Close Case (29 page)

After she left, Alan, Tommy, and I pored over Foster’s and Powell’s personnel records. Neither one of them was what you’d call a star. Mediocre scores on the civil service entrance exam. None of the special letters of recognition that come when a supervisor spots the promise of advancement through the ranks. Powell had early run-ins several years ago with suspects, marked by a disproportionate number of resisting-arrest complaints by—and excessive-force complaints against—him. Recently, though, he seemed to have mellowed out, making fewer arrests than the typical patrol officers on his same shifts and beats. Was it the laziness that often sets in with experience or something more nefarious?

“Wait, here’s something,” Carson announced. “Two years ago, Powell was one of the last remaining moonlighters. Threatened with discipline, settled when he voluntary terminated his non-PPB employment.” Unlike a lot of departments, Portland’s bureau prohibits officers from accepting independent gigs as private security. Roughhousing on their off-hours creates too many questions about the city’s liability. “All it says here is a tavern at 4112 Coving.”

Tommy Garcia smiled and smacked the table. “Otherwise known, boys and girls, as Jay-J’s.”

I grabbed Foster’s file from Garcia, paging through it quickly, hoping to find the club mentioned there as well. Instead, I read with surprise the name of a young officer with whom Curt Foster was partnered five years ago, when the bureau could still afford two-man patrols. It was a piece of evidence I couldn’t ignore, as much as I wanted to.

“Alan, I need one more file. I just sent it back to IA on Thursday.”

That night, hidden away with Vinnie in the small cluttered room I call my home office, I was still studying the three IA files Alan Carson had entrusted to me. I had learned nothing new about Curt Foster or Jamie Powell, but I was, unfortunately, piecing together new information about Chuck’s partner.

When Mike Calabrese joined PPB seven years ago, he started out in Northeast Precinct, partnered with Curt Foster. According to Carson, Calabrese was brought in when the bureau, struggling to meet hiring needs, created a laundry list of exceptions to the usual requirements of civil service exams and background checks.

Calabrese was hired under an exception for lateral hires, which explained the personnel forms I had neglected to photocopy for Lopez. In lieu of the usual procedures, the precinct commanders could rely on a review of the candidate’s personnel file and a recommendation from a supervising officer in the transferring jurisdiction.

I wasn’t surprised when Carson told me that this short-lived experiment was wracked with political, familial, and personal patronage. But Mike’s file was more troubling than the hiring of someone’s Gomer Pyle nephew. For starters, there was no documentation whatsoever from NYPD. Carson insisted that Mike’s file should have contained a complete copy of his former records.

Even more troubling, I had done my own investigation into Patrick Gallagher, the “officer with knowledge” upon whom the precinct commander had relied when he hired Mike. An Internet search of news articles in New York about Patrick Gallagher turned up years of references to a lieutenant consistently assigned to the Internal Affairs Bureau of the NYPD.

I seriously doubted that Mike worked IAB in New York. He wouldn’t have had enough years on the job by then, it didn’t suit his temperament, and I would have heard about it. But somehow an IAB lieutenant had “knowledge” about Mike and had helped ship him out to Portland.

I dug my old Rolodex from the back of my desk drawer, the one I’d used at the U.S. Attorney’s Office in New York. I dialed the number for Ed Devlin, an NYPD sergeant who was my local police contact when I was a federal prosecutor. He had been close to retirement even then, so I was surprised when I heard his familiar voice on the outgoing message.

“Ed, it’s Samantha Kincaid from the U.S. Attorney’s Office, back in the day. I’m at the DA’s Office in Oregon now, and a question has come up about one of our officers who used to be NYPD. I need you to get me the scoop.” I left Mike’s name, NYPD badge number, and my home phone, hoping he was still working graveyards.

As I tried to make sense of the gaps in Mike’s file, I thought about the lessons I learned on the Hamilton case. It’s not easy to prosecute cops. It’s not even easy to fire them. If Mike had trouble in New York—but not enough trouble to lose the support of his union—was it that farfetched to imagine the city settling the case by finding him a place with another bureau, one desperate for new hires?

I heard a tap on the door and, before it opened, quickly pushed Mike’s file beneath a stack of old legal magazines I kept telling myself I’d read someday.

“Good game. You sure you can’t take a break?”

“Not quite yet. I’d rather wait just a little longer until my brain dries up completely. Then I can enjoy the rest of the night.”

“Okay. I ordered Pizzacata, half gourmet for you.” Chuck’s a pepperoni guy, I’m goat cheese and artichoke. “Want me to bring it up when it gets here?”

“Hopefully I’ll be done by then.”

