The Big Dive

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The Big Dive Page 29

by Bruce Most


  Once darkness fell, I detoured past union hall. I was in luck. Big Z’s Hudson sat parked on the street and lights were on in his office. No doubt hatching revenge. I needed to instill in him exactly why that would be a bad idea, and why he and Jackson needed to take the fall and keep Perdue and me out of it.

  I drove to a downtown messenger service that stayed open late and had them deliver a sealed note to Zingano Security. I used a false name and paid in cash. It would be delivered in the next half hour. My note read:

  12:30 tonight

  Same place as before

  Just you

  Remember my packet for reporter

  Following my shift, I drove to Huron Street in The Bottoms where I’d first met Zingano and Jackson to plan The Tuscany job. It was a dangerous place to meet. But I could hardly risk dropping into Zingano’s office. It might be wired or under surveillance by the department, as the union boss feared. Even a public place such as a café was a risk. The last thing I needed was Bock getting word I was spotted with Zingano.

  I parked by the school supply warehouse, got out, and leaned against the hood. A light westerly brought up the sour smells of the river and the soggy land of The Bottoms.

  The big man was late. I began to worry he hadn’t gotten the message or was ignoring me. I hoped the threat of my packet of information that would go to the News in the event something happened to me would provide him incentive. Finally, vehicle lights approached. Zingano’s Hudson stopped thirty feet from me, nose to nose, the headlights snaring me like a deer. I raised a hand to block the glare and motioned for him to douse the headlights. A moment’s hesitation before they went off.

  I crossed my arms and tried to appear relaxed and in command, though my insides churned like an old Maytag.

  The union boss emerged. Then a passenger. Wes Jackson. Both in civvies.

  I straightened, my hand dropping to my gun. “I said only you, Dominic.”

  “After what you pulled?”

  “Stay by your doors. No closer.”

  “Christ, Stryker, you gotta lotta balls, showing your fuckin’ face around us,” said Jackson. “I’m gonna beat the shit outa ya.”

  He started toward me. In a flash, I pulled my gun and pointed it at him. He stopped cold.

  “Back in the car, Wes. Or this conversation ends here and you two will be in deeper shit than you already are.”

  He didn’t move, as if challenging my willingness to shoot him.

  “For good measure, Perdue is covering me with a rifle,” I said. “He’s one of the best marksmen in the department, did you know that?”

  Jackson scoffed. Zingano scanned the shadows that edged against us.

  “I told you at The Tuscany that Perdue had nothing to do with what I did,” I said. “I conned him like I conned you. But he’s scared shitless of you two, so he agreed to provide cover tonight. He needs to keep me alive. I wouldn’t test his marksmanship.”

  “You’re bullshitting,” said Jackson, making motions as if intending to attack even with the gun in my hand.

  “Back, Wes,” said Zingano, motioning with his hand.

  “This asshole set us up, Dominic!”

  “Do as he says. I didn’t come here for a fight.”

  “All the way inside, door shut, windows up,” I instructed. “Both hands on the steering wheel.”

  “Muthafucker,” said Jackson, but he obeyed.

  I reholstered my gun.

  “You do gotta lotta balls,” said Zingano. “What exactly are you using them for?”

  “Trying to save my ass and the ass of some friends. That, and I don’t like dirty cops. You two pricks deserve to go to jail. You corrupted Perdue. A good kid at heart. But worst of all, you got Benedict killed.”

  “I told you, Stryker, we didn’t kill him.”

  “He became a liability to you and your crew when you two had a falling out. Both Perdue and Benedict’s wife can confirm that split. That’s motive for murder.”

  “We didn’t kill him,” he repeated slowly.

  Surprisingly, part of me believed him. Yet I held him responsible in his own way. “He was killed committing a burglary. He learned burglary from you. Even if you didn’t kill him, you deserve to go to jail for his death.”

  “I didn’t recruit choirboy. He came to us.”

  “Benedict was a straight-arrow cop. Why trust him? He could have been undercover for the brass.”

  “Nah. I got sources everywhere in the department. I knew he wasn’t undercover. He was on the ropes. Needed some money. His eyes were full of fear. Guess I wasn’t such a good judge of character.”

