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Authors: James Patrick Hunt

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BOOK: The Betrayers
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Jimmy Rizza had learned automobile repair from the Illinois Department of Corrections. They had taught him the workings of engines and transmissions. In prison he learned that MacPherson struts were not designed by Porsche, but by a Ford engineer. He developed a fondness for the large, two-door, pillarless coupes made in the sixties and early seventies. When he was tipped off in Chicago years earlier, he had to leave behind his 1964 Ford Galaxie. He had spent seventeen months cherrying it out. The Galaxie, like most American cars of its time, had not been built for fast highway travel. The design of its undercarriage would not allow it to cruise steadily beyond eighty mph. It could be modified, though. Many cars like it had raced on NASCAR tracks alongside similar behemoths from Chrysler and General Motors. It could be modified for speed if you knew how to do it. He still missed that car.
He liked the feel of a garage. The smell, the comfort of machines and parts, the sound of an engine finding its pitch, styles of a past era. He and Dillon had done a lot of business out of a garage in Chicago. He helped Dillon direct narcotics traffic and payoffs, wearing grease-stained coveralls while he did it.
Now, he had an Oldsmobile Cutlass on the lift, replacing the brakes. Dillon would be here soon and he would change out of the coveralls and they would go and get the woman.
“Hello, Jimmy.”
Jimmy turned around. Jack. Holding a pistol by his side.
For a few seconds neither one of them said anything. Jimmy held on to his socket wrench.
Jimmy said, “I see you're still using a .45.”
“Yeah.”
“I told you before, they're too loud. With a .22, no one hears unless they're close.”
“Yeah,” Regan said. “But then you have to get close yourself.”
“How did you get in?”
“Through the bathroom window.”
Jimmy held the socket wrench at his side.
Regan said, “You got anything in your pockets, Jimmy?”
“No.”
“Well, keep your hands out of them just the same.”
Jimmy said, “You killed Sean.”
“Yes I did,” Regan said. He shook his head. “That was your fault, Jimmy. You shouldn't've brought him into it.”
“You came after me first.”
“I'm not after you. I'm after Mike. It's Mike Zans wants, not you.”
“What did Mike do to Zans?”
Regan frowned. “Jimmy, come on. It's me here.”
“Mike's got no beef with Zans.”
“I
know,
Jimmy.”
“What?”
“He ratted on him, Jimmy. You both did.”
“Who told you that?”
“They told me about Mike. They didn't say anything about you. I figured that out myself.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you.”
“You calling me a fucking rat?”
“Jimmy, I don't care. I'm just telling you I know. Zans doesn't know, but I do. I didn't come for you.”
“The hell you say.”
“I only looked for you because I knew you'd know where Mike is. You take me to him and we're done.”
“Jack, I don't know where he is.”
“Jimmy,” Regan said, and sighed. “How long we known each other? You think I don't know when you're lying?”
“I don't.”
Regan raised the .45. “I'm going to count to three.”
“Hey—”
“One.”
“—hey—”
“Two.”
“Hey … hey. All right, all right.” Jimmy said, “Let's talk for a minute.”
“Go ahead.”
Jimmy said, “I tell you where he is, you gonna clip him?”
“Yeah.”
“Guarantee that?”
“What do you mean guarantee?”
“What I mean is, if you don't, if you shoot and you miss, we're both dead. You point a gun at Mike, you better kill him.”
“He's not indestructible, Jimmy.”
“Yeah, well, the jury's out on that one.”
“You've been hanging around him too long,” Regan said. “He's got you believing his blarney.”
“We're talking about Mike Dillon here.”
“His time has come. Everybody's time comes sooner or later.”
“Like Sean's?”
“Ah, Jimmy. You can't be mad at me for that. Would you have me lie down and let him kill me, let him kill my wife?”
“Yeah, I would. The way you were acting, I had good reason to think you were trying to clip me. Why didn't you just tell Max or Sean that it was Mike you were after?”
