The Betrayers (11 page)

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Authors: James Patrick Hunt

BOOK: The Betrayers
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The call went out as shots fired, and they dispatched at least four units to the bar down the street from the man who dialed 911. Three or four distinct pops, maybe more. Then nothing.
Two units converged and then a third in front of McGill's. The patrol officers got out and the senior officer told them to hold back for a moment. They drew their service weapons, sidearms mostly, one of them holding a riot gun. They waited until the senior officer mentally crossed himself and led them in.
Moments later, there was the sound of frightened men swearing but not quite shouting at the sight of the first dead man on the floor, face up in a pool of blood, shot in the head for starters. Seconds later they found the other dead man, a fat guy with two gunshots to the chest, one of which had gone through his heart.
They didn't see anyone else.
They called out for others and felt some relief when they heard voices calling out from a storeroom in the back. More than one of the officers dreaded finding a pile of shot up corpses in there, but didn't and were thankful. But the adrenaline was still running and hands holding weapons shook until they searched the entire place and found only a woman in the kitchen tied up in a chair with a bar towel tied around her mouth so she couldn't cry out. They took the towel out of her mouth and she told them she was the manager and co-owner and she thanked Jesus, Mary, and Joseph that they had come.
 
 
Outside, another patrol cruiser raced by, lights flashing. Then it was gone.
Regan stepped out from behind a dumpster, checked the street to see that it was clear, saw that it was, and ran across to another alley.
He went down a series of these, not quite running, not quite walking, but moving quickly until he got to the train station. Boarded the next El that came without looking which one it was. He stayed on the train for the next two stops, then got off at the third.
There was more traffic and bustle at that stop and Regan felt better, slipping in among people and the city. He walked to the Jewel grocery store and looked for an older model car that wouldn't have a burglar alarm. He found one, a 1977 Oldsmobile, red with a peeling vinyl top. It was easy to steal.
Five minutes later, he was on the Eisenhower Expressway, heading west on business.
They sat at a table in the upstairs room of a bar where they could have more privacy. Jimmy Rizza thought it would be better to meet and talk in Mike's house or even his apartment, but Mike Dillon liked to move around. He had been that way ever since Jimmy had known him. Dillon liked to be out in the open, facing the front doors of places, like Wild Bill Hickok used to, until he didn't and he died. Dillon moved because he had enough of walls, whether or not the walls had ears.
He had spent nine years in prison, starting when he was in his mid-twenties. When he first got there he often started fights and, as a result, spent long stretches in solitary confinement. Years of being alone in a small cell with double steel doors and no window for twenty-three hours a day. No work, no education, meals alone, and maybe one hour in a dog run outside. Nine years training himself to stay sane, nine years surviving. He survived by thinking about the future and staying angry at the people who had put him there, feeding on that anger, but keeping it in. Learning to do the time and not letting the time do him. Disciplining himself to think about things beyond the prison walls.
Dillon believed that he had not spent that time in vain. Before he went in, he had made too many mistakes. He had not thought things out. Acted on impulse, started fights at the wrong time with the wrong people. Started fights with cops, never working with them. And then he had nine years with nothing to do but think. When he was allowed out of solitary confinement, he started to read books for the first time. He read biographies of Julius Caesar and Machiavelli, before moving onto American history. He read Grant's autobiography and it opened up an interest in the Civil War. He liked to read about generals of the
North and South. They were brave men, but they weren't chumps either, eager to self-destruct. They were fierce fighters, but they knew when not to strike too. They knew the value of diplomacy. Dillon studied and he thought and he came out a different man, yet in many ways the same. A controlled sociopath. He swore he would never go back to prison.
When he was released he returned to Chicago and became an enforcer for John Zanatelli. He killed the people Zans wanted killed, but always with the goal of branching out on his own. He succeeded in this within a couple of years and soon had his own operation, quietly competing with Zans, yet not acknowledging it.
Now, sitting at the upstairs room in the St. Louis saloon, Dillon remembered the times in Chicago when they always had music turned up loud whenever they talked business for fear they were being recorded. Bugs everywhere. Bugs in the walls, in the ceilings, in his home and his car. The guy had told him to watch out for it and he had.
It started to wear on you, living like that. It got to where you didn't want to talk to anyone unless music was turned up or someone was driving a jackhammer nearby. It beat being in prison, but it still worked on you.
 
