by Rick Reed
“Why don’t we go somewhere more private, Mr. Crispino?” Jack said. “And keep your hands where I can see them.”
Crispino said, “Lead on.”
“After you. I insist.” Jack pointed toward the door leading to the detectives’ offices.
Interrogation Room 1 was available. Jack ushered Marty in. Liddell came in and closed the door. Marty retrieved a New York concealed-carry permit and allowed Jack to inspect the weapon, a Beretta 9mm, model 92S. Liddell left long enough to check on the reciprocal agreement between Indiana and New York. Marty was legal. The gun wasn’t stolen.
Preliminaries over, Jack popped the magazine out, worked the slide to be sure there wasn’t one in the pipe, and handed Marty’s gun and magazine back. “I apologize for the cold reception, but as you said, we are pretty busy at the moment. You can reload the gun when you’re out of my sight if you don’t mind. I like knowing which guns are loaded when I’m around someone I don’t know. I’m funny that way.”
Marty put his pistol and permit away. He put the magazine in his coat pocket. “You guys are okay. Thorough—like the cops back home. But nicer. I guess you already figured out that I came here for another reason than to just say hello. I came to ask for your help. I need to find someone. But now I think maybe we can help each other. I know you’re working a murder case. Maybe I know some things you don’t know. In return, you can help me find that certain someone I came for.”
Chapter 17
Knight was confused and regained consciousness in stages. It was like coming out of the after-surgery fog where the nurse makes sure you can say your name and pee before letting you go home. But if he was in the hospital, his bed was jarring and bumping and jarring and bouncing the side of his head against something hard. The bouncing stopped. He heard a pop and then bright light flooded his vision. He tried to raise a hand to block the light but his arm wouldn’t move. He tried again and realized his wrists were bound behind his back. His knees were drawn up under his chin. He couldn’t move his feet. The light dimmed briefly and he could feel someone was near.
“Who’s there?” Knight asked. He was answered by gasoline being sloshed over his naked body, his hair, running into his eyes and mouth, burning and choking. Panic ripped through him like a knife. “Who are you?” he sputtered through burning lips.
A man’s voice said, “I guess you’re wondering why I asked you here?” A slight chuckle. “I hadn’t planned on taking you this soon, Judge. But I couldn’t pass up the chance.” More cold liquid poured across Knight’s face and eyes. “That was just water. Sorry. I think I got the gas in your eyes. This will help.” More water poured on Knight’s head.
The water didn’t help. Knight’s eyes still burned, but he cracked them open. His vision was blurred but he could make out the outline of a tall man framed above him and he realized he was tied up in the trunk of a car. Knight wasn’t a big man, but the space was a tight fit.
The fumes were making him dizzy, nauseous. The man was speaking again, his lips were moving, but the words were hollow, mere echoes fading in and out. The voice was unthreatening, educated. He tried to place it but he couldn’t. He tried to form words but couldn’t because of the fire burning in his throat.
“Did you want to say something? No? Well, feel free to express yourself. No one will hear, but I’ll listen. Promise.”
Knight heard a click and felt a deep burning sensation run slowly from the top of his cheekbone, dragging down across his teeth and lips and exiting the side of his mouth. The burning in his throat was nothing compared to the flash of burning pain that followed. Knight sucked in breath, the fumes burning deep in his lungs, causing a coughing fit. Bloody froth bubbled through the gaping wound in his cheek.
“You know who I am, Judge.”
Knight fought the urge to cough and squinted his eyes to focus. His eyes widened before clamping tightly shut. There was an almost imperceptible nod of Knight’s head.
“You recognize me. That’s good. I want you to know why you’re going to die.” He buried the knife blade into Knight’s shoulder until it struck bone, then pressed and twisted.
Knight’s scream came out as short squeals. Vomitus spewed out of his nose and through the gaping cut on his face, splattering across his naked knees.
The man closed the knife. “I don’t want you to choke.”
Knight gagged and vomit dribbled down the side of his face. “W-w-why?” he managed to say.
