Hooligans

  "That gun was stolen from me months ago," he squealed.

  "Tell it to the judge," I said.

  "Let me see that," he demanded.

  "When we get downtown," I said. "You want to book the man, Stick?"

  "Delighted," he said, grinning, "What's the charge?"

  "Murder in the first," I said. "Let's go all the way."

  Stick took off his hat and peered into it. He had a list of rights printed on a card taped to the inside of the crown and started reading them to Donleavy.

  "You have a right to remain silent—"

  Donleavy swatted the hat out of his hands. "The hell with that," he snarled, reaching for the phone.

  I laid a forefinger on the receiver. "You can make your call from the tank like everybody else does," I said.

  The Stick took out a pair of cuffs and twisted Donleavy rudely around. "Normally we wouldn't need these," he said quietly in Donleavy's ear as he snapped on the cuffs. "That was a mistake, doing that thing with my hat. Your manners are for shit."

  "Hell," I said, "we all make mistakes. Look at poor old Harry, he wrote his own epitaph: 'Here lies Harry Raines. He trusted the wrong man.'"

  Donleavy was smart enough to keep his mouth shut. We escorted him downstairs and turned him over to two patrolmen in a blue and white and told them we'd meet them at the station.

  "What do we do now?" Stick asked.

  "Pray," I said.

  We didn't have to. George Baker came running across the park as we started back toward our cars. He was still in his wet suit, although he had changed his flippers for boots.

  "Gotcha a present," he said, and handed me an S&W .38, black handles, two-inch barrel. It was wrapped in a cloth to protect whatever fingerprints might be on it. I checked the registration. It was Donleavy's gun.

  "I assure you, that's the weapon," Baker said proudly. "It has not been underwater long enough to gather rust."

  "Thank you, Mr. Baker," I said with a smile. "You just saved my ass."

  "Well now, sir, that's a compliment which I will certainly not liken to forget."

  I gave Stick the Baggie he had given me in Donleavy's office, the one with the other S&W silver-plated .38 in it.

  "Where did you get this one?" I asked Stick.

  "A friend of mine on Front Street," he said.

  "Beautiful," I said.

  "That was one helluva play up there," he said. "Remind me never to play poker with you."

  "I don't play poker," I said.

  "Love your style, man," said the Stick.

  70

  MURDER ONE

  I was feeling great when we got to the county courthouse. The stately brick antique stood alone in the center of a city square surrounded by ancient oaks big enough to pass for California redwoods, and palm trees, which seemed somehow cheap and out of place beside them. The old place seemed to groan under its burden of history. One story had it that Button Gwinnett had drafted his amendments to the Declaration of Independence in one of its second-story offices. Another that, on Christmas Eve, 1864, in a secret meeting in one of the courtrooms, Sean Findley, Chief's grandfather, had turned Dunetown over to General Sherman without a shot, after Sherman agreed to spare the city from the torch. It was a story Teddy loved to tell, although the way he told it, old Sean's role in the surrender came off more selfish than patriotic. Others apparently thought so too. The old man was assassinated on the front steps of this same courthouse as he was being inaugurated as Dunetown's first postwar mayor.

  So much for history.

  The DA's suite was on the first floor, protected by a frost-paneled door and little else. The door to Galavanti's office stood open. The tough little district attorney was poring over a sheaf of legal documents as thick as an encyclopedia, her Ben Franklin glasses perched on the end of her nose. I leaned on the edge of the door and rattled my fingers on the jamb.

  "Hi, kiddo," I said. "Send anybody to the chair today?"

  She glowered at me over the top of her glasses.

  "I'm not your kiddo, Mr. Kilmer," she said. "We're not that familiar. How about the Harry Raines tape?"

  "A bust," I said. "Nothing but a lot of rataratarata."

  She narrowed her eyes as if she didn't believe me and said, "I should have guessed that would happen."

  "Now that's no way to talk to someone who just laid the biggest case in the county's history right in your lap," I said.

  She leaned back, still staring warily at me.

  "And just what case is that?"

  I paused a little for effect, then said, "The State versus Sam Donleavy."