  “He quit working for you weeks before he was murdered. Something was chewin’ on his mind. What was it?”

  “Wouldn’t say. Maybe he couldn’t handle the jobs.”

  A train rumbled through the CB&Q coach yards not far from us.

  My eyes switched to Jackson to make sure he was still being a good boy in the front seat. Satisfied, I looked back at Zingano. “Benedict ever mention a guy named Neil Thornton?”

  He looked at me as though I’d asked him to name the 23rd longest river in the world. “Never heard the name.”

  “What about the commie who got himself blown up? Marcus Raschke. Benedict mention him?”

  “The commie? No.” He crossed his arms. “For a guy’s who’s going down with the rest of us, you’re pretty damn curious about useless shit.”

  “I’m not going down, Dominic. You can’t prove I was there. You’re not going to breathe my name. Or Perdue’s. Or Benedict’s.”

  “How do you figure that? Giving up names will be our ticket to a reduced sentence, if it comes to that.”

  “You do, I stick the pawnshop up your ass. It’ll ruin me, but it will really ruin your day.”

  “I told you, we didn’t kill your partner. Homicide can’t prove I did. I have an alibi.”

  “Facts won’t matter if they set their minds to it. The brass would love nothing better than to nail your ass for murder and take down the union. But if you’re smart, Dominic, it won’t come to that.”

  “Smart how?”

  “Tell them there’s a bunch of corrupt cops on the force, but you’ll agree to limit this little mess to you and Jackson, in exchange for a shorter jolt in Cañon City. Maybe give ’em a few names of guys who’ve done jobs with you. Guys the brass can quietly usher out without attracting attention. Tell ’em if they don’t go along, you go public with names. Lots of names. Lou Sheppard will give you his right leg and one of his balls for that.”

  “They won’t buy that.”

  “Sure they will. The last thing the brass wants is for this to blow up into a department-wide scandal. Police chiefs lose jobs over that. They’ll be more than happy to go along. You’re going to prison, however you look at it. But serving two to five on a burglary rap is one thing. Killing a cop gets you the gas chamber.”

  That gave the big man pause.

  He forced a smile, still reluctant to relinquish control. “Not sure I can keep your name out of it, Joe. Just as you predicted the other night, Detective Bock asked where you were when he arrested us. He seemed certain you’d be there with us. I could tell he was disappointed. He figures you for the ringleader. Never saw a dick so bent on busting a cop.”

  “Yeah, he gets that way. But you keep me out of it, anyway. Don’t forget, besides Benedict, I can link your ass to Diaz.”

  “We had nothing to do with that spic’s murder,” insisted Zingano. “If I’d killed Jailbait, I would have made it look like a righteous shoot. Killing a spic prick like him would have been easy to get away with. Line of duty. Tossing him in that field was amateur night.”

  “He fenced for you. The killer used a thirty-eight. A cop gun. Diaz was afraid of being killed by cops. People can testify to that.”

  “Most everybody in the fucking department carries thirty-eights. Most people in law enforcement do, and many civilians for that matter. That doesn’t prove shit.”

 
“Again, the department is just looking for an excuse to send you away. Diaz is one more excuse. Keep our names out of it.” I nodded toward Jackson in the car. “And keep your partner there under control. The man’s as unstable as a stick of dynamite at a weenie roast.”

  We went our separate ways. But Zingano’s assertion that most people in law enforcement own .38s stuck with me. A .38 that put a slug in the back of Diaz’s head. I thought of one person in particular who carried a .38. One who knew Diaz and could frame him for Benedict’s murder. One who might have cause. One living under a false name and a false past. Who knew how to make bombs out of dynamite to blow a commie to hell. Who was connected to Camp Amache.

  Maybe the .38 proved more than Zingano realized.

  Chapter 33

  Two days later, I arrived home from my shift around midnight. Perdue remained a wreck, but I hadn’t heard a squeak out of Zingano. No reports or rumors that they’d given up our names.

  As I stepped from my car, a shot rang out. It took out the driver door window. I flung myself backwards onto the front seat as a second shot slammed into the dashboard.

