The Capitol Game (45 page)

Castile tiptoed to the den. He flicked on his pencil flashlight with a concentrated directional beam and surveyed the surroundings for a moment. A small room, nothing much here. Two
bookcases packed with thick legal volumes and a few novels. A short wooden filing case in the corner. A desk against the far wall—a wooden double-pedestal model with three locked drawers on the right side.

After deciding to tackle the desk first, he bent over and got to work on the locks.

Jones, in the interim, had found the back stairs and worked his way down to the basement, which was pitch-dark. His flashlight came on and he began nosing around to select the perfect place. The basement had recently been refinished and was nicely done in his view—a fifty-inch flat-panel hanging on the wall, with a pair of thick leather couches arrayed for a great view. There were two doors, and Jones eased open the nearest one first. A small bathroom that definitely wouldn’t do, and he quickly moved on. He opened the other door, and voilà—a storage room cluttered with boxes, oversize luggage, and unwanted furniture. Perfect, just ideal. He hauled in the bag and got to work, unpacking the contents and stashing bits and pieces in various places that weren’t too obvious, but not too inconspicuous either.

It was at that moment that the lights flashed on. He would remember that distinctly, for whatever it was worth. They emanated from outside and seemed to pour through every window in the house, accompanied by the loud sounds of both the front and side doors crashing open at once.

Then what seemed like an army of cops swarmed inside, hollering and flashing their guns. As though they had X-ray eyes, they spread out and lunged straight for the three men inside.

Phillips was still standing beside the door, hefting his bat, when three cops showed up, pointing big mean pistols in his face, one screaming, “Drop the bat, asshole, or you’re dead.”

Phillips cursed, closed his eyes, and dropped the bat.

Castile was caught just as he pried open the second drawer. He wasn’t ordered to do anything—two cops jumped on top of him, forcefully wrestled his arms behind his back, and slapped on a tight pair of cuffs.

Jones had just removed another brick of heroin from the sack
when his turn came. Two cops pounded down the stairs and burst in, at exactly the wrong moment as far as Jones was concerned. They smiled as he dropped the brick and tried desperately to look innocent.

In less than a minute all three burglars were standing in the living room wearing matching pairs of cuffs. They were efficiently patted down by a mountain of a cop, who observed to the others that none of the three were carrying identification. The matching dark clothes, the lack of ID—the cops understood immediately. They were dealing with pros. “Keep your mouths shut,” a plainclothes officer barked in their faces every time they tried to speak.

The front door flew open and Mia Jenson, dressed in dark jeans and a dark overcoat, stepped inside. A gun was holstered to her waist; a pissed-off frown was holstered to her face. “Well, well, what are you boys up to?”

The breath seemed to escape from their lungs at the shock of seeing her. How did she get outside? They had seen her in bed, with the lights out. How did she get dressed, and what was she doing with all these cops?

The idea that they’d been set up dawned on them like a bad dream. One of the cops began blasting their rights into their stunned faces; they shuffled their feet and stood dumbly taking them in.

But they were all professionals and had a well-rehearsed routine in the event something like this happened. Well, not exactly like this, not with ten cops staring down their throats in a trap they had blundered right into. And definitely not with the home-owner standing with her hands on her hips, a pistol strapped to her waist and a knowing look in her eyes.

Castile owned the lead role, and plunged in with a high-pitched squeal: “I don’t get it. What’s going on here?” he demanded. “What are you doin’ in my cousin’s house?”

“Your cousin?” Mia asked, cocking her head.

“Yeah, Juanita Alvarez. She asked us to do a little favor.” A
perplexed expression popped onto his narrow face. “Wait a minute, don’t tell me we got the wrong address.”

Mia seemed to smile. “What kind of favor would that be?”

“She had some stuff in the basement she wanted picked up. Important papers in her office, too. The drawers were locked, so you know, I had to jimmy ’em open.”

Mia searched the faces of the other two men. “Is he telling the truth?”

“Absolutely,” Jones rushed to say.

“Definitely true,” Phillips echoed quite fervently.

