The Quality of the Informant (6 page)

"That
LaMonica
is a fast thinker," Kelly said. "He thought up that whole little act after we arrested him." He shook his head. "Who would have figured him to go straight back over to Linda's, though? Any normal crook would have hot-footed it out of town without looking back. But not
LaMonica
; the first thing that came to his mind was revenge. He's vicious, a real animal."

The doctor stuck the needle in again and Carr winced.

"I bet that smarts," Kelly said. "You look like death warmed over."

The doctor stopped sewing. She pointed the needle at Kelly. "Sir, would you mind getting the hell out of this room?"

Kelly raised his hands and backed out the door.

Paul
LaMonica
sat next to the window in the seat behind the bus driver. He rubbed his wrists. As the bus chugged along Hollywood Boulevard he felt anonymous, safe for the time being. He knew that cops did not stop buses to look for escapees.

The sight of a police radio car cruising next to the bus startled him. He stared down at the vehicle as if viewing an alligator from a jungle barge. The radio car turned onto a side street.

A half hour later, the bus pulled into the busy L.A. Airport traffic circle and inched along in the bumper-to-bumper crush. Finally it stopped. Paul
LaMonica
stepped off the crowded bus and smelled jet fuel. He blended into the bustling crowd heading for the international departures terminal. Inside, he stopped for a moment in front of a flight information screen and noted the departure gate number for a Paris-bound flight. He followed another crowd down a tiled corridor and up an escalator. At the top of the conveyance was a gift shop wedged next to a cocktail lounge. He strolled into the gift shop and purchased two newspapers and a cheap flight bag. After stuffing the papers into the bag, he zipped it up.

Casually he sauntered out of the gift shop and into the cocktail lounge. It was a dark place with a long bar and windows that faced the airport runway. Travelers of all ages huddled around the tables in the room. There were lots of clocks on the walls.
LaMonica
wound his way across the floor, surveying the patrons. Finally, he sat down at a table next to an auburn-haired woman of medium build. She was about his age and dressed in a conservative dark skirt and blouse. An enormous purse and an overnight case were in the chair next to her. The case had a Paris baggage tag.

When a young waitress approached, he ordered a straight soda. She returned with the drink and he paid. As she walked away,
LaMonica
hefted his glass to the woman sitting next to him. "Happy travels," he said with a fatherly wink.

The woman hesitated,
then
picked up her glass. "Same to you," she said. She sipped and set the glass down.

"Paris?" he said.

She nodded. "My first trip."

"You'll love Paris. It's a beautiful city. I'm a pilot; I fly there every other week. I'm going over today to pick up a flight."

"I just can't wait to get there. It's my first trip to Europe.

LaMonica
smiled. Nothing was said for a while.

"Are the lines at the ticket counter always so long?" she asked.

"I'm afraid I wouldn't know. As a pilot I'm not required to check in at the ticket counter."

"Of course," she said in a slightly embarrassed tone.

"But I did see an extremely long line at the passport office. I'm lucky enough to have a friend who works there, so I just dropped off my passport. He told me he'd stamp it and I could pick it up just before departure time."

The woman's hands plunged into her purse. She pulled out her passport. "A stamp?" she said as she flipped through the pages.

"It's a new requirement," he said. "A passport officer places a trip stamp on the last page of each passport. If one arrives in France without such a stamp, it causes nothing but problems."

The woman looked worried. "My travel agent didn't tell me. Where is the passport office?"

"It's right next to the pilots' check-in office," he said. "I'm on my way to pick up my passport right now. I'll be happy to show you the way."

"Thank you," the woman said. She struggled to pick up her luggage.

"If you'd like, I can have your passport stamped while I'm there. It'll save you carting all your luggage."

The woman furrowed her brow.

"And perhaps you'd be kind enough to keep an eye on my flight bag while I'm gone."

The woman hesitated for a moment. She gazed at the flight bag. "Uh, yes. That would be very kind."

LaMonica
held out his hand and she gave him the passport. She stuffed it into his shirt pocket. "Be back in a few minutes." He went down the escalator and joined the crowd of travelers heading for the street. At a rental-car desk near the ticket counters, he used a credit card to rent a sedan. From the airport, he drove directly to a printing supply house on Sepulveda Boulevard and picked up the inks and bond paper he had ordered. Having loaded the items neatly into the trunk of the rented car, he drove to the San Diego freeway and headed south.

After stopping for lunch at a coffee shop, he entered a bank and purchased one $500-denomination traveler's check. Taking care not to fold it, he slipped the check into an envelope. Back on the freeway again, he went over the supply list in his mind. Unless he was wrong, he had everything he needed.

