by Bruce Most
“Whattya getting’ outa this? A reward?”
“Like I said, I’m a good citizen who doesn’t like dirty cops any more than you do.”
“Sounds like you’re blowing fucking smoke out your ass, buddy. You ain’t telling me anything. No names, no details. Call back when you got evidence.”
“Don’t hang up,” I snapped. I pressed my head against the pay phone. Shit! I’d have to play the only card left, the card I didn’t want to play. “Tell you what, Bock, I’ll toss you one name. A show of good faith.”
“Okay, shoot.”
“Stryker.”
“Joe Stryker?”
“Yeah.”
“You got the goods on him?”
I could envision the detective sharpening his knife. “Yeah,” I said.
“Him and Greene?”
“No, not Greene. Greene was clean. Greene was always clean.”
“You’re saying Stryker and not Greene robbed that pawnshop?”
“Yeah.”
“You got evidence for this?”
“Enough. Give me your home phone number.”
“No, I won’t. Is Stryker in on this heist?”
“Maybe. I need to reach you when it’s time, Bock. Give me your damn number.”
He hesitated, then relented. I scribbled it down and hung up, my hands shaking. I hoped to hell I could pull this off. Otherwise, I’d end up in prison and never see Paula and my daughter again.
Olivia squealed in joy as she bounced down a bumpy metal slide at a small park close to where she and Paula were staying. It was a beautiful June morning. I could have stayed there all day. Anything to forget the madness I’d set in motion. Even Paula was caught up in Olivia’s innocent joy. Yet I knew it would not last for any of us.
After several trips down the slide, I settled Olivia into a wood-slat baby swing.
“Well, are your police buddies any closer to arresting someone?” Paula asked as I gave my daughter a starting push. Impatience laced Paula’s voice.
“Yes, they’re getting close,” I responded.
“You said that before.”
I pushed Olivia higher and she laughed. “I also said that proving someone made an anonymous threatening call is difficult.”
Since meeting with Zingano and Jackson to plan the burglary, I’d been reassessing suspects for the phone call. Either man remained top on my list. Yet their willingness to help knock over The Tuscany both confused and worried me. If they’d made the threatening call, why agree to pull the job? The phone threat came before the Blair burglary. Had my disclosure to Perdue that I’d witnessed the crime changed everything? Was their willingness to go along this far a way to size up how much I knew, how far I might go with my knowledge? Or had arrogance and greed trumped their initial wariness?
But if neither of them made the call, who the hell had?
I gave Olivia another push.
“We’ve been at Mary’s nearly two weeks, Joe,” said Paula. “We can’t stay indefinitely. And I won’t go home. Not unless I’m confident we’ll be safe.”
Again, the implied threat to leave town and move in with her sister in Nebraska.
“Something will happen soon. I promise,” I said to stave off her impulse to leave. “Something major is going to break and resolve all this.”
“What?”
“Can’t tell you. But it will be over very soon.”
Yes, one way or the other, I thought. Of all the things that could go wrong, one new scenario entered my mind. Zingano and Jackson were going along with my burglary plans because they intended to double-cross me, to set me up to take the fall. But I’d written out in detail everything I knew implicating Big Z and his crew and sealed it in an envelope. If anything happened to me, Paula would find it and it would go to Lou Sheppard.
“Push, dada,” said Olivia.
I gave her a big push, wondering if it would be for the last time.
Chapter 30
Shortly after one in the morning, Perdue and I drove our patrol car from our precinct to union hall to pick up Zingano and Jackson. Sergeant Hawkins switched our swing shift for the graveyard shift. What excuse he gave the other cops for the change, I don’t know, but it left little doubt he was on Zingano’s payroll.
Although not on duty, Zingano and Jackson were dressed in police uniforms. Our uniforms and the patrol car provided credible cover should anything go south.
We dumped two canvas bags into the trunk full of burglary tools: a large electric circular saw with an extension cord, extra blades, crowbar, a ten-pound sledge, and assorted other tools. Zingano slammed the trunk shut.
“Show time!” he said, swatting his hands together. You’d have thought we were headed off for a stag party.
