The Betrayers (7 page)

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Authors: James Patrick Hunt

BOOK: The Betrayers
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It was around eleven thirty in the morning and there were four people in the bar. Couple of guys in a corner booth drinking Old Style, the bartender, and Stanley Redd drinking an Amstel Light. The girl behind the bar was a twenty-four-year-old chippie with a stud in her lower lip and a white stomach bulging out of her tight white T-shirt. She looked good to Stanley Redd, who was in his mid-thirties, balding, and with bad skin. He had the
Chicago Reader
in front of him and his eyes went from the football scores to the girl's chest like a dotted line from a comic book character. He thought he had a chance with the girl.
At eleven thirty-seven, Regan came in and took the barstool next to Stanley's.
The girl walked over and gave Regan a smile that depressed Stanley Redd, not least of all because Regan was older than he was.
Regan said, “Cup of coffee, with cream. And get this fellah another beer.”
Stanley Redd said, “Thanks, guy.” And felt a bit of a stone in his heart. He hoped the guy was a fag or something, not because he liked men, but because it would explain a complete stranger sitting next to him when there were a dozen other barstools the man could have taken.
Regan looked up at the television behind the bar. Fat white people being interviewed by Maury Povich. The trouble with young people today, Regan thought, is they'll watch anything on television. Like old ladies.
The bartender brought back coffee in a white cup on a white saucer with the spoon on the side. Regan liked that. He preferred coffee in
cups, with a spoon to stir rather than a wooden stick. She set another bottle of Amstel in front of Stanley Redd.
Regan said, “Taking the day off?”
Stanley Redd said, “Uh, yeah.”
“Cold out,” Regan said.
“What?”
Regan turned to look at him. “I said, it's cold out.”
“Yeah, it's getting cold.”
“Good to be in a nice, warm place like this. Know what I mean.”
“Yeah.”
“It'll snow soon. We'll have to drive through all that snow. That Range Rover you drive, has it got four-wheel drive?”
Jesus.
He's not a homo, Stan thought. His heartbeat quickened.
Regan said, “I mean, you can't drive that little convertible of yours in the snow, can you?”
Stanley Redd looked at the fresh bottle of beer in front of him, the sides sweating. He managed to force a smile as he said, “Yeah, well that's cute.” He started to get off the stool.
Regan put a hand on his wrist.
“Where're you going?”
Stanley Redd said, “What do you care?”
“Stanley, sit down, finish your beer. We can handle this like gentlemen or we can go put you in a back room for three of the worst days of your life. We'll get what we need either way.”
Jack Regan spoke quietly to Stanley Redd. He did not use the word “torture” or explain what it is they did for three days. In his experience, people's imaginations worked better for him. Particularly for people who did business with criminals. Most of them understood.
Regan said, “We know where you live, where your parents live.” Regan gestured to the bar around them, “We know where you go. You can leave town, go on a vacation, but you can't leave home forever.” Regan spoke in a gentle tone, not unlike that of a priest, letting the confessor
know he would feel a whole lot better getting that sin out of him. “Okay?”
Regan kept his hand on the man's wrist and he could feel it quivering now.
Stanley said, “Who are you?”
Regan shook his head. The question was not relevant. He said, “I know about you, Stan. I know who your friends are. Believe it or not, I'm the best friend you have. You've got a situation now and I'm going to help you out of it. You understand?”
“No, I don't.”
“You and your friend Max, if you want to call him a friend, you hired Jimmy Rizza to torch your nightclub three years ago. Relax … I'm not here to blackmail you. I'm just letting you know that I know. Okay? I know a lot of things.”
“Man, that was—”
Regan lifted his hand, gesturing for silence. He knew the guy was wondering now how Regan knew him. They had never met before. But Stanley Redd had never quite gotten a handle on mob culture. It was not a thing you could just dip your toe into, then walk off.
Stanley Redd and Max Collins were pals—a sort of Ben Affleck/Matt Damon combo who had been moderately successful entrepreneurs. Nightclubs, start-ups, that sort of thing. Quick money, cocaine, strippers. They
were
smart, book smart, but they had been lucky too. But like a lot of young types who get rich, they tended to discount the luck factor.
Moreover, they wanted to be cool. Having money wasn't good enough. They wanted to be hip. They wanted to be street. It was when they got into the nightclub business that they hooked up with Jimmy Rizza and his little brother. Stanley and Max were
attracted
to the Rizzas. Not in a physical way, per se. But because they were dangerous, funny, raucous, lively. They were interesting. The way they talked, the stories they told, so …
entertaining.
Stanley said they should have
their own show. He liked introducing them to women, and enjoyed later having to put rational fears at rest by saying, “No, he's all right. He's just from a different world than you and I.” Showing them that
he
wasn't afraid because he understood them, you see. It was neat being part of that world, maybe persuading yourself that you were only near it and not in it.
