by Bruce Most
Two uniforms pulled up in a prowl car. One I knew well enough to nod to when they entered. He nodded curtly—they all nodded curtly to me since Sheppard’s “exposé”—then sat with his partner at the counter. The waitress brought coffee without asking.
Paula watched them for a few moments before half-whispering, “Any progress in the investigation?” Her face had aged in even this brief time.
“Some. It’s all but impossible tracking down anonymous calls.”
Especially when I’m the only one doing the tracking.
“Suspects?”
“They’ve narrowed it down to a few names,” I offered.
“Who?”
“They won’t say.”
I stared at the ashtray when I said that. I wanted to confess everything to her. Unburden my soul about Benedict, Camp Amache, Raschke, Zingano, and Perdue, that I was the only one conducting the “investigation,” that once again I was jeopardizing my career. And my family’s lives. Maybe clearing the air would make everything better between us.
Yet a part of me, a part I’d harbored ever since I’d become a cop over Paula’s dismay, held back. If she were frightened now, what would she be if I told her the truth? She’d pack Olivia off for Nebraska in a heartbeat, never to return.
“Can’t they bring these suspects in and make an arrest?” she insisted.
“It doesn’t always work that way, Paula. Not in this case.”
“Why not? It didn’t take them long to arrest that Diaz guy.”
I glanced at the cops at the counter. They were leaning their heads toward each other like gossipy old ladies. The cop I didn’t know stole a look my way. I looked back at Paula and said in a hushed voice, “They’re looking at cops.”
She glanced at the counter, then back at me. “What, they can’t arrest cops?”
“Shhhh. It’s touchy. The department has to be very careful. You don’t lightly arrest cops.”
Paula looked at Olivia coloring a giraffe blue. “I won’t wait forever while the department is being careful.”
My heart sank. My options weren’t good.
The easiest choice would be to ignore witnessing the other night’s break-in. Pretend Zingano and Perdue and Jackson weren’t dirty cops. Like pretending Benedict hadn’t hauled a radio out of the pawnshop.
But I was lousy at ignoring things that angered or puzzled me. Moreover, I felt certain it was Zingano who’d threatened my family. I wasn’t going to let that go.
And Big Z wasn’t about to let me go. He must have learned from Perdue that I was poking into Benedict’s death, and thus poking into dark riders. Maybe Perdue and not Diaz tipped Zingano off about my visit to the Mexican. Hell, my visit may have instigated Diaz’s murder days later. Perdue tells Zingano and he and Jackson decide Diaz is a liability and put him down in a cabbage field.
That made me a liability to Zingano, too. I needed to get to him and his crew before they got to me.
I could squeal to command. But I could produce no evidence other than my own observations, and command didn’t trust me, so my claims wouldn’t fly. Investigators might find sufficient evidence to pin on Zingano. If the brass wanted evidence found. They didn’t like the union leader, but bringing him and the others into the light on charges of burglary would be a black eye to the department. They might pretend it never happened, just as the police chief ordered those cops to return the clothing they’d looted as if it never happened. Better to quietly usher Zingano out the back door than out the front door into the glare of the public eye.
I could go to Lou Sheppard. Blab my story. Go public. But that meant getting my ass fired and betraying the sacred bond with my fellow cops. Maybe get myself killed.
Moreover, talking to the brass or Sheppard would raise questions I didn’t want asked. Why was I there watching them hit the Blair store in the first place? Was the safecracking ring connected to Benedict Greene and the radio at the pawnshop? Was I a burglar, too? Detective Bock sure as hell wouldn’t let it go.
Our blue-plate specials and Olivia's grilled cheese sandwich arrived, cutting off our strained discussion. Paula picked at her food. Olivia plowed into her sandwich, her appetite momentarily back.
I needed a plan to save my ass and get my family back. I needed to nail Zingano and his crew under circumstances where they couldn’t wiggle free. A plan that wouldn’t expose Benedict or me.
I needed a sting.
