“I don’t know,” Hastings said. “Pride, I guess.”
“Yours?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t want me to think badly of you.”
“No.”
“You don’t want me to think you’re a crook or a squirrel.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You want my respect. Is that it?”
“Maybe that’s it.”
There was a silence between them as Hastings stood still.
The woman said, “Why would you care what I think?”
“I don’t know,” Hastings said.
“Don’t you?”
Christ, Hastings thought. What is this? Woman pushing him into a corner.
“I hadn’t really thought—look, I’m not a—”
“Why did you call me?”
“I told you why I called you.”
“You could’ve just mailed me a check.”
“I may do that,” Hastings said, some irritation in his voice.
Carol McGuire said, “If it’s what you want to do.”
“Or,” Hastings said, “we could have dinner or … something.”
“Dinner.”
“If you want,” Hastings said. He wasn’t sure how this had happened. He waited for the woman to end this discomfort and tell him she didn’t date cops and to stick the two hundred dollars up his ass.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Why don’t we just have a drink, see how that goes?”
TWENTY-THREE
Driving to work the next morning, Hastings got another call on his cell phone. A number he didn’t recognize, but he answered anyway.
“Hello?”
“George, it’s me.”
“Hey,” Hastings said. “You calling me from the hospital bed?”
“Yeah,” Klosterman said. “A man can only watch so much Regis and Kelly.”
“Who are they?”
“Oh don’t give me that ‘I’m unaware of pop culture’ shit. You know who they are.” Klosterman said, “You ever watch this show called The View?”
“No,” Hastings said. Telling the truth now.
“It’s this show with Barbara Walters and these four women. Usually just the four women. Three older ladies and this young hot-looking one the others all seem to hate. Sometimes I watch it with the mute on and just study the body language. It tells you a lot.”
“You must be bored.”
“Yeah, I’m going fucking crazy.” Klosterman said, “That case with the cop murders, is it yours?”
“Yeah,” Hastings said. “I meant to tell you.” Feeling bad now.
“That’s all right,” Klosterman said. “Tell me about it.”
“Well, it’s pretty fucking awful. Two cops machine-gunned. Forty-eight hours have passed by and I don’t really have solid leads.”
“How about manpower?”
“I got Murph, Rhodes, Cain. We’re all working on it.”
“Hmmm.”
Hastings knew Joe wanted out now, wanted to be working the case. Hastings knew the feeling of needing a mission in life.
Klosterman said, “How’s Cain working out?”
“Oh … not too bad, actually.”
“Yeah?”
“He’s an asshole. We drove to Marion together to interview a suspect … long fucking drive.”
“Yeah?”
“The guy’s a talker.” Hastings said, “But he’s not stupid. He’s got pretty good instincts actually. He could be a very good detective if he’d mellow out a bit, not take himself so seriously.”
“So … you’re in love with him?”
“You’ve been watching too much TV.” Hastings said, “You know this guy in narcotics, Justin Elliott?”
“Black guy?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, I know him.”
“What about him?”
“Ah, a bit of a peacock. My understanding is he’s all right.”
“Had kind of a run-in with him. Turns out, he and Deputy Hummel used to work together.”
“County?”
“No. Hummel worked undercover, deep. Played a big part in convicting Steve Treats. Treats is the guy Cain and I interviewed yesterday.”
“What was Treats in for?”
“Meth dealer. Hummel got to know him undercover, came out of the wilderness, and testified against him. Elliott thinks Treats had Hummel killed.”
“Yeah? What do you think?”
“I don’t know. When we went to interview Treats—”
“Treats agreed to see you?”
“Yeah.”
“Without a lawyer?”
“Yeah,” Hastings said, “let me finish. Treats saw us and told us that Hummel was dirty. Taking payoffs, selling cases.”
“Ah.”
“I checked it out though. Remember Kody?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Kody says Hummel never took anything.”
Klosterman said, “I think Kody would know.”
“Yeah, that’s what I think. God, I hope he’s right, though.”
“Who, Kody?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Klosterman said. “I’d hate to read about another dirty cop. But, like I said, if this Hummel were dirty, Kody would’ve probably known. Why don’t you send Murph and Rhodes out, roust up some of our informants on the street. See what they’ve heard.”
“Yeah, I’m going to do that.”
“What about the car the guy was driving?”
“What—the one the deputies pulled over?”
“Yeah. Did it give you anything?”
“No. No prints. It was stolen.”
“Didn’t the deputies know that?”
“No. They didn’t call in the tag.”
“Oh, Jesus.”
“Yeah, I know. But I’m not going to second-guess the guys.”
“Because they’re dead?”
“Look, man. We’ve all made fuckups. You remember patrol.”
“Yeah, but …”
“Look, Joe.” Hastings paused, made sure his tone was respectful.
“Don’t do this cop thing, okay? We could have made the same mistake and then we’d’ve been killed. No one’s immune.”
“From death?”
“From fucking up.”
