Dillon had called him earlier and said they needed to get rid of Sharon.
Jimmy had said, “Sharon? What are you talking about?”
“It’s gotta be done.”
“Mike, can you show a little fucking compassion here? I just lost my kid brother.”
“I know that, for Christ’s sake. We’re going to take care of that.”
“How are we going to take care of that.”
“We’ll clip Jack.”
“How the fuck we going to do that?” Jimmy had known Jack Regan for a long time. Remote and dangerous, Regan was one of the few people Jimmy Rizza actually feared. “We got three dead men reminding us he’s not so easy to kill.”
“Christ, Jimmy. He’s not a ghost.”
“He’s coming, Mike.”
“All right, all right. But we need to take care of Sharon tonight.”
“What’s the hurry?”
Dillon said, “No hurry. I just want to get it done.”
Now Jimmy waited in his garage for Mike. When he got here they would prepare, then drive over to Sharon’s and get it done. Jimmy resigned himself to it. You didn’t say no to Mike Dillon. Jimmy remembered a couple who had scrimped and saved and borrowed to buy a tavern in Chicago. And after they did and cleaned it up, Dillon saw its appeal. He approached the couple one evening and said he’d like to take the tavern off their hands. The husband said no thanks. Dillon motioned to Jimmy, and Jimmy took the man’s ten-year-old boy by the shoulders. Dillon said, “You see that kid? He’s going to be dead tomorrow unless you sign that deed over to me. Understand?” The man signed it over. Dillon gave the owner five thousand for it, telling the guy, “What the hell, we’re both Irish, huh?” The five thousand was only a fraction of what the man had borrowed from the bank.
Christ, Jimmy thought. Now they had to go kill some broad and bury her probably because she had put too much butter on Mike’s toast or something. Hadn’t done it the way Mom used to. Or she had shown interest in another dude, probably a younger one. Typical Mike.
Rhodes said, “County’s system is pretty much like ours. Each of their patrol cars has a GPS system, monitors where the cars are at any given time, transmits it back to dispatch. Keeps the patrol officers from going to whorehouses and bars. If dispatch doesn’t hear from the officers for a long period of time, they’ll do a 10-90. An officer welfare check. Now for the last four months, the proper response has been for the officer to give his unit number. Before that, they were to give the address they were at. If they don’t give the proper response, dispatch presumes they’re in trouble, maybe being held at gunpoint, and they send backup.”
They were in the squad room gathered around Hastings’s desk. Murph, Rhodes, Hastings, and Cain.
Hastings said, “In the week before the shootings, were there any 10-90s?”
“There were,” Rhodes said. “Just a couple. But the officers only had to give back the unit number.”
Hastings said, “Not the address.”
“No,” Rhodes said.
There was an audible sigh in the room.
“And,” Rhodes said, “when the officers went Signal 13 for lunch, they usually said where they were at. But a couple of times they didn’t. So we don’t know where they were then. They could have been having lunch at Childers’s house or Hummel’s. Other officers do that sometimes.”
By now days had passed since the officers had been massacred. The public leaned on the politicians, the politicians leaned on the chief, the chief leaned on the assistant chief, and so on and so on. They wanted the matter solved. And the officers only had to give back unit numbers.
Hastings said, “You’ve got the dispatch logs?”
Rhodes said, “Yes.”
“You’ve reviewed them?”
“Yes.”
“Anything stand out?”
Rhodes said, “Citations, DUI arrests, a few possession busts. Just standard fare.”
“What do you mean?”
Rhodes looked at the other detectives, some uncertainty in his expression. “Well,” he said, “what I mean is, we can interview all these people they arrested or gave citations to the week before the shootings. But I’m not sure what good it would do. They’ve given thousands of citations over the years. Do we interview all them too?”
Hastings sighed. “Yeah, I know what you mean. But let’s check them out for the previous week anyway. Maybe someone can give us something.”
There was a general feeling of depression in the air about them. They all wanted to solve it, catch the murderers of police officers. And like Hastings they had placed a certain amount of faith in the new technologies, things like GPS tracking systems and tape-recorded dispatches. But all they had learned was that Chris Hummel was a clean cop who liked to get laid. It would have been a whole lot better to have a witness who knew something and saw something.
“Bobby,” Hastings said. “I want you to check something out for me. The nurse at the hospital told me that Hummel may have roughed up a neighbor of one of her co-workers. She doesn’t know the neighbor’s name, but the woman’s name was Sharon Dunphy. She used to be a nurse’s assistant at Southcrest.”
Cain said, “Hummel roughed up this woman’s neighbor?”
“Well,” Hastings said, “he may have. Apparently, Dunphy’s neighbor was hassling her and Hummel went over to the guy’s house and talked to him.”
Cain said, “How long ago was this?”
“Over three years ago.”
Bobby Cain frowned.
“Yeah, I know,” Hastings said. “Talk to the woman anyway. Find out the ex-neighbor’s name and then check him out.” He handed a piece of paper to Cain. “Here’s her address.”
There was a silence in the room that didn’t mean anything at first. Then Cain said, “Are you giving up on Treats?”
