The Good Cop (15 page)

“He was standing right there,” Jonathan said, pointing. “Looking at that list.” He indicated the building registry. “Then he saw us and turned around real quick and left.”

“Are you sure it was him?” I started walking a little faster than normal for the door.

“Sure I'm sure. He wasn't wearing his uniform, but I recognized him right away.”

We reached the door and went out into the street, each of us looking up and down the sidewalk, but there were just too many people to be able to spot one guy I'd only seen once.

Very strange,
I thought…and it was far from a happy thought.

Chapter 6

I drove Jonathan back to Haven House, and he asked me if I'd like to come up and see his room. I told him I had to get right back to the office to take care of a few things, but said I'd like to have a rain check. He just smiled and said “Okay!”

He got out of the car and headed up the sidewalk toward the house as I drove away.

I was going to wait until I got back to the office to call Tom, but though I'd tried to kid myself that the calls he'd gotten were no big deal, it just wasn't working. When I glanced down at my fuel gauge and saw I needed gas, I used it as an excuse to pull into the next station I came to. I drove to a “full service” pump—another indication of my hurry to get to a phone—and, getting out of the car while fishing in my pocket for change, went directly to the outside pay phone. I dialed Tom's number, and was glad to hear his “Hello?”—Though I could tell it was a guarded “Hello.”

“How's it going, Buddy?”

“Oh, hi, Dick. Glad it's you.”

I wondered what that meant, but let it slide for the moment.

“Did you get some sleep?” I asked, then immediately added: “Sorry, I wasn't going to do my Mother Hen number.”

Tom laughed. “That's okay. It's nice having someone of the same gender who isn't a relative make a fuss over me. I talked Lisa into going to work today, and I decided I'd answer any phone calls myself. Glad I did, because the department called. They want me back to work Monday, if the doctor okays it. I'll be on a desk for a week or so, maybe, but it'll be good just to get back.”

“No more harassment calls?”

“I heard the phone ring a couple times during the night, but nobody left a message. I guess they didn't want their voices recorded for posterity. I think guys like that are pretty much nightcrawlers, anyway.”

“Well, I guess we both knew something like this was almost inevitable. There are too many sickos out there for it not to. The main thing is not to let it get to you.”

“Oh, I won't. We Bradys are pretty thick-skinned.”

“Speaking of which,” I said, suddenly remembering the elder Brady and the labor negotiations, “have you talked to your dad?”

“I called him this morning just before he left for the talks. He's ready, and he's sure not going to let that sick bastard Giacomino walk off with the farm. I wanted to tell him about the incident with that kid, but decided against it. He's got to stay focused, and if he knew what that bastard did,
he
'd beat the shit out of him…he's a tough old bird, and he could do it, too.”

I had no doubt.

“So you're going to be home all day?”

“I've got to be at the doctor's at ten thirty, but I'll be back a little after noon, probably.”

“Good. Maybe I'll give you a call later and see if you'd like some company.”

“Gee, I don't know. Lisa won't be home until about six, so we'd have to be here all by ourselves. I can't imagine what we might find to do to keep ourselves busy….”

“We could always improvise.”

He laughed, and we exchanged good-byes and hung up.

*

I let myself relax for the rest of my drive downtown, but the minute I walked up to the main entrance of my building, I flashed back to Jonathan's claim to have seen one of the cops from Richman's office. I didn't question for a minute the fact that he sincerely thought he saw him, but it was really pretty unlikely. Still….

I stopped at the lobby newsstand for the paper, noting the headlines: “Labor Talks Underway,” and mentally wished Tom's dad and his team well. I forced myself not even to think about that scumbag Giacomino.

The phone was ringing as I opened the door and I hurried to the desk to pick it up.

“Hardesty Investigations.”

“Got a pencil?” I recognized Mark Richman's voice immediately.

“Yeah…” I opened the top drawer of the desk to find one out of the thirty-four or more pencils in there that might actually have a sharpened point.

