The Big Dive

by Bruce Most

  I know about December 5 1944 and the Jap woman

  Before we left, we walked to the cemetery, which held the bodies of 114 Japanese-Americans who’d died during their internment at Amache. Among them was Yamazaki’s wife, Aiko, who’d perished from bronchial asthma in the winter of 1944.

  We peered inside a small brick-and-mortar shrine the internees hastily erected on the eve of the closing of the camp—bricks once used to pave the barrack floors. Inside stood a granite memorial, along with pieces of wood bearing the names of the dead.

  Yamazaki translated the Japanese inscription on the stone: “Here in Amache, we built a town and shaped a life out of nothing.”

  Below, scrawled in black paint, someone—probably local teenage boys—had left a more recent inscription:

  “Lois sucks cock.”

  Chapter 23

  The next day I tried to make up to Paula for my being gone to Camp Amache. I went with her to check out yet another church, and we took an afternoon drive after Olivia woke from her nap. But I wasn’t good company. The quagmire of new information from Henry Yamazaki and the implication of Benedict’s possible involvement in the Jap girl’s death weighed heavily on me.

  It could no longer be a coincidence that Benedict and Marcus Raschke, who’d known each other at the internment camp, would each die soon after meeting at Raschke’s home. Their deaths might well be tied to the Japanese girl’s death, and maybe the scam, though why this was happening seven years after her death remained puzzling. I couldn’t dismiss the possibility that Benedict’s murder was connected to the dark riders, especially in the wake of Hector Diaz’s murder. Yet I couldn’t see how Raschke’s death fit in with the dirty cops and Diaz. Either Raschke, Benedict, and the Mexican’s deaths weren’t linked, or they were linked in a way I had yet to discern.

  Paula must have sensed my dark mood, but said nothing. Perhaps she was storing it up to call Detective Bock the first thing in the morning and rake him over the coals for using me to investigate Benedict’s death. A phone call that would expose my investigation to the world.

  My shift came and went Monday with no summons from Bock. A good sign. If Paula had called, the detective would have hauled in my ass within minutes. Tuesday, the same thing. Well into the evening and no summons. Maybe I would get away with it.

  But at 9:23 in the evening, dispatch radioed that my wife had called, demanding I come home immediately. She sounded extremely agitated, according to dispatch, though she refused to say what was wrong. She refused a check from nearby patrol car. She wanted me.

  Shit. She’d called Bock and learned the truth.

  Perdue and I were checking out bars on Larimer Street when dispatch called, so I dropped my nickel in a pay phone in the back of The Tipsy Boot and called the house. The bar was noisy and I covered one ear with my hand as I listened to the phone ring and ring. No answer. I hustled us off to our vehicle.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Perdue.

  “Don’t know.”

  Concern crept into my mind. If Paula was agitated from talking to Bock, why not answer the phone? And why hadn’t Bock called in my ass?

  The duty sergeant allowed us to head straight to my house. Other precincts would cover. I pushed the prowl car hard through the city, running the light but not the siren, not stopping for anything. I squealed to a stop in front of the house.

  At first glance, nothing appeared out of the ordinary: no signs of forced entry, no front door kicked in or windows broken—except for a living room lamp. It was the only light on in the house, and Paula always kept every light on when I was gone.

  “Check around outside,” I told Perdue as I hurried to the front door. I unlocked it and slipped in. Not wanting to frighten Paula or Olivia, I didn’t draw my gun, but my hand hovered cautiously near it.

  A quick scan of the living room revealed nothing unusual. The furniture was in place. A bowl of popcorn, Paula’s favorite snack, rested on the coffee table, kernels scattered beside it. Her usual clutter of magazines and textbooks lay on the couch and floor.

  “Paula!” I called out. Where the hell was she?

  A muffled voice came from down the hallway.

  I hurried toward it. “Paula?”

  “Joe?” came her voice behind the bathroom door.

  The door was closed and locked. “Paula, it’s me. Are you okay?” I rattled the knob. “Open the door.”