He started to leave, then turned around. “Are those IA files?”

Uh-oh. Chuck knew I was working on something Percy had been researching. I had mentioned Heidi, the Buckeye shooting, and the newspaper article. Beyond that, I hadn’t gotten specific.

“Yeah, that story Percy was working on involved two patrol officers at Northeast Precinct.”

He reached over my shoulder and separated the files to see the names on the tabs. “Oh, shit. Curt Foster was Mike’s partner back on patrol for a while.”

I didn’t want to lie by feigning surprise, but I didn’t want to get into this, either. Instead, I said nothing.

“You should call him. Mike didn’t like that guy at all.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I don’t know the details, but it came up a few times when he said how glad he was to get out of patrol.”

“All right.”

“You want his number?”

“I’ve got it somewhere.”

“Babe, you and Mike can’t stay angry forever, and it’s stupid for you to spend all night on files when Mike can give you the skinny. Let’s call him together,” he said, picking up the phone on my desk and starting to dial.

I cut the call with the click of a finger on the phone base. “Chuck, wait.”

“Sam, c’mon, I’m just trying to help you. Why won’t you—?” He replaced the phone in its cradle. “Is that another IA file?” he asked, looking beneath my pile of magazines.

I looked at him, trying to figure out the best way to tell him what I needed to say.

“Whose file is it, Sam?”

I bit my lower lip and reached for his hand. He pulled it away. “Is that what I think it is?”

I unearthed the file and extended it toward him. He looked at it as if it were food I’d stolen for him from a child. “Why do you still have that? You’ve been up here with that for hours while I’m watching football and calling in a pizza order?”

“Chuck, I’m sorry. His name came up because he was Foster’s partner.” He also happened to be the detective who extracted Todd Corbett’s murder confession—the confession that closed off any suspicions that Percy’s killing was related to a story. “I had to at least look at it, and I didn’t want to upset you.”

“When are you ever going to get it? I only get upset with you when you isolate yourself from me. You never trust me. You never trust anyone. First, it’s Matt York. Now it’s Mike. You look at these guys—my friends,
our
friends—like they’re anyone else in your caseload, like you don’t even know them.”

“That’s not true, Chuck. Do you think I want those names to turn up on our cases? But am I supposed to just ignore the fact that Matt’s wife was sleeping with Percy and Matt himself happens to have a bunk alibi? I’ve been busting my ass all day to prove that Foster and Powell did it instead, and every second, in the back of my mind, part of my motivation has been to clear Matt. Now it turns out that the detective who coerced Corbett’s confession in the first place happens to be connected to Foster. And you should see this, Chuck. Mike’s hire was very strange. Do you know anything about why he left New York?”

The look on his face cut straight to my heart. “Have you even stopped to think about the position you’re putting me in?”

“Of course. Why do you think I put the file where you couldn’t see it?”

He shook his head. “That’s your version of caring about me? Doing exactly what you want but hiding it? Now that I know, what am I supposed to do?”

“Well, you certainly can’t tell Mike about it. It’s a pending investigation.”

“An investigation by whom, Sam? By you. So you can be the one to call it off.”

“OK, I shouldn’t have even called it an investigation. I just want to make sure I’m not missing something.”

“You’re not, Sam. I know Mike. You know Mike. And you should have enough faith in him—and in my judgment about him—to know that you don’t need to go down that road.”

“All I’m doing is asking some questions.”

“You are so naive sometimes. A DA and IA don’t just ‘ask questions.’ Mike’s already suspended, and now you’ve got IA looking at him for corruption? Once your name even comes up with something like that, your reputation? It’s over.”

“Well, it’s pretty much over for Mike anyway, no matter what I do.”

“What the hell does that mean?” When I didn’t respond immediately, he jumped back in. “I knew it. I knew it on Friday when you said this was ‘probably’ only temporary, but I gave you the benefit of the doubt. Are you telling me that my partner’s out? For good?”

“I don’t know that for sure. It depends how this all falls out.”

“You mean it depends on whether your boss needs a scapegoat.”

“That’s not fair, Chuck. He’s certainly more responsible for this cluster fuck than either of us.”

“No. Todd Corbett and Trevor Hanks are the ones responsible.”

“Fine, yes, to some extent, but they didn’t kill Percy. I’m trying to find out who did, and I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t criticize me for that.”

“I’m criticizing you for running over Mike’s career in the process. Give his file back to IA and leave him out of it, before you get him kicked out of the bureau entirely.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Then I can’t know about this and keep it from Mike. He’s my partner.”

“And I’m your girlfriend.”

