Tin City (27 page)

Authors: David Housewright

Tags: #Mystery & Thriller

BOOK: Tin City

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“I know this Brucie,” he told me. “He’s one of Frank’s boys. But I know nothing else about him. I don’t even know his whole name.”

“Neither do I.”

“Then how do you expect to find him?”

“Do you have a couple of flashlights?”

Sykora glanced toward his mobile home.

“Yes.”

“Bring ’em.”

I told Sykora we were driving back to the quarry in Elk River. He asked why, and I told him he’d see when we got there.

For most of the drive north Sykora stared out the passenger window of my rented Neon. He felt like talking—maybe it was nerves—and I let him.

“These wiseguys, you stay after them long enough they come to know your name. They start to think of you as an associate, a playmate, a friend—like guys on competing basketball teams who play each other often. They send you gifts on your birthday. Frank, he once sent me a food dehydrator for making beef jerky and dried fruit. Do you believe that?

“When his power play with Granata went south, he sought me out, tracked me down to Minnesota. He offered me a deal—no witness protection, this was supposed to be between just him and me. He said he would help me get Little Al Granata and then he would return to New York and impose his will on the Bonanno family and we could go back to the way it was, me chasing him, like it was a game, cops and robbers. I took the deal.

“My mistake, one of many, I tried to do it on my own. I didn’t want to bring the bureau in until I was ready. I was afraid they would queer the arrangement I had with Frank. I was under strict orders to ignore organized crime and concentrate solely on terrorists, you know. But I had a plan …”

“I know your plan,” I told him.

“Think so? Tell me.”

“The cigarette bazaar this morning. All those immigrants and foreign-born citizens. You bust them all for selling illegal cigarettes, sort them out. Maybe there’s a Somali or a Palestinian who’s using the profits to help fund some group with ties to al-Qaeda, whatever. Then you connect the cigarettes to Granata and accuse him of being in cahoots with terrorists. To hell with due process, you use the Patriot Act and other terrorist legislation to swoop down on him, punch his ticket to Guantánamo Bay. No charges, no lawyers, no rights, who cares? He’s a gangster. The others, they’re foreigners. No one’s going shed tears over them. And you—you’re a hero. Saving the world for democracy. They might even make a TV movie out of it.”

Sykora turned in his seat and looked at me as if I were suddenly interesting.

“Oh, you don’t approve? Well, too bad. We’re trying to make the United States safe. And that means safe from the Mafia as well as terrorist groups.”

“Safe for whom? Mr. Mosley? Susan Tillman?”

I was glad that he didn’t answer, that he turned his head and stared out the window some more. If Sykora had said something about collateral damage, about breaking eggs to make omelets or sacrificing a few to save the many, we probably never would have reached Elk River. At least not in one piece.

Sykora was on my right, sweeping the tall grass and shrubs with his flashlight. We had been at it for five minutes before he asked, “What am I looking for?”

“You’ll know it when you see it.”

“Give me a hint.”

“It’s bigger than a bread box.”

We had driven to the top of the bluff following the same ancient road Frank had used earlier. I parked many yards back from where he had because of an irrational fear that I would accidentally drive the Neon over the edge of the quarry. I blamed it on the acrophobia.

It was slow going. Clouds hid the night sky, and the only illumination came from our flashlights and the headlamps of the Neon. After ten minutes of searching I found my binoculars. I hung them over my shoulder by the strap and pivoted to my right, trying to remember where I had moved after I dropped them that morning. Toward that tree, I told myself, and a little that way, and …

“Jesus Christ.”

I trained my light on Sykora. He was standing still, his flashlight holding steady on an object in front of him. I moved to his side.

“This is what we were looking for?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Ahh, Jesus …”

Danny seemed smaller now, more like a child than a man, curled into a ball, his limbs locked by rigor. His pale skin reminded me of cold
mashed potatoes—not an appetizing sight. The blood on his body had dried, and the blood that pooled beneath it had soaked into the ground and turned a muddy color. Its odor was faint and slightly sweet, like a bad perfume. I set the binoculars on the ground and reached into my pocket for a handkerchief. I unfolded it over my hand and used it to pull Danny’s leather wallet from his pocket.

“Did you do this?” Sykora wanted to know.

I ignored him.

“Did you?”

“Jake Greene shot him,” I said.

“Who’s Jake Greene?”

“Some guy from South Dakota.”

I opened Danny’s wallet. His driver’s license was easily readable in a clear plastic sheath.

“Frank said you were here this morning,” Sykora told me.

It wasn’t a question, so I didn’t reply. Instead, I asked, “Do you have your cell phone?”

“Yeah.” Sykora reached into his pocket.

I set my flashlight on the ground next to the binoculars and took Sykora’s phone. I held it with one hand, punching the numbers on the keypad with my thumb by the light of Sykora’s flash, while holding Danny’s wallet with the other. When Bobby Dunston didn’t answer by the fourth ring, I knew he wasn’t going to. Still, I waited, and in the middle of the sixth ring I was rewarded by a voice that said, “St. Paul Police Department, Detective Shipman.”

“Jeannie?”

“Yes.”

“This is McKenzie.”

“They haven’t arrested you yet?”

I was looking at Sykora when I said, “No, they haven’t arrested me yet.” Sykora frowned. “Is Bobby around?”

“Checked out for the evening.”

“Maybe you can help me.”

“Help you what?”

“I need a favor.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Can you pull up a guy for me on C-JIS, named Fuches, F-U-C-H-E-S, first names Daniel James?”

