“Whatever this is, as long as it makes you happy, I’m good with it.”
Novak nodded to his partner, and the two headed to Novak’s vehicle. While Novak drove them to Nate Unger’s house, Riggs gave him the rundown on Unger’s history.
“Some describe Unger and Vargas as the real-life Starsky and Hutch,” Riggs said. “They were Wild West cowboys. Took chances that most cops would never consider.”
“Why did Vargas switch to homicide?”
“Family. Wife and a kid are hard to weave into that kind of work. The time came for him to choose between the work and the family, and he did.”
“And Unger?”
“He kept working the streets and continued to rack up arrests until his body gave out. Finally he took a desk job, which he barely choked on before retiring a couple of years after Vargas’s death. Now he builds furniture and lives with the squirrels.”
Unger’s home was west of the city on rolling farmland in Louisa County. Locating Unger’s place was a challenge, and it took a couple of U-turns to find it hidden off a rural gravel road. Novak drove cautiously on the dirt driveway. Dust kicked up and rocks popped under his tires as he made his way deeper into the woods. After rounding a small bend, he saw the log cabin.
Without cell phone connection and with no invitation, both understood the danger of rolling up on a former cop unannounced. They stayed in the car so neither would get shot. Shortly thereafter a slim man with long white hair appeared with a Remington twelve-gauge shotgun. Both Novak and Riggs slowly held their badges outside the SUV windows. “Detectives Riggs and Novak from Richmond homicide. Have a few questions about Jim Vargas.”
Unger’s eyes narrowed, but he slowly lowered the shotgun. “Jim Vargas? He’s been dead twenty-five years.”
“Yes, sir,” Novak said. “Can we talk?”
“Sure. Come on over,” Unger said.
“We’ve questions about one of his old homicide cases,” Novak said.
Climbing out of the car and walking up to Unger, Novak said, “You worked with Vargas in narcotics, but we think you knew some of the homicide victims.”
No hint of welcome in his gaze, Unger studied them an extra beat. “Never know who’s going to come around here. Can’t be too careful.”
“You been out here a while?” Novak asked.
“Since my retirement in 1994. I’ve had more than a few reporters and cops ask me about Jim. These folks would always come out of the woodwork around the anniversary of his death for the first few years.”
“I’m looking into the Hangman case,” Novak said. “Vargas’s daughter, Julia, reopened it. She wants to solve the case.”
Mention of Julia’s name softened his expression. “Last I saw Julia, she was about six. I hear she’s making a name for herself as a cop.”
“You keep up?”
“Sure. Her dad was my partner, so she was like family to me for a while. Some of the old-timers come out to see me every so often, we shoot the shit, and I catch up. Her operation in Virginia Beach went bad, I heard.”
“No one’s really talking about it,” Novak said.
“If she’s like her old man, she’s tough, and she’ll find a way to deal with it alone.”
Novak didn’t want her dealing with it alone.
“I understand why Julia might nose around in the case, but why you?” Unger asked. “Don’t you have enough current cases to close?”
“I have two cases. Both appear linked to the Hangman.”
“Hell of a coincidence,” Unger said.
Novak left the comment alone. The old man was a pro and feeling him out. “Tell me about Jim Vargas.”
Unger leaned his shotgun against the woodpile and picked up his ax. “Never saw a guy who was so good at slipping into the skin of another person. Even when we weren’t on, he was. When he slipped into a character, he sometimes had a hard time getting out of it, if you know what I mean.”
“What was his character?”
“A hard-nosed drug dealer. He could be the kind of guy who snapped bones if you didn’t pay or broke rank. And don’t ask me about specifics. I’m not trashing the guy or second-guessing what he did. He busted his balls to break up a drug ring, and sometimes he got his hands dirty.”
“How long was he under?” Novak asked.
“A couple of years.”
“He didn’t get home much?” Riggs asked.
“No. The work was hard on his wife and kid. He knew the work was also changing him, making him harder, and that was costing his family. That’s why he gave it up finally. It’s why I never had a family.”
“Can you tell me about the last cases you worked?”
“One was a cocaine operation. We’d heard there was a new dealer in the Washington, DC, area, and he was sending drugs down I-95. Jim worked the truck stops, selling to street criminals. He became a top-tier dealer, even getting undercover cops to buy from him. Word traveled around he was good. Deals and money started rolling in. Finally, a bigger fish approached him and wanted him to sell more. Jim agreed. Took us about fourteen months in that world to gather enough evidence to make arrests.”
“Any details about those arrests stick out?” Novak asked.
“When the bust happened, the cops cuffed us also and hauled us away with the bad guys. We never broke cover on that case.” He drove the ax into a log and split it. “There were times when we both wanted out, but we agreed to see the big case to the end.”
“The big case?”
“Jim parlayed one of his drug arrests into a drug-running job for a Russian New York outfit looking to establish connections in Richmond.”
“Is that the Popov case?” Novak asked.
“Yeah. I’ll never forget him. Ruthless Russian son of a bitch.”
“The case is a legend,” Novak said. “Big bust. Too bad the bastard died in prison about ten years ago.”
“I was hoping he’d rot for decades.” Unger shook his head. “It’s been nearly three decades since the case, and I still have nightmares about Popov and the men he killed. He never executed anyone quick or easy. Fingers, toes, dick cut off. Death for him was always about sending a message. He didn’t think twice about going after the families of the people who challenged him. His tactics damn near worked until he figured out we were on to him.”
“How?” Novak asked.
“The last men Popov killed were badly mutilated. He strung them up for all his crew to see. Their wives and kids were shot dead. Jim and I knew we were in deep shit. We’d had interactions with the dead guys. Popov knew there was a mole, and he didn’t care how many innocents he offed as long as he found the mole. It was the first time I saw Jim really scared. So was I. But I didn’t have a wife and kid. He did. He knew Popov would have killed them both in a heartbeat.”
“Did Vargas lose his nerve?” Riggs asked.