We drove north on Santa Fe toward The Tuscany two blocks beyond our precinct. Zingano went over last-minute details.
“The prowl car patrolling that area will stay away from the restaurant for a couple of hours, but not much longer,” he said from the back seat. “We got the driver in our pocket, but not his partner. New guy. There’ve been break-ins in the area lately, so they can’t avoid checking on the place for too long.”
I twisted around in my seat. “Christ, Zingano, you’re pulling the biggest heist of your life and you don’t even have solid protection! What the hell kinda operation you runnin’, anyway?”
It smelled, and reinforced my suspicion that they might pull a double cross on me.
“Relax,” he said. “This ain’t exactly amateur night for some of us. I got someone who can decoy them with a fake break-in at a store blocks away if necessary. We’ll have time.”
“How fuckin’ reassuring.”
I didn’t need two hours to carry out my plan, but I needed to sound convincing.
We pulled up at the rear of the restaurant. No signs of late-working staff.
Perdue stayed in the car to monitor calls for our precinct and the precinct that included The Tuscany, and run interference if necessary. The rest of us lugged the canvas bags to the service door. Zingano broke the overhead light with a pry bar and Jackson went to work on the lock. The lock looked tough but two sharp raps with the sledge and a punch and the lock busted. Zingano jimmied open the door.
We held our breath for the blare of a burglar alarm. Nothing but the pounding of blood in my ears.
“That’s a good start for the reliability of your source,” Zingano said to me.
Inside, we stood in a huge kitchen, letting our eyes adjust to the darkness. The place smelled of bleach and stale coffee and Italian sauce. Jackson’s breathing fell heavily in the quiet. Even the pros get nervous. As for my heart, it pounded like a drum inside a garbage can. What the hell was I doing here?
Zingano snatched leftover remains of rum cake on a plate and ate it. He smacked his lips. “Good stuff,” he said. “Anybody want some?” Jackson and I passed.
Relying on my information from my source who’d worked here before being fired, we found the stairs leading from the kitchen into the basement. With a flashlight beam weaving ahead of us, we snaked our way down past wheels of cheese and large cans of imported San Marzano tomatoes. At the bottom, half hidden behind freezers, refrigerators, and boxes of vegetables, was a door with a heavy-duty slide bolt lock.
“Stand back,” warned Zingano. He busted the padlock off with a swing of the sledgehammer. I pulled back the slide from the double eyelets and eased open the door. My flashlight confirmed that the room’s tiny windows were barred and painted black. I flicked on the room light.
“Holy shit!” said Jackson. Before us sprawled a large room with gaming tables: craps, blackjack, poker, a roulette wheel, and half a dozen slot machines. A fancy, well-stocked mahogany bar occupied one end.
“I told you it was high-pillow,” I said. “Enjoy a nice dinner and then go gambling.” It was better than I’d imagined.
We crept into the room, our footsteps hushed by the plush maroon carpeting that covered not only the floor but the walls.
“No, not our city’s sorry-ass excuse for mobsters,” I said. “But you bring up a good idea. Put out the word that some big boys from Chicago are muscling in and they hit the place. That’ll give the bookies pause.”
I spotted a velvet curtain near one end of the bar. I pulled back the curtain to reveal another padlocked door. “They keep the safe behind here.”
Zingano knocked the padlock off the slide lock and yanked open the door. We peered into a bedroom-size room with a wooden desk, several large black and white photos of very naked ladies, and on the far side an upright safe large enough to stash a body.
Jackson walked to the safe and caressed his gloved hand over its black surface, the combination lock, and the two-prong spindle handle, as though it were a fine woman he was trying to seduce. “A Mosler,” he said softly. “A beautiful bitch.”
“Swell,” I said. I glanced at my watch and scowled at Zingano. “We have an hour forty-five, and a safe built to protect the Mona Lisa. What’s Jackson gonna do, fuck it open?”
“Quit your bellyaching, Stryker,” he said. “This isn’t our first rodeo.”