“Because they wouldn't have known,” Regan said. He was feeling tired now. He said, “What difference does it make now? You're alive
and if you take me to Mike, you get to stay alive. You protect Mike, you die. Now we both know if it were the other way around, Mike wouldn't hesitate for a second to give you up.”
Jimmy Rizza said nothing.
Regan said, “If you haven't figured that out by now, you're not as smart as I thought you were.”
Jimmy said, “What you're saying is, I don't give you an answer you like, you're going to clip me.”
“Yeah, that's about the size of it.”
“Okay, then. Yeah, he's in Saint Louis. I know where he lives and I can take you there now, if you like. But it won't be necessary. He's on his way here now.”
Regan cocked his head. “Why's that?” he said.
Jimmy shrugged. “He wants me to help him take care of a woman.”
“What, you mean kill her?”
“Yeah.”
“What for?”
Jimmy shrugged. “She wants to break up with him.”
Regan shook his head. “Fucking animal,” he said. “Okay, we wait then.” Regan gestured with the gun to some chairs near the workbench.
Late evening. The sun had set against the November gray. The air was cold and dry. Murph drove the unmarked Impala south on Grand Avenue. Turned west on the second street past Tower Grove Park and then they were on a narrow street lined with houses and cars. After the next stop sign, Cain said, “That's it.”
It was a dark redbrick house, divided into two homes. Two numbers, two mailboxes. There were separate steps leading up to the same porch area, divided by a low brick wall.
Murph slowed the car.
Cain said, “Where do people park here?” It was not a bad neighborhood, better than it had been ten years ago. But Cain spoke of it like it was a dump.
“They have spaces off the alley,” Murph said. “Or you park on the street. There's a place up there.”
They parked the car near the end of the block and walked back to the house.
They rang the doorbell twice before Sharon Dunphy answered it.
Cain showed her his police identification.
“Ms. Dunphy?”
“Yes?”
“I'm Sergeant Detective Cain. This is Detective Murphy. St. Louis PD. We'd like to ask you a few questions.”
The woman looked them over. She stayed at the door.
“What about?”
“It's about something that involved you and your neighbor three years ago. May we come in?”
“I have to pick up my children soon,” she said.
Cain said, “It won't take long.”
“Well … okay.”
She led them into the house. There was no foyer. Once they walked through the front door, they were in the living room, where they could see a green sofa that looked like it had been handed down and a recliner and an armchair. Sharon Dunphy picked up a remote control off the coffee table and switched off the television. The three of them looked at the blank television screen for a moment and then she said, “What is it?” She was still standing.
The detectives stopped. Like a man leaning in for a kiss and getting a firm hand push on the chest.
That's as far as you go, buster.
Apparently, they were to question her on their feet, in front of the blank television screen.
Cain said, “About three years ago, you were having trouble with a neighbor who was bullying you, hassling your family. A police officer named Chris Hummel helped you out.”
Sharon said, “Chris who?”
Cain said, “Chris Hummel. He was a deputy with the sheriff's office. You remember it, don't you?”
The woman looked off to the side, like she was thinking about it. She said, “No, I can't say I remember that. I never reported anything to the police.”
Sergeant Cain and Detective Murphy looked at each other. They had seen this sort of side look many times before. Any police officer has. It's not even necessary to have received formal training in interrogation. In traffic, it's the look the bleary-eyed driver gives when asked how much he's had to drink. The look that reveals that the person has made a conscious decision not to tell the truth, but needs a moment to come up with a lie that he thinks is credible. They search for that lie offstage.
Murph said, “We know you didn't report it, ma'am. But Deputy Hummel did help you out, didn't he?”
“I really don't remember.”
Cain said, “You remember Trudy West, don't you?”
“Uh, yes.”
“We've already spoken with her. She told us about it.”
“Told you about what?”
The detectives were silent.
And Sharon said, “I mean, I haven't seen Trudy in over two years.”
Murph said, “Trudy West told us that you had trouble with a neighbor three years ago. That she put you in touch with Chris Hummel, and Chris Hummel had some words with this neighbor of yours and then the trouble stopped. Now, we want to know more about that.”
“About what happened over three years ago?”
“Yes,” Murph said.
