The Betrayers (6 page)

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Authors: James Patrick Hunt

BOOK: The Betrayers
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Jack Regan put the envelope in his pocket. “Good seeing you, Alan.” He got out of the BMW and walked back to the Buick .
There was a plaque on the wall behind Karen Brady's desk that said WHEN YOU
ASSUME
YOU MAKE AN ASS OUT OF U AND ME. It had been there for two years and Hastings wondered what it would take to get her to take it down. Joe Klosterman had once suggested that they break into her office after shift and replace it with a sign that said WHEN YOU PUT DATED LAME-ASS SLOGANS ON A WALL, YOU MAKE ASSHOLES OUT OF ALL US. For a while, Hastings actually feared that Joe would do it.
He was in her office now because she had called him in right after he got back from Fenton and asked to “assess the case.” Hastings told her about the lead from narcotics.
“That's great,” she said.
Hastings had a concern. He debated bringing it up because he did not want to show her disrespect.
“Well,” he said, “it's just a lead.”
Karen frowned. “What?”
“I mean,” Hastings said, “I don't think we should tell the assistant chief just yet. Certainly not the department spokesman.”
“Is that what you thought I was going to do?”
Yes, Hastings thought.
“Oh, no,” Hastings said. “I mean, no—I didn't think you were going to suggest that.”
“What's your concern?”
“My concern is, it's just a lead.” Hastings said, “Frankly, my concern is with these guys.”
“You mean Lieutenant Elliott?” Karen said. “Why? Is it a race thing?”
Jesus Christ, Hastings thought.
“No,” he said. “It has nothing to do with—no. Elliott's okay. I think Gibbs is okay too. The thing is, they feel responsible. They knew Hummel. They liked him. And they hate Treats. They
want
it to be Treats, is what I'm saying.”
“So you don't think Treats did it?”
Hastings mentally sighed.
Hastings had worked for Karen Brady for two years. He did not dislike her. She was ambitious to be sure, but there was little about her that was ugly or cold. She was, at root, a nerd who wanted to both belong and be respected, and this is a difficult mix for a person in a position of leadership. She had never been more than a mediocre detective. She was inoffensive and unimaginative and she was not especially strong. In the upside-down world that is often police administration, these traits helped her float, more or less unnoticed, to the rank of captain.
“No,” Hastings said. “There's good reason to think he did do it. We've got a motive. And I want to check him out. But it's just a lead now. That's all it is. What I'm worried about is word leaking out that the case has been solved. Because it hasn't.”
“How would that happen?”
Hastings thought of one Bobby Cain. And he worried about Karen too. Ambitious people wanting credit for a closed case, moving quickly, screwing it up and making fools of good people.
“It can happen,” Hastings said. “And if it leads to nothing, we've given the victims' families a false hope.”
“I'm not going to lie to my superiors.”
“Karen, I'm not asking you to. They ask, we answer. People are scared and they want answers. I understand that. But … well, you see where I'm coming from?”
“Yeah, yeah,” she said. Her tone dismissive now; she didn't like it when you made sense. “Where is Treats?”
“He's in Marion. I'll go out there tomorrow.”
“Alone?”
“No. I'll take Cain with me.”
Karen Brady looked at him, confused. But she didn't ask why and he didn't tell.
Dillon liked the Stouffer's prepackaged macaroni baked in the oven because if you heated it in the microwave, you couldn't get the cheese to brown on top. Sharon had cooked it in the microwave once, thinking he wouldn't know the difference, but he had, and he threw it against the wall and made her clean it up. Sharon Dunphy had wiped the sauce and noodles off the wall and floor and told herself that Mike had never hit her. Never slapped her or cuffed her on the head. She just had to remember to do things properly.
Dillon had said to her once, “What do I ask from you? Huh? Come on, tell me. What do I ask of you?”
