Don't Look Twice (12 page)

A
s Hauck headed back to the office, his cell phone rang.

It was Munoz. “You're not gonna like this one, Lieutenant…You sitting down?”

“I'm driving, Freddy. What do you got?”

“Vega,”
his detective said. “He's been released from jail.”

Hauck almost rammed the car in front of him.
“What?”

“You heard it. His case was thrown out. The evidence against him, a Glock 8 and a set of prints taken off the steering wheel, was ruled tampered with and corrupt. An FBI lab team out of the city seemed to lose sight of it for a day. A district judge in Bridgeport just came down with the decision.”

Hauck pulled over to the side. He flashed back to Vega's laugh.
When I'm out, you come to me and I'll teach you about two and two…

His blood was boiling. “You say an FBI lab flubbed it?”

“Starting to sound familiar, doesn't it? You remember what I said about being covered up in shit…”

“Yeah, Freddy, I remember. And I think I know just where to go to find the shovel.”

 

Stan Taylor was at his desk grabbing a late sandwich when Hauck's call came through. “Glad you called, Lieutenant. Just having a bite of a late lunch. What gives?”

“The name Nelson Vega mean anything to you, Agent Taylor?”

“Vega?” The agent continued chewing. “Isn't he some gang-banger out of Bridgeport? Part of a drug search bust where he tried to shoot it out with a state cop?”

“That's the one. I just wanted to let you know, if you already didn't—the case against him just got bounced. Evidence tampering. He was given a free pass out of jail.”

The FBI man snorted in disgust. “Can't say I like hearing that sort of thing any more than you, Lieutenant. The guy sounds like a total piece of shit. But what's it got to do with me?”

“Vega's the head of DR-17. They were the ones who pulled off the drive-by at the Exxon station.”

“
Hmmph.
Now that doesn't help the home team, does it? You say he's already out. Out from where?”

“You ought to know, Special Agent. Your name was on the list of people who went to visit him in prison.”

Taylor almost choked. He cleared his throat and it took a few seconds to recover. “Now before you let your little mind go crazy, Lieutenant, we were just pumping him for information, same as you.”

“I can take being played, Agent Taylor. But not from you. The guy was looking at twenty years in federal lockup and he basically just laughed in our faces when we offered to help him out and told us to hit the road. You know what that tells me, Special Agent? It doesn't exactly sit well with me that he farmed out this job to one of his soldiers and ten days later an FBI lab team bungles the evidence and he's out free.
Is Vega your man?
”

“Maybe he knew what was in the works,” the FBI man answered, tap dancing. “Lawyers have a funny way of sharing that kind of information with their clients, Lieutenant.”

“
This was a hit.
He handled this job for someone, Taylor.” Hauck couldn't conceal the anger in his voice. “All that stuff about Josephina Ruiz was just a cover. Sanger was the intended target all along.”

For a moment, the FBI agent didn't respond, Hauck's accusation sinking in. “We're talking about a U.S. attorney, Lieutenant. I hope to hell you're not looking here.”

“You didn't answer me. Is Nelson Vega a CI?
Is he your man?
” Hauck knew as soon as the words escaped he had over-stepped his bounds. It was more of an accusation than a question.

No doubt he'd be hearing it from Fitzpatrick before the end of the day.

“I realize you didn't call up for advice, Lieutenant,” the FBI man finally answered, “but let me give you a little anyway, just to keep things in a civil tone. You didn't want us looking over your shoulder, so don't swallow a brick if we work along parallel to you. I don't know what the deal on Vega is, but your tone is starting to ruin my lunch, so I'm gonna sign off now, before you get yourself in some real shit. I'll be sure to pass along your best to AC Sculley, Lieutenant.”

A
return call from Joe Raines of the Pequot Woods Resort was waiting for Hauck when he got back. He went into his office and shut the door.

“Mr. Raines. Thanks for calling me back.”

“Just what is it I can do for you, Lieutenant?”

“I'm investigating the death of David Sanger.” Hauck hurried behind his desk and scrambled for a pad of his notes. “You may have heard, he was a United States attorney who was killed down here in a drive-by a couple of weeks back.”

“Hard to miss all that,” Raines said. “How can I be of help?”

“Chief Pecoric, from up in Madison, gave me your name. I know you have your own situation going on up there. I had a photo and some credit card information on Sanger sent up to you…”

“Yes, I got them. And I'm familiar with the thing you're talking about. Just how does it relate to us?”

“Turns out,” Hauck said, “Keith Kramer and Sanger were acquainted.”

“Now that's a discouraging coincidence.” The security chief let out a disgruntled sigh.

“If you take it as a coincidence at all. In fact, it turns out they were friends. The phone records indicate they'd both been in contact quite a bit over the past several months. I asked in my fax whether Sanger had been up to the casino recently.”

