The Betrayal (16 page)

“I was afraid of that.”

“But you're not surprised.”

“No, but I will be if you hear the offer they're making and still refuse.”

“They've sweetened the pot that much just to get rid of me? Who am I such a threat to?”

“I don't want to know, but you want to hear this.”

“Fire away. Maybe the wrong choice of words.”

That made Brigita Velna smile again, and Boone knew that was rare.

“I have to say, Officer, that their suggestion of how to frame this is hard to take issue with. I might have gone this route myself, even without input. I'm sure you're aware of what in my profession we call stress indicators.”

“Sure.”

“These are measured by major life experiences, good and bad. For instance, being promoted can be nearly as stressful as being fired. Having a child can be nearly as stressful as losing a child. Numbers are associated with the stress levels for such events, and if a person's totals are above a certain figure, they become a candidate for a breakdown—or at least for being at risk as an employee.”

“I'm with you.”

“All right then, follow this. Some of the most stressful crises in an adult's life are these: the loss of a spouse, the loss of a child, a change of residence, being charged with a crime or malfeasance, a promotion, a life-threatening injury, and major surgery. Any one of those rates so high on the stress list that it raises a red flag. Add another from the same list, even if both were positives—say a promotion and a move—and professionals should take notice. Do you see where I'm going with all this?”

“I'd have to be deaf and blind not to. Would falling in love be on that list?”

“It would. Is that true of you too, Detective?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Well, congratulations, but that makes you eight for eight. I'm surprised you're sitting up and taking nourishment. If you were me, could you recommend a victim like you for one of the most stressful jobs in the world?”

Boone couldn't suppress a chuckle.

“What?” she said.

“If you only knew.”

“Knew what?”

“First, the last thing in the world I would ever call myself is a victim, despite that I have suffered everything you listed above. But how about also adding to the list having your home and car broken into on the same day?”

“Surely you have set some global record.”

“I can't be forced to resign, can I?”

Ms. Velna closed her file. “It would be very difficult for the CPD to build a case against someone who has such a high profile right now. You're a hero and you're in the news—which means more stress, by the way. So no, I don't see anyone trying to trump up any charges against you. But if they can encourage you to make this decision on your own, the public knows enough about your ordeals that everyone would understand.”

“Except people who really know me. I'm no quitter. I'm going to rehabilitate myself to where I am back to full strength and bring no handicaps to the job. And if the job in the Major Case Squad is still on the table, that's what I want.”

“Hold that thought. That offer comes into play here.”

Boone sat back. “I'll never really get over the loss of my family, and anyone who claims they could is lying. But time has helped. So has my new relationship. So has getting back on the job.”

“Until you were nearly shot to death.”

“There was that, yes. But moving was no big deal for me. Being investigated and charged by Internal Affairs was stressful, granted, but being exonerated and then promoted made that a wash. Being shot and looking at surgery, I can't deny the stress there. But I'm channeling that into resolve, just like I did after the tragedy. I'll be obsessive about therapy, my goal being to get as healthy as I can as fast as I can. I would never want a fellow officer to have even one doubt about whether I brought my A game to the street.”

“Admirable.”

“I'm absolutely committed, ma'am. Need anything more from me?”

“I am obligated to tell you what is being offered.”

“I don't care, but I'll listen.”

“It's more than full disability.”

“How can it be more?”

“I've never seen anything like it. Normally a person disabled in the line of duty would get his full pension and benefits for the rest of his natural life. You are being offered that, including your full salary, including all cost-of-living raises, a multiplier that assumes merit increases, and another that assumes what your salary would have been had you been promoted to chief of the Major Case Squad.

“While you would be permitted to take another full-time job without jeopardizing any of this, clearly you would never have to work another day in your life.”

“Wow.”

“See?”

“I'd be pretty miserable to live with.”

“But financially comfortable.”

“That's never been a priority.”

“In this day and age? Are you serious, sir?”

“I've never been motivated by great amounts of money, Ms. Velna. Sorry.”

The woman rose and put the file back on her desk. “Well, I can say I presented the details to you. You see, the argument from the Chicago Police Department is that you have been not only physically disabled—”

“Which they can't say before we see how successful shoulder surgery is.”

She cocked her head. “But you have clearly been psychologically disabled.”

“Is that your professional opinion?”

She snorted. “
My
opinion? I find you one of the most remarkable people I have run into on this job. If I were you, I think I'd have surrendered by now. You do seem to have turned all this stress into fuel.”

“I like that metaphor.”

“Unfortunately, as I explained, you are going to have to fight me and the department and the city on this. Someone wants you gone and has convinced the brass. They couldn't be more generous.”

“You have forms or something for filing an appeal? I'll take whatever you've got.”

21

Laying it Out

Tuesday, February 9, 3:35 p.m.

Boone Drake stood at the corner waiting for Jack Keller to pick him up. Despite the piercing February wind and that his parka was merely draped over his bad shoulder while he tried to manage the envelope full of forms Brigita Velna had given him, Boone was strangely warmed. The sweat suit that had seemed so toasty indoors was no match for the temperature outside, but even with everything Boone was going through, the encounter with Ms. Velna had left him undeniably encouraged.

