“What?”
“What is your name, sir?”
“My name is…John Barnes.”
Billy squatted down next to him. “John Barnes, you say?”
“Yes…yes.”
“Okay. My mistake. For a minute there I thought you were Archbishop Phelan. But this city’s highest-ranking member of my church wouldn’t be soliciting a prostitute. Especially one who, it seems to me, is underage. Because that’s worse than a prostitution beef. That’s statutory rape.”
“Oh, no. Oh, God. Oh, God, help me…”
“Yeah, so good thing you’re John Barnes instead.”
Billy backed up and peeked out into the hallway. By now it was filled with police. He motioned over a uniform to secure his room.
Detective Soscia, stepping out of another room, nodded to Billy. “The mayor wants to speak with the man in charge,” he said, a smile spreading across his face.
Billy popped his head inside. The mayor, Francis Delaney, was sitting upright against the bed, a sheet wrapped around his waist, his hands cuffed behind him, what remained of the hair atop his head sticking nearly straight up. His ruddy complexion was flushed, maybe from the sex but more likely from the humiliation that was quickly enveloping him.
“You’re the detective in charge?” the mayor asked.
“I am.”
“Could you close the door?”
Billy shrugged. “I could, but I won’t. You already had your jollies tonight. And no offense, but you’re not my type.”
The mayor didn’t see the humor in Billy’s remark. “This is…this is a sensitive situation.”
“For one of us it is.”
“Well—I was wondering if I could get any consideration here.”
“Consideration? I consider you a moron for putting your job in jeopardy for some cheap thrills. I consider you a selfish asswipe for betraying the people who elected you. Will that do it?”
The mayor dropped his head. “I’m a good mayor for this city. I am.”
“You mean when you’re not cutting coppers’ pensions to balance the budget?”
The mayor looked up, sensing an opening. “Maybe we should talk about that,” he said.
“Sure. Let’s grab coffee sometime.”
“No. I mean—maybe that’s something you and I could work out right now.”
Billy squatted down so he was face-to-face with the mayor. “Are you saying if I let you walk, you’ll change your position on our pensions?”
The mayor, ever the politician, his chubby, round face gaining fresh color, looked hopefully into Billy’s eyes. “Well, what if I did say that?” he asked.
“If you said that,” said Billy, “I’d arrest you for attempted bribery, too.”
Billy left the room and found Sosh, a sheen of sweat across his prominent forehead, jacked up over the night’s events. “And here I thought this would be a boring stakeout,” he said. “Wanna go meet the manager of this place? She makes Heidi Fleiss look like a Girl Scout.”
Seven
BILLY SPENT the next hour overseeing the cleanup. Making sure the scene downstairs was captured on video, getting each arrestee on camera, processing names (shockingly, several people gave false ones), and beginning the search for records inside the brownstone.
Once the arrestees were all inside the paddy wagon and the uniforms had their marching orders, Billy found himself with Sosh on the main floor.
“The manager,” Billy said. “Let’s go see her.”
Coming down the stairs, just as they were heading up, was Goldie—Lieutenant Mike Goldberger, Billy’s favorite person on the force, his “rabbi,” his confidant, one of the only people he truly trusted.
“There you are,” Goldie said, slapping his hand into Billy’s. “Big night for you. Just wanted to say congrats. Thought you’d be up there taking the praise.”
“Up there?”
“Oh, yeah. The deputy supe’s up there.”
“He is?”
“Sure. This thing is spreading like wildfire. The Wiz is making it sound like he spearheaded the whole thing. You’d think it was a one-man show starring him.”
“What a prick,” said Sosh.
“Get up there,” said Goldie. “Get some spotlight. I tried to throw your name in there, but the Wiz has sharp elbows. Congrats, again, my boy.”
Gotta love Goldie. Billy and Sosh headed upstairs.
On the top floor, as Goldie said, the deputy superintendent of police was beaming widely, shaking the Wiz’s hand, the other hand clapped on the Wiz’s shoulder. The deputy supe was passed over for the top job by the mayor, so he wouldn’t be the least bit unhappy at seeing the mayor get pinched. No cop would be after the mayor tried to cut police pensions.