“You’re an educated man, Sam. Every crime must have a punishment. The four monkeys are the crimes. Ten-Tei is the punisher.” He held a small ivory-colored figurine in front of Knight’s eyes and said, “This is Kikazaru. Hear No Evil. As a judge, you’ve heard a lot of evil. You were too late to save her from them but you helped them escape justice. Your job was to protect people. You allowed evil to exist for your own personal gain. You have no dignity. For that I sentence you to death.”
Knight’s mouth was forced open and the monkey shoved deep into his throat. Knight’s eyes bulged, his throat spasmed, his entire body lurched in a futile attempt to expel the blockage that was robbing him of oxygen.
“One more thing, and the Devil can have you,” the man said, and took a heavy iron spike from his pocket. “Hear no evil,” he said, gripped Knight by the throat, and drove the spike into his ear. Knight’s body convulsed once.
Chapter 18
Marty Crispino asked, “Hey, you’re not locking me up, are you?”
“Why?” Jack asked. “Did you do something?”
“I’ll tell you everything I know in exchange for your promise to help me,” Crispino said.
“That depends on who you’re looking for and what you plan on doing with them.”
Crispino said, “Please, call me Uncle Marty. Can I call you Jack and Liddell?”
“No,” Jack said.
“Hey. You won’t have a problem with me. No reason we can’t keep this informal. I only ask—and this part isn’t negotiable—that we go somewhere that I’m not being taped or filmed. I’ve been in police station interrogation rooms before. I don’t want my talking to you to come back and bite me in the patootie.”
“Okay. Uncle Marty. We’ll go to the coffee shop. The mayor’s too cheap to put cameras in every room in the Civic Center.”
“Except in the women’s bathroom. Right?” Marty said and grinned.
Jack was starting to like this guy. They walked down the narrow hallway and into the cafeteria/break room. That’s what the sign over the doorway said, at least.
The room was huge, filled with vending machines, napkins, straws, more vending machines, a couple of trash cans, tables, plastic-and-chrome chairs, even more vending machines, a bill-changer machine, and a homeless guy sleeping in the back of the room.
“We’ve got a place exactly like this back in Boston. Government buildings must come equipped with homeless guys and vending machines.”
“The coffee’s not good, but the food will probably kill you,” Jack said.
A refrigerated vending machine offered cold sandwiches and single-serving soups that were freshly made during WWII. A tiny microwave in a steel frame was bolted to the countertop. No one in their right mind would eat the crap available here. Except Liddell, who, of course, was slipping one-dollar bills into the sandwich and soup machine.
Jack took Marty to one of the tables. They sat and Liddell brought an armload of mini-donuts, SunChips, Fritos, pretzels, and four petrified cold cuts. He laid these in the middle of the table and sat down across from Marty.
Marty put his hands up. “Thanks, but no thanks. I got ptomaine on the flight. If you’re ever in New York or Boston it’ll be my treat. Is the coffee safe?”
Liddell got up again and headed to the coffee machine. Jack pulled his chair up closer to the table and said, “Uncle Marty. Tell me what you have for us and I’ll decide if we can help you.”
Liddell came back with three coffees and a pocketful of cream and sugar packets.
Marty said, “I came here to see Franco Caparelli. He goes by Sonny.”
Without a pause Jack asked, “You know he’s dead, right?”
“Yeah. I found out when I landed.”
“It hasn’t been on the news,” Jack said.
“You got your sources, I got mine,” Marty said. His eyes narrowed. End of discussion.
“Why would Sonny Caparelli interest you, Marty?” Jack asked.
“Okay. Here’s where I tell you something and you get out the handcuffs and off we go. If you think it’s important and help me out, I’ll tell you everything.”
Jack made a mental note that twice now Marty Crispino had mentioned being locked up. Guilty mind? Or just guilty? He’d have to find out when Marty had really arrived in Evansville.
“We’re listening,” Jack said. Even Liddell was interested now. The snacks and sandwiches had gone untouched.
