Snitch

  Ron studied the room. One woman was looking over her notes like she was searching for something she might have missed. Three men were whispering back and forth. One guy looked to be praying, which was probably what Ron should be doing, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to know which side of this issue God was on.

  The man at the end of the table, Bert, who wore a flashy bow tie and a tired expression, finally broke the mumbling. “Ron, I don’t know what to say. We’ve never had anything quite like this come to our attention.”

  Lilleth held a large plastic notebook open in front of her. “There are all kinds of statutes and clauses, dealing with everything from adultery to alcoholism, but I can’t find anything in here that states what we should do in a case of … of … What is this a case of?”

  “Exploiting a man of the cloth,” Nan offered. Everyone looked at Ron.

  “As you can see,” Ron said, “my wife is completely supportive of the idea.”

  Nan’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t make me out to be the bad guy here. I warned you that this wasn’t a good idea. But,” she said, addressing the others in the room, “as you can see, he doesn’t always listen to wise council. Or common sense. This is the same guy, mind you, who decided—after beating the odds and living through twenty years as an undercover officer—that it would be fun to race cars.” Nan held up a stern finger as Ron started to respond. “He’ll tell you it’s because he needed an adrenaline rush. Why not join the over-forty softball team?”

  “That was just a little too much adrenaline for me,” Ron said from across the room.

  Nan set down her pen and crossed her arms. “The point is that Kyle is completely inexperienced in this sort of activity. It’s ridiculous to send him to the seediest part of town to interact with people who ought to be in prison.”

  “The way we get these people into prison is by catching them doing something illegal, which is what we’re going to do if the ministry board will allow me to use Kyle. It will be a controlled situation. The chances of something going wrong are small. We’ll have an experienced undercover officer with him, posing as the money man. The meeting will take fifteen, twenty minutes tops, and Kyle will be finished. We’ll take over from there.”

  “I’m just not comfortable with our pastor having anything to do with drugs,” said Lilleth. “That’s giving the devil an unnecessary opportunity.”

  “This isn’t a drug operation. It’s stolen cars.”

  Otis, the eldest board member, said, “We could certainly justify his presence there; nothing breaks up crime like a purging of sins by the Holy Spirit.”

  “Indeed,” Ron said with a reverent nod toward Otis while Nan rolled her eyes. “And if I’m not mistaken, Code LXVIII, which explains in detail the three-week sabbatical, orders the church to not interfere with any rituals the pastor chooses to undertake during that time.”

  “Rituals,” Nan said with an exhaustive gesture. “You call this a ritual?”

  “The truth is that I would’ve never involved Kyle had I known it would end up like this. Kyle was just looking for some … interesting perspectives on life, and I thought it would be a good fit. However, now that he has secured this potential lead, I don’t want to pass up the opportunity. Kyle will be fine.”

  The head of the council, Les, threw down his pencil and blew out a sigh. “There’s nothing to vote on here. We have no mandate for this kind of thing.”

  Nan stood. “I propose that we vote anyway. It would be helpful to see where everyone stands on this issue.”

  Les shrugged. “Fine. Who’s for letting Kyle do this?”

  All the board members raised their hands. Nan scowled and sat down.

  Otis said, “Motion to proceed with the rest of the agenda.”

  “Second that motion.”

  “Motion approved.” Lilleth looked at Ron. “Thank you for your time, Ron. We’ll be praying for you. Let us know how it all turns out.”

  “I will. Thank you.” Ron took his cue to leave. As he walked toward the exit, Les grabbed his arm and pulled him down to whisper in his ear. “Say, if you’ve got any more of these kinds of things going on, give me a ring. I fought in the Korean War.”

  Ron patted him on the shoulder. “Will do.” He left the room and punched the down button for the elevator, but Nan got to him before the elevator did. The doors swished open.

  “This is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard of,” Nan said. The elevator doors swished closed.

  “I think you’re making too big of a deal out of this.”

  “This is going to end exactly like the Bobby Fernando case.”

