Done for a Dime (44 page)

Chadwick reentered the room. “Okay,” he said, sitting back down, “a little show-and-tell.” He had several pages of fax paper curling up in his hand. He spread them out on the tabletop, smoothing them flat with his palm. “Bratcher’s name has come up in a few investigations out of the Sacramento office. I called up there, asked if they had anything we might find interesting.”

He turned the top page around so the others could see it. There was a photograph from an Illinois driver’s license, paired with one from a Chicago PD personnel file. The latter seemed more recent. The man had black hair and a drooping mustache, raw features, and an unpleasant intensity in his eyes, not so much menacing as cold, unavailing, empty. Stubble darkened his cheeks and neck and chin. He wore a black leather jacket over a crew neck sweater, his hair longish, brushing the tops of his ears.

“You can see under ‘Suspect’s Name’ this guy is named William Malvasio. There’s a couple AKAs, none of them Richard Ferry, the one he used in the phone call, but that could be because it’s new.”

“If it’s him,” Murchison said. He had to admit, this face, the voice, they went together. “How do we—”

“It’s him. Stick with me here,” Chadwick said. “He worked undercover narcotics on Chicago’s South Side for several years, part of a tac squad that got brought down hard by IA. Nothing too original—jacking some dealers, running protection for others, that story. Malvasio here shot dead another cop he suspected of laying numbers on him and his pals.”

“A cop killer,” the chief said, fingering the page for a better look.

“Cop-killing cop.” Peterson made a point to look straight at Murchison as he said it.

Chadwick continued, “He’d worked with some Salvadoran police units in an exchange of sorts before disappearing from Chicago, but there’ve never been any solid leads down there. Either he’s hidden somewhere else or he’s got connected friends in country, watching his back.”

“What’s his connection to Bratcher?” The chief was still reading.

“Turns out Mr. Bratcher is a cooperating individual with the Sacramento office. He’s proved to be a reliable asset in several investigations concerning HUD fraud, abuse of the Officer Next Door Program.”

Murchison couldn’t believe it. “He rats out cops?”

“You’d rather he killed them?” Peterson’s impatience was mounting. “Would that make him more reliable in your book?”

Chadwick gestured for everybody to calm down. “Agent handling this guy Bratcher assured me he’s a tough nut, but he’d never have anything to do with a job like this guy Malvasio, or Ferry, or whatever the hell he calls himself—”

“But the connection,” Murchison said, knowing it would mean little. Bratcher had juice. You’d have to have hard evidence, not just probable cause, to get anyone to move on him now. “What’s Bratcher’s connection to this Ferry guy, Malvasio?”

“He advertises himself as a security consultant. Had a Web site—Bureau tried to sting him twice with that, set up phony clients, but he’s been too smart to fall for it. Web site’s closed down now.”

“But Bratcher fell for it,” the chief guessed.

“Once. Yeah. Bratcher owns property in Sacramento. He had a drug problem with tenants, a bad one. He’d tried everything else, figured he’d give this solo hotshot a chance. Malvasio ended up killing two kids, gangbangers living in one of Bratcher’s buildings, then tried to extort Bratcher, claiming he ordered the hits.”

“He didn’t?” Murchison glanced around the table, wondering if anyone else had doubts. “Order the hits, I mean.”

“He says no. And like I said—”

“He’s a valuable asset.” Peterson again, tag-teaming.

“He’s provided critical information in several successful investigations, one of which is ongoing.”

“Which means you risk being in contempt of the grand jury you try to push this joke of a confession too far.”

Chadwick shuffled his fax pages together. “Yeah. I’d have to weigh in here and say we need a lot more than the word of this sociopath before we moved on a guy who’s proved to be reliable and has cooperated with us. Arrests and convictions, all good.” His glance circled the table. “Anybody else?”

“He didn’t even level with us about who he is.” The chief’s voice was stronger now. He’d made up his mind. “His being a bent cop, the IA business, the killing, nothing.”

Murchison wasn’t letting go. “How did a guy like this end up with a bottom-feeder like Manny Turpin? This Ferry guy, Malvasio, whatever, he does what he does for money. You telling me he’d work for a high five and ‘attaboy’ from a bunch of green freaks?”