“Take this number down, then go to a pay phone and call me there in five minutes.”

Thoroughly confused, I reached into the wastebasket for an old envelope, and wrote down the number he gave me.

“Five minutes,” he repeated, and hung up.

I noticed the light on my answering machine blinking, but decided to wait until I got back to check on it. I left the office, and took the elevator to the lobby, which fortunately had a bank of pay phones, only one of which was unoccupied. I glanced at my watch and dialed the number.

“Dick?”

“Yeah. What's going on?”

“Sorry for the cloak and dagger business, but I have very good reason to believe your phone—your home phone, too, probably—is being tapped. All hell is starting to break loose around here, and this Brady incident is becoming the focus. They know you and Tom Brady are friends, and since they know you're gay, they're hoping to catch either you or him saying something incriminating.”

Jeesus H. Kee-ryst!
my mind yelled.
What the hell did you just do, Hardesty? If they're tapping Tom's phone and got that last little exchange between you two…! Shit! Shit Shit Shit!!!

God, I didn't dare say anything to Richman!

He, of course, was oblivious to what was going on in my head.

“But don't feel too bad; I found out this morning that my office phone, at least, is being tapped, too.”

No good! No good!
I thought.
If anybody heard Tom and me talking, the shit has hit the fan for sure!
I decided I had to tell Richman; there was too much at stake not to.

“Uh, Lieutenant…” and I used his official title very deliberately “…we have a big problem….” And I told him of my conversation with Tom, as close to verbatim as I could remember it. Up until that moment, Richman had known Tom was gay without
knowing
he was gay, if you can follow that one.

“We didn't actually
say
anything,” I said, lamely.

Richman sighed. “You didn't have to. I think my grandmother could have read between the lines on that little exchange.”

“So what can we do?”

“Let me talk it over with Captain Offermann and see if we can meet with the chief. This is really bad, I'm afraid, but we just might be able to do some damage control.”

He was silent for a moment while I mentally kicked myself around the block several times. Finally, he said: “Is your friend Jonathan somewhere safe?”

“Yes.” I was somehow vaguely disturbed by the question. “For the moment, anyway.”

“Good,” Richman said without further explanation. There was another long pause while I continued on my mental-masochist marathon, but trying to calm myself down.

“The only thing I can think of in regards to the current situation, is to take the offensive. We'll lay everything out to Chief Black—assuming he'll listen—and maybe we can offer Cochran a trade: No action on Tom Brady for no action on Joey Giacomino. I know the chief's going to hate like hell to do it, but the only other alternative is for both sides to come out with cannons firing, and everybody loses. At least this way we can gain some time. I hope we can count on the fact of Deputy Chief Cochran's having too many skeletons in his closet to risk his association with Giacomino's shaking them all loose. Keep your fingers crossed. If you're going to be home tonight, I'll try to stop over and give you any news.”

“I'll be there. And I'm so fucking sorry I…”

He cut me off. “You've got nothing to be sorry about: You had no way of knowing any of this. So I'll talk to you later.”

We exchanged good-byes and hung up.

I was feeling like a ten-pound bag of dog crap but was able to put the mental whips away and focus on my anger against Cochran and his entire crew. And as for Tom…well, whatever happened, he could handle it.

*

My first reaction was to get over to Tom's immediately and warn him, and then I realized:
About what?
I was the only one to whom he was at all likely to be saying anything that might give any listeners-in even a hint that he was gay, and we'd already neatly handed them that one on a silver tray. It had occurred to me, too, as I tried to calm myself down, that to do a twenty-four-hour phone tap on someone would require a lot of manpower and effort—and multiply that by three if Tom's, my, and Lieutenant Richman's were the only ones being tapped. Maybe it was just sporadic; maybe they hadn't heard that particular conversation.

Uh huh,
my mind said
.

Hey, it's
my
straw and I'll cling to it if I want
, I replied.

By the time I'd returned to the office, I'd managed to hand over control to my stoic side: What was done was done, and there was little point in getting too worked up over it. I was getting pretty good at that, I must admit, and was pretty proud of myself for it.

