Revolver (22 page)

John DeHaven is not only listed, but he's just a few blocks away in a well-kept trinity on Delancey Place. Great starter pad in an excellent neighborhood for an aspiring whatever he is.

Jim hears loud machine-gun fire from a computer game. He pushes the door buzzer for three full seconds. The gunfire dies. Jim pushes the buzzer again, three full seconds, and hears someone running down the steps from the third floor.

The young man who answers is, indeed, easy on the eyes. He's got the regal look of someone who often says,
Yeah, I did some modeling for a while, but what really excites me is urban politics.

“John DeHaven?” Jim says, showing him the badge. “Detective Jim Walczak, Philadelphia Police. Can I talk to you for a moment?”

“Of course, Detective, come on in.”

DeHaven leads him into the house, which is small, like all trinities. Three floors: kitchen and modest living room area on the first, master bedroom and bath on the second, and office on the top floor, which is where they talk.

“We've actually met before,” DeHaven says. “Can I get you a beer?”

“Yeah? Sorry, I see a lot of faces. And no thanks—I'm on the job.” Jim looks around at DeHaven's desk, his books, his computer, the art on his walls. All neatly arranged and hip. “Where did we meet?”

“At Penn. You spoke in a journalism class once. About what the media gets wrong about homicide investigation.”

“You're a Penn grad,” Jim says, nodding. “And you're what, twenty-four?”

“Twenty-five.”

“And already considered an up-and-comer. One of the top thirty Philadelphians under thirty.”

DeHaven nods. “I thought you might be stopping by because of that. You're probably working your way down the list.”

Jim shakes his head. “No, just you.”

If DeHaven hears this, he pretends like he doesn't understand the significance. “I still can't believe what happened to her. We met only once, but she seemed like such a strong young woman.”

“You met her twice,” Jim corrects.

“No,” DeHaven says, then lets a confused smile bloom on his face. “Fairly certain it was just the once. I keep track of all my appointments.”

“You know, that's funny. Because so did Kelly Anne Farrace.”

Of course now John DeHaven excuses himself on the pretense of checking his appointment book, even though his desk is up here, on the third floor. Kid going to get a gun? Jim doubts it. He's the kind of Alpha Chi thickneck who picks on girls, not grown men. Kid going to run for it? Jim thinks, let him. We'll have fun chasing him down and wrapping this thing up.

For the first time since he caught this thing, Jim likes somebody for this crime.

Up from the stairwell comes murmuring—DeHaven on the phone. If he's smart, he's calling his lawyer.

Their next exchange will be crucial. Jim knows he's bluffing and running on instinct here—all he has, really, are three initials in a weekly minder. The defense attorney in his imagination would have a field day with that, coming up with thousands of other names that fit those letters, including
Jim Da Homicide cop
. (“So you admit, Detective, that you were drunk and prowling for pussy the night before Kelly Anne Farrace's murder?”)

So Jim has to let DeHaven think he knows everything—then sit back and let him confirm it.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” DeHaven says. “Thought my appointment book was home, but I called my assistant and it turns out it's back at the office. I'm happy to have a copy sent over first thing in the morning.”

“We'll get back to that,” Jim says. “What I want to talk about is this past Wednesday night. So I understand you met Kelly Anne at Circa…”

“I didn't see Ms. Farrace Wednesday.”

Jim spreads his hands. “Don't misunderstand me. I'm just here to fill in some gaps in her schedule. The more dots I can connect between Kelly Anne leaving the bar and her body being dumped on Pine Street, the sooner I can catch who did it.”

“Like I said, I didn't see her Wednesday. Otherwise, I would have come to you guys to tell you what I know.”

They go round and round on this for a while, but DeHaven's either smart or he's been expertly trained. Admits nothing, sticks to his story. Jim will bet he has a titanium-clad alibi for all his movements the Wednesday night through Thursday morning.

Still, though—he likes this guy for it.

Something about his face, his eyes, his demeanor, is extremely familiar to Jim. This is because Jim has sat across from dozens of killers before, and after a while, they all begin to share certain characteristics. A family resemblance. The clan of Cain.

And this smug bastard is one of the tribe.

But Jim knows he's reached a brick wall tonight. He'll pick it up first thing in the a.m. with Aisha, attack DeHaven's alibi with everything they've got, then haul in this son of a bitch officially and crack him.

“Have a good night,” Jim says.

“You, too, Detective,” DeHaven says. “I'll walk you out.”

As Jim makes his way down the stairs, he notices again how clean and orderly everything is. Maybe it happened here. Did he lead you back to his lair, Kelly Anne, for an off-the-record session? Did you not give him what he wanted? Did the spoiled brat punish you for that, then have Mommy and Daddy pay for a cleaning service to wipe all traces of you away?

