By five thirty, both Nick and Lee were behind bars, and we had, although reluctantly, been given six more names. Frank, Henry, Potter, and I pulled the sheets on each man, found their addresses, and planned to bring them in and hold them for forty-eight hours. That was all we needed to send John into fits of rage that nine of his men weren’t answering their phones.
I made a call to my buddy Tommy Sanders from the Seventh District, whom I had worked with on the sniper case several months back. “Hey, guy, we’re overdue for a beer.”
He laughed through the phone lines. “That’s for damn sure. What can I help you with, McCord?”
I briefly explained our situation. “We need some of your holding-cell space for a couple of days. Seems that we’ve run out of room in our precinct.”
“How many people are we talking about, and can they be in a group cell?”
“Four men, and they have to be kept in separate quarters. We only have two empties left, and we’ll be filling them today. The guys will be questioned about John Vance and then left to sit until their forty-eight-hour hold is up, then they’ll be released. Hopefully by then, we’ll have John and Curt in custody.”
Tommy agreed to check with his commander, see how many available cells they had, and get back to me before seven o’clock. I had a feeling it was going to be another long night.
With the note I’d written to myself earlier front and center on my desk, I made the call to Lieutenant Cal Morrow in Brownsville to see if he’d learned anything about document forgers in his area. With the phone pinned between my ear and shoulder, I pulled a clean sheet of paper from my desk drawer, hoping he’d have something to tell me. The phone rang on his end until it finally went to voicemail. With a discouraged huff, I left a message and assumed he’d already gone home for the day.