Hastings looked at Cain. He was aware of the other detectives watching him, waiting for the answer. The distinction between “are you” and “are we” was not lost on Hastings. He could say “Are you challenging me?” But it probably wouldn’t play well. Better to tell the truth.
Hastings said, “I don’t know yet.” He was not going to say anything else and he looked directly at Cain to see if the man wanted to keep going.
Cain hesitated and then shook his head slightly.
Hastings said, “It’s an order, sergeant. Take Murph with you.”
Cain said, “Yes, sir.” And that wasn’t lost on Hastings either. And for a brief moment he had to remind himself not to lose his temper. To resist the urge to tell the sergeant that Murph or even Rhodes deserved the rank more than he did and if he had something to say, say it and put aside this head-shaking chickenshit. Or just ask the little bastard to step outside and take a fucking beating. But he let it pass.
There was another silence after Murph and Cain left. Rhodes seemed to think about his words before he spoke and then he simply said, “I’ll start lining up a list of interviews on those citations.”
“Okay, Howard. Thanks.”
In the hallway, Murph said, “I got to take a leak.”
Cain said. “I’ll wait in the car.” He took the stairs down to the parking lot. He wondered if he should say something to Murphy. Ask him if he agreed with the lieutenant. If he did, the guy would probably side with Hastings. Dumbshit. Whatever the lieutenant says, goes. Like the guy was some sort of fucking Zen master. Stupid, unimaginative clucks, all of them.
He got to the parking lot and his cell phone rang.
“Sergeant Cain.”
“Bob?”
“Yes.”
“Frank Cahalin here. How’s it going?”
“Oh, hello, sir,” Cain said. “It’s going okay, I guess.”
“You guys getting anywhere?”
Cain sighed. “I don’t know.”
“That doesn’t sound too positive.”
Cain said, “It is what it is.”
“Did you get any more evidence against the drug dealer?”
&
nbsp; “No. Not yet. But we’re … no, we haven’t got anything.”
“Well, you need anything, you let me know.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You got plans for dinner?”
“Uh, well, the lieutenant wants me to interview a witness.”
“Really? Who?”
“Some woman. It’s nothing.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, it’s some woman that one of the deputies knew years ago. We’re grasping for straws.”
“What’s the woman’s name?” Frank said, “I can run it through our database.”
Cain looked at the paper Hastings gave him. “Sharon Dunphy,” he said. “Apparently, Hummel helped her out years ago. She’s not a suspect, though.”
After a moment, Frank said, “Hmmm.”
“Yeah, well. He says I got to check it out.”
“Yeah. Well, you got to do what—you got to do,” Frank said. “You going to interview her now?”
“Yeah,” Cain said. “Maybe we can have dinner another time, though. Thanks for calling.”
A moment passed before Frank spoke.
“Sure,” he said.
THIRTY-FOUR
Jimmy Rizza had learned automobile repair from the Illinois Department of Corrections. They had taught him the workings of engines and transmissions. In prison he learned that MacPherson struts were not designed by Porsche, but by a Ford engineer. He developed a fondness for the large, two-door, pillarless coupes made in the sixties and early seventies. When he was tipped off in Chicago years earlier, he had to leave behind his 1964 Ford Galaxie. He had spent seventeen months cherrying it out. The Galaxie, like most American cars of its time, had not been built for fast highway travel. The design of its undercarriage would not allow it to cruise steadily beyond eighty mph. It could be modified, though. Many cars like it had raced on NASCAR tracks alongside similar behemoths from Chrysler and General Motors. It could be modified for speed if you knew how to do it. He still missed that car.
He liked the feel of a garage. The smell, the comfort of machines and parts, the sound of an engine finding its pitch, styles of a past era. He and Dillon had done a lot of business out of a garage in Chicago. He helped Dillon direct narcotics traffic and payoffs, wearing grease-stained coveralls while he did it.
Now, he had an Oldsmobile Cutlass on the lift, replacing the brakes. Dillon would be here soon and he would change out of the coveralls and they would go and get the woman.
“Hello, Jimmy.”
Jimmy turned around. Jack. Holding a pistol by his side.
For a few seconds neither one of them said anything. Jimmy held on to his socket wrench.
Jimmy said, “I see you’re still using a .45.”
“Yeah.”
“I told you before, they’re too loud. With a .22, no one hears unless they’re close.”
“Yeah,” Regan said. “But then you have to get close yourself.”
“How did you get in?”
“Through the bathroom window.”
Jimmy held the socket wrench at his side.
Regan said, “You got anything in your pockets, Jimmy?”
“No.”
“Well, keep your hands out of them just the same.”
Jimmy said, “You killed Sean.”
“Yes I did,” Regan said. He shook his head. “That was your fault, Jimmy. You shouldn’t’ve brought him into it.”
“You came after me first.”
“I’m not after you. I’m after Mike. It’s Mike Zans wants, not you.”
“What did Mike do to Zans?”
Regan frowned. “Jimmy, come on. It’s me here.”
“Mike’s got no beef with Zans.”
“I know, Jimmy.”
“What?”
“He ratted on him, Jimmy. You both did.”
“Who told you that?”
