The Quality of the Informant (4 page)

"I've decided to give the kid a break," Carr said. "But we're keeping the evidence. If he's not sworn into the army and on a bus to basic training by tomorrow night, we'll be out looking for him. I'm holding you personally responsible for what happens."

"You have my word of honor, Officer," the elder Calhoun said. He stood up and shook hands. Carr stepped behind Calhoun and removed his handcuffs.

The young man rubbed his wrists. "Thanks a lot, Officer," he said. "Thanks a lot."

Carr walked out the door. He and Kelly made it into the sedan and closed both doors before they broke into hysterical laughter. Carr caught his breath. "Operation Shanghai."

Kelly kept laughing. He used the back of his hand to wipe away tears of mirth. "After his first day of basic training, he'll wish he'd gone to jail instead!" The laughter continued all the way back to the Federal Building. Before entering the underground garage, Kelly tore up the counterfeit tens and tossed them and the narcotics into a storm drain.

Back in the field office, the phone on Carr's desk rang. He picked up the receiver.

"I heard you were back," Linda Gleason said.

"Long time no see," Carr said.

"I have a homecoming present for you, Charlie."

"And what might that be?"

"A fugitive. Do we have to talk on the phone?"

"I'll come over," Carr said. He hung up and turned to Kelly. "Linda Gleason," he said, "she's got something."

"One good case coming up," Kelly said. "Good
ol
' Linda is money in the bank."

Carr stood up and put on his suit jacket.

"That's the way it always is," Kelly said. "Good informant, good case; bad informant, bad case. Everything depends on the quality of the informant." Having said this, he picked up the newspaper.

"You're right," Carr said on his way out the door.

****

Chapter 4

AS CARR maneuvered the G-car into a hypnotic stream of headlights that was the Hollywood freeway, he pictured Linda five years ago: She was standing in the living room of her apartment; glass was everywhere, the front window blown out by shotgun pellets. She was wearing a housecoat. Her flashing green eyes were minus the map of lines that had developed around them in the years after.

"I knew this would happen eventually," she'd said. "Snitches always get killed." She broke into tears. "I'm
gonna
get killed just like my husband did."

Carr had put his arm around her shoulder and said, "I'll help you find another place to live. They won't be able to find you again."

He'd helped her pack and put her in a hotel room for the night. A day or so later, he and Kelly moved her into a new apartment and gave her a new name. It was months before Carr succeeded in building up her confidence again. He took her to lunch, sent cards, gave her little tasks; but if there had been any one reason why she'd begun feeding him information about passers and forgers, con men and scam artists again, he would have to say it was the money-Uncle Sam's reward at the end of every case. There was more money for printers and fugitives than phony-twenties passers; but all in all, it was a nice extra income for nothing more than listening to bar talk, getting samples of the current variety of phony paper, making an introduction or two. In this way, she was like most other informants.

A green freeway sign: HOLLYWOOD-NEXT THREE EXITS.

Carr swung onto an off ramp that led down a hill. He snaked off the main drag into a residential neighborhood made up of apartment houses that, like everything else in Hollywood, were not worth the money. He parked his car half a block away and walked.

On his way up the street he checked the parked cars. They were all unoccupied. He looked around once more and jogged a few steps into a courtyard with a swimming pool. Linda's apartment was on the first floor. He knocked and she let him in.

Carr made small talk as Linda Gleason, wearing a long dress with a slit up the side, served coffee from a little silver pot. Without asking, she mixed Carr's double cream. It was the ritual of their meetings. She lit a cigarette and sat in a chair across from him.

Linda crossed her legs, making no attempt to cover her thigh. "I don't know Paul's last name," she said. "But he told me he's wanted. He was talking to Teddy Mora for a long time down at the Castaways ... definitely
business
.

Teddy sells any kind of paper he can get his hands on. He only comes in on Fridays; I think he lives out of town. He stays all day and deals paper just to people he knows. He and Paul were talking big figures. Teddy calls him
Paulie
. I made it a point to meet him because my sixth sense just told me he was a crook. I even had him over here to the apartment and he still wouldn't crack with a last name, though he did tell me he was wanted by the feds for a funny-money caper. I think he's got something cooking right now. He made a couple of phone calls that sounded real strange."

"What kind of calls?" Carr said. He sipped coffee.

"The first call was something about inks and paper," Linda said. "He used the name
Robert French.
The other one might have been to an answering service. He told them to answer the phone by saying, 'International Investigations.'" She puffed her cigarette. "God only knows what kind of scam
that
is.
"

Carr put his coffee cup down on the table and pulled a pen and notepad out of his coat pocket. "What does he look like?" he said.

"Over forty, medium build, graying hair that might come from a bottle. He has a missing finger-little one, left hand."

Carr made some notes, then put the pen and pad away.

"I've set it up so he'll be coming over here tomorrow afternoon. You can arrest him when he drives up," Linda said.

Carr stood up and sauntered to the door. "I'll check the fugitive files."

Linda was looking at her hands. "If you arrest him, can I get my reward the same day? I've got a few bills to take care of."

