“When I come back I’m gonna be with two uniforms, okay? Don’t do anything different than what Bernie agreed with you. You fuck this up and someone’s gonna get shot, okay? We come in through the front. You go out through the side. You leave the bag behind. End of story.”
The taller one—dark-haired, looked like getting angry was a lifestyle choice—just nodded. The other one—lighter hair, an awkward zigzag scar across his right cheek and beneath the ear—said, “It’s cool. We know the deal. Bernie told us, okay? Don’t shit it. We’re professionals.”
Professionals? Madigan wanted to ask him. Professionals at what exactly? Running away?
Madigan looked at his watch. “Fifteen minutes, give or take,” he said. “I’m waiting on backup.”
“Go do your thing,” Anger Management said, and then he closed the front door.
Madigan walked back to the car. The street was deserted. Hell, even if anyone had seen him they wouldn’t be saying anything to the police if they came around. It wasn’t that kind of neighborhood.
Backup showed at five to.
“Take your damned time,” Madigan told the driver.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the uniform said, “but we got a—”
“It’s okay,” Madigan replied. “It might be nothing, but I know the guy who lives here . . . He’s smalltime, but there’s word he got into bigger business recently. There’s two of them in there now. Associates of this guy. Saw them go in there, and I think they were carrying semiautomatic rifles.”
“They got rifles? Hell, you want SWAT, not us,” the other uniform said.
Madigan leaned down and looked through the window. “What’s your name?”
“Young,” he replied.
“And you?” Madigan asked the driver.
“Henderson.”
“Well, okay. Here’s the way it goes, boys. I know the guy who owns the place. His name is Bernie. He’s done some work for me in the past. He’s a CI, okay? He does mostly small-time shit, nothing muscular. But he has a cousin—can’t remember his name—and he’s a player. He’s a heavy hitter, part of a crew. Banks, armored vans, this kind of crap, right? So I think that Bernie is away. Christ knows where he is, but he ain’t home, as far as I can tell. You got two crackheads in there, part of this crew, maybe the cousin, maybe someone else, but they’re in there. I saw them go in an hour ago, and they sure as hell weren’t carrying fishing rods. Know what I mean? Now, we can go in there and sort this thing out, or we can cry home to Mommy and send the big boys to do the work. You do this, you’ll get commends from me, others from the department; everything’s fine an’ dandy. You chicken out on me, and I’ll write you both up.”
“Hey, I’m in,” Young said.
“No problem,” Henderson added.
“Good,” Madigan said. “Now, get your car back over there behind mine; then you make your way down the back of the alleyway and to the rear of the building. You stay on the radio, but keep it down. I’ll call you when I’m at the front door, and you come in through the back. It’s just a drill, okay? Nothing different from how you learned at the academy. Keep your goddamned heads down, keep looking thirty-five different ways at once, and don’t shoot anyone, for Christ’s sake. Only time you shoot someone is if you see a bullet actually coming at you. You understand?”
Young and Henderson said they got it.
They seemed bright enough. Last thing Madigan needed was a couple of uniforms killing Bernie’s friends. The guys inside would not be armed. That was the deal. Madigan would approach from the front. He would demand entry. Anger Management and Zigzag would do a runner from the side of the property, down the alleyway, out to the street, and Young and Henderson would come in through the back just in time to find them gone. Madigan needed Bernie’s people there to create the appearance that someone other than himself been in possession of the marked money from the Sandià house. If he’d just happened to find it, then he left himself open to unwanted suspicion. He needed Young and Henderson as unrelated and official witnesses to the duffel with two hundred grand in it.
Simple. Couldn’t have been easier.
Madigan watched Young and Henderson as they took their black-and-white around behind his car. They parked, left the vehicle, and then made their way down toward the rear of Bernie’s place.
He gave them another three or four minutes and then he called, “You boys all set?”
“Yes, sir,” came the reply.
