The Hidden Man

“Seems like he knows what he’s doing,” said Tommy cautiously, still reticent over his screw-up.

“He believes that his brother will die if he doesn’t deliver?”

“Yes,” Smith said.

Carlo poised his hands with a slight tremble, owing to his advancing age, perhaps, but Smith thought otherwise. “I don’t-I don’t know what to do. I don’t.”

Smith had never heard anything of the kind from Carlo. Carlo hadn’t always made the right call, but decisiveness had never been a problem.

“What about Jimmy DePrizio’s boy?” Carlo asked.

“Denny?”

“Right. Denny got any bright ideas?”

“Not recently.” Smith shrugged. “I’ll check in with him. He’s supposed to be keeping an eye on Kolarich.”

Carlo nodded, then sunk into a thought. “What if we kill the brother?” he asked. “Tell the lawyer he’s next, if he doesn’t deliver?”

Smith inclined his head. “I don’t know, Boss. Jason Kolarich is hard to predict. But I think it wouldn’t help.”

“You think.” Carlo focused on Smith. “How we doin’ so far, on what you think?”

Smith didn’t answer. There was no winning this argument. Carlo ran his hands over his bare forehead. He was showing his age, for the first time, his movements more tentative, the tremble in his hands.

“Maybe-maybe this is comeback,” Carlo said. “For past wrongs.” He dismissed the two men with a wave.

Smith and Tommy left the office. I don’t know what to do, Carlo had said. But Smith thought otherwise. He thought that Carlo was beginning to warm to a decision that would affect all of them.

54

HE WENT to the construction site, then to St. Agnes Hospital to visit someone, then to his father Carlo’s home,” said Joel Lightner.

I was driving, talking to Joel with my earpiece. I was done making phone calls to the eyewitnesses placing Sammy Cutler at the scene of the crime. I was going to make a personal visit.

“Why so suspicious of this guy, Jason? Wasn’t he your witness?”

I probably should have figured on Tommy Butcher earlier on. A guy shows up a year after a murder and remembers something? I guess I wanted his testimony to be true so badly that I let myself believe the unbelievable.

“Smith knew all kinds of detail about the hearing involving Butcher’s testimony,” I explained. “But the county Web site didn’t provide any details. And the guy Smith put up-Sanders-didn’t know about it at all. So the only way Smith could have known was from Butcher himself. That, and his obvious lie about being at that bar on the night of the murder.”

“You think he’s the killer?”

“My gut would be no, though I don’t know what a child killer looks like. But I’m going to find out.”

“And how are you going to do that?”

“Powers of persuasion, Mr. Lightner. Keep an eye on Mr. Butcher, would you?”

“I will. Hey, what’s cooking with Jimmy Stewart?”

“That’s Jim, my friend. It’s going fine, I think. Just trying to rattle the cage.”

“Jimmy’s good for that,” said Joel. “I’ll say that much.”

“ KOLARICH ISN’T TALKING to me.” Denny DePrizio ripped a piece of bread from the loaf and dipped it into a plate of olive oil.

“Then talk to him,” Smith said. “Make sure his priorities are straight.”

DePrizio smirked. “He’s got you by the balls, doesn’t he?”

“That’s funny to you,” Smith said, as he saw a number of men in suits approaching their table. The leader of the four-man group was short and wide, with tightly cropped hair.

DePrizio looked up. The color drained from his face. Smith noticed that the front man, in fact all of the men, were wearing police shields on their belts.

DePrizio froze for a moment, then recovered, grabbing the bread again and focusing on the plate of olive oil. “Well, well,” he said. “If it isn’t Jimmy Stewart, king of the rats.”

“Sorry to interrupt your lunch, Detective,” said Stewart.

“And what can I do for the men of Internal Affairs on this fine day?”

“Take a ride with us.”

DePrizio, in a flash of anger, threw down the chunk of bread. “Now, why would I do that, Lieutenant?”

Stewart looked over at Smith, debating whether to engage. “Not here,” he said.

“Here.” DePrizio wiped his hands on his napkin.

Stewart waited, then nodded. “Okay. You’ll want to help explain how a guy named Peter Kolarich got dropped from a multiple-count narcotics and weapons beef only a few days after his arrest.”

“Kolarich. Kolarich.” DePrizio was struggling to keep the brave front. “They blur together, Jimmy.”

“Let me see if I can help you out, Denny. This was the one where your CI had a sudden change of heart.”

“It happens.” DePrizio’s level of enjoyment was quickly evaporating.

“Does it usually happen after someone delivers you a briefcase with ten thousand dollars in it? That usually happen, Denny?”

DePrizio didn’t move. He didn’t speak.

“How about we have a look in the trunk of your car, Denny? You think we’ll find a briefcase like that? The one we have you on videotape receiving from Jason Kolarich at that coffee shop?”

DePrizio worked his jaw, trying to find words. “I want my delegate,” he said.

“No problem, Denny. Not a problem at all,” said Stewart. “But let’s take a ride. We don’t-we don’t need a scene in front of this lunch crowd.”

Denny DePrizio slowly pushed himself from the table. His planted smile quickly deteriorated into a scowl. His eyes flashed across Smith, who remained still.

GEORGE AND MILLIE Robeson lived two blocks north of the Liberty Apartments, where Griffin Perlini was murdered. The whole area was pretty much a dive: streets littered with garbage and broken-down automobiles, convenience stores with garish signs for cigarettes and lottery tickets and phone cards, competing gang graffiti advertising the reign of the Latin Lords and the Columbus Street Cannibals.

The apartment building where the Robesons lived was the exception to the rule, a well-kept, if humble exterior with a clean brown awning noting that the structure was a “residence for seniors,” which in some cases might be an invitation for mayhem, but an armed doorman, who spent a lot of time in the gym, helped ensure a sense of security.

I introduced myself to the guy, showed him my bar card, and waited while he dialed a number on his phone and mispronounced my name. He mostly listened, then hung up the phone and stared at me, like I was supposed to say something.

“They don’t want to talk to you,” he finally said.

“They have to talk to me. Or I come back with a court order and a police officer, and I make them talk to me. Call them again, Lou,” I said, noting his name tag. “Be a sport.”

Lou wasn’t in the sporting mood. He made a point of dropping his hands to his lap, telling me he was done debating with me. But he wasn’t done.