Farnsworth Score (13 page)

Sonnenberg shook his head. “They’d want to know why you’re asking. I don’t want to risk a leak until we’ve got Farnsworth.”

“It wasn’t Chandler,” said Wager.

Johnston and Sonnenberg looked at him.

He took out the small notebook. Turning to a dog-eared page, he read the summary of his telephone conversation with Chandler, emphasizing that the D.E.A. man and Rietman had driven alone in separate cars back to headquarters after the bust, and that the dope had been in Rietman’s possession all the way.

“Maybe Chandler lied?”

“No,” said the inspector. “It would be too easy to verify. The surveillance team would know who drove what.”

“And Rietman signed the stuff into the custodian’s office. He was the only one in the chain of possession from the bust to the locker.”

“And he’s had four months to sell that cocaine.”

“I can check out his recent behavior,” said Johnston. “If he’s spending more than he’s making, we can find out easy enough without tipping anybody.”

“I suppose we can go that far. But for God’s sake, don’t make waves.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sonnenberg’s cigar crackled gently. “Gabe, put all this in writing as soon as you can—for Ed’s eyes and mine only. No one else, not even Suzy. There’s not a blessed thing we can do until we bag Farnsworth; but when he’s out of the way …”

“Then we’ll sack that son of a bitch Rietman.”

In his mind, Wager corrected the sergeant. First they would sack the facts. And then Rietman. So it would stick on the bastard.

Wager drew routine surveillance until late in the week, which was fine with him. Since he was supposed to be peddling 150 pounds of the choicest Colombian weed, he had to stay out of Nederland anyway; and at least surveillance got him away from the small apartment. But it did not stop him from thinking about Rietman. Or from feeling the anger well up in his stomach with a sour taste that made the lukewarm coffee churn uneasily in his gullet. Things like that did happen—Hansen had said it months ago. But you did not expect it to happen in your own unit. You didn’t expect it with someone you had trusted.
Caga
—you never really expected it. What you did expect was that cops would do their jobs, nothing more or less. You expected more from the men who worked with you than you did from a marriage.

His suspect, a slender Negro male in his early twenties, came out of the dark apartment building. He stood a moment or two on his yellow high heels to case the street, then with a loose, cocky walk went east toward Emerson Avenue. Wager, slumped against the shadow of the car seat, emptied his cup of coffee back into the thermos and marked the time on a contact card: 1:23
A.M.
The suspect’s gray topcoat flickered briefly in the barred shadows of treeless limbs before turning north out of sight on the empty avenue. Wager waited two or three minutes, then swung after the figure, expecting—and finding—that the suspect’s car, which he had earlier parked at a distance from the apartment, was gone. He noted that on the card and, with a yawn, started home; routine periodic surveillance for bits and pieces of this and that. In the morning, he would give his cards to Suzy, who would give them to Ashcroft. And they might build into something now or later. Or they might not. That was what routine surveillance meant.

He turned up the volume on the radio pack under the seat and half listened to the quiet traffic of District 2 while his mind kept sliding back to Rietman. Thank God Rietman was new to the unit and did not have wide exposure among the snitches. When the word got out about him, all those he touched would either be terrified that Rietman might have sold them for a deal or would be twice as hard to squeeze because Rietman proved that cops were no different from crooks. That son of a bitch; when the story finally hit the street, it would hurt everybody and everything. It would erode the power that Wager and other cops had worked at so hard to give weight to their promises and threats; worst of all, it would raise a question in every cop’s mind—as if there weren’t enough worries already. A rogue cop. A crooked cop. It had really happened, and to him.

He eased up on the gas pedal, which his anger had pressed. Evidence. It was all circumstantial, and without an admission from Farnsworth that he had sold Rietman cocaine, there would be no conviction. The inspector was right: the only way they could get to Rietman was through Farnsworth, and the only way Farnsworth would admit to selling to Rietman would be if he was afraid of something bigger. Wager could see it coming: pop Farnsworth so hard that there would be a deal. Sonnenberg—and himself, too, he guessed—would put more value on hanging Rietman than Farnsworth. But both of the bastards should hang; it was just that Rietman should have more air under his feet. He pulled into the numbered parking place behind his apartment and disconnected the radio pack, clipping it onto his belt. Perhaps there was another way to cook bacon: if Rietman thought Farnsworth was about to be popped, maybe he would want to beat Farnsworth in copping a plea. Maybe there were two roads to the same place.

