Shame the Devil

  “You try to keep Erika out of this,” said Mitchell.

  “I’m going to meet with Weston’s defense counsel this afternoon.” Stefanos stood and shook Mitchell’s hand. “I’ll do the best I can.”

  “You’re a cheap date,” said Elaine Clay, watching Stefanos chew his food.

  “Look at this,” he said, excitedly pointing the knife at his plate. “Chopped steak, mashed potatoes and gravy, tossed salad, and biscuits. The whole thing was, what, four and change?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How’s yours?”

  “A little bland, to tell you the truth.”

  “The food is good, but you have to spice it up yourself. They don’t salt it on account of all the potential heart attacks in this place. They keep the A-1 and soy sauce behind the register. You have to ask for it when you pass through.”

  “You’re the Scholl’s expert, huh?”

  “I’ve been coming here my whole life. Well, not here. My grandfather used to take me to the old Scholl’s at Vermont and K.”

  Stefanos looked around the cafeteria, filled with old folks, working stiffs, and bus tourists, and a diligent multiethnic staff. Religious sayings and Christian icons hung on the walls. He nodded to an ancient geezer with a flowing gray beard, reading a newspaper with the aid of a magnifying glass.

  “See that guy? He eats here the same time every day.”

  “That’s great, Nick. Can we get back to the case?”

  “You’re just upset because there’s no lawyers in this place.” “Yeah, I’m really feeling naked around all these common folk.” Elaine had a bite of chicken à la king and laid down her fork. “So Terrence Mitchell is definitely going to testify.”

  “That’s right. You going to get Sean Forjay charged with the murder?”

  “It’s not my job to get anybody charged with murder, you know that. I’ll feed the information you dug up to the D.A.’s office as a courtesy. Other than that, when Weston gets acquitted, I’m out.”

  “The cops should have nailed this one to begin with.”

  “They made what they thought was an easy and clean arrest. There’s too many unsolved homicides out there for them to overcomplicate the ones that fall into their laps solved.”

  Stefanos swallowed a mouthful of mashed potatoes. “Sean Forjay’s gonna walk, isn’t he?”

  “The car proves nothing. The murder weapon had no prints. There are no witnesses. From where I sit, I don’t think they even have enough to charge him.”

  “Unless they put Erika Mitchell on the stand.”

  “They’re not going to know a thing about Erika Mitchell. I need Terrence Mitchell’s testimony. If he gets angry or fearful for his daughter and decides not to testify, Randy Weston goes to prison. I’m not going to jeopardize Weston’s acquittal for some vague concept of justice.”

  “What’s justice got to do with any of this?”

  “Nothing. You need to get past all that. If you want justice —”

  “I know, I know.” Stefanos pushed his empty plate to the side and sat back in his chair. “Anyway, it’s a job.”

  “You did a good job, Nick. Randy Weston is not a hard kid. You know what would have happened to him in prison? What he would have become? You saved his life.”

  “I hear you. Thanks.”

  “I owe you for this one.”

  “There is something you can do.”

  He asked Elaine to run a background check on Manuel Ruiz and Jaime Gutierrez. He gave her the address of their garage. The lease records would have their home addresses. Knowing this would prevent Elaine from confusing them with anyone else.

  “Here’s one more name while you’re running those checks,” said Stefanos. “A guy named Thomas Wilson.”

  Elaine hesitated for a moment. “What’s going on? You taking side jobs again?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, go ahead and play it like that if you want to. Anything else?”

  “Well, yes. You could reimburse me for a flashlight.”

  “Why would I do that?” said Elaine.

  “I broke it on the job,” said Stefanos. “If it’s all right with you, I’ll just go ahead and send you the bill.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  WILLIAM JONAS PICKED up his phone and punched a number into its grid. While he listened to the phone ring, he rubbed his finger on the checkered grip of the service revolver that was lying in his lap. He sat behind the bay window of his house, looking out onto Hamlin.

  The call was answered, and the voice on the other end said, “Boyle.” Jonas heard a young kid and a teenage kid arguing in the background.