“Sonny owes a guy I work for. I came here to work out payment arrangements.”
“How much?” Jack asked.
“Let’s just say it’s a lot of money. Sonny paid back some of it, but there’s an outstanding balance due, if you get my meaning.”
“Was he supposed to be making a payment last night?” Jack asked.
“I wasn’t in Evansville last night,” Marty said without any hesitation. “I was going to…”
“Surprise him?” Jack finished for him.
“I know what you’re thinking.” Marty took his airline ticket from his jacket on the table. It was an open-ended round-trip ticket from Boston to Evansville, dated today. He’d arrived in Evansville several hours ago.
“You can check with the airport. I picked up my gun there maybe three hours ago.”
“We will,” Jack said. “Continue.”
“Okay. Sonny still owes my boss five hundred big ones.”
Liddell whistled. “I can see why it was worth your trip out here.”
“I wasn’t going to shoot him,” Marty said. “I brought my gun for protection. I mean, Sonny’s a cop. I believe in keeping balance in a discussion involving five hundred grand. My mama always said, ‘Never bring just your mouth to a gunfight’.”
Jack countered with, “My mom said, ‘You get farther with a kind word and a gun than just a kind word’.”
Marty snickered and Jack asked, “Who do you need our help finding?”
Marty pulled a picture from his suit coat and slid it across the table between Jack and Liddell. “This is—”
“Vincent Sullis,” Liddell said.
Marty tapped the photo with a finger. “You met him already?”
“Before we answer your questions, maybe you should tell us why Sully is here,” Jack said.
Marty thought it over. “Sully indirectly works for my boss. He’s a close friend of Sonny’s and a second signature on the loan. When I got here and heard Sonny was dead, I called my people and they checked on Sully’s whereabouts. He wasn’t in Boston. I figured he must be here.”
And you just happened to be carrying a picture of him. And a gun. “Would he know Sonny’s loan was due?” Jack asked.
“Sully was in a position to know,” Marty said. “Maybe my employer sent him ahead of me.”
“You just said you came here to collect a debt. If your boss sent you, wouldn’t you know if he also sent Sully?”
Uncle Marty said, “My boss doesn’t tell me everything.”
“When exactly did you hear Sonny was dead?” Jack asked.
“I told you. Someone called me when I landed at your airport. It doesn’t matter who, unless you think I killed him.”
“Did you?” Jack asked, not missing a beat.
“I don’t even know the guy personally,” Marty said. “If that’s not plain enough for you, no, I didn’t kill him. Pinky swear.”
“I had to ask.”
Jack didn’t ask, but he was pretty sure Uncle Marty had another picture in his pocket. This one of Sonny.
“I knew you would ask. Getting back to a topic that won’t get me arrested, Sonny and Sully were partners on Boston PD. They went their separate ways, but stayed friends.”
“Old news,” Jack said.
“Okay, here’s something you don’t know. For this I expect a trade.”
“If you’ve got something I need,” Jack said.
“Not good enough,” Marty said. “With Sonny dead, I’d think you’d be wanting to talk to Sully. But maybe you don’t care what I know. Eh?”
Jack said nothing and Liddell tore open a pack of powdered-sugar mini-donuts. He offered one to Marty.
Marty declined and said, “Both Sully and I work for a guy in Boston who owns a couple casinos. Atlantic City, Missouri, even the one you got here. The Blue Star, right?”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “They’ve got more money than God. Does Sonny’s death have something to do with the casino?” Jack asked.
“You get right to the point,” Marty said. He picked up a donut, turned it over, put it down and wiped the powder off his fingers with a napkin.
Liddell asked, “If you’re not going to eat those, do you mind if I have the rest?”
Marty pushed the package across the table to Liddell. He ran a hand through his slicked-back hair and wiped his palm on his suit pants. “I’m not saying it has a direct connection to the casino and I’m not saying it don’t. I’m simply telling you Sonny borrowed five hundred thousand from my employer via the casino operations to facilitate his move to Evansville. I know Sonny’s got expensive tastes that his pay doesn’t half cover. He has a house here that’s worth close to what he owes us. He’s got a boat worth forty thousand or more. I did my due diligence before I came.”