He knew that was ridiculous. He had just learned that someone was desperate enough to have him out of the way to have gotten the Chicago Police Department to make him an offer hardly anyone would refuse. And with his wound, the attack on his new love's character, and everything else that had gone wrong, he had little to feel good about. And yet . . .

Brigita, nearly old enough to be his mother, had helped him on with his coat, something he had refused from everyone else in his life. He'd thought it polite to just accept her aid, and she had carefully worked the down-filled parka over the Beretta in his shoulder holster and handed him the envelope.

“Off the record,” she had said, “I'm kind of excited about this. Such things don't often happen in my work.”

“Ma'am?”

“Fighting city hall. You realize that perfectly defines what you plan to do? They want you out. You want to stay. You're going to put them to the test.”

“I'll do everything in my power not to make you look bad, Ms. Velna. I know you're just their mouthpiece—”

“I hope you win. As for my superiors, I don't know what else I could have done. You can't say I wasn't clear about the offer.”

Maybe Boone shouldn't have been optimistic about his chances against the powers that be. But her confidential support alone was invigorating.

When Jack pulled up, Boone tucked the envelope under his arm and opened the door. As he slid in, Jack said, “Johnson. Pete's wife's maiden name. It hit me after I dropped you off that I've had a copy of his personnel file in my office since I became his superior. Her name's in there, and I don't know why. You can't even ask applicants that stuff anymore. Is that the name you had for her, Boones?”

“It was what I feared.”

“Can't wait to hear why. So, my office? We shut the door and you lay it all out for me?”

“Not your office. Not now.”

“Too close to Pete?”

Boone nodded.

“The little conference room down the hall?”

Boone shook his head.

“The one on the second floor?”

“I don't even want us seen together in the building, Jack.”

Keller shrugged. “How clandestine do we need to be?”

“Your-eyes-only level.”

“Hmm. Crime lab?”

“That'll work,” Boone said. “Want me to call Dr. Waldemarr to—?”

“You kiddin'? You can hardly sit there and think with one hand, let alone make a call.”

Jack pulled out his own phone and made the arrangements. When he flipped his phone shut, he said, “Gotta love that guy. No questions asked. Said guys are processing some evidence right now, but they should be done by the time we get there.”

Though the temperature was lower than the day before, when Boone compared his energy level during the walk into the crime lab with how he had felt yesterday, he realized the benefit of a full night's rest. He was still sore and tired, but he didn't have that on-your-last-legs feeling. And with Jack doing the driving, maybe he could stay on schedule with his meds.

When Dr. Waldemarr emerged, Boone saw over the doctor's shoulder three detectives coming out of the evidence room. He quickly moved away so as not to be seen with Jack. Everybody on the force seemed to know Keller, and because of what Boone himself had accomplished, he had become one of the most recognizable cops on the job too.

When the coast was clear, Jack said, “You think people don't know we were partners and that you work for me now?”

“When we get in there you'll know why I don't want to give rise to any suspicion about what we're up to.”

“Gentlemen,” the doctor said, “the room is yours for the next ninety minutes.”

“Shouldn't need it that long,” Jack said. “Unless my cohort here knows better.”

One thing Boone liked about the evidence room was that while most of it was filled with metal shelving and seemingly endless rows of boxes that created a maze of dark, narrow corridors, when you pulled something out to examine it, the overhead lights were like the sun. As Jack followed, Boone passed the table where he had examined the evidence from his own shooting the day before. He led his boss around a corner and down a couple of rows to another gray metal table that sat under a wash of track floodlighting.

Boone added his thick, dog-eared notebook to the top of the pile and slid off his coat. He draped it over the back of the chair and sat.

For a blue-collar, seat-of-his-pants street cop, Keller had always been buttoned down when it came to framing a case. Boone had long been impressed by how Jack took careful notes, asked every question imaginable, and set about fashioning a plan of attack.

Keller opened his own worn, black leather notebook, flipped past several pages full of his small, meticulous handwriting, and found a fresh page. He tapped his pen on the table, looked up, and said, “I'm all ears and scribbles, Boones. And you know I like to start from the beginning.”

“And with my basic premise, my take on how the whole scenario is playing out.”

Jack nodded as if pleased with how he had taught Boone. “The basics in a nutshell, please. Just like in court. I'm the jury. Tell me what you're going to tell me, what it's going to mean, then tell me, and then tell me what you told me.”

Boone had one chance to get this right. Jack was not a patient guy. If Boone had been distracted by some rabbit trail, or if he had jumped to some conclusion, Jack would ferret it out and not let up. And if Boone lost his best ally, the case against Haeley would prevail, and all would be lost. If that happened, Boone wondered how long the city's retirement offer might stay on the table.

Nah.

Boone studied his notes and took a breath. “All right. Even the limited evidence I have collected so far should show that Haeley is innocent—”

He stopped at Jack's raised hand. “Innocent?” Jack said. “Or do you mean not guilty?”

“My bad. In this case she is both innocent
and
not guilty, but I realize I have to be more precise in the presence of opposing counsel.”

“Proceed.”

