by Colin Conway
The union president headed over. He wore a red Nike shirt, gray Adidas shorts, and white New Balance tennis shoes. The shirt was too tight and revealed his soft belly. The shorts drooped past his knees. To make matters worse, the man wore calf-high tube socks.
“Nice get-up,” Garrett said.
Thomas checked out his choice of clothing. “What? I’m heading to the gym when I get done here.”
“Want a coffee?”
The union president shook his head and sat across from Garrett. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m hoping to get the scoop.”
“About DOJ?”
Garrett nodded.
“They’re here to conduct an inquiry into—”
“I’ve heard that bullshit.”
Thomas’s eyes narrowed. “That’s the official position.”
“What I want to know,” Garrett said, “is what are they really looking for?”
“In other words, do you have anything to be worried about?”
“We’re all looking out for number one, right?”
“What do you have to be worried about?”
Garrett laughed. “I’ve been in a couple shootings, man. One’s been cleared and I’m still waiting for a ruling on the other. With DOJ poking around, it makes me nervous. Who knows if those assholes are going to say I violated the rights of some mope?”
Thomas waved his hands in front of him. “You’re overthinking this. Just relax. You’re going to be fine. Your first shooting was good to go.”
Garrett leaned forward. “And this last one? Do I have something to worry about that?”
It was Thomas’s turn to laugh. “For taking out a cop killer? Are you kidding me? They’re probably going to give you a medal. And the county detectives aren’t going to come out against you even if they thought you might have done it dirty. They wouldn’t have the balls. Which means the district attorney is going to rubber stamp it as justifiable.”
He frowned. “How the fuck would I know? No one talks to me about it.”
“Listen. I’ll reach out tomorrow and see what’s what but believe me when I tell you to relax. That’s probably the most righteous shoot any of us are ever going to see.”
“You must have heard some of the questions they’re asking, right?”
“I sat in with Ragland. So yeah, I heard some.”
Garrett’s face flattened. The Justice Department might have wanted to interview an administrative sergeant, but it was more likely they wanted to interview him because of—
“It’s the Anti-Crime Team,” Thomas said. “They’re focused on that.”
Garrett scratched his neck. “They think we did something wrong?”
“If so, they haven’t said anything specific. It seems like they’re pushing at the edges of something, though. Maybe they’re going after directed enforcement teams around the country.”
“Maybe,” Garrett muttered. Almost as an afterthought, he asked, “How did Ragland do?”
“Talk about a mope.”
“What did he do?”
“He referred to you and Stone as Tango and Cash.”
“The hell is that?”
“From an old movie.”
“Why’s that bad?”
“Because the movie is about a couple of reckless cops who run and gun and get in trouble for it.”
“Huh,” Garrett said. “Ragland really said that?”
“That’s my point. Let me give you a piece of advice. Never compare a cop to some movie character because it makes my job harder. Got it?”
He nodded.
“I’ll tell you this, though. The damage he did to you was minimal compared to what he did to Zielinski. Unbelievable.”
Garrett contained his smile when he asked, “Yeah? What did he do?”
“The dumbass basically pointed toward the IA office and said, if you want to find corruption, go ask about Ray fucking Zielinski.”
Garrett leaned back. Maybe this wasn’t so bad for him after all. If the Department of Justice could find corruption in the form of Ray Zielinski, maybe they would pack up and go home, satisfied in the knowledge that the Spokane Police Department was already on top of it.
“Well,” Garrett said, “Ray did sort of earn the trouble he’s got.”
Dale Thomas shook his head. “There are some people who see a pile of shit heading toward the proverbial fan and get out of the way. Ray Zielinski is the only guy I know who stands in front of it, hoping the breeze will get better.”
On his way home, Garrett drove surreptitiously through Earl Ellis’s neighborhood. He wanted to see if either Clint or Zielinski was watching Ellis’s grandmother’s house. Neither man was there, though.
This gave him pause as it had been days now that either man had been sitting on the house. What had changed?
Had an emergency pulled one of them away?
Or maybe DOJ required them to come by for an interview?
Or perhaps they found Ellis and no longer needed to sit off the house?
He immediately pulled to the side of the road and called Ellis’s cell phone. Once again—he lost track of how many times now—the call went straight to voice mail. He hung up.
Then he called Aurelia Ellis’s number. It rang repeatedly until the answering machine finally picked up. He listened to her recorded voice until it said to leave a message.
He considered doing so but didn’t. A voice message from him would be a physical connection to Ellis. So far, the only thing that truly connected the two men were calls and texts from burner phone to burner phone.
Oh, Ellis knew about the setup of Leon Strayer killing Gary Stone, but there wasn’t anything in writing. If the man ever decided to talk, it was his word against Garrett’s.
And who was going to take the word of a drug dealer over that of a decorated officer?
Garrett pulled back into traffic and headed home.
Chapter 36
Earl Ellis didn’t speak on the way to the police station, which was fine with Clint. He parked near the west doors in a lieutenants-only slot and walked Ellis into the building. Even though interview room one was open, he stuck Ellis in number four. Another detective looking for a place to park a suspect or a witness was less likely to look there. Then Clint returned to his desk for his file. He didn’t need it for reference purposes, as he’d memorized the pertinent details. But a thick file was an intimidating image for a suspect to see, and it sent a powerful message.
