Witch House (33 page)

Over the years, I have sat in on countless
stakeouts with Carlos, and always they have been adventures in and
of themselves. Carlos treats a nighttime stakeout like a Boy Scout
jamboree, complete with sandwiches, Twinkies and S`mores, the
latter prepared with a Bic lighter substituting for a campfire.

Typically, we set up for the night in a car
or van, watch an apartment or maybe a warehouse and wait for
someone to come or go. Often, we will sit for hours and nothing
will move. It is for that reason Carlos has taken to bringing
snacks and puzzle games with him to help pass the time. It used to
bother me back in the old days. Now it does not. His fussing and
fidgeting offers just enough distraction to keep things
interesting, yet is not so disruptive that it gives us away. This
night was no different. We set up in an unmarked van across the
street and half a block down from Spinelli’s. I commanded the
driver’s seat, Carlos took shotgun and Dominic sat behind him. We
left Dominic’s car just out of reach of the streetlight in front of
his house, a tempting target for anyone thinking of breaking into
the trunk. I turned to Carlos to remind him that we needed to have
the van back at the auto pool by the morning’s shift change, when I
saw him lining a row of peanut butter crackers up along the
dashboard.

“Carlos,” I laid my hand out over his
masterpiece, “what are you doing?”

“Nothing,” he answered, and began dusting
them with a fistful of crushed potato chips crumbs.

“You’re making a mess with those. Is that
absolutely necessary?”

“Tony, the crumbs will stick to the peanut
butter. You don’t have to worry.”

“What about the crumbs that miss the
crackers? What are you going to do with those?”

He looked at the crumbs, and then at me, his
face wrinkled with question marks. “What do you mean? I’m going to
sweep them into the trash vents.”

“What trash vents?”

He pointed to the vents in the dashboard.
“There.”

“Carlos, those aren’t trash vents.”

“What?” He smiled as though I were trying to
pull one over on him. “Sure they are.”

I turned around in my seat. Dominic looked at
me, shook his head and mouthed, “Don’t go there.” He was right.
Carlos would have only accused us of ganging up on him. I expected
a long night. The last thing I needed was to have him sulking over
a few crumbs. I returned forward, reclined the backrest as far as
it would go and laced my fingers over my chest. “Wake me if
anything stirs,” I said.

That was at eight-thirty. At twelve-fifteen,
I felt a nudge. “Tony.” It was Carlos and his peanut butter breath.
“Tony, wake up. Something’s happening.”

I lifted my head and shook the sleep from my
bones. “What is it?”

“Someone’s there.” He pointed out the window
at Spinelli’s car. “See. He just walked out of the shadows, no car
or nothin` man.”

I turned around. Spinelli was gone. “Where’s
Dominic?”

“He went out the rear doors. He’s gonna sneak
up on him from behind.”

“Did you call for back up?”

“Got a black and white on the way, told him
to run lights only.”

“All right then.” I patted my weapon. “Let’s
move out.”

We had disabled the dome light on the van so
that slipping out would not arouse detection. I motioned by hand
signal for Carlos to cross the street and start moving toward our
suspect while I advanced in a crouch behind a line of parked cars
along the curb. We had progressed barely twenty feet when I heard
Spinelli shout, “Police. FREEZE!”

I popped up from behind the row of cars and
called to Carlos, “He’s not waiting. Move it. Move it!”

We descended upon our suspect in a
three-pronged cobra strike, taking him down without incident.
Dominic, still technically on light duty, stood over the suspect,
holding him at gunpoint while Carlos kneeled on the back of the
man’s neck, pinning his face to the grass. I had the easy part
cuffing him. After standing him up, we dragged him into the glow of
the streetlight and turned him around.

“You!” I said, surprised it was not
Tarkowski. “I don’t believe it. You know, I told Carlos that I
thought you had more sense, but here you are.”

“I knew it all along,” said Carlos.

Dominic laughed. “You did not.”

“Did too, said it right from the get go;
Powell is our man. He killed Landau.”

“I didn’t kill anyone,” said Powell. “I
swear.”

“Then what are you doing breaking into
Spinelli’s trunk?” I asked. “Don’t tell me you were looking for a
spare tire.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“That’s right. You were looking for your
gun.”

