Gone, Baby, Gone - Dennis Lehane [66]
We heard him talk to several girlfriends, bullshit with Gutierrez about cars and movies and the Bruins, but like a lot of criminals, he seemed to have a healthy distrust of talking business over the phone.
The search for Amanda McCready had failed on all other fronts, and police manpower was gradually being shifted away from CAC and into other areas.
On the fourth day of surveillance, Broussard and Poole got a call from Lieutenant Doyle telling them to be down at the precinct in half an hour and to make sure they had us with them.
“This could be ugly,” Poole said, as we drove downtown.
“Why us?” Angie said.
“That’s what we meant about ugly,” Poole said, and smiled as Angie stuck her tongue out at him.
Doyle didn’t seem to be having a great day. His skin was gray and the flesh under his eyes was dark and his entire body smelled of cold coffee.
“Close the door,” he said to Poole, as we entered.
We took seats across the desk from him as Poole shut the door behind us.
Doyle said, “When I set up CAC and was looking for good detectives, I looked everywhere but Vice and Narcotics. Now why would I do that, Detective Broussard?”
Broussard played with his tie. “Because everyone’s afraid to work with Vice and Narco, sir.”
“And why is that, Sergeant Raftopoulos?”
Poole smiled. “Because we’re so pretty, sir.”
Doyle made a keep-it-coming gesture with his hand and nodded several times to himself.
“Because,” he said eventually, “Narco and Vice detectives are cowboys. Crazy cops. They like the juice, like the jack, like the rush. Like to do things their own way.”
Poole nodded. “Often an unfortunate side effect of the assignments, yes, sir.”
“But I was assured by your lieutenant at the Oh-Six that you two were stand-up guys, very effective, very by-the-book. Yes?”
“That’s the rumor, sir,” Broussard said.
Doyle gave him a tight smile. “You made Detective First last year. Correct, Broussard?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Care to be busted back to Second or Third? Patrolman, possibly?”
“Uh, no, sir. That I would not enjoy much, sir.”
“Then stop breaking my balls with the wise-ass shit, Detective.”
Broussard coughed into his fist. “Yes, sir.”
Doyle picked a sheet of paper off his desk, read it for a bit, placed it back down. “You’ve got half the detectives in the CAC working the surveillance of Olamon’s men. When I asked why, you said you’d received an anonymous tip that Olamon was involved in the disappearance of Amanda McCready.” He nodded to himself again, then looked up and locked eyes with Poole. “Care to revise that statement?”
“Sir?”
Doyle looked at his watch and stood up. “I’ll count down from ten. Tell me the truth before I get to one, and maybe you’ll keep your jobs. Ten,” he said.
“Sir.”
“Nine.”
“Sir, we don’t know—”
“Oooh. Eight. Seven.”
“We believe Amanda McCready was kidnapped by Cheese Olamon in order to ensure the return of money her mother stole from Olamon’s organization.” Poole sat back, shrugged at Broussard.
“So, it’s kidnapping,” Doyle said, and sat down.
“Possibly,” Broussard said.
“Which is federal.”
“Only if we’re sure,” Poole said.
Doyle opened a desk drawer and removed a tape recorder, which he tossed on top of the desk. He looked at Angie and me for the first time since we’d entered the office and pressed PLAY.
There was a bit of scratchy static, then the sound of a phone ringing, then a voice I recognized as Lionel’s said, “Hello.”
A woman’s voice on the other end of the line said, “Tell your sister to send the old cop, the good-looking cop, and the two private detectives to the Granite Rail Quarry tomorrow night at eight o’clock. Tell them to approach from the Quincy side, up the old railway slope.”
“Excuse me. Who is this?”
“Tell them to bring what they found in Charlestown.”
“Ma’am, I’m not sure what—”
“Tell them what they found in Charlestown will be traded for what we found in Dorchester.” The woman’s voice, low and flat, lightened. “You got that, honey?”
“I’m not sure. Can I get a piece of paper?”
A throaty chuckle. “You’re a caution, honey. Really. It’s all on tape. For