“Because every man and woman on this force likes and respects you,” his boss replied. “I’m a relative stranger here. If any of this comes out, they’ll trust you to be absolutely honest.”
Did his fellow officers respect him that much? As chief party animal, Hale knew he had friends. But if he was truly held in such high regard, it meant more than all the commendations he’d received over the years.
That kind of esteem, however, brought responsibility. “What exactly are you asking me to do?”
Lyons tapped a pad by his phone. “I received a troubling call this morning from Tracy Johnson at the newspaper.”
The publisher, editor and reporter of the Villazon Voice pursued stories with a zeal that often scooped dailies and TV stations. She’d never given the police a break, but she was usually fair.
“What about?” Hale asked.
The chief released a long breath. “A source of Tracy’s claims my son is dealing drugs.”
Here was a potato hot enough to burn anyone who touched it, Hale mused. Which made it possible the chief had chosen him at least in part because, if anything went amiss, a lowly detective made a better scapegoat than a high-ranking officer.
The chief’s nineteen-year-old son, Ben, had reputedly run wild since his mother’s death from cancer five years earlier. He’d served a stint in juvenile detention for drug use and now participated in a treatment program. He also took classes at community college and delivered pizzas.
The young man and his strict father didn’t get along. Were barely speaking, according to the grapevine.
“She has no details and refuses to name her source,” Lyons went on. “Since she can’t prove anything, she volunteered the information in exchange for a promise that, whenever we have news to release, we give her a heads-up if possible.”
“Big of her,” Hale muttered.
“I didn’t agree to an exclusive, only that we’d alert her.” After a moment, the chief added, “She did say she hoped it isn’t true.”
“So do I.” Okay, they had an unconfirmed report about drug dealing. “Shouldn’t the narcs handle this?” Or perhaps an outside agency, given the potential conflict of interest.
Lyons stared out the window as if he’d developed a keen interest in the adjacent library. “You don’t have children, do you?” Without pausing, he continued, “If I launch a formal investigation of my son based on rumor, he’ll perceive that as a betrayal. I’d also be throwing him back into hot water, perhaps unfairly, just when he’s starting to get his act together. It’s not his fault that his dad’s the police chief and everything that concerns me makes news. On the other hand, I can’t ignore this.”
“This drug program he’s in, don’t they monitor him?” Hale inquired.
“He finished the program two months ago.” The chief refocused on his visitor. “He’s on probation and I’m sure they test for drugs, so I really don’t believe there’s any truth to this.”
“You’ve seen his place, right? Notice anything strange?”
The chief released a frustrated breath. “Ben doesn’t care to have his old man around, so Frank did me the favor of dropping by a couple of times to see if he was okay. I gather my son didn’t welcome him, but he did let him inside, and Frank saw nothing obviously amiss. So what do you say?”
Hale tried to decide what, as a towering figure of integrity, he ought to do. He decided to simply act like himself. Also, his gut told him that despite the polite phrasing, this was an assignment, not a request. “So I’m to sniff around and discover if there’s any truth to it?”
“Exactly. His landlady’s a retired teacher by the name of Yolanda Rios. She should be aware of the signs if he’s dealing.”
The kid lived in the same complex as Vince and Skip? Well, there was a coincidence. Still, in an area with a low vacancy rate, he’d heard that Yolanda preferred to rent to friends of friends, and it wasn’t much of a stretch to imagine that both Vince and Ben had found their way to her through their connections in the community.
This could be fortunate. As the chief said, a former teacher ought to recognize the signs of a drug pusher, including frequent visitors at odd hours and higher spending than the person’s income justified. Also, if Ben had resumed using, he would probably exhibit a glassy stare, mood swings and other symptoms.
“I took a history class from Mrs. Rios once. Great teacher,” Hale noted. “She has a fondness for strays, but she’d never tolerate drugs.” An interesting possibility occurred to him. “I have an idea where that tip may have originated. A guy who wouldn’t mind throwing egg on our faces.” In response to Lyons’s querying look, he explained, “Vince Borrego. He rents from Mrs. Rios, too.”
Dark red suffused the chief’s face. “Borrego’s mixed up with my son?”
Hale backpedaled. “It might be a coincidence. I can ask if Mrs. Rios has observed them together.”
You didn’t have to be psychic to read the thoughts of the man across the desk. He’d been unhappy about the ex-chief’s return to town and dismayed at the publicity that surrounded Vince’s involvement in the fatal shooting. Having his predecessor underfoot as a private investigator didn’t sit well, either. This latest revelation must feel like the last straw.
However, Lyons never acted petty or vindictive. “Don’t target Vince as the bigmouth unless someone else fingers him. I’m not on a witch hunt and, if the allegations are true, he’s simply doing his civic duty. However, I don’t consider him a reliable source, so please get your information about my son elsewhere.”
“Understood.”
Hale realized that he’d tacitly accepted the assignment. Well, the case had to be investigated and the chief had chosen him. On the plus side, if he dealt with it effectively, the chief’s goodwill might come in handy. Say, whenever Hale got around to seeking a promotion. Testing was only part of the procedure.
He collected a few items from his desk and headed outside to his unmarked department-issue car, which came equipped with a computer and other high-tech equipment. Hungrier than ever, he set course for Alessandro’s Deli.
The usual lunch crowd thronged the terrace. Inside, more diners jammed the tiny tables and lines formed at the self-service counters. Pastrami, meatballs, tomato sauce. Man, those Italians had a gift.
Hale was waiting when, from the rear, he glimpsed a blonde at the head of his line gesturing toward a display of pasta salad. The young male clerk dropped the serving spoon, apologized profusely and proceeded to stuff so much salad into a container that dribs and drabs spilled out as he forced it shut.
Typical foolish response to a pretty lady, Hale supposed. He might have reacted the same way at that age.
The clerk rang up the sale and the customer lifted her sack. When she turned, his heart did a silly skip-and-race kind of thing. Connie.
Hearts don’t race. And grown men didn’t feel a jolt of pleasure at glimpsing a woman they saw practically every day. Still, with the inviting part of her lips and that confident air, she had something special. One of these days he intended to read a book of poetry and find out what it was.
Hale felt a ping of disappointment when, dodging between tables to reach the exit, she passed without noticing him. Okay, so he had a bit in common with that gaping clerk. And with the three or four other guys whose heads swiveled to watch Connie. However, they hadn’t spent yesterday replanting her flower bed while she bent over tantalizingly to inspect his work. The way she’d looked in shorts and a blouse had made him attack the soil with renewed vigor.