  Ron laughed. Bobby Fernando was a high-ranking mobster Ron had spent eight weeks with in deep cover before he was finally able to make an arrest. “That was fourteen years ago. And it ended with Fernando going to prison for life and the DA sending me a personal note of congratulations.”

  “Is that how you remember it? Because I remember you missing our anniversary, not calling, and sleeping on the couch the night before the trial began.” She punched the down arrow. “There are extra pillows in the living room closet and a blanket in the cabinet.”

  Dimmer than dim lighting, dark wood, soft music playing in the background … Dennis Norton was definitely going to get the wrong idea. Laura began scanning the restaurant, pressing her lips together to even out the lip gloss she’d applied on the freeway. It had been dark for over an hour, and the hot desert air was starting to cool under a clear sky.

  Though nearly everything on the menu was deep-fried in beer batter, the restaurant had nice decor. Laura saw Dennis waving her over to a booth. She smiled widely and approached him, sliding into the booth as a waiter brought her a menu.

  “You look great,” Dennis said. Of course she looked great. They were practically dining in the dark.

  “Glad you were free.”

  “I wasn’t,” Dennis said, flashing that same annoying grin. “But I rearranged some things, and here I am.”

  Laura laced her fingers together and pretended to be flattered.

  “It’s been a while,” he said, sipping his drink, which looked like something atrociously strong and alcoholic. Tonight she would stick with water.

  “Yes, it has. I’ve been busy.”

  Dennis kept his eyes locked on hers, which absolutely drove her nuts. He had an intense stare that followed every move she made and eyebrows that talked more than his mouth. They moved up and down independently, lay flat across his face, arched upward like they’d been professionally tweezed, and then crowded together like imminent danger lurked in every fourth word.

  They’d dated for a month and a half. Nearly every member of his family was with the police department. He had connections from the crime lab to the coroner’s office to the deli.

  He’d been married three times, which was the least of his unappealing traits. He also came equipped with a conviction that women weren’t treated fairly in the department and had taken this problem on as his personal crusade. Or more accurately, as his own personal dating service. Two of his ex-wives were now his superiors, but Dennis didn’t seem to let that stop him.

  He’d transferred with ease to narcotics four years ago after a two-year stint in homicide, where he happened to work the worst string of murders in thirty years. Luck was on Dennis Norton’s side, at least career wise. Unlike most men she knew, he didn’t take it for granted. He genuinely wanted to help. His personality, though, was disorderly. Not in a manic sort of way, but in a complete-lack-of-self-awareness sort of way, which became evident to Laura on their first date when he ordered the triple-garlic medallions.

  He also seemed to have a Superman complex. “I can make it happen.” She must’ve heard that catch phrase a hundred and ten times in the four-month period he’d dedicated his career to getting her into narcotics.

  He didn’t make it happen.

  The waiter approached the table with a platter in hand and Dennis said, “I took the liberty of ordering an appetizer. Hope
that’s okay.”

  “Sure.”

  “The beer-battered onion rings, sir,” the waiter said, setting the platter between them. Well, at least she could chow down. This wasn’t a date, so she didn’t have to worry about her breath or his.

  “I’m curious,” his eyebrows said before he did. “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me why you called.”

  “It’s been a long time since we’ve talked. We haven’t really stopped to catch up.”

  He noticed her hand. “I see you’re still single.”

  Laura glanced at his fingers, thankful not to see a ring. His second marriage ended because of adultery.

  “And,” he added as he slurped the tail end of an onion ring into his mouth, “we’re not at Hippo’s.” She understood what Dennis’s eyebrows were adding to this observation—this was more than a catch-up dinner.

  She’d have to play along until she found what she was looking for. They chitchatted for a bit about the Property Crimes Bureau. Laura tried to make it sound as exciting as possible, bragging about the predictable hours and how nice it was to work with seasoned cops … so seasoned they couldn’t taste their food anymore without adding a heap of salt. They were a nice bunch of folks, but she didn’t envy them.