Jackson pulled an extension cord out of the bag, stuck it in an outlet, plugged in the circular saw, and slapped on one of the three carborundum blades they brought. Meanwhile, Zingano passed out ear protectors, the kind sailors use on aircraft carriers. Jackson knelt in front of the safe and studied the dial, determining the best, most efficient cuts to make. He slipped protective goggles over his eyes, flicked on the saw, and began slicing a diagonal line into the thick steel starting just below the dial, running the saw back and forth, cutting deeper with each pass.
Even with the ear mufflers, the whine of the saw was deafening in the small room. Zingano and I stepped out into the gambling parlor. We stood watching each other, silently. My body taut, alert for a double cross now that I’d led them to the safe.
After a few minutes, the dust and stench of the hot metal began to irritate my nose. Jackson made slow but sure progress before handing the saw off to Zingano. “Damn hard work,” Jackson said, wiping perspiration off his forehead.
The big man cut several more minutes before the saw blade jammed and snapped. Metal fragments shot in all directions as we ducked. Miraculously none hit us.
“Shit!” said Zingano. Jackson dug a spare blade out of the canvas bag. My heart raced again as I glanced at my watch: 1:53.
Zingano resumed cutting. A few minutes later, Jackson relieved him. After the downward diagonal cut reached five inches in length, Jackson began slicing a second diagonal cut down from the dial opposing the other diagonal cut. A third horizontal cut would link the two. I immediately realized the goal was to slice a pie-shaped wedge out of the safe below the dial.
A few minutes later, I pointed to my watch, but Zingano waved me off. Go check on Perdue, he yelled above the whine of the saw. I hesitated. I didn’t trust leaving the two men out of my sight. But I needed to sell this to them, so I went upstairs. Perdue looked frantic. “What’s fuckin’ taking so long?” he asked.
“A safe built from an old tank. Can you hear the noise up here?” My ears rang.
“Muffled,” he said. “Tell ’em to hurry. The precinct car just answered a domestic a few blocks away. That’s getting too close.”
“They’re almost in,” I said, more nervous than Perdue.
I returned to the basement, my hand close to my gun, alert for an ambush. But both men were intent on making the final horizontal cut. Within an inch of completing the pie-shaped cut, the second saw blade broke. Shit! Again, nobody was hurt, but we were down to our final blade. My watch read 2:23. We were running out of time.
Jackson scrambled in the bag for the last blade, but Zingano said, “Fuck it.” He picked up the sledge and banged away at the cut like a man driving a railroad spike.
A few strikes and the pie-shaped piece snapped and fell into the safe with a muffled clunk.
“Bingo!” yelled Zingano.
Jackson slipped a long-handled mirror through the hole and studied the back of the dial. Zingano knelt beside him. “Whattya think?
Jackson backed away and grinned. “Knock off the dial and punch in the shaft. I can reach the relocking-bar spring.”
Zingano knocked off the dial with the sledge and punched in the shaft. Jackson reached in through the pie cut. A moment later, he nodded and Big Z turned the two-prong handle a quarter turn. The door swung open.
My heart sank. Inside, two small safes greeted us, along with two cash drawers between them. Zingano yanked the cash drawers out and dumped the contents on the floor. I tossed aside the gambling receipts and tally sheets on the horses and dogs, and rough counted the cash.
“Only thirty-three hundred.” I glanced at my watch. “And it’s two-forty. We’re stretching our cover.”
Zingano scowled. “We didn’t get this far to leave thirty-seven grand behind. Gimmie the chisel and the maul, Wes.”
Jackson pulled them out of a canvas bag. Zingano wedged the chisel tip into the edge of one of the small safes, rapped it hard with a short-handled maul, and popped the safe door open. Inside sat piles of rubber-banded stacks of tens, twenties, fifties, and hundreds.
“Hell, yes!” yelled Jackson.
Zingano popped open the second safe. It too was full of cash. He glanced at me with grudging approval. “Your source sure as hell called it right, Stryker.”
He dropped to his knees and began digging greenbacks out of the two safes like a dog digging up dirt to find a buried bone. Jackson knelt and scooped the money into one of the canvas bags. I watched their every move. This was the most dangerous moment. I’d led them to a safe full of money. If they were going to pull a double cross, now was the time.
