Personal injuries (39 page)

As the anxiety began knifing deeper, she added it up. Would kids skip the CDs and go for a birthday card? Would they take the tapes and not the Dictaphone? That's why the pockets of her clothing had been rummaged, why her bed had been overturned. Carmody's information had finally made the circle, from Walter to somebody who cared.

The cop was ready to go. He stooped for his hat on her coffee table. As he did, the white corner of an envelope peeked up out of his rear pocket and Evon missed a breath. Lots of things came in envelopes, she told herself. Lots of people carried stuff in their back pockets. But she recollected all of Robbie's warnings about Brendan's enduring connections on the Force. The brass, almost all of them, were Brendan's pals. He'd served on the Force with most of the Area Commanders and had cultivated the others over the years. Milacki, in fact, was still on the job.

"How'd this call come in anyway?" Evon asked, trying to sound casual. The copper wiped a thick hand across his mouth. "One of the neighbors, I suspect."

"You know which one? I really oughta go say thank you."

"Fraid not. Just a 911. Beat hell over here, you know how it is." He was looking around the living room as if he'd left something. Maybe he didn't want to meet her eye, Or perhaps he was already wondering what tipped her.

She'd gone back to the front window and looked through the miniblinds down to the avenue. There was no squad car outside.

"It was just a real surprise to find you in here," she said. "I didn't even see a police car outside." The copper looked at her with sudden directness. His tiny eyes had hardened and she cursed herself. She might as well have handed the guy a note that he'd been busted. And like a bat suddenly flying through the room, Evon abruptly realized this man was weighing the thought of killing her. It was not necessarily something he wanted to do. It was just that he had never really considered his alternatives. But if she beeped the Bureau for assistance, if they searched him and found that card and her Dictaphone tapes in his pockets, his life was over. There was a Chief's Special, a .38 Smith & Wesson, on his hip. And he could use any excuse: she snuck in; he mistook her for another bandit.

"You know the old trick," the cop finally said. "Come up on foot. I didn't want the perp to catch sight of a black-and-white." He kept his pinkish face half-averted, checking with one eye to see how this was being received. "What kind of law enforcement you in?"

"Me?"

"You sorta sound like you know what you're doing. With the fingerprints and all. Way you were crawling the wall there." She noticed his nameplate over his shirt pocket for the first time. Dimonte. Then again, it might not even be his.

"I just watch a lot of TV"

She got a laugh with that, albeit somewhat obligatory. She desperately wanted to unheat this guy, put him at ease. Bad enough that they were on her, but even worse if they realized she knew. She went to her cupboard in the kitchen. It was open, too. The vodka was on the front of the shelf. Did she leave it there? Somebody trying to pick through her cover would be looking for liquor. She brought the bottle out with her, as well as a box of cookies, and offered Dimonte both.

"Not on the job, lady. I'm pretty much a beer guy anyway. Poor man's pleasures." She made excuses about the bottle. Her boyfriend bought it. She didn't take alcohol herself, the way she was brought up.

"Methodist?" the cop asked.

"No, no. Mormon. Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints." He shook his head to show he'd never heard of them. "Each to his own," he said. He looked her over one more time, plainly still deliberating, then seeing no harm, reached over and took a cookie. He was gone a moment later. She thanked him lavishly and he tipped his hat. She leaned against the apartment's painted steel door as soon as she'd closed it. That had been a bad minute there. Her knees were jumping around like fleas. Back in the kitchen, she found the crowbar, still resting on the counter in the bag bearing the grocer's logo. But that made sense. Officer Dimonte had already found all the evidence he needed.

SENNETT DID NOT WANT TO BELIEVE IT.

"A birthday card?" he asked. "If I was a burglar, I might lift a birthday card. Maybe there's a twenty inside."

But Joe Amari had gotten agents from the Kindle County Division who worked regularly with the locals to tear this up. Over in Area 6, Dimonte had filed a report that said he'd responded to a burglary in progress. But Joe's guys had burned a copy of the 911 tapes and a number of evidence techs had listened to all twelve tracks. There was no break-and-enter logged anywhere in DuSable between 8 p.m. and 10.

McManis knew Sennett well enough to realize he'd have to hear this news directly. Heavyset but smooth, Joe sat calmly at the end of the table and delivered the report. Sennett began to speculate about why the call might not be recorded and Amari lost patience.

"Stan, nobody sends a single unit, let alone a one-man car, to answer a burglary in progress. You end up with officers down that way. And from what Evon says, this critter had way enough wear on him to know better." Amari, who was seldom reticent with his opinions tucked his chin against his chest and gave Sennett the full measure of his solemn brown eyes. "Face it, Stan. These guys are on her. They've got the Dictaphone tape. And they know that Carmody said he was fooling around with an FBI agent named DeDe, and that's the name on that card."

