The Good Cop (29 page)

I then told them all of Giacomino's “reassignment” and what that would mean if Jonathan didn't file charges before he left town, and that Richman wanted Jonathan to come down in the morning to sign the paperwork. I gave him the notepad and pen and told him to write out everything exactly as it happened. He took them to his room and came quickly back, his spirits seeming to have once again picked up.

“I'll pick you up at 7.”

“I can bring Phil and Tim, can't I? I can't leave them here; they'd die.”

“Well, we won't have time to take them home before we have to be downtown, and…”

“That's okay,” Mario said. “We can take them home with us tonight and watch out for them until it's clear to bring them back.”

“Thanks, Mario!” Jonathan said. “I'll show you how much to feed them and I'll change their water tonight so it'll be fresh.”

A voice called from downstairs: “Mr. Allen?”

“Ah,” Bob said. “The exterminator. He was measuring for the tent. I'd better get down and see if he needs anything.”

“I'd better get going, too, and let you guys get back to work. I'll see you at seven, okay, Jonathan?”

“Sure,” he said with a big smile.

I followed Bob back downstairs and, with a wave to the workers in the half bath, I left.

*

It was Friday night, and I had only been out cruising once since Tom died.
There! I was getting used to saying/thinking it.
But that encounter had been about as exciting as an oil change, and while sheer habit is a powerful force, I realized I really still wasn't in the mood for trolling for tricks. So I just stayed home, went to bed fairly early, and watched some porn videos. I was more than a little surprised, while taking care of business, to find myself thinking of Jonathan.

*

Jonathan was waiting on the front porch as I pulled up at ten minutes to seven. He had the legal pad in one hand and his old backpack in the other which, I assumed, contained clothes to last the three days he'd be at my place. He was wearing some of the clothes Tim had given him, and looked really nice.

Har-des-tyyyyyy!
my mind cautioned softly.

Okay, okay.

It being a Saturday morning, we made it downtown by quarter after and found a parking place about a block away from the City Annex. There was a coffee shop on the corner, and I asked Jonathan if he'd eaten. When he said “no”, we went in and ordered a quick breakfast. He was back to being the old talkative Jonathan I remembered from our first meeting at Hughies, but there seemed to be a subtle change, somehow. He told me all about working on the house, and how he really liked Mario and Bob, and how his goldfish Phil and Tim—especially Tim—seemed to be getting bigger and how real-person Phil had stopped by one afternoon and brought some cheeseburgers and chocolate shakes, and how they'd talked about all sorts of things and really had a good time, and…well, maybe it was just that he was talking about things and people we had in common. I don't know.

We walked into the Annex at exactly 7:57. From the amount of traffic we saw going in and out of the alley next to the building and the number of people in the lobby, I never would have guessed it was a weekend. There seemed to be an inordinate number of civilians around—mostly men; and then I realized they were obviously cops in plainclothes assigned to keep an eye—a very
close
eye, I'd judge from the number of them—on The Central.

We got to Richman's office at exactly eight o'clock, and he must have seen us through the opaque glass on his door because he said “Come” before I'd even had a chance to knock. We entered, did our handshake ritual, and he motioned us to sit down with Jonathan in the chair closest to the desk. Richman returned to his seat and opened a manila file folder on his desk, taking out an assortment of official-looking report forms. Picking up a pen from a desk set in front of him, he began asking Jonathan the requisite questions, writing rapidly as Jonathan responded. I could tell Jonathan was embarrassed to talk about his hustling—an interesting change from the day we'd first met, I noticed—and that even a sketchy outline of what had happened that night disturbed him.

When they'd finished, Richman asked him to sign in several places, and then asked if he had brought his written statement of what had happened. Jonathan handed him the notepad, and Richman flipped quickly through the two or three pages he'd written. Noting that Jonathan hadn't signed it, he asked him to do so, then signed his own name and the date under it.

“And you're prepared to testify against him in court?” Richman asked. Jonathan nodded.

“Good. We'll take it from here.”