“All right, I admit it. I saw the eleven
o’clock news talking about how you found the gun. I thought I would
get it, but not because it’s mine or because I killed Landau. I
thought someone else killed him, and I wanted to get the gun back
to him.”

“Who, Tarkowski?”

“Frank? No. I wouldn’t help that slug. I’m
talking `bout….” He shook his head. “No, forget it. Take me in if
you have to.”

“No, why don’t you tell us? We’ll figure it
out anyway.”

He rocked his head back and leveled his
sights at me in a squint. For a moment, I thought he recognized me
from the old days. At the least that he recognized that look; the
same one Lilith gives me when she searches my soul for secrets I
have buried, or thought I had buried. I know that when she gives me
that look I can hide nothing from her. Perhaps Powell sensed the
same thing; and though I do not like using witchcraft in my job, I
suspect that sometimes it will come into play whether I like it or
not. This time I liked it.

“It’s Mochohyett,” I said, “isn’t it? Did he
kill Landau?”

“Of course he did.”

“Are you certain?”

Powell turned his face toward the ground to
break eye contact. “I can’t say for certain, but I think so.”

Spinelli asked, “What makes you think
so?”

He looked at Spinelli, less intimidated by
his gaze. “That’s the word on the street. You can’t say he didn’t
have motive.”

“A lot of people had motive,” I said.

“Not me.”

“No? So why try to get the gun back for
Mochohyett? Do you work for him? Are you on the take?”

“You know he is,” said Carlos. “Aren’t you,
Powell? You’re as crooked as a….” He turned to Spinelli. “What’s
crooked, Dom?”

“I don’t know; a country road?”

“Yes, a country road. That is what you are,
crooked as a…. No, wait.” He referred to Spinelli again. “That
sounds too nice. I like a crooked country road. Give me something
else.”

“Forget it,” I said. “So, what is it, Powell.
Are you into the casino for more money? Were you hoping if you got
the gun back to Mochohyett that he’d forgive your gambling
debts?”

Powell nodded. “Something like that.”

“Bullshit!” This from Spinelli, who seldom
surprises me with such language. “You’re into this thing up to your
ass, Powell. We know you were in on the armored car robbery. You
are the reason the robbers got away, and that makes you an
accessory. You are as responsible for John Davis’ murder as Landau
and Allis. Admit it, you’re just another one of Mochohyett’s thugs
and you pulled the trigger on René Landau.”

“Fuck you!” said Powell, charging Spinelli
head-on, though with his hands cuffed behind his back he could do
nothing more than butt him with his bellowed chest. “You don’t know
anything, you little paper-pushing twerp. If you keep digging into
this mess, you’re the one who might show up dead in some back alley
somewhere.”

“You threatening me, Powell, you son of a
bitch?” Spinelli reached out, grabbed a fistful of Powell’s shirt
below the collar and twisted it in a knot. I quickly wedged myself
between them, while Carlos came up behind Dominic and pulled him
back.

“Enough!” I said, “break it up now!” We got
them separated beyond arm’s length, just as Officer Waterman from
our back up patrol arrived. “Now, everybody simmer down.” I pointed
to the front of the car. “Dominic, go stand over there.”

Powell gestured toward the arriving officer.
“Sure, you stop the brutality when one of my boys shows up.”

“Save it for the judge,” I said, and I handed
him off to Waterman. “Take him in, read him his rights and process
him, but keep him segregated. I doubt if he has any more friends in
jail than out.”

“What are we charging him with?”

I looked to Carlos. “What will stick?”

He puckered his cheeks and blew. “Wow, I
don’t know, attempted breaking and entering of an unoccupied
vehicle?”

“Yeah, that’s good.”

“How `bout interference in an active police
investigation?”

“Sure, and attempted assault on a police
officer?”

“That might stick.”

I shook my head in disgust. “He’s going to
get off, isn’t he?”

Carlos made a tick sound through his teeth.
“Yup, like a sailor in a whorehouse.”

I turned to Waterman. “Start with those.
We’ll be in later to finish the paperwork.”