Cain said, “Ms. Dunphy, you seem awfully nervous. Is there something you want to tell us?”
Sharon Dunphy had a husband in prison, had known men who had been criminals. But she was at root a decent woman. She was not a practiced liar. And this was apparent now to the two detectives.
“No,” she said. “Seriously, I have to pick up my children.”
Murph said, “Do you know why we're here?”
“I—”
“You know Deputy Hummel was killed a few nights ago. You know about that, don't you?”
“I … Yes, I saw it on television.”
Cain said, “What do you know about it?”
“I don't know anything.”
“Ma'am.” It was Murph speaking now. His voice firm, yet almost kind and solicitous. “You seem like you're about to cry. Is there something you want to tell us?”
“No. Look, Chris helped me out years ago. That's all I can tell you.”
Murph said, “When's the last time you saw Chris?”
“What?”
“When—is—the—last time—you saw Chris?”
“I don't know.”
Cain said, “Was it in the last two weeks?”
“—it—”
“It was, wasn't it?” Cain said. “You saw him in the last two weeks.” He was aware now that they had stumbled on something.
She could not even look at them anymore. Tears forming now.
Murph said, “Are you scared?”
She gave out an involuntary sob. “I have to … my children …”
“Tell us,” Murph said. “We're here to help you. Are you scared for your children?”
She tried to stop crying. Tried, but she couldn't stem it. She hadn't been ready for it. Hadn't been ready for two detectives to just march up to her front door and start asking questions about Chris Hummel. If she had known they were coming, she could have prepared for it. She could have done
something.
Murph said, “Where are your children now?”
“One is at basketball practice. The other is at a friend's house. I have to get them … . I have to …”
“We can go with you,” Murph said. “We can pick them up together. We won't let anyone hurt them. Do you understand that? We won't allow it. But you know something about this and you have to help us.”
“I can't help you,” she said.
“I promise you,” Murph said, “I swear to you, we will protect your children. You have to let us help you.”
“I don't know anything.”
Cain said, “You saw Chris recently, before he was murdered, didn't you?”
She didn't answer. Looked away.
Cain said, “Did he hurt you?”
A moment before the woman shook her head.
Cain said, “Was he trying to help you?”
No response.
“He was, wasn't he?” Cain said. “He was trying to help you and it got him in trouble, didn't it.”
She was crying. Crying and she couldn't stop.
“Didn't it?” Cain said.
“Jesus Christ,” Murph said to himself, not believing it, but it was there in front of them now and they had it in their hands. He looked over at Cain. He said, “We're going to have to take her downtown.”
“Right,” Cain said. He had discovered the biggest break of the most important homicide case in years. Yet he felt no exhilaration. Only a sadness. He looked back at Murphy. “The children,” he said.
Murph said, “We'll call dispatch from the car. Have units pick them up.” He looked at Sharon Dunphy. “They'll be safe now.”
 
 
Minutes later, they were out on the front porch. The Dunphy woman in her coat, locking the door behind her. The detectives in front. They heard the lock click into place. And when they turned, there was a man on the pathway leading up to the steps, between the porch and street. The man was middle-aged, wearing a black jogging outfit. About thirty feet away. The detectives heard the Dunphy woman gasp.
The man stopped and turned around to walk away.
“Hey,” Cain said. “Stop.” He moved down the steps. “Hey, come here,” he said.
And then it was happening.
The man turned back and Murph saw the glint of steel in the darkness. Cain reached inside his jacket but it was too late. Dillon shot Bobby Cain twice.
Murph saw the sergeant go down. He grabbed the woman and pushed her down behind the low brick wall with his right hand, then used that same hand to reach into his jacket for his service weapon. Dillon shot twice more and the second shot caught Murph in the upper thigh, and Murph shot back once, twice, three times, shot out in the
dark, shooting at Dillon, who stood shooting at him before he gave it up and started running away and Murph collapsed on the porch, looked to his left to see the shadow fleeing in the night. Murph shot another round at the shadow, and then the shadow was gone.
BOOK: The Betrayers
4.35Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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