On the ground floor DeHaven rushes around Jim to reach for the door. Jim tenses for a second, waiting for some kind of attack—but the kid's just opening the door.

And standing there on the sidewalk is Sonya Kaminski, with a combination of fury and disgust on her face.

So this is who DeHaven called. His family has pull with the mayor's office, too.

“You know John here?”

“Know him?” Sonya says. “I gave birth to him.”

There is no luncheon after the funeral; instead the family gathers back at Sta
ś
's house in Jenkintown, a small suburb just outside the city limits.

While there's no law that prohibits cops from living outside Philly, most of them choose to live in the city they police. Sta
ś
was one of the exceptions. Bethanne is from upstate and hates the city with a passion. Jenkintown was the compromise. Good schools and a reasonable commute for Sta
ś
.

Barry, to his credit, seems perfectly at ease with the Walczak clan, even as Cary gives him the crazy eyes. “This is Barry,” Audrey says by way of introduction, and adds nothing further. It's probably driving all of them crazy. Barry? Where did this Barry come from?

Audrey excuses herself to go pee. But really it's just an excuse to go snooping around upstairs.

The house is bigger than she thought and also shabbier. Guess they were taking the remodel-one-room-at-a-time approach. The second-floor bathroom is bright and clean and sleek…and all in stark contrast to the three disaster areas that are the kids' bedrooms. Clothes and toys scattered around like an accident site, scuffs and marker streaks on the walls, unidentifiable stains on the ancient wall-to-wall carpet that might have been shag once. It is strangely familiar to Audrey.

Hah hah, Sta
ś
, you were cursed with three slobs just like me for kids.

Sta
ś
always resented that (a) Audrey got her own bedroom and (b) it was a complete and utter wreck at all times.

The third floor features an unfinished, stripped-down-to-the-plaster bathroom (guess that was next on Sta
ś
's to-fix list), Sta
ś
and Bethanne's pristine master bedroom, and a small bedroom off to the right.

The bedroom.

Audrey twists the knob; it's unlocked. Inside, it looks like an office. Exactly what she hoped to find.

Sta
ś
wasn't much of a reader. Most of the office is high school sports trophies, CDs, and cardboard banker's boxes full of files. There are empties in the trash can. A set of Sony headphones draped over a boom box at least fifteen years old. Now Audrey understands the purpose of this room. This was Stan's refuge from the rest of the house, just like the Captain's basement lair.

And it looks like Sta
ś
brought some of his work home with him. On a small dresser there are a notebook and a couple of files on top of a blue binder.

Blue fucking binder. Wait wait…

Audrey flips the files aside and holy shit there it is. The missing murder book. The Philadelphia Police Department uses the same blue binders for all their homicides. In a city like this, with hundreds of bodies dropping ever year, they most likely purchase them in bulk.

What was
Sta
ś
doing with this one?

She's not proud about the horrible thoughts flooding her brain. That Sta
ś
is somehow involved in a family cover-up, that nobody wants Audrey to figure out the truth, because the truth would be too awful. That her dad knows, too, and…

But when she opens the cover she realizes it's not the murder book she thought.

This is the one about the jogger who was raped and strangled twenty years ago—Kelly Anne Farrace. Audrey has dim memories of this case. She was only five years old at the time but remembers her dad was out of the house a lot for this one. And every few years, someone would do an anniversary piece on the killing, asking the same question: “The Pine Street Slaying: Is Anywhere Truly Safe?”

Sta
ś
, why were you looking at Dad's old case?

You weren't homicide. Always suspected you didn't have the stomach for it.

She flips through the pages, speeding through the case. The way she remembers it, two scuzzbags were charged with the murder. But when it came to trial, the whole thing collapsed. DNA didn't match. Or something like that. The real killer apparently got away—though most people went on assuming the scuzzbags did it and got lucky.

What were you doing, Sta
ś
? Trying to one-up Dad?

As if echoing her very thoughts, an angry voice startles Audrey.

“What are you
doing
?”

It's Bethanne, in the doorway, hands on her hips, eyes puffy, mouth twisted up in rage. A million comebacks spring to mind but Audrey checks herself. The woman just lost her husband. Even Audrey's not low enough to give her attitude now.

She can also choose to lie, or come up with some ridiculous excuse about looking for a tissue or a piece of loose-leaf here in Sta
ś
's office. But again, Bethanne doesn't deserve subterfuge. Audrey uses her feet to pivot the chair so she's facing her sister-in-law.

“I don't think Sta
ś
killed himself. I want to find out what happened.”