The Wiz nodded at Billy and Sosh but didn’t say anything, didn’t acknowledge them to the deputy supe. Sosh mumbled something unflattering under his breath, but Billy didn’t really care. Do your job. Keep it simple.
They passed by an office, and Billy stopped briefly and looked in. It was immaculate—a beautiful maple desk with several stacks of papers, neatly organized, on top. But no computer. Kate was in there with a number of uniforms, searching the place high and low, opening every cabinet, leafing through the pages of books on the shelves, pulling back the carpet, everything.
“How we doin’?” Billy called out.
Katie walked up to him. “You know the Wiz is over there taking all the credit for the bust.”
Billy shrugged. “Did you find anything in the office?”
She shook her head. “No records. No computer. The paper shredder’s even empty. There’s a lot of cash, but that’s it.”
Not terribly surprising. Computer records were almost as bad as e-mails and text messages—once created, they could never be truly erased. These guys were pros. They would have records, of course, but only of the pencil-and-paper variety.
“No little black book?” Billy asked.
Katie shook her head. “No little black book. There’s gotta be one. But it’s not here.”
Billy nodded toward the next room. “Let’s go meet the manager.”
They moved one room over, where Crowley was sitting with a woman who didn’t look very happy. She was a nice-looking woman, middle-aged, thin, with bleached blond hair. She was wearing a sharp blue suit.
“Meet Ramona Dillavou,” said Crowley, who looked like he was up past his bedtime, which he probably was. “She’s the manager of this place. Isn’t that right, Ramona?”
“Fuck you,” she said, crossing her arms. “I don’t have to say shit to you.”
“I read her her rights,” said Crowley, rolling his eyes. “I have a feeling she already knew ’em.”
Billy approached the woman. “Where’s your computer?” he asked.
“I don’t have to answer that.”
“I’m gonna find it anyway. Better if you tell me.” Billy removed a small pad of paper from his inside pocket, a pen clipped to it. “I’ll even make a note that you were cooperative. And I’ll draw a smiley face next to it.”
“Fuck you,” she said.
“Then how about your book?”
“Which book is that? My Bible?”
“C’mon.” Katie kicked a leg on the woman’s chair, turning her slightly askew. “Tell us.”
“I don’t have a computer. I don’t have a book.”
“Listen, lady,” Katie said.
“My name’s not Lady. My name’s Ramona. And I’ll call you cop slut.”
Sosh bit his knuckle. Katie was not the right gal to piss off.
“Never mind,” said Ramona. “You probably couldn’t even get a cop to fuck you.”
Billy winced. Sosh squeezed his eyes shut.
“I see your point,” said Katie. “On the other hand…”
Katie slapped the woman hard across the face, knocking her from the chair.
“That was my other hand,” she said.
Billy inserted himself between Katie and the woman, now on t
he floor. “Get some air,” he said to Katie.
“I’ll fucking sue!” Ramona cried. “I’ll sue your slut ass!”
Billy offered his hand to the woman. She gave him a long glare before she took it and got back in the chair. “Ramona,” he said, “we can tear this place apart looking for it, or you can tell us where it is and we won’t have to. Now, I know you have a boss. You think he’s gonna be happy with you if you make us break through walls and rip up carpets?”
A little good cop, bad cop. It was only a cliché because it was true.
Ramona, still smarting from the slap, a sizable welt on her cheek, shook her head as if exhausted. “You’re not gonna find a little black book,” she said.
“We’ll search your house next. We’ll have no choice.”
“I want a lawyer,” she said.
Et voilà! Thus endeth the conversation.
“Keep the uniforms here until they find it,” said Billy to Sosh. “Let’s find a judge and get a warrant for her house. We’ll find that little black book sooner or later.”
