David Hosp: Among Thieves

“He’s queer as a fuckin’ ballerina, but he’s still got a gambling problem.”

“Really? What does he bet on?”

“How the fuck should I know? Whatever it is, he’s no fuckin’ good at it. He loses a fortune, and he’s been paying off Vinny by stealing the shit outta the stuff in his store. This was gonna even everyone up. He’s got insurance on the place for twice the inventory that’s actually there. I had the keys and access to the loading dock in back. No risk, and no one could get hurt.”

“And yet here you are.”

Devon nodded. “Yeah, here I am.” He looked around the small room. “There was no fuckin’ warning. Everything was goin’ fine. I had most of the shit loaded up already, and I’d just gone back in to grab a few more things. All of a sudden I look up and there are these two fuckin’ cops looking back at me, these big, wide, shit-eating grins on their faces.”

“So, what do you think happened?” Finn asked.

“Only one possibility.”

“Someone dropped dime?”

“I don’t see how else this happens. There was no alarm, I didn’t make any fuckin’ noise, and there was no one else around. The cops had to be tipped.”

Finn thought about this for a moment. “Who else knew?”

“I got the job from Vinny. You know Vinny Murphy, right? He’s moved up, and I’ve done a bunch of work for him. He’s always been a stand-up guy, though, and I don’t see his angle on me gettin’ busted, so I don’t think it was him. I don’t know who else coulda known, but someone did. If I was out on the street, I’d find out quick enough. In here I’m fucked, though.”

Finn nodded in understanding. “I could help with that, at least. I could probably have you out of here pretty quick,” he said.

“Really?”

“Bail hearing shouldn’t be too bad. I took a look at your sheet, and it’s been a while since you’ve picked up any convictions. The DA will be looking for high bail, but I’m guessing the judge would be reasonable about it if it’s handled right.”

“I been arrested a couple times in the past few years,” Devon said. He sounded skeptical. “And the shit I was caught with ain’t cheap.”

Finn shook his head. “Bail isn’t what I’d be worried about. The problem is what happens after bail. Your case sucks.”

“No shit. That’s why I need a fuckin’ miracle worker.”

“Even miracle workers hate to lose cases, Devon. Unless you’ve got something to give to the DA to get him to make a decent plea offer, you’re screwed. You really think you can get some sort of helpful information once you’re out after the arraignment? Something we might be able to trade?”

“Maybe. When’s the arraignment?”

Finn scratched his chin. He hadn’t shaved that morning and a dark patch of stubble covered his face. “Don’t know yet, it hasn’t been scheduled. You were picked up on Sunday, and today is Patriots’ Day, so the courts are closed. They’ll put you on a schedule when they get in tomorrow, but given the three-day weekend and the inevitable backlog, I wouldn’t expect you to be seen anytime before Wednesday.”

Devon shook his head. “No good. The longer I stay in here, the colder the fuckin’ rat’s trail gets. You want me to get you something to use with the DA, you gotta spring me sooner.”

“You may be putting too much stock in the ‘miracle worker’ reputation I have. There’s no way I can change the court’s schedule.”

“No, I guess not,” Devon said. He looked down at the floor as he tapped his feet anxiously. Then he looked up at Finn. “How ’bout if you was to move things on the outside?” he asked. “You know, poke around, see what you can find out?”

“I don’t do windows,” Finn replied.

“C’mon,” Devon pleaded. “I’m not askin’ for much. Just ask a few fuckin’ questions. Otherwise, we may never find out who tipped off the cops.”

Finn thought about it. He hated the idea of getting his hands dirty; he’d given up that kind of work. “I charge by the hour,” he said. “You’re not going to want to pay as much as it would cost.”

“I may not want to pay it, but I will,” Devon said. “I’m desperate, and payin’ you beats the shit out of going to jail. Besides, don’t you have some sort of private investigator you could use?”

