by Rick Reed
Everyone thought about that and agreed it was very likely what happened.
Walker said, “Assuming that was how it went down, I had my people search the other direction we thought the shot had come from and no luck. Then we found the smashed bullet on the floor under the catwalk stairs. We haven’t run ballistics yet, but I’m guessing the bullet is a .40 caliber. Like the shell casing suggests.”
“Can you send this evidence off to the state police lab, Lenny?” Captain Franklin said. He knew the ATF would get a faster turnaround. Misino put the evidence bags in his pocket.
Walker said, “That’s all I have for now.”
“Jack? Liddell?” Captain Franklin said.
Jack said, “I talked to Killian’s wife. She said a couple of days ago he was leaving the house, and she asked where he was going. He told her he was going to church.”
Misino’s head came up. “You sure that’s what she said? Church?”
“Barbara’s exact words. Does it mean something?”
Misino said, “That’s what my guys call it when they go talk to a resource—‘going to church.’ I’d never heard that phrase before, but they said it was because they were always praying the snitch had something solid. If Killian said that to his wife, then he was going to meet an informant.”
Jack said, “Barbara said he always wore a tattered Army fatigue jacket when he was doing surveillance or something outside the office. Said it was his lucky jacket. He was wearing the fatigue jacket yesterday when he ‘went to church.’ And he wore it today when he left the house. Killian may not have told anyone about the information because he didn’t trust the source.”
“We’re just making assumptions,” Misino said. “Maybe he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or someone lured him there. We need proof. We need something solid.”
“Anyone have anything else?” Franklin asked. “Then let’s get back to work.” He put a hand on Misino’s shoulder. “Thanks for the help, Lenny.”
“I’ll show this detonator to my guy and then get all this stuff sent to the lab pronto and make sure it’s a priority. My guy will meet your guy at the guard shack,” Misino said on his way out of the room.
Before everyone left Franklin crooked a finger at Jack. “I need you in my office,” he said, and left Jack and Liddell alone in the room.
When the captain was out of earshot, Liddell said, “If he fires you, can I have your Captain Midnight super-secret-decoder ring?”
“Bite me, Bigfoot. Get your own.” Jack said.
Franklin was sitting behind his desk. “Shut the door. Have a seat,” he said to Jack, and slid a police report across the desk.
Jack shut the door and sat. The police report was about an armed robbery. Eddie Solazzo had been arrested.
“Solazzo’s dead,” Jack said.
“Look at the place I’ve marked.”
Jack saw a pencil mark under the words “.40 caliber Smith & Wesson.” He remembered Eddie Solazzo had used that type of gun in a couple of robberies.
“Thanks, Captain,” Jack said. “You should be a street detective.”
“No thanks, Jack,” the captain said. “I’ve got enough trouble with Deputy Chief Dick. And by the way, he’s pursuing the complaint that Nate Cartwright’s attorney filed on you with Internal Affairs.”
Jack felt a knot in his throat. All he needed right now was an Internal Affairs investigation. But the good news was that if Nate Cartwright was filing it with IA, maybe they weren’t going federal with the complaint.
“I’ll do what I can,” the captain said, “but I think he may have you this time, Jack. Honestly, you are your own worst enemy.”
The captain seemed to be finished so Jack got up to leave. At the door he turned and asked, “What would you have done, Captain? With Cartwright, I mean.”
Without hesitation, the captain answered, “Exactly what you did, Jack. That’s why I could never be a street detective again.”
Jack found Liddell leaning against the wall next to Jennifer Mangold, arms folded across his chest, eyelids slitted, pretending to snore.
“You’re a riot, Bigfoot,” Jack said.
Mangold pointed back down the hall and said, “The captain’s not going to think so when he sees that.”
Jack turned around and saw a Styrofoam cup taped to the captain’s door like a crude listening device. Taped to the door underneath the cup was a piece of typing paper with the words “Quiet—Spanking in Progress” written in Magic Marker.
Jack tore the note and cup off of the captain’s door. “He doesn’t have a sense of humor, Bigfoot.”