I didn’t give them the chance.
I backed away a few steps and drew my gun.
Jackson was the first to notice my gun pointed at them. I wasn’t sure which of us was more surprised. It was the moment I’d dreaded since I’d first thought of nailing their asses, a moment I wasn’t sure I could pull off when the time came. The Academy never trained us how to pull down on fellow uniforms in the middle of cracking a safe.
Jackson stopped scooping money into the canvas bags, his eyes wide. His mouth moved but no words came out. Zingano suddenly realized something was amiss and he looked up.
“What the fuck is this, Stryker?” he snarled.
“Call it an act of self-preservation,” I said, stifling the fear in my voice.
That’s what I told myself, anyway. A desperate act. If Zingano and Jackson murdered Benedict, they wouldn’t hesitate murdering me. I couldn’t depend on anyone in the department for help, so I’d decided to help myself. The only problem was, I remained unsure this was the way to go. Even stuck away in jail, Zingano and Jackson would have long arms through their pals. Benedict and I could still be swept up in the aftermath. But I didn’t see any other way to turn. I needed to offer up a sacrifice to the department and hope it was enough to convince them and the public that this was all there was to Sheppard’s published “rumors” of dirty cops.
Beyond self-preservation ran another motive for taking the risk, something Paula once said about my being a good cop. I couldn’t allow crooks like Zingano and Jackson to operate under the cover of a blue uniform and stain the rest of us. This needed to end here, or we all would be swept up in it.
“I was a sap trusting you, you sonofabitch,” snarled Zingano.
“No, not a sap. Just greedy.”
The big man began to rise, his hand reaching for his sidearm. I waved my gun for him to stay put.
“Stay down. Now take your guns out, very slowly, and slide them my way. Fingertips only. Anything else I shoot.”
Both men obeyed. I toed both guns out into the next room. “Now slide over the bags, real slow.”
They pushed the canvas bags several feet toward me. “That’s goo
d!” I said. “Back up.” They scooted back on their knees to the safe. I leaned over and rifled inside the bags, keeping my gun and my eyes trained on the two men.
“You trying to be greedy?” said Zingano. “There’s plenty here for everyone.”
“If it were the money, I’d have you finish filling the bags.”
I felt around and found the third saw blade. I pitched it into the next room. Not finding any additional weapons in the bags, I stood and backed toward the door.
“Aren’t you taking the money?” asked Jackson, puzzled.
“No, you guys keep it. You’re gonna need it far more than I am.”
I leaned over to pick up the pry bar and the sledgehammer. Zingano rose and moved menacingly toward me, hissing through his teeth.
I stood and leveled my gun arm at him. “You’re big, friend, but you ain’t big enough to brush off two thirty-eight slugs in the chest.”
My gun wasn’t steady, but it was steady enough to convince Zingano to stop. “You wouldn’t shoot a cop,” he said.
“A cop, no. But you’re not a cop, Dominic. You’re a disgrace to the uniform. I’d shoot you before I’d shoot a common thief any day. At least they ain’t pretending to protect the public. Now both of you lay down on the floor with your heads toward the safe.”
They obeyed, heads cocked back toward me.
“Now listen carefully, guys. When the cops get here, you don’t—”
“Whattya mean, the cops?” said Jackson.
“Quiet! Detective Bock will be among them, and the first thing he’s going to ask is where am I and whether I was in on this. You say nothing. Keep your traps shut. Don’t mention Perdue, either. He doesn’t know shit about this. It’s all me. Get through booking, make bail. After your release, I’ll tell you what you’re gonna do next.”
Zingano scoffed. “You’re the first name I’m going to sing, Stryker. I’m going to put your—”
“Not if you want to avoid a murder rap.”
“Murder?”
“Right now you’re only looking at burglary charges. You involve me in this in any way and I’ll squeal that Benedict committed burglaries with you until your falling out. I’ll tell ’em Wes here said in front of witnesses you needed to do something about Benedict.”