  Laura ordered the baked chicken; Dennis, the evening-ends-after-dinner eight-bean chili. It was an easy transition into talk of narcotics. Dennis’s eyes had started to glaze over with talk about the burglary rate.

  “So,” Laura said, “anything unusual coming through Vegas lately?”

  “Naw. We got word four months ago there might be more mob activity, but nothing’s surfaced. Bringing in black tar by the truckloads, but what’s new?”

  Laura chose her words, and her expression, carefully. “I read a few weeks ago about these minivans being used to transport cocaine.”

  “Minivans, huh?”

  “Somewhere on the East Coast. Something about soccer-mom types lending their vehicles to crack dealers to transport the stuff in exchange for the drugs.”

  “Yeah. Hasn’t made it our way yet, though.” Dennis laughed.

  Laura leaned back and laughed too. Dennis’s eyebrows couldn’t lie. This thing wasn’t even on their radar.

  Now she just had to figure out how to end the dinner as soon as possible.

  Chapter 21

  Ron walked six blocks from the UC house to a pay phone to call the number scrawled on the deli napkin. He had no reason to walk except that he needed the exercise, which had suffered since he took charge of the task force. It felt good to stretch his back and legs, both of which were really sore from sleeping on the couch.

  He’d tried to talk to Nan this morning, but she wouldn’t listen. Like a three-year-old, she plugged both ears with her index fingers and made a humming sound on her way to the kitchen.

  He hadn’t seen her this angry in a long time. In her own way, Nan had been supportive of his undercover career. She never questioned his work, never judged him for it, never asked him to leave. But she did, on occasion, remind him how a stupid move on the street could make him suffer endlessly at home—if it didn’t get him killed.

  Nan was fully aware of what was involved in UC work. She didn’t like it, but she accepted it. And she trusted Ron, which was the saving grace in their relationship. She never questioned why he came home at three in the morning instead of midnight, or why he smelled like he’d bathed in nicotine. When Nan had an idea in her head, though, there was no changing her mind—like the idea that the entire drug world needed to come to a screeching halt on their anniversary.

  In Nan’s mind, Ron had completely crossed the line by involving Kyle. Of course, in the original plan, Kyle was never supposed to get this involved, but Nan hadn’t listened to any of the nine attempts he’d made to explain that. She hadn’t spoken a word to him this morning.

  It bothered him now more than it would’ve in the past. Maybe because in the past, when he left for work, he submerged himself in it and had no time to think about problems at home. Ron gave Nan plenty of credit, though. She had to play second fiddle to a demanding job that made no guarantees about delivering him home safely. She’d forgiven him for plenty. Ron understood why she was so angry. They’d made it through a lot together. Why would he want to go back to harder times?

  Ron reached the pay phone. He needed to make a call to see if this number was real. Since the guy hadn’t given out his name, Ron believed he was probably legit, and at least somewhat experienced in this sort of thing. Now the question was, was he stupid enough to give out his cell number?

  The phone rang a couple of times before a male voice answered. “Yeah. Doodah’s.” Ron knew the bar. It was actually called Doodley’s House, but over the years it had acquired the abbreviated nickname of Doodah’s, not to mention a rough crowd. “Sorry, wrong number,” he said and hung up. Ron understood immediately. The guy gave the number to a bar, a signal that business could be on the table, but Kyle would have to show up and recognize the man’s face. It was a safe place for this guy, who probably had hordes of friends there. A crowded bar on his turf would send the signal that he was in control.

  Ron started losing confidence in his plan. Sure, Kyle made a good first impression at the deli. But that was an accident. This was the real deal and things could turn sour quickly.

  Of course, Kyle wouldn’t be alone. Jesse would be there too. It wouldn’t be long before Kyle would be safely out of the picture. The chances of something going wrong were small. Right?

  His cane thumped rhythmically against the sidewalk as he walked back to the UC house. He hoped Ruth didn’t mistake the sound for a mating call.

