The Big Dive

by Bruce Most

  I scanned the room, taking in the frilly pink bed cover, a wall plastered with pictures of movie stars ripped from teen magazines, a phonograph on a dresser with a stack of 45s piled next to it, an ashtray littered with cigarettes.

  “I recognize you,” he snarled. “You’re Stryker. I’ll report you to your superiors.”

  “Do that. While you’re there, tell ’em I caught you screwing an underage girl. With your record, statutory rape will put you away the rest of your sorry life.”

  “She ain’t underage,” he insisted.

  I looked at girl. She’d pulled the sheet up to her neck, her eyes wide with fright. “How old are you, hon?”

  “Four . . . eighteen,” she stammered.

  “Eighteen my ass. If you’re a day over fourteen you can have my badge.”

  I looked back at Diaz. “You want to try this again?”

  “What do you want?”

  I relaxed my gun hand, but kept the gun out. “It was my partner murdered in that pawnshop. The one homicide likes you for.”

  His dark eyes widened, like those of a cornered animal. “I didn’t kill him, I didn’t kill no cop. I swear on the Blessed Virgin Mary. That’s what I tole your pals downtown. Even after they beat me.”

  “You’re lucky you came out alive, Hector. Cop killers often don’t.”

  “I ain’t fuckin’ dumb enough to kill a cop.”

  “Then why are you hiding? You haven’t returned to your apartment since homicide kicked you loose. Not the behavior of an innocent man.”

  “I didn’t kill no cop.”

  “I found your commando knife sticking out of my partner’s chest.”

  He hesitated, his jaw working long enough to confirm that the knife was his. Still, he insisted, “I ain’t got no commando knife.”

  “A World War Two British commando dagger. You carried it around in a leather case. You mention the dagger to homicide?”

  Diaz fell silent.

  “I could put them in touch with your cousin Guadalupe. He knows it’s yours.”

  “Dumb prick.” He bowed his head. “Okay, okay. But I lost that knife a week before the cop got stuck. Somebody took it. Swear to god. I didn’t stick it in your partner.”

  “God doesn’t listen to shit like you. Who took the knife?”

  “How the hell would I know? If I knew, I’d tell you and let ’im take the murder rap.”

  “How could somebody take your knife from you?”

  “They did, that’s all. Pissed me off. I liked that knife.”

  “The watches the dicks found in your apartment. I suppose you know nothing about them, either?”

  “I didn’t take ’em and hide ’em there. Somebody else musta.”

  “Somebody? Does everybody and your cousin have a key to your place?”

  He fell silent again.

  “Did you know Officer Greene? Before that night?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “He never ran you in for anything?”

  “No.”

  “Were you in the pawnshop the night he was murdered?”

  He jerked up his head. “No. I was at my apartment.”

  “On Tejon?”

  “Yeah, that’s it.”

  “Doing what, reading French literature?”

  “Sleeping.”

  “Can you prove it? Tomasita there with you? Or Shirley Temple?”

  “No. Like I told the dicks, I was waiting for my PO. He said he was coming to check on me. He’s been doing that a lot. A hard-ass, in case you don’t know. I stayed at my place like he asked. I ain’t gonna cross that bastard.”

  Diaz’s naked body shivered even as hot as it was in the room. The girl huddled under the sheet as if it were mid-January.

  “That’s horseshit, Hector. POs don’t announce checks in advance. I talked to Fitch. He made no such plans with you. He has no idea where you were that night.”

  Diaz narrowed his eyes. “The muthafucker’s lyin’.”

  “The point is, Hector, you got no alibi for the night my partner was murdered.”

  “I tell ya, I didn’t kill nobody.”

  “I hear you bragged about fencing for dirty cops,” I said.

  He shifted uneasily on the edge of the bed. “You’re nuts, flatfoot.”

  “What cops you fencing for, Hector?”

  A look of terror seized his eyes. “Don’t know nothin’ ’bout no dirty cops. Nothin’.”

  I pointed my gun at his head. “I got all night,” I said.