Over the weekend, a plan began to take shape. My previous attempts to gain Zingano’s trust and worm my way into his crew had failed. This time I would set out bait. Something they couldn’t resist, trust or no trust. A plan that would lure them into working with me, where I could control the circumstances and the outcome. One that would force the department to deal with them, while ensuring that the fallout didn’t spread beyond the union boss and his crew. It was a daring, risky plan. One that, if it worked, would get Bock off my case and appease Lou Sheppard. A plan that would save my ass and maybe catch Benedict’s killer—or send me to prison.
But the plan taking shape left me in a dilemma. What if I succeeded in infiltrating them and unearthing enough evidence to convince me they killed Benedict or had him killed, say by Hector Diaz? Enough evidence to result in their arrest as both dirty cops and killers? It might bring justice for Benedict, but would destroy his reputation and his family. I could envision the headline: Dirty Cops Murder Another Dirty Cop.
For now, I had no answer. I would use my plan to learn what I could—and then hope I could find a way out.
I caught up with a snitch I recalled bitching a few weeks before about being fired from The Tuscany restaurant, the place Lili the bookie claimed was a front for illegal gambling and a bookie drop. The snitch reasserted that he was unjustly fired as a busboy over false accusations of stealing cash and high-end booze. Knowing him, the firing was likely justified. He hadn’t mentioned the gambling the first time, but this time around he was only too willing to confirm Lili’s story. The Tuscany was indeed a gambling front. He’d seen much of the operation. The more details he provided, the more I sensed he was telling the truth. And the more convinced I became that The Tuscany would fit my plan.
Monday, I pulled another shift with Perdue. As the evening wore on, it became damn near impossible for me to pretend life was normal between us. He must have sensed my barely suppressed anger and disbelief that he was part of a ring of corrupt cops—or worse, the sickening possibility that he was mixed up in Benedict’s murder. How could he fail to hear the suppressed anger in my voice, see it in my eyes? He was Zingano’s spy, after all. Spies were supposed to be alert to that sort of thing. Yet he showed no outward signs of awareness.
By the start of our Tuesday shift, I was ready to spring my plan in motion. Around nine, after a coffee break at an all-night greasy spoon, I set the first step of my plan in motion.
As we cruised an alley behind a row of stores on Champa Street, I yelled, “Stop!”
Perdue braked the squad car hard. “What?”
“I saw a light flash inside,” I said. “There.” I pointed to the back of a floral shop. “Somebody’s inside.” I bolted from the car, gun drawn. “Drive around front, fast! No siren.”
Perdue raced down the alley and turned right onto 22nd Street as I smashed the window of the rear door of the floral shop with my gun barrel. I reached inside and unlocked the door. No alarm. I knew the owner and I’d expected none. Once inside, I wiped the inside knob clean and reached the cash register in the front of the shop by the time Perdue squealed to a stop.
As he scrambled out of the vehicle, gun drawn, I punched open the cash register and stuffed what few bucks were left in the till into my pants pocket. I hated stealing, but I didn’t see another way.
Perdue hunkered to one side of the plate-glass window and peered into the darkness through tiers of floral displays.
Ten seconds later, I yelled that I was opening the front door.
“Someone was here, but the guy’s gone,” I sai
d as he entered.
“How’d you get in?”
“Back door was unlocked. Guy busted the window. Place is as easy to break into as my grandmother’s cookie jar.”
Alexander Hutton was the fifty-five-year-old owner of Champa Floral. I’d spoken with him, as I did many business owners in my precinct. Cautioned him multiple times to tighten security. He always vowed he would, but never did.
“What they’d get?” Perdue asked.
“The cash register’s empty. Let’s check the safe.”
We went into the back room where two half-finished floral arrangements stood on a worktable in the middle of the room. Additional work counters ran along two walls festooned with spools of bright ribbon, crystal vases, and flower-arranging tools. In a corner squatted a small safe the owner once showed me.
“Looks untouched,” said Perdue.
I knelt, pulled out my shirttail, and used it as a makeshift glove while I nudged the dial counterclockwise.
