Mean Business on North Ganson Street (14 page)

“Any marks on the van?” the detective inquired as he distributed graphite between blue lines.

“Not that I saw.”

“Which way did it go?”

“East. I … I would've come down and told you, but it's not a great idea to stand in the middle of the block and talk to the police around here.”

“Don't worry about it. And thank you.” Bettinger pocketed his notepad and proceeded toward the door.

“Wait—before you leave—”

The organist handed the mug back to the detective, who consumed the remainder, nodded his thanks, and hastened down the steps into the cold. Warmed by the cider, Bettinger located Zwolinski and told him what he had learned.

“That's halfway between nothin' and somethin',” remarked the inspector.

“It's better than bubble gum.”

The inspector's flat nostrils twitched. “You just eat an apple?”

“The guy gave me cider.”

“Nancy got an omelet.” Zwolinski pointed at a female officer who had eggshells and yolks in her hair.

“Hurts less than a cinder block.”

“How do you live with all that empathy?”

The inspector gave a description of the vehicle to the Missouri State Highway Patrol, and the detective joined the trio of shivering officers who were surveying the east side of the block. Near the intersection, Langford found a few bits of safety glass that may or may not have belonged to the black, brown, or dark blue cargo van that was almost certainly on its way to a junkyard, chop shop, or lake.

Zwolinski yawned when he inspected the handsome young recruit's evidence. “This stuff isn't even halfway between nothin' and somethin'.”

The bodies were sent to the morgue, and eventually, the police ran out of things to do. Like ashes from a campfire, the weary law enforcers drifted from the scene.

*   *   *

Bettinger parked his yellow hatchback in the pillbox lot, reclined the driver's seat, and shut his eyes. Heated air blew through the vents, warming his face, and he relinquished consciousness.

*   *   *

A dollop of sunlight landed upon the detective's right eyelid, rousing him from a dream that smelled like allspice. He stretched his arms, sat upright, and glanced at the clock, which showed that the time was ten minutes after seven. The arrival of morning would make it hard—if not impossible—for him to fall asleep again, and thus, he decided to visit Sebastian Ramirez.

Twenty minutes later, Bettinger strode through the mint green lobby of the John the Baptist Hospital of Greater Victory and arrived at the front counter, where a receptionist rested her messy head inside a barbican of folded arms.

“Pardon me,” said the detective.

“Mmm … yeah?” inquired a mouth within the fortress.

“Where's ICU?”

“Fourth floor.”

“Good night.”

“Night?”

Bettinger left the collapsed woman, boarded an elevator, and ascended to the fourth floor. There, he entered a gray hallway, which was supposed to be white, and looked for an employee.

A door opened, admitting a pale old man who had a gown and a walker. “I need my bedpan changed,” the fellow told the detective. “The call button's still not working.”

“I'll let the nurse know.”

The oldster endeavored a three-point turn as if his walker were a motor vehicle. Returning to his room, he muttered the word “Bureaucrat.”

Bettinger continued up the untenanted hallway, looking for an office or an employee as he progressed. A door opened at the far end, and through the portal walked a male white twentysomething in a mint green uniform who had light brown hair, a goatee, and a clipboard.

“Excuse me,” said the detective, eyeing the fellow's name tag, which identified him as a doctor-in-training.

“Visitors aren't allowed right now.”

Bettinger showed his badge.

A hardness fixed itself on the resident's face. “Yes?”

“What room is Sebastian Ramirez in?”

“He isn't.”

“He left?” Bettinger had not seen any mention of this online, though the most recent article on Sebastian was two weeks old. “Did he recover?”

A mirthless chuckle emerged from the resident. “Are you kidding?”

“But he checked out?”

“‘Vanished' is the word I'd use.”

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

Bettinger recalled the series of phone calls that Dominic had received while he was driving to Sichuan Dragon—the ones that he had pretended were from his ex-wife. “Lunchtime?”

“That's when we found out about it, though he told us to hold breakfast the night before, so it could've been earlier.”