  She leaned forward so quickly that her chair almost rolled out from under her.

  "You busted Sam Donleavy?" she said, her tone sounding like I had just accused Billy Graham of indecent exposure.

  "He's being booked right now," I said, as casually as I could make it.

  "On what charge?"

  "First-degree murder."

  She jumped up, all five feet of her, and stood with her mouth dangling open.

  I held up a forefinger and repeated the news: "Murder one."

  She gulped. I had never heard anybody gulp before, but she definitely gulped.

  "Who the hell did he kill?"

  "How about Harry Raines for starters?"

  "Oh my God!" she said, and the "God" stretched out for several seconds.

  I walked into her office and dropped the Baggie-cased .38 on her desk.

  "I'd feel better giving this to you than the Keystone Kops down in homicide. It's the gun Donleavy used to do the trick. We dug it out of the river about half an hour ago."

  "Harry Raines," she said with awe, staring at the .38.

  "Donleavy has an alibi but it won't hold water," I continued.

  She hadn't caught up with me yet.

  "Harry Raines?" she repeated, still staring at the gun, as though she expected it to say something back.

  "You may have a little trouble proving premeditation," I went on. "I don't think the idea occurred to him until about thirty minutes before he did it . . . "

  This time she heard me and cut me off in midsentence. "That's plenty of time," she said quickly. "Hell, if he gave it five minutes' thought, that's premeditation enough for me."

  "If you can make it work in court, that's okay by me."

  "Why did he do it?"

  I gave her the basic details as quickly as I could, including background on the pyramid accounts, the Hollywood boxes, and Seaborn's questionably benign role in the matter.

  "So the motive was fear of exposure by Raines," she said. "Seems to me he was on borrowed time, anyway. Tagliani would have surfaced sooner or later."

  "By that time Donleavy hoped to have established such a strong power base of his own that he could override his 'error in judgment.' That's what he likes to call it."

  "What do you call it?" she asked.

  "Graft," I said. "Besides, as I told Donleavy, murder leads to murder."

  "You mean he killed somebody else?" she asked, her eyebrows flirting with the ceiling.

  "Accessory," I said.

  "Before or after the fact?"

  "Both."

  "Who was it?"

  "Ike Leadbetter."

  "Ike Leadbetter! Ike Leadbetter!"

  "Yeah, you remember him, don't you? He used to be chief of police."

  "Leadbetter's death was an accident," she said.

  "Only because you couldn't prove otherwise," I told her.

  She closed one eye and gave me her sternest look. "Don't get uppity with me," she said.

  "Dutch Morehead thinks it was murder and I'm inclined to agree. At first I figured Dutch was angry and wanted to make a case out of the Leadbetter drowning. It wasn't Tagliani's style to kill a police chief, particularly when Tagliani was on the dodge. And there weren't any other likely suspects. Then I thought better of it."

  "Oh? How come?"

  "I don't believe in accidents any more than Dutch does. Not in this town. Not when
the police chief is the victim."

  "Why was Leadbetter killed?" she asked.

  "Look, Ms. Galavanti, if one person in this town was likely to make Tagliani, it was Leadbetter. He had done some time on the force in Atlantic City before coming here, so he was more than just a little familiar with LCN and how it operates."

  "You think Leadbetter recognized Tagliani?" she said.

  "Right, and Leadbetter went to Donleavy with it, the natural thing to do. After all, Donleavy was Harry Raines' personal choice to head the Committee. Donleavy was facing exposure himself, so he panicked and took it to Tagliani, who had Leadbetter burned. That's when Rio was set up and Tagliani put Donleavy on the sleeve. "

  "And had him on the hook forever," Galavanti said.

  "You get an A in the course. Want to try Cherry McGee next?"

  "Cherry McGee? How about the Kennedys and Anwar Sadat?" she said. "Let's not leave anybody out."

  "You want to finish the story for me?" I said.

  "Go ahead, you're doing great," she said. "Except that Longnose Graves killed Cherry McGee and his hoodlums." She paused for a moment, then added, "Didn't he?"

  "Nope."