Liddell’s grin grew wider, giving him dimples in his cheeks. “Of course he does. He made us partners, didn’t he?”
“You got me there,” Jack admitted. “Tell me you found something in Killian’s office.”
Liddell said, “I was listening at the door. I heard what Franklin said about Double Dick having your ass.”
“I can’t worry about that now,” said Jack. “Tell me about Killian’s office.”
“Nada,” Liddell said. “Agent Pons showed up and helped. I found a piece of paper that had gotten stuck in behind one of the drawers. It had one word written on it. ‘Coin.’ ”
“Coin,” Jack repeated the name. He was glad Liddell hadn’t said anything about this in front of the captain or the ATF chief. Coin was homeless, dirty, smelly, and a source of information for anyone who gave him some loose change. That was how he got the nickname “Coin.” Jack didn’t know his real name and doubted if even Coin knew it. Coin’s information wasn’t usually very accurate because he had killed his brain with alcohol, but now and then he had something solid. They would have to talk to Coin.
“I’ve got to make a call,” Jack said, and dug his phone out of his pocket. The local parole office phone number was on his speed dial, but he no longer knew who would answer. His ex-girlfriend, Susan Summers, had been the chief parole officer but she was now in Indianapolis. He could call her there but it was complicated.
When they had dated, it had started to get serious, but when he was with Susan he was thinking about his ex-wife Katie, and comparing them. Maybe Susan intuited his feelings, and that was why she had left. He had to admit he hadn’t tried to argue her out of going. He changed his mind about calling her.
The parole office was just down the street. A walk might clear his mind. Maybe the new guy in charge would let him look at Solazzo’s files, and see if they had the name of the person that supplied him the .40 caliber handgun.
“You going to call Susan?” Liddell asked. “I heard the captain say something about Eddie Solazzo using a .40 caliber handgun. I forgot about that.”
“You can meet the ATF bomb guy at the guard shack. I’ll walk over to the parole office. Meet you back here in a bit,” Jack said and added. “I don’t want to bother Susan.”
“You sure you don’t want to call her?” Liddell asked.
“You can call her if you want. I need to take a walk and think.”
“Do you trust me to meet the ATF guy all by my lonesome?” Liddell asked.
“Bite me,” Jack said.
Chapter Twelve
Jack walked down Main Street toward the river and cut through a gangway between DeJong’s Fashions and the law offices of Wee, Cheatem, & Howe—his nickname for the law offices of Brockman and Associates.
The Indiana state parole office building was crammed between Ye Olde Wig Shoppe and Williams Jewelry. Oddly, Williams Jewelry had no history of being broken into, but the Wig Shoppe was a different story. It had been burglarized, robbed, and set on fire. No one had ever been arrested, but Jack had always believed the perp was a bald guy with deep hair resentment.
The parole building was fronted with a stylish blend of glazed yellow brick and ornate Bedford stone. Large slabs of stone over the doorway and windows were engraved with images of horse-drawn wagons pulling heavily laden flatboats. In the 1800s and early 1900s, the building was an office for river-trade co
mpanies. He couldn’t help thinking that if gas prices kept going up, we might be going back to that type of transportation.
The thick glass door was emblazoned with the Great Seal of the State of Indiana and, underneath, painted in gold lettering: INDIANA STATE PAROLE DIVISION. The Great Seal of the State of Indiana is a gold circle with a picture inside of some guy with an axe chasing a buffalo through the woods. Jack had never seen a buffalo until he went kayaking in Montana, but he guessed, at one time, there must have been buffalo in Indiana. Guys with axes must have chased them all out of the state.
When Jack pulled the door open he had to step back as a large burly male came out. The man was somewhere in his thirties and wearing a tank top. His body was covered with a thick mat of dark hair and decorated with prison tats. He was really big. He needed a really big bath. The man bumped into Jack on his way out of the door that Jack had held for him.
“Hey, Chuckles,” Jack called after the big man.
The head swiveled, and then the smelly body turned and he gave Jack the evil eye.
“You didn’t say thank you,” Jack said.