  A hand left his groin and shot up in front of his head, as if it could stop a bullet. “I don’t know nothin’. I swear.”

  “My gun says you’re lying.”

  “I tell ya, I dunno nothin’. And if I did, ya think I’d be fuckin’ crazy ’nuf to tell you? No way I sell out no dirty cops. No fuckin’ way. I wouldn’t make it twenty-four fuckin’ hours before some blue coat guns me down and claims self-defense.”

  I lowered my weapon and he lowered his hand to his crotch. “Who’s got you scared, Hector?”

  He shook his head. “I’ll pull life in the joint before I squeal.”

  I walked over to the dresser and picked up a fist-sized snow globe holding Santa and an evergreen tree. “Life’s a long jolt, Jailbait.”

  “I can do it. I can do it standing on my fuckin’ head. I been inside. It’s okay inside. Fuckin’ better live inside than dead outside.”

  “Not if you go down for killing a cop. Cops have friends in prison. Guards, inmates who owe them. If the state doesn’t give you the gas, you’ll get a shiv in the shower. You’ll be as dead in there as you are out here.”

  I tossed the snow globe at him and he snatched it in mid-air. With his left hand. According to Lou Sheppard, his source in the M.E.’s office believed Benedict’s killer was right-handed.

  Chapter 10

  The next evening, I attended a meeting of our police union. I usually worked Wednesday nights, but for reasons unclear to me, Sergeant Hawkins bumped me and Perdue off this particular Wednesday and reassigned us to Saturday night. Paula was rightly pissed, but I pleaded that it was out of my hands.

  The union meeting at least provided a good excuse to take a closer look at our union boss, Dominic Zingano. I’d found it troubling that he’d been more concerned about the radio in the alley than the tragedy of a fellow officer being murdered, an officer he’d once worked with. That, and Ellen’s revelations that Benedict worked for Zingano Security before quitting over some sort of dispute.

  I left the house early and called Professor Raschke again from a pay phone. Still no answer. I killed time in a bar before going to Union hall, located in the two-story brick Tyler building at Santa Fe and West 5th Avenue. A run-down pool hall occupied the bottom floor and our union occupied the second floor, along with an office that doubled as home for Zingano Security, Inc.

  The meeting was short, more pep rally than meeting. Mostly Zingano standing in front of our union banner apprising us of our progress in negotiating a new contract with the Denver Police Department. We were a fledgling union chartered only five years ago under the A.F. of L. The union was controversial, even among rank-and-file. Most of the public frowned on the idea of unionizing public servants. Hell, most unions were frowned on by the powers-that-be in the country. But we were gaining numbers and strength and I had to give Zingano credit. He pushed hard for better pay and better working conditions. The more power the union asserted protecting its members, the more patrol officers we recruited.

  Moroni Perdue was among the members who attended. I worried he’d want to hang around after the meeting, muddling my plans. He said hi but headed home after briefly speaking with Zingano.

  “Stryker!” Zingano called as I ambled toward the exit.

  He motioned me into his office, a roomy, well-appointed space with large windows, oak-paneled walls, and a fine large wood desk. He didn’t even have to duck his head under the top of the door frame; they’d built it high enough to accommodate his height.
I’d never been in the office, and it struck me that although union members liked his aggressive negotiating style, many complained that he was overpaid. In fact, he was wearing a nice tailored suit. Maybe he was running the union to financially benefit himself and a few pals as Benedict claimed, and that had sparked their falling out.

  “What are you hearing from the dicks regarding Benedict’s case?” he asked as he settled into a padded banker’s chair.

  I eyed an empty hat rack and a stiffed-back empty chair in front of his desk, but decided to keep my hat on and remain standing. “Nothing. They ask the questions, they don’t answer them.”

  “What questions?”

  “What happened that night.”

  Zingano set down a pony glass and poured from a half-empty bottle of tequila. He knocked it back and refilled. He didn’t offer me any. “What did you tell them?”

  “The truth.”

  “What is that again?”

  I was unclear what he was after, but all I could do was reiterate what I’d told homicide and everyone else. The lies were beginning to feel as comfortable as a worn set of clothes. Rolled out my words as if I were reliving actual events.

