Interference

by Danielle Girard

“I’ll calm down,” Ryaan said.

  “Probably should do that out here.”

  “I’ll behave.”

  “He may not be what you expect.”

  “I just want to see his face, Patrick.”

  “As you wish.” And with that, Patrick opened the door and let it swing wide.

  A young man—maybe nineteen or twenty—sat up straight in the chair on the far side of the interview table. He wore a yellow collared polo shirt tucked into his jeans. With a belt and tennis shoes. The laces were tied. She could tell from his face that he’d been crying. She glanced around the room. This was her mastermind?

  “Dwayne, this is my partner, Inspector Berry.”

  Dwayne stood up as Ryaan crossed to him. “Where are you going?” she snapped.

  “Nowhere. Was just going to say it’s nice to meet you, Inspector,” Dwayne said and sat quickly back down.

  Ryaan looked back at Patrick who shrugged. Patrick dropped a folder on the table and sat down. Ryaan was too amped to sit. Instead, she stood, hovering as Patrick flipped open the manila folder. On top was a picture of Sam Gibson, their hacker. They were still tracking down Gibson’s parents who were somewhere in Italy or Spain. The picture was at least five years and fifty pounds outdated.

  Dwayne was already shaking his head before Patrick asked the question.

  “Do you know this man?”

  “No. I’ve never seen him before.”

  “Well, he looks like this now,” Patrick said, flipping to an image of Gibson from the neck up, lying on the autopsy table. They had tilted his head a little to the right to hide the damage the fire had done to the side of his face. Most of it, anyway.

  “Oh, God.” Henderson pushed the picture away. “No. I don’t know him. I’ve never seen him before.”

  “How about this guy?”

  Dwayne didn’t look. “Is it another dead guy?”

  “You tell me.”

  Dwayne steeled himself and glanced down at the picture of Hank DeRegalo. This one had come from his Facebook page because by the time they found him, his body was way too bloated to be recognizable. “No. I don’t know him either. Who are these guys?”

  “One more.” Patrick showed him Karl Penn.

  “No. Never seen him.”

  Patrick sat back in his chair and crossed his arms.

  “I don’t even know why I’m here,” Dwayne said.

  Patrick tipped his chair back and balanced it on two legs. This was one of Patrick’s signature moves. Ryaan was still waiting for the day when he fell back on his ass. Statistically speaking, that day had to be coming. “Are you in possession of a firearm?” Patrick asked him, coming down to the floor again.

  “A what?”

  “A gun, Dwayne. Do you own any guns?”

  Dwayne shook his head even harder now. “No. No, sir. I don’t have any guns.” He kept shaking it even after he was done talking.

  Patrick pulled Dwayne’s arrest report out from behind the pictures and turned it so Dwayne could see it. “Six-year-old girl was killed. Bunch of kids in a car full of weapons. You served twenty-two months for owning an illegal weapon.”

  “That’s what they charged me with, but none of those guns were mine.”

  “Sure,” Ryaan said.

  Dwayne shook his head. “Whatever. I finished serving my time. I’m working now. I’m in school. That’s why I don’t own any guns. I’m done with that stuff.”

  “Done?” Ryaan said and Dwayne looked at her.

  “Yes, ma’am. Done.”

  “Then how do you explain that your fingerprints are on an AK-47 that we found at a warehouse along with two dead bodies?”

  Dwayne shook his head. “I don’t know. It must be old. From before or something.”

  Ryaan yanked the empty chair away from the table and took its place, standing down over Dwayne. “Bullshit,” she charged.

  Dwayne looked to Patrick for help.

  “I’m afraid she’s right, Dwayne,” Patrick told him. “Those guns were stolen from a police facility ten days ago. Before that, they’d been printed, and we have the records of whose prints was on them before. Your prints don’t show up in those records.”

  Dwayne sat on his hands and closed his eyes.

  Ryaan slammed her hand on the table. “Tell us how your prints got on that gun, Dwayne. Right now you’re looking like our best suspect in the murder case.”

  “Okay, okay,” Dwayne said hurriedly. “I just—shit.” He rubbed his face with both hands. “You’re not going to believe the truth.” He shook his head. “Man, this is so messed up.”

  “Try us,” Patrick said.

  Ryaan pulled up a chair and sat, waiting. It took Dwayne Henderson twenty minutes to tell them a cock and bull story about getting a bunch of text messages offering him free guns. Which he declined. Even after saying no, he told them he found a gun in a FedEx box in his delivery truck after making a stop at the police department. Dwayne, having turned over a new leaf and all, left the gun, in the box, on the street beside where he had been parked.

  When he was done, Ryaan stared at him. He was right. She didn’t believe a word of it. There was so much wrong with the story, she didn’t even know where to start. “How did this gun fairy get into your delivery van? Don’t you lock it?”