“And,” the man said in a surly tone.
“And, I’m having a very bad day. I want you to thank me for holding the door for you. Think you can manage that, Chuckles?”
The man spit a wad of chew on the sidewalk and raised a nicotine-stained finger and pointed it at Jack. Jack pulled his sport coat back to reveal his badge and gun. He could feel heat building behind his eyes. The man saw the .45 on Jack’s hip. He lowered his finger and swallowed hard.
“Uh. Thank you . . . Officer,” the man said through clenched teeth.
Jack made a dismissive motion with his hand. “You’re welcome,” he said and walked inside, wondering why he’d tried to pick a fight with the man-mountain. Maybe he needed to feel in control of something, even if it meant getting his jaw broken. Maybe he really wanted to get suspended. Maybe he was deflecting his anger when he should really be punching Double Dick in his Adam’s apple.
The parole office building was as austere on the inside as the outside was ornate. The floors were carpeted with the same dirty indoor-outdoor carpet that was there when he was dating Susan. A stained path still ran down the middle of it from the trooping feet of the walking dead. The walls were painted a puke-green.
Several parolees, both men and women, sat around surfing their cell phones, texting, or making drug deals, and pretending not to notice the cop in the room. He walked to the glassed-in countertop and saw that Miz Johnson-Heddings was still there. She was a hatchet-faced woman of about sixty or ninety, bony and wrinkled with the leathery skin of a reptile.
“You’re looking especially lovely today, Helen,” Jack said with what he hoped was a disarming smile.
She said, “Do you have an appointment?”
Thinking that her hair was pulled back so tight that it might have caused some brain damage, Jack said, “It’s me. Jack!” He smiled and pinched his own cheek in a grandmotherly way. “You know—your favorite son. Little Jacky?”
“What do you want?”
If looks could kill, you’d be dead, lady.
“I come in peace,” Jack said. “I need to talk to the Chief Parole Officer, so if you’ll tell him I’m here . . .”
“Everyone’s busy . . . as you can see,” she said.
Jack looked around the lobby. There were four ex-cons pretending not to hear the conversation. He stared at her until she picked up the phone. “Detective Murphy to see you,” she said. “I told him you were busy.” She listened, and then said, “I’ll bring him back.”
“Don’t bother,” Jack said. “I know the way.” Before Miz Johnson-Heddings could get up, he let himself through the door marked “Employees Only” and turned left at the hallway. Susan’s old office was the second door on the left.
Jack rapped on the partially open door and could hear music of Gershwin or Chopin or one of those dead guys coming from inside. He pushed the door open and saw the office décor had changed dramatically. The room was still filled with books from floor to ceiling, but they were now neatly arranged in piles on the floor in front of the overfull bookshelves. Where the chairs were once covered with folders and books and boxes, a comfortable loveseat was pushed against a far wall. An Amish-made electric fireplace sat in a corner. Just inside the door was an antique hall tree with an IU baseball cap hanging from a hook.
He rapped on the door again. Still no answer. He walked in, and a head popped up from behind the desk.
“Susan?” Jack said, surprised. “What are you doing here?”
“Hi Jack,” she said, and smiled at him.
“I didn’t know you were back,” he said.
“Actually I’m not. Back, that is. I’m filling in for the new guy, Stan Guzman. He’s had surgery and will be out for a while.”
“Miz Johnson-Heddings led me to believe . . . well, never mind. It’s good to see you.” He had a hundred questions he wanted to ask. He wanted to ask if she was back in town for a while or for good. He wanted to ask when she had come back and why she hadn’t called to let him know. He wanted to ask why she was really here. As the chief parole officer for the entire state of Indiana, it was within her authority to assign someone else to this task. Had she come back to see him? If so, he didn’t know how he felt about that.
She preempted his questions by asking, “So, what can I do for the famous Jack Murphy? Or should I say infamous?” She motioned for him to sit, and her expression told him part of what he wanted to know. She hadn’t intended to let him know she was here, and although he didn’t know why, it bothered him.
He was going to let it go, but he couldn’t help but ask, “You weren’t going to call me, were you?”