****

Chapter 6

SO FAR, the interview was going pretty much as Carr had figured it would. After warning him of his rights, Special Agent in Charge Norbert
Waeves
, fortified behind a desk covered with nameplates, photo cubes, and pipe paraphernalia, had asked Carr to recount his activities for the entire day "in question" and followed up with an inquiry about how the case had originated. With each of Carr's answers,
Waeves
would make a little puff of pipe smoke and jot something down on his ever-present yellow notepad. A tape recorder sat on the desk between them like a large black magnet.

Waeves
, a kinky-haired, freckled man who was a few years younger than Carr, held up his pencil like a dart. "
Again,"he
said. "What time was it when the prisoner escaped?"

"About five," Carr replied. His eyes were on the wall behind the desk, where
Waeves's
framed headquarters commendation letters (the preprinted kind other agents threw away) and photographs of his gun collection were displayed.

"I'd like a more accurate estimate. Was it closer to after five or before five?"
Waeves
said. His smile was strained.

"Like I said, it was about five." Suddenly Carr realized what looked different about
Waeves
. It was the new suit. Shoulder pads.

"How do you
know
it was five?"
Waeves
insisted.
"
Why couldn't it have been four or six?"

"I don't know. I guess I looked at my watch." Carr frowned.

Waeves
glanced at the yellow pad. He printed what looked like the word five and underlined it. He put the pen down. "So, you called for help and searched for the escaped prisoner," he said. "Then what?"

"We couldn't find him."

The interrogator nodded. "Go ahead."

"Go ahead what?"

"What did you do then?"

"I called the informant from a pay phone," Carr said. "Her line was busy."

"
Why
did you try to call her?"

"To tell her
LaMonica
had escaped."

"How do you know the line was busy? Couldn't the phone just as easily have been out of order?"
Waeves
made a sucking sound on the pipe.

Carr closed his eyes for a moment,
then
opened them. "Her line was busy so we drove over to her apartment."

"How long did it take?"

"To do what?"

"To drive to her apartment."

"Because of the rush-hour traffic it took about a half hour," Carr said.

"Would you say it was closer to twenty-five minutes or thirty-five minutes?"

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"It was about half an hour," Carr said.

Waeves's
angular face became blotchy. He coughed nervously. "How long had Linda Gleason been your informant?"

"About five years."

"And how was she recruited?"

"She was a walk-in," Carr said. "Her husband was murdered on a contract let by Tony
Dio
the loan shark and she wanted to get even. She gave me enough information on one of
Dio's
hoods that I was able to get a search warrant for his house. I found fifty grand in tens and the weapon that was used on her husband inside the house. Headquarters authorized a cash payment to her after the conviction, and from then on she just kept feeding me information. She always worked as a cocktail waitress in one or the other of the local hood hangouts. They trusted her because her husband had a reputation for being solid. No one ever suspected her as far as I know."
You
know the
story as well as I do
, you two-faced bastard.

Waeves
leaned back in his chair. He rolled a pen on the back of his knuckles. "You arrested
LaMonica
at the informant's apartment, leaving no doubt as to her role as the informant," he said. "What is your explanation for this tactic?"

"It was her idea," Carr said. "She felt comfortable with the scenario and I accepted that." Carr was talking to the recorder. He knew the tape would be played like
a party record
by the inspectors in Washington, D.C. "Linda Gleason was an active, longtime informant whose original revenge motivation had turned into a financial one. She got a few extra bucks now and then for doing nothing more than repeating bar talk. She had provided information on at least forty cases. It was common for her to make up the scenario for her undercover role."

The recorder squeaked. The tape had run out.
Waeves
punched the "eject" button with a bony finger and the cassette popped out. He yanked open the desk drawer and rummaged around for a fresh cassette.

"You don't have anything on me," Carr said. "My operation will be ruled 'in policy.'"

Waeves
slammed the drawer shut and opened another. He moved things around. "We'll see," he said.

"Take your best shot, pencil pusher," Carr said.

Waeves
pulled a cassette out of the drawer and stuffed it into the machine as if plugging a dike.

Carr's tone changed to one of courtesy. "Are there any other questions, Mr.
Waeves
?" He was looking at the tape recorder.

"Yes," said the blotchy-faced man. "What time was it when...
”

It was after 9:00 P.M. by the time Carr arrived at Ling's bar. He pushed aside a portal of hanging beads and looked around for his partner. Ling's, like the other haunts in Chinatown, was kept mysteriously dark. Bar jokes had it that the
cavelike
atmosphere was due to Ling's desire to save on utility bills, but Carr suspected that the detectives who drank there preferred the lack of light.