"That should be no problem," Carr said.

Carr yanked open a file drawer labeled "Fugitive." He pulled out a stack of brown manila envelopes and spread them out on his desk. It took him an hour to determine that three out of seventy-odd files related to males with the first name Paul. Only one, Paul
LaMonica
, fit the general description. Carr's finger traced the fine print of the section marked "Physical Characteristics." The amputation was described as "LFT/little/missing." The last line of the rundown sheet read: "Check NCIC for warrant validity." Carr folded the file and slid his chair to the Teletype machine a few feet behind him. He typed in
LaMonica's
name, date of birth, and social-security number, copying the information from the file. He pressed the "end of message" button and waited.

Minutes later, the machine rattled to life again. It typed:

WARRANT VALID/SUBJECT IS FED PRISON ESCAPEE TERMINAL ISLAND/ARMED & DANGEROUS/U.S. MARSHAL L.A. HOLDS WARRANT.
END OF MESSAGE.

The machine stopped. Carr leaned back in his chair and read the rest of the file carefully. It included a "Synopsis of Investigation," which read as follows:

LaMonica
was the principal in a scheme to cause the distribution of extremely high-quality counterfeit hundred-dollar bills. He was able to transact a number of large purchases of diamonds from legitimate jewelers with the bogus notes. He resold the diamonds to other jewelers.
LaMonica
worked alone in the confidence operation and is believed to have printed the counterfeit notes himself. During the course of the scheme the subject used various forms of well-made counterfeit identification.
LaMonica
has contacts in Mexico and is believed to be in biding there.

There was a mug shot photograph of
LaMonica
stapled to the inside of the file. Carr ripped the photo off and put it in his pocket.

It was almost 5:00 P.M.

The atmosphere in Linda's apartment was uneasy. Carr had been there since noon. Linda was sitting on the sofa, thumbing through a fashion magazine. They had run out of small talk. Carr paced in front of the window. Outside, in a courtyard decorated with dying Oriental trees in planter boxes, an old woman with brown spots on her back floated around a swimming pool on an inflated rubber mattress. There was no other activity. The mold-colored apartment doors surrounding the swimming pool might as well have been nailed shut. Through the wrought-iron fence enclosing the entrance to the complex Carr could see Jack Kelly leaning back in the driver's seat of the G-car.

Linda picked up the mug shot that was on the coffee table. It was next to a walkie-talkie radio stenciled PROPERTY OF U.S. GOVT. "His hair is grayer than in that picture," she said. "I think he dyes it."

"It would have been better if you had set up a meeting somewhere other than your apartment," Carr said. He was still looking out the window.

"No matter where or how you arrest him, no matter what time of day or how you do it, in the long run he's going to figure out that I did him," she said.

Carr turned to face the woman. "After we arrest him we can say that we followed him from-"

"It doesn't matter what bullshit story you give him," Linda interrupted. "He'll figure out that I was the snitch.

He's not dumb. I'm not worried as long as he goes back to prison. I'm moving to another apartment next week anyway." She ran her hands through her hair, took a deep breath, and exhaled. "How about some coffee?" she said.

"No thanks."

She picked up the walkie-talkie radio and pressed the "transmit" button. "Cup of coffee, Jack?"

"No thanks," Kelly said.

Linda put the radio down. "I hate all the people where I work," she said. "There's no one that's normal. Even the bartenders are ex-cons. Deals go down in there every minute of the day: dope, funny money, hot jewelry, you name it. I don't know how I find these
kind
of places; come to think of it, they seem to find
me.
Everyone trusts me because I was married to Richard. They think I'm solid." She laughed without smiling.

Nothing was said for a while. Linda flitted about the apartment picking things up, emptying ashtrays. She wiped off the kitchen sink with a sponge. Drying her hands, she turned to Carr. "May I ask you something?" Her tone was soft.

"Shoot," he said.

"After all these years, why haven't you ever made a pass at me? Other men find me attractive Her smile was wry.

Carr fidgeted. "I guess it's because I don't like to mix business with pleasure," he said.

"Other cops do." She turned to the sink again and filled a coffeepot with water. "You're right," she said. "It would never work. I wouldn't trust you afterward. It's the way I feel about most men who-"

"I think it's him,"
Kelly blared over the radio. "He's parking across the street ... getting out of his car."

Carr snapped the blinds closed. He grabbed the radio off the coffee table and pressed the transmit button. "Roger," he said. He leaned close to the blinds and peeked out.

"This is the part I can do without," Linda said. She put the coffeepot down and hurried into the bedroom.

"He's
comin
'
atcha
," Kelly announced. "I'll be behind him."

Carr pulled his revolver out of its holster without taking his eyes off the space in the blinds.

The gray-haired man opened the wrought-iron gate and stopped. He looked around for a moment, then strolled to the apartment door and knocked. Carr swung open the door and pointed his revolver at the man's face. "Federal officers,
LaMonica
. You're under arrest."
LaMonica
raised his hands. Kelly approached at a full run. He snapped handcuffs on the man's hands.