Audrey steels herself for Bethanne to go nuclear. Instead she takes the seat across from Audrey. She's so close their knees almost touch.

“I
know
he didn't kill himself. But nobody wants to listen to me. Especially your father.”

“Don't take it personally. That's just his way. Grim and cryptic.”

“He wasn't always that way.”

“No, I know.”

Bethanne leans forward and crosses her arms. Either she's cold or she's trying to stop herself from shaking.

“So what did you two talk about last week? I know you had drinks with him. He came home all tipsy. Which wasn't him.”

“I was planning on doing a project about Grandpop Stan's murder. Sta
ś
stopped by to talk me out of it. He thought the Captain's heart couldn't take it. That me asking questions would push him over the edge.”

“Did you stop working on the project?”

“What do
you
think?”

Bethanne allows herself a small smile. She's known Audrey since she was five years old, even babysitting from time to time. The surest way to get Audrey to do something was to tell her
no, you can't
.

“I came up here to see if Sta
ś
was working on anything.”

“The department already sent people to look through his things. They told me nothing looked out of place.”

“What about this?” Audrey says, picking up the Kelly Anne Farrace murder book. “This was one of my father's cases. Why does Sta
ś
have this?”

Bethanne nods. “He always told me that was the case that made him want to become a cop just like his father—but it was also the case that
broke
his father. Don't you remember? I guess you were too young. Sta
ś
and I had only been dating a few months back then.”

“That's the year my mom and dad split up,” Audrey says.

“It was the next year, but yeah, that's when things started going wrong. Sta
ś
would stay over my house whenever he could. He just couldn't deal with being home.”

“Lucky him,” Audrey says, and looks down at the binder in her hands and notes the date range on the cover: 11/1/95 to 3/17/97. Early November 1995, she realizes. Holy shit. This was the case her father was investigating when Terrill Lee Stanton died of a drug overdose in a halfway house near the Frankford El.

George gets it first and worst.

He's making his way home first thing in the morning, headed up Washington Lane to his quiet little house, when he hears the scream of tires and rustle of bodies. He grew up in a shitty neighborhood; his street radar is fine-tuned. He knows the sounds that indicate he's about to get jumped.

And these assholes should know better than to mug a goddamned cop on the way home from his shift.

But these are no ordinary assholes. They're a precision strike team. They move faster than anticipated. George's hand is barely on the grip of his service revolver before he feels his knuckles explode in white-hot agony before going mercifully numb. Then more whipcrack strikes on his upper arms and knees, which is when he feels his body drop to the ground.

Far as he can make out, there are three of them—all with hardwood nightsticks.

George feels a stick around his throat. Hands and knees on his body, pinning him to the concrete. A masked face up close in his, telling him:

“Back off, nigger.”

“Who the—”

Someone snaps a cheap punch into his mouth. The lower half of his face explodes. He drinks his own blood.

“Or you'll be next.”

George tells Stan about this the next day—not like he can hide the bruises. But he waits until they're in the car, away from other ears. They sit there in their big red machine, not pulling away, their bagged lunches on the console between them.

“You want to tell me what happened?” Stan finally asks.

“We're pissing somebody off,” George says. “That's what happened.”

“Yeah,” Stan says in a faraway voice that makes his partner turn around and really give him a close look.

“Holy shit. They get to you, too?”

Last night was Tuesday night—trash night.

Stan is hauling the dented silver can down the alleyway to put it out on Ditman Street. He's just cleared the building on his right—the back end of a corner grocery store—when a hunk of steel taps the left side of his skull. Stan bites the inside of his cheek and sees stars.

“Don't move,
dupek
.”

Stan doesn't move, still holding the trash can, because he knows that's a revolver to his head.

“I don't have anything on me,” Stan says, which is the truth. He's wearing his undershirt, slacks, and slippers, for Christ's sake, because he was just taking the trash out. No keys, no wallet, certainly not his piece.

“Don't want your money,” the voice says, and jabs the gun against Stan's head again to emphasize the point.

“Look, I'm a cop, all right? Don't do anything stupid.”

“Yeah, we know you're a cop. We also know your wife and kid are back in your house, defenseless. Any idea what could be happening to them right now?”

All the muscles in his body go tense. Rage floods his bloodstream instantly, powerfully. He wants nothing more than to tear this man apart for just uttering the words
wife
and
kid
.

“Don't,” the man with the gun says, now pushing the business end of the revolver into Stan's head with enough power to force his head against the wall. His ear scrapes the rough brick. He's still holding on to the trash can. Not out of fear. If it comes to it, Stan has no objection to beating the hell out of this guy with the can. That is, if he's not shot in the side of the head first.