But Regan knew it didn't work that way. Once you let guys like Jimmy Rizza in the door, they stayed. And the favors that Jimmy Rizza did for you usually became common knowledge in the criminal enterprise. It was its own little community and secrets were often shared.
Regan said, “Stan? I just need to know one thing: where is Max going to be tonight?”
“What?”
Regan squeezed Stan's wrist, watched the man wince as he fought the urge to cry out. Regan knew it was not hurting him that much, that the tears came more from fear of what else Regan would do. Again, imagination.
“Stan? Don't test my patience, all right? You don't want to do that. Where is Max Collins going to be tonight?”
Stanley Redd pictured himself sitting on a stool in a back room, naked and bloody, bruised and broken and humiliated. It was working on him and they both knew it.
“He's got a girl. Jesus, uh, he's got a girl. He keeps her in an apartment—”
“Where?”
“Marina City. The Towers.”
“Which one?”
“What?”
“Which apartment?”
“I don't know. Christ, I swear I don't know.”
“You've been there, haven't you?”
“Yes, but—uh, wait. It's on the forty-second floor. That's all I remember. The south tower.”
“What's the girl's name?”
“Stacy. Stacy Racine. He goes there usually between six and eight in the evening. That's all I know, I swear.”
Regan looked into the man's eyes for a moment. Then he released his grip.
“Okay, Stan. I hope you're right.”
Regan stood up and placed a five dollar bill on the bar before walking out.
Stanley Redd, hearing his heart thrum in his ears, hoped he was right too.
They walked out of the penitentiary and past a crowd of activists holding signs that said FREE VICTOR. Got in the car and left the smell of the correctional system behind them.
It was still drizzling.
Hastings looked over at Cain and said, “You can't do that.”
“Can't do what?” Cain said.
“You can't let people like Steve Treats rattle you. He called you ‘junior. ' Okay, so what? We got black police officers who get called nigger. You think they like that? When I was in patrol, some turd once said my mother sucked a mean cock .” Hastings shrugged. “It doesn't mean anything, Bobby. The guy doesn't even know you.”
“We shouldn't have to take that shit.”
Hastings shook his head. He was not comfortable giving lectures. But he was getting irritated now. “Don't take this the wrong way, Bobby, but are you sure you want to do this?”
“Do what?”
“
This.
Police work. You got a college degree. You could go to law school, work in your father's firm. You'd make more money and no one would call you names there.” Not to his face, anyway, Hastings thought. “I mean, why would you choose to do this?”
“Why would you choose to?”
“I'm not you.”
“Not gonna tell me, huh? That's cool.” Cain said, “Well, I don't want to be a fucking lawyer. I'd die of boredom.”
“This work can be boring too.”
“I don't think so. Still,” he said, “don't you ever think of, you know, getting even?”
“With who?”
“With Treats? People like him. Don't you ever think about that?”
“No,” Hastings said, and meant it. “Getting even isn't part of it. Treats is a loser. He'll die in prison or he'll die of old age. It makes no difference to me. You start thinking about getting even with people like him, you're gonna ulcer a hole right through your stomach.”
“Christ, didn't it bother you?”
“Didn't what bother me?”
“What he said about Hummel? You're okay with it?”
“No, I'm not okay with it. He called a brother a crook. I'm not okay with that.”
Cain said, “I don't understand; now you're saying it does bother you?”
Shit, Hastings thought. Of course it bothered him. It bothered him anytime a cop was accused of being dirty. It bothered him more if it was true. Because if it was even remotely true it reflected on every police officer in the city. Him, Klosterman, even Bobby dickhead Cain. That was why it was necessary to investigate every dumbass complaint that came down the pike. Hastings suddenly felt tired. He prayed there was nothing to it. If there were, it would make everyone unhappy. The brass, the patrol officers, the sheriff's office and, of course, Hummel's poor wife. He pictured the nightmare headline: CROOKED COP HAD IT COMING.
He remembered the patrol sergeant and Murph fighting back tears at the crime scene. He remembered his own rage and despair upon seeing the two young officers slain like animals. Young men who would never feel the melancholy of middle age, never reach the age where they would talk about their days of young turkdom with the cop's mixture of self-deprecation and pride. Members of his own tribe, his own team. How would it be to add the taint of corruption to their murders? Fucking right it bothered him.
Hastings said, “That's not what we were talking about.”
“Okay,” Cain said. “What Treats said, you going to put that in your report?”
“Yes.” Hastings looked at the younger cop, corruption on Hastings's mind now. He knew what Cain was suggesting: that the report could become exculpatory evidence, maybe even help the person that killed the police officers and that maybe it would be better for everyone if they just forgot what they had been told. But what had happened at Marion had happened and there could be no lying about it.
