The Betrayal (17 page)

“If you saw the tape, you'd know. And she said short, stocky, black hair, and about five years older than me. How close is that?”

Boone mentioned her memory of the man's apparently being touchy, pulling away from her hand.

“Actually, that seals it for me,” Jack said.

Boone shot him a double take. “Really?”

“Oh yeah! You didn't know that about Fox? Very territorial. Big protector of his personal space.”

“Why didn't I know that? He was my partner for a while.”

“You're not an encroacher, I guess. We all told stories of Garrett's idiosyncrasies. No less than Fletcher himself would casually put a hand on Fox's shoulder when he chatted with him, just to watch him squirm.”

“You know what I want to know, Jack? Who went with Pete to question the teller? I can't see Pete doctoring the tape, but it appears he brought someone who knew what he was doing, and it was done before the US Attorney's legal assistants got to it. And why didn't anyone repeat the story of the uncle, even without visual evidence? It's eyewitness testimony.”

“Probably coached, Boones. I can see someone telling them that without the tape, there's no evidence. Wonder how hard it would be to find out where Fox banks. We're looking for a five-K cash withdrawal.”

Boone rubbed his forehead. “They've been sloppy. I mean, Pete himself showing up at the bank? But would they be stupid enough to have Pete withdraw cash from his own account? That would be as bright as they expected Haeley to be, incriminating herself on a CPD computer.”

“I doubt you're going to find the withdrawal from
Pete's
account.”

“How about Thelma's?” Boone said. “That would be consistent with everything else it appears Pete is trying to hide.”

“Good thinking. She wouldn't have paid cash for those Bimmers. If you dig a little, you should be able to find the bank that handled that deal.”

Boone called Zappolo's office and asked for Stephanie. “You like this kind of work,” he said. “Don't you?”

“I'd rather do what you do than what I do most every day.”

“You're aware I was shot recently.”

“Yeah, well, I did say
most
every day.”

“Today you're doing it,” he said. He told her what he needed and asked her to call him back as soon as she could.

While he waited, Boone carefully walked Keller through the rest of what he had discovered, including right there in the crime lab evidence room the day before.

Jack looked stricken. “You're not saying . . . ?”

Boone nodded.

“A second surveillance tape affected?” Keller said. “Two related to the same case? What are the odds?”

Boone said, “I'm going to ask Dr. Waldemarr to show you the list he showed me of the people with access to the evidence,” but as he reached for his phone, it rang and the readout showed Friedrich Zappolo's office.

“This is going to be Stephanie. Ask Doc for the sheet.”

Jack left and Boone took the call. “Talk to me, Nancy Drew.”

Stephanie laughed. “The cars in question were paid for by a direct transfer to the BMW dealership from the Greater Chicago Savings Bank of Naperville.”

“Stephanie, you're the best.”

Jack returned, studying a photocopy of the access document. “Antoine Johnson,” he muttered. “Antoine Johnson. Why does that name . . .” He slammed a fist on the table, making Boone jump. Jack swore. “You know what you're going to find, Boones? This Antoine Johnson is going to turn out to be the cop that was with Pete at the bank. Works out of the 18th. He's a crime scene investigator. Does a lot of testifying.”

“How do you know him?”

“You're gonna love this.”

“Don't play with me, Jack.”

“I don't think Pete knows I know, or if he does, he won't expect me to remember. Antoine Johnson is Thelma's nephew.”

“Cue the violins.”

“So what'd your amateur detective have for you?”

Boone told him.

“Just a sec.” Jack placed another call on his cell. “Deputy Chief Jack Keller, Chicago PD, calling for Chief Lyons.” He covered the phone. “We go way back. If anybody can get something done in Naperville—Hey, Chief!” They traded pleasantries; then Keller got to the point. “Nobody can know where this request came from, but I've got to know if there was a five-thousand-dollar cash withdrawal from the account of Thelma Johnson.” He gave Lyons her address and the date parameters. “Doable? . . . You do? Well, why doesn't that surprise me? I'll owe you big-time, Chief.”

He hung up and Boone gave him an expectant look.