The faces of the three men now looked aggrieved and flabbergasted at the shocking injustice of the situation. We’re good guys, their faces screamed, just doing a family favor, and how could this mean lady misinterpret the purity of our motives?

“What’s the bat for?” Mia asked Phillips.

“Uh… Juanita said the place had rats. I hate rats.”

She faced Jones. “And what’s in the bag?”

“Rat poison,” Jones said, smiling at his pals.

“And I suppose you lost the house keys Juanita gave you?” Mia asked, again facing Castile.

“Must’ve put ’em in the wrong pants,” he acknowledged, shrugging his skinny shoulders. They were sounding and looking quite cocky now.

Mia crossed her arms and stood back a minute. “What a creative alibi,” she said, heavy on the sarcasm. “If it weren’t for the pictures, and all we already know about you boys, I might let you walk out the door.”

“What pictures?” Castile asked. This didn’t sound good.

It wasn’t. A helpful cop quickly shoved a clutch of ten-by-twelve black-and-white photographs into Mia’s hand. Each was helpfully date and time-stamped. Mia flashed them up, one by one, long enough for all three men to enjoy a long gape. There was Jones picking his nose while seated in a nondescript gray car parked across the street from her house, taken a week before. Then Castile with his skinny, bony ass stuck up in the air, bent over,
inspecting the lock of her side door in bright daylight only two days before—the time stamp said it was two in the afternoon. Mia was at work, and he wanted to be sure he brought the right pick for the break-in.

Then more shots of all three men taken at various times and in an assortment of angles and poses over the past week, observing her house, casing it, preparing the break-in.

The pictures were irrevocably damning. The alibi suddenly sounded stupid.

It struck Castile that this might be a good time to shut his mouth.

Mia said, very cool, very indifferent, “Breaking and entering, that’s good for seven years, minimum. But the bat’s a deadly weapon, and that has to be considered. I’d say at least another five.” She pointed at the bag by Jones’s feet. “I’m betting those ugly brown bricks are pure heroin. Looking at it, I’d say it’s about ten pounds’ worth, probably good for another thirty years. All told, that’s forty years, give or take a few. What do you think, Lieutenant?”

“A little on the cheap side,” the cop in plainclothes opined. He scratched his big nose and looked thoughtful. “Conspiracy, too. You forgot that.”

“Oh, damn. Add another five.”

They let that sink in a moment, then the lieutenant shifted his feet and said, “But I’m guessing the guy without the bat or drugs will cut a deal and rat out the other two. The guy with the bat, well, he could avoid the thirty for the dope, so probably he’ll squeal, too. That leaves bozo here”—he pointed a thick finger in Jones’s face—“my money’s on him. He’s doing the long stretch.”

Poor Marvin Jones suddenly couldn’t breathe. He closed his eyes and nearly passed out. This was so unfair.

“Sucker’s bet,” Mia announced, playing along. “Definitely, he’s the lifer.”

“We ain’t talking,” Castile sneered, looking more at Jones than anybody else. “In fact, we want our lawyers.”

The lieutenant, a rough-looking type with a pot gut, edged
forward. He got up in their faces. “I suspect you guys already know how this game works. Still, here’s a few tips. Cops hate lawyers. Know what I mean? They suck all the generosity out of the room. Sure, you can have your damn mouthpieces, any damn time you want, but the deals won’t be nearly as sweet.”

“Let’s separate them and see who’s willing to volunteer statements now,” Mia suggested. She pointed a manicured fingernail at Castile and Phillips. “Take them into separate rooms. See who wants to talk.”

Castile and Phillips were hustled out of the room. Castile disappeared into her bedroom, Phillips stumbled into the compact kitchen.

Mia and a uniformed cop with an evident affection for the weight room, along with a sulky-looking Jones, were left standing alone in the small living room. Nobody spoke. Not a word, not a whisper. Jones couldn’t seem to tear his eyes off the pattern of the Indian carpet on the floor. His chest was pounding. Sweat was forming a puddle in the small of his back.