  Sounds of movement, then the rattle of the lock. Half of Paula’s face peered from behind the cracked door, as white as the bathroom tile. She yanked open the door, rushed into my arms, and began to sob.

  “What’s the matter, hon?” I glanced over her shoulder. Olivia sat on the floor, looking bewildered, but otherwise okay.

  Relief swept over me that they appeared uninjured, yet Paula wouldn’t stop sobbing my name over and over, her body shaking as though chilled to the bone. I touched her hair and pulled her tight to me.

  This had nothing to do with Bock. She’d be screaming at me, not crying.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. “I’m here. What’s wrong?” She kept crying. Olivia began to get upset and I let go of Paula and scooped up my daughter. I held her tight until she nestled into my arms.

  I turned back to Paula. “What happened? Did somebody try to break into the house?” She still wouldn’t answer. “Paula, you gotta stop crying and tell me what’s wrong. What’s going on?”

  Over the years, I’d responded to hundreds of frightened and hysterical citizens. I’d gotten pretty good at figuring what was needed to calm them, to get them to tell their stories. Sometimes it was patience and comfort, other times toughness and action. Yet here I stood in my own house, helpless, unsure what to do or say to calm my frightened wife, to comfort her—angry because she wouldn’t talk, scared of what she might say when she did talk.

  “Mommy crying,” Olivia said.

  “She’s gonna be fine, honey,” I said.

  Paula’s sobs began to ebb. “No, I’m not going to be fine.”

  “Then what’s wrong?”

  “A man called. He . . . he threatened to kill you. And us.”

  “What! He threatened you? Who? What’d he say?”

  “I don’t know who he was. Who leaves their name when they make threats?”

  She was getting testy. A good sign, in a way, that her fear was subsiding.

  “Okay, okay. Tell me what he said.”

  She took a deep breath and wiped away tears. “When I answered, a voice said, ‘Mrs. Stryker?’ His voice was so muffled and solemn I thought it was the department calling to tell me you were hurt . . . or worse.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “I’d dozed off studying. I was trying to shake myself awake. I confirmed I was Mrs. Stryker and then he said, ‘You tell your husband to keep his’”—she cupped Olivia’s ears—“‘to keep his fucking nose out of the burglars in blue if he knows what’s good for him. Tell him to remember what happened to Diaz.’”

  “What about you and Olivia? You said he threatened you, too.”

  “When I demanded to know who he was, he told me he was watching the house and that”—she glanced at Olivia, gathered herself, and continued—“that he knew when you were away at work, that he could enter the house any time he wished.”

  Rage boiled in me. My private investigation had plunged my family in jeopardy. It was one thing to threaten me—but my family—that crossed the line.

  The doorbell rang and we both jumped.

  “Oh, my God, it’s—”

  “It’s Perdue,” I said. “Bad guys don’t ring doorbells.”

  “Joe!” came Perdue’s voice as I reached the door. I opened it, Olivia still in my arms. “Everything okay?” he asked, his eyes full of genuine concern and curiosity.

  “Yeah, it’s okay. Find anything?”

  “Nothin’ other than your bushes need trimming. A Marine platoon could hide behind them. What’s the problem? Why’d Paula call?”


  “She had a bad reaction to some medication. She’s a little shaken but she’ll be okay.”

  “Medication?”

  “Some woman’s stuff, I guess. Look, I need to stay with her. Go finish the shift without me. I’ll call the sergeant.”

  Perdue held my gaze for a moment. “Okay. Yeah, sure, Joe. I can take care of the rest of the shift. No problem. You stay with Paula.” He grinned at Olivia and playfully poked a finger at her stomach. She giggled. He and his wife had unsuccessfully been trying for children since he joined the force, and I knew seeing Olivia pained him. He headed for the car.

  Paula was standing in the hallway where I’d left her. “Perdue checked around outside,” I said. “He didn’t find anything.”

  Silence hung between us like a deep black gulf. Silence, and Paula’s anger. Anger not at the caller but at me for making our family the target of a threatening call.