Then I checked the message on the answering machine.

“Dick, this is Tony Mason at Haven House. Could you call me right away, please?”

Double Shit!

My stomach immediately knotted up, and when I saw my hand automatically reaching for the phone, I yanked it back and headed back out the door. This was going to get very old, very fast, I told myself.

I stopped at the lobby newsstand and asked Charlie, the proprietor, for five dollars' worth of change. I was going to need it, I suspected.

I dialed Haven House's number from one of the payphones.

“Hi.” I didn't recognize the voice.

“Hi. Is Reverend Mason there?”

“Sure, just a sec.” The phone was put down, and I could hear several voices in the background, and music, but no call “Hey, Reverend,” so I assumed whomever had answered had gone to get him. A minute later, the phone was picked up.

“Reverend Mason.”

“Tony, it's Dick, returning your call.”

“Ah, Dick, thanks. Jonathan didn't want to call you, but I thought I'd best.”

The knot was still in my stomach. “Is something wrong?”

“I'm not really sure, but when he came into the house, he was acting…a little strange. I thought at first maybe you and he had had some sort of argument, but he kept going to the front window and looking out to the street. And he seemed nervous. I asked him if anything was wrong, and he said ‘no,' but I'm afraid I didn't believe him. Since he'd been with you, I thought perhaps you might have an idea.”

“No,” I said honestly. “When I dropped him off he was fine. Maybe I should talk to him. Can you put him on?”

“Sure. Just a moment.” And I heard the phone being laid down, then only the background voices and music, and a couple kids laughing.

What the hell could have happened?
I wondered.
I just left him not forty-five minutes ago.

“Hello?”

“Jonathan…did something happen?” There was a long pause. “Jonathan?”

“They followed us, Dick.”

“Who?” The knot in my stomach got bigger.

“Those cops. As soon as you drove off, and I started up the stairs and into the house, I turned around and this car pulled up to the curb…just for a second, but I saw this guy lean toward the passenger's window just far enough so's he could see me, then he drove off. It wasn't the one I saw at your building; it was the other one.” There was a pause, and then: “I don't think I like this, Dick. Why would they follow us?”

To find out where you live,
my mind said. And I didn't like it, either.

“Tell you what, Jonathan,” I said, trying to sound casual, “you just stick around there for a while, and I'll call you back, okay? I want to check on something.”

“Okay.”

“Don't leave the house. And don't worry about anything. I'll get back to you in just a bit. 'Bye.”

*

Oh, I
didn't
like it! Not one bit! Under normal circumstances, I could probably have chalked it up to my just being my usual mildly paranoid self, but after my conversation with Richman…and my phone was being tapped, for Chrissakes! And little puzzle pieces of information were falling into place and starting to form a very ugly picture. I'd just paraded Jonathan in front of two guys who not only looked very much like they could hold a grudge, but who wouldn't be averse to currying a little favor with the anti-Black team by reporting Richman's taking the side of a fag hustler over his fellow officers'. I remembered what Richman had said about the two officers being in Cochran's pocket.

Everything that had happened thus far—our meeting with the cops, the one cop showing up at my office building, Jonathan seeing the other one in front of Haven House—had happened in too short a time-frame to think Cochran was even aware of it…yet. But the two cops were certainly aware that Cochran was looking for anything at all to paint Chief Black as being soft on fags. I was sure they considered keeping track of Jonathan a way to gain a few points with Cochran. I doubted they had any idea of the link between Jonathan and the van and Giacomino.

But I'll bet
Cochran
would know where the links led, and that he'd be very happy to know where Jonathan was. If Richman could trace the van numbers I'd given him over a tapped line, so could whoever might have been listening in. I think I realized for the first time just how much of a threat Jonathan might be perceived to be. And if he was considered a threat—most directly to Joey G. but by extension to the anti-Black forces in the department—Jonathan could be in real danger.