by Tami Hoag
“That would be a no,” Kovac said. “We’ll need the names and contact information of the workers.”
“Yeah, sure,” Franken said, but he looked down at the ashtray as he said it, crushing out his cigarette.
“What kind of guys do you have working for you?” Kovac asked.
“They’re decent guys, hard workers.”
“Cream of the crop?”
“If they were the cream of the crop, they’d be working for better pay than I can afford.”
“Are they all on the books?”
“Absolutely,” he said, shaking another cigarette out of the pack.
“And they’ve all had background checks?”
“Yep.”
Meaning no one would be able to prove otherwise. Franken would give them the names of the guys that were legit, not the ones he paid in cash under the table.
Kovac sighed. “You know, Dan, we don’t have time to monkey-fuck around here. We’re looking for a murderer. Now, I can go back downtown and waste an hour writing an affidavit, find a judge, get a search warrant, get pissed off, come back here, and turn this rat’s nest inside out just for kicks and giggles, and you’ll spend the next six months trying to put all your files back together, or you can tell us the truth.”
Franken’s expression didn’t change. His eyes went still, lids half lowered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Let’s take him downtown, Sarge,” Taylor suggested, impatient. “He can sit in the box and think about it while we get the warrants.” He turned back to Franken. “You’ve got your equipment here? I saw your name on the big overhead doors on the next unit. We should probably get warrants for that space, too, Sarge. Who knows what he might keep in there.”
“Oh jeez,” Kovac grumbled. “It could take days to inventory all this shit. Days and days of no business for Mr. Franken. All those Handy Dandy customers waiting will have to look elsewhere for their home maintenance needs. And then, depending on what we find . . .”
“I’ll sue,” Franken said.
Kovac shrugged. “That’s not our department. We’re just trying to solve a brutal double homicide that’s all over the news. If you want your name attached to that story as an uncooperative person of interest, that’s your choice.”
Franken looked away, the muscles in his jaw working. He swore under his breath. “I’m just a taxpayer trying to run a business.”
“I appreciate that,” Kovac said. “And we’re not the business police. I personally don’t give a shit if you’ve dotted all your i’s and crossed all your t’s on your license application. But I’m gonna care a whole lot if you lie to me and a killer runs loose because of it.
“Now, you’ve got a drug rehab right around the corner,” he went on. “I’m willing to bet a few of the fine upstanding citizens who attend group therapy and whatnot there need to pick up a little pocket money now and again. Am I right?”
He could see Franken weighing his options, and not liking any of them.
“And I’m thinking it doesn’t take a master carpenter to clean the crap out of rain gutters,” Kovac said. “Where’s the harm in throwing a few bucks to a guy down on his luck?”
Franken ran a hand back over his thinning dark hair. “What happens to me if it turns out I hired a guy who did . . . something . . . bad?”
“From where we stand? Nothing—unless you sent him there specifically to do harm. On the other hand, hindering a police investigation will get your ass thrown in jail.”
Franken swore again and rubbed a big hand across his face. He pushed away from the desk and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He wanted to pace, but there was no room to do it.
Kovac knew the feeling. He was losing patience, himself. He stepped a little closer to Franken. “If your guy is our guy, and he’s out there right now killing someone else? I will do everything in my power to get you charged as an accessory. How’s that for upping the ante, Dan? You can lose everything and spend the next twenty years in prison, or you can answer us honestly.”
“Fuck this,” Taylor muttered, scowling. He pulled a pair of handcuffs out and moved toward Franken.
Franken held his hands up. “Okay, okay! Yes, I sometimes pick up extra guys from the rehab. I’m a recovering alcoholic myself. I believe in second chances. Is that a crime?”
“I don’t have a problem with that, Dan,” Kovac said, stepping back, lessening the pressure. “It’s karmic. Somebody helped you out, you pay it forward, and the universe lets you save a few bucks. It’s all good—except that you don’t check these guys out, do you?”
