The Betrayers (21 page)

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Authors: James Patrick Hunt

BOOK: The Betrayers
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The St. Louis Blues were on the road. The event this night was indoor soccer; St. Louis Steamers playing the Baltimore Blast. It was seven bucks a ticket at the gate. When Dillon got there, they were still introducing the players. Wiry young guys running through steam in the dark, coming out under individual spotlights.
Shaun David! … Jes-Se Elmore! … Ibrahim Kante!
… The announcer let the crowd know if a player was from St. Louis.
It took Dillon back to a time when he watched a jai alai game in Miami. Some cluck told him he should invest in it because it was going to be as big as hockey. Bigger, maybe. Dillon had passed.
It was hokey, this indoor soccer. Guys kicking the ball against the wall so that it would bounce back to another player and maybe he could get a goal, or bounce it off someone's face and halt the whole stupid process for a couple of minutes. He couldn't believe people paid money to see it. He was vaguely aware they had an indoor soccer team in Chicago. In Baltimore too, apparently. St. Louis was not Chicago. It wasn't Baltimore either. But it was a
city.
And now he would have to leave. Go back on the road to small towns like El Dorado, Kansas, or Creston, Iowa, or any other number of towns where he had spent ten years leaving cash in safety deposit boxes. Go back to living like a fucking nomad. He hoped he could skip that route this time. With the money he had hidden in the Thunderbird he could go straight to Montreal, maybe live like a human being for a few years. Hang with people who spoke French and didn't give him the proper respect, but at least be able to get a decent cup of coffee.
Down to his left he saw Jimmy. Coming around the corner and looking up at him.
Jimmy stopped.
He stood about ten feet from the wall of the stairwell.
Jimmy motioned for him to come down.
What was this?
Dillon motioned for Rizza to come up to sit next to him. Jimmy shook his head, motioned for Mike to come down.
Dillon looked around. The lights on the floor were on now, the players running around. He could see the spectators around him, make out the colors of their jackets and caps. No blue uniforms in sight. Dillon got out of his seat and started to walk down toward Jimmy.
He reached the front of the section on the other side and began walking toward Rizza.
Jimmy's hands were out of his pockets now, gesturing a shrug of sorts.
Dillon stopped. He motioned to Jimmy to come toward him.
And then Jimmy froze.
Dillon knew. He knew it as the deer knows the wolf's scent. He began backing away.
Jimmy said, “Mike!”
Regan stepped out, Jimmy Rizza partially between them now, and Dillon drew a pistol from his jacket pocket and fired.
Regan wasn't ready for it. The first shot took Jimmy in the chest, the second went between Jimmy's body and arm and went through Regan's side, and then Jimmy was thrown back against Regan and they were both on the ground, Dillon running away now.
Dillon got to the end of the section and ran down the stairs. He got to the crowds milling at the concession area and put the pistol back in his pocket, screams now coming from the arena. Dillon kept moving.
“Judge Foley?”
“Yes?”
“This is Lieutenant Hastings. Sorry to bother you.”
“That's okay. What's up?” She said, “Did you get him?” Judge Claire Foley had authorized the previous warrants.
“No.” The only good news he could give her is that no more police officers had been shot. But it wasn't worth giving right now. He said, “He's not there. Listen, while we were there, he got a telephone call. From someone in a building near Arsenal Street.”
“Okay.”
“I tried to pass myself as Michael Dillon. It didn't work. The caller hung up. But the caller said, ‘Where are you?'”
“So …”
“Where are you, like he was expecting him to be at that place. The place he was calling from.”
“Oh.”
“So—”
“So on the basis of that,” Judge Foley said, “you think Dillon's at this address?”
Hastings was not at all sure, going on instinct and adrenaline as much as anything else. “Yes,” he said firmly.
“I see. Are you en route now?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Okay, Lieutenant. Give me the exact address and I'll authorize a telephonic warrant.”
He managed to push Jimmy off of him. It wasn't easy; Jimmy was a big man, almost as big as Regan. Regan reached for the gun in his jacket. It was still there. Much good it had done him. Shit. He should have seen it coming. He should have known that Jimmy would tip Mike off. Either directly or indirectly; indirectly probably. A look of panic in the eyes, hands shaking, the way he stood …
something,
goddamn it. He had forgotten about Dillon. Dillon was smart and strong and he had a nose for these things. One of those rare humans who seemed to just sense traps. Dillon had not survived this long by being dumb. Dillon hunted was still Dillon. And Dillon was gone now and Jack Regan had a bullet in him.
Regan managed to get to his feet. He felt it then, bad. Unsteady, swaying but he stood still and concentrated on not falling down and kept on his feet. Man. He was aware of people around him, so many people, indistinct but close and more beyond; people screaming and shouting and questioning, people watching him, staring at the large wine-colored stain on the front of his jacket. The lights blurred around him. He told himself that he had to leave, had to move. There was a blanket in the car. What he had to do was get to the car and stuff the blanket into the gash in his side and stop the bleeding. Stop the bleeding and drive to Chicago and get to Sully. Sully the medicine man, Sully who had been a medic in one of the wars … . Sully would fix it and there would be no calls to the police reporting a gunshot wound … . Sully in Chicago … not too far from his place … in Chicago … Chicago … ? Chicago, bullshit. Who was here? Who was in this town 280 miles away from home? What support system, what … fucking …
network
did he have here? … Maybe he could call Zans and ask him if he knew a Sully in St. Louis … . Someone who would patch him up and send him on his … way … Zans would know what to do … . Kate … Kate would know, maybe … Zans … shit, Zans was in jail … ?
People in the crowd pointed the man on the ground out to a couple of security guards near the concession stand. They turned him over and took away his gun. One of the guards felt Regan's neck.
The guard said, “This one's still breathing.”
 
