More Twisted: Collected Stories, Vol. II

Carnegie and Hager eased forward toward the trailer. They had to handle the situation carefully. Unless they could catch a glimpse of the Anco payroll money through the door or window, or unless Muller carried it outside in plain view, they had no probable cause to arrest him. They circled the place but couldn’t see in; the door was closed and the curtains drawn.

Hell, Carnegie thought, discouraged. Maybe they could—

But then fate intervened.

“Smell that?” Carnegie asked in a whisper.

Hager frowned. “What?”

“Coming from inside.”

The sergeant inhaled deeply. “Pot or hash,” he said, nodding.

This would give them probable cause to enter.

“Let’s do it,” Hager whispered. And he gestured for the other officers to join him.

One of the tactical cops asked if he should do the kick-in but Carnegie shook his head. “Nope. He’s mine.” He took off his suit jacket and strapped on a bulletproof vest then drew his automatic pistol.

Gazing at the other officers, he mouthed, Ready?

They nodded.

The detective held up three fingers, then bent them down one at a time.

One… two…

“Go!”

He shouldered open the door and rushed into the trailer, the other officers right behind him.

“Freeze, freeze, police!” he shouted, looking around, squinting to see better in the dim light.

The first thing he noticed was a large plastic bag of pot sitting by the doorway.

The second thing was that the tattooed man’s visitor wasn’t Jake Muller at all; it was Carnegie’s own son, Billy.

* * *

The detective stormed into the Annandale police station, flanked by Sergeant Hager. Behind them was another officer, escorting the sullen, handcuffed boy.

The owner of the trailer — a biker with a history of drug offenses — had been taken down the hall to Narcotics and the kilo of weed booked into evidence.

Carnegie had ordered Billy to tell them what was going on but he’d clammed up and refused to say a word. A search of the property and of Muller’s car had yielded no evidence of the Anco loot. He’d gotten a frosty reaction from the Orange County troopers who’d been tailing Muller’s car when Carnegie had raged at them about misidentifying his son as the businessman. (“Don’t recall you ever bothered to put his picture out on the wire, Detective,” one of them reminded.)

Carnegie now barked to one of the officers sitting at a computer screen, “Get me Jake Muller.”

“You don’t have to,” an officer said. “He’s right over there.”

Muller was sitting across from the desk sergeant. He rose and looked in astonishment at Carnegie and his son. He pointed to the boy and said sourly, “So they got you already, Sam. That was fast. I just filled out the complaint five minutes ago.”

“Sam?” Carnegie asked.

“Yeah, Sam Phillips,” Muller said.

“His name’s Billy. He’s my son,” Carnegie muttered. The boy’s middle name was Samuel, and Phillips was the maiden name of the detective’s wife.

“Your son?” Muller asked, eyes wide in disbelief. He then glanced at what one officer was carrying — an evidence box containing the suitcase, wallet, keys and cell phone that had been found in Muller’s car. “You recovered everything,” he said. “How’s my car? Did he wreck it?”

Hager started to tell him that his car was fine but Carnegie waved his hand to silence the big cop. “Okay, what the hell is going on?” he asked Muller. “What’d you have to do with my boy?”

Angry, Muller said, “Hey, this kid robbed me. I was just trying to do him a favor. I had no idea he was your son.”

“Favor?”

Muller eyed the boy up and down. “Yesterday I saw him steal a watch from Maxwell’s, over on Harrison Street.”

Carnegie turned a cold eye on his son, who continued to keep his head down.

“I followed him and made him give me the watch. I felt bad for him. He seemed like he was having a tough time of it. I hired him to help me out for an hour or so. I just wanted to show him there were people out there who’d pay good money for legitimate work.”

“What’d you do with the watch?” Carnegie asked.

Muller looked indignant. “Returned it to the shop. What’d you think? I’d keep stolen merchandise?”

The detective glanced at his son and demanded, “What did he hire you to do?”

When the boy said nothing Muller explained. “I paid him to watch my car while I moved a few things out of my house.”

“Your house?” the boy asked in shock. “On Tremont?”

To his father Muller said, “That’s right. I moved into a motel for a few days — I’m having my house painted and I can’t sleep with the paint fumes.”

The truck in Muller’s driveway, Carnegie recalled.

“I couldn’t use the front door,” Muller added angrily, “because I’m sick of those goons of yours tailing me every time I leave the house. I hired your son to stay with the car in the alley; it’s a tow zone back there. You can’t leave your car unattended even for five minutes. I dropped off some tools I bought this morning and picked up a few things I needed and we drove to the motel.” Muller shook his head. “I gave him the key to open the door and I forgot to get it when he left. He came back when I was in the shower and ripped me off. My car, my cell phone, money, wallet, the suitcase.” In disgust he added, “Hell, and here I gave him all that money. And practically begged him to get his act together and stay clear of drugs.”

“He told you that?” Carnegie asked.

The boy nodded reluctantly.

His father sighed and nodded at the suitcase. “What’s in there?”

Muller shrugged, picked up his keys and unlocked and opened the case.

Carnegie supposed that the businessman wouldn’t be so cooperative if it contained the Anco loot but he still felt a burst of delight when he noticed that the paper bag inside was filled with cash.

His excitement faded, though, when he saw it held only about three or four hundred dollars, mostly wadded- up ones and fives.

“Household money,” Muller explained. “I didn’t want to leave it in the house. Not with the painters there.”

Carnegie contemptuously tossed the bag into the case and angrily slammed the lid. “Jesus.”

“You thought it was the Anco money?”

Carnegie looked at the computer terminals around them, cursors blinking passively.

Goddamn Big Brother…. The best surveillance money can buy. And look what had happened.

The detective’s voice cracked with emotion as he said, “You followed my son! You hired the painters so you could get away without being seen, you bought the bullets, the tools…. And what the hell were you doing looking at burglar alarm websites?”

“Comparative shopping,” Muller answered reasonably. “I’m buying an alarm system for the house.”

“This is all a setup! You—”

The businessman silenced him by glancing at Carnegie’s fellow officers, who were looking at their boss with mixed expressions of concern and distaste over his paranoid ranting. Muller nodded toward Carnegie’s office. “How ’bout you and I go in there? Have a chat.”

Inside, Muller swung the door shut and turned to face the glowering detective. “Here’s the situation, Detective. I’m the only prosecuting witness in the larceny and auto theft case against your son. That’s a felony and if I decide to press charges he’ll do some serious time, particularly since I suspect you found him in the company of some not-so-savory friends when he was busted. Then there’s also the little matter of Dad’s career trajectory after