Precinct 11 - 01 - The Brotherhood (34 page)

He pointed out that the question had been posed long before the birth of Christ by both the Greek philosopher Epicurus and the Old Testament’s Job. Jonah and Jeremiah had raised the same question, as had David and Habakkuk.

The most compelling—though not necessarily satisfactory, especially to those who had suffered most personally—answer from God himself was found in Job, according to the pastor. There, God, in essence, asks the suffering and complaining and questioning Job where he was when God was creating the universe.

The message jarred Boone from his funk over evil prospering while he suffered. Not only should he not begrudge Pascual Candelario his son Jose, the one tiny light in an admittedly self-inflicted dungeon of a life, but Boone decided he should also actually be happy for him. Yes, the man had chosen that life and made a horror of it, but now that he had turned to Christ, shouldn’t he also be encouraged and nurtured in his faith?

The fact was, Boone was evil too, and he knew it all too well. In a strange way, though that day’s sermon was on anything but the topic of forgiveness, Boone sat miserable, knowing he owed Haeley an unequivocal apology not only for having left her to worry after promising to check in but also for his snide comment about not needing another boss.

When the service was over, Haeley immediately stood and began greeting people. Boone waited his turn and then took both of her hands in his. She was still stiff and looked like she didn’t want to do this here and now.

“When you’re right, you’re right,” he said. “And when I’m wrong, I’m wrong. I was wrong.”

He felt her soften. “Don’t worry about it,” she said, starting to pull away. “I have to keep an eye out for Max.”

“That’s not forgiveness,” he said. “I need to know whether I can keep coming to this church or if you’re going to have me excommunicated.”

She laughed. “I can’t stay mad at you,” she said. “But don’t press your luck.”

“That’s not forgiveness either.”

“All right, all right! You’re forgiven!”

Max came running, arms outstretched. “Pizza!”

Haeley rolled her eyes. “I’m a little tired of pizza.”

“We can go somewhere else.”

“Nah,” she said. “If the boy wants pizza, he can have pizza. Anyway, there are other things on the menu.”

Though Boone was exhausted, lunch that day with Haeley and Max was the most fun he’d had in a long time. He and Haeley set a regular Saturday date night and also discussed that both would be away visiting their families over the holidays. Boone thought it was too early to say it, but he was intrigued by the possibility that they would start missing each other at a time like that, and it would be a good harbinger for the future of the relationship.

The following week was filled with strategizing and preparation for January 6. One day, just before a briefing session, Garrett Fox poked his head into Boone’s office. The newspapers and TV news shows had been full of his release from the department after months of hearings, continuances, a countersuit, and appeals. Boone couldn’t hide his surprise at seeing him.

“Just wanted to be sure we were all right—personally, I mean,” Fox said, accepting the offer of a chair.

“I don’t know what to say, Garrett. You stood up for me, like we all want to do for each other. But you know I didn’t ask you to lie.”

“Turns out it wasn’t a lie after all, though, right?”

“Well, you were right in what you guessed happened. But you have to admit, you didn’t believe me, and you didn’t see what happened.”

“I sleep at night, Drake. That’s all I’ll say. I hope you do.”

Boone hesitated. “Shouldn’t I?”

“You could have stood up for me is all I’m saying.”

“And said what? That you should be exonerated because even though it was proven on camera that you were lying, you meant well and were right and I appreciated it?”

“Something like that.”

“That’s crazy and you know it, but if it makes you feel any better, I do feel bad you lost your job. What’re you going to do?”

“What we all do when we get off the street: look for something in security or consulting or private detective work. I don’t know. I’ll land on my feet.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” Boone said.

“You know, don’t you, that if this had gone the other way—if you had been canned like everybody knew would happen if Freddy hadn’t had an attack of conscience—this would be my office now, right?”

Boone tried to hide his shock, apparently unsuccessfully.

“You didn’t know. Well, ask Keller. I hadn’t left OCD under the best of terms, but after you, I was the one he knew could hit the ground running here.”

“He was probably right about that,” Boone muttered, still trying to process it all.

Fox stood. “Well, do me proud, partner. And don’t become a stranger.”

Boone shook his hand and walked him out, noticing that no one else in the office even acknowledged his presence when he passed, though Fox slowed and clearly tried to make himself noticed.
How awful it must be to be shunned,
Boone thought.

All three men above Boone in the chain of command didn’t like that the big meeting of the gang leaders had been set so far in the future. Though the days would move quickly, they all warned him that things like this had a way of falling apart when too much time was involved.

On the one hand, Boone wanted to get on with it too. The FBI, the Chicago Crime Commission, and the U.S. Attorney’s office were all brought in at this point, and daylong strategy sessions became the norm. Jack Keller and Pete Wade reminded them that they all had to stay in the background, at least as it related to Candelario, because a deal was a deal. He would work directly with the Chicago Police Department, and specifically Boone Drake, whom he had apparently accepted and learned to trust.

That, however, meant anything other than their staying out of the planning. Boone got from the brass Candelario’s guarantee of protection for his family, and he was assured by PC that none of the principals yet knew where their meeting was going to be. “I told ’em I haven’t decided yet,” Candelario said, “that I want to keep it fluid. If I don’t know where we’re meeting, it won’t leak to the wrong people; know what I mean?”

Boone pressed him for promises that no one would be nosing around that building on certain days when the CPD had to get SWAT sniper positions and camera angles determined. When Pascual balked, Boone said, “Look, this is for your benefit. We need photos to prove these guys were there. You’ll testify as to whose voices we get on the recordings. And our snipers will be in position only to protect your life. If something goes bad and you’re in danger, that’s going to be the only defense you’ve got.”

