2 Grand Delusion

by Matt Witten

  So what did Cole do? No doubt he did what any red-blooded American would do: He asked for a piece.

  But let's say Pop refused. Cole is outraged—hey, this is no way for one cop to treat another. So he comes at Pop again, this time demanding a piece. Pop again refuses, and now the tempers and testosterone get really out of hand. The two men argue, they come to blows, Pop executes one of his North Korean torture maneuvers . . .

  And in the heat and hormones of the moment, Cole shoots Pop with his own gun.

  Having experienced both cops' violent streaks at first hand, this scenario was easy for me to believe.

  Unfortunately, believing in Cole's guilt and proving it were two very different things. I could leave this whole mass of confusion to whatever private investigator Malcolm hired, but to quote another old chestnut: If you want something done right, you better do it yourself.

  Dave and I agreed that for my next move, I should get evidence that Cole took over Pop's "accounts" after Pop was killed. That would establish a murder motive for Cole.

  With motive in hand, Malcolm and I could go to the chief and demand that he widen the murder investigation to include Cole as a suspect. If the chief said no, we'd threaten to air out his department's dirty linen with good old Judy at the newspaper. (Which reminded me: I better talk to her and make sure she didn't open that envelope I'd FedExed her until I gave her the okay.)

  Even if the chief refused to budge, and I was put on trial, it sure would be nice to have an alternative murder theory to present to the jury. Especially if they were "poisoned."

  But I'd have to do all my requisite evidence-gathering without any help from Dave. Not surprisingly, he showed zilch enthusiasm for helping me bust a fellow cop. "Come on, bro," I pleaded. "Here I set you up with Madeline, the second most beautiful woman in the world, and you still won't help me?"

  "Bet your ass. I've helped you way too much already."

  So I set off on my mission alone. First, though, I touched base at home. It was getting to be a routine: check in with my traumatized family to let them know Daddy is still alive and at large.

  This time I'd conscientiously left Andrea a note that I was going out for a couple of hours and I'd be back before breakfast. But that still hadn't been enough to assuage my boys' fears. As I came up the stairs to our bedroom, I heard Raphael saying, "Mommy, maybe we should send out a church party"—church party?—and Leonardo was fretting, "Did they revoke him back to jail?"

  I walked through the door calling out "Hey, guys!", and they immediately jumped all over me like starved puppies.

  After we spent a half hour wrestling and tickling each other, and another half hour chowing down on the homemade waffles that they ordered me to prepare for them, Andrea and the kids piled into the minivan and headed for their various Tuesday morning destinations. Meanwhile I went to the shed in our backyard to get my bicycle, so I could head over to the Daily Saratogian to see Judy.

  Biking to the Daily Saratogian turned out to be something of an adventure. Zapper's murder had brought the TV vans back in full force this morning. It must have been a slow weekend for news, because the reporters were in a surly mood. They were stubbornly insistent on getting a comment from me, holding their cameras and microphones so close they bumped into my nose. I tried to get up a head of steam on my bike so I could escape them. But they were crowding me so much that I couldn't get my wheels clear.

  Finally I tried the oldest trick in the book. "Ladies and gentlemen," I announced, "if you'll all give me some room, I have a statement to make." So they all backed up a few yards to give me room—and I jammed my feet down hard on the pedals and took off. By the time they got back into their vans and started following me, I was gone.

  The Daily Saratogian building is a block off Broadway, across the street from the police station entrance at City Hall. I practically broke out in hives as I pedaled past the entrance, but I made it by there without any cops dragging me inside and attacking me.

  I quickly locked my bike and scooted inside the newspaper office, eager to get out of sight of the police station. I slipped past a couple of receptionists who were busy selecting doughnut holes from a Dunkin Donuts box, and came to Judy's corner office.

  Through her plate glass window I saw Judy sitting at her desk, biting her nails as she stared fretfully at a familiar large brown envelope. She was eyeing my handwriting on the cover—to be opened in the event of my death—and trying to decide whether to go ahead and open it anyway.

  Finally her jittery fingers reached for the envelope clasp and pried it open. Then she closed it, then opened it again. She was desperate to look inside, but knew she'd feel like a sleaze if she did. It was fun to watch, like seeing Eve and the Apple, take two. Pandora redux.