“I’ll tap you twice on the handset when I’m at the front door.”
“Roger.”
Madigan tucked the handset in his jacket pocket. He walked across the street, went up the steps, and stopped at Bernie’s front door. He pulled his ID, rapped on the door with the heel of his gun.
“Police!” he shouted. “Open up!”
He heard movement inside. Anger Management and Zigzag were probably just at the side door waiting for the right moment.
Madigan banged on the door again.
More movement. He thought he heard a door open somewhere inside. Then a door slammed.
Voices.
Was that voices?
Someone shouting?
Madigan took one step back and then launched his heel at the front door. It cracked along the jamb but didn’t open. He let fly again, and this time the door went through. He rushed into the hallway just as he heard gunfire. One shot? Two?
What the hell was going on?
Madigan—familiar with Bernie’s place—ran through the front room, down the corridor, saw the side door open, went through it, and there he found Henderson, his gun raised, Young coming up behind him from the rear.
“What the fuck is going on?” Madigan shouted.
“They came out through the side door,” Henderson said. “I was here. I saw the side door and decided to cover it while Young went to the back. They came out through the side door. I shouted for them to stop. I gave them clear warning. They didn’t stop. I think I hit one of them. They kept on going, but I think I hit one of them . . .”
“Jesus Christ! What the hell! I told you to go to the back, for Christ’s sake. I told you to cover the back exit, not the side!”
“I did the drill!” Henderson said. “I did what you told me to do! I did the fucking drill!”
Madigan lowered his gun. He realized he’d been pointing it at Henderson.
“Jesus Christ Almighty! You shot one of them? You fucking shot one of them?”
“I think so, yes,” Henderson said. His expression was one of alarm, confusion, dismay, disbelief. He didn’t understand what was wrong. He’d done the right thing. Madigan had told him to do the drill, and he’d done the drill. Cover all exits. Give clear warning.
“Did he have a gun?” Madigan shouted. “Was he carrying a gun? Were either of them carrying fucking guns?”
Henderson shook his head. His eyes were wide. “I don’t know. I think so. I . . . Christ, I don’t know. I told them to stop, okay? I told them to stop. I gave them warning. I did the routine, all right? I did the routine and they wouldn’t fucking stop and I fired.”
Madigan lowered his head. “Jesus Mary, Mother of God Almighty.” He closed his eyes. He breathed deeply. “Okay, okay, okay . . . Let me think here,” he said. He turned, started back inside. “Come in,” he said to Young and Henderson. “Get inside, for Christ’s sake.”
No more than a few minutes inside, Young and Henderson dispatched to search the premises, and Young returned with the duffel.
“You’re not gonna believe this,” he said to Madigan.
“Oh, I doubt it,” Madigan said. “There’s very little that’s gonna surprise me now.”
Young held out the bag, pulled apart the handles. Bundles of money sat there. Dozens of them.
“Okay,” Madigan said. “Well, maybe that’s a little surprise, yes . . .”
He reached out. Young gave him the bag.
“You wanna split this now or later?” Madigan said. He looked at Young and Henderson in turn, his e
xpression deadpan.
Then he cracked a smile. “Jesus, you guys. You should see your faces. Lighten up.”
Young just looked anxious. Henderson tried to smile but was still in the shock of the shooting.
Madigan was panicking inside. This was serious. This had gone seriously wrong. But he had to play it down, had to make light of it. Last thing he needed now was an emotional babysitting case. He had to get back to the precinct, had to turn the money over to Evidence, and then hope to hell that he got the visit he expected.
“Ah, to hell with it,” Madigan said. “It was probably just a flesh wound. The guy’ll get over it. It’ll make him easier to find anyway, right?”
“But what if it wasn’t?” Henderson asked. “What if it was a fatal wounding?”
“You ever killed a man?” Madigan asked.
“No, sir, I haven’t.”
“Well, maybe you have now. Kinda think such possibilities go with the territory. I think it’s what they call an occupational hazard.”