  Upside down, I pushed open the passenger door. The interior light popped on. A third shot shattered the rear window. I flipped over and slithered out the passenger side. Squatting beside the car, I drew my gun, my breath falling hard.

  The shots came from somewhere across the street. Rifle shots, I judged. I crouched behind my car, calculating my next move. I eyed the side of my house. From there I could get in the back door and call dispatch. Thank god Paula and Olivia weren’t home.

  I slipped around to the front of my car.

  A bullet thunked into metal.

  Lights popped on up and down the street. A bedroom light. A living room light. A porch light. My neighbor’s kitchen light.

  “Someone call the police!” I yelled. “Call the police!”

  It was a warm night and neighbors had their windows open. They’d heard the gunshots. Maybe they’d hear me.

  I scuttled back around to the passenger side of the car. No gunfire this time.

  I waited, listening for sounds. Minutes later, the distant wail of a siren cut the night. Two minutes after that, a patrol car roared down the block, its red light flashing. It slowed halfway, not far from my place.

  “Here, here!” I yelled, waving my arms, still crouched behind my car.

  The patrol car stopped at the end of my drive. A lone driver scrambled out.

  “Watch out, a shooter across the street,” I yelled, pointing. The cop was a sitting duck.

  Instead, he took cover behind the hood of his car, his gun pointed in my direction. “Drop the weapon.”

  “No, no, the shooter’s behind you!”

  “Drop the weapon!”

  “I’m a cop!” I yelled. “The shooter’s behind you.”

  The uniform didn’t move. “Drop the weapon and raise your hands.”

  Christ! I laid my gun on the driveway, went to my knees, and raised my hands, keeping hunched, hoping the shooter couldn’t see me well enough to get a clear shot.

  “Joe Stryker, fifty-first precinct,” I said. “This is my house.”

  “Stryker?”

  “Yes. The fucking Denver Kid.”

  I hated saying it, but I thought at least it might get his attention.

  He scooted around the rear of his car and came my way, gun still trained on me. I kept my hands raised until he ducked behind my car and could see my uniform. He lowered his gun.

  “Phelps,” he said, nodding. I didn’t recognize him. A slight build, young, but not so young he didn’t know of The Denver Kid.

  “The shots came from somewhere across the street,” I said. “Four so far. A rifle.”

  He peeked over my trunk, then ducked back. “More guys are on the way.” He glanced at my house. “You got family in there?”

  “They’re away.”

  Thank god.

  Within minutes, two more patrol cars arrived, each with a lone officer. Now every house on the block was lit up. The four of us split into two teams and spent the next twenty minutes combing the neighborhood. No signs of the shooter.

  When we returned to my house, a familiar rickety motorcycle was parked out front and Lou Sheppard was standing in my driveway dangling his 4x5 Speed Graphic. “Jesus, Lou, don’t you ever sleep?” I said.

  “I could if people would quit shooting at you.”

  Several neighbors in bathrobes and tossed-on clothes gathered on a lawn two houses away, gawking at us.

  Phelps, the first cop on the scene, asked, “Any idea who shot at you? Or why?”

  I couldn’t dismiss the possibility the shooter was a hot-headed Wes Jackson taking revenge for his arrest. Even Zingano. But it would be a stupid move on their part. They’d be suspects number one. No, I had another suspect. One who had nothing to do with dirty cops, and all about my getting too close to him for Benedict’s murder. But it wasn’t a name I would spill to Phelps.

  “Warning shots, I suspect,” I said, as Lou scribbled notes on his reporter’s pad.

  “A warning from who?” asked Phelps.

  I nodded to Lou. “Ask him. There are guys who blame me for his dirty cop stories. Even after Zingano’s arrest.” I nodded toward my car. “One of them sent a message.”

  Lou kept scribbling notes, ignoring my implied insult.

  The officer squinched his eyebrows. “You’re saying a cop shot at you?”

  I shrugged.

  Phelps stared at my riddled car. “Helluva warning, Stryker. Looks to me the shooter was aiming to kill.”