  Then at last Judy made a decision. She opened her desk drawer, flung the envelope inside, and slammed the drawer shut with an air of finality.

  So Judy had actually managed to resist temptation. Eve and Pandora would have been impressed—

  But then Judy opened the drawer back up and took the envelope out again. She fiddled with the clasp and chewed at her bottom lip so hard I was afraid it would bleed, as she went through her agonized mental convolutions all over again. I took pity on her and opened the door quietly. "Hi, there," I said.

  "Aauuh!" she screamed, jumping startled out of her chair. "Jesus H.," she said reproachfully as she caught her breath, "don't give me a heart attack."

  "Just wanted to let you know I'm not dead," I said, gesturing at the envelope.

  "Jake, how could you do this to me? I'm a newspaperman, for God's sake—"

  "You mean newspaperwoman."

  "You can't expect me to just sit on something like this and not even read it."

  I sat down. "Actually, if I were you, I'd stick that envelope in my bottom drawer and not mention it to anyone. Two people have been killed already."

  She gulped and hid the envelope away. "Thanks for the tip."

  "Jude, I'm sorry to get you involved, but I really need you to do some things for me."

  She eyed me dubiously. "Like what?"

  Ignoring her lack of zeal, I plowed on. "There's a nine-year-old kid I know who might need an emergency place to stay. He's a good kid. You think you could play hostess, just for a little while?"

  I was counting that Judy's soft spot for needy kids, which I knew about from her work with the Literacy Volunteers, would cause her to say yes. And I was right. "I guess so," she said grudgingly. "Who's the kid?"

  "I'd rather not say right now. But I'll let you know. The second thing is, I'm looking for photographs of Pop Doyle and a cop named Manny Cole."

  "Yeah, I know Cole. What's he got to do with this?"

  "I'll tell you when I'm ready. And while you're at it, I need a list of addresses for all the properties Pop owned on the West Side. I'd go to City Hall for the info myself, but I break into a cold sweat whenever I go near the place."

  "Jake, what are you up to now? Does Andrea know?"

  I stood up. "Enough questions, okay? Look, I know you think I'm a killer, but how about helping me anyway, just for old times' sake."

  Judy stood up too, gazing at me steadily. "I'm not sure you're a killer, but you're definitely a damn fool. Stay here," she told me, and went out. Half an hour later she came back with the photographs, along with addresses for the seven slummy houses that Pop owned. She also had addresses for three other West Side buildings that Pop owned a piece of: the Grand Hotel and two light industrial buildings.

  "And here's a whole bunch of other stuff too, like partnership and incorporation papers," Judy said, handing them over to me. "I was talking to the lady in the city clerk's office, and somehow she figured out you were the person I was getting stuff for, and she got real helpful all of a sudden. She said to say hi."

  That must be the gray-haired lady who'd gotten me the records for 107 Elm on the day of the zoning hearing. Between her and Dave's mom, I seemed to have a way with older women. I should mention that t
o Malcolm when it came time to pick a jury.

  I shuffled randomly through the various papers, not expecting to find anything useful, when something caught my eye: the list of partners for the purchase of the Grand Hotel building. I did a serious double take.

  The partners included Paul "Pop" Doyle; John Walsh, the chief; William Foxwell, the lieutenant; Douglas Beach, a.k.a. Young Crewcut; a couple of names I didn't recognize—

  And Dave Mackerel.

  My friendly neighborhood cop.

  What the hell was going on here? I thought Dave hated these guys, especially Pop.

  "Is something wrong?" Judy asked me, registering the bafflement on my face.

  I didn't answer. My mind was racing. Dave had told me about Pop's real estate holdings, but he never mentioned the Grand Hotel. And he certainly never mentioned that he and Pop were partners. Why had he hidden that?

  And what else was he hiding? I thought back to when Pop was still alive and I asked Dave to help me fight him, but he refused. Was it because Dave, as the only cop who lived on the West Side, was getting a piece of Pop's action himself?

  I must have looked pale or something, because Judy asked me, "Jake, do you need to sit down?"