What he asked of her was that she have a decent meal on the table every night at six o'clock. Not much, he said, considering that he was paying for the food as well as her mortgage. In fact, he didn't even press for sex. Once every couple of weeks or so, he would take her to bed. Which she didn't mind so much. Mike Dillon was older than she was, but he was not a mean-spirited lover. No rough stuff. And he looked good naked for a man of his age. There were times when Sharon wondered if Mike even enjoyed doing it. She wondered if he was making love to her not because he wanted to, but to prevent her from thinking he was a fag or something. They said it happened to some men when they served long prison sentences. Get used to things men shouldn't get used to. He had told her he spent most of his twenties and early thirties in Leavenworth.
Tonight, she had cooked the macaroni in the oven and she didn't take it out until a brown crust had formed on top. She took it out of the oven and transferred the steaming pile from its plastic dish to a dinner plate. She took asparagus from the stovetop and put it next to the macaroni.
Then she put a dinner roll on the side. One roll, not two. Mike was always careful about keeping dinner portions small. Fifty years old and no stomach on him.
Mike Dillon put the
St. Louis Post-Dispatch
down as Sharon put his plate in front of him. He said, “Where're the kids?”
Sharon said, “Matt's at band practice. Lee's at her friend's.”
Dillon frowned. “They should be here for dinner,” he said.
They weren't his kids. But he was funny about these things. The family should eat together, he said, even if the family was not his. Sharon shrugged, hoping he would leave it alone for now, and he did. At another time, he might have lost his temper and told her she was a shitty mom, maybe broken something and walked out. But tonight he let it go. You could never tell what Mike was going to do.
At thirty-two, Sharon Dunphy was eighteen years younger than Mike Dillon. She was an attractive woman with blond hair she usually wore in a ponytail. In makeup and nice clothes, she would have been very pretty. Prettier still without a look of fear and dread wearing down her expression.
The father of her children, Matt Senior, had worked for one of Dillon's associates years ago. But he got caught driving a truckload of stolen cigarettes near Kansas City and had to go away for a seven-year stretch. Before that, Matt had introduced her to Dillon like he was the pope or something. Dillon had made a point of remembering her when he showed up in St. Louis a couple of years ago—this time to stay, apparently. Dillon said it was a shame about Matt getting caught, but he was here now and he wanted to take care of her and the kids. He had his own place, but he liked to have dinner at their house at least three times a week.
This night, he finished his dinner and put his plate in the kitchen sink. Rinsed off the gunk and put it in the dishwasher. Sharon remained at the table. Dillon put his windbreaker on and kissed her on the top of her head.
“I'll see you later,” he said.
She looked at the window and watched him get into his car and drive away. It gave her some relief. But only some because he would be back. He always came back. She sometimes wondered if it would be better if he did hit her. If he did get violent with her. She wondered if that would relieve some of the pressure she felt. Her life had not been one of contentment or happiness or quiet comfort, but until she met Mike, she had never known the burden of feeling so scared. Not just sometimes, but all the time. Even when he was gone, the fear remained. It was constant, overwhelming. It was like a prison. Bad enough before, but now it was beyond bad. Now it was a nightmare. She had learned to control the crying, had learned to be quiet. And sometimes she thought that having to be quiet was the worst of it. Like watching a horror film, but you're not allowed to cry out or scream or even draw breath. You just have to remain silent and hope he doesn't notice. Sit quietly in your own horror movie.
It was a two-hour drive to Marion, and it didn't take long for Hastings to figure out that he did not want to use that time to foster some sort of friendship with Bobby Cain. Cain talked about work, college, high school, football, the Rams, Mizzou, Coach Woody, his father, his father's law firm, his wife, and other women. He was vulgar when he spoke of women. Holding forth on a previous fiancée who was a runner-up in the Miss Missouri pageant, he said, “I had a good ride on that, lemme tell ya.” And so forth. Hastings, who had seen a number of things inexplicable and gross, wondered how this man had ever gotten a woman to marry him. He wondered if the man had close friends and, if so, did they talk this way also? They had taken Hastings's car, so Hastings was driving and could not pretend to take a nap to get the guy to be quiet. He made a note to ask Cain to drive on the way back. If he didn't kill him before then.