After an interminable three minutes, Mia asked Jones, “Would you care to guess what they’re saying in there?”

He shuffled his feet a moment, then said, “My buddies would never screw me.”

“Jonesy, you’re an idiot if you really believe you’re worth thirty-five more years in prison to them. Could it be you’re even stupider than you look?”

His name. She knew his name, and that really shook him. Only one way that could happen, somebody was already talking, already ratting. In fact, as he thought about it, somebody had tipped her off about the break-in. How else could they have been caught in this setup? His body began shaking. He never imagined they would get caught. And nobody ever mentioned that the idiot hauling the dope got the booby prize.

“Thing is,” Mia continued, still very factual, “I should be very pissed at you. I’m betting that dope was meant to frame me, a federal agent.”

Another nail in the coffin. Was it worse when you tried to frame
a
federal agent
? Jones bit his lip and stared harder at the carpet. How much more did that tack on to his sentence?

“Odd, I know, but now I just feel sorry for you,” Mia said, and she sounded very genuine.

At least they had something in common. Jones was definitely feeling sorry for himself, too. Were it he in one of the other rooms, he wouldn’t hesitate a moment; without the slightest qualm he’d cut the fastest deal he could get, and begin shoving the blame at the idiot carrying the bag. The dope charge terrorized him. It was twelve pounds, not ten—not that the additional two made any difference. The sentencing guidelines for twelve pounds of heroin were brutal.

And they’d caught him fair and square, in the basement, holding a Hefty bag filled with junk in his right hand, with a big brick in his left hand.

“But there might be a way you can help yourself, Mr. Jones,” Mia offered, with only a hint of reservation.

Jones saw a ray of hope, for the first time. “Tell me. What is it?”

“You want to talk about TFAC? If you have anything helpful, I’ll do my best to get you a little slack.”

So she knew about TFAC, too. What didn’t she know? A lot, he hoped, because he suddenly felt an irrepressible urge to tell her anything she was interested in. Names, dates, his wife’s embarrassing incontinence issues—name it, and he’d talk her ear off. “What’s it worth and what do you want to know?” Jones asked, trying his damnedest to sound like he still had a choice in this matter.

“I’ll try to get twenty knocked off. That leaves twenty, max. Behave like a model citizen, you’ll cut that in half.”

The nods were so fierce he nearly broke his neck. Ten years suddenly sounded like a short holiday.

“TFAC hired you to do this job, right?” Mia suggested.

“Yeah, sorta. We’re contractors. TFAC brings us in for the occasional job.”

“Who brings you in? Give me a name.”

He thought about the twenty years knocked off his sentence—“O’Neal. Martie O’Neal.” The name couldn’t come out fast enough.

“What were you asked to do?”

“Look for dirt. Plant bugs in your phones. Leave a little gift somewhere in your home.”

“The heroin. To set me up, right?”

“I guess. What happens afterward, I don’t know.” He tried desperately to sound convincing. He would never knowingly try to hurt the nice lady with twenty years of his life in her hands.

“Who’s TFAC’s client for this job?”

“I dunno. I swear I don’t. They never tell us. I’d tell you if I knew, I just can’t.”

“Have you done a job like this before?”

“Yeah, coupla times.”

“When was the last time?”

“Seven, maybe eight months ago.”

“Who? Where?”

“Some rich guy. Up in Jersey.”

“Name?”

“Wiley. Uh, Jack, or John, I think.”

Mia seemed to be out of questions for the moment. The instant they got him to the station, he would spend hours being grilled on tape and filmed. Now that he was already squealing and on record with a few big admissions, the hardest part would be getting him to shut up.

She turned to the uniform. “Get him the hell out of my house and book him. Make sure he’s kept away from the others.”

Jones was led out the door, tears rolling down his cheeks, as he stumbled over his own feet. Castile and Phillips were also singing their hearts out, answering any question thrown their way. All three were small fry, almost insignificant in the big scheme, though. Mia didn’t really care how many years they got, if indeed they got any at all.