“So you’re casino muscle?” Jack asked.
“Crispino muscle,” Liddell said.
“You make jokes, but I’m not a leg breaker like you are suggesting, my friend. My job is to make sure people are aware they have to pay. Do I think Sonny’s death has something to do with the money he owes? Truth is, I don’t really know. To be brutally honest, him dying doesn’t get my employer a penny. We don’t make money off dead guys. That’s lawyers.” Marty took a sip of the coffee, grimaced, and took another sip. “Not bad. A little Scotch and it would be—fair.”
Jack said, “A lot of Scotch and it wouldn’t matter.”
Marty toasted Jack with his paper cup and continued. “Let’s start with Sonny. You may not want to hear some of this. Like you know Sonny was with Boston PD. He was a detective with the Vice Unit, and went to the Violent Crimes Unit. But he was on loan sometimes to a special Narcotics task force.”
“Did he work undercover?” Jack asked, and Marty pointed at him.
“Sully was Sonny’s partner. He’s one crazy bastard. Reckless. Know what I mean?”
“Reckless? In what way?” Jack asked.
“Well, for one thing, he’s sexually addicted. He’d put his dick in a knothole. Or another cop’s girlfriend, or wife, or sister, or even his best friend’s girl.”
“I get it,” Jack said. “So what’s your point?”
“Sully’s bipolar too. He’s fine one minute and screaming and tearing ass the next. He hurt a couple of these—ladies—because the hubbies found out Sully was banging them. He didn’t care if the husband watched or not while he beat the women up. You see where I’m going with this now?”
Jack thought he did, but he wanted Marty to say it. He waited.
“Sully was poling Mindy right under Sonny’s nose,” Marty said.
Jack and Liddell were silent.
Marty said, “Oh for God’s sake, I’ll spell it out for you. Sonny gets killed and Sully is here. Mindy gets all the money and property. Sully gets Mindy. Two plus two equals a dead Sonny. Get it?”
Jack asked, “How does that help Sully if he’s co-signer on the money owed to your employer?”
“I lied,” Marty said. “He’s not a real co-signer, but he vouched for Sonny. I guess you could say he would be on the spot to repay the money. Sully was supposed to come here to get the money for our employer.”
Jack asked, “How do you know all of this?”
“I know lots of things,” Marty said. “For example, I know that Sonny resigned from Boston PD five years ago and moved here. I know he worked here for the Federal Drug Task Force. He’s a sergeant, which means he is in charge of operations. He’s got to be good at what he does to keep a job like that. On the other hand, there’s Sully. His old partner with the one-eyed roving monster in his pants. Within a week of Sonny retiring from BPD, Sully puts his papers in, goes to law school, becomes a defense attorney of all things, and stays in Boston. He ends up working for my boss.”
Jack remembered Sully telling him that he had resigned first and that was the reason for Sonny’s quitting and moving away. Everyone was lying. What a surprise.
“Now Sully’s defending the same guys he used to arrest,” Marty continued. “That didn’t make him popular with the boys in blue. He might as well have a target on his back. But…”
“But what?” Jack asked.
“But you guys play it mostly by the rules. You got to read someone their Miranda rights before putting a bullet in their brainpan,” Marty said, and smirked. “At least most of the time. Am I right?”
“I think our conversation is over, Mr. Crispino,” Jack said and rose to his feet.
“Sorry for that. I just admire anyone that can do the job you guys do. So, I’ll get to the end of my story and you decide if you owe me.” Marty took a sip of the now-cold coffee. “Did Sully tell you why he’s here?”
“He said he’s Mindy’s lawyer,” Jack said. “He’s being supportive.”
“You haven’t asked me why Sonny and Sully retired from a promising career with Boston PD,” Marty said. “You woulda found out when you checked out these guys’ history—and I know you guys woulda done that.”