The weak light of a rainy morning leaked into the conference room through the open blinds. Trying to take this in, Sennett popped his middle finger rhythmically against the small dark ò' he made of his lips.

Stan had his vision. He was going to round up every corrupt lawyer and judge in the tri-cities. He was going to use all of law enforcement's latest technological gadgets and put together a cinch case on every on of them, dozens, maybe a hundred. He was going to drive them like a herd of branded cattle down Marshall Avenue in the full sight of the world, clopping along with their heads down as they moved on toward Stan's personal slaughterhouse in the federal building. And at the head of this legion of disgrace would be Brendan Tuohey, the guy everybody told Sennett he'd never get. And now he wouldn't. The bad guys were on alert.

Finally, he turned to Evon and asked her what she thought.

"I'd like to stay out there," she answered.

Across the table, McManis's smile was almost sweet.

"We know that, Evon. We all do. But the boss wants your opinion. You were there. Do you think you're burned?"

She might have fooled around with Sennett, but she would never dis McManis. She believed in all the same true blue stuff he did.

"Cremated," she answered.

Even Sennett managed a smile. He got up and walked around the room for quite some time while he weighed the real question. What did they do now? Everyone else hung there in the usual suspense. The beeping and scraping of the traffic down on the avenue wandered up here. Suddenly, Sennett faced them with a vague smile and his head at the same inquisitive angle practiced by most mammals.

"What if we
go
with this?" he asked. "Assume they know she's FBI. We can't afford not to. But what says they realize what she's doing? Maybe Robbie's the guy under the microscope, the one she's investigating." Sennett, hurtling with the momentum of his idea, was happy again. N o one else seemed to see what pleased him. "We can get a clean shot at Brendan this way. Robbie thinks he's got an FBI mole in his office. So he goes to Brendan for advice: What should I do? Knowing who she is, Tuohey can't afford not to warn Robbie."

Evon had always felt grudging admiration for this part of Sennett. He was like a screw that kept turning, no matter how impregnable the surface it was supposed to penetrate. McManis took a minute.

"You want to do this while Evon's still working in Robbie's office?"

"Why net?"

"These guys have too many ways, Stan. They showed is that last night."

"Evon's a big girl," Evon said. Sennett opened a palm n her direction. McManis, who'd heard the line before, made a face, then stole a look at Amari, who also shook its head no. Stan continued pitching. After all the work, all the months, they had to take a shot at Brendan. They had to. And she had to remain in place to give Robbie credibility when he went to Tuohey to ask about what he should do. The fact that she was still here would mean ;he-and the Bureau-didn't suspect who that copper, Dinonte, had been fronting for, didn't realize she'd been uncovered.

"Stan," said McManis, "these boys don't lack for hormones. There's a real chance they'll make a move."

"All the better," Sennett answered brightly. At moments, .t was shocking how little Stan cared whether or not people liked him. His logic was cold-blooded. If Robbie went o Brendan on Monday, and on Tuesday they found some punk snipping Evon's brake lines, it would close the circle, make the case. Jim, the steady master of his emotions, was visibly shocked. His lips parted once or twice before he spoke.

"I don't bait traps with agents. Not if I can avoid it. And neither does UCORC."

"Jim, I can handle this," she said.

His eyes came to her without the slightest movement of his head. She was out of place. He closed the file folder before him and said he needed some time with Stan. Evon and Amari quickly left together.

"Big stuff," said Shirley from behind the red oak receptionist's station. Evon had taken a seat across from her. Plump and reliably cheerful, Shirley, in her real life, had been a state cop somewhere before joining the Bureau. Neither she nor the other UCAs knew exactly what had happened last night, but they all seemed to feel something was up. Klecker came through from the other side of the space.

"
Que pasa
?" he asked.

Evon shook her head as if she didn't know.

McManis came out in another ten minutes, and pointed her to his office. The Movers had decorated with a minimal concession to his tastes. There were photos of the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia on the paneled walls. The supposed mementos of a lifetime were displayed on the office's open shelves. He had a bronzed Letter of Achievement from the Chairman of Moreland Insurance in a brass frame, and a pewter triple block from his bygone sailing days. There was also a signed photograph of Mike Schmidt taken at the Vet in Philly, inscribed to `Jim.' The autograph was a phony, but McManis had confessed to Evon that his family-the wife and the kids-were in the photo somewhere, probably, she supposed, in the stadium's seats. The only other thing Evon knew about Jim was that he had been an Eagle Scout. Literally. And at least one of his sons was as well. He'd said something about that at a party.