“My impression was that you were dealing with a gang-connected killing down there, Lieutenant. Something about revenge…”

“Seemed that way. But it's starting to look as if there might be something else. That maybe some kind of gambling connection might have existed between the two of them, resulting in what's happened.”

“You want to map that out a little clearer?” Raines said. “You can imagine how that makes me feel. Our employees are strictly forbidden from any gambling activity at the casino, Lieutenant Hauck. Or outside. That's a hard and fast rule. Unless you're implying something else was going on between them here, Lieutenant…?”

“Two people are dead, Mr. Raines. Two people who were systematically in touch. One, we've uncovered, might have had a gambling habit that he kept secret. The other worked as a table supervisor in your casino. You connect the dots.”

“I see.”

“It's also possible Kramer might have been communicating with Sanger in Sanger's capacity as a U.S. attorney. Perhaps about something he'd been working on or uncovered.”

Raines paused. “Just what are you implying, Lieutenant?”

“I'm not implying anything,” Hauck said. “But that's why it's important to me to find out if Mr. Sanger had recently been up there, Mr. Raines. Or anything you can tell me about Keith Kramer that would be helpful in putting this together.”

“Alright. I'll tell you just what I told Chief Pecoric, Lieutenant…Keith was a solid employee of the resort who never
once drew any attention in the wrong way. Let's see…His friends here seemed to suggest he'd been acting a bit nervous lately. Financial pressures. Apparently his wife wasn't bringing in the bacon the way she had once been. Keith did always like to live a little big, Lieutenant, a bit more than others on a similar salary grade. He'd been pushing for an early review. Which was turned down. A month ago.”

“Why?”

“We run a sizable operation here, Lieutenant. There are some sixty-eight pit supervisors at the Pequot Woods. Everything's handled at the scheduled time. I can pass you along to personnel if you like. But you mentioned a gambling connection?”

“Like I said, I'm just trying to connect the dots.” There was something about Raines that seemed typically evasive. Standard-issue security. “Did they happen to connect on whether Sanger had ever been a guest at the resort?”

Raines said, “I ran the credit cards you sent me. And I showed his photo around the front desk and the casino staff. We have him in our records as up here
once.
Last August. Over a year ago. I can send you the details, if you like, but the gist is, he stayed one night, basic accommodations, picked up a tab at the bar, nothing from the dining rooms. No record of him charging up any playing cash against his account. No special courtesies…”

“Just once?”
Hauck said, surprised.

“Sorry, Lieutenant, if that's not what you're looking to hear. He did order an in-room movie. We can check the kind of film it was, if that's where your investigation is going.”

“No.” Hauck let out a disappointed sigh.

“Look, Lieutenant,” Raines said, easing up, “like you said, we
are
dealing with our own situation here. Truth is, I don't
know why Keith Kramer was killed. I don't know whether he was robbed, if he owed someone money, if he was cheating on his wife, or if he had some kind of drug habit…I'm pretty satisfied that it had nothing to do with his work here.

“But what I am
keenly
interested in is that this isn't twisted or magnified in any way that—I think you know where I'm heading—affects the ongoing interests of the resort. We have our own way of handling things up here, with the tribal police, using whatever influence we have to keep this as quiet as possible. As you can imagine, stories and speculation of this kind do not serve our business at all. Especially ones backed up purely by supposition and innuendo. I figure you understand what I mean?”

Hauck tapped his foot on his desk. “I think I understand it perfectly, sir.”

“So do we have an accord? Anything comes up you think would be a good thing for us to know, I'd appreciate hearing it from you. As, likewise, I promise you will from me. These tribal elders don't respond well to the long arm of the law, if you know what I mean…”

“I think I do.”

“Nice talking to you, Lieutenant. I wish you best of luck in solving your case.”

As soon as he hung up, Hauck called in Munoz and Chrisafoulis.

“You and Steve keep looking into Sanger. Find out if anyone confirms about his gambling. Check with his case files if Keith Kramer was mentioned in any way on anything he may have been looking into up there.”

“You got it, boss.”

“And look into the Pequot Woods. The two of them were connected. There's some record of it somewhere. You find out why.”

J
oe Raines put down the phone and stared out his office window at the brown November day.

He didn't like where this was heading.

All his life, in the army, on the force, in private life, he'd done people favors. The kind of favors no one wanted to do. That was how a guy like him rose. He got his boots dirty. He protected people and watched their backs.

Now, he wondered, who the hell was watching
his
?

He got up, buzzed his secretary to say he'd be back in a while, headed out of his office and down the corridor for a smoke. He went past what was known at the company as the Flight Room, behind two secure doors. The room contained sixty large monitors focusing on every gambling venue in the casino—every table, every machine, every restaurant. Every place money changed hands.