“There are people connected with the movement,” Peterson said, again like he was schooling an idiot, “who are supportive of the more extremist elements but who prefer to retain an image of moderation. They channel money—”

Murchison was stunned. Talk about hypotheticals. “You saying the Sierra Club hired this guy?”

Chadwick said, “There are a lot of weasels in Hollywood, actually—”

Murchison howled, “Oh, come on. What, Susan Sarandon was behind this?”

Peterson, leaning forward again, responded, “You’re not privy to the kinds of intelligence we are, Detective. It stops being funny real quick.”

Chadwick chased him down in the hallway this time, like Holmes had before. “Look,” he said, stepping in front. “Sorry if that got rougher than it should have. We’re all on the same side in this.”

“Oh yeah.” Murchison tried to pull away, but Chadwick stopped him.

“Try to see it from our perspective, okay? You track this stuff as long as we have, I mean, it’s like trying to bottle up smoke. You can’t infiltrate these people. Even if everything falls out right, you nail some dweeb, turns out he knows nothing or just clams up. Meanwhile, the shit just keeps mounting. Seven years now, it’s just gotten worse. We’ve solved damn few of these things and it gets to you.”

“So blame them for a fire they didn’t set.”

“You know for a fact they didn’t set it? You’ve got a tape recording from a killer on the run, trying to blame somebody else for what he did. You can hardly blame us for not taking it as God’s truth, okay? Now listen to me—we’re not wedded to this Bratcher guy, understand? He’s not our snitch. We could give a rat’s ass about him. And yeah, we’ll see whether this story that he’s involved has merit. We’ll work it, I promise you that. But we’re not going to just ignore everything we know, everything we’ve learned over years of tracking this kind of deal, everything we see here, on the basis of what you’ve got so far. Especially when this kind of disavowal is almost predictable given how bad this thing turned out. That’d be nuts, and you can call us a lot of things—”

“I’m not going down with you like those guys in Oakland, okay?” Murchison glanced up and down the hallway. There were men coming and going, so he kept his voice low. “They fell for your line and jumped on those two Earth Firsters just like you told them to. Look what happened. If I’m gonna get a multimillion-dollar judgment against me, I want it to be because I followed my own instincts, not yours.”

“You can’t compare this to the Oakland deal.”

“Sure I can.”

“And neither Peterson nor I worked that case.”

“Lucky for you.”

“Look, I said it before. These aren’t idealists. They’re criminals. I’m not making that up, Detective.” He took a second to collect himself, playing something in his head as he looked past Murchison down the hall. “Can I run a hypothetical by you?”

Murchison laughed. “If you guys are so convinced you’ve got this figured out, what’s with all the hypothetical?”

Chadwick ignored that. “There’s a similarity between these radical groups here and what we see abroad. Just a total hatred of the West and what it stands for. There’s another element to that, actually, that I’d like to run by you.”

It came out surprisingly guileless. Murchison shrugged, thinking, Truthfully, what else is there to do? “Sure. Shoot.”

“It’s the drug angle. This kid Turpin, he was hanging not just with rads but a pretty heavy drug crowd, too. Especially here in town, that right?”

Murchison wondered who’d briefed him on that. Not like the mutt hunt of yesterday morning was any great secret, he realized, the whole Sunday squad had been on it. “Yeah. From what we know.”

“You raised a good point in there. If this Malvasio guy, Ferry, if he was in this, and his information’s too specific not to think he was, then somebody was bankrolling him, because he’s not the kind to be in it otherwise.”

“You’re thinking—”

“We understand there’s a guy named James Mooney, goes by the name Long Tall—”

“Long Walk.”

“Him. He’s a major player in the local drug scene, right? He’s also got his hand in a lot of property on that hill.”

“Where did you hear—”

“Your partner talked about it yesterday, with some of the other detectives. It’s true, then.”

“Yeah, what I can tell. We haven’t followed up, there hasn’t been—”

“I think that might prove a viable area, Detective. There may be a motive for setting those fires we don’t see yet. Insurance fraud, maybe, on Mooney’s part. Building inspectors were beginning to find out he’d financed renovations that didn’t meet code. Pretty soon the home owners were gonna get grilled about where the money came from. This Mooney character, he was going to be exposed. He may have thought a bunch of fires would solve his problems. Wouldn’t be the first guy to think like that.”