“You know, McKenzie, the St. Paul Police Department frowns on accessing the state’s Criminal Justice Information Systems computer for personal use.”

“Help me out, Jean.”

There was a long pause while Jeannie considered my request. She said, “You know what I like about you, McKenzie? You’re a quid pro quo kinda guy.”

“I am?”

“Someone does you a favor and you’re always sure to return it.”

“I don’t suppose you’re familiar with the maxim ‘A good deed is its own reward’?”

“I must’ve missed that one.”

I gave it a few moments’ thought, then said, “If I’m not mistaken, you’re a Sheryl Crow fan.”

“Yes, I am.”

“I hear she’s coming to the Xcel Center in St. Paul next month.”

“She is. Concert’s already sold out.”

“I can get you tickets.”

“You can?”

“Main floor center.”

“How?”

“I know a guy.”

“Of course you do. Two tickets?”

“Absolutely.”

“And perhaps you’ll join me?”

I hesitated. “Perhaps I will.”

“Hang on. I need to switch to a different phone.”

Jeannie put me on hold. Nearly two minutes passed in silence while I waited. I was thinking, it wouldn’t kill me if I took out Bobby’s “young, beautiful, smart-as-hell” partner, but Nina might. Best to not tell her. I wasn’t sure exactly what our relationship was, but I was going back to my life, and lately she had been one of the better parts of it. Best to keep it from Bobby, too. A moment later, Jeannie was back on the line.

“Let’s see—Daniel James Fuches. Bunch of DWIs, a few dis cons, questioned for two burglaries and one armed robbery but nothing came of it, charges filed on a first-degree sexual assault, then dropped when the victim refused to testify—what do you need? Anything specific?”

“I’m looking for any kind of reference to a guy named Bruce or Brucie.”

“Bruce or Brucie … Bruce David Fuches, arrested and charged along with Daniel on the sexual assault.”

“They’re brothers?” Even as I said it, I didn’t believe it. Danny and Brucie looked so unlike each other.

“Brothers, cousins, uncles, I don’t know.”

“Let’s take a look at him.”

Jeannie sighed like she had plans and I was keeping her from them. Thirty seconds later she said, “Looking, looking … Here we go. Bruce David Fuches. A couple of burglaries, both dismissed, armed robbery dismissed, first-degree sexual assault, same deal as Daniel … one, two … five A&B’s, four dismissed, but finally with the fifth he took a six-month jolt, year probation. These guys, both of ’em, a couple of low-level habituals.”

“Gangster wannabes.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind. Do you have an address?”

“Same as Daniel’s.”

“Thank you, Jean.”

“I’ll be looking forward to the concert.”

“Me, too.”

I deactivated the cell phone and handed it back to Sykora.

He smiled.

I said, “Shut up.”

The address was in Norwood Young America. It was only about five miles from where Mr. Mosley had lived, but I didn’t know that part of the area, and it took me a while to find it. Sykora didn’t mention Danny during the drive. I thought that was good of him.

Bruce Fuches lived in a small clapboard house with worn shingles and white paint peeling from the clapboard. Even in the dark I could tell that the yard needed work. Sykora and I walked up the front walk. His Glock was out and resting on his thigh. My gun was still parked between my belt and the small of my back, but my sports coat hung open. When we reached the door, Sykora slid to the side, out of sight. I knocked. A light went on and the door opened.

“Yeah,” a woman said.

She swung her head, and long black hair swept from one shoulder to the other. She was wearing blue jeans and a white T-shirt cut off just above the navel. There wasn’t much muscle tone under the shirt. I was guessing the beer can she held in her hand had something to do with it.

“I’m looking for Bruce Fuches,” I said.

“I ain’t him.”

I looked her over from top to bottom and smiled what I hoped was a charming smile. “I can see that,” I said.

She smiled back, then wobbled a bit as if it had taken great effort. She placed a hand on the door to steady herself.

“You’re a lot cuter than most of his friends,” she said.

“So are you,” I said, although when you think about it, it wasn’t much of a compliment.

“I’m Wanda,” she said.

“Hi, Wanda.” She didn’t ask for my name and I didn’t give it.

“What do you want with Brucie?”

“I have some business with him and Danny.”

“The Bobbsey Twins,” she said. “Gonna make it big any day now. Least what they say like
every
day now. Couple a’ losers, you askin’ me. Hey, you wanna come in?”

She turned in the door frame to let me pass. Sykora concealed his gun behind his back and stepped across the threshold. Wanda saw him for the first time.

“There’s two of you,” she said, then smiled a smile that shaded off into a leer. “’At’s okay. I can do two of you.”

The living room was small. A table and two chairs were set in front of the window overlooking the street, and a battered sofa was shoved against the wall opposite them. All the furniture was arranged so that it had a clear view of a TV set on a metal stand with hard plastic wheels. The TV was on and tuned to a reality program in which dozens of beautiful women were chasing a homely man they thought was rich—if you call that reality.

“Is Bruce home?”

“Naw. Think if Brucie was home I’d be … Listen, Brucie, he and Danny ain’t coming back. Least not tonight. We’d be all alone. So whaddaya think? A threesome?”

“I like the sound of that,” I said, feeling suddenly like the pizza delivery guy in a bad porno flick.

“Wha’ ’bout you?” she asked Sykora.

“Yum.”

“Well, then …”

“Wouldn’t Bruce be upset?” I asked.

“You don’t look like you’d be ’fraid of Brucie.”