  “Did homicide tell you how they came up with this Diaz guy?” he asked.

  “Only what I read in the papers. A tip.”

  Zingano canted his head as if assessing whether I’d made the tip. “I’ve heard that Detective Bock isn’t as set on Diaz as the other dicks. Something to do with not liking your explanation of events that night.”

  I had to admit, he impressed me with his inside knowledge. “Bock is never satisfied about anything that involves me.”

  “I hope your story is solid.”

  My chest tightened. “Why the questions, Dominic?”

  He knocked back more tequila. “I’m always looking out for my men.”

  “Looking out for what? You asked that night in the alley whether Benedict and I jimmied open the pawnshop door. Why the fuck would you suspect that?”

  “I wouldn’t use the word suspect,” he said. “I wanted to make sure we wouldn’t be ambushed by some surprise.”

  “Quit dancing around, Dominic. You implied we were burglarizing the place.”

  He opened his huge hands to his sides. “I wasn’t implying anything, Joe. It’s my job to make sure rumors don’t get spread around. False rumors or otherwise. So again, is there anything I should worry about?”

  “We were not burglarizing that pawnshop! The door was jimmied when we got there.”

  Though why did Benedict not seem surprised to find it jimmied?

  “Then we have no worries,” he said in a tone laced with worry.

  I started to leave, then stopped. “Benedict worked security for you for several months, is that right” I said.

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Doing what?”

  “The usual. Bars, sporting events, shows. Is that something you’re interested in doing?”

  “Not at the moment. Benedict quit, though. Why?”

  Zingano shrugged. “He didn’t say. I guess he didn’t need the extra money.”

  “I got the impression it wasn’t about the money. It was more personal.”

  “You got the wrong impression, Joe. It’s always about the money.”

  I let it go and left. I didn’t need Big Z on my case along with Detective Bock.

  A loose spring prodded my back as I slumped behind the steering wheel of my car. I squirmed to avoid the steely point but to no avail.

  I’d been staking out the union hall building for twenty-five minutes since my encounter with Zingano. I was parked with a good view of his office, which overlooked Santa Fe. He’d left the curtains open on the large windows, probably to let passing cops observe he was on the job. Twice, private vehicles pulled up front and men in uniform entered the building through a door to the right of the pool hall and climbed a flight of stairs to the second floor and Zingano’s office. Probably checking in for Zingano Security jobs.

  I wasn’t sure why I was staking him out, or what I expected to observe from my car. Something about his persistent questioning of the story I’d told homicide, and his evasiveness as to why he and Benedict had a falling out.

  Two squad cars stopped out front and uniforms I didn’t recognize made the pilgrimage to his office, then left. A man in civilian clothes dropped by. Through binoculars, I recognized him: Wes Jackson, a patrolman from District Three before he’d moved to the Morals division, the same division where Zingano worked. Jackson served as treasurer of the police union, though he hadn’t attended tonight’s pep rally. Moments later, his outline appeared in Zingano’s office.

  I checked my watch. Quarter to ten. I couldn’t sit around much longer, with nothing happening and Paula no doubt impatient for my return.

  Then something strange occurred.

  A prowl car pulled up, but instead of parking on Santa Fe in front of the hall it turned down an alley that ran on the south side of the Tyler building right below Zingano’s office. Halfway down, its brake lights flashed. I slumped in my seat to reduce their chances of spotting me. Two men emerged though I couldn’t make them out in the dark alley. One went inside a side door of the Tyler building, the other lounged against the car. Two minutes later, three men came out the alley door. Shadowy shapes, but one definitely was Zingano, his figure towering over the others. I assumed the other two were Jackson and the one patrol officer. I confirmed that moments later when Jackson ambled to the mouth of the alley and lit a cigarette.