“Naperville chief knows the president of the bank. He'll call me back.”

“Is there anybody you don't know, Jack?”

“Yeah, there is.”

“Do tell.”

“Margaret. I keep thinking I've got her figured out, but she surprises me every day.”

“In good ways, I hope.”

“No other.”

“You ought to make an honest woman of her.”

“I know. But neither of us has too good a track record on that score.”

“Still . . .”

“I know. Maybe. Someday. She's my best so far, I can tell you that. Not that she had much competition.”

“Margaret's accent reminds me of Haeley's mother,” Boone said. “Which reminds me I need to call her about her car.”

“You kiddin'? I told you, you say nothing and she'll be none the wiser. That car doesn't look like a thing happened to it. Anyway, what're you gonna tell her, that the guys who wanted you dead broke her windows and stole your stuff? That's gonna give her a good feeling about her daughter's future with you.”

“Hopefully she'll appreciate the honesty.”

Jack shook his head. “That's your curse, you know. You're honest to a fault.”

“Interesting way to put it. By the time I'm your age I'll have learned to lie; is that it?”

“It's called diplomacy, the better part of wisdom. Learning to keep your mouth shut. Hey, I'd better get back to my car. And you need to get back to Addison.”

“Uh, yeah, that's a problem. I'm pretty doped up.”

“You should have thought of that.”

“I didn't know how long we'd be, Jack. Sorry.”

“Margaret and I had plans.”

“Really sorry. Maybe someone else can run me out to the safe house.”

Jack's phone rang. “Chief! That didn't take long. . . . No kidding. Unreal. Like I said, I owe you.”

22

The Epiphany

Jack slapped his phone shut with a flourish and gave Boone a look. “You know, I admit I took all the rest of this with a grain of salt.”

“You don't think I compiled enough evidence to prove Haeley—”

“I'm talking hard evidence that ties Pete Wade himself to Garrett Fox and the leak to the DiLoKi Brotherhood that almost got you killed.”

“And?”

“And Chief Lyons found a five-thousand-dollar cash withdrawal from Thelma Johnson's checking account the day before the deposit to Haeley's account.”

“Do they document that somehow? I mean—”

“Way ahead of you, and Chief Lyons was ahead of me. The Greater Chicago Savings Bank of Naperville scans the cash and has the serial numbers. Assuming Haeley's bank does the same, Haeley is as good as cleared, and Pete's life—as he knows it—is over.”

“Does that really clear her,” Boone said, “or just implicate Pete?”

“Pete's been the one bringing the charges, on his high horse trying to clean up subversion within the department. If we tie him to the money that went to Fox and establish that Fox was the so-called uncle who put the money in Haeley's account, it shouldn't take much for Zappolo to get all charges against her dropped.”

Boone struggled to stand.

“You all right, Boones?”

“Woozy.”

“Then sit down, man!”

“It's not that, Jack. Are you processing this?”

“I'm not liking it, if that's what you mean.”

“No, I mean are you playing it out to its logical conclusion? The ramifications to our case are apocalyptic.”

“Tell me.”

“You tell me, Jack. Is there a scintilla of doubt that Haeley's bank will have the serial numbers of those hundreds from the deposit, and that they will prove to have come from Thelma's withdrawal?”

“No.”

“And regardless whether Thelma knows a thing about the details, this is Pete's doing?”

“Yes.”

Boone ran his free hand through his hair. “What are we gonna do?”

“Head back to Haeley's bank. Tie up this loose end.”

“We can get anybody to do that. We know what they'll find.”

“Agreed.”

“Then how do we save Pascual's life, and his mother's, and his son's?”

Jack sat staring. Then he let out a string of expletives without his usual apology. When he stood, his chair hit the floor. He grabbed his coat. “Doc!”

Waldemarr came running. “You guys look awful. Who died?”

“We've got a problem,” Jack said, picking up his chair and starting to tidy the table.

“I'll handle all that,” the doctor said. “What's up?”

“Rags, you and I go back more'n thirty years. Can I trust you?”

“You know you can.”