Murchison thought it through. Chadwick could be right, he realized. Regardless, it only made sense to take a look. “We should bring Holmes in on this. He has a source inside Mooney’s crew.”

“We don’t think it would be wise to bring Sergeant Holmes in just yet.” Chadwick hunted Murchison’s face, looking for a flinch, a tic, a giveaway.

“Explain that,” Murchison said.

“He has a source. Exactly, you said it. We want to make sure the information flow doesn’t become two-way.”

“You think Holmes would—”

“This early, we don’t want to risk anything we don’t have to.”

“You can’t keep him out of the loop.”

“We think we can. And we’ll need your help.”

Murchison saw it then. The voice didn’t match the eyes.

“I think you need to find somebody else.”

“He trusts you.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. Besides, if it were true, why would I want to betray that trust?”

“For the greater good.”

Murchison gave in to his disgust and pulled away. “You gotta try harder than that.”

“This is an extremely touchy deal, Detective. I’m asking.”

“And I answered. No.”

“You don’t know how dangerous these people are. We do. Mix that with drug money—”

Murchison stopped. “I just saw an entire hillside in my hometown burned down, seen my partner killed and a family burned to death in a bathtub while they clawed each other to pieces. I don’t understand that the people responsible are dangerous?”

When he got to his desk, he found Hennessey waiting. No smiling Irish eyes this time, he’d drawn a short straw, been sent on a bad news errand. Concerning me, Murchison guessed.

“Hey, Murch.” The words came out barely loud enough to be heard above the noise. “How ya doing?” His big body sat perched on the corner of the desk, so Murchison couldn’t get past him to sit.

“There a problem?”

“No no no. No problem. I just …” His voice trailed away and bumped into a sigh on the back end. “Just got something I need … There’s a …” His mouth tightened, he shook his head. “Chief wants—”

“For God’s sake, Hennessey. If it was really that bad you’d have shot me by now.”

Hennessey couldn’t make eye contact. “Chief wanted me to tell you that he appreciates your staying on-duty this morning, us being short-staffed and all. But, you know, with the shooting, the usual procedure—”

“He’s putting me on admin leave.”

“It’s paid.”

“I know it’s paid. That’s not the point.” Murchison gestured for Hennessey to stand so he could get to his desk. “Okay, I’m on leave. Now let me get back to work.”

Hennessey seemed in agony. He didn’t move. “Murch, please.”

Murchison realized finally he held no cards. It unnerved him. “Please what? Come on, Hennessey, say it.”

Hennessey uttered a breathy, almost inaudible groan. “I’m just the messenger, Murch, okay?” He stood up finally, placing his hand on Murchison’s shoulder. “I’m supposed to walk you out. Gotta make sure you leave the building.”

25

I
t was Nadya’s turn to lie awake while Toby slept. He’d come upstairs with her, as she’d wished, into a small guest room where exhaustion had finally won out. He lay on his stomach upon the narrow bed, again in his clothes, like this morning in the church basement—not even his shoes removed now, only his glasses. He’d pulled a thick wool blanket across his body. His arms lay flat to either side, his head turned, mouth slightly open as he breathed in, breathed out.

Nadya watched each breath, envying his tranquillity. Inside her, the relentlessly vile memories continued like a howl of curses, no matter how still she sat, no matter how intent her focus on him, not her. If anything, calming down just made it worse. And, yes, focusing on Toby made it worse.

Finally, she surrendered, got up, taking care not to wake him, and padded out of the room, carrying her shoes. She ventured into the conference room, sat down at the massive table where Toby’s father’s horn still lay exposed in its red velvet case. As though it were lying in state. She reached out and touched the cool, shimmering brass, the soft leather pads for the keys, ran her finger along the rim of the bell. If you forgive me, she thought, why do I still feel all these terrible things?

She ventured downstairs, sauntering through the kitchen and the hallway toward the front. From the conference room she heard voices. The detective, Murchison, was here again. He was talking with Francis and Tina. Francis was yelling.

“That can’t be. It’s wrong!”

“There’s not much I can do,” the detective said.

“But the tape. One you played just now. It’s clear as can be.”

“They don’t see it that way.”

“Because you didn’t try to make them see.”