Old Wounds, a Gino Cataldi Mystery Page 3

  My ruminations ended as I pulled into the station parking lot. I was half an hour early; Sister Frances would have been proud. I checked my messages when I got in. The shrink had called and postponed my appointment, so I got to work reviewing case files.

  Halfway through the stack on my desk, Cindy called.

  “Hey, darlin’.” I tried my best Texas accent, which wasn’t very good.

  “You still don’t say it right, Gino. It’s haaaay darlin, with the hey drawn out.”

  “Okay, so what do you want?”

  “Now that’s the South Philly detective I’ve grown to love.” She paused. “Coop wants to see you in thirty minutes, and you know she’s as particular as you about being late.”

  I took Cindy’s advice and, at 8:45, I started for Coop’s office. I stopped by Karl’s desk and handed him a piece of paper with the plate number from last night written on it. “Run this for me, will you, Karl?”

  “I’ll have it for you later.”

  I arrived at Coop’s office ten minutes early and, as I approached the last thirty feet of hallway, her door opened. Coop stepped out with a young man who looked vaguely familiar. I was almost ready to say something, but fortunately didn’t, because it struck me where I’d seen him—he was the kid from last night, the one in the back seat of the van.

  Fuck! I turned, desperate for a place to hide. I ducked into the men’s room a half dozen steps away. What’s he doing here? How did he know I was a cop?

  Footsteps sounded in the hall. I sweated it out in a stall and listened for the sound of footsteps to fade. Then, I waited another full minute at least, then opened the door and peeked both ways. When I felt safe, I turned toward Coop’s office. Cindy was at her desk, typing.

  “She in there?”

  Cindy looked at her watch. “She’s waiting. You’re just in time—one minute and counting.”

  I reached for the doorknob, then turned back to Cindy. “By the way, who was that kid who just left?”

  “Some undercover cop from Montgomery County. Why?”

  I almost swallowed my tongue. Undercover cop. What the fuck. I managed to compose myself. “No reason. He just looked familiar.”

  I opened the door to the captain’s office, a lump in my throat as big as a peach. “Coop, how’s it going?”

  She didn’t smile, just held me with her beady eyes. “So on the day when I’m gonna kick your ass you coincidentally decide to call me Coop. Very convenient, Cataldi.”

  I mustered all the bravado I could. “Kick my ass for what? I already called psych. I already have an appointment.”

  “You know why you’re here, and it has nothing to do with psych.”

  I was about to say something when she threw the paper on the desk. I picked it up to read. The headlines blared at me as loud as her voice.

  ‘Eight dead in one day.’

  I read the article without saying a word. It went on to describe the unfortunate death of Officer Dave Skelton, and then listed the seven suspected drug dealers who died, and three of them were not as a result of the unfortunate sting operation. The author of the article posed the question as to whether this was retaliation.

  “Well?” Coop asked.

  “Well what?”

  Coop pushed the paper aside. “Where were you last night?”

  “Home, with my kid.”

  “Mayor Johnson called the Chief, and he’s all over my ass. That’s one cop and seven dead drug dealers in one day. The national news is going to have a field day with this. We’ll look like the Old West.”

  I knew when she said the mayor called that it was really his throat-cutting, back-stabbing wife Cybil. At this time of day, old Rusty Johnson was either asleep or on the golf course, and in either case he wouldn’t have disturbed his pleasure long enough to call the Chief.

  “Captain, I’m not sorry Rico’s dead, but what do you want me to do about it?”

  She walked around her desk and got within inches of my face. “I’ll tell you what I think. I think you went home, maybe tied one on, then got feeling bad about your partner. Maybe you drank some more, then you grabbed one of your spare guns and went out and killed Rico Moreno and his men.”

  “You’re a—”

  She held up her hand. “Don’t. I’d rather you not lie to me, so please don’t speak.”

  I remained silent while she paced.

  “Is your boy having drug problems again?”

  I almost fell over with that one. How did she know? I waited, probably too long. “A little.”

  She slammed her hand on the desk and shoved a pen holder aside. “He either is or he isn’t.”

  I swallowed pride, a lot of it. I hated sharing personal information, especially with my boss. “He is.”

  “I’m taking you off Narcotics.”

  I almost went to my knees. “Don’t do it, Coop. Please?”

  She sat behind her desk, fiddled with a folder, then looked at me with those probing eyes. “We had another incident last night. A couple of kids were robbed of drugs and they swear it was a cop who did it.”

  I swallowed too hard. The kid must have made me. “That’s a new one—kids report cops for stealing their drugs? Come on, Captain, if you’re looking for a reason to move me out of Narcotics, charge me with something and get it over with.”

  She stared for a moment longer, then lowered her head to focus on work that lay on her desk. “Get out of here. Go see your psych. I’ll let you know what I decide.”

  “Yes, Captain,” I said, and left the office.

  I almost ran to Karl’s desk, relieved when I saw him there. I managed to speak with a calm, easy voice. “Karl, that plate I asked you to run, forget about it.”

  “I already got it going. I’ll have it back in a few minutes.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” I walked away hiding my anxiety with a smile. I should have just run them myself and figured out a reason why if they ever asked. Now there’d be a record of me asking to have them run, and there was no way to explain that. It might come back to haunt me.