  I shook my head and stared unseeing at the partnership papers, trying to get a grip. What exactly was I suspecting Dave of? After all, he had been helping me this whole time . . . hadn't he?

  Actually, no, he hadn't. He was the guy who busted me in the first place. And come to think of it, when Pop got shot in the backyard of 107 at one a.m., Dave suddenly appeared out of nowhere—even though he'd told me once that he slept in the rear of his house and never heard noises from 107.

  An icy feeling spread through me. I had to face it. I was suspecting Dave of murder.

  But what would be his motive? Did Pop rip him off somehow in their dealings? Or had Dave killed Pop in a moment of blinding fury because Pop was beating the crap out of him?

  But then why had he played along with me all this time, instead of just feeding me to the wolves? Maybe his good buddy routine was just a camouflage. Had he just been acting helpful, to keep me from suspecting him of murder?

  Judy interrupted my frenzied thoughts. "Listen, I do need to get back to work soon. I have a meeting . . ."

  I came back to myself. "Sure, Judy, thanks. Appreciate your help." I walked out of her office, still dazed.

  As I headed down the steps of the Daily Saratogian and started to unlock my bike, two cops came out of the police station laughing. I tried to put on my bike helmet before they recognized me, but they glanced over just in time, and their laughter died. They gave me hard stares, and then one of them took out his nightstick and started tapping his hand with it, trying to unnerve me.

  He succeeded. My hands shook so badly I couldn't unlock my Master lock. I did the combination three times, but I must have been getting the numbers wrong somehow, because it wouldn't open no matter how hard I yanked at it.

  The cops watched me struggling helplessly with my lock and began laughing again. The one with the nightstick jeered, "Need some help, pal?" and the other one slapped his thigh and screeched like a hyena, as if it was the most hilarious thing he'd ever heard.

  Terrific. Mister Macho Man, trying to take on the entire Saratoga Springs Police Department, and I couldn't even get my damn bike lock open.

  18

  After my embarrassment with the bike lock, I needed some java to steady my nerves. So I headed over to Starbucks, which I normally avoid like the plague. But how could I go to Madeline's and casually ask her for a cup of coffee, please, while suspecting her boyfriend of murder?

  Not that I was so sure Dave had done it. For one thing, I couldn't let Manny Cole off the hook. It was odd that he wasn't partnered up on the Grand Hotel deal with all of his cop buddies. Was there some hidden animosity there . . . and was he jealous of Pop's wealth?

  If only there were some way to get behind that blue wall, I thought, as I paid for my coffee with a handful of lint-covered change. I had to find out what was really going on between these cops, but without a good connection—

  As if in answer to my prayer, I suddenly spotted Hal Starette sitting over in the back corner with Lia Kalmus. True, Hal wasn't a cop, but he'd negotiated with them, and that was something.

  I swallowed my pride and walked over. They saw me coming and threw each other panicky looks. Well, I've crashed parties before. "Guys, let's play pretend," I said as I joined them. "Let’s pretend I'm not the man who killed Pop."

  The way they screwed up their faces and moved their chairs as far away from me as they could, you'd have thought I was a dangerous foreign terrorist with a bad case of halitosis.

  "Look, all I want to know is this. When you were buying that building, Hal, did you see any tension between the cops themselves?"

  They just looked at each other, hoping I'd magically disappear. Hal's nose started getting shiny right before my eyes. Lia's bad eye blinked furiously.

  "Lia, we've known each other for a long time," I said, calling in every chit I might have earned over the years as an S.O.S. volunteer. "Have you heard of any fighting between Pop and Dave Mackerel, or between Pop and Manny Cole?"

  Finally she spoke. "I haven't heard of anything like that."

  "Me, neither," Hal added.

  "You sure? Did anyone ever complain about getting ripped off in any way?"

  "No," Hal said. Lia didn't bother to answer. She excused herself and went off to the bathroom. Meanwhile Hal gave me an apologetic half-smile.

  I mumbled a useless "Okay, well, let me know if you hear anything," and shuffled off. When you're an accused murderer, good help is hard to find. I gulped down my coffee and got the hell out of there.