“What the hell you doin’, Joe?”
“Just checking.”
I stopped turning the dial, betting on Hutton’s laziness. The safe door swung open.
“What the—”
“Exactly what I figured,” I said. “They left it day-locked when they closed the shop.”
“What’s day-locked?”
“Shops do it all the time during business hours so they can get in and out of the safe quickly. Instead of fully locking it, they turn the dial just enough to throw the bolt. Then all they gotta do is turn the dial back a little and she pops open. Saves ’em time.”
I shined my flashlight into the safe. A neat bundle of cash wrapped in a rubber band rested atop a pile of official-looking papers.
“Our thief missed this.” I pulled out the cash, holstered my flashlight, and began counting the bills, mostly tens and twenties, by the light of a security light across the alley. I finished counting the stack and stood. I separated a handful of bills and extended them to Perdue. “Here’s half. A hundred thirty-five.”
He waved off the money. “What are you doing?”
“I warned the owner before to improve his security. He deserves a lesson. He’ll claim it on his insurance, anyway.”
“You’re stealing from him?”
I struggled to keep the contempt out of my face. This little shit was going to lecture me on stealing! I’d stuff the money down his damn throat if I didn’t need his help.
“Damn right, I’m stealing it. I want to get in on the action like the rest of you guys.”
“Whattya—whattya mean, ‘you guys’?”
“You guys snatched a whole fuckin’ safe from old lady Blair. That must have been a bundle. She kept her life savings in it.”
“Old lady Blair?” stammered Perdue. “She reported a burglary, but—”
“Don’t bullshit me, Moroni. I watched you and Zingano, Wes Jackson, and Patrick Burke drag a safe out of her store the other night. Dumped it in a patrol car and hauled it to a garage behind union hall.”
Color drained from his face so fast I thought I’d have to call the M.E. to toe tag him.
“You guys ever get it open?” I asked. “You were having a tough time.”
“You—you were following me?”
“You? Shit no, I wasn’t following you. I was watching Dominic. I had no fucking idea you were in cahoots with him.”
Perdue swallowed hard. “Why were you watching Dominic?” he squeaked.
“Not important. But I gotta admit I was shocked to shit to see you. Disappointed, to be honest. Zingano I can understand. Jackson, yeah. He’s a sleazebag. But I expected better out of you than getting mixed up with the likes of them.”
Shame sagged Perdue’s face. “I—I cover for them now and then,” he said, his voice shaking like a kid arrested the first time for stealing hubcaps. “That’s all. Drop ’em off or do guard duty. Monitor police calls. I never actually go inside anyplace.”
As if that made him less complicit.
The overpowering reek of flowers nauseated me. I thrust the clutch of bills toward him. “Take the damn money. Cops share with their partners. Buy your family clothes or give it to your church. Hell, use it to track down UFOs.”
Perdue shook his head in puzzlement. “Aren’t you turning us in?”
Passing car lights on Champa announced that I had little time.
“Hell, no. What kinda cop do you think I am? Like I said, I want in on the action. I got a tip for a big score and I need help. Something far bigger than old lady Blair’s or piddly shit like this. A job Benedict and I were casing when he got killed.” I shook my head. “Still don’t understand what the hell happened that night.”
I intently watched Perdue for telltale signs he knew something about Benedict’s murder. Instead, confusion etched his face. “You and Benedict?”
“Yeah. We got this tip. Big money. In a big safe. I don’t know shit about peeling safes. I need a boxman for that. A really good one. And a crew. You can be part of the crew.”
Perdue appeared stunned at this turn of events. “I—uh, I—I dunno. I gotta check with Dominic. He runs all the crews.”
“Crews? There are more than you four?”
“Yeah,” Perdue said, surprised at my surprise.
“How many more?”
“I don’t know. It’s not like he and Jackson distribute a roster. I’ve worked with only a few others. But there’s a bunch of us from what I gather. I get the sense some guys work certain territories, others work others, sometimes they mix and match.”