Hastings told himself that it was necessary to bring Cain along. He was a sergeant detective under his supervision and there was nothing he could do about that. Work was a series of compromises and he couldn't very well ask Karen to transfer Cain out because Cain got on his nerves. Cain would have to screw up first. And, considering Cain's influence in the Department, that screwup would have to be more than substantial. Besides, it was too risky to leave Cain behind because Cain may not have been able to resist the urge to call the assistant chief or his dad or his uncle and tell them about the Treats lead and how they had just broken this case wide fuckin' open. Keep your friends close, Don Corleone, and your incompetent careerists closer.
About halfway there, Cain said, “I guess you don't talk much in the morning.” Wounded, for God's sake.
“No,” Hastings said. “Sorry. I'm kind of tired.”
“Thinking about the case?”
“Yes.”
“So, is it true you played baseball for SLU?”
“Yes.”
“So what was that like?”
Oh, God, Hastings thought. He said, “It was okay.”
“I guess it's hard to make a living at that.”
“Yeah, I imagine it is.”
Hastings passed a truck, put some distance in front of it, then slipped the Jaguar back into the right lane. The windshield wipers were set on intermittent, knocking off the drops left by a light rain.
Cain said, “So, you're kinda young for a homicide lieutenant.”
Hastings looked over at the young sergeant. Men with more experience and time on the street were nowhere near Bobby Cain's rank. Hastings said, “Not really.”
“Oh, no; I mean, that's impressive. I mean, how does that happen?”
“How does what happen?” Hastings said it mildly.
“How did you become a lieutenant before turning forty?”
“I took an exam and got promoted.”
“Yeah, okay. That's cool, that's cool.”
There was a silence. Hastings debated turning on the radio, wondering if the forced laughter of an FM morning show would be preferable to this conversation. He decided it would not be.
Hastings said, “Bobby?”
“Yes.”
“Did you review the officers' reports?”
“Yes. I did it the night you told me to.”
“What did you find out?”
“Neighbors heard the gunfire. Some of them thought it was kids setting off firecrackers. Probably old people, hearing aids on the blink.
One witness saw a dark car drive by. Nothing more than that. No tags. Not even a good description of a vehicle.”
“How many people in the car?”
“Nobody saw.”
“Well, that's not good. What about the Pathfinder?”
“Stolen that afternoon.”
“Owner report it?”
“Uh, yeah. As a matter of fact they did.” Cain removed a notepad from his inside pocket and flipped through pages till he found what he wanted. Hastings was almost impressed. “Yeah, here it is. Reported stolen at 1440 hours. No identifiable prints.”
“But the deputies,” Hastings said, “did they know that?”
“Did they know it was stolen?”
“Yes.”
“Well, no, it appears they didn't. I mean, they didn't call it in.”
“Right. But did they call in the tag when they pulled the vehicle over?”
“No, they didn't.”
Hastings said, “Why not?”
“Why not?”
“Yeah. Why didn't the deputies call it in? Right after they pulled the Pathfinder over, why didn't they follow standard patrol procedure and call in the tag number?”
Cain was uneasy now. “I don't know.”
Hastings shook his head. “No, you gotta help me here. We talk these things out; that's how it works. Why didn't they call it in?”
Cain hesitated and looked at Hastings, wondering if they could go back to the part where he talked shit and Hastings got bored.
“Come on, Bobby. We speak freely here.”
After a moment, Cain said, “Okay. Well—I mean, I wasn't there, so—”
“So what?”
“Well, so maybe they fucked up.”
Well, Hastings thought, whatever Cain was, he was not totally brainless. And at that moment, at least Cain was aware of his youth and inexperience and the danger of second-guessing cops who died in the line of duty.
Hastings said, “Yeah, they might have.” He didn't enjoy saying it, but it was the most reasonable explanation.
Cain seemed to feel better after that.
 
 
Steve Treats had the boyish good looks of a surfer. Blond hair, good teeth. He wore the light blue prison fatigues casually and comfortably. In the interview room, he sat leaned back in his chair, his hands in his pockets, legs stretched, his feet crossed. Hastings sat in a chair at a right angle to Treats, his body also relaxed and his legs crossed, the two men doing a dance, striking poses and staking out territory. Blocking and acting, as wolves do. Necessary tasks for detectives conducting interviews and suspects wanting to prove how clever they are.