Eight
A BIG bust, so a big night out to follow. Billy and Kate went to the Hole in the Wall, a cop bar off Rockwell near the Brown Line stop. A couple of retired coppers bought the Hole ten years ago, cleaned it up, got word out about giving cops discounts on drinks, and the place thrived from day one. A few years ago they set up a stage in the corner and put up a microphone and sponsored an open-mike night that was so popular it turned into a regular thing. Now the place drew more than cops and the badge bunnies who followed them; some people came for the comedy. A lot of people, Billy included, thought this place rivaled the comedy clubs on Wells Street.
When Kate and Billy walked in, they were greeted like royalty. The two of them were quickly separated in the rugby scrum, everyone grabbing Billy, slapping him on the back, putting him in a headlock, lifting him off his feet with bear hugs, messing up his hair, shoving shots of bourbon or tequila in front of him—which he accepted, of course, because he wouldn’t want to be rude. By the time he and Kate had found a table, he was half drunk, his hair was mussed like a little kid’s, and he was pretty sure he’d pulled a muscle or two.
“I think they heard about the arrests,” he said to Kate, who was similarly disheveled.
Two pints of ale appeared in front of them on the tall table, with a stern direction that their money was “no good here tonight.” Billy raised the pint and took a long swig, savored it. Yeah, it was a big night. The reporters were all over it. The archbishop? The mayor of Chicago? Too big for anyone to pass up. Half the cops in the joint right now were passing around smartphones, reading news articles and Facebook and Twitter posts. The mayor hadn’t been friendly to the cops’ union or to their pensions, so nobody was shedding a tear over his downfall. The archbishop—that was another story. Some people were upset, especially the devout Catholics on the force, of whom there were many, while others used the opportunity to rain some cynical sarcasm down on the Church, some of which bordered on the politically incorrect. Several cops noted that at least this time, a priest was caught with a female, not an altar boy.
Kate was enjoying herself. She was an action junkie, much more so than Billy. If you gave that woman a desk job, she’d put a gun to her head within the hour. She enjoyed detective work, but she really enjoyed the busts, the confrontations, the thrill of the moment. She became a cop for the right reasons, the good-versus-evil thing, but it was more than that for her. It was a contact sport.
He looked at her standing by the table they’d secured, her eyes up on the TV screen in the corner, which was running constant coverage of the arrests. She was wearing a thin, low-cut sweater and tight blue jeans. She cut quite a figure. She’d been a volleyball star at SIU and, more than ten years later, still had her athletic physique. The tae kwon do and boxing classes she took probably helped, too. So did the half marathons she ran. Sometimes Billy got tired just thinking about all the stuff Kate did.
But not tonight. He wasn’t tired. He was buzzing, like Kate, from the arrests. He always told himself that one arrest was like another—do your job, regardless—but he couldn’t deny himself a small thrill after the action tonight.
People kept coming up to him, offering their congrats and their jokes about the mayor and archbishop, which grew cruder as the booze continued to flow. At one point he turned toward Kate and saw Wizniewski, the Wiz, with his arm around her and whispering into her ear. Kate had a smile planted on her face, but Billy knew her as well as anyone did. He could see from her stiff body language and forced grin that she would sooner have an enema than deal with the Wiz’s flirtation.
Oh, the Wiz. The same guy who tried to talk Billy down from executing the arrests in the first place, the politician who was afraid that this bust might upset the status quo, who turned around and took full credit with the deputy superintendent, and here he was yucking it up with the brass as if he were just one of the guys.
“There you are. The man of the hour.”
Mike Goldberger—Goldie—in the flesh. Goldie was a pretty low-key guy who, unlike Billy and his pals, didn’t do a lot of drinking and carousing, so it was unusual to see him at the Hole.
“Don’t get too drunk,” he said, wagging a finger at Billy. “You could be part of a presser tomorrow.”
It had occurred to Billy that the press conferences would continue over the next few days, but he was pretty sure Wizniewski would be the one standing behind the police superintendent, not him.
“How you feelin’ about everything?” Goldie asked. “Tonight. The bust go okay?”
Billy nodded. “I think so. Pretty by-the-book. No question I had PC.”
