Yesterday's News - Jeremiah Healy

by Jeremiah Healy

  "All this boom talk put any people off?"

  "Off? No. Well, there's always going to be some opposition to any change, even if it is for the better. But we're not exactly raping virgin forests here, you know? You seen our waterfrout?"

  "Some of it."

  "Well, let me tell you. Nobody in his or her right mind is going to miss the relics Richie will replace. He gets the right support now, the whole character of this area will change. I'm

  telling you, this city is perched on the edge of greatness."

  "What edge was Jane perched on?"

  He cooled off and turned away again. "I don't know."

  "She told me she was under a lot of pressure at work. Was that all the pressure on her?"

  "I told you once, that's none of your business."

  "She also told me her personal life was a mess. Was that your business?"

  Fetch cried out and came at me, quicker than I would have credited him. He swung an amateurish right at me before I could get all the way up from the chair. I took most of it on my left forearm, and I heard a cracking noise that could only have come from one of his knuckles. He doubled over, holding the right hand in his left palm and grimacing to the point of tears.

  "Bruce?" said the older woman behind me.

  He squeezed out, "It's alright, Grace. Just leave us alone."

  "Are you sure? You look hurt."

  "Grace, please. Just shut the door, okay?"

  Hearing the door click closed, I sat. "You ought to ice that."

  Fetch worked his head up and down. "I'm going to tell you something. Not because it's any of your business, but because I want you hearing, it from me first."

  His words seemed to be coming a little easier. I said, "Go on."

  "I wanted to get married. Jane said she was pregnant."

  "I didn't know."

  "Neither did I. The baby wasn't mine."

  I watched him, then said, "Whose did you think it was?"

  He shook his head and gingerly touched around the middle joint of the ring finger on his right hand. "I don't know. I just know I had the mumps in college and the doctor at the infirmary had me give him a specimen. Turned out sterile. Not impotent, just sterile."

  Appreciating the distinction, I said, "When I walked in here, you weren't exactly forthcoming. How come now you want me hearing this from you first?"

  "Because—shit, this hurts, I think it's broken, that's all I need. Because Richie's deal, the project, is the key to what I've worked for the last two years. I've lost Jane. I don't want to lose what Harborside can mean for this town."

  Fetch looked hard at me, seeming to push the hand outside the room for a moment. "I don't want to lose everything."

  * * *

  According to the white pages, Richard Dykestra listed his office under his own name. When I called, a vapid female voice advised me that Mr. Dykestra was "unavailable and not expected in the office today. " I told her it was usually one or the other, not both, but she didn't get me, and I couldn't see any sense in leaving a message.

  I also looked up Charles Coyne. No luck, but then Hagan had said Coyne's place was a dive.

  Looping back toward my car the long way, I stuck my head into the Watering Hole. There were seven customers today. Three even had plates as well as glasses in front of them at two-fifteen. One of the three was Malcolm Peete.

  "Mr. Peete, that doesn't look like a very balanced meal to me."

  He regarded his vodka and french fries. "Nonsense, my lad. We have here representatives of the two basic food groups, alcohol and cholesterol."

  I sat down. "The experts would say you're ruining your health."

  "Ah, that's where the Smirnoff performs double duty." He lifted the glass to eye level and rolled it affectionately between his fingers. "Preventive chemotherapy. Requires daily, nay, hourly treatments to be completely effective."

  "You sober enough to give me some background information?"

  "I'm highly offended. If I'm sober enough to be offended, I'm sober enough to educate the likes of you, good sir. "

  "Jane's landlady said she had two visitors the night she died. Both came by car. Any candidates come to mind?"

  "No. Mrs. O'Day's humble dwelling is far enough from everything to require a ear to get there, so I fear I'm your only excludable suspect. I've deemed it inappropriate to drive for some time now. "

  "Meaning some judge hooked your license?"