  I slumped lower, barely peering through the passenger window. He scanned the street. Traffic was light and foot traffic nonexistent. He looked right at my car at one point but passed over it. He checked out the adjacent pool hall, where a handful of men played listlessly. During a lull in traffic, and a second quick scan of the pool hall, he raised his hand holding the cigarette and gave it a slight wave. One of the uniforms opened the trunk. Zingano lifted out something large and box-like. Heavy, judging from the way even he struggled with it. He wrapped his two huge arms around the object, like Benedict wrapping his arms around the large console radio at the pawnshop, and disappeared inside the building. The two uniforms lugged in a smaller but clearly heavier box.

  Through it all, Jackson kept smoking and scanning the block. During the next lull in traffic, and a last glance at the pool hall, he flicked his cigarette to the street and faded back into the alley. He grabbed something satchel-like out of the trunk, slammed it shut, and disappeared into the building.

  I might have chalked it off to cops delivering office supplies to union headquarters, but who the hell needs a lookout for office supplies?

  Five minutes later, the two uniforms emerged empty-handed, got into the patrol car, and backed out of the alley onto Santa Fe.

  Several minutes later, Jackson came out the Santa Fe door next to the pool hall and drove away in a late model Chevy. Soon after, Zingano’s office lights snapped off and he emerged from the building’s Santa Fe entrance. He went to his car parked in front of union hall. A nice car. A brand new light green Hudson Hornet with whitewall tires. The security business must be good.

  The Hudson roared off and I pulled out behind him, maintaining a safe distance. The way he drove, it was a struggle to keep up with him without giving myself away. Around Cherokee and 3rd, he pulled into a commercial-strip parking lot in front of a building with a glass-block facade and the name Jet X Laundromat in wide, neon-edged letters. One of those fancy laundromats I’d seen sprouting up around the city. Banks of washers and dryers filled the building. He went inside, carrying no laundry but dangling a large draw-string bag. I wrote down the address. He emerged ten minutes later, the draw-string bag looking heavy.

  He drove south and east to 2nd and Cook, where he parked in front of another Jet X Laundromat. This one was even bigger, with a sweeping arched roof and a sign that advertised 100 washers and dryers, open 24 hours a day, with an attendant always on duty. He carried in his draw-string bag and came out sev
en minutes later, the bag heavier.

  Either Zingano was robbing the change dispensers—or he was in the laundry business as well as the security business.

  He headed east to Colorado Blvd. When his left turn signal flashed, I knew he was headed north. I ducked down a side street and headed south toward home. I didn’t need to follow him to yet another Jet X laundromat, and I didn’t want to play out my luck and be spotted,

  Besides, it was late and the last thing I needed was Paula asking questions. I had enough of my own.

  I ran a check of state incorporation records for Jet X Laundromats. The two I’d trailed Zingano to were part of a string of five Jet X establishments, all owned by three men: Dominic Zingano, Wes Jackson, and some guy named Alan Haynes. I didn’t recognize the last name, but it didn’t take long to learn he worked patrol in District Three.

  Three uniformed cops who owned a string of fancy laundromats.

  Either cops were marrying rich these days or I’d uncovered something I didn’t want to uncover.

  The idea of cops running a burglary ring burned in me. It was one thing to take a few bucks under the table from citizens receiving something in return, like letting a bar’s penny-ante poker game upstairs survive another week or overlooking a storeowner displaying merchandise on the public sidewalk.

  It was another to outright steal from people.

  Yet that was the way it was beginning to appear. It would explain the suspicious activity in the alley by union hall and the five high-end laundromats where they could, literally, launder their stolen goods. Zingano’s probing about the radio in the alley and his out-of-nowhere implication that Benedict and I—not some random burglar—had broken into the pawnshop also took on new meaning. Zingano wasn’t concerned that night that groundless “rumors” might damage the reputation of police officers and his union. He feared the investigation into the break-in and the murder might expose something bigger—something that would sweep up him and Jackson and Haynes—and maybe others.

  But if that were the case, why raise any suspicions that Benedict and I broke into the pawnshop? When Benedict worked for Zingano Security, was he doing more than providing security for bars and Peggy Lee? Was he part of Zingano’s dirty cops? Were Zingano and his company the “we” Benedict referred to that night?