 
Two hours earlier, Jimmy had made the call. Two hours and twenty minutes before that, Max had called Jimmy. Between the two calls, Jimmy had called Dillon and given him the news.
Now they were waiting for confirmation from Chicago that it was done. Jimmy Rizza was letting the waiting time work on him.
Jimmy said, “You sure we didn't overreact?”
Dillon said, “Why do you think that?”
Jimmy said, “Jack's a good guy.”
“Sure,” Dillon said. “Jack's all right. But he doesn't work freelance, you know that.”
“Yeah, but …”
“Yeah, but what? He asked Max where you were. Jack wouldn't do that unless he had a reason.”
“I never done nothing to Jack.”
“That's the point,” Dillon said. “He's been retained, see.”
Jimmy Rizza gripped his beer bottle, released the grip, and twisted the bottle around slowly. He did this for a couple of revolutions. Then he said, “You think he's working for Zans?”
Dillon had no doubt Jack was working for Zans. It was the only thing he was certain of because it was the only thing that made sense. Zans had reason and he had the money to hire Jack Regan to get it done.
But how had Zans found out that he had fingered him? The only ones who knew were him and Jimmy and a handful of feds begging for information.
Dillon decided it wasn't Jimmy's business what he thought. In answer to Jimmy's question, he merely shrugged.
After a moment, Jimmy said, “Well, what difference does it make? Sean will take care of it.”
Dillon said, “Don't worry about things you can't control.”
Jimmy Rizza went back to twisting his bottle.
Regan parked the car a few blocks from the house in Lake Forest. He walked through a series of yards, walked in darkness. When he got to the house, he unlocked the door to the garage with the same steel ruler he had used on the car. He was worried about the car now because the car was old and shabby and even though it was parked several blocks away it would stand out in an affluent neighborhood like this. A homeowner might see it and call the police to have it towed away. He might have to leave the car and find another way home, but he would think about that later.
There were two Mercedeses in the garage, a white roadster, and the SUV. Max was here, as Regan had thought he would be. It was good because Regan didn't have much time. The McGill's killings were about forty minutes old now and they would probably lead the ten o'clock news. A few minutes from now. If Max saw it on television, he would panic. Call Jimmy again or maybe even get desperate enough to call the police, though it was hard to imagine what he could tell the police.
Dude, I tried to have this guy clipped and it just totally blew up in my fucking face.
It was a big house, older with red brick. Once inside, Regan could tell they had spent the money fixing it up. Could easily spend three hundred grand fixing one of these old mansions up. Money that could be used to buy another newer house entirely, with better plumbing and more efficient heating systems.
There were toys in the living room. The man had children. Shit, Regan thought. Where were they? He moved through the house, into the study and another living room. He searched all the rooms downstairs and didn't find anyone. Then he went upstairs and checked all the
rooms there. No one. Regan went to the master bedroom. The television was on. Regan looked at a door that he thought led to a bathroom. The door was closed and light emanated from under it. Regan stood to the right of the door.
He heard the toilet flush and Max came out. Regan hit him on the ear with the .45. Max stumbled and fell on the floor.
Max looked up at Regan.
For a moment neither one of them said anything.
Then Regan said, “Where's your family?”
“I sent them away.”
“You called Jimmy, didn't you?”
“I don't know what you're—”
“Max, they're dead. Sean and the guy he brought with him. They're both dead.”
Max squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them Jack Regan was still pointing that .45 at him. He said, “How?”
“I got lucky,” Regan said. He didn't like to lie.
“It was Sean's idea.”
Regan didn't like liars either.
“Max, they were going to kill me and Kate. We both know that. You brought my wife into it. Now, being a sporting man, I'm going to give you a chance to save
your
wife's life. If it means anything to you, and it better 'cause she's the mother of your children.” Regan said, “Who did you call?”
“I called Sean.”
Regan shook his head.
“No. Sean wouldn't do it for you. He'd only do it for Jimmy. He told me that.”
“What else did he tell you?”
“That's between us,” Regan said. “You called Jimmy, didn't you?”
After a moment, Max said, “I had to.”
“No you didn't, Max. You could have given me what I needed and
left it alone. You made the wrong play. But you can protect your family now. All you have to do is write down the number you called.”
“Okay,” Max said. “Let me get a pen and paper.”
Regan saw Max look toward the dresser drawer.
“Stay there,” Regan said. He walked over to the dresser and opened the drawer Max had glanced at. Too easy. In the drawer, beneath the clothes, was a .38 revolver.
“Max,” he said, sighing disappointment. Regan put the .38 in his coat pocket. He found a pen on a table and a paperback book. Nora Roberts. He tossed the book and the pen to Max. “Write it on that,” Regan said.