  "I'll not dignify that with a reply. "

  "Mrs. O'Day also said Jane had a lot of visitors in general. Male visitors. Aside from Bruce Fetch, was she seeing anyone you know of?"

  "No, not really any of my business. Tell me, though, did Mrs. O'Day press upon you her view of the generational conflict ahead?"

  "More than I cared to hear."

  "Don't be so flip. She's right, you know. The disputes of the sixties between the older and the younger just involved politics and patriotism, comparative trifles. Wait until every worker contributes 40 percent of a weekly salary to social security, and even then the recipients of our federal bounty will be having to choose between heating and eating. That conllagration will make the Vietnam War seem like a crack in the sidewalk."

  I let it pass, then said, "What exactly is the corruption situation here? From the police standpoint."

  Peete arched protectively over his drink. "There is no 'exact' statement anyone could make. Were you ever a cop?"

  "Military."

  "Not the same thing. Oh, I'm sure the danger and camaraderie and abilities were quite parallel, perhaps even greater. But you were dealing for the most part with other military. You weren't being paid yearly a tenth of what the bad guys collect monthly. That's the problem, basically. The good cops, and most of them start out that way, the good cops arrest truly bad people and then see them released before they've wiped the fingerprint ink from their hands. Later, even the case you can make slips away because a judge can't see jailing a 'victimless' gambling kingpin when the cell blocks couldn't accommodate another violent offender with a shoehorn. So you get your meat eaters and your grass eaters. "

  "Translation?"

  "I first heard the terms when I was in New York. Knapp Commission, the Serpico matter and all. A meat eater is a cop who asks for a bribe, another license granter the bad guy has to pay on the front end. A grass eater is a cop who basically becomes the bad guy's business partner for a piece of the take, on the back end."

  "Don't most departments rotate their personnel every couple of years to minimize that?"

  "Yes, and it does, but at the cost of reassigning your most experienced cops in a given area, geographic or specialty, outside the area in which they've become expert."

  "So you trade effectiveness off against the fear they've become tainted."

  "Quite well put, my lad. However, there is no such fear of that here. At some point before my arrival, the locals divided things up in such a way that rotation was off the negotiating table."

  "So the plainclothes guys are the foxes watching the chickens."

  "Instead of the uniforms being the foxes watching the chickens, or at least switching off from time to time so that everybody's equally exposed to, and presumably resistant to, temptation."

  I said, "What can you tell me about Hagan versus Hogueira?"

  "Ah, the Wimbledon of a police buff. Who will succeed the King? In this case, however, I'm afraid it's rather like Ivan Lendl serving to Lou Costello."

  "Hagan's a lock?"

  "I think so. Thanks to former partner Schonstein."

  "The retired cop?"

  "Correct. Two of the current city councilors are beholden to the former hero. The paperwork on the drug bust of one's firstborn was conveniently lost; the drunk driving of a second steered miraculously clear of a Breathalyzer test. And not all Schonsy's influence is by way of the fix, either. I nearly cried myself when I covered him doing magic tricks at a party for kids in the local hospital. No, I doubt that Hogueira can convince the others that a seco
nd Porto chief in a row constitutes a moral, ethnic, or political imperative."

  "Sounds like that special statute you told me about is backfiring."

  "Not really. Without the special statute, the current chief would be rattling doorknobs on the midnight shift, Christmas Eve. And with civil service, Hagan would be a shoo-in."

  "I don't see that. I've listened to both of them talk. Hagan sounds more like a street cop, Hogueira like an Oxford don."

  Peete said, "All form, no substance. Hagan finished college before he started here, then took a master's in police science at Northeastern. Hogueira earned a high school equivalency diploma at night, probably by mail. Resuméwise and testwise, Hagan would trounce him. No contest."

  "You a Hagan rooter?"

  "No. And yes, I suppose. All cop buffs wonder what would happen if the right man—or woman, I suppose, to be fair as opposed to realistic in this town. In any case, we all wonder what would happen if the right person were put in charge somehow, whether he or she could really make the difference, transform the enforcement of authority into something to be admired rather than abused."