Henderson looked crushed.
Back at the car he called for Crime Scene. He told Young and Henderson to wait at the property. They were responsible for securing the site until the techs got there.
“And don’t shoot anyone else, okay?” he called out to Henderson as he crossed the road to the car.
Henderson raised his hand. He still didn’t look any better, poor bastard. Well, hell, there was always a first time. Once you dealt with that, it was no longer a problem. At least that had been the way it’d been for Madigan. Irrespective of how Young felt, there was still the possibility that one of Bernie’s associates was wounded. A graze, a flesh wound, a through and through. Madigan had no way of knowing. Maybe the guy had already collapsed and died someplace. This was something he had not predicted. This could throw the entire strategy to shit.
He started the engine, pulled away from the curb, glanced there at the duffel on the passenger seat, and wondered how many more lives were going to be over because of what was inside.
57
YELLOW EYES
It was past noon by the time Madigan arrived at the precinct. He filed his report, put the duffel in Evidence storage, filled out the paperwork, and then went to his office.
He sat patiently until one, and then he went to lunch. He received no word from Young or Henderson, nor from the Crime Scene team at Bernie’s house, and there had been no calls from Walsh. He thought to call Walsh, ask him to turn the heat up, but he dropped the idea. Walsh had done what he’d been asked to do, and that would have to be good enough.
It was while he was eating that the call came.
“Vincent?”
“Speaking.”
“It’s Al. Where are you?”
“In a diner down a block or two. I’m just having lunch. What’s up?”
“I need to speak to you.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
“I’ll head on back.”
“No, I’ll come there. What’s the name of the place?”
“You wanna come here?”
“What’s the name of the place, Vincent?”
“It’s called DiMarco’s, up on 115th.”
“I know it,” Bryant said. “Be there in ten.”
“You want I should order you a sandwich or something, Sarge?”
The line had gone dead.
Madigan pocketed his cellphone. He took a deep breath. Maybe this thing would work. Hell. Maybe it just might work.
Bryant was good to his word. He appeared ten minutes later. Madigan was surprised at how calm he felt. He’d even managed to finish his sandwich.
Bryant, however, looked like a wreck.
“Jesus, Sarge, you look like crap. What the hell is going on?”
Bryant nodded to a booth way back in the diner. Madigan didn’t question him. He followed Bryant and they took seats. The waitress asked if Bryant wanted anything.
“Coffee, just coffee,” he said, and Madigan asked for a refill.
Once the coffee had been delivered Madigan asked what was going on.
“I have Walsh on my case,” he said. “This thing you spoke about. This thing about the fourth man at the Sandià house being a cop. Looks like there’s some substance to it.”
“Oh fuck,” Madigan said.
“Oh fuck, exactly. And I can’t have this going on, Vincent. Not in my precinct.”
“Did Walsh speak to you directly?”
“Sure he did. This morning.”
“Did he say who he thought this guy was, the fourth man?”
“No, he didn’t, and I don’t think he knows. I don’t think he’s even certain that the fourth guy is a cop, but I can’t take that risk.”
“So even if it is a cop, it could be someone from another precinct entirely, right?”
“Sure it could be,” Bryant said. “But am I prepared to take that risk? Hell, no. I can’t have my precinct pulled to pieces on this . . .”
Madigan understood. He saw where this was going. Bryant was thinking of the department’s reputation. This was not a personal request, but a professional one. Think of the reputation of Bryant and Callow and Harris, even Madigan himself . . . Do the right thing, Vincent. Help us preserve the status quo. We do more good than bad. We get more right than wrong. Let’s get this shit sorted out. Let’s use what we know to back Walsh off, to get IA off our cases. Let’s have everything go back to normal so we can just get the hell on with our jobs. Sometimes you have to do a little bad for the greater good.
Madigan gave the impression of dawning realization. “You want that phone,” he said. “You want that phone so you can get Walsh off our case, right?”