  Fortunately, I didn't need Hal or Lia or anyone else to help me with my research into Pop's and Cole's payoff scams. That I could do by myself. The first stop on my itinerary was scenic 46 Beekman Street, home to another one of Pop's drug dealer tenants.

  I knocked on the rotten, splintery door, still unsure what approach to take. How about: "Good morning, I'm conducting a research survey for the Saratoga Chamber of Commerce. We were wondering, have you bribed any policemen lately?"

  I waited, then knocked again, then waited some more. I was about to leave when the door finally opened. Standing behind it was a shrimpy little white guy who was naked except for a pair of torn and dirty white underwear—actually, grayish-yellow underwear. He was five feet tall and looked about as tough as my four-year-old. He had an odd face: His mouth was wide, his skull was flat, and his eyes were sunken in. He looked familiar, but I couldn't quite place him.

  I gave him my warmest smile. "Hi, my name is Jacob Burns—"

  "Oh, God!" Mr. Dirty Underwear jumped back in fear. "Oh God, oh God, oh God!"

  Yet another bad entrance.

  "What's wrong?" I asked, smiling even harder, but that just seemed to unnerve Dirty Underwear all the more. He was so rattled he forgot to close the door on me, and when he retreated he tripped and fell to the floor. Maybe he was on some mood-altering substance. If he was, I hoped he wasn't selling much; it was bad stuff.

  He scrambled to his feet, then backed up against a wall that was covered by torn and dirty grayish-yellow wallpaper. It blended in well with his underwear. "Y-y-you're the guy whacked Zapper!"

  I started to say no, but then stopped. Instead I put on my fiercest prison scowl and swaggered up to him. I felt a little guilty terrorizing a guy this small and this wasted, but hey, a man's life was at stake. Mine. "Yo, muthafucka," I growled at him, "you paying money to Cole?"

  Dirty Underwear blinked. "Cole?"

  "Yeah, prick lips, Cole. This man," I said, and showed him a photograph.

  Dirty Underwear looked distraught. "Sure, I'm paying him just like he said. I don't want no trouble. He send you here?"

  "You paying him the same amount you paid Pop?"

  "Yeah."

  "How much?"

  "A hundred dollars." A dim light of intelligence
flared up in his bleary eyes. Interestingly, the whites of his eyes were grayish-yellow, too. "Hey, if Cole sent you, then how come you don't know how much I pay him?"

  His eyebrows beetled together as he tried to puzzle it out, and I suddenly knew where I recognized him from. He looked exactly like a picture I'd seen in the newspaper recently of what fetal alcohol syndrome does to a person's face.

  All that booze he drank in the womb seemed to have done a number on his brain, too. How did he manage to make a living at a difficult entrepreneurial business like street-level drug dealing? Maybe his secret was that he looked so wimpy and stupid, everyone trusted him.

  I must have been staring hard at him, because he gave me an anxious smile and put his hands up. "Yo, I didn't mean nothing by it, dude. I'm sorry."

  He looked so pathetic I didn't have the heart to give him any more shit. I just walked out.

  The truth was, most of the criminals I'd met during the past week at the city and county jails weren't arrogant jerks like Zapper. Most of them, I reflected as I walked up to the house where Pop's prostitute tenants lived, were the most miserable, sorry-ass people you ever saw.

  That certainly was true of the greasy-haired, pallid-faced, forty-something woman who opened the door at the prostitutes' house wearing a shapeless nightgown with what looked like moth holes. She yawned in my face. "Kind of early, ain't it?"

  "Yeah," I said uncertainly, feeling my way.

  "I don't usually work mornings."

  "I don't blame you," I said, trying to be agreeable.

  "It'll cost you double," she said, lazily scratching her crotch as she sized me up. Maybe that was supposed to be sexy, I don't know. "Fifty for a jiffy lube." Jiffy lube? "Hundred for a new muffler." New muffler?

  "Forty's all I got." I reached in my wallet and handed it over. Credit card debt, here I come.

  She stuck out her hand and felt my crotch. "Come on in, big boy," she said.

  Jiffy lube? New muffler?

  "Actually, I was wondering if you recognize this man," I said, showing her the photograph of Cole. She looked down at it and up at me. Then she took her hand off my crotch, swiftly stepped back, and started to shut the door in my face.