Carlos and I watched him seat Powell in the
back of the patrol car and drive off. We then joined Spinelli at
the front of the car. Dominic began saying something in apologetic
fashion about his behavior, but I stopped him. “It’s over,” I said.
“Forget it.” He started to turn away. I bumped his chin lightly
with my knuckles. “Come on, tell me your thoughts.”

“`Bout what?”

“Powell. Are you buying his story?”

“I don’t know. I suppose it could be the
truth.”

“Uh-uh, I don’t buy it,” said Carlos. “I
think if Mochohyett wanted that gun, he would have sent one of his
home boys for it, not Powell.”

“He didn’t,” I said. “Powell said it was his
idea. He wanted to get the gun and give to Mochohyett.”

Spinelli asked, “Does that mean Mochohyett
killed Landau?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. A cop like
Powell really has his ear to the pavement. If he says the word on
the street is that Mochohyett killed Landau, then we need to
seriously consider the source.”

“What if he’s wrong?”

“If he’s wrong,” said Carlos, “then we still
might see someone come looking for the gun tonight?”

Dominic and I shared surprised looks. “Indeed
we might,” I said. I checked my watch before gesturing toward the
van. “The night is still young. Perhaps we should camp out a bit
longer and see what gels.”

Carlos said, “I call shotgun!”

“You always call shotgun,” Dominic
argued.

“I do not.”

“Yes you do, every time.”

“Well, it’s not my fault you don’t think of
calling it.”

“I don’t think of calling it because it’s
childish.”

“You saying I’m childish?”

“I’m saying if the shoe fits.”

“Oh, the shoe fits right up your—”

“All right, enough! You,” I pointed to Carlos
and then at the van. “You, take shotgun.”

“All right. Ha!”

To Dominic I said, “You take the driver’s
seat.” I watched Carlos’ smile evaporate completely. Before he
could utter a word, I said, “You got a problem with that?” He shook
his head. “Dominic, how `bout you?”

He grinned smugly. “Nope.”

“Good, then let’s do this.”

We piled into the van again, Dominic behind
the wheel, Carlos holding down shotgun and me in the back, my legs
stretched out across the bench seat and my feet propped up on the
opposite armrest. I thought I might go back to sleep; heaven knows
I needed it, but the bench seat paled, albeit mildly, to the sofa
back at the apartment. It left me with a kink in my neck and time
to dwell on my suspicions about Powell.

I never cared much for Sergeant Powell. For
as long as I have known him, he has always come across as arrogant,
pompous and self-serving. That said, the one thing I did like about
him was that I could always tell when he was lying, which was
often. Under the streetlight, he told us that he wanted to get the
gun and give it to Chief Mochohyett. As far as I could tell, he was
not lying. Of course, that did not necessarily mean that Mochohyett
killed René Landau. It simply meant that Powell believed he did,
and if Powell believed that, then he could not have killed Landau
himself. We may have been no closer to knowing who killed René
Landau, but at least I felt as if we knew who did not.

I had barely swallowed that bitter pill when
I heard a whispered shout, “Look! Someone else is here.”

I sat up quickly and looked out the front
window. I saw a man in dark jeans and a dark hooded jacket, running
from car to car in a stoop, stopping and ducking low at each one
just long enough to blend into the shadows. As he moved toward
Spinelli’s car, I saw that he carried with him a large pipe like a
tire iron or a crowbar. I tapped Carlos on the shoulder and said,
“Carlos, I want you to sneak up along the sidewalk and work your
way behind him, but stay on this side of the street. I’ll slip out
the back door and come at him from the other side.”

“What about me,” Dominic asked.

“You call for back up, wait about ten
seconds, and then follow me out. Let’s do it just like before;
catch him by surprise and take him down fast. Got it?”

“Got it,” said Dominic, and Carlos echoed
him.

I waited for Carlos to exit the van, letting
him get a head start up the sidewalk before I slipped out the back.
I crossed the street, assumed a crouched position behind a pickup
truck and waited for Dominic to catch up. I told him we should
branch off and move in parallel forks along the row of parked cars
lining the curb. He took the right side. I took the left. We
advanced, holding just short of his car by about twenty feet. When
I saw that Carlos had come around from behind and begun his drive,
Dominic and I moved in.

“POLICE!” I said, announcing myself as I
moved into the glow of the streetlight on the sidewalk. “Drop it
and turn around, now!”