David Ellis - The Hidden Man

In the end, I played the whole thing to a draw. Cops were like any other group of people-some were okay, others weren’t. On which side did Detective Denny DePrizio fall?

I leaned against my car, playing over my conversation with Lester Mapp earlier today, watching plainclothes and uniforms march in and out of the stationhouse as dusk settled over the city. A few of the cops had arrestees, the lot of whom submitted quietly save for a homeless guy, who was calling them “traitors” and mentioning, I’m pretty sure, Herbert Hoover, though my money said he meant J. Edgar.

I saw DePrizio pop out of his sedan as the sun was falling behind him. A partner, another white guy, got out of the passenger seat and said something to DePrizio that made him laugh. All in all, he seemed like a pretty affable guy for a cop, but in my mind that just made it less likely he was trustworthy. I prefer assholes. At least they tell you what they think.

I somehow caught DePrizio’s eye, probably an eye well-trained to spot, in his peripheral vision, someone standing and staring at him. He did a double-take, then stopped, pointed at himself, and raised his eyebrows. I nodded. So did he. So now we had both nodded. I guess that meant that I had to come to him, which was probably the proper hierarchical order of things, but that didn’t mean I liked it.

DePrizio cast off his partner and took a few steps toward me. “Counsel,” he said, more of a question. I wasn’t sure if he was having trouble placing me or just wanted me to think so.

“Jason Kolarich,” I said, slowly extending my hand, because you always avoid quick movements with cops. “Representing Pete Kolarich.”

“Kolarich.” Again, take your pick-tapping the memory bank or pretending.

“Clean-cut white boy,” I said. “Steady employment, no priors except petty possession who suddenly transformed himself into a major drug kingpin and gunrunner.”

“Oh, the one who’s innocent.” He snapped his fingers.

I didn’t smile. Neither did he. Denny DePrizio, in his white dress shirt open at the collar, brown sport coat and jeans, a youthful face and a full head of sandy hair, could have played the lead on a television show about cops. His eyes, dark and deep-set, were the only feature that suggested his age.

“You got something for me? I’m freezing out here.”

I followed him into the station, which was in the midst of rush hour on the ground floor. Upstairs, the detective’s squad room was more sedate, witnesses speaking softly to detectives, others typing on old computers, the smell of burned coffee and cheap cologne hanging heavily.

I pulled up a chair to his desk, and he planted himself behind it. “You want coffee or anything?”

I shook my head. “You had a web that night,” I said. “Your CI snared someone and my brother was in the wrong place, wrong time.”

He seemed amused. “That a fact?”

“Yeah. The guy you wanted got away, by the way. If you had audio, you already know that. If anyone was running guns and buying in bulk, it was that guy. My brother, he was just looking for a score-some powder. It was his bad luck that his supplier was into something ambitious just at that moment.”

“The whole thing was a coincidence. A misunderstanding.” DePrizio made a show of looking around his desk. “I think I’ve got a hankie here somewhere.”

“Yeah? Well, I’ve got a half-dozen witnesses who’ll say they were out with Pete, he left to go pick up some blow, and he never came back. I mean, come on, Detective. You know who your CI was bringing in, right? It wasn’t my brother.”

DePrizio leaned into me. “This CI-this guy must be the single most confidential ‘confidential informant’ I’ve ever had. Because even I didn’t know about him.”

He was denying that Marcus Mason-“Mace”-was his CI. “Then help me out,” I said, playing along.

He fell back in his chair and studied me. “You think if this was a spi derweb, someone would’ve gotten away? What am I, a rookie?”

I didn’t have an answer. I waited him out.

“I used to work the warehouse district, back when it was only warehouses,” he said. “Drugs and whores, right? Maybe I got to know a tavern owner or two. So I’m over at Poppy’s enjoying a couple refreshments with some pals. I walk out a little past, maybe half-past midnight, give or take. I see some asshole meandering around that building, used to be the old Lanier’s Amusement Supply place. Abandoned now, like a lotta stuff around there. Getting ready for the wrecking ball, word is. So this loser, anyway, he doesn’t look like the Avon lady, right? I mean, I worked patrol there and I did a stint in narcotics. I know these fleabags. I fucking know ’em.”

I nodded. He was saying he spotted J.D. heading toward the entrance to the warehouse, where he was to meet Mace-Marcus Mason.

“So I called it in,” DePrizio continued. “Possible 401 in progress, request assistance. Then I see your boy, driving right up to the damn place-and he pops in. So I’m a curious guy, right? I go take a peek.” He shook his head. “Problem is, one of ’em looked like they got spooked-rattled. I had to go in and freeze it. So I did.” He waved a hand. “Maybe five minutes later, a patrol has my back. So yeah, one asshole got away, two assholes got collared.”

“What happened to the other guy you collared?” I asked, referring to Marcus Mason without letting on that I knew anything about him. “He wasn’t in lockup.”

A look of recognition crossed DePrizio’s face. “Oh, so that’s why you’re thinking he was my CI. No, this guy was one of the Tenth Street Crew. And we already had a few of those in lockup that night. We didn’t need to turn that jail cell into a reunion.”

That was true. One of the T-Streeters, Cameron, watched over Pete that night.

“Plus, I figured, I put your preppy little brother in with that guy-well, he’d see your brother as a witness against him. Might not have been such a fun night for your boy. I sent the T-Streeter over to the one-five”-the neighboring precinct-“to cool his jets. You should thank me, Counselor.”

I didn’t thank him. I was watching him, looking for a crack in the armor. I was alternatively enraged and despairing. The detective’s story was entirely believable. I struggled for a minute, not hiding my distress, dropping my shoulders, blowing out air, shaking my head.

Then I took another look at Detective Denny DePrizio, who was observing me with some interest. So much of this was going with your gut, trusting your instincts. I had a plan. It was the whole reason I’d made this trip today, but still I found myself second-guessing it. I thought again about the story DePrizio had laid out, sized him up, and made a decision that I hoped I wouldn’t regret.

I decided to test DePrizio.

“I think my brother was set up,” I told him.

DEPRIZIO WATCHED ME closely as I laid out my story-the part, at least, I was willing to share with him. When I was done, he shook his head slowly. “You’re telling me there’s a guy who’s extorting you. He wants you to perform a legal service for him, but you don’t want to do it.”

“Correct.”

“So this guy, he set your brother up for this bust. If you don’t do what he wants, your brother goes to jail.”

“Right again.”

“But you don’t know this guy’s name.”

“I don’t.”

“All you can tell me is he’s five-ten, maybe two hundred, graying hair, maybe fifty, fifty-five. Which describes about two or three million people in this city.”

“Best I can do.”

“What’s the nature of this legal service the mystery man wants you to perform?”