Bobby Cain was young and had not yet learned these things. He started out in another chair, restless, wanting to strike.
Treats said, “So somebody whacked Chris. Well, anyone can tell you I didn't do it.” Treats gestured to the walls.
Cain said, “You could have had it done.”
Treats glanced at the younger policeman, as if he just now noticed him. More wolf behavior. “Think so, junior?” he said. “Who am I gonna find that will whack two cops?”
Cain said, “Money can buy anything.”
“Not security,” Treats said. “One thing I've learned in this wonderful life is that if someone wants you dead, you're gonna die. They may not get you today, but they'll get you tomorrow. You're marked, you're marked. Something else I know: you kill a cop, the cops kill you. I know the rules.”
Hastings said, “That's not what we've got in mind.”
Treats said, “Yeah? You know what happened in Soulard four years ago, don't you. That guy shot a cop in the alleyway and they made Swiss fuckin' cheese out of him.
After
he surrendered.
After
he put his gun down. Tell me if any of those cops got charged with murder.”
“No,” Hastings said, affecting mock curiosity, “I don't believe they did.”
Treats said, “You ever hear about Murray Flint? He jumped bail on a grand theft auto charge. The cops came to get him, and he ran onto the roof of his building. Tall building on the North Side. Well, Murray, he happens to kick one of those guys in the nuts. They get mad and, as they put it, there was a ‘scuffle' and poor Murray fell off the building. But what really happened is they just plain got pissed. So they grabbed his feet and his hands”—Treats mimed it—“one, two,
three
! And threw his ass off.”
Hastings smiled. “Come on, Steve, cut the jailhouse gossip. That happened about fifteen years ago.”
“I know what I know.”
“You know what you heard in here. They're all innocent in here.”
“Those cops that threw that fucker off the roof, were they innocent?”
“It's an old wives' tale, Steve. Why don't you get to the point?”
“All right, Lieutenant,” Treats said. “The point is, I wouldn't go in for killing cops. I'm getting out of here before I turn fifty. Every day I think about that. Every day. It's the only thing that keeps me going. I'm not going to fuck that up to get even with a piece a shit rat fuck like Chris Hummel.”
Cain leaned forward. “You better watch your mouth,” he said.
“Ah, fuck you. What are you going to do to me, junior?”
“We can make things hard for you,” Cain said. “You want to find out, you keep pushing it.”
Treats said, “Junior, I can lawyer up and end this interview right now and you know it. You are here because I let you come.” Treats looked at Hastings as he said it. Then he spoke to Hastings directly. “You're barking up the wrong tree.”
Hastings said, “What do you mean?”
Treats said, “Hummel was dirty, man. He was taking money from dealers all over South County. Selling cases. It ain't hard to figure out, even for a cop.”
Hastings said in a flat tone, “Is that right?”
“Yeah, that's right. My guess is, he finally got too greedy, asked for too much. There's your homicide case.”
Hastings regarded Treats for a moment. Then he said, “That's quite a theory you have there, Steve.”
“It's the truth, man.”
Hastings said, “You have proof of this?”
“The proof is out there, if you're willing to see it.”
Cain stood up. “Oh what is this,” he said, “the fucking
X Files
? Out there if we want to see it? You're just talking shit.”
Hastings said, “Okay, Steve, tell me this: did this … smart bomb of yours ever come up at your trial?”
Hastings saw the man's body language shift. Just for a moment, but he saw it. After a moment, Treats shrugged and said, “No.” Like it was no big deal.
“I see,” Hastings said. “Why not?”
“Ahhh, my fuckin' lawyer. I told him to use it, but he wanted to go another route.”
In addition to innocent men, the prisons were also filled with guys who had dipshit lawyers. Hastings shook his head at the man.
“But you check it out,” Treats said, “if you got the balls to do it. You'll see what I'm talking about.”
“We're gonna check
you
out, fuckhead,” Cain said. “Count on it.”
Steve Treats turned and looked at Cain again, deciding to acknowledge him with a blank expression. Then he turned back to Hastings.
Treats said, “We're done talking.”

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