“All right, all right.” Klosterman backed off. Then he said, “Listen, let me help, will you? I’m really going nuts here.”
Hastings almost said, what can you do? But remembered himself and didn’t. He wanted to tell the man that he had already helped by being the great sounding board he was. That he needed this. But it would sound patronizing, even though it wasn’t.
Hastings said, “You got pen and paper?”
“I can get some.”
“The car was stolen from the parking lot of Schnucks off Laclede Station Road. Can you make some calls, see if there’s maybe some security videotapes?”
“Be glad to.”
“Thanks.”
Hastings was parking the car now.
He said, “Hey, you still there?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you know a woman named Carol McGuire?”
“From the P.D.’s office?”
“She used to be.”
“Yeah, I know her. She cross-examined me once on a robbery case.”
“Really?” Hastings wondered if it would be proper to ask what she was like.
But Klosterman spoke anyway. “She was pretty fucking mean. Why are you asking about her?”
“Well … it’s a long story. I’m having a drink with her tonight.”
“You’re what?”
“Well …”
“Jesus,” Klosterman said. “This is what happens when I leave you alone.”
“Go back to Regis and Kelly Lee,” Hastings said.
TWENTY-FOUR
A fashionable restaurant in the Central West End. White tablecloths and short histories of French wine written on the wall behind the bar
.
Frank Cahalin stood and offered his hand as the man approached the table.
Cain said, “Frank Cahalin?”
“Yes,” Frank said. The men shook hands and Frank offered the man a seat. Frank said, “You go by Bob, Robert, what?”
“Bobby’s fine.”
“Great.” They situated themselves at the table. Frank said, “You been here before?”
“Yes,” Cain said. “I’m from St. Louis.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes, sir. You?”
“No. I’m from Chicago.”
“And they posted you down here?”
“Well,” Frank said, “they offered me the SAC position here, not in Chicago. But I was in Chicago most of my service.”
Bobby Cain said, “SAC means—”
“Special Agent in Charge.”
“Oh. Well.”
Frank made a throwaway gesture of modesty. Special Agent in Charge at his age. It was impressive and they both knew it.
Cain was surprised when Cahalin had called him. The FBI bigwig saying people had said Cain was one of the most promising detectives in the Department. Mr. Cahalin had said that he was considering putting together a joint task force of municipal law enforcement and federal agents and he needed to interview around. Cain had heard the words “joint task force” before, though he’d never actually been a part of one. He told Mr. Cahalin that that sounded interesting, and what was the joint task force for? Mr. Cahalin said that they could discuss that at lunch, but the important thing was that they get together.
Now they were at a nice place, and the joint task force didn’t seem to be anywhere in sight. Frank said, “Tell me about yourself.”
Bobby Cain did so. Where he went to school, when he became a cop, what drew him into law enforcement. A little bit about his wife and kids. The cautious thought-out things people say when they’re being interviewed for a job. Lunch at a nice restaurant, but the FBI Special Agent in Charge had called him and said they should meet and talk.
Frank said, “You go to law school?”
“No,” Cain said. “But I plan to.”
Frank shook his head. “You don’t have to go to law school to work for the Bureau. It helps, but it’s not a requirement.”
“Well—”
“It’s good if you want to. But it’s not necessary.”
“Okay,” Cain said. He sipped his water and went back into character. He said, “I understand if you work for the fe—, the Bureau, they won’t let you stay in your hometown.”
“Ah,” Frank said, “there’s ways around that. Would you want to stay here?”
“Well, yeah. Sort of. I mean, I’ve got family here. I mean, eventually.”
“I know what you mean,” Frank said. “I’m a Chicagoan myself. Huge White Sox fan, love the lake. You know how it is. The Bureau hired me out of law school. And you know where they sent me?”
“Where?”
“Mississippi.”
“Yeah?”
“Oh, man. I thought I would die. The heat, the boredom. Try getting deep pan pizza in Jackson, Mississippi. Right?” Frank smiled an obliging chuckle out of Bobby. One of the costs of ambition. “But,” Frank said, “it was only for about two years. Then I got posted back to Chicago. Best day of my life.”
“Yeah?”
“I mean, it was home for me. But it was also where the action was. The work itself was fulfilling. You know what I mean?”
“Oh, yeah,” Cain said. “That’s what it’s all about. The fulfillment.”
“The thing is, if you choose a career in the Bureau, ostensibly, you have to go where they send you. But if you’ve got talent and smarts, eventually you can go where you want. If it’s Washington or New York, okay. If it’s back here, that’s fine too.”
Cain nodded his head, as if in thought. When he thought enough time had passed by, he said, “Okay.”
The waitress took their orders then left them alone.
Frank said, “So you’re a detective.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hey. It’s Frank.”
“Okay.” Bobby smiled. “Yeah, I work in homicide.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah.”
Frank looked down at his salad, aiming his fork at a tomato. “How do you like that?” he said.
“It’s pretty cool.”
“And you’re a sergeant?”