  It took an entire night for Jesse to get over how Yeager had tricked the team with Kyle. It wasn’t until 5:30 a.m., when his stomach rumbled with hunger and wouldn’t allow him back to sleep, that he realized the brilliance of bringing Kyle into the training. It was a good training tool. He’d scarfed down three bowls of Cheerios until he finally felt relief that Kyle wasn’t a real part of the team.

  Somewhere during a sip of his orange juice he realized, with horror, that Kyle was a real part of the team. At least until they could make contact with the man desperately seeking a body shop.

  By midmorning, Jesse, Wiz, Dozer, and Kyle sat around the breakfast table engaged in a ridiculous conversation, but then again, the whole thing was pretty ridiculous.

  “So, any questions?” Jesse asked Kyle.

  “Let me just see if I’ve got this straight. Order an import, not a domestic. It’ll show I’ve got taste. But don’t drink too much, because it’s got a stronger alcohol content than domestic. Say something about how you can’t get any good beers anymore and shove it to the side.”

  “You’ve got to sell the idea that you’re not drinking because you like high-end beer, not because you’ve never tasted alcohol in your life.” Jesse tried to say it nicely. He’d never met anyone who didn’t drink. Even Chaplain Greer liked wine.

  “I can do it,” Kyle said. He looked at the list they’d made of German beers. “I’ll memorize this.”

  “I think he should drink the penny beer,” Dozer said. “I mean, you can’t go wrong, it’s in every bar in town. You have to drink eight to feel a buzz.”

  “Kyle doesn’t really look like the penny beer kind, does he? We have to sell him as a business guy. I’m not comfortable letting him order hard liquor.”

  Kyle said, “This guy really liked cigarettes, and he thinks I’m trying to quit. Do I have to know how to smoke?”

  “I don’t think so,” Jesse said.

  “I don’t know,” Wiz said. “I mean, the guy may pressure him to have a smoke.”

  “It wouldn’t hurt to have some on him,” Dozer said. “It opened the door before. Might give him something to break the ice with.”

  “All we need is for the guy to see Kyle’s hands shaking like crazy while he’s trying to light it,” Jesse said. He wanted to add that this was the very reason you don’t say you know how to do som
ething when you really don’t, but they didn’t have time for lectures.

  Jesse sighed. “Okay, look. We’ll give you the basics. If at all possible, I would avoid smoking. But just in case it is absolutely necessary, we’ll teach you how to inhale without imploding.”

  Wiz threw a lighter on the table.

  “Maybe I should use matches,” Kyle said. “Lighters make me nervous.”

  “This is never going to work,” Jesse groaned.

  “Its perfect,” Wiz said. “People’s hands shake when they’re craving nicotine. It will give him an excuse.”

  “Look, I can do this, all right? How hard is it?” Kyle took the cigarette that Wiz had laid on the table. “I light it.” He lit it. “I put it in my mouth.” He put it in his mouth. “You suck—”

  “What are you doing?” Ron stood at the front door with wide eyes and a fierce scowl. His cane hit the floor hard as he stomped toward the table.

  “We’re trying to teach your apprentice how to smoke a cigarette so he has a chance of not blowing his cover.” Jesse spoke in a confident tone. He glanced at Kyle, who looked painfully guilty, then at Ron, who looked like he was trying to recover from seeing somebody naked. “Do you have a problem with that?”

  Ron cleared his throat. “Sorry. Um … I overreacted.”

  Everyone sat down slowly, eyeing Ron.

  Jesse looked over at Kyle. “Kyle, where’s your cigarette?”

  Kyle looked down at his hands. “I don’t know.”

  “Smoke!” yelled Dozer.

  Kyle jumped up and backward, swatting at his smoking pant leg. He then stopped, dropped, and actually rolled into the living room.

  By the time Kyle had pinballed against the coffee table and back toward the kitchen, Dozer was bent over, grabbing his stomach, laughing. Wiz roared next to him.

  “I’m fine,” Kyle said, looking at the burn hole in his pant leg. He hopped up and tried to smile. “No biggie.”