As he started back toward the interview room, a man in an expensive suit approached. He was Hispanic and although he didn’t quite look like a cop, his manner was similar. It wasn’t difficult for Clint to guess who he was.
“Steve Curado,” the man said, sticking out his hand toward Clint. “From Justice.”
Clint stared at the proffered hand but made no move to shake it.
Curado held it there for another awkward moment, then dropped it. “We’re conducting a small inquiry regarding a few incidents here in Spokane. I’d hoped to interview you today.”
“I can’t. I have a suspect in the box.”
“Oh.” Curado nodded understandingly. “Will it be a long interview? I can wait.”
“It’s an interrogation,” Clint corrected him. “And it’s going to take a while.”
“How about tomorrow, then?”
“I can’t say for sure. I’m busy. I have an overload of cases.”
Curado took out his card and handed it to him. “Detective, I am on a short timeline here, and I do need to talk to you. If you can’t do it today, it’ll have to be tomorrow.”
“So the world revolves around your calendar?” Clint snapped. “I just told you I have cases to work.”
Curado didn’t react. He simply nodded his head and said, “I’ll see you tomorrow, then, Detective. Either here, or down in the chief’s office.”
Clint shook his head in disgust and walked away. Whether he could avoid an interview with the feds was secondary to him right now. He had
Ellis, and if he could bring the man in, that would give him Tyler Garrett on a platter.
Ellis sat erect in his chair, waiting patiently for him. Clint unlatched the cuff attached to the man’s arm, then removed the other cuff from the rail on the wall. Ellis rubbed his wrist while Clint folded the cuffs together and put them back in the case on his belt.
“What’s the charge, Detective?”
Clint sat down. “We’ll get to that. I want to talk to you about something first.”
“No. Either charge me or release me. Better yet, call my lawyer.”
“You’re not a lawyer?” Clint asked. “I thought you might be, with all the fancy suits I always see you in.”
“A man can’t represent?” Ellis asked. “People might take you more seriously if you wore something besides those khakis and a collared shirt from Walmart.”
“I bought this at Kohl’s.”
Ellis smirked.
“It’s interesting to me,” Clint said, “why a man with no record of employment dresses like he works at a firm downtown.”
Ellis gave him a patronizing smile. “Believe me, Detective, if we keep going at it over fashion choices, that’s one you’re going to lose.”
“I’m just asking questions.”
“And I’m asking for a lawyer.”
Clint shook his head. “No lawyer.”
Ellis’s smile turned mischievous. “Are you denying me my Sixth Amendment rights, Detective?”
“Fifth, too, you want to get technical about it.” Clint leaned forward. “I’m doing you a solid right here. My advice—don’t fuck it up for yourself.”
Ellis paused. His smile remained but Clint could see the gears turning behind his eyes. “I want it on the record,” he finally said, “that I asked for a lawyer and you denied me access to one.”
Clint pointed up to the camera in the corner near the ceiling. “You see a little red light?”
Ellis’s eyes flicked to the camera and back again. “No.”
“That’s right. This is off the record. No video, no audio. And no lawyer, neither.”
“I’m not agreeing to that.”
Clint leaned back and crossed his arms. He grunted. “Maybe you’re not as smart as I thought you were. I had you pegged as the brains, but maybe you’re just an errand boy after all.”
Ellis chuckled. “Appeals to my vanity won’t work. If I ever end up in front of a judge, I’d rather be an errand boy than a kingpin.”
“How would you like to not end up in front of a judge at all?”
“That’s my goal.”
“I can make that happen.”
“So can I.”
“Not indefinitely. But I can.”
Ellis eyed him curiously. “How?”
Clint flipped open his thick folder. He shuffled through some of the paperwork, though he knew right where the photos he wanted were located. He wanted to emphasize the enormity of his case to Ellis.
When he found the envelope containing the photographs, he tapped them out into his hand. Then, one by one, he put them in front of Ellis, like a dealer dealing blackjack.
Snap. Ellis with Veryl Wooley, handing him a package.
Snap. Ellis with a yet unidentified heavyset black male, receiving an envelope.
Snap. Ellis with Kendra Cattage, receiving an envelope.
Snap. Ellis with a yet unidentified Native American male, delivering a package.
He watched Ellis as he laid each in front of him. The man kept a straight face, but Clint spotted micro expressions of surprise and then worry. That was good.
He held one photo in reserve.
Ellis looked at all four photographs for a long while, then looked up at Clint without a saying a word.
“Nice suits in every shot,” Clint said. “I could send these to GQ.” He tapped Veryl Wooley in one photo. “If it weren’t for these underdressed motherfuckers here.”
Ellis shrugged. “So you have some pictures of me. That doesn’t prove anything.”
“It does, actually. It proves association. And it demonstrates your position with the organization. Besides, these aren’t the only photographs I have. There are many more.”