“You do the same,” Hastings said. “Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Cain said. He stared straight ahead when he said it, letting Hastings know what he thought of him.
They drove in silence, Cain saying no more about his father or sports or women that he had given a good ride. He did not talk about anything.
Still, Hastings felt better to get it out. He didn't have to worry anymore about this coming back on him. He believed the Bobby Cains of this world were just the sort who would blame a false report on someone else.
The lieutenant told me it was okay.
Those concerns didn't go away when you advanced in rank; they got worse, in fact.
When he returned to his office, he found Justin Elliott sitting at his desk.
“Hey,” Elliott said, “What'd you find out?” Elliott did not seem at all embarrassed.
My, my. Hastings thought of the dumbass who had lectured Bobby Cain on keeping your cool. He silently counted to five so he wouldn't pitch Justin Elliott out the window. He was aware of Cain watching him.
Hastings said, “Get the fuck out of my chair.”
“Hey, man,” Elliott said, “take it easy. We're all on the same side.”
Hastings said nothing. After a moment, Elliott got out and moved around the desk to the front. Hastings remained standing.
Elliott said, “You need to mellow out.”
Hastings said nothing. He moved behind his desk and took his seat back. Then he said, “What do you want?”
“You didn't call me,” Elliott said. “I wanted to know what you found out.”
Hastings said, “Listen, I'm glad you want to help. But let's get something straight right now: I report to Captain Brady, not you. You got a problem with that, you file a complaint.”
“Goddamn, what is wrong with you?”
“This is my desk. My investigation. Accept it.”
“Oh, I'm sorry,” Elliott said. “I forgot this was homicide. Shit doesn't stink around here.”
“I'm not checking in with you, Elliott. I'm sorry you lost a friend, but I'm not checking in with you. I'm not going to seek your okay on things.”
“I'm not here to take credit, detective. You want all the glory, you can have it. I just want justice.”
Christ, Hastings thought and almost smiled to himself. Again with the glory. He had had a good run a couple of years ago. Caught a serial killer and hooked a group of home invaders. Good police work that he was proud of. And there were newspaper articles about it. He never had his photograph in the newspaper or appeared on television, but more than one officer had called him “glory boy.” Partly he was annoyed, partly he was flattered.
Hastings looked at Elliott for a moment. Then he said, “You want some coffee?”
Elliott looked back at Hastings for something else. Finally, he said, “Yeah, I'd like some coffee.”
“Bobby, will you get us some coffee? Then let's all sit here and talk about this thing.”
Bobby Cain's heart had been in his mouth. He thought he was going to see the two policemen start swinging at each other. He had never seen Lieutenant Hastings fired up. And then like that, it was over, and the black guy was taking a seat in front of Hastings's desk.
Cain came back with two coffees and set them on Hastings's desk. Hastings gestured for him to take a seat too.
Hastings said, “Treats told us Hummel was dirty.”
“What?”
“He said Hummel was selling cases. Taking money from dealers.”
“That's a fucking lie.”
“I'm just telling you what he said.”
“You believe it?”
Hastings said, “I've got no reason to believe it. No proof of it. Yet. But I have to check it out.”
“What the hell you mean,
yet
?”
“I don't
want
to believe any of it. But I have to check it out.”
Elliott leaned back in his seat. “So check it out,” he said.
“What do
you
say?”
“I say it's bullshit.”
“Why?”
“Because if Chris Hummel were taking money, I would have known about it.”
“Any way he could have done it and you didn't know?”
“Lieutenant, I've got informants around this city you've never heard of. If Chris had been taking money, I would know.” Elliott said, “Here I thought you were smart; do you believe everything a convict tells you?” Elliott looked over at Cain after he said that, attempting to mutiny the other cop against Hastings.
“Oh for Christ's sake, Elliott, don't hand me that shit,” Hastings said. “You think Treats is just gonna tell
me
this? He wants to dirty Hummel's name, he's gonna tell everyone he can. You think I want to help Treats with that, you're insane.”
“What
do
you want?”
“I want to clear it up. There's a difference between doing that and hiding it. Now, you want to help me do that or not?”
A moment passed and then another. Then Justin Elliott shook his head and said, “How do I help you do that, Hastings? How do I prove he
didn't
take money? It's like proving a negative.” Elliott looked at Cain. He said, “You're going to put it in your reports, aren't you?”
Cain's expression answered the question, involuntarily.
Elliott stood up to leave. “I told you Treats was smart,” he said, “but you didn't listen. You're letting him play you.”
“No,” Hastings said, “I think you are.”
“Fuck you,” Elliott said and walked out.