“Okay.” Goldie didn’t seem surprised. Probable cause to search was a low barrier. “Nothing unusual?”
“The mayor tried to bribe me.”
Goldie recoiled. “Seriously?”
“Well, he was on his way to it. He said maybe we could work on that pension problem we have. Maybe, if I let him walk out the back door, he’d change his mind on cutting our cost-of-living adjustments.”
“You shoulda said yes,” Goldie said with a straight face.
“I tried to work in some free Hawks tickets for myself.”
“Don’t even…” Goldie drew him close. “Don’t even joke about that.”
“I know, I know.”
“I know you know, but—Billy, seriously. This could get ugly.” He lowered his chin, looked up at Billy. “Some of the city’s most powerful people got mud splashed on ’em tonight, and if you haven’t noticed, people with power don’t like to let go of it. They’ll do whatever they have to do. They’ll go after whoever they have to go after. Including the cops.”
“Fuck ’em.”
“I’m already hearing questions,” he said. “Questions about the inventory of evidence. Questions like ‘Where’s the little black book?’ How could that have disappeared?”
“We searched that house top to bottom. There isn’t—”
“Christ, I know that, Billy. I’m on your side.”
That much Billy knew. Goldie had been Billy’s guardian angel since he joined the force. Maybe Goldie was overreacting. But he had a nose for this kind of thing in the department.
“Watch yourself,” Goldie said, whispering into Billy’s ear. “From here on out, drive the speed limit. Help little old ladies across the street. Rescue drowning puppies from Lake Michigan.”
He gave Billy a firm pat on the chest.
“You’re under a magnifying glass, my friend,” he said. “Don’t give anyone a reason to burn you.”
Nine
PATTI HARNEY watched her brother Billy stumble toward the makeshift stage in the corner of the Hole in the Wall. He was the man of the hour, though he didn’t seek out the spotlight. He never did. She couldn’t remember one time in their lives when Billy tried to call attention to himself or bragged or promoted himself. The attention just seemed to come naturally. People gravitated to her twin brother in a way
they never did to her.
A couple of cops practically pushed Billy to the microphone. He wasn’t at his best tonight—a half dozen shots of bourbon and a handful of beers was probably a low estimate—but everything Billy did seemed effortless. Like this, for example: grabbing a mike and telling jokes off the top of his head. Patti would be absolutely terrified of doing something like that, but Billy had a what-the-fuck attitude about the whole thing. Did they really come out of the same birth canal seven minutes apart?
“I’m Harney,” Billy said into the mike as the crowd quieted. “You know you got to laugh sometimes. Or you’ll go fucking nuts in this town. Let’s do a little laughing.”
“You the man!” said one of the cops standing just a few feet away from Billy, a patrol officer who worked the West Side, a man who looked like he doubled as a bodybuilder. Billy waved the guy up on stage. Whatever the burly officer might have been wearing when he arrived at the bar earlier tonight, he was now down to a tight white undershirt that showed off his ripped muscles and his shiny bald head.
Billy put his arm around the guy. “I’d like to thank Mr. Clean for coming tonight,” he said.
The crowd roared. Some of the younger cops probably didn’t get the reference.
“Mr.—can I call you Mr.? Mr. here has been fighting grime in this city for decades.”
How does he improvise like that? Patti wondered. She made her way through the crowd and found Detective Katherine Fenton, who was standing by a tall table, laughing and watching her partner up on stage.
“Hey, Kate,” said Patti.
Kate’s expression broke just slightly, betraying her reaction before she recovered and smiled vaguely. “Hi, Patti.”
On the surface, Katherine Fenton was a good partner for Billy. They smoothed out each other’s edges. Kate was intense and aggressive, while Billy was laid-back, less defensive, more self-assured, always searching for the humor in a situation.
But Patti and Kate—they’d never hit it off. It was hard for Patti to pin down why. Patti was always polite with Kate, never spoke a harsh word to her. She couldn’t name one thing she’d ever done that would make Kate dislike her.