He couldn’t look Kovac in the eye. “I’m a good judge of character.”
“They’re addicts. How do you know how recovered they are?” Taylor asked, irritably. “Or what they might have done when they were using? And you’re sending them into people’s homes?”
“Desperate people do desperate things, Dan,” Kovac said. “Drunks don’t generally steal, but drug addicts will do just about anything to get a few bucks for a fix—sell their own body, sell their own kids. I once got a call-out on a guy who tried to cut off his own arm with a chainsaw just to get the pain meds. Stealing is the least of it.”
“Yeah? Well, that’s not who I pick,” Franken barked back.
“No?” Kovac said. “You’re a fucking mind reader? Look at my partner here,” he said, hooking a thumb at Taylor. “Good-looking kid. Nice suit. Polite. Do you think he’s a killer? He doesn’t look like a killer. He looks like freaking Channing Tatum. Do you think Channing Tatum is a killer?”
Franken just glared at him.
“Why would anybody that good-looking and clean-cut be a killer? Right? What’s he got to be pissed off about?” Kovac looked at Taylor. “Kid, how many people have you killed?”
“Seventeen, Sarge,” Taylor answered without the slightest hesitation, his green eyes narrowed and unblinking as he stared at Franken.
Kovac shrugged. “I rest my case. Now, who did you send to the Chamberlain house?”
Franken sighed. “One of my regular guys, Greg Verzano—he’s an idiot, but he’s not a killer—and a guy who works at Rising Wings. He’s a good guy,” he insisted. “He’s a vet. He had a drug problem, went through the program, and now he works there. They hired him; why shouldn’t I? I’ve never had any trouble with him.”
“Name?”
“Gordon Krauss. He’s not your guy. I’m telling you.”
“What does he do at the rehab?” Taylor asked.
“Odd jobs. Security. Janitor-type stuff.”
“Have you seen him today?”
“No, but he’s probably over there now. He stays there nights. They’ve gotten broken into a couple of times.”
“Surprise, surprise,” Taylor muttered, turning for the door. “I’ll start the car,” he said to Kovac on his way out.
“You stay here,” Kovac said, pointing at Franken. “And don’t even think about tipping Krauss off.”
The steady drizzle had picked up, Kovac noticed as he left Franken’s office and got back in the car.
“I called for backup,” Taylor said, putting the car in gear. “They’re three minutes out.”
Kovac looked over at him in the glow of the dash lights. “Have you really killed seventeen people?”
Taylor didn’t answer.
They drove slowly, with no headlights on, around the end of the building to the double row of parking in front of Rising Wings. The rehab took up an entire fifty-by-one-hundred-foot building, the last building at the back of the complex. Twenty yards beyond it stood a tall security fence, and beyond that, a lot full of RVs, fifth-wheel campers; pleasure boats on trailers, all covered with tarps for the winter. Security lights scattered sparingly across the lot cast glowing white balls of light that didn’t travel far in the rain.
Warmer lights glowed through the shades in a couple of Rising Wings’s windows, and several cars were parked near the building, but there was no way of knowing how many peo
ple might be inside. The building had multiple doors, one on each end and two along the side, probably on both sides. Kovac wanted the exits covered before they approached.
“I don’t want to just sit here,” Taylor said impatiently, opening the car door. “What if he comes out? I don’t trust Franken not to tip him off.”
“The unit’s two minutes out,” Kovac argued. “They’ll be here before I can get soaked to the skin. And there’s a big-ass fence on the other side of the building. Where’s he gonna go?”
Taylor hummed his disapproval and got out of the car, leaving the door ajar. Kovac grumbled and got out, hunching his shoulders and flipping the collar of his coat up in a vain effort to keep the cold rain off his neck. Damn kid. “I’ll watch this side,” he said with resignation. “You take the back.”
Taylor hadn’t taken ten steps toward the building when a figure dashed out of the shadows, running hard for the fence.