  I set Olivia down and tried to wrap Paula in my arms but she pushed me away. She licked at dry lips, her chest heaving. She went into the bathroom and got a drink of water.

  I called the duty sergeant. “Sure, stay with her,” he said as comforting as a little old aunt. “We’ll keep things covered.”

  I hung up to find Paula glaring at me, her arms crossed. “This has something to do with this work you’re doing for homicide, doesn’t it?”

  “No, I’m sure it’s—”

  “You told me you’re helping homicide because they suspect there’s more to Benedict’s death than meets the eye. Now we get this call. Is his death connected to these so-called burglars in blue Sheppard wrote about in the paper?”

  “No,” I said, trying to keep Benedict’s name as far away from dark riders as possible. “Sheppard’s story has nothing to do with Benedict’s death. He’s just making wild accusations.”

  “The caller didn’t think he was making wild accusations.”

  I took a deep breath. “Lou’s story stirred up a lot of guys on the force. Some blame me. They assume I’m Lou’s source.”

  “Are you?” asked Paula.

  “No, I’m not. There’s nothing to his story. It’s crap. But that doesn’t stop cops from believing I’m involved. My guess is one of them made the call. Notice he used the phrase ‘burglars in blue’ right out of Lou’s story?”

  “Why do you always piss off people in the department?”

  My investigation had struck a nerve. But whose? Until I could figure that out, I wouldn’t put my family at risk. I needed to get them out of here.

  I held Paula’s arms. “Look, honey, I’m sure it was nothing more than a crank call. But to be on the safe side, you and—”

  “A crank call?” She broke free of my hands. Tears laced her face. She shouted at me. “Is that what you tell people who’ve been threatened? ‘Don’t worry, ma’am, the caller’s just a crank.’?”

  Olivia began to cry again. I picked her up and held her tight and said to her, “It’s okay, honey. It’ll be okay.”

  “No, it’s not okay!” yelled Paula. “And I don’t believe you, Joe. You lied about the Rawlins case and you’re lying now. It’s bad enough I have to put up with your constant secretiveness about your job, but I won’t allow you to endanger this family.” She pointed at Olivia. “We have a daughter now, Joe. She’s your first priority.”

  “I’ll stay here the rest of the night,” I assured her. “I told Perdue to finish the shift without me. But tomorrow you and Olivia should go someplace for a few days. A motel or a friend’s. Just for a few days until I can get to the bottom of it.”

  She stared hard at me. “We’re not returning until whoever made that call is arrested. Do you understand, Joe? Arrested, and kept arrested. Then we’ll see.”

  Then we’ll see. My worst nightmare. The fear of losing her and Olivia again. Maybe forever.

  In the morning, Paula packed suitcases while I called a cab. Despite the short notice, she’d persuaded a woman she knew from her college classes to take them in. The woman was recently divorced, lived in a large house, and was grateful to have the extra company.

  Paula couldn’t very well tell the woman the real reason for imposing, so she spun a story that our marriage was going through a rough patch and she needed to get out for a while. The woman had no trouble buying that, though I was surprised she didn’t ask why Paula and Olivia were moving out of the house and not me.

  At least—for now—they weren’t running off to Nebraska to Paula’s sister. We agreed to talk on the phone every day, and to meet covertly when we could. We didn’t want the caller tracking them back to the woman’s house.

  I was already missing them.

  I gave Olivia a big hug. She was too young to understand what was happening, yet she seemed to sense that life wasn’t right. “You and mommy will be back soon, honey,” I said, glancing at Paula. “Daddy is going to make sure of that.”

  “You’ll report the call today, right?’ Paula said. “Get people to investigate.”

  I assured her I would. I didn’t tell her the investigator would be me, and only me.

  The cab arrived and we loaded their suitcases. Olivia look bewildered. Paula just shook her head when I told her I loved her.

  Standing in my now silent house, I mulled over possible callers. First, he likely was a cop. Any cop could easily have learned my shift schedule. It was not by coincidence the call came while I was on duty and Paula and Olivia were home alone.

  That narrowed it down to several hundred possibilities.