  “I do,” he agreed, thinking. “I usually do. I don’t know. Maybe I forgot.”

  “You forgot,” Ryaan repeated.

  “You’re driving around with a lot of expensive stuff, aren’t you?” Patrick added.

  Dwayne nodded.

  “And you might have forgotten to lock the door?” Patrick went on.

  He nodded again.

  “But no one took anything out of your car. Instead they left you a gun,” Patrick offered.

  “I know. I know it sounds nuts.”

  “You left the gun there? On the curb?” Ryaan said.

  “I swear.”

  “And what time was this?”

  “I don’t know. About ten, I guess.”

  “In the morning.”

  “Yeah. Yes.”

  “No one saw you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, we never got a report of it. Patrick?”

  Patrick shook his head. “Nope. So you’re saying that you put down a big box, within a block of the police department where it might have been a bomb or anything else—” Patrick walked back through Dwayne’s story. “And even stranger, whoever put this box in your delivery van must have come back for it, right? Because it was used to kill these people who we believe were involved in the original burglary.”

  Dwayne nodded then paused to rub his face again.

  “If you left the box on the curb, how did your fingerprints get on the gun?”

  Dwayne licked his lips. “I might’ve touched it first.”

  “Touched it,” Patrick repeated.

  “Yeah.”

  Patrick glanced at Ryaan before saying to Dwayne, “That’s the story you want us to believe?”

  “More or less.”

  “More or less?” Patrick repeated.

  “I left out one thing.”

  “Maybe you’d better share that, too,” Patrick suggested.

  “Well, I didn’t leave it there at first. When I saw what it was, I thought about taking it to someone I know.” He looked at Ryaan then at Patrick and rolled his hand. “To sell, you know. The money would have been helpful with school and all.”

  “But you changed your mind?” Patrick asked, and Dwayne must have caught the sarcasm in his voice.

  Dwayne laid his hands flat on the table and spread out his fingers as though to press off. “I told you that it was hard to believe.”

  “You should have used the word ‘impossible,’” Patrick said. The sarcasm was rep
laced by something much more like anger.

  “I guess maybe I need a lawyer.”

  “Do you still have these text messages?” Ryaan asked, trying to steer away from the talk of lawyers.

  “No. I deleted them.” Dwayne remembered something. “But I took a screen shot of one of them.”

  “Can we take a look at that?” Patrick asked softly, again working to avoid the subject of a defense attorney.

  “Sure. Yeah.” Dwayne pulled out an iPhone and after a minute of searching, he placed it on the table in front of them.

  Got to unload 70+. No cash needed. Split profits 75/25, 75 2u. Killer deal.

  “How did you know he was referring to guns?”

  Dwayne picked up the phone and scrolled through his photos. “I thought maybe I had a picture of the first messages. He sent a couple short ones about getting back into the business. Something about my record.”

  “Maybe someone from your time inside?”

  Dwayne shook his head. “I’m no monkey mouth, man. I laid low. I spent every minute I could in the library and I didn’t talk about my past.”

  “But that doesn’t mean inmates didn’t know what you were in for,” Patrick suggested.

  “I know,” Dwayne agreed. “I just can’t see any of those guys texting me. And how would they get my number? I got a new phone after I got out.”

  “Why a new number?” Ryaan asked, curious.

  “’Cause I wanted a clean slate. I got myself together now. I’m in school. I’m working. It’s not the best job, but it’s a start.”

  Ryaan watched the frustration on Dwayne Henderson’s face. Man, if he was really some sort of weapons dealer, he had the best poker face she’d ever seen. Which meant he was no dealer. She’d been in the business long enough to recognize the tells. Even the kids who kept up their appearances couldn’t help but show off another way. They drove cars that were a little too rich for their blood, or they wore expensive clothes. Dwayne’s polo shirt wasn’t even label. His car was an ‘86 Camry and even his reading glasses looked sturdy but inexpensive.

  Patrick took down the originating phone number off Dwayne’s screenshot. “You willing to sign a waiver to let us pull your phone records?”

  “You mean to see who I’ve called?”

  “And texted. Right.”

  “And then you’ll let me go?”

  Ryaan nodded. She didn’t want to tell him that they might be by to pick him up later in the day.

  “Yeah. I’ll sign it.”

  Patrick stood up. “Let me get the paperwork. I’ll be right back.”

  Dwayne looked at his phone. “Can you hurry? I’ve got a stats recitation class in forty-five minutes.”

  The anger Ryaan had drummed up earlier was gone. Dwayne Henderson was no mastermind criminal. Hell, he didn’t even seem like a criminal.

  When Patrick walked back through the door, something had shifted.

  Dwayne sat up straighter as Patrick crossed to him.