  “Danny, it’s Bill Jonas.”

  “Hey, Bill. Sorry I haven’t gotten back to you on the letter and envelope.”

  “That’s why I’m calling. I’ve been contacted again by the man who sent the letter.”

  “Through the mail?”

  “By phone. I’d like to see you, Dan. I need to see you tonight.”

  “Any idea where he was calling from?”

  “He’s in town. He followed my son. He threatened my son.”

  “All right,” said Boyle. “Have you contacted anyone else yet?”

  “You mean have I called the station?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re a cop. I’m calling you.”

  Jonas listened to dead air as Boyle put his hand over the mouthpiece. Then Boyle got back on the line. “Okay. I’ll be right over. But I’m bringing a friend.”

  “Who?”

  “A guy named Nick Stefanos.”

  “I met him last week at the meeting,” said Jonas. “Private cop, right?”

  “Don’t hold that against him. I’ve been with him in situations before. He’s good at what he does, and we’re gonna need him. He’s friends with Dimitri Karras, the father of —”

  “I know who Karras is.”

  “Stefanos has a connection to all this.”

  “Bring him,” said Jonas.

  “Bill? If what you say is true, I’d get your family out of town for a few days.”

  “It’s already done.”

  “Good. I’ll see you soon.”

  William Jonas cut the connection. He wheeled himself back away from the window and sat calmly in the shadows of dusk.

  “Nick?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What, did I wake you up?”

  “I was takin’ a nap, Boyle. What’s up?”

  “I’ve got something you might be interested in.”

  “Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

  Boyle told him everything he knew.

  “I don’t want to hear it,” said Stefanos when Boyle was done.

  “It’s true.”

  “I don’t care if it’s true. Call the cops.”

  “Bill Jonas called me.”

  “You shouldn’t even think twice about it, Boyle. Call the cops. Call the ATF and the FBI and the SWAT team. Get all the alphabet guys in one room and mobilize, just like they do on TV. But stay out of it, man. And leave me out of it, too, hear?”

  “Tell that to your buddy Karras.”

  “Don’t play me, Boyle.”

  “I’ll be over in a little while to pick you up.”

  Stefanos looked down at the hardwood floor. He pictured the group he’d met the week before. He thought of Karras and the bartender’s wife, who’d broken down. The nice guy in the Orioles cap, and Wilson, the troubled friend of the pizza chef, who was somehow not who he seemed to be.

  Stefanos pinched the bridge of his nose. “Gimme time to take a shower.”

  Boyle said, “Right.”

  Stefanos showered and changed into a black shirt and jeans. He was taking his leather off the peg by the door when the phone rang. He slipped into his jacket and answered the phone.

  “Nick, it’s Elaine.”

  “Hey, what’s up?”

  “I had Joey A. do those background checks for you.”

  “That was fast.”

  “Like I said, I
gave it to Joe A.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “All three of the guys you asked about have records. And they all served time together. Ruiz and Gutierrez went up on an interstate auto-theft beef. Thomas Wilson fell on a dope bust back in the early eighties.”

  Stefanos was not surprised. Thomas had mentioned “straights” at the meeting. It was a con’s term for those not in the life. And Gutierrez had the prison plumage stamped right on his face.

  “Nick?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing. I had a hunch about those guys, and I was curious, that’s all. Where were they incarcerated?”

  “Lewisburg.”

  “Okay. What’s Wilson’s street address?”

  Elaine Clay gave it to him and said, “Anything else?”

  “No, that’s it. Thanks a million, hear?”

  Stefanos hung the phone in its cradle. So Wilson was an ex-con and so were his friends. So what? It probably didn’t mean a thing.

  A horn sounded from out in the street. Stefanos left the apartment and walked to Boyle’s car.

  Booker Kendricks pulled his head out from under the hood of the red Mustang. He turned to Roman Otis, who was standing next to Gus Lavonicus in the yard.

  “It’s simple, cuz,” said Kendricks. “Brakes ain’t workin’ so good ’cause you out of fluid. Need to put some dot three in this mother-fucker right quick.”