  The first name to pop into my head was Freddy Decker, the cop who’d ambushed me by the furniture store and warned me to watch my back. There also was any number of Freddy Deckers on the force who would have read Lou Sheppard’s “exposé” and made me for Lou’s snitch.

  But one thing the caller said to Paula dramatically narrowed my list of suspects. He’d warned me to remember what happened to Hector Diaz. Diaz lying face down in a field with a bullet in his head. Lou Sheppard made no mention of Jailbait in his “burglars in blue” article, and I’d told no one the three-time loser was fencing for dirty cops.

  Only dark riders would know that. Crooked cops who’d used Diaz to fence their stolen goods. And the only dirty cops I knew were Dominic Zingano, Wes Jackson, and maybe their elusive co-owner in the Laundromat chain, Alan Haynes.

  My suspicion was that Diaz may have tipped them that I’d cornered him at his house questioning whether he was fencing for dirty cops. When Lou’s story broke, they assumed I was the rat behind it. Or they’d spotted me staking out union hall and following Zingano. Either way, the threatening call was a warning that I would meet the same fate as Diaz if I didn’t back off.

  I pulled my swing shift that evening as if everything were fine. Perdue asked how Paula was doing. Much better, I said, and left it at that.

  With my family gone, my investigation became easier in one respect: I no longer needed to conjure up lies to Paula to explain my off-duty forays. I could come and go as needed. My first move was to stake out union hall. There was the risk Zingano and Jackson would spot me, especially if they were on high alert. But if one of them was the bastard who threatened my family, I was going to nail his ass.

  After my shift ended with Perdue, I drove to the hall. Lights burned in Zingano’s office. I parked on Santa Fe half a block away, farther from the spot where I’d parked the night I’d first observed him, Jackson, and two uniforms suspiciously unload stuff from the trunk of a patrol car in the alley.

  Tired from my shift, I fought to stay awake. Zingano at one point stepped to his window and peered down on the street. But that proved the most excitement for the evening. No patrol cars entered the alley and emptied stolen goods.

  An hour and a half later, I went home and slept with my .38 under my pillow.

  Chapter 24

  The next three nights I staked out union hall after my shifts. Nothing. Either Lou Sheppard’s story had driven Zingano and his crew to lay low or they were planning their next heist. If Wes Jackson’s claim
to bookie Lili Webb was correct that he was coming into enough scratch soon to pay off his debts to her, I hoped it was the latter.

  Each morning I called Paula. She allowed me say hi to Olivia, though my daughter was too perplexed by the telephone to say hi back. I assured Paula that investigators were looking hard into the threatening phone call but didn’t have a suspect yet—and she assured me she wasn’t coming home until they arrested someone. She wouldn’t even arrange a time to let me see them. Her anger and fear were still too raw.

  Which left me moody and sharp with people. Perdue didn’t ask any more about Paula, or what was behind my foul mood. I sensed wariness in his silence. He didn’t want to be riding with me anymore than I wanted to be riding with him.

  It didn’t help that Lou Sheppard called one day shortly before a shift.

  “You’re a hard man to reach,” said the reporter.

  “Busy doing an honest day’s work. What do you want, Lou?”

  “Our dear friend Detective Bock called the other day regarding my burglars-in-blue story.”

  I tensed. “Why? To tell you what total B.S. it was?”

  “No, he actually believes I’m on to something. He suspects dirty cops, too.”

  Yeah, me and my partner.

  “So what did he want?”

  “Oddly, he asked if any of my sources named you as a burglar in blue.”

  I scoffed. “Me? That’s bullshit and you know it. What did you tell him?”

  “I told him to fuck off. I don’t reveal sources or anything else I choose not to put into a story.”

  “My applause for your integrity. Did he say why he suspected I’m a burglar in blue?”

  “No, he wouldn’t. But remember, your dead partner’s name came up as one.”

  “Which I told you was a lie, remember?”

  “Regardless, what I find puzzling in all this, Joe, is why a homicide detective is poking around about you and dark riders.”