Bryant didn’t reply.
Jackpot.
“Jesus, Sarge . . .”
“But you understand why, right? You understand why I’m doing this? For the good of the precinct, the department . . .”
“For sure,” Madigan said. “I just don’t know . . .”
“The money. The guy, your CI . . . He was offered a lot of money . . .”
“A hundred and fifty grand.” Madigan stopped dead. He looked at Bryant. His eyes widened.
“For all of us,” Bryant said. “I’m thinking of all of us . . .”
“Jesus Christ, Sarge . . .”
“So who the hell knows, Vincent? You, me, Evidence, whichever uniforms you took on the bust?”
“Fucking hell . . . Jesus Christ . . .”
“I saw that memo come in, Vincent, and it all made sense. It was like some kind of divine intervention. You bust two hundred grand from some schmuck’s house, and there it is, problem solved. We get the phone off your CI. We back Walsh off. He tells IA to look in some other direction. Everyone goes home happy.”
Madigan didn’t speak. He looked down at his hands. He didn’t know how to describe what he was feeling. He didn’t want to try and describe it.
“It is one hell of a coincidence,” Madigan said eventually, and then he looked up at Bryant, and he could see his own face reflected in Bryant’s eyes. He could see in Bryant’s expression the fact that Bryant believed Madigan was going to go along with this insane idea . . . That there was a way out for everyone, that Vincent Madigan was going to be his ally, his buddy, his compadre . . .
He wondered how much Bryant’s expression would change if he let slip that the money had come from Bernie Tomczak’s place; that Bernie was the one with the phone; that the money that now sat in Evidence was Sandià’s own money; that this was the money from the house robbery . . .
Oh shit, would that be a sight to see.
But he said nothing. Bernie’s address had not been noted on the paperwork. In fact, had Bryant taken the time to look at anything but the fact that two hundred grand had been admitted under Madigan’s signature to the Evidence Room, then he would have noticed that a significant number of pertinent and necessary details had been omitted from the paperwork. Didn’t matter a damn, because that paperwork was going in the precinct boiler
room furnace anyway. Had never been destined for anywhere else.
“Too much of a coincidence to ignore,” Bryant said.
Madigan didn’t respond.
“Of course, there’d have to be something in it for you, Vincent,” Bryant said.
Madigan waved the comment aside. “We have to think of the good of the precinct,” he said. “We have a hard enough time already without getting God knows what bullshit dragged through the papers . . . And sometimes IA can be such a bunch of assholes . . .”
Madigan could feel Bryant relaxing even as he spoke, for Madigan was saying precisely what Bryant wanted to hear and he was heading in precisely the direction Bryant wanted him to go. Then Madigan said, “I will have to talk to the guy, the one with the phone.”
“For sure.”
“And you need to override the paperwork. You have to pull all the paperwork from that raid, and you have to get that money out of Evidence and hide it, and you have to make all the connections to me go away for good. You understand?”
“Yes.”
“And what about Young and Henderson?”
“Who?”
“The two uniforms who did the bust with me this morning.”
“I’ll take care of that,” Bryant said.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean? I’m gonna hear that they were killed in the line of duty tomorrow?”
“Jesus, Vincent, what the fuck? What kind of person do you think I am? Hell no, they’re not gonna get killed in the line of duty. Jesus Christ, man, what the hell do you say something like that for?”
Madigan shook his head. “I don’t know, Sarge. I’m sorry. This is just some very scary shit going on here.”
“I said I’ll take care of it. I’ll tell them that the money was counterfeit, that it got confiscated by the Treasury Department, that they both get commends for their stellar work, and that the investigation has now been passed over to the feds and the Secret freaking Service, okay? They’re just rookies, man. They’ll believe whatever the fuck I tell ’em.”
“Good. Okay. I just don’t want any casualties around this thing. It’ll just get complicated—”