“I've got a situation here. I've got a rat inside, on the job, and he and I go back too. If I can't trust
him
, who can I trust?”

“Well, unless you're talking about Fletcher Galloway, you know you can trust him.”

“Yeah,” Boone said. “Too bad he's retired.”

“Not yet he's not,” Dr. Waldemarr said. “Technically he's on leave. Usually when brass at his level retire, they take their unused vacation, personal days, sick days, comp days, all that. He could be up to six weeks away from actually being officially off the job. I mean, he's probably sipping tropical cocktails with his feet up a long way from here, but if you had to have a trusted ear at high levels, you could do worse.”

“Doc, you're a genius.”

“So, care to fill me in?”

“Tell you what,” Jack said, “you have my word you'll be the first one I debrief on this, but for now I'd just better not. You don't want to be responsible for knowing something this explosive, and I have to somehow keep a lid on this.”

“Go do what you have to do. I'll put the room back together.”

Boone had been through a lot in his brief career, but as he and Jack Keller hurried through the frigid parking garage and the short day faded to darkness, he felt for the first time like a true brother under the blue. He and Jack didn't have to say it aloud. They were on each other's wavelength and understanding all the ramifications.

And it wasn't pretty.
Connecting Pete Wade to the attempt on Pascual Candelario's life by the DiLoKi Brotherhood that had resulted in Boone's nearly lethal injury told them both an ugly truth that needed not even be uttered.

Pete Wade had some kind of connection with Jazzy Villalobos, whether through Garrett Fox or just on his own. He didn't need all the machinations of the cell phone photo of Haeley's notes, her apparent payoff, any of that. That had all been for show, to take the focus off anyone else and aim it at Fox and Haeley.

The explosive part of the equation was that not only had Pete naturally been privy to where Pascual would be and when he would be transferred, but he also now knew every detail about the safe house. If Candelario had been vulnerable in a penthouse apartment in a Chicago high-rise, he and his family were sitting ducks at the refurbished junkyard in Addison.

How many of the people involved in that operation might be in Pete Wade's hip pocket? And even if none were, all of them would have every reason to answer any question from him, follow any directive he gave, and allow him full access to everything and everyone at the compound. Somehow Boone and Jack had to engineer an escape for Pascual Candelario while also exposing Pete.

“We're following up at the bank ourselves,” Jack said, making sure Boone was buckled in and his door shut. Boone felt like an albatross, everything taking twice the time.

He told Jack his contact at the bank was the assistant manager, but that he also believed he had the trust of the teller in question. “But I'd rather not have to involve her. I don't want her to know too much because she has no concept of keeping confidences. If Pete called and asked her what was going on, she'd likely tell him everything.”

“Get the assistant manager on the phone. Tell him what you need.”

Boone dialed and switched to speaker mode.

The assistant manager said, “You again? Will this investigation never end?”

“I apologize, sir, but if it wasn't important, I wouldn't ask.”

“And if I'm busy and not eager to start another project on your behalf this close to the end of my day, you just get a warrant and I have to do it anyway, am I right?”

“I don't want to have to resort to that, sir. And I think you'll find this a fairly minor task.”

“Then there's no rush?”

Boone hesitated. The guy had him. “I'm afraid it's something I need as soon as possible. In fact, I'm on my way there right now.”

“Of course you are.”

“I'll be in your debt, sir.”

“Nice. A little bank humor for me, Detective Drake?”

“Not intentionally, but if it makes you smile . . .”

“Want to make me smile? Convince me you really are in my debt.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” the man said, “tell me what you want, and I'll tell you how you can make us even for all you've put me through.”

Boone told him.

“Well, that isn't a big deal, actually. Yes, we photocopy cash transactions. Our computer then scans the serial numbers of the bills and arranges them in alphanumeric order.”

“And the reason for that?”

“So the transaction can be compared with another without doing it all manually.”

“I don't follow.”

The banker sighed, but Boone had the impression he liked knowing something that Boone didn't. Boone had never worked in fraud or bad checks.

“Well,” the assistant manager said, “let's say you're trying to tie the deposit in question to a withdrawal from another bank to see if it's the same currency. Am I warm?”