 
Dillon walked out of the Savvis Center among hundreds of murmuring, frightened people. An announcer on the sound system encouraged people not to panic or rush but to quietly leave the arena.
He approached his car warily. He did not want to believe that the police now had his tag number and make of car, but believing it was like hoping to fill an inside straight. He thought about stealing another one, but people kept pouring out of the arena and he was afraid an owner would walk up as he stole a car. And it had been several years since he had stolen cars. He watched the Cadillac for a minute or two and saw no police around it. He walked to it, unlocked it, and got in.
Had Jimmy brought the Thunderbird? Had he done as he was told? It was hard to know. The only thing he knew now is that Jimmy brought Jack Regan. Jack would not have wanted to accommodate Jimmy. Maybe they came in Jack's car. Maybe they didn't. If they came in the Thunderbird, it would not be possible to look for it around here. Not with police looking for him, maybe even looking for the Cadillac he was in. What was the joke from childhood? Why are you looking over here when you dropped it over there? Because the light's better over here. If Jimmy had left the Thunderbird at the garage, well, it would still be there. It would be easy to see, easy to get into and drive away.
Earlier, he had been worried that the cops were with Jimmy. Earlier, he had not known what to think. But Jimmy showed up with Jack, not a shitload of cops. So he had that much for going for him. So the cops had not been at the garage. Right. The cops had not been at the garage. If Jimmy had left the Thunderbird at the garage, it would still be there.
If it were still there, he could dump the Caddy and drive away with the Thunderbird with eighty thousand dollars stuffed inside it.
It was worth a look.
 
 
Hastings pulled up to the garage. There were two patrol cars out front.
Four officers, one of them approaching him as he got out of the Jaguar.
Sergeant Stanley Millburn. Hastings knew him.
“George.”
“Hi, Stan. What do you know?”
Sergeant Millburn said, “We got here about ten minutes ago. We looked through the windows, didn't see anything. No one's here. No one we can see anyway.”
Hastings said, “You didn't see anyone leave?”
“No.” The sergeant said, “When did you get the call?”
“About fifteen minutes ago.” Hastings sighed. “Shit.”
Sergeant Millburn said, “What do you want to do, George?”
Hastings said, “I've got a telephonic search warrant from Judge Foley on my way over here. You guys got a ram?”
Sergeant Millburn called out. “Anyone got a ram?”
A patrol officer said he had one, and Sergeant Millburn told him to go ahead and get it.
When that was done, the five of them moved up to the door. Two officers in front, positioning the ram; two officers behind, one holding a shotgun, the other holding a Glock .40, the slide racked and ready. Hastings drew his .38 snub and held it at his side.
The standard procedure was to knock and call out, “Search warrant, search warrant,” and on the third one smash in the door. But they weren't going to go through that shit tonight and give the animal on the other side any warning, real or imagined.
Millburn turned to Hastings and said, “Okay?”
Hastings looked up the street then down, hesitating …
His cell phone rang.
It made all of them jump in that quiet moment and then they felt silly and angry at the same time. “Christ,” Hastings said and he was not the only one. Feeling dumb for not turning it off. Rookie mistake.
Hastings held up a hand, pausing the men, and then answered his phone.
“Hastings.”
“Lieutenant? This is Sergeant Acey Rand. There's just been a shooting at the Savvis Center. The shooter's description matches your guy.”
Hastings said, “Is he there?”
“No. We think he slipped out of the building in the crowd.”
“What happened?”
“He shot two guys. They're not cops. One of them's dead, the other one's on his way to the hospital.”
“Fuck,” Hastings said. It was becoming a murder spree. A killer on the loose with nothing to lose. How many more corpses before the night was through? “All right,” Hastings said. “Let me get back to you.”
“Sure, Lieutenant.”
Hastings switched off the phone, even though it seemed moot now. He stood immobile, staring ahead at nothing. The officers around him asked him no questions and looked at each other and made gestures.
Hastings turned to Sergeant Millburn.
Hastings said, “Change of plans.”
Millburn said, “What?”
“That was Acey Rand. They think our man shot a couple of guys at the Savvis Center.”
“They get him?”
“No,” Hastings said. “Maybe he's on his way here.”
“Why do you think that?”
“I don't know. It's a place he knows. He probably knows he can't go home. Maybe he'll come by here to use the toilet.”
“Yeah, and maybe he's leaving town.”
Hastings said, “If he is, he is. Nothing I can do about that now. But
if he's coming here, we'll be ready for him. You got something better to do?”
“Well—”
“I don't. Let's wait here for an hour, see if he comes by.”
The other officers were younger and unfamiliar with the detective. Two of them had never spoken with Hastings at all. They were in uniform and the lieutenant was in plainclothes. They would take their cue from the sergeant and the sergeant knew this. He knew Hastings too and thought well of his judgment, but a lot of years had passed.
The sergeant said, “All right, George. It's your call.”
“Okay.”
The sergeant said, “Shall we wait in there?”
“No. We ram the door, he'll be able to tell and then he'll drive right past. I want you to take your patrol car down two blocks that way, hide and wait. Another car down that way, same thing. I'll park over there.”
It was probably a violation of two or three policies and Hastings knew it. But if they called in more units and Dillon was coming, the presence of other units would run him off. There wasn't time to explain the wisdom of the plan to others and seek justification and authorization. Besides, he wasn't sure it was that wise to begin with.

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