Max wrote the telephone digits on the inside cover of the book.
“Let me see it,” Regan said and Max slid it over to him. A telephone number with a 314 prefix. St. Louis.
Max said, “Listen, I think we can work some—”
Regan took the .38 out of his pocket and shot Max twice in the chest. Watched him as he slumped over. Regan moved closer and put another round in his head.
When he got back to town, he threw both the .45 and the .38 into the Chicago River.
The door was latched when Hastings got home, and he had to identify himself before Amy took it off the hinge and let him in. She was watching television with her friend Jennifer. There was a commercial on they'd all seen before. A guy and his girlfriend frolicking in Rome, the guy pointing out the girl's mom and dad sitting on a step nearby—what are they doing here?—then pulling out an engagement ring and proposing to her as she's overcome with emotion and the parents and about fifty total strangers stand up and applaud. Hastings wondered what woman on planet earth would forgive a guy for pulling a stunt like that. Then it was back to the local newscast, a handsome young man saying, let's go to high school soccer. Amy's friend turned to watch. The girl liked boys who played sports. It was not difficult to see that Jennifer's home life was kind of crappy and that was why she spent so much time over at their house. Hastings thought she was a nice kid. He remembered the time Amy had told Jennifer that he used to be a baseball player and the girl seemed to have trouble buying it. He resisted the urge to tell her he had once been cool.
In the dining room, Hastings took off his jacket and began emptying his pockets. Putting cell phone and checkbook and keys on the table. Then he found the two hundred dollars in twenties.
Shit.
He remembered offering it to the woman. And then somehow the subject got changed and she hadn't taken it. He tried to remember if she had refused to take it. If she had refused to take it, he could put it back in his pocket and forget about it. Do that and give it no more thought. He tried to remember.
No … she had never openly refused to take it.
So, now what?
If she had meant to accept it, but just didn't say so and he kept it, it would be a form of stealing. Worse, she would think that he was stiffing her because she had given him heat about the way he handled Kody. She had all but said he was corrupt.
Hadn't she?
Or had she only implied that he was trying to cover up for another crooked cop? And it had made him mad. So if he called her now and offered her the money, she'd probably accuse him of trying to bribe her. So … the wisest thing was just to keep the money and forget about it.
Hastings said, “Fuck.”
From the next room, Amy scolded him. “Da-
ad.
”
“Sorry, honey.”
Hastings walked to the kitchen and called Sam Hall and asked for the woman's number.
Sam said, “It's almost ten thirty, George. Couldn't you have called tomorrow?”
“Sorry.”
“You're not going to ask her out, are you? I doubt she'd date a cop.”
“I'm not—just give me the number, Sam.”
Carol McGuire answered on the fourth ring. She did not sound like she had been sleeping.
“Hello?”
“Hi. This is George Hastings. The detective.”
“Oh, hi.” She said, “What's the matter?”
“Well, nothing really. It's just that I never paid you.” He said, “The two hundred, I mean.”
“
You
were going to pay me?”
“Yeah, don't you remember? I brought it up when we first met.”
“You were going to pay me.”
Hastings got a beer out of the refrigerator, opened it.
“Yes,” he said.
The McGuire woman didn't say anything at first.
Then, “Don't worry about it.”
“Well … no, we had an agreement. You came down to jail and O.R.'d him out. I don't want you to get stiffed.”
“Really, don't worry about it.”
Hastings shifted on his feet. “Listen,” he said, “I don't feel comfortable keeping the money. I'd feel better if you just took it.”
“Why?”
It put him back on his heels for a moment because he wasn't ready for it. Why, she asked, and there was something in the way she said it. A lawyer's question, perhaps, but she had not used a lawyer's voice when she asked it, which makes a difference. And then he was conscious of himself, standing alone in the kitchen.
“I don't know,” Hastings said. “Pride, I guess.”
“Yours?”
“Yes.”
“You don't want me to think badly of you.”
“No.”
“You don't want me to think you're a crook or a squirrel.”
“No, I don't.”
“You want my respect. Is that it?”
“Maybe that's it.”
There was a silence between them as Hastings stood still.
The woman said, “Why would you care what I think?”
“I don't know,” Hastings said.
“Don't you?”
Christ, Hastings thought. What is this? Woman pushing him into a corner.
“I hadn't really thought—look, I'm not a—”
“Why did you call me?”
“I told you why I called you.”
“You could've just mailed me a check.”
“I may do that,” Hastings said, some irritation in his voice.
Carol McGuire said, “If it's what you want to do.”
“Or,” Hastings said, “we could have dinner or … something.”
“Dinner.”
“If you want,” Hastings said. He wasn't sure how this had happened. He waited for the woman to end this discomfort and tell him she didn't date cops and to stick the two hundred dollars up his ass.
“I don't know,” she said. “Why don't we just have a drink, see how that goes?”

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