He was silent a moment, then looked slowly from Jonathan to me, lips pursed.

“I have to be honest with you, Jonathan,” he said finally. “Giacomino is a very powerful man and a very wealthy one. There is an outside chance that he will not go to jail for what he did to you.”

Jonathan nodded.

“I know. But I want
him
to know he can't go around beating people up and get away with it.”

Richman sighed. “You're right, of course, and we'll do whatever we can to see that he pays for his actions. I'm sure just the nature of the charge will encourage his wife to make his life a living hell. Couldn't happen to a more deserving guy.”

Figuring we were just about done for the moment, I was about ready to get up from my chair when Richman opened a drawer in his desk and brought out another manila folder.

“These are the photos taken at the scene of Officer Brady's death,” he said, moving the folder across the desk toward me. “I took out those that…ah…those that weren't necessary.”

Thank God for that!
I thought. I don't think I could have looked at any pictures that showed…well…Tom.

There were probably a dozen showing the car from all angles, most from the outside, starting from the back of the car and working around the passenger's side. There were a couple taken from inside Reef Dwellers, showing the damage the car had done when it crashed through the wall and display window. But the ones I was most interested in seeing were the ones taken through the open driver's side door. When I reached one showing the full front seat, I froze, my eyes riveted to a small box on the seat near the passenger's door. I could almost feel the blood draining from my face, and I felt lightheaded.

“Dick! Are you all right?” I heard Jonathan ask, his voice anxious.

I forced myself to lean forward to hand the photo to Richman.

“That's who killed Tom.”

Richman took the photo, looked at it carefully, then looked at me, his confusion written clearly on his face.

“What is it?” Jonathan asked.

“It's a box of Cracker Jack,” Richman said.

Chapter 12

Jonathan was staring at me, obviously totally confused, as apparently was Richman, though his face had regained its normal composure. I knew he was giving me time to pull myself and my thoughts together.

There had to have been a full minute of total silence while I tried to figure out how to make anyone but me understand what was going on. Finally I decided just to plunge right in and hope the water wasn't too far over my head.

I explained—mostly to Richman, of course, since poor Jonathan had no idea of all the twists and turns this story had taken—about the long and bitter history between the Giacominos and the Bradys; of how the Bradys suspected Joe senior had caused the death of Tom's older brother; of the fight Tom had had with Joey G. over the box of Cracker Jack when they were kids, and of Tom's dad's observation that the Giacominos never forgot or forgave. I'd thought at the time that he was exaggerating, but I believed it now with all my heart.

Joey G. had just been humiliated, as an adult, by Tom's dad at the labor negotiations. What better way, in Joey's reptilian way of thinking, to get back at both Tom's dad and at Tom for that long-ago defeat? The Cracker Jack box was unopened—I'd bet anything that Joey had known about the victory celebration Tom's dad threw the night after the contract was signed and had waited outside the Montero. Whether he was waiting for Tom or Tom's dad probably didn't matter: Either Brady would do, but Tom was frosting on the cake.

“Is there another convenience store close to where Tom got his gas?” I asked.

Richman thought a moment, then said: “Yeah there's one a block closer to town. Maybe Brady realized as he passed it that he needed gas, and stopped at the next one. Why?”

“I think Giacomino saw Tom come out and followed him at a safe distance so Tom wouldn't notice he was being followed. When he saw Tom pull in for gas, he probably pulled into the one closest to him, went in, and bought the Cracker Jack. He knew full well what he was doing.”

“Yeah, but isn't it possible Tom Brady bought the Cracker Jack for himself?”

“He loved it as a kid, but he ate so much of it he couldn't stand it as an adult. Of course Giacomino had no way of knowing that.”

Richman nodded. “I'll have a squad check that out. If Giacomino did stop and buy the Cracker Jack it wouldn't be enough to convict him, certainly, but it would be a good bit of circumstantial evidence. And there might be fingerprints….”

“I might tend to doubt that, given Joey's background. He'd probably be smart enough not to leave prints.”