“Yes.”
Frank Cahalin nodded his head, as if impressed but letting Cain know that they were only looking for the top candidates. “Homicide,” Frank said, “that’s the elite.”
“Well, I don’t know about that.”
“Oh, yeah. If I were in municipal law enforcement, that’s where I’d want to be.”
Frank did not look at Cain when he said that. It was meant to sting, a little, and he was sure it had. Like, if I couldn’t be a doctor, I’d want to be a nurse.
“Yeah, well,” Cain said, “ … it’s all right.”
Frank said, “Handling anything interesting now?”
“Yeah. You heard about the two county deputies?”
“That’s your case?”
“Yeah.”
“Man,” Frank said. “That was a terrible thing.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“How’s it going? Any leads?”
“Well, a few. Apparently, one of the deputies used to work in narcotics. Undercover. He helped put a major dealer away.”
“Really? And you guys see a connection?”
“Well, we don’t know.”
Frank said, “What don’t you know?”
“My lieutenant’s skeptical.”
“Who’s your lieutenant?”
“George Hastings. You heard of him?”
Frank thought for a moment. “Was he the primary on that doctor case last year?”
“Yeah. The doctor that murdered a judge. Well, actually the guy—Sullivan was his name—he paid someone else to kill the judge. Then killed the guy he hired. He—did you read about it?”
“I vaguely recall it.”
“The doctor and the judge had been college buddies twenty or so years ago. And back then, the doctor—he wasn’t a doctor then, just a college student—he threw some girl off a balcony and killed her. The judge, who was just a kid at the time, he witnessed it. Twenty years later, the judge gets in trouble and he calls the doctor and tells him he wants hush money so he can pay his lawyer. So Sullivan had him killed.” Cain said, “It was the lieutenant’s case.”
Frank Cahalin saw that the young detective was impressed in spite of himself. He didn’t like this.
“Is he pretty smart, your lieutenant?”
“Yeah, he knows his—stuff.”
“Sure. But we all need help.”
“I wasn’t involved in it,” Cain said. “It was before I was transferred to his division.”
“You said your lieutenant was skeptical. About what?”
“The meth dealer that Deputy Hummel testified against. Narcotics thinks he put a contract out on Hummel.”
“Who’s the dealer?”
“Guy named Steve Treats. White trash crank dealer. He’s in Marion now, serving out a long sentence.”
“What’s Hastings’s problem with it?”
“I’m not sure, actually.”
“What do you think?”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you. What do you think?”
“Well, I mean—”
“Listen,” Frank said, “you want a career in law enforcement, you’ve got to learn to trust your instincts. Seriously.”
“Well …”
“Do you think this Treats was behind it?”
“I think there’s something to it. Maybe.”
“Then you have to develop it.”
Bobby Cain became uncomfortable. He said, “Listen, he’s my lieutenant.”
“Let me be crystal clear about something: I am not counseling insubordination. No, sir. No one understands b
etter than me the importance of chain of command. But in the same aspect, you’ve got to develop your leads. Police work is not all interrogations and arrests, okay? It’s intelligence, information. All this CSI technical bullshit, it’s secondary. At the end of the day, you got to trust your gut. Two cops got killed. You owe it to them to give it your best.”
Bobby Cain looked at his fork and knife, the knife still clean.
Frank Cahalin sighed. “Look,” he said, “pardon me if I’m speaking out of school. It’s city’s case, not FBI’s. I just want to give you the benefit of my experience, that’s all. Maybe it’s worth listening to, maybe it’s not.”
“No,” Cain said, “it’s worth something. It’s worth a lot.”
Frank was quiet for a few moments. He seemed to study Cain. Frank said, “I think you’ve got a great career ahead of you. I look at you and I envy you. Here I am with this big fancy-schmancy title pushing papers around on a desk. I’ll retire in a couple of years, head up security at some big corporation, draw a fat salary, and hang out with the rich people. But who am I kidding; that’s not me. I can live in the rich neighborhoods with the doctors and the lawyers, but I’m still just an Irish cop at heart. You know? None of it means anything. You, you’re doing real police work.”
Cain wanted to ask, what are the names of some of these corporations?
Instead he said, “It’s just one case.”
“I’ll be frank with you.” Frank smiled at himself. “There’s a place for you at the Bureau. You’re real, you know what I’m saying. Ninety percent of the guys we interview, they’re candy-asses, coming out of Catholic law schools. Steel-rim glasses, Joseph Banks suits … they’re chops. You, you’re the real deal.”
“Thank you, Frank.”
“But I want you to stay where you are until you get this case cleared. You come to us, officially, after doing that and you start out with a real advantage. You start out at the head of the class.” Frank said, “Can you do that for me?”
“Okay, Frank.”
“These deputy murders,” Frank said, “anytime you want to talk about it, you call me?”
“Okay.”
“I’m serious, Bobby. I want to help.”
“Okay. But, you know, I don’t want to bother you.”
The Betrayers Page 11