He sat, then thought better of something, and got up to shut the blinds. From now on they were going to assume that Tuohey had a full countersurveillance going. Jim leaned against his desk on her side. She knew before he started that he was pulling her in, and she began talking him out of it before he could find his words.

"Jim, I know what I'm doing."

"It's not your choice."

"You can put the whole surveillance squad on me."

"DeDe-" He hadn't called her that since the day he'd met her in Des Moines. "We
had
surveillance on you. And this creep walked right past them. We're lucky he didn't kill you. The next time they catch hold of you, it'll be guys in ski masks thumping you all night long to find out what we've got."

"Then make sure I've got company. Twenty-four hours. Have Shirley move in with me. And I can pack again now. I'll be safe. Jim, I know what I'm doing."

"No you don't," McManis said, but he was smiling gently again, much as before. With admiration. At moments, she was amazed to realize how much he liked her. He'd liked her from the beginning.

She begged. He had a thousand more objections. About UCORC, and the feasibility of Sennett's plan. But she could see he was wearing down.

"Jim, we all deserve the shot at Tuohey. I do. You do. Sennett does. We can't stop here." She was almost desperate with that thought. How could she just go back to Des Moines? To bank thefts and church choir and thinking about getting a new cat? "I mean, Jim," she said and spoke one of her errant pieces of humor, a joke that was not really a joke at all, "I'm Evon Miller."

JUNE

CHAPTER 33

IN THE GRAINY REDUCTION OF THE black-and-white monitor on which we watched, His Honor Brendan Tuohey, Presiding Judge of the Kindle County Superior Court's Common Law Claims Division, was mustached with confectioner's sugar when he first came into view. The picture had careened as Robbie had entered the restaurant, tossing off morning greetings with characteristic brio to the owner and several members of the staff. When Feaver had reached Tuohey's table, he had apparently set his briefcase, and the camera within it, on an extra chair, or perhaps on the next table. Whatever the perch, it afforded a well-framed picture of the three men he was joining.

Paddywacks was another venerable Kindle County institution. Its appeal was not in the overripe decor-brass fixtures and tufted benches, and floors that were mopped once a week. Rather, it was renowned for its gargantuan omelets and its early morning clientele, which included most of the county's important insiders: officeholders, Party bigwigs-and the ward types and others who relished the opportunity to mingle with them. While Augie Bolcarro was living, he had appeared here at least once a week, and Toots Nuccio, the octogenarian fixer, had a large table in the corner where he kept court every day with his many vassals in politics and the mob. In the world of the Democratic Farmers & Union Party, where working-class values still forbade too much overt splash, one of the truest signs of stature was if the gregarious proprietor, Plato, released the red velvet rope with which he restrained the regular trade and beckoned you to a table at once upon your arrival.

From the surveillance van parked immediately across the avenue from Paddywacks' plate glass doors, Sennett and McManis and I, like
Macbeth's
witches around their cauldron, watched the black-and-white imagery froth up on the monitor. The guessing game concerning what Tuohey's cohort knew about Evon left everyone uncertain about how they would react to Robbie. He might encounter anythinga beating, the cold shoulder, or some preconceived drama intended to portray their innocence. Amari and several local agents were circulating through the moderate early traffic, on radio silence, but tuned in for emergency direction. Depending on the turns in the conversation, Stan was prepared to respond with surveillance, or even, in his fantasy, a bust. I had gone to see Robbie on Friday to tell him what would be required today. We sat in the perfect white living room, which had been restored to order for the days of visitation following his mother's death. Robbie remained gripped by that retrospective mood and, with little prompting, his conversation wandered to his childhood memories of Tuohey, which remained intense. Hungry for men, for their smell, their ways, their company and example, Robbie loved Morty's uncle more, frankly, than Mort seemed to. He was allowed to address him as Uncle Brendan, and despite the fact that Sunday was Robbie's only full day with his mother, he rarely missed one of the afternoon suppers when Tuohey appeared at his sister's table. Brendan was still a cop then. With his gun and his blue patrol uniform, Brendan seemed as auraed and heroic to Robbie as Roy Rogers, and he was greeted with roisterous delight by the boys when he arrived in the entry of the Dinnersteins' home. After supper, he'd let Mort and Robbie gallop around the house wearing his heavy cap with its strip of silver braid along the short brim. Occasionally, he would even unsnap the polished black holster on his hip. He'd empty his service revolver and allow the boys to hold the weapon and inspect the brass jacketed dumdum rounds, which he stood on end on the dining table, a lethal hollow cut dark and deep into the leaden tip of each bullet.