When he was gone, Cain picked up the coffee cup he had left. There was still coffee left in it. He set it next to the coffee pot.
Cain said, “Wow. Do you know that guy?”
“I know of him.”
“What a jackass.”
“He's got a good reputation,” Hastings said.
“He acted like you were accusing
him
of something.”
“Did it sound like I was?”
“No,” Cain said. “No, not to me.” Cain relaxed a little. The ugliness had passed and the men had not tried to hit each other or drawn their weapons. He regarded Hastings.
“Do you?” Cain said.
“What?”
“Do you think Elliott's on the take?”
Hastings looked over at Junior Cain. He had picked up on a distinction between showing and thinking.
“I don't think so,” Hastings said. “The guy's paranoid. It happens to narcs.” Hastings left it at that. But he knew that paranoia was not limited to narcotics work. It happened to detectives and patrol officers too. When he was younger, Hastings had worked under the supervision of a patrol sergeant, Merl Davidson, upon whom he'd foisted superhero status. To the young patrolman Hastings was then, Merl seemed infallible. Brave, smart, wise, tough, and cool. A man born to lead men. And then three years ago, he ran into Merl at an FOP meeting and Merl had become a shell. Questioning the most minute things, unsure, his skin pale, his body language and eye movement fearful and anxious. The same man Hastings had looked up to, now broken. Merl told Hastings about an internal affairs investigation on something that seemed and, indeed, turned out to be inconsequential. Yet Merl kept asking Hastings, “What do you think? What do you think?” Seeking affirmation from the police officer he had once mentored. It made Hastings feel ill. Hastings had heard that Merl had gone through a nasty divorce, his wife fed up with constant accusations of infidelity that had no basis in reality. No tragedy or death scare had befallen Merl Davidson. A decade and a half of watching and questioning and suspecting had simply taken its toll. Hastings did his best not to judge
because he knew it was a hazard of the profession and that no one was immune from it and you were a proud fool if you thought otherwise.
Hastings said, “He did come to me first.”
“Elliott?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay,” Cain said. “But maybe that was for his benefit.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, sooner or later we'd've found out about Hummel working undercover. So maybe it was in Elliott's interest to, you know, put us onto Treats.”
“It's possible,” Hastings said. A lot of things were possible. “But it's not likely. It's more likely that Treats wants to start a rumor, piss on Chris Hummel's grave.”
“What difference would it make to Treats? Hummel's dead.”
Hastings shrugged. “Upset his wife. Embarrass the Department. Look at it from the perspective of an evil man.”
“So you think Treats did have Hummel killed?”
“I think it's a lead. But the problem is, Treats spoke to us.”
“So?”
“So, he's not stupid. He spoke to us without an attorney. That's something dimebag dealers do. Not a major player like Steve Treats.” He said, “Not if he's guilty.”
“So you're saying Treats is using us?”
“Well, he succeeded in pissing off one narc already. And he's more or less ruined my day.”
“You said earlier, ‘Not if he's guilty.' Again, you think Treats had nothing to do with this?”
“I don't know. I think Treats sang hallelujah when he heard Hummel was killed. But I don't know that he had it done.”
“Why not?”
“Like I said earlier, if he had, there's no way he would have talked to
us. I reviewed his jacket. Not once did he agree to an interview with the federal investigators. No deals. He went to trial.”
“Yeah, and he was convicted. Things're different now.”
“Okay, they are. But did you hear him ask for anything today? Did you hear him offer to give us anything? Did he ask us to reduce his sentence, make any calls for him?”
“You admire him?”
“Uh, no.”
“Sorry.” Cain recovered, said, “All right then, what was in it for him?”
“Vengeance.”
“Okay. But what about Elliott?”
“What about him?”
“Is he lying to us?”
“I don't think so,” Hastings said. “He thinks Treats is evil, and he's right about that. The guy wants to make Hummel's widow suffer. But Elliott
believes
Treats was responsible. But, as you know, you can prove murder without motive. But motive on its own—”
“Is not enough,” Cain said. “Yeah, I know.”
Rhodes and Murph came in to the squad room. They had spent the morning continuing the canvass of the neighborhood. Hastings asked them how it went.
Murph said, “Nothing substantive. How about you?”
“Treats didn't give us anything. Told us Hummel was taking money.”
“Ah,” Murph said. “What a shock.”
“Yeah, well, I didn't take it so nonchalantly myself. This is going to get out; Treats or his lawyer will make sure of that. I don't think there's anything to it, but we've got to investigate it anyway before it's all over the news.”
Rhodes said, “But how do you prove a man's innocence?
“You know,” Hastings said, “people keep pointing that out to me.” He said to Rhodes, “You busy now?”
“Well, we've got to write our reports.”
“Why don't you do that later? I need you to come with me.”

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