And in front of every cluster of screens a trained security specialist sat watching them.

Every action was observed. Every face in the betting room noted. Every known cheat or card counter checked against a profile. Every dealer too—to make sure he or she had not mo
tioned to a player or made some unusual eye contact. That they shuffled the decks properly. Every supervisor was observed too, to make sure the table counts were handled correctly.

The finest security money could buy—tens of millions. To protect who? Raines shook his head. A bunch of fucking Indians…

It was from there, the Flight Room, that he had watched Keith Kramer leave the grounds the week before. From there that he had made the call, switching to an outside camera, watched him open his car.

Caught sight of the black Escalade that pulled out behind him.

Raines slipped through a door to the outside.

The doorway led to the third-floor balcony. It overlooked one of the lakes on the resort's property. He took out his cell and lit up a smoke. There was a chill in the air. Leaves had changed. He'd never get used to it up here, in New England. He was Southern to the roots. From Georgia. Hell, his great-grandparents fought fucking Indians. Now he was protecting them. He always felt out of place up here in the cold.

He punched in a number, took a deep drag, waited for the line to connect.

When it finally did, Raines knew the person would immediately recognize the number.

“Can you talk?”

“I'm in Hartford,” the voice replied. “Heading into the capitol. Let me pull up on the steps.” He came back on a few seconds later. “Go on.”

“Just letting you know—I just had a call you might find interesting. I think you might know from whom.”

“Hauck?”

“He was asking about Sanger,” Raines said, looking over the new mansions lining the lake.
Indians,
he was thinking.
Billions. Who would have ever guessed?

He flicked his cigarette butt over the edge and watched it disappear. “Seems he's put together the connection to the Kramer guy.”

T
hat night, as Hauck was getting ready to leave, Vern Fitzpatrick knocked on the glass.

“Glad I was able to catch you, Ty…”

The chief had wavy white hair and a long, ruddy face. He had run the Greenwich force for twenty years because he'd always been a calming influence around town, a steady voice when tempers flared, and worked well with the local government. When he started, Greenwich was a sleepy commuter town with a single movie theater and an old-fashioned five-and-dime store on Main Street. He had seen the place go through its share of changes over the years.

He smiled. “Just got a holiday call from some of your favorite people, Ty.”

Hauck looked at him and nodded. Sculley. Taylor. “You don't have to say it, Vern.”

The chief came over and took a seat. “Maybe I
do.
Maybe I do have to say it, Ty. Maybe I have to remind you that you're not the only one who wants to see an outcome on this case. You're also not the only one feeling pressure here.”

“I realize that, Vern, but you also understand, Morales may have squeezed the trigger, but Nelson Vega was behind it and
someone's got his back. And if it wasn't Taylor and Sculley, who had access to him in jail, you tell me who? Josephina Ruiz was just a diversion. This whole thing had to do with David Sanger and that other guy up in Madison, something they knew about the Pequot Woods. I'm glad they called to say hello, but that doesn't change things.”

“That wasn't why they called, Ty. They were only letting me know…”

“Letting you know what?”

The chief crossed his legs. “That APB we put out on Morales…? He turned up.”

Hauck looked at him, surprised.

“Down in the Dominican Republic—with a bullet between the eyes. Seems he'd picked up some hooker who either robbed him or was trying to tell him he'd gotten a bit too rough. I guess there was quite a stash of drugs and booze around. The locals down there are looking into it…”

“You know as well as I do Morales was only the triggerman, Vern.”

“Yeah.” The chief sighed. “I know that.” He raised himself up. “You want to take it further, it's your call. Or you can just say we got the guy, Ty. You saw him yourself, plain as day. However it happened, the sonovabitch got what he deserved. I bet Wendy Sanger might feel about the same if you asked her, without tearing up the floorboards and potentially harming a good man's reputation to find out more.” Fitz smoothed out his trousers. “Sanger and this other guy were friends; why don't we just leave it at that. No one's going to argue about a case of revenge gone wrong. You see what I'm saying, Ty?”

“Even if it's not?”

“Even if it's not, yeah.” The chief stepped over to the door. “But you don't know that, Ty.”

“It doesn't bother you, Vern, that a guy who tried to gun down a state trooper got the case against him dropped? Or that there's a Justice Department lawyer who had something going on with a pit boss up at the Pequot Woods and both of them are dead? And now the guy who pulled the trigger is dead too?”

“Just give it a little thought.” Fitz opened the door but turned back. “You're asking if it bothers me that the person who came into our town and committed this horrible act is dead?” He rapped his knuckles against the glass.
“Yeah, it bothers me just fine!”