Jesus! I’d heard the rumors—but a bunch? First the shock of Benedict, now this. Sure, some cops disgraced their uniform, but this? Why had my instincts gone so wrong?
“Who?” I asked.
“Denver cops, mostly. But also an Arapahoe sheriff deputy and a couple of Littleton dicks. At least, that’s what I’ve picked up.”
No mention of Alan Haynes, the third co-owner of the Jet X Laundromats and the man I’d mistakenly assumed was the fourth person in the car with Zingano the night they knocked over the Blair safe. He worked District Three. Maybe that was his “territory.” Maybe he ran a crew up there. But I could hardly ask Perdue. He probably didn’t know, and if he did it would tip him—and inevitably Zingano—that I’d already been nosing deep into their business.
“And Zingano does jobs with all of them?” I asked.
“They all go through him. He provides logistical and technical support, you might say. It’s not as if he’s out on every job himself. He’s selective. Like the Blair store.”
I whistled inside my head. My strategy was to get an in with Zingano in order to size up Benedict’s involvement and investigate whether Zingano killed Benedict or ordered him killed. But the extent of his operation was far more extensive than I’d imagined. Which made my task more difficult and more dangerous.
The trick now was luring the big guy into my “selective” job.
Again, I thrust the wad of bills toward Perdue. After a moment’s hesitation, he took it.
“Got any names of good boxmen?” I asked.
“Uh, I . . . ”
“Zingano got a name? Ask him.”
“Look, Joe—you don’t understand. He don’t allow rogues. No goin’ out on your own like that.”
“What do you mean, he doesn’t allow rogues?”
Perdue shook his head as if I were making a terrible mistake. “You gotta go to him before you can do anything. You got to get his approval for the job. Give him a cut.”
“This is my fucking heist, not his,” I protested, figuring the way to reel Zingano in would be to make my heist enticing and just out of his reach. Something he couldn’t resist. “A big heist. Why the hell should I have to give him a piece of the action?”
“He provides protection. It’s his way of keeping everyone safe.”
“Well, I don’t give a shit what he provides. I run my own jobs.”
Perdue again shook his head. “You’re not listening, Joe. You got
ta go through Dominic. He finds you pull something like this on your own and you’ve got troubles. Just the fact you and Benedict were stealing on your own is a problem.”
Trouble? As in kill Benedict? Would I now be a target, too?
I shook my head. “I’ll think about it.” I headed for the front door and our car. “C’mon, we gotta call this in.”
We secured the shop while a very tired detective from the robbery division investigated the “break-in.” When the owner arrived, I chewed him out for not following my earlier warnings.
He nodded glumly.
“How much was in your safe, Mr. Hutton?” Perdue asked.
He hesitated. “Maybe eight, nine hundred dollars. Another hundred in the register. Thankfully, insurance will cover it.”
Perdue and I glanced at each other, then at Hutton. “That’s a lot,” I said.
He haughtily lifted his head. “We had an exceptional day today. A big wedding.”
Considering his claim to his insurance company would be four times the amount I’d taken from the safe and the register, I didn’t feel so bad I’d stolen his damn money.
We left Champa Floral, called in a coffee break to dispatch, and parked under the Twentieth-street viaduct in the darkness. While Perdue lit a cigarette, I scoured the area for derelicts. The viaduct was a popular spot for them to sleep. I rousted three men and sent them on their way. Perdue and I needed a safe, quiet place to talk.
“Can you believe that lying sack of shit?” Perdue scoffed as I lit a cigarette. “Claiming all that money was stolen and gettin’ the insurance company to cover it.” He said this as if it made his own dirty hands cleaner.
I stood close to him and stared into his face. “How the hell did you get mixed up with Zingano?”
Perdue shifted uneasily and looked away. “I dunno if I should say any more, Joe.”
“You will if you want in on the job I got—and if you don’t want me to change my mind and pin old lady Blair on you guys.”
He stiffened his shoulders. “That won’t be easy to do. Zingano has a lot of pull inside the department, even if command doesn’t like him.”