He called D.P.D. at midmorning; Rietman and his partner were on patrol in District 1. Wager arranged to meet them on their coffee break at a Jack-in-the-Box drive-in.

Rietman was riding shotgun; his partner looked across at Wager curiously. “Is that you underneath the beard, Wager?” Rietman asked. “What do you want now?”

“A few questions about Farnsworth. Why don’t you get in my car? Your partner can monitor the radio.”

Rietman strode slowly to Wager’s vehicle and slid in beside him. “I hope it’s worth your fucking up my coffee break.”

Wager kept his eyes to the front of the car where a waitress trotted back and forth carrying trays up and down the long row of covered parking slots. “We’re real close to busting Farnsworth.”

“Gee, that’s nice.”

“When we get him, he may want to bargain.”

“So let the son of a bitch. He ain’t my worry no more.”

Wager ordered a hamburger and coffee. Rietman did not want anything. “If he bargains, he’ll confess to everything he’s ever done so we can’t charge him on anything additional later.”

“What’s your thing, Wager? What are you laying on me?”

He was cool. Wager smiled and couldn’t help a touch of sour admiration: Rietman was one cool dude and a good actor.

“We’ll be looking at all his deals—everything he ever did.”

“And?”

“I might want to check some of his story with you.”

“As long as it’s during working hours. Anything extra’s time and a half.”

He gave Rietman a few minutes’ silence, a few minutes to think—to say something more. But the uniformed cop was quiet.

“Well, I thought you’d like to know that we’re real close to getting him.”

“Detective Wager, sir, I just don’t give one small shit one way or another.”

On his way to O.C.D. headquarters, Gabe ran the scene through his memory over and over, seeking something in the words or voice or eyes that told him Rietman was indeed worried. But nothing showed. Either Rietman was one of the smoothest liars Wager had ever run across or he really wasn’t worried. And if Rietman wasn’t, Wager should be—because something was wrong.

He rapped on Johnston’s doorframe; the Sergeant looked up from the sports section of the
Post
. “Gabe—come on in. Did you hear about the MDA case? The one in the Springs?”

“No.”

“Three to five! They’re appealing, but it won’t get nowhere.”

“I thought we had them on a class-three felony.”

“Yeah; well, the Springs D.A. offered them a deal.”

“I see. What about Rietman? Did you get anything yet?” Johnston had started following the paper trails that Rietman, like everyone else, left through a community.

Ed said, “Score, zip. If he has a second bank account, it’s either in another name or not around his neighborhood.”

“He wouldn’t use a bank near home. He knows our procedures.”

“And his charge accounts are routine, no big purchases. I found nothing unusual in his spending habits. But we won’t have access to his tax files until sometime next spring.”

“Any recent trips?”

“Not that we could find out. So far, he’s Mr. Clean.”

“Or Mr. Smooth.”

“He probably stashed the stuff until it cools off. He’s under no pressure to sell it.”

“Maybe.” And maybe not. Motive: money. Who needs money? People who want things or who are in debt. Rietman didn’t seem to want anything. “Did you check his credit rating? Has he made any early payments?”

“Nope. And he’s never missed a payment. Besides, that would be in his official file.”

True enough; officers in debt were officers in trouble. “Medical expenses? Girl friend?”

Johnston shook his head. “There’s no indication he’s ever been caught off sides in his life.”

“Just one.”

“Yeah. One.”

It really didn’t fit, and the rough edges irritated Wager’s mind. Yet why would Farnsworth lie unless he was testing Wager? And why should he test him even after Wager had been let in to the dealing? “Do you have a list of Rietman’s old snitches?”

“What for?”

“If he hasn’t moved that junk yet, he’s going to sooner or later. And he’s sure as hell not going on the street himself.”

“You mean he might be using one of his snitches to market it?”

“He has to do it somehow.”

“You’re right.” Johnston unlocked one of the long drawers of a filing cabinet. “Yeah—they’re here.” He stopped and looked up at Wager. “But the inspector said he didn’t want to do anything until after we’ve had a shot at Farnsworth.”