“They'll do her first, so your son can hear. And maybe if you're lucky we'll drag you back there, give you the chance to beg for your kid's life.”

“What do you want?” Stan says through gritted teeth.

“Get your
murzyn
to mind his own business.”

“Rosie and the kid?” George asks quickly.

“They're fine, it was just a bluff,” Stan says as he drives up Broad Street.

“Huh,” George says. “You get a bluff. I get the goddamned black beat off me.”

“I'd rather a beating than for anything to happen to my family.”

“Yeah, I see your point. Guess they don't know about me and…hang on hang on.”

“What?”

“They don't know about me and Carla getting back together, because according to my file, we're still separated.”

“Your file? What, at headquarters? What does that have to do with anything?”

“Come on, Stan. They knew our home addresses. They knew we were cops. They knew exactly how to threaten you. They knew they had to beat the shit out of me to make their point. That's because they're fucking cops, man. We've been chasing cops this whole time.”

They drive in silence for a few minutes, both processing.

“This is messed up for real,” George finally says.

“Doesn't have to be police, you know. Just someone with access to our files.”

“Which makes it the same thing as the police, if you think about it.”

As Stan drives he can feel his heart racing even before he's consciously aware
why
. He's been sitting on this for a while. If he doesn't bring it up now, he never will.

“Do you know a guy named Sonny Kaminski?” Stan says.

George turns to look at him. “Well, that's a question out of fucking nowhere.”

“Well, do ya or not?”

“Not personally, no. Don't want to. We have what you might euphemistically call some, uh, family history.”

God no. Please, God, don't let him say the words.

“How's that?”

“I never told you this, because I didn't want you to think you were jinxed or something, ridin' around with me. You know my daddy was a cop, but I never told you the whole story. John Quincy Wildey was one of the few black men on Smedley Butler's squads of Prohibition raiders. Got himself a commendation by ol' Gimlet Eye himself. And after they booted Smedley out of the city, my daddy kept on fighting. He hated liquor, and hated those who peddled it. No offense to your beer and all. Guess it was the Southern Baptist in him.”

“What happened to him?”

George exhales slowly. “One night he got a tip—somebody was ripping off a government liquor warehouse down on the waterfront. He and his partner went to check it out, partner took the front, my daddy took the back. Sure enough, yeah, there was a whole gang of them, truck waiting and everything.”

God no, Stan thinks. Please stop now.

But Wildey continues.

“Now, my daddy—who I've gotta say was a fairly clever man—knows that it's like, six heisters versus the two of them. They're outnumbered, outgunned. Not as if they can call for backup in the middle of all this. So my daddy goes to their getaway truck, knocks out the driver, opens the hood, and messes with the engine some. Heisters come out, see their driver missing, and freak out. Say something about him chickening out. A plan's a plan, though. They load the beer and after they're finished one of them gets behind the wheel to start the truck. It won't start. Which really pisses him off.”

It's surreal, hearing an oft-told tale from the other point of view.

“My daddy comes out,
Freeze, police!
Gun out, got the drop on these stupid bastards. His partner got them covered from the other side. Nowhere to go. They're exhausted, and two cops have them in their sights.”

The guy behind the wheel is named Jan Kaminski.

“So the guy behind the wheel, he's madder than any of them. He takes one look at my daddy, revolver in his hand, and says…now, this is according to my father's partner…he says, ‘Goddamn you, nigger, making me do all that work for nothing!'”

Actually the way Stan heard it was
You goddamned
murzyn,
making me do all that work for nothin'!

“And then he shot my daddy.”

And then Jan Kaminski pulled the trigger
and shot that black bastard dead
.

“Killed him right there.”

And then all Jan Kaminski's pals would laugh, because the execution was the punch line.

“They all ran, leaving the beer behind.”

That black bastard still owes me for a night's work!

Haw haw haw…

“My daddy died at the scene. I had no idea until the next morning. I was only, shit, four years old. But that morning I knew everything would be different from then on. And you want to know the truly messed-up thing?”

“What's that?”

“A year later President Roosevelt made beer legal. A year later, it would have been like my daddy died stopping a bunch of assholes for stealing soda pop.”

They share a moment of silence for John Quincy Wildey, killed in the line of duty, December 1932.

“They ever catch the guy?” Stan says, knowing the answer already.

“No,” George says. “But that's what I was getting at. They never caught the gang, but a few months later someone else arrests this band of bootleggers. Word is, their leader always bragged about killing some black cop. His name was Jan Kaminski, father of the guy you asked me about. So how do you know him?”

At this point they're almost at Broad and Columbia but Stan can't hold it in any longer. He pulls their Falcon to the side of the street, leaps out of the seat, runs to the corner, and pukes on the side of a building.