  Shit!

  CHAPTER 5

  TRAPPED

  Houston, Texas

  Coop always got in early to enjoy her tea and the morning paper in privacy. Everyone knew her idiosyncrasies and no one dared to bother her before the “official” time. That time varied depending on how many cups of tea she had.

  Today started out as a two-cup day, but that was before she read the paper, and before that undercover cop came in. Cindy brought her a third cup after Gino left, just as her phone rang. Coop closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. “Cooper.”

  “Have you seen the damn papers?” the voice on the other end was loud and demanding.

  Coop made certain to keep her voice sickeningly sweet. “Is this you, Cybil?”

  “You know damn right well who this is.”

  Coop reverted to her normal voice. “I’m having my tea right now and your screeching voice is annoying. Either calm down or call back.”

  Coop sipped her tea as she listened to the silence.

  “All right, Gladys, but you must know how upset I am. With the change at the White House—meaning with Tom now in there—Houston has a chance to shine. We could be one of the focal points for the drug war. It would mean a lot of money, and a lot of national coverage.” Cybil paused. “It could be a chance for you to shine too. Don’t let your cowboy cops spoil it.”

  “I don’t have any cowboy cops.”

  “You’ve got at least two, and you let them run wild.”

  “You told me to clean up the city,” Coop said.

  “I told you to clean it up, not turn it into Tombstone. Get a leash on that man.”

  “Who?”

  “Gladys, you know who I’m talking about—Cataldi.”

  “We have no idea if he was involved.”

  “He was definitely involved when his partner got killed, and I’d bet money he was involved in the others.”

  The hair on the back of Coop’s neck r
ose. “You think one of my officers is a murderer?”

  “Don’t take that high tone with me. It hasn’t been that long ago that some of your officers handcuffed a suspect and threw him off the bridge into the bayou. We can’t afford that kind of scandal. Houston has to appear civilized.”

  “Did you call to vent, or do you want something?”

  “This is not about venting. I want you to put him where he can’t cause trouble.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Think hard, Gladys. Remember who put you in that big plush chair and that pretty little office.”

  You fucking whore. “I remember, and as I said, I’ll think about it.”

  “Get back to me, and don’t forget we have a meeting coming up.”

  ***

  I met with the psychologist, listening to his questions and suggestions, then thanked him for his wise counsel. I knew the asshole wouldn’t survive one night on the street, but then again, I’d probably be worse as a psychologist. I guess that made us even.

  The good doctor straightened his wire-rimmed glasses and extended his hand. “We’ll plan on seeing you next week, Detective.”

  “No need for me to come back; I’m fine.”

  He nodded. “I know you think you’re fine, but there are issues that must be dealt with. The mind is fragile and this is a serious matter.” He sat on the arm of a chair and looked up at me. “I’m not saying you have to come back, but if you can spare a few minutes, you should. I’ll even come in early. Hell, I’ll even meet you for coffee.”

  He had a warm smile, and he seemed like a genuinely nice guy, but I didn’t have time for this in my life. “Doctor, I don’t know how many men you’ve killed, but I’d bet it’s less than one. You seem like a great guy, and I appreciate your help, but when it comes to dealing with issues like this, I believe I’m a better judge of what I need than you are.”

  He stood and shook my hand again. This time he gave me his card. “My home number is on there,” he said. “My cell also. Call if you need to.”

  “Thanks,” I said and headed out. I was dialing Chicky’s number before the door shut. Chicky answered in three rings.

  “Ramirez.”

  “It’s Gino.”

  “Hey, dude, what the—”

  “Not now. Listen, I’m calling to say we did not see each other last night. Understand?”

  “You got it. I ain’t seen you in a long time.”

  “Great. Thanks.”

  My phone rang as soon as I hung up. “Yeah, Chick.”

  “This isn’t Chick, Detective.”

  I didn’t recognize the voice, and when I looked at caller ID it showed unknown. It was then I realized Chicky’s ringtone—Love in This Club— hadn’t played. “Who is this?”

  “Let’s meet and we’ll discuss it.”

  “Discuss what? I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “Really?”

  “Pal, I don’t know who you are or what your game is, but I don’t have time for bullshit.”

  “Say hi to Ron for me, will you?”

  Ron? My gut tightened, and I wanted to reach through the phone and kill him, just like I had Rico. I fought for control, and said, “Ron who?”

  “We both know who I mean—Ron, your son, the one who takes drugs.”

  “Who the fuck is this?”

  “Meet me at the Starbucks on Louetta and 45.”

  “How will I know you?”

  “Be there in twenty minutes. I’ll call your cell.”

  “It’ll take me longer to get there.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  On the drive to Starbucks, I realized I’d been an ass with the psychologist; he was just trying to do his job. I made a mental note to apologize and left it at that. Then I thought—what the hell am I doing thinking about the psychologist; I should be thinking about Ron. Should be worried about him and who this asshole calling me was.