Ellis managed to seem unimpressed, but Clint caught his tongue start to snake out to lick his dry lips before the man brought it under control.
He’s cool. But I’m getting to him.
“What other photographs?”
“I might show you some of them,” Clint said. “Or you might have to wait until your lawyer gets them in discovery before your trial. Since you’re operating a drug ring, I’m sure the prosecutor will come at you with all kinds of charges. You’ll be wearing threads from DOC instead of Hermes.”
Ellis shifted slightly in his chair. “If you had a case, you would have charged me already. We wouldn’t be sitting here.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Clint said. “We’re here because I want someone else worse than I want you. And I’m willing to give you a walk to get him.”
“Who are you talking about?”
Clint frowned. “Come on, Earl. Don’t play dumb.”
Ellis shook his head. “I don’t know who you mean.”
“Yes, you do. We both do. And you’re in the unique position of being able to trade yourself right out of a prison sentence, if you’re not too blind to see it.”
Ellis swallowed slightly. “I want my lawyer.”
“I already told you—”
“I want a lawyer!”
“NO!” Clint slammed the palm of his hand on the table between them. Ellis jumped slightly. “No fucking lawyers,” Clint snarled. “This is just you and me, and we are going to come to an understanding. This run of yours is over. It can end in prison, or it can end with you going your own way. But for that, you’ve got to give up Tyler Garrett.”
“I don’t know who that is.”
Clint held up a hand and broke eye contact. “Don’t say that to me. We both know it isn’t true.”
“I have no idea who—”
“Everyone in this city knows who Tyler Garrett is,” Clint said. “So stop with the bullshit.”
Ellis pressed his lips together but didn’t reply.
“You know him better than most, though,” Clint said. “The way I figure it, you’re his right-hand man. His number two.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. You run his drug operation. You insulate him. And when he has a problem that needs to go away, you take care of that for him, too.”
“I don’t—”
Clint slapped the final photograph on the table in front of Ellis. He stared intensely at the man until Ellis lowered his eyes to look at it. Clint saw more micro expressions flutter across his face. Surprise, fear, perhaps even panic.
“That’s Leon Strayer,” Clint said. “The man with the fishhook scar on his face. And you.”
Ellis glanced up at Clint and back to the photo.
“A few days after I took this photo, Leon Strayer gunned down Officer Gary Stone. He was then shot and killed by Tyler Garrett.” He tapped the picture of Strayer. “First rule of assassinations. Kill the assassin.”
Ellis swallowed. “I…”
“You are party to a conspiracy to commit murder,” Clint said. “That’s what you are. And that means you get charged just one degree below an actual murder. Some heavy weight there.”
Ellis shook his head. “You can’t prove that. All you have is a photograph.”
“Maybe,” Clint agreed. “But that’s a long stretch of prison time to wager, isn’t it? Even more than the drug conspiracy charges. Though if we roll them all into one, I think we can get to racketeering pretty easily. That brings in the feds and all their resources. Hurts your chances even more.”
Ellis swallowed hard. Clint saw sweat starting to bead up at his temples.
Clint wagged his finger at him. “All of this, this massive shit storm, we can bargain it away, because Garrett is the bigger fish. He’s a cop who has dirt
ied the badge, and that’s worth more to me than any three of you.”
“I can’t,” Ellis whispered. “So just book me into jail.”
“You’re afraid of him?”
Ellis looked away. Then he glanced up at the lifeless camera on the wall. Finally, he looked back at Clint. “There are some people in this world that just don’t care about anything but themselves. The value of everything and everyone else is measured only by what that thing or that person offers them. Friends, family, lovers, they only matter as long as they have something to offer or fill some need.”
“You’re talking about a sociopath. You’re saying Garrett’s one?”
“I’m saying,” Ellis said through gritted teeth, “that people like that won’t hesitate when they are threatened. They will kill without a second thought. Without remorse.”
Clint leaned forward. “If you know about other murders Garrett has committed, that can strengthen your position here, Earl. Give you complete immunity.”
Ellis shook his head. “You’re not listening. You seem like a smart man, so consider this—how terrifying is a smart man who has no moral compunctions?”
Clint thought about it. “We can protect you,” he said.
“Oh,” Ellis waved his hand at him and sat back. “You really don’t get it. We’re done here. Get me a lawyer or take me to jail.”
Clint was quiet for a few seconds, his mind ticking through his options. He had sufficient probable cause to book Ellis. He might even be able to compile enough evidence by the time the case went to trial for the prosecutor to secure a conviction. But that didn’t matter. Garrett was what mattered. And he was running out of time.
Booking Ellis would only strengthen the man’s resolve. The trappings of jail were nothing new to him, and they’d only serve to remind him of Garrett’s long arm. Clint needed to put Ellis in a situation that would push him the other way.
He had to release him.
But not without painting a picture for him first.
“Earl,” he began.
“Lawyer or jail,” Ellis said, his voice firm.
Clint glared at him. “You’re going to listen to me, or we will take a third option and that’s the hospital.” He pointed up to the nonoperational camera. “Whatever I say happened in here is what happened. You get me?”