  "And you see Hagan as the right man?"

  "I see Hogueira as the heir to the old way, the who-you-know way. Don't misunderstand me: the old way is how Hagan will get to sit in the chief's chair. I just think he could be a part of the new way. Or at least I'd like to find out."

  "Is Schonsy Junior a part of the new way, too?"

  Peete laughed. "Oh no. No, I'm afraid Mark is a pale imitation of his father. I saw Schonsy only at the tail end of his career, but he was the best of the old way, my friend. A Jewish John Wayne who tamed this town for eight hours a day, five days a week. He was the real thing. Mangled his legs coming down the stairs of a burning tenement, carrying a baby out from the flames. Knees at any age are fragile structures, but at sixty, rehabilitation to a patrolman's required agility was out of the question, so he drew a disability. "

  "Schonsy Senior was only a patrolman when he retired?"

  "Yes. And you can just refer to him as Schonsy. I can't imagine anyone calling Mark the son 'Schonsy.' Yes, Schonsy decided early on, I guess, that the street was what made him go, and he never wanted to leave it. I've known men like that before in other departments. It gets into the blood."

  "Hagan told me that Mark was in the clear on both Coyne and Jane because he was doing paperwork at the station both nights. Said his partner was sick."

  "Sick? Hard to picture Dan Cronan sick. His wife now, that woman would have reason to be sick."

  "The partner's married?"

  "Correct. And being married to Cronan the Barbarian is not where a woman should spend her springtime."

  "Hagan also told me about a bum in the alley who supposedly witnessed part of the assault on Coyne. Any names?"

  "Not that I heard. I doubt most of them remember or care to give their real names, anyway. Many are on the run from prior involvements, you know."

  "How about Coyne's live-in girlfriend. Name and address?"

  "They escape me. I must look into these losses of short-term memory. But the address and probably her name would be in the report on Coyne's death."

  "Hagan's not going to let me see it."

  "No. I meant the story Jane would have done on it. If the police released it to her. "

  "Liz Rendall is getting those stories for me."

  "That is the second time you have offended me today. "

  "I don't get you."

  "By turning to dear Liz, you imply that I not only am incapable of competent conversation, but also incapable of competent research. Please do me the courtesy of departing."

  "Peete, I'm sorry. "

  "No apologies are necessary because none are acceptable. Please simply leave so that a third transgression, however unintentional, does not nip in the bud what I'd hoped would blossom into a reasonable friendship."

  From outside, I saw Peete, catching the bartenders eye and pointing to his nearly empty bottle.

  9

  I called Dykestra again from a drugstore on the way back to the car. His receptionist still couldn't help me. I tapped the plunger and tried a different number.

  "Suffolk County District Attorney."

  "Nancy Meagher, please."

  "Hold on."

  Two clicks and two rings. "Nancy Meagher."

  "Do they let you receive obscene phone calls at work?"

  "Hmmmmmn. Only when the felon involved is beyond the reach of process. Hold on." I could just about hear her saying, "Tell him I'll be with him in a minute." Then, back to me, "How are you?"

  "I'm fine. Nasharbor, on the other hand, can use some work."

  "Dreary?"

  "And then some. You pressed?"

  "A little," she said. "How's the case going?"

  "It seems that my late client was more than met the eye."

  "Meaning you won't be back in Boston for a while?"

  "I'm afraid not."

  "I'd invite myself down for the weekend, but this rape trial looks like it's going into next week."

  "I'm hoping to wrap things up by Friday, anyway."

  "Listen, John, I've got to go. Can I call you tomorrow night?"

  "My motel doesn't have phones."

  "What?"

  "It'd take more time than you've got to explain it. I'll try to let you know when I'll be back. "

  "Good. Take care of yourself, huh?"

  "Think about me."

  Nancy dropped her voice a notch. "Always."