  I pulled the three cops out of earshot of Sheppard. “Look, fellas, do me a favor, let’s keep this to ourselves. Write up in your reports that there were gunshots but no evidence of injury or damage. Probably some drunk letting off steam. Leave my name out of it.”

  “Why?” asked one of them.

  “We got enough bad publicity right now. If word gets out that some angry cop is taking potshots at another cop for allegedly exposing dirty cops, it’s only going to look bad for every guy on the force.”

  All three men glanced in Lou’s direction. He was snapping pictures of my car.

  “I’ll take care of Sheppard, if you guys take care of things at your end,” I said.

  The uniforms left. The neighbors were still gawking. “Go home, there’s nothing to see!” I shouted.

  They straggled off. Sheppard approached and barraged me with questions, but I cut him off. “I don’t want you writing a story about tonight or running a picture of my car.”

  “You’re kidding, Joe. A Denver Kid story. Freedom of the press.”

  I leaned in his face. “It’s a question of freedom of your ass.”

  Sheppard backed away. “Getting shot at sure makes you touchy.”

  “Paula and my daughter are away. I don’t want them reading this in the paper.”

  “Don’t you think they should know?”

  “You’re not married, Lou, right?” Who’d want to be married to a man who slept many a night at police headquarters?

  “Right,” he confirmed.

  “If you were, you wouldn’t ask that question. It’s not worth needlessly alarming them.”

  “Someone tried to kill you, Joe. In front of your own home.”

  “I have enough marriage problems from the Rawlins case. I don’t want to go through it again. I don’t want Paula to find out. Keep it out of the paper.”

  “You’re asking a lot, Joe. You’ve been evading my questions about how you came up with Senator Kane’s name. And you know more about Zingano’s arrest than you’re letting on.”

  “Be satisfied I gave you Kane’s fake law firm. A story about our ambitious but crooked state senator will be a lot bigger than some little story on me. A favor for a friend.”

  Sheppard left cursing. Hopefully, he and the cops would keep their word and the shooting wouldn’t get back to Paula. My neighbors were a bigger problem. Paula and I weren’t exactly friends with t
hem. Who wants to be friends with a cop who works odd hours and seems to attract everything that’s wrong with society? But inevitably one of them would run into Paula on the street—if she and Olivia return—and ask, “Are you and your husband, okay?” and the shooting events would unravel.

  Another brush fire to put out. My only hope was to catch the shooter, the man who killed Benedict and Diaz and Raschke. Maybe by then I’d have a new story to tell Paula, to reassure her the threat was gone.

  Chapter 34

  I took the Studebaker to a body shop the next morning to get the glass fragments cleaned up, the shattered windows replaced, and the bullet holes patched.

  While they worked on the car, I walked to a nearby phone booth and made several calls. The last was to Paula at the Wagon Wheel motel on Colfax where she and Olivia were staying. I knew the place. It was cheap and clean, but it was located on a street full of sleazy motels where hookers, drug addicts, and dealers hung out.

  I told her I wasn’t on duty today and could come see them, but Paula was firm in her refusal. She didn’t say why, and she didn’t need to.

  Everything was in my hands now. I needed to solve this case and find a way out of this mess soon for any hope of getting my family back.

  Early that evening, I headed for a small amphitheater in the foothills outside Colorado Springs. Based on information from my earlier calls, that’s where I would find Crawford Kane.

  The air was cool when I arrived. The state senator was in full demagogue mode.

  “The evidence is indisputable that officials in high positions in this nation are, wittingly and unwittingly, instruments of the Soviet empire. They, and their red agents, are traitors to the ideals of democracy and the foundations of our freedom. They are traitors to the American cause, the American way of life.”

  Kane’s incendiary language and the audience’s vigorous applause ricocheted off the tall twisted slabs of red sandstone that surrounded the amphitheater. The audience strained forward on the long wood benches or from precarious rocky perches to catch every word.

  The sun was almost down behind the mountain peaks, the higher rays catching the tops of the rocks and lighting them like matches. The lower rays splintered among the pine trees and fell in pieces across the audience and Kane’s looming figure.

 

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