“Well, shit!” Kovac snapped.
Taylor bolted, covering ground like a racehorse, yelling, “Stop! Police!”
The runner hit the chain link about a third of the way up. Taylor caught him by one leg and the back of his coat and yanked him down. They hit the asphalt with a thud.
Kovac hustled toward them, drawing his weapon, yelling, “Give it up! We’ve got you!”
We. Like he was in the mix.
The two men rolled and scrambled on the ground. In the pale glow of a distant security light, Kovac couldn’t make out one from the other. He was still thirty feet away. Someone threw a punch. Someone threw an elbow. One grunted, one cursed. Then they were both on their feet, heads together, arms tangled, pushing and pulling as they staggered one way and then the other. Then one broke free, spun around, and kicked the other in the head like something from a Bruce Lee movie.
One man went down like a felled tree.
The other man ran down the fence line, then skidded around the corner of a building and out of sight. By the time Kovac turned the corner, their bad guy had disappeared. Shit. He could continue blind pursuit and get himself coldcocked or worse, or he could turn it over to the uniforms that were just pulling up alongside his unmarked unit.
Huffing and puffing, sucking the cold, wet air into his burning lungs, Kovac turned around. Taylor was staggering to his feet, grabbing hold of the fence to steady himself. Kovac walked past him and went first to the radio car. He sent them running in the direction their escapee had gone, then got on the radio and called for additional units, one of which was to pick up Daniel Franken and take him downtown. Asshole. He could sit in a windowless room for a few hours contemplating the wisdom of tipping off Gordon Krauss.
“I’m getting too old for this,” Kovac said as he walked up to Taylor. “If the Grim Reaper comes chasing me, he can just kill me and be done with it. I’m not spending my last waking moments running. Fuck that shit.”
Taylor turned away and puked on the ground.
“You okay, Stench?”
“Great. I hear bells ringing,” he said loudly.
“Maybe you should go sit down, kid.”
“I’m fine.”
“Stubborn stupidity is an excellent quality to have on this job,” Kovac said. “But if you collapse and die from a brain aneurysm, that’s a shitload of paperwork on me.”
“I’m fine,” Taylor said again.
Kovac shook his head. “Great. I’m going in the rehab and find somebody to talk to about this yahoo. You go redeem yourself, Captain America.”
Lights glowed in one of the windows about halfway down the length of the Rising Wings building. Kovac went to the door nearest, rang the buzzer, and knocked.
“Police! Open up!”
He repeated the process twice before a dark, bearded face appeared in the sidelight next to the door. “Can I see a badge?” the man called through the glass. His eyes shifted toward the patrol car in the parking lot.
Kovac pulled his ID and held it up.
“Hey, sorry,” the man said, pushing the door open. He was short and pudgy in corduroy pants and an untucked flannel shirt. A pair of reading glasses perched atop his bald head. “You wouldn’t believe the stuff that goes on out here at night.”
“Yeah, actually, I would,” Kovac grumbled. “Who are you?”
“Owen Rucker. I’m the assistant director. What’s going on out there?”
“Do you have a man named Gordon Krauss working for you?”
Rucker’s open, friendly face closed a little with concern. “Why do you want to know?”
“I get to ask the questions, Mr. Rucker. I have a feeling you probably know how that works.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I doubt I’m the first cop who ever came here looking for someone. Let’s try this again. Do you have a Gordon Krauss working here?”
“Yes. But—”
“Is he here tonight?”
“I saw him a while ago. His room is down the hall.”
“Mind if we have a look?”
“I do mind. I’m not letting you rifle through someone’s personal stuff. Ask Gordon yourself.”
“I don’t think he’s in,” Kovac said. “But let’s go see.”
Rucker led the way down the hall, turned the corner, and knocked on a door.
“Hey, Gordon? You in there?” he asked, and knocked again, frowning at the implication that Kovac knew something he didn’t. He tried the doorknob and breathed in relief when he found it locked.