  I pulled off the freeway, made the loop back over, and turned into Starbuck’s lot. Nobody was waiting inside, so either he wasn’t there yet or he was parked outside. I casually ‘searched’ the cars in the lot, looking to see if I recognized the kid from that night. Nothing.

  I went inside, got a coffee, black, and took it outside to the table farthest from the door. Before I sat down, the phone rang.

  “Glad to see you came alone.”

  I looked around. “Where are you?”

  “Tan pickup to your left.”

  Son of a bitch. How did I miss that? I recognized who it was immediately—the guy from the van, the one who came out of Coop’s office, the one Cindy said was undercover.

  I got up from the table and walked to the passenger side and got in, opting to play it cool. “Do I know you?”

  As I looked him over, I realized what an ass I was. Sure he had stringy hair and dressed like the kids, but now—looking at his face—it was plain to see he was older and far from an innocent kid. He had that hard look about him that undercovers get after only a short time on the job. Even his voice sounded aged.

  “When you stick a gun in somebody’s face you ought to at least remember what they look like.”

  “How’d you make me?”

  The undercover laughed. “You need to get rid of your cop talk if you don’t want to get made. As soon as you said, ‘Driver, put your hands on the dashboard, palms down.’ And then, ‘Face me and wrap your arms around the seat. Keep your hands locked.’ Let’s just say it didn’t take much to figure out you were a badge.”

  I almost laughed. “Yeah, guess so. By the way, I’m sorry about the gun thing; it was a bad night.”

  “Bad night? I thought you were going to shoot me, you crazy fuck.”

  “I really am sorry about that. It was my kid, he—”

  “He’s why I’m here.”

  I perked up, nerves on edge. “What? Something happen?”

  “Nothing happened, but he’s into some heavy shit.”

  “What kind of heavy?”

  “Oxy, benzos, all of it. He’s dealing too.”

  I punched the dashboard—hard—then hit it again.

  “Whoa. Go easy on the truck.”

  “Sorry again. Hey listen, thanks for the heads up. I’m going to talk to him.”

  “You’ll need to do more than talk to him. We’re getting ready to bust the whole lot. Your boy needs to be in a program or he’s going down with the rest of them.”

  “In a program?”

  “That’s right, and not some bullshit go to a psychiatrist once a week thing. I’m talking a full-blown rehab, twelve-step deal.”

  “I’ll get on him.”

  He reached over, grabbed hold of my arm lightly, and pulled me to face him. “This is no shit. If he doesn’t go, I can’t cover for you. Put him in a program and I can leave him out of the mix, if not…”

  “I understand.” I started to get out of the car, then turned back. “I don’t even know your name.”

  “We’re better off that way.”

  I stood with the door open, not knowing how to ask the next question, but he did it for me.

  “If you want to know if I told your captain, the answer is no. I saw you heading into the men’s room; that’s how I made you.”

  “Why are you helping us?”

  The guy shrugged. “I had a brother who overdosed, and I saw what that did to my dad. I don’t blame you for wanting to kill those kids, but remember, they’re somebody’s kids too. They might be one step away from redemption, just like Ron.”

  I gripped the door harder, squeezed, then asked, “When’s it going down?”

  “Next week. Not sure which day yet.”

  “He’ll be in a program by Monday. And thanks again. I owe you big time.” I closed the door and walked back to my car. I had my work cut out for me.

  I stopped at Walgreen’s on my way home and bought a piss test, the kind that does twelve different drugs—opiates, benzos, marijuana, cocaine, and others. I knew this wasn’t
going to be easy, but the first thing I had to do was catch Ron in a lie. That part should be easy—druggies always lied. It was their way of life.

  As I thought about it, I realized that while it might be easy to catch him in a lie, it would be a lot tougher to face the truth—that he lied to me.

  I decided to wait until morning to do the test. My nerves were shot, not wanting to do this, not wanting to really know the extent he was into drugs. But it had to be done, and that knowledge, along with the impending bust, kept me strong. I was eating breakfast when he came down. He seemed in a good mood and that made what I had to do worse.

  “Morning, Dad,” Ron said, as he poured a bowl of cereal.

  I didn’t trust myself to talk, not yet, so I set the vial on the table in front of him.

  “What’s this?”

  I swallowed hard, and found my voice. “A drug test.”

  Ron fake laughed. “I’m not doing drugs.” He was into automatic-defensive-reaction mode.

  “Then you have nothing to worry about.” I stood and put my hand on his shoulder, which he immediately shrugged off.

  “I can’t believe you don’t trust me.”

  “It has nothing to do with trust. This is responsible parenting. You should understand.”

  “I don’t understand, and I’m not taking any test.”

  He started to leave, but I grabbed his arm. When he tried tearing away, I yanked him back. “Ron!”

  He stopped at the sound of my voice. I seldom raised it in anger. “You’re taking the test. Now.”

  “Fuck your test,” he said, and moved for the door.

  I grabbed his arm. He pulled away and took a swing at me.

  He missed, but the fact that he tried broke my heart. More than that, though, it pissed me off, and my training kicked in. He became just another drug dealer, junkie, prick that I hated. I lunged for him, got him in a choke hold and squeezed. “You fuckin’ little prick. After all I’ve done for you.”