“They told me about Mike. They didn’t say anything about you. I figured that out myself.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you.”
“You calling me a fucking rat?”
“Jimmy, I don’t care. I’m just telling you I know. Zans doesn’t know, but I do. I didn’t come for you.”
“The hell you say.”
“I only looked for you because I knew you’d know where Mike is. You take me to him and we’re done.”
“Jack, I don’t know where he is.”
“Jimmy,” Regan said, and sighed. “How long we known each other? You think I don’t know when you’re lying?”
“I don’t.”
Regan raised the .45. “I’m going to count to three.”
“Hey—”
“One.”
“—hey—”
“Two.”
“Hey … hey. All right, all right.” Jimmy said, “Let’s talk for a minute.”
“Go ahead.”
Jimmy said, “I tell you where he is, you gonna clip him?”
“Yeah.”
“Guarantee that?”
“What do you mean guarantee?”
“What I mean is, if you don’t, if you shoot and you miss, we’re both dead. You point a gun at Mike, you better kill him.”
“He’s not indestructible, Jimmy.”
“Yeah, well, the jury’s out on that one.”
“You’ve been hanging around him too long,” Regan said. “He’s got you believing his blarney.”
“We’re talking about Mike Dillon here.”
“His time has come. Everybody’s time comes sooner or later.”
“Like Sean’s?”
“Ah, Jimmy. You can’t be mad at me for that. Would you have me lie down and let him kill me, let him kill my wife?”
“Yeah, I would. The way you were acting, I had good reason to think you were trying to clip me. Why didn’t you just tell Max or Sean that it was Mike you were after?”
“Because they wouldn’t have known,” Regan said. He was feeling tired now. He said, “What difference does it make now? You’re alive and if you take me to Mike, you get to stay alive. You protect Mike, you die. Now we both know if it were the other way around, Mike wouldn’t hesitate for a second to give you up.”
Jimmy Rizza said nothing.
Regan said, “If you haven’t figured that out by now, you’re not as smart as I thought you were.”
Jimmy said, “What you’re saying is, I don’t give you an answer you like, you’re going to clip me.”
“Yeah, that’s about the size of it.”
“Okay, then. Yeah, he’s in Saint Louis. I know where he lives and I can take you there now, if you like. But it won’t be necessary. He’s on his way here now.”
Regan cocked his head. “Why’s that?” he said.
Jimmy shrugged. “He wants me to help him take care of a woman.”
“What, you mean kill her?”
“Yeah.”
“What for?”
Jimmy shrugged. “She wants to break up with him.”
Regan shook his head. “Fucking animal,” he said. “Okay, we wait then.” Regan gestured with the gun to some chairs near the workbench.
THIRTY-FIVE
Late evening. The sun had set against the November gray. The air was cold and dry. Murph drove the unmarked Impala south on Grand Avenue. Turned west on the second street past Tower Grove Park and then they were on a narrow street lined with houses and cars. After the next stop sign, Cain said, “That’s it.”
It was a dark redbrick house, divided into two homes. Two numbers, two mailboxes. There were separate steps leading up to the same porch area, divided by a low brick wall.
Murph slowed the car.
Cain said, “Where do people park here?” It was not a bad neighborhood, better than it had been ten years ago. But Cain spoke of it like it was a dump.
“They have spaces off the alley,” Murph said. “Or you park on the street. There’s a place up there.”
They parked the car near the end of the block and walked back to the house.
They rang the doorbell twice before Sharon Dunphy answered it.
Cain showed her his police identification.
“Ms. Dunphy?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Sergeant Detective Cain. This is Detective Murphy. St. Louis PD. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
The woman looked them over. She stayed at the door.
“What about?”
“It’s about something that involved you and your neighbor three years ago. May we come in?”
“I have to pick up my children soon,” she said.
Cain said, “It won’t take long.”
“Well … okay.”
She led them into the house. There was no foyer. Once they walked through the front door, they were in the living room, where they could see a green sofa that looked like it had been handed down and a recliner and an armchair. Sharon Dunphy picked up a remote control off the coffee table and switched off the television. The three of them looked at the blank television screen for a moment and then she said, “What is it?” She was still standing.
The detectives stopped. Like a man leaning in for a kiss and getting a firm hand push on the chest. That’s as far as you go, buster. Apparently, they were to question her on their feet, in front of the blank television screen.
Cain said, “About three years ago, you were having trouble with a neighbor who was bullying you, hassling your family. A police officer named Chris Hummel helped you out.”
Sharon said, “Chris who?”
Cain said, “Chris Hummel. He was a deputy with the sheriff’s office. You remember it, don’t you?”
The woman looked off to the side, like she was thinking about it. She said, “No, I can’t say I remember that. I never reported anything to the police.”
Sergeant Cain and Detective Murphy looked at each other. They had seen this sort of side look many times before. Any police officer has. It’s not even necessary to have received formal training in interrogation. In traffic, it’s the look the bleary-eyed driver gives when asked how much he’s had to drink. The look that reveals that the person has made a conscious decision not to tell the truth, but needs a moment to come up with a lie that he thinks is credible. They search for that lie offstage.
The Betrayers Page 16