  “You know I don’t know nothin’ about cars, Booker.”

  “Well, fluid’s all it is.”

  Farrow came from the house, walked over to Otis, and lit a cigarette.

  “T. W. called,” said Farrow.

  “He line us up with anything?” said Otis.

  “He heard something about a big-money card game on Friday night. He’s trying to firm up the details.”

  “That would work,” said Otis.

  “He fix it?” said Farrow, nodding at Kendricks, standing alongside the Mustang.

  “Just needs a little fluid,” said Otis. “I’ll pick up some while we’re out.”

  Farrow looked at the group. Otis was dressed sharp as always. Kendricks wore a shiny maroon shirt tucked into gray slacks. Lavonicus sported a Western shirt with imitation pearl buttons and lasso detailing embroidered across the chest. He wore a surplus coat over the shirt.

  “Don’t get into any trouble,” said Farrow.

  “Just gonna have a couple of cocktails,” said Otis. “Goin’ crazy sittin’ around this joint.”

  Farrow walked back into the house.

  Kendricks lowered the hood of the Mustang and wiped his hands on a rag. He gave Lavonicus the once-over and smiled. “Well, y’all look ready enough.”

  “Where we headed, man?” said Otis.

  “Place off Three-o-one. Understand, they got bars down here for the brothers and bars for the white boys. There’s a little bit of crossover but not much. We goin’ to this white joint ’cause they got one of those machines you like.”

  “That’s okay by me,” said Otis.

  Kendricks glanced at Lavonicus again. “Whoo-eee, pardner. Wait’ll they get a look at you.”

  They walked to the Mark V, parked at the edge of the woods by a stand of tall pine. Otis got behind the wheel, ignitioned the Lincoln, hit the power switch on the stereo, and pushed the button marked “CD.” Lavoncius folded himself into the seat beside him, and Kendricks settled into the backseat. The Commodores came from the rear deck speakers.

  “‘Zoom,’” said Otis. “This here’s got to be one of the most beautiful songs ever recorded.”

  “It sounds nice,” said Lavonicus, awkwardly moving his head in time.

  “People make fun of Mr. Lionel Richie. But I’d like someone to name a more perfect tune than this one right here.”

  Otis turned onto 301 and drove north. “‘I wish the world were truly happy,’” he sang, “‘living as one.…’”

  Kendricks directed Otis into the parking lot of a sports bar a couple of miles south of La Plata. They got the fish-eye from the guys at the main-room bar as they walked through to a paneled room in the back and had a seat at a four-top near the fire exit. At a nearby table, someone laughed at Lavoncius, then stopped laughing as Otis looked his way. Some guy was up onstage doing Garth Brooks, singing along to the karaoke. He had a beer in his hand and he sang off-key.

  Otis and Kendricks ordered mixed drinks, and Lavonicus went with a Coke. Otis went off to examine the playlist and found one he knew: “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry,” by Hank Williams. Well, he knew the Al Green version, anyway. He decided he’d get up there and sing it like Reverend Al.

  Otis took the stage, closed his eyes, and gave it his best shot. He tried to inject a little soul into the shitkicker arrangement, even threw in some of his hand interpretations, but nothing could make it fly. Lavonicus was the only one in the house who clapped when Otis was done. Otis thanked the audience and walked back to his seat.

  He saw a couple of countrified black men seated at a deuce, and he nodded as he passed by, but the brothers did not nod back. Otis had a seat at his table.

  “You sounded good, bro,” said Lavonicus.

  “Let’s get the fuck on out of here,” said Otis, swallowing the rest of his drink in one gulp. “Bunch of Charley Pride–lookin’ mother-fuckers in this place, anyway.”

  Otis missed Cali. He couldn’t wait to get back home.

  THIRTY-TWO

  DAN BOYLE LIT a Marlboro and shook the flame off the match. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “No,” said William Jonas. “It’s all right.”

  Boyle exhaled. Smoke settled in the living-room light. Nick Stefanos stood by the bay window and leaned against the wall.