“I'm listening.”

“We have both the photocopies of the actual bills, and we also have the printout of the numbers. Generally one bank sends another bank that printout and they compare it to their own record. If the first serial number on the list and the last serial number on the list match—in this case, the first and last of fifty one-hundred-dollar bills—it stands to reason the others would match too, and those who need to know can assume the transactions correspond with each other.”

“Clever. Was that your idea?”

That made the man laugh. “Much as I love your patronizing me, Detective, someone much brighter than I devised that protocol long before my time.”

“Well, sir, as I say, I will be in your debt. If you can have a copy of the serial numbers for me when I arrive, I will be happy to try to help you in any way that's appropriate and doable.”

The man fell silent, and Boone got the impression he was finding this hard to believe. “Okay,” he said finally, “here's the deal. My son is in middle school, and they have a zero-tolerance policy on weapons.”

“Not a bad idea. Don't tell me your son took a weapon to school, because that is not something I would be able to help w—”

“Hear me out, please. He's a Boy Scout and he has a pocketknife he carries everywhere he goes, except to school, of course.”

“Of course.”

“So there's some incident at school. A kid brings a butter knife from home, because he uses it to smooth out the dirt in some model of a turn-of-the-century farm, and he gets in trouble for it. The teacher goes on and on about how she's going to wrap it in newspaper and put it in a paper bag and keep it in her desk and that his parents can come in and retrieve it. Fact is, with the policy, I thought it was a pretty reasonable solution.”

“I agree.”

“But then she asks if anyone else has anything at all like that in their possession, warning them of the no-tolerance policy. My son, more forthcoming than necessary, tells her he keeps a two-inch pocketknife in a locked saddlebag of his locked bike in the bike rack. The teacher says she assumes that's not an issue as long as the saddlebag stays locked when the bike is on school grounds.”

“Again, wise.”

“Agreed. But kids talk and it gets around about my son's pocketknife, only when it reaches the principal's office, it sounds like a machete. Some enforcer from the office makes my son go out and get the knife and show it to him. He looks disappointed it's not more menacing, but still he decides it violates the no-tolerance policy and—”

“But he told your son to dig into his locked bike to get it?”

“See what I mean?”

“So what was the upshot?”

“Four-day suspension.”

“You've got to be kidding.”

Jack spoke up. “Sir?”

“Yes? Who's this?”

“I work with Detective Drake. Tell me the name of your son, the school, the principal, and the phone number.”

The man told him.

“By the time we get to the bank, I will have a report for you.”

“Please, just don't get my son in more trouble.”

“Trust me.”

4:30 p.m.

Jack was dialing as he pulled into the bank parking lot; he eventually got through to the principal and put the phone on speaker. He identified himself fully, urging the man to write down his name, his badge number, and to feel free to “call the city and determine that I am who I say I am.”

“I'm convinced,” the principal said.

Jack rehearsed the story he had heard from the assistant manager of the bank. “Can you confirm this account?”

“That's close enough. I'm afraid we have a no-toler—”

“Has it already gone to the board, and have they voted on it?”

“No, to preclude that I made an executive decision.”

“When does the suspension begin?”

“Next Tuesday. The boy is allowed to come Monday, because we're having tests. Then he will be suspended for the rest of the week.”

“Yeah, rescind that, okay?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me, sir. The boy will be in school on Monday and the rest of next week too, and nothing more need be said about it.”

“I can't have you telling me how to run my—”

“Oh no,” Jack said, “this won't do at all. I'm not hearing what I need to hear. I need to hear you say that we're on the same page.”

“But we're not.”

“I think we are. You know the no-tolerance policy led to this ridiculous end. You have the power to see to it that it is not carried out.”

“I will do no such—”

“Oh, but you will. Because the Chicago PD has a no-tolerance policy regarding many things related to your school in particular.”

“Our school in par—”

“Like your bus drivers. We need to check every one of them to be sure the bus company did its job in screening and bonding them. No druggies, no alkies, no ex-cons, no sex offenders, no—”

“That's not on us, sir. That's on the bus company, as you say.”