“I know,
amigo
. I just don’t want anybody gettin’ itchy fingers, you know?”

Boone wasn’t in a hurry to see his new friend and brother risk his life for such a huge operation. Part of him still resented that the man was blessed with a son when all Boone had were melancholy memories. But he also felt compassion for the boy. What kind of a future did little Jose Candelario really have? If his father survived this, they would likely have to move out of the United States. And if something did happen to Pascual, the boy would be raised in the ghetto by his grandmother. Either way, it wasn’t much of an outlook.

Just before Christmas, Boone finally made an appointment to see Pastor Sosa. To his great delight and relief, Francisco was warm and seemed genuinely thrilled to see him and encouraged by his growth. “I guess it’s too much to hope we’ll see Boone Drake back at Community Life someday.”

“I’ve learned to quit predicting,” Boone said.

He told Sosa about Haeley, and the pastor said, “That answers my question. Keep up with your reading and praying and studying. You’ll be spiritually healthy, or at least healthier, in no time. As long as you’re going to church somewhere . . .”

Boone told him he wanted to discuss the potential of the pastor’s meeting with a notorious gangbanger. He shared generally Pascual’s story without enough detail to give away whom he was talking about, but he did mention PC’s ethnicity. “I think he would be comfortable with you, because you’d understand him.”

Sosa looked thoughtful. “And he can’t attend church anywhere right now?”

Boone shook his head. “Has to play the game a little longer. I worry that he’s not growing, though.”

“I’m willing,” Sosa said. “But if he resists for any reason,
you
need to do this, Boone. You know as well as anyone the importance of the nourishment of the spiritual life. If he trusts you, he’ll take it from you, and in discipling him, you’ll learn more than you can imagine. It’d be great for both of you.”

Boone immediately regretted telling Sosa enough to make him curious about Candelario because he had to tell him that he could divulge nothing else.

“How long are you downstate for the holidays?”

“Just three days.”

Sosa shrugged. “This is the busiest time of the year for me. I think you should take on this task yourself. Get him grounded in the Bible and thinking about God all the time.”

Boone said, “I have to remember not to get too close. My relationship with him is not to be personal.”

“It’s too late for that. I can see it all over you. You care about this man.”

Boone couldn’t deny it.

21

Reconnoitering

Boone drove down to central Illinois for Christmas with all the plans for January 6 rattling in his brain. Though he, Fletcher Galloway, Jack Keller, and Pete Wade had spent countless hours with FBI agents, members of the Chicago Crime Commission, and the U.S. Attorney and his people, Boone kept silently running through every detail to be sure they hadn’t missed anything.

Pascual told him that in the few meetings like this he’d had before, the principals agreed to come to the table unarmed and thus free to talk. There would be all kinds of security sweeps by each leader’s people, checking the area for interlopers, scanning the building for bugs, and of course ensuring no one had been tailed to the rendezvous point. Nothing would be left to chance.

That was why the SWAT team and the feds were already in the area, building blinds in high trees that would give their snipers and photographers clear angles. Boone had been assured that no one would be able to detect a thing with the naked eye.

The best development, according to the FBI, was that they had determined that one window in the building had no drape or shade, and if they could be assured it would stay that way, they thought they could aim a video camera into the room from high in a tree eighty yards away. That way, in a nondescript van the CPD would park a few blocks from the site, Boone and his superiors would be able to monitor the meeting both visually and through the phone’s audio signal.

The more Boone had talked to Pascual, the more encouraged he was by the man’s ability to strategize. Candelario had all kinds of ideas on how to best sting his former compatriots. “I never thought I’d ever be a rat,” he’d said, “but I know this is the right thing and the only way to even start making amends.” He added that the best way he knew to keep people from suspecting anything was to distract them with accusations. “If I make ’em think I’m suspicious that
they’re
trying to pull something on me, it makes them concentrate on convincing me they’re not. That keeps ’em from suspecting me.”

The only glitch so far was that Pascual had begun to think that it made the most sense to keep the meeting as small as possible. The FBI, who knew all the negotiating had to go through Boone, urged him to agree that it should be kept reasonable but to not let Candelario cut it to where it was just him representing all the gangbangers and Graziano Jacopo representing the Outfit.

“While that would be the cleanest and easiest,” the lead agent said, “it makes the U.S. Attorney’s job that much harder on the other end. The more guys we can get in there, on picture and on record, the easier it will be to indict them.”

Boone and Pascual finally agreed on getting the heads of the three biggest gangs there, plus Graziano and his top lieutenant, because they had all personally worked with Candelario on hits. Besides getting them to somehow acknowledge those on the record, Pascual would get them all to commit to agreeing on the new drug deal.

Boone put on his best face for the reunion with his family. It was good to see his brothers and their families, but it was also hard. This was the first time he had been home since the tragedy, and while he appreciated the Christmas Eve service at church, he hated the rueful looks he got from old friends. Toughest was when his irrepressible mother insisted they call Nikki’s parents to wish them a merry Christmas.

The McNickles sounded awful, naturally, lamenting a third such holiday without their only child.

When it was finally time to leave, Boone endured the obligatory embraces and promises to stay in touch. Then his mother hung back by his car when everyone else hurried in out of the cold. Over the three days, Boone had made every effort to make his promotion to detective and the work in his new unit sound as routine and boring as possible. And he had informed his family that he had found a little storefront church, explaining that the memories at Community Life were just too painful.