“I confess my thrust here has been to not only exonerate Haeley but to also determine why she was charged in the first place and what that says about the person or persons who have leveled the charges.”

“And further,” Jack said, “given that you're going to show me why Haeley is not guilty, what conclusion did you draw about her accusers?”

“That they were playing a misdirection game. To turn the spotlight on someone else—in this case, a not-guilty party—and to delay seriously investigating anyone else.”

“Like Pete himself.”

“Pete and Garrett Fox.”

“Well, we know Fox is a scoundrel. Getting something to stick on Wade is going to be a chore. First you're going to have to convince me.”

Boone paused and leafed through the first several pages of his notebook. “You told me Pete makes around two hundred thousand.”

“I was a little high on that. Looking in his file for his wife's maiden name, I noticed his last raise took him into the middle one eighties.”

“About how long would you say he's been earning six figures?”

“Not long. Maybe four years.”

“Jack, did he or his wife come from money?”

Keller chuckled. “No, I know that for sure. Until a few years ago, she had to work. Some kind of sales, I think. Commission. Pete said she never really made much at it and he was glad when he got promoted so she could quit.”

“No rich relatives? An inheritance? Anything like that?”

“Don't think so. You've got to tell me what you're driving at.”

“You tell me, should a civil servant with a salary like Pete's be able to afford two homes—one in Chicago and one in the suburbs—together worth more than three million dollars? And should he also be able to afford four new cars worth three hundred and twenty thousand dollars?”

Jack looked dubious. “Naturally, you're going to tell me where you came up with this, but lots of cops spend beyond their means and are deep in debt. And with that kind of a salary, lots of banks will extend—”

“The cars and the houses are paid for.”

“C'mon! I've been in Pete's Toyota. You have too. Remember how thrilled he was when he got that car? I mean, it's nice, but I guarantee it didn't even cost forty grand.”

“Would you believe he has a matching white one for his wife?”

“I didn't know, but okay, about seventy grand in cars. Certain people like certain things.”

“Like mansions?”

“I doubt they live in a—”

“Not
a
. Two.”

“And you're trying to tell me one of them is right here in the city?”

Boone told how he had trailed Pete and saw it, then checked out the details. He described it. “And here's the best part. Cars and houses—all this stuff—is in Thelma Johnson's name.”

“You're not serious.”

“So does that give you any idea how long Pete's been on the take?”

Keller sat shaking his head. “I don't see what this has to do with the case. Just because a guy has some admittedly suspicious holdings doesn't make him a dirty cop. And even if it does, it doesn't make him one that would leak information that puts a fellow officer in harm's way.”

“Harm's way, Jack? Harm's way? You're talking to the ‘fellow officer.' Can I get you to go as far as mortal danger?”

“Fair enough.”

The whole discussion reminded Boone of his obliterated shoulder, and the pain stabbed anew. Amazing, after having medicated himself at lunch, but the drugs were good for only so long.

Jack pulled out his cell phone and punched numbers. “Doc? Is there a vending machine or something close by? Need a coupla cups of coffee. . . . No, no, really, we need a little walk anyway.”

Down the hall they found a coffee machine that dropped a flimsy cup under a stream of boiling water and splashed a clump of powdered coffee into the mix. A tiny wood stirrer slipped in when the cup was full.

Boone studied his. “Something tells me Starbucks is safe.”

The cups were so hot Jack had to dig out the perforated flaps that created a makeshift handle. “These will be cool enough in an hour or so,” he said as he grabbed a handful of sugars and powdered cream packets.

Back in the evidence room they tried making something drinkable out of their concoctions. Jack sipped his gingerly and laughed. “I been a cop a long time, Boones, and I've endured a lot of sorry excuses for coffee. But this . . .”

“As long as I can wash down my pills with it . . .”

“Shouldn't you have something to eat with those?”

“I still feel stuffed from lunch.”

“Yeah, but just to be safe. What do you like?”

“Bread.”

“Let me check.”

While Jack was gone, Boone glanced over his notes again, realizing he had finally gotten his boss's attention. Keller had a way of delaying his true response, especially when the evidence was overwhelming.

“This is all I found,” Jack said, bearing a glazed donut. “Better not thank me till you determine how stale it is.”

Pretty stale. But a bite did the trick. “Am I on the right track with any of this, Jack?”

Keller sniffed. “Hate to admit it. But I'm also thinking like a defense attorney. One plus one doesn't always equal two, you know. Things are not always as they appear.”

“Any other clichés we can work into the report?”

“Just sayin'. To take down a man with a record like Pete Wade's, you're going to have to have both barrels loaded. What else you got?”

Boone walked him through his visit to the bank. Jack looked genuinely confused.

“I told you I've talked to the principals, right?” Keller said. “And no one said a thing about any uncle. But that should be easy enough to document with evidence. Surely the bank's security cameras would—”

“Sabotaged.” Boone explained what he had discovered.

“Couldn't have been a glitch? Had to be sabotage?”

“Pretty coincidental, wouldn't you say? Everything in the tape corroborates the testimony of the teller, and she says she told everyone the same story. Yet the face is not recognizable, and no one but me seems to have heard her account.”

“And you have no doubt that the man in question was Fox?”