“Can we have a seat in your office, Mr. Rucker?” Kovac asked. “I have a few questions.”
They went back the way they had come, and into the assistant director’s small office, where music was playing over the computer speakers and the desk was awash in files and forms.
“I had the evening group session,” Rucker said. “I decided I’d stay and catch up on some paperwork.”
He took his seat and turned the music down, motioning Kovac to a chair. “What’s this all about?”
“Mr. Krauss recently did some work for Handy Dandy Home Services. We need to ask him a few questions about that job.”
“You don’t think he’s done something wrong, do you? I’ve known Gordon for two years. He’s a good guy. I trust him enough to have him here overnight.”
“Do you know any reason he would feel the need to run from us?” Kovac asked. “Because someone just did, and I think it’s him, and now I’ve got half the cops on the North Side coming here to look for him.”
“What? I don’t understand any of this. What do you think he did?”
“Has he been in trouble with the police before?”
“Not since I’ve known him.”
“Do you have an address on file for him?”
“This is his address.”
“The sign says this is an outpatient facility.”
“It is. Gordon was staying in a shelter downtown before he came to us. The director is a friend of ours. We try to take a couple clients out of the shelters for every thirty or so paying customers.”
“You get some kind of county money for that?”
Rucker shook his head. “Not for that. We take a certain amount of clients from the county. The rest are private clients, men and women from all walks of life. Our big boss foots the bill for our shelter guys through his own charitable foundation. Less red tape. Plus, he’s a veteran himself. He knows the last thing some of these vets want is to deal with the government. They’ve been screwed over too many times as it is.”
“That’s decent of him. Then you hire some of these guys after they make it through the program?”
“We’ve got connections all over. We try to hook the vets up if we can.”
“So Krauss is employed by Rising Wings—”
“No. It’s a straight-up trade. He helps us, and we help him.”
“Uncle Sam would be unhappy to know he’s not getting anything out of that deal.”
“He already got everything he’s getting out of Gordon. I’ve seen too man
y of these guys come back from this or that hellhole and get jack shit for their trouble. It’s disgraceful. We ought to send Congress to war and treat them like how these kids get treated when they come back.”
“If we sent Congress to war, we’d all be speaking English as a second language,” Kovac said.
Rucker laughed. “True, that!”
“So, tell me about Mr. Krauss. What was his self-medication of choice?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Sure you can,” Kovac said. “You’re not a doctor or a priest, and he’s not a patient or a penitent. This is not a medical facility or a church. And I’m not looking to bust him for drugs, anyway. I just want to know who I’m dealing with.”
Rucker looked unhappy, but he answered anyway. “Whatever he could get. Oxycodone, weed, booze. Whatever he could get his hands on to dull the pain.”
“He has physical problems?”
“The worst pain isn’t in the bones, Detective. It’s in the heart. It’s in the mind.”
“Is he clean now?”
“As of his last drug test.”
“When was that?”
“Five weeks ago.”
“Has he stayed clean since he got here?”
“He was clean for almost a year. He fell off the wagon around the holidays last year,” Rucker confessed. “You know, it’s a tough season. Short days, long nights, the weather, all the Happy Holidays bullshit. It’s hard for people who don’t have family.”
And here they were again a year later, Kovac thought. Short days, long nights, shitty weather, Christmas ads running roughshod over Thanksgiving, all the pressure to be happy and nostalgic and part of a loving family unit. He hated it himself.
“So I was told you had a couple of break-ins and that prompted you to have Mr. Krauss stay here nights? What was stolen?”
“Electronics. Some cash out of people’s desks. Stuff that could be sold quick and easy.”
“For drugs.”
“Probably.”
“You reported these break-ins?”
“No,” Rucker said. “You have to understand, trust is a big part of what we do here. If our clients are on edge, worried about the police coming in, we lose ground on what’s most important, which is getting them well.
