Several seconds later, a fat female civilian support officer strolled up to the window. She stared at Ray for a second, giving him that bored civil-service look, then said, “Yeah?”
“Is Detective LaGrange here?” Ray asked.
She smacked a wad of gum a couple times while she looked him over. “Hold on,” she said as she turned and walked away.
While he waited, Ray looked at the artwork on the waiting room walls. Cheap frames around police public awareness pictures. One was a stark black-and-white photo of a chalk outline drawn on the street where a body had fallen. A superimposed image in the lower right-hand corner showed a close-up shot of a young hand holding two rocks of crack cocaine. At the bottom of the poster, in big block letters, was the legend CRACK KILLS.
Another framed picture showed kids on a playground. Printed at the bottom of the picture were the words CHILDREN SHOULD BE SEEN NOT HEARD , but a red line ran through the word heard, and printed over it in red letters, in what was supposed to look like handwritten graffiti, was the word shot. The detective office was a cheerful place to hang out.
An electric solenoid buzzed. Ray turned to the window and saw the fat civil servant pointing to the door. He pushed it open just before the buzzing stopped and stepped inside the Detective Bureau. Detective Jimmy LaGrange was walking toward him. In his early forties, LaGrange was thicker around the middle and thinner on top than the last time Ray had seen him. He wore a shirt and tie and was slipping into a sport coat.
“Hey, Jimmy,” Ray said, and stuck out his hand.
The detective brushed past him without taking it. “I figured it was you.” He pointed toward the door. “Outside.”
The door hadn’t even closed behind Ray before LaGrange was through it. Ray turned and followed him out into the hall. As he caught up to the cop at the elevator, Ray asked, “What’s wrong, Jimmy? You don’t have time for an old friend?”
The detective looked up and down the hall. They were alone. “What are you doing here?” he said in a loud whisper.
The elevator door opened. Inside stood a uniformed lieutenant and a sergeant. Ray followed LaGrange as he stepped into the elevator. Neither of them spoke. On the first floor Ray followed LaGrange out the front door. They turned left. They crossed the street that ran between headquarters and the sheriff’s building, finally stopping near a Dumpster.
Ray said, “Jimmy, what the hell’s wrong with you?”
“Me?” LaGrange looked shocked. “Have you lost your fucking mind?”
“You didn’t return my calls.”
The detective glanced at his watch. “I figured you’d get the point.”
“What point?”
“I can’t be seen talking to you.”
“I’m in a jam and I need some help.”
“You mean police help?”
Ray nodded.
“Then call a cop.” He turned back toward headquarters and started walking.
Ray shouted after him, “You owe me, Jimmy.” LaGrange kept walking. Ray shouted louder. “You remember Vice?”
LaGrange spun around and came back to Ray at a run. “Keep your voice down.”
“I ask you for help and you just walk away,” Ray said. “It’s like I told you, you owe me.”
“I’m sorry about what happened to you,” LaGrange said. “I feel bad, but it’s not my fault. I don’t owe you anything.”
“Think again.” Ray leaned against the Dumpster. “They wanted every one of us.”
Jimmy LaGrange looked around. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
Ray sprang away from the Dumpster. “I don’t give a damn what you want to talk about.” The detective took a step back. Ray stepped closer. “Internal Affairs, the FBI, the U.S. Attorney’s Office-all of them tried to make a deal with me. They practically offered me a walk. All I had to do was testify against everybody in Vice. They were looking for racketeering charges. They wanted headlines, the kind of headlines that come with cops getting life sentences.”
“Ray, I appreciate what you did-”
“You appreciate it?” Ray spit out the words. “You don’t even know what I did.”
LaGrange stared at him.
“Fitz, Conner, and Two-Gun made deals.” Ray could feel himself getting worked up. “Conner and Fitz got eighteen months. Two-Gun only got twelve months. But Sarge and I didn’t make any deals. I kept my mouth shut and did almost five years.”
“I’m sorry, Ray, but I told you, it’s not my-”
“Sarge got a hundred and twenty months. That’s ten goddamn years. I get out and what do I hear? That you’re still a detective. Like nothing ever happened.”
“I’m a detective in name only. They got me buried in the Crime Analysis Section, going over records, looking for crime patterns.”
“You know where they had me buried? Have you ever been to Terre Haute? You know how cold it gets in Indiana?”
LaGrange shook his head.
“Now I come back and say I need some help, and you treat me like some scumbag off the street.”
LaGrange sagged. “I’m sorry. You surprised me is all. I got a new wife and a little girl, a three-year-old.” He fished his wallet out of his back pocket and opened it.
Ray saw the picture holders and held up his hand. “I don’t want to see photos of your family. I told you I’m in a jam and need help.”
LaGrange stuffed his wallet back into his pocket. “Sure, Ray.” He took a deep breath. “What do you need?”
“The Pete Messina murder.”
“Oh, shit.” LaGrange’s shoulders sunk. “I heard you were working for them.”
“I needed a job.”
“Is it true they got taken off for a lot of dough?”
Ray nodded.
“The Eighth District report says it was an unsuccessful robbery, resulting in a homicide,” LaGrange said.
“That’s Tony Zello’s cover story.”
“How did he keep a lid on what was going on upstairs?”
“He didn’t let anybody go upstairs, not even the Homicide dicks. He claimed the robbery crew stayed downstairs the whole time. He said they were trying to rob the strip bar, but when one of them shot Pete, they got scared and took off.”
“None of the detectives even tried to go upstairs?”
Ray shook his head. “Tony said the second and third floors were nothing but storage and that the fourth floor was a private residence.”
LaGrange arched his eyebrows. “And that stopped them?”
“Tony put in a call to their captain.”
“How much did they get?”
“Three hundred large.”
LaGrange let out a low whistle. “How are you involved?”
“I’m supposed to find them.”
“The perps?”
Ray nodded.
“How are you supposed to do that?”
“Vinnie has this crazy idea that since I was a detective, I should be able to find four armed robbers.”
“Makes sense, I guess.”
“To a moron.”
They stared at each other.
“What do you need from me?” LaGrange said.
“A lead,” Ray said. “Somewhere to start.”
“I told you, I’m not a real detective anymore. I’m a paper pusher.”
“You’ve got access to all the reports, right?”
LaGrange nodded.
“Then get me copies of everything that’s been written on what went down at the House.”
“Jesus Christ,” LaGrange said. “Do you know what you’re asking?”
“I’m asking for your help, partner.”
LaGrange started to say something. Then he looked away. When he looked back, he said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
“I need to find Hector,” Ray said.
Tony peered over the top of the newspaper he held in front of his face. “What?”
“I’ve been trying to track him down and can’t find him.” Tony stuck his hand out to his side, palm down, and held it three feet above the ground. “You talking about the little guy at the door?”