  "Humph," she said. "I'll admit we tried everything but prayer to hang it on Graves."

  "And couldn't," I said, "because he didn't do it. At least Graves says he didn't and I'm inclined to believe him."

  "Why?"

  "I kind of like him."

  "Well, that's one hell of a good, legitimate reason," she said caustically.

  "Why would he deny it?" I said. "Everybody thinks he did it anyway, and he wanted to. Somebody beat him to it."

  "Any ideas?" she asked, then, waving her hand vigorously in front of her face, said, "How silly of me, I'm sure you do."

  "Same cast," I said.

  "Are you saying Tagliani killed his own man?"

  "Cherry McGee and Graves were in a Mexican standoff and Donleavy was on the spot again. He had to stop all the shooting before Raines got nervous. When Tagliani couldn't nail Graves, he eliminated McGee. McGee was a hired hand, he wasn't family. Tagliani couldn't have cared less."

  She whistled softly through her teeth. "Can we prove any of this?" she asked.

  "Donleavy and Seaborn may break down and unload it all," I said. "But if you're as good as they say you are, it doesn't make any difference. Donleavy can only hang once, and most of the Taglianis who were involved are probably dead."

  She looked at me like she was waiting for a second shoe to drop. Finally she said, "Well?"

  "Well what?"

  "Well, what do you want out of all this?"

  I said, "Cohen, alive and spilling his guts. Then I'll have my RICO case. It would help me a lot if you got a court order to freeze the pyramid account until we can get into it. I'd like to know nobody's going to push the erase button on the computer before we get there."

  "I'll take care of that in short order," she said, running in high gear, her eyes as bright as a Mexican sunrise. "Nobody's going to believe this," she said, standing up and flipping her glasses on the desk.

  "There is one more little favor . . . " I began.

  She eyed me slyly. "I knew it," she said.

  "Did either Winslow or Lukatis have any priors?" I asked.

  "I wish you'd let me in on this thing you have about Lukatis."

  "It's personal," I said.

  She pondered my question a little longer.

  "Yes, there was a case on the books against Winslow," she said finally.

  "For what?"

  "Controlled substance."

  "What happened to it?"

  "Dead-docketed."

  "For . . . ?"

  "Lack of evidence."

  "Ah, good old lack of evidence," I said.

  "Look," she said, "if I don't have the goods, I can't go to the grand jury. My buck and wing is terrible."

  "I'm not blaming you," I said quickly. "Was it dropped before or after the trip with Lukatis?"

  "I really don't remember."

  "Guess."

  "You son of a bitch."

  "Well?"

  "Probably after."

  "Beautiful. And Titan asked you to drop the case, right?"

  She had to think about that one for a while.

  "Not exactly," she said. "He just didn't come up with the goods for an indictment."

  "Fair enough," I said. "Okay, we're even, kiddo. By the way, I suggest you push for a no bond on Donleavy. If I'm right, he probably has half a million dollars waiting for him in Panama. If he gets on the street, he'll turn rabbit."

  "Over my dead body," she snapped.

  "Don't say that," I groaned. "We've got enough of them already. Who knows, kiddo, you just might ride the Raines case into the governor's mansion."

  I winked at her as she scurried by and headed for the booking desk.

  71

  NANCE SHOWS HIS STRIPE

  The Breezes reeked of money. The conservative, two-story townhouses were Williamsburg gray with scarlet trim, and the walkways wound through ferns and flowering bushes that looked almost too good to be real. Some intelligent contractor had left a lot of old oaks and pines on the development and there wasn't a car in sight; the garages were obviously built facing away from the street. The lawn looked like it had been hand-trimmed with cuticle scissors.

  There was a combined exit and entrance in the high iron-spike fence that enclosed the compound. It was divided by an island with a guardhouse and around-the-clock guards. The one on duty, a tall black weightlifter type, was starched into his tan uniform, and his black boots glistened like a showroom Ferrari.

  He looked at me through no-shit eyes and shifted his chewing gum from one cheek to the other. He didn't say anything.

  "My name's Kilmer, to see Mrs. Raines," I said.

  He checked over his clipboard, leafing through several sheets of paper, and shook his head.