Richman nodded. “So go on with your scenario.”

“So, Joey G. waited for Tom to drive off, followed him to the stoplight at Evans and Beech, and pulled up beside him. Tom's window was rolled down, I saw in the photo. He probably had it down because it was warm. If he'd seen Giacomino in the car next to him, I don't think he would have rolled it down for a chat. And since Tom was apparently looking straight ahead when he…. Giacomino just shot him and tossed the Cracker Jack in through the window as his sick calling card: His little private joke, his revenge. He thought nobody else would know, but
he
'd know.”

I suddenly felt very much like a balloon when all the air has gone out of it—almost limp. I sat back in my chair, and was aware of Jonathan just staring at me, slack-jawed. Richman, too, was silent. We all sat there without speaking for what seemed like an eternity.

Finally, I heard Richman give a deep sigh. “I'll buy it,” he said. “But buying it and proving it are two very different things. Assuming that he would have made sure his prints weren't on the box, other than maybe being able to put him at the convenience store…. We'll do our best to see what else we can find, but my guess is that we won't be able to get enough to convict him. He's a snake, but as you pointed out, he's not stupid. Once we find out who got the gun for him, we might be able to make some tie-in there.”

He looked again from me to Jonathan. “And this throws a different light on this whole assault charge. I never realized just what a psycho Giacomino really was until now. Jonathan, for you to press charges against him could put you in very real danger. Normally, I would put you in protective custody, but since it's apparent that someone within the department is working with or for him, I couldn't risk your safety.”

“Then let's get him for Tom's murder.”

“How? We can arrest him for the assault and maybe tie him up for a few days at most, but I don't think that will give us enough time. Once he's free to leave the city, he'll be gone, and even if we get enough to convict him later, his lawyers will be able to fight extradition for years. And short of getting out the rubber hose, we can't make him confess to Tom Brady's murder.”

“I can,” Jonathan said, which snapped both Richman's and my eyes open.

“That's nice of you to offer, Jonathan,” Richman said after a moment, “but I'm afraid that's totally out of the question.”

“Why?” Jonathan demanded. I was so taken aback by the whole idea, and by Jonathan's boldness, that I didn't say anything.

Richman gave him a soft smile. “Well, mainly, that's why we have a police department…to protect citizens from having to confront dangerous criminals directly. You'd be putting yourself at great risk, and we couldn't allow that.”

I'm sure he didn't mean it to be condescending, but that's the way it came out, and Jonathan's awareness of it was reflected in the tight smile he returned.

“But you're right,” Jonathan continued calmly—again surprising the hell out of me—“the police probably can't get a confession out of him. I can. I'm the only one who can tie all this stuff together, and he knows it.”

Who the hell
is
this guy?
my mind asked, admiringly,
and what happened to that scatterbrained kid I met at Hughie's?
And at the same time, several rows of stadium lights began to go on in my head.

“He thinks I went back home,” Jonathan continued. “If I called him up and told him I wanted money for what he did to me or I'd go to the police….”

Richman shook his head. “Sorry. Too dangerous.
Way
too dangerous. Now that we know what he's capable of…”

“What he did to me was really bad. But what he did to Dick's friend is a lot worse. And he wasn't just Dick's friend, he was a policeman. You shouldn't let him get away with that!”

“He's right, you know,” I said to Richman, then turned to Jonathan. “But Lieutenant Richman is right, too, Jonathan: it could be really dangerous.”

Jonathan shrugged. “So's hustling.”

I looked at Richman, who looked back and forth between Jonathan and me, and then sighed.

“I suppose we could run it by Captain Offermann, but I'm pretty sure he won't go for it.”

“We can try,” I said, and Richman reached for the phone.

*

Offermann couldn't see us right away, so Richman cancelled his morning meeting and we spent the next twenty minutes talking, figuring possible strategy. The more we talked, the more I could sense Richman coming over to our side. When Offermann returned Richman's call and told us to come to his office, we had fairly well firmed up a scenario that provided the best possible protection for Jonathan.