  “You’re certain it was him,” said Boyle. “Maybe the photograph and the phone call were both some kind of twisted prank.”

  “‘You killed my brother Richard,’” said Jonas. “That’s what the man said to me on the phone. I’ve only killed one man in my career, Boyle. And the Richard thing, it never went out to the press. Only the killer would know that.”

  “What else?” said Boyle.

  “It’s like the man was mocking me, giving me details. Told me where he’d been incarcerated, all the way back to his reform school days. That he did time in state and federal prisons, too.”

  “Lewisburg,” said Stefanos, putting it together now.

  “That’s the federal prison,” said Boyle, “up in PA. Why’d you mention that?”

  Stefanos didn’t answer. He went to the glass table where Boyle had dropped his hardpack. He shook out a cigarette and lit it.

  “He fed you something, Bill,” said Boyle. “You’re looking for a guy who served time in state and federal prisons, who has a brother named Richard. You feed that information into a computer, you’re going to get a list of names. It’s going to be a big list, but it’s a start. But you know that already.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So why’d you call me?”

  Jonas glanced over at Stefanos and back to Boyle.

  “You can speak freely,” said Boyle.

  “All right,” said Jonas, lowering his eyes. “I’m not going to lie to you, Dan. There’s been talk about you in the department for years. They say you’re way off the edge. They say you put away suspects your own way when you see fit. That you and that old partner of yours, Johnson, did that Hispanic child molester a few years back, before Johnson retired. They say you carry throw-downs and drugs to leave at the crime scenes you fix. I’ve been a part of those conversations myself. Even got on my high horse about it a couple of times — until now.”

  “So there’s been conversations,” said Boyle steadily. “I’m gonna ask you again: What do you want from me?”

  “This man and his partner put me in this chair for life. And now he’s threatening my family.”

  “I’ll get you protection.”

  “There is no protection. You can apprehend him, but you know guys like him
have friends. My family would always be in danger, if not from his own hand then from someone he’s sent.”

  “You can’t just sit here and wait for him to come.”

  “I pray he comes,” said Jonas.

  Stefanos dragged on his smoke, trying not to look at the useless legs on Jonas.

  Boyle had no such reservations; he nodded his chin at Jonas’s chair. “You can’t do it alone,” he said. “You know it. So stop acting like you can.”

  “He’d be on my turf,” said Jonas. “And he would lose.”

  “No. You’d lose.”

  “So what do you propose we do?”

  Boyle sighed. “I’m going to move in with you for a few days. Wait this thing out.”

  Jonas nodded. “Thanks, Dan. Thanks for not making me ask.”

  “We need to go over this again. I want to know everything the man said when he called you up.”

  Jonas recounted the entire conversation.

  When he was done, Boyle said, “How about Christopher? He notice anyone following him that day?”

  “No. I don’t want him to know that he was being followed, either. But I did ask if anything strange had happened that day, and he said no. He mentioned some car chase thing on the G. W. campus, but that was it. A cop car after some old red Mustang. Other than that, not a thing.”

  Boyle looked at Stefanos. “Any thoughts, Nick?”

  “Huh?”

  “You all right? You don’t look so good, buddy.”

  “I’m fine.” Stefanos butted his smoke. “Listen, I gotta take off.”

  “All right, go ahead. Let me talk with Bill here for a minute, and I’ll meet you at the car.”

  Stefanos shook Jonas’s hand. “Take care.”

  “Right.”

  Jonas waited for the door to close behind Stefanos. “He didn’t add all that much to the conversation, did he?”

  “He’s a listener,” said Boyle. “I’ll pick his brains on the ride back.”

  “You gonna stay here tonight?”

  “Yeah. Let me go home and talk to my wife, pack a suitcase with clothes.” Boyle grinned. “Toss a couple of throw-down weapons and some drugs in the suitcase while I’m at it.”

  “I apologize for that,” said Jonas. “The fact is, I’m gonna feel a whole lot better with you around. This sonofabitch comes around, we’re gonna get him. Right?”