“And I’m your boyfriend, Sam. Jesus, these things go both ways. For once, why can’t you be the one to have a little faith in
me
and make an adjustment?”

“I can’t believe you’re asking me to do that. Are you saying you’re going to leave me if I don’t ignore my job?”

“You really want me to put it in those terms, don’t you? It’s always about whether I’ll forgive you, whether we’re over. Fine, yes, that’s what I’m saying. I will see you differently if you won’t trust me on this.”

“I do trust you. But we have different jobs. I have to—”

“I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry. If I stay here, we’re both going to say things we regret.”

He headed for the bedroom. “Chuck, please don’t leave.”

“Why not? You do it all the time.” He was throwing things haphazardly into a gym bag. “Maybe I’m the one who gets to have a temper tantrum for once and say we’ll work it out tomorrow.”

Following him down the stairs, I asked where he was going.

“Mike’s.” Then, before I could say anything else, he was slamming the front door. As I heard the Jag’s engine rev, I knew there was something wrong with me. The words I would have spoken if he had stayed a second longer?
Are you going to tell Mike?

I made three back-to-back calls to his cell. No answer. I had never seen him this angry before. Then I realized there was something worse than anger. Maybe this time I had actually blown it. Maybe he was finally through putting up with my shit.

A knock at the door stole my attention. I wondered hopefully if perhaps Chuck had come home and forgotten his keys. I looked out the glass pane in the door. The pizza boy. Crap. I let him in, then went hunting for my purse. Where the hell was my purse?

I retraced my steps from the precinct. I must have left it in the car. And, of course I had parked my car in the street so as not to block Chuck in the driveway. If he ever did come back, I’d start blocking him.

I slipped my bare feet into a pair of Chuck’s tennies by the door, dashed to the car, and unlocked the passenger-side door. If my purse had been there, it was gone now. I checked the backseat. Not there either. As I was shutting the door, I looked up and saw that my driver’s-side window was open. No, it was broken. And my CDs were all gone. And there was glass everywhere.

Portland and property crime. This was the fourth time my car had been prowled since I moved back from New York. The pizza boy was eyeing me suspiciously from the door.

I ran inside, retrieved a new book of checks from my office, and finally convinced him with my DA badge and repeated gestures toward my smashed-in car window to accept it.

I did my best in the rain to clean the glass from my car and the street, move the Jetta into the driveway, and catch an old tarp in the door to block the open window. Back inside, I called the bureau’s nonemergency number to report the break-in. Then I called Grace, who immediately offered to stay with me. When I hung up, I sat at my dining room table with Vinnie in my lap, waiting, and stared at my large pizza going cold as I picked the artichokes off one by one.

The sound of Grace’s TT pulling into the driveway instantly comforted me. I met her at the door.

“How are you holding up?”

“Piss-poorly. I never should have let myself need another person like this. You know, people can say they won’t leave, and it doesn’t mean shit. He left and now I’m here, a complete and total wreck.”

I could tell from the expression on her face that I must have looked absolutely miserable. She hugged me. “You guys will be fine. You need an occasional shit day so you don’t stop appreciating all the good ones.”

I poured myself a glass of wine and asked her if she wanted to violate her purification by joining me in a soggy cold pizza.

“As appetizing as that sounds, I already ate. Half glass of wine, though. So where are the cops?”

“So that’s why you came over,” I said, trying to smile. “I called, but it’s a low priority.”

“Fuck that. You’re a DA, and your car gets broken into right in front of your house? They should at least take a report.”

True. Just as they had the three other times. I had wondered myself about the timing. Heidi talks to Selma. Selma talks to Janelle. Selma and Janelle get shot. Heidi talks to me. My car gets broken into. On the other hand, I was the one who’d been stupid enough to leave my purse in the front seat, the Portland equivalent of a
BREAK ME
sign on the car window.

I called the nonemergency number again. “I entered it in the queue, ma’am,” the dispatcher explained, “but I can’t guarantee when they’ll get to it. If the calls are busy tonight—”

“I understand.”

When I called an hour later and got the same response, I took matters into my own hands. I left a message for the shift lieutenant at the precinct asking him to at least have a desk officer call me so I could file a report over the phone.

By the time I finally hit the sheets around one, I still hadn’t heard a peep. Apparently Friday morning’s traffic ticket was just the beginning of the fuck-you I was getting from PPB. Throughout the night, as I woke up to each quiet house shift and tree branch squeak, I questioned the wisdom of conducting my little meeting at Northeast Precinct.

At eight-thirty-five the next morning, Alice Gerstein informed me that two detectives were waiting in my office. “I told them to go to the lobby, but one of them insisted you wouldn’t mind.”