  * * *

  I drove back to the Crestview, centering the Prelude carefully between the lines in front of Unit 18. As soon as I opened my car door, two men exited the driver and passenger sides of a beige four-door Ford with a whipped-down antenna three spaces away. Approaching me, they couldn't have looked more like cops if shield numbers had been branded on their foreheads. The first one, younger and balding, flipped open his ID anyway. The second one, older, with a crew cut, was beefy with huge hands and the jacket to a gray suit worn over baggy khaki pants.

  The first one said, "Police. Inside."

  "You're Mark Schonstein, right?"

  The second one said, "The man said inside, pal. Now."

  "And that makes you Cronan."

  Schonstein said, "You can walk in, or we can carry you."

  "It's a nice day. Why don't we just sit on the grass? Kind of like senior seminar in the spring?"

  Cronan said, "What's the hardest you ever been hit?"

  "Why?"

  "Because if I know the hardest was a linebacker, or some guy with a baseball bat, then I know how hard I gotta hit you, make you realize that when we say something, we mean it."

  "I remember bumping into a hall monitor at the drinking fountain. Must have been third grade. Wanna see my scar?"

  A crusty but familiar voice said, "What the hell's going on here."

  Schonstein and Cronan turned to look at Jones. Schonstein said, "Police business. Butt out."

  I said, "Mr. Jones, could you call Captain Hagan at the station and ask him if he sent Jan and Dean here to sing to me?"

  Cronan said, "Just one more word, pal."

  Jones said, "What the hell do they want with you?"

  "We haven't gotten around to it yet, but if they had a warrant they would have shown it to me. If you don't give them permission to come into my room and I don't either, we can have their asses if they try something"

  Jones said, "Oh, they ain't gonna try anything. Are you, boys?"

  Schonstein began to hyperventilate.

  Cronan boiled potatoes between his ears. "I don't forget this kind of shit, pal."

  "Looks like a nice grassy patch right over there."

  They followed me to the one tree throwing any shade and stayed standing while I sat and aligned my back against the trunk. Jones watched us from the doorway to his office, smoothing down the fangs of his mustache.

  Schonstein said, "You're playing with fire, Cuddy."

  "How about you hear me out
, then ask any follow-up questions you've got?"

  "Say it."

  "Hagan didn't send you guys, and I'm told your dad was a hell of a cop, so I doubt he sent you either. Think this through. If you're mixed up in something like this, even innocently, you're just making it look worse by rousting someone who probably can't lay a glove on you."

  Cronan said, "You got a big mouth."

  "Look, Cronan, I've heard you were home sick the nights that matter. If that's true, you've got nothing to worry about. If it's not, you do. Either way, banging away at me doesn't help the situation. "

  Schonstein said, "Coyne was a hustler."

  Cronan cut in. "The kinda guy would queer a priest, he got the chance."

  Schonstein said, "You think I'm gonna let you try to tie me up with him?"

  "I'll tell you what I think. I think it's damn peculiar the way people die down here. Things happened in Boston that happened here, just a whiff of police involvement and they'd be counting the shingles on your roof, just to be sure you didn't have any you couldn't account for. "

  Cronan said, "You ain't in Boston now, pal."

  "That's right. But I was when Jane Rust hired me, and I'll be back there only after I'm finished here."

  Schonstein said, "You'll be finished here soon enough, we yank your license."

  I shook my head. "First, you haven't got the juice. You can start the process rolling back at the Department of Public Safety, but you can't just reach out and grab it. Second, you're a little shy of grounds. Hagan himself told me the files on both Coyne and Rust were closed. That means there's no ongoing investigation I'm interfering with. Unless you can enlighten me there?"

  Schonstein thought it over. "Let's go, Dan."

  Cronan said to me, "Maybe sometime I catch you in an alley someplace. No badge, no bullshit. Just you and me. Then we'll find out if your balls are as big as your mouth."

  They turned and strode back to their unmarked sedan.

  Schonstein wheeled out, peeling some rubber in front of Jones.