“You call the police?”

“We weren't obligated to.”

Bettinger figured that Tackley and Dominic had learned about Sebastian's departure from someone who was more amenable than the individual with whom he currently spoke.

“I've got a lot to do,” said the resident, impatiently. “On a good day, I'm doing three jobs. Today isn't good.”

“Where is he now?”

“Home. Or possibly North Korea.”

“Any reason you're acting like a porcupine?”

“It keeps me awake.”

“You didn't seem to like my badge.”

“Did I hurt your feelings?”

Bettinger decided to gentle his approach. “I'm new on the force—I transferred here from Arizona and just started this week—and I'm asking for your opinion. Politely. With a blue ribbon and chocolates that have ganache.”

The resident gauged the detective's sincerity and seemed to be satisfied by what he saw. “I deal with bodies failing and falling apart all day. That's what I do. That's what happens in this hospital, especially in ICU. We try to help people get better—or at least feel better. But from what I've seen, the cops in Victory are on the opposite side, hanging out with cancer and car accidents.”

“Sebastian is a previously convicted felon. He—”

“So he deserves what you guys did to him?” These words were sharp. “He's incontinent. He's in a wheelchair, and he's breathing out of one lung—and that's who he is for the rest of his life. Every single day. That's what the Victory police did to him—after he was in cuffs—and he's not the only one.”

Bettinger did not doubt the veracity of these accusations.

The resident cleared his throat. “And why do you think he dropped the charges against you guys? Santa told him to?”

The detective caught the baseball. “You're saying somebody threatened him?”

“I'm not saying that.” The fellow's blue eyes were hard. “That's what you said.”

An ugly silence sat in the air.

“Unless you're officially holding me,” the resident said, “I'm going back to work—where the bowel movements I deal with don't wear badges.”

No reply emerged from the thing that lived in Bettinger's mouth.

 

XXI

Everybody Listens to Zwolinski

The detective entered the big white refrigerator that was the pillbox, sat at his desk, and stuck the black piece of tape that he had received from the receptionist onto his badge. A visual survey told him that most of the Victory policemen and women were present, including Huan and Perry, who drank coffee around a plant that had no leaves. The absence of Dominic and Tackley was unsurprising.

An aquatic quietude filled the enclosure, and every time a phone rang, the noise seemed shrill. Bettinger sifted data on Sebastian Ramirez, wondering if Alyssa and the kids would learn about the executions from a television anchorman or a newspaper or the Internet.

Nine o'clock brought Inspector Zwolinski. He was dressed in black and his knuckles were purple from the punishment that he had given a punching bag, which may or may not have been a living human being. The titan reached the dais and turned around, facing the clerks, officers, and investigators who peopled the moribund interior.

“Don't talk to the press.” The inspector's words resonated throughout the pillbox, bolstered by the heavy cabinet that was his chest.

Everybody listened.

“If you're harassed by these jackals,” Zwolinski continued, “redirect 'em to my secretary, and she'll step on 'em. I'm talkin' to two papers today—the
Victory Chronicle
and
The National
—and the rest can suck fumes from those.

“Boostin' paper sales and creatin' entertainment isn't my priority.

“This is some mean shit we're dealin' with right now.”

A phone rang.

Irene Bell launched an arm and yanked the cord from the device.

“Every case that was top priority is now second priority. Anthony Gianetto liked to—”

Zwolinski's voice cut out.

His eyes shined.

A phone rang, and Langford threw the device in the trash.

The inspector slammed a purple fist into an open palm and cleared his throat. “Anthony Gianetto liked to rate things—like he was a movie critic or somethin'. Findin' the guys who did this to him and Dave Stanley deserves a ten from every single one of us.

“Anyone who gives a nine point nine or less will earn some time in the boxin' ring with me.”

Bettinger knew that his boss was not bluffing.

“Every cop in here needs to be on the street before I take my mornin' shit—which is what I'll be doin' while I'm talkin' to the papers.”

