed the other night. Okay?” Like, happy now?
“That’s your case?”
“Yes. I’m in charge of the investigation.”
“Is he a suspect?”
The Betrayers Page 8