“Sort of,” Finn admitted. “But he’s an ex-cop. He’s not the kind of guy someone like Vinny Murphy is gonna want to talk to.”

“Take him anyway. You want someone ridin’ shotgun. Guys like Vinny don’t fuckin’ play. They’re serious people.”

Finn considered the suggestion some more. “It’s gonna cost you a boatload of money, y’know? Not a little-a lot.”

“I know. I’ll pay it,” Devon replied simply. “I need this.”

Finn shot Devon a look. “And you really can pay my fees?”

“I swear to fuckin’ God, Finn. The second you get me out, I’ll pay you cash for what you done so far. Plus a fat fuckin’ retainer for the rest. I swear it, on my mother’s fuckin’ grave.”

“Your mother passed?”

“Not yet, but she’s got the cancer. Any day. Shit, Finn, I just need your help.”

Finn rubbed his hand over his stubble again. “I’ve got to talk to the others in the firm. If you’re really willing to pay, we’ll think about doing some poking around. Don’t get your hopes up too high, though. I don’t know whether my people are gonna want to take this on, and even if we do end up taking the case, I can’t imagine we’re gonna get too far.”

“You’re a good shit, Finn,” Devon said thoughtfully. “A really good shit.”

Finn sat up straight in his chair. He caught a calculating tone in Devon ’s voice. “What is it?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Devon. There’s something else.”

“Don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, you do.”

Devon was silent for a moment. “Okay. I got one other favor to ask,” he began.

“Of course you do.”

“There’s a woman in my apartment. It’s a little fucked up with her.”

“You never change, do you Devon.”

“Like you said, not in any way that’s important. I didn’t call her when I got pinched, so she’s probably a little twitchy. She’s gotta go down to her ma’s place in Providence today.”

“You want me to get her a message?” Finn asked.

“It’s not that simple.”

Finn frowned. “Why isn’t it that simple, Devon?”

Devon looked hard at Finn. “I trust you,” he said.

“You’d better,” Finn replied. “I may end up being your lawyer.”

“You don’t understand; there’s no one else I trust. I’m not in the right business for trust-not when it comes to shit that really matters. You know that better than anyone, right?”

Finn didn’t like the turn the conversation was taking. “Crap,” he muttered. “What’s this about, Devon?”

Devon sighed. “It’s about my daughter.”

Detective Paul Stone drove. He and Elorea Sanchez had been partners for two weeks. Though he’d been a cop for five years, he was a rookie on the homicide squad, and she had every right to take the wheel, but never did. They walked out of the station house that first day to the dented, unmarked Lincoln and Sanchez had tossed the keys onto the driver’s seat. She’d never said a word about it, and Stone had driven ever since. He’d joked once that she must like having a younger man chauffeuring her around the city, but it hadn’t gone over well. She just stared at him with a hard look that was effective at cutting off conversation.

She wasn’t easy to figure out. They’d spent nearly ten hours a day together for two weeks, but they seldom spoke more than a few words to each other at a time. Her idea of conversation was to tell him where to turn. Most of what he knew about her he’d gotten from her personnel file and station gossip. She was fifty years old, female, Hispanic of unspecified geographic origin, five-seven, one hundred and thirty-five pounds. She had joined the police force later in life than most cops-after the army, college, and a master’s degree in criminal justice. She’d even done two years of law school, but hadn’t finished. No one knew why she’d dropped out. What people did know was that she had shot up through the BPD ranks with incredible speed. The jealous credited affirmative action, ignoring the fact that she had the best clear rate in the homicide unit. In her fifteen years on the detective squad, she’d cleared over seventy-five percent of her cases. That meant that if a case was assigned to her, three out of four times someone was convicted of the crime. The national average was sixty-five percent. In Boston, the average had sunk in recent years as low as thirty-three percent. That meant that only a third of all murders were being solved. It was one of the worst records in the country. Given that grim reality, affirmative action or not, seventy-five percent made Sanchez a star.