A clerk placed a massive thermos of coffee in Zwolinski's right hand. “I spoke to Dave Stanley's family. They want to do the service in Nebraska, so we're sendin' him there tomorrow. Every single one of you sends flowers and a card to his parents. Write at least seventy-five words about how great Dave Stanley was in that card.

“No fuckin' e-mails.

“If you put seventy-four words or less—or just forget to do it—you'll earn some time in the ring with me.

“Last night, I went to Gianetto's home. Spoke with his wife.” A miserable look reshaped the lumps that comprised the inspector's face. “She wants the full service—with the honor guard—and that'll happen on Friday.

“Show up late to that, and we're in the ring until you lose some teeth.”

Zwolinski let his threat settle.

“And when I see Mrs. Gianetto at the service, I don't want to give her platitudes. No ‘We are doing our best' kind of garbage. I want to show her a picture of the killers, dead on the street or sittin' in jail, with their sleeves rolled up, waitin' for injections.

“Don't embarrass me.

“Don't embarrass us.”

Zwolinski gulped coffee as if it were water. Exhaling steam and massaging his hard belly, he eyeballed the assemblage. “You've got about three minutes.”

Chair legs squeaked across the linoleum, and bodies flew into the air.

Bettinger snatched a paper from an ancient printer and strode to the clogged portal, through which he and other quiet cops then entered the receiving area, nodding their heads respectfully at Sharon, who sat at the reception desk, wiping her red eyes with a ball of tissue. (Earlier that morning, the detective had learned that she and Dave Stanley had been dating.) A pile of candy bars sat beside the woman's big white phone, dumped there by Inspector Zwolinski.

Bettinger zipped up his parka, exited the pillbox, and proceeded toward his yellow hatchback. His cell phone buzzed, and he put the receiver to his ear.

“Yeah?”

“I'm workin' on somethin',” said Dominic. “I'll catch up with you later.”

“Don't rush.”

The detective sat inside his hatchback and shut the door. Upon the passenger seat, he placed the printout, which showed the home addresses for Sebastian Ramirez, the dealer's older sister Margarita, and a white woman named Melissa Spring who had visited him regularly in the hospital and was presumed to be his girlfriend.

Bettinger examined his map, determined the simplest route to the first location, and tossed his hatchback into the line of growling vehicles. Marked and unmarked cars rolled onto the street like a fleet of ships looking for war.

 

XXII

Dark Doorways

A yawn exploded on the detective's face.

As he drove south, he conjectured. The city had dropped its charges against Sebastian Ramirez while he was in his coma (for obvious reasons), and when the battered fellow had awakened, he contacted his lawyer and filed a brutality lawsuit against Dominic Williams, Edward Tackley, and the entire Police Department of Greater Victory. There was a lot of evidence against the detectives—fourteen witnesses and even some video—and a trial would almost certainly yield two convictions and the same number of expulsions. It was a surprise to everybody when, five weeks later, the lawsuit had been dropped.

Sebastian Ramirez had told the
Victory Chronicle
that he just wanted to put the incident behind him and move on with his life.

The indignant resident at the John the Baptist Hospital of Greater Victory did not believe that the brutalized man had naturally arrived at his epiphany, and Bettinger also entertained doubts. It was easy for him to imagine Dominic and Tackley threating their disabled adversary.

Bleak, untenanted blocks changed into more habitable ones as the detective rolled south on Summer Drive, and the hot air pouring out of the vents turned his knuckles into reptilian leather. Upon his notepad, he wrote,
Buy moisturizer.

A red light stopped the hatchback at a corner where a young white couple admired the contents of their baby carriage. Their contented grins informed Bettinger that the infant was not yet frozen.

The green light glared, and the detective dialed the wheel clockwise, guiding his hatchback onto Fifth Street, which was lined with three- and four-story brownstones. Glancing at a building number, he determined that Sebastian Ramirez's home would be several blocks ahead and to the right.