“Who’s doing anything? We just want to know if any of the snitches are in fat city all of a sudden.”

“Oh. I guess that’d be O.K.” He handed Wager the file. “He didn’t have time to build up much of a stable.”

Gabe copied the three entries and their telephone numbers. The first, Louis’s, he thought sounded familiar. The other two were new: Paddy-O and Ritchie. “Anybody working these people now?”

“Not in our squad.” Ed ran his fingers through the thinning red hair. “You know, Gabe, I don’t know …”

“Do I know you don’t know what?”

“I don’t know if you should even ask around about these C.I.s. You got too much yardage to lose right now.”

“If he hasn’t moved that junk yet, we’ve still got a chance to catch it. Or if he’s doing it now, we can stop it. Or if he’s already done it, his middleman might be thinking of leaving town. Besides, I want that son of a bitch a hell of a lot more than I want Farnsworth.”

“Me, too, Gabe. But the inspector says something else. Nope—you stay off these guys. I’ll check with the inspector when he gets in. In the meantime, just don’t even go near these guys.”

Without a duces tecum subpoena, Wager couldn’t go through the telephone company’s records for the addresses of the snitches’ numbers; without the sergeant’s approval, he couldn’t get the duces tecum. Gabe smiled. “
Bueno
—I’ll just sit
con mis manos en el seno.
”

Or almost with his hands in his lap; at his desk, he dialed Fat Willy’s office number.

The bartender answered as usual when Wager asked if Fat Willy was there. “Maybe he is, maybe he ain’t. Who wants him?”

“Gabe.”

“I’ll ask around.”

A moment later, Fat Willy breathed heavily at his ear: “I was feeling maybe you was a dead greaser by now.”

“It’s nice to know you’ve been thinking of me, Willy. How are you and Hansen getting along?”

“We gets along. You want to know about my health and love life, too?”

“I know you’ve got a lot of both—and they’re going to last a long time because you are going to help me out.”

“Sure, baby! You cut me off, and that’s the way it stays.”

“Business is business, Willy. Don’t take it personal. Now listen up, I got something I want you to do.”

“I ain’t listening. And I ain’t doing.”

“And you ain’t going to get any action when Hansen turns your jacket back over to me.”

The black’s voice dropped so that only an angry rumble came through the earpiece. “This nigger ain’t working for no spies no more.” The line clicked dead.

Wager went down the list to the next number. Again it was answered by a female voice he did not recognize. “Is Doc there?”

“Who’re you?”

“Gabe.”

“Just a minute.”

“Gabe, baby! Long time no! Hey, where you been, man? Hey, baby, I really been swinging since you been away.”

“That’s fine, Doc. Listen, there’s something I want you to do.”

“Sure, man—any time. Hey, this Hansen cat’s all right. He don’t miss nothing. You put me on a good man, baby.”

“Doc—listen up.”

“I am! That’s what I’m doing, man. Lay it on me: I’m all ears.”

“I want you to find out who’s been heavy in coke in the last four months.”

The line was silent. Doc wasn’t all jive turkey. “Funny you should ask.”

“Why?”

“There’s been a lot of snort around. Good stuff, too, but it’s thinning out now.”

“Around since when?”

“Since this fall!”

“Any names?”

“Just a minute.” A palm clamped down over Doc’s mouthpiece for a moment. “O.K., Wager—I sent the ginch for a pack of cigarettes. What she don’t know, she can’t say, can she?”

“Names, Doc.”

“Names. There’s a bunch of new ones—people gonna sell what people want to buy. But there’s one I heard about who’s supposed to be really big.”

“Well?”

“Well, I ain’t heard that he deals in coke, but the word is he can get anything anybody wants. And all they want.”

“The name, Doc.”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you—it’s Mr. Taco.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Well, can I help it if that’s his name? So he’s a Chicano or something. They do a little dealing, you know. His name’s all over the street and he’s really big. I tipped Hansen on it but he ain’t come up with nothing yet.”

“I’ll let Hansen handle it, then. Any other names?”

“It’s got to be coke?”

“And within the last four months.”

Another silence. “No. Not just coke and not just in the last four months. I can’t think of nobody that fits that.”

“How about Louis, Paddy-O, or Ritchie?”