“I was,” she said too quickly. “I wanted to call but it’s been busy here. Mr. Guzman has been sick for weeks and things have piled up and . . .”
“And you weren’t going to call,” Jack finished for her.
“Okay. You got me. I wasn’t going to call. I was only going to be here a couple of days at most. I’ve moved on, and I hope you have too, Jack.”
She was right. They had both moved on. He didn’t know why he felt, what? Betrayed? Hurt? It didn’t matter. He was there on a case.
He said, “I didn’t know you were a classical music person.”
She hit a button on the laptop and the music stopped. “I wanted something to fill the quiet in here. This is the only music Guzman has on his computer.”
“I need your help,” Jack said. “Did you hear about the ATF agent who was shot?”
“Are you working on that?”
“Yeah. Me and Bigfoot were assigned this morning.”
“How are Liddell and Marcie doing? I haven’t talked to her for days.”
Days? So Liddell knew you were in town and didn’t tell me either.
He got back to his reason for being there. “You remember my fishing buddy, Killian?”
“Killian George? He’s the ATF agent? Barbara must be beside herself,” she said. Susan knew Killian and Barbara through Jack. They had all gone to dinner a few times. “What can I do?”
“Captain Franklin reminded me Eddie and Bobby Solazzo used .40 caliber handguns in some of their heists. Killian was shot with one.”
At the mention of Eddie Solazzo, she gave an involuntary shudder. Eddie had taken her and Katie hostage not too long ago. He was going to kill them in front of Jack to punish Jack for killing his brother, Bobby. Jack had saved the two women, but the way he had saved them was one of the reasons she had left town. Not the only reason, but a big one.
“I don’t remember anything in the files about the guns they used, but Mr. Guzman was updating all of our files. He’s a very meticulous man. Much more organized that I ever was. Be right back.”
When she went to find the files Jack walked around the office. Kicked up under her desk were running clothes and two pairs of dirty running shoes. You still aren’t organized, Susan. He scanned the books on the
shelves. One book was pulled partially out. It was old, and he ran his finger over the lettering on the spine. Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes.
“That’s Mr. Guzman’s,” she said, coming back into the room with a stack of file folders.
“Miz Johnson-Heddings says Guzman is a Don Quixote addict. Supposedly he quotes the book all the time and fancies himself as being of a similar mind to the errant knight because he is always ‘fighting windmills’ with our clientele.”
She handed Jack one of the folders, and they both sat down and read. The files were thick. When the Solazzo brothers were still alive they were in and out of prison like it was Walmart.
Jack tried to concentrate on the file, but Susan’s coming back to Evansville had thrown him for a loop. He stole a glance at her and remembered when he’d first met her: sitting behind the same desk, piled high with books and folders and paperwork. He remembered getting up and standing behind her, like any warm-blooded man would do—and sneaking a peek down her blouse to see if she was hiding a weapon, which, it turned out, she was. Two of them.
“Did you find anything?” Susan’s voice pulled him back to the present.
“Still reading,” he said.
She smirked and said, “You’ve been on the same page for five minutes. Did you go to sleep?”
“I’m a slow reader,” he said, and reminded himself he was in love with Katie. Susan was in love with some dentist. And besides, she wouldn’t be staying.
“Here. I’ve got something,” Susan said. She handed the file to Jack and said, “Back in a minute.”
This was Eddie Solazzo’s file. Stuck in the back was a report from the U.S. District Court in Washington D.C. about a guy called Khaled Mohammed Shaliq Abutaqa. Bet you can’t say that five times fast. Mixed in with the legal mumbo jumbo he read, “illegal sale of weapons and explosives.” Jack scanned through the pages but it didn’t mention Solazzo until well into the report. Several years ago, Khaled had sold several Smith & Wesson .40 caliber handguns to Eddie Solazzo. Jack found a notation that Solazzo had confessed to purchasing the weapons but the report never said that Khaled was charged. Eddie would know, but he couldn’t ask Eddie because questioning during a séance wouldn’t hold up in court.