  "Not on the list," he said.

  "Would you give her a call? She probably forgot. It's been a rough day for her."

  "I got a 'no disturb' on that unit," he said.

  "She's expecting me," I said, trying not to lose my temper.

  "There's no Kilmer on the list and I got a 'no disturb' on that unit," he said, politely but firmly. "Why don't you go someplace and call her, tell her to call the gate and clear you."

  I showed him my card and his eyes stuck on the first line—"Agent-U.S. Government"-and stayed there until he looked back up.

  "My brother's a city cop," he said, looking out the window at nothing in particular. "He's taking the Bureau exams in the fall."

  "Fantastic. You know what's going on up there at Mrs. Raines' place, don't you?"

  "You mean about Mr. Raines?"

  "Yeah."

  "Terrible thing." He looked back at the buzzer and asked, "This official?"

  "What else?" I said in my official voice.

  "They got tough rules here, buddy. Nobody, not nobody, goes in without a call from the gate first. It's in the lease."

  "Like I said, she's expecting me; probably forgot to give you the name with everything else that's going on. Why don't I ride through?"

  "Hell, I'll just call her," he said. "Guest parking is to the right, behind those palmettos."

  I pulled in and parked in the guest lot, which was so clean and neat it looked sterilized. When I got back, the guard had his grin on.

  "A-okay," he said, making a circle with thumb and forefinger. "You were right, she forgot. First walk on the left, second unit down, 3-C."

  I thanked him and headed for 3-C. The place was as quiet as the bottom of a lake. No night birds, no wind, no nothing. Pebbles crunched under my feet when I reached the cul-de-sac. It was a class operation, all right. Each condo had its own pool. There wasn't a speck of trash anywhere. Soft bug-repellent lights shed a flat, shadowless glow over the grounds.

  Three-C stood back from the gravel road at the end of two rows of azaleas. It seemed like a cathedral on Christmas Eve. I pressed the
doorbell and chimes played a melody under my thumb. Chains rattled, dead bolts clattered, the door swung open, and she was standing there.

  The events of the last twenty-four hours had taken their toll. Her eyes were puffed, her face drawn and sallow. Grief had erased her tan and replaced it with a gray mirror of death. She closed the door behind me and retreated to a neutral corner of the room, as though she were afraid I had some contagious disorder.

  "I'm glad you're here," she said, in a voice that had lost its youth.

  "Glad to help," I said.

  "Nobody can help," she said.

  "You want to talk it out?" I suggested. "It helps, I'm told."

  "But not for you, is that it?"

  I thought about what she'd said. It was true, there were few people in the world I could talk to. A hazard of the profession.

  "I guess not," I said. "Nobody trusts a cop."

  "It's hard to realize that's what you do."

  I looked around the place. It was a man's room, no frills, no bright colors. The color scheme was tan and black and the antique furniture was heavy and oppressive. The walls were jammed with photographs, plaques, awards, all the paraphernalia of success, squeezed into narrow, shiny brass frames. The room said a lot about Harry Raines; there was a sense of monotonous order about it, an almost urgent herald of accomplishment. A single flower would have helped immensely.

  Oddly, Doe was in only one of the pictures, a group shot obviously taken the day the track opened. The rest were all business, mostly the business of politics or racing: Raines in the winner's circle with a jockey and racehorse; Raines looking ill-at-ease beside a Little League ball club; Raines with the Capitol dome in Washington soaring up behind him; Raines posing with senators, congressmen, governors, generals, mayors, kids, and at least one president.

  "Didn't he ever smile?" I asked, looking at his stern, almost relentless stare.

  "Harry wasn't much for smiling. He thought it a sign of weakness," Doe said.

  "What a shame," I said. "He looks so unhappy in these photographs."

  "Dissatisfied," she said. Resentment crept into her tone. "He was never satisfied. Even winning didn't satisfy him. All he thought about was the next challenge, the next victory, another plaque for his wall. This was his place, not mine. I'm only here because it's convenient. As soon as this is all over, I'm getting rid of it. I'm sick to death of memorials, and that's all this house is now."