  Patrick set his phone on the table in front of Dwayne and pointed to the screen. “You want to tell me what that is?”

  Dwayne stared a moment and looked back up, baffled. “I have no idea.”

  “Really?” Patrick said as Ryaan looked at the image of a silencer. “They found that in the back of your car. My guys are searching the rest of the car now. They going to find anything else?”

  “I have no idea how that got there,” Dwayne said.

  The phone on the table buzzed. Patrick snatched it up. “Yeah.”

  Dwayne pressed his hands into the table. The beds of his fingernails were rimmed in white.

  Patrick’s gaze drilled him. Something had happened. He lowered the phone and looked at Ryaan, nodding. To Dwayne, he said, “Looks like you’re going to be missing class.”

  “I don’t understand.” Dwayne pushed away from the table.

  “What was it again? Statistics?”

  “Yeah,” Dwayne uttered.

  “I’d say your probability of going to jail has just gone up.”

  Dwayne stood but Patrick pushed him back into the chair with a single, solid shove. “Why don’t you tell Inspector Ryaan about that gun we found under the seat of your car?”

  Ryaan watched Dwayne. His expression was utter shock.

  “How about Karl Penn?” Patrick asked. He pulled the file open again, splaying the pictures out until he found the one of Penn.

  “I told you I don’t know him. I’ve never seen him before,” Dwayne insisted.

  “Then, you want to explain how he was killed this morning? Because the caliber of the bullets matches the ones we found in your car.”

  Dwayne’s face went slack. His shoulders slumped. Beyond his glasses, his eyes began to water. He shook his head. For a moment, he said nothing. Then, he looked up at Ryaan. “I swear, I didn’t do that. I’ve never seen that gun or that man. This is all a huge mistake.”

  She listened for a hitch in his voice or a flatness in his eyes. His face would surely show some tiny glimmer of deceit. There was nothing.

  Patrick crossed his arms. “Evidence doesn’t lie, Dwayne.”

  As Dwayne began to cry, Ryaan wondered if she was losing her edge. Patrick dragged him out of the chair and read him his rights. Ryaan almost felt sorry for the guy.

  Chapter 36

  J.T. walked the hallways in the department, feeling especially light. Everything was falling into place. Really, there was so little left to do. Still a few days to wait with no work. Such a rarity, J.T. could hardly imagine how to enjoy it. For so long, every day was calculated, planned. Behind schedule, on schedule. With so many other moving parts, it was always a challenge. But now, with no one else to worry over, with the damage done and the short-selling profits amassing, there was nothing but time.

  Before that moment, J.T. hadn’t stopped to imagine leaving the department. So many years in this little space, working with the same clueless people day after day. And then to be done. Not just with the department but with working. Because there would be no reason to work.

  As the computer coughed and hiccuped through its booting, J.T. pulled out the morning’s paper and flipped it back to the business section to read the article for the fifth—no sixth—time that morning.

  Results of Mendelcom’s ten-year trial of a drug that the company had announced increases the remission rate in prostate cancer patients by more than 40% have been declared invalid. Claiming a data loss, Mendelcom spokesperson John Anderson tells the Chronicle that the company is working on the data issue and is confident that the success of the drug will be proven.

  In the meantime, an independent audit performed this week of the company’s results show no consistent linkage between Mendelcom’s billion dollar Prostura and a reduction in the cancer. As recently as last week, the drug was being touted as the biggest gain in cancer research since the turn of the millennium. Shares of the company (MCOM listed on the NASDAQ) are down more than 92 percent since Friday’s announcement.

  According to J.T.’s math, they had made something approximating five and a half million dollars by shorting shares of Mendelcom across sixteen different accounts. J.T. had repurchased the last of the shares at the current price of $14.27 that very morning.

  With the computer up, J.T. logged into the department’s records system and searched Dwayne Henderson. There it was. Right in the center of the screen. Dwayne Henderson was arrested on suspicion of first degree murder. The victim: Karl Penn.

  J.T. had to smile. The door opened and people began to file in.

  “You’re in a good mood,” a colleague said, passing by with a bag lunch and a dented traveler of cheap home-brewed coffee.

  “Why not? It’s going to be a great day.” J.T. exited out of the records screen and slid the folded newspaper into the desk. It was going to be a great day. They all were. These las
t few in the department and all the ones after.

  Finally.

  Chapter 37

  Mei and Jamie parked outside Blue. The club didn’t open to customers for another hour but the bartenders were there well in advance to ready the bar. Monday night was ladies night which meant half off well drinks. The bar reported it was one of their biggest nights—often bigger than Saturday. Mei wondered who went out and got drunk on a Monday, but she wasn’t there to find out.

  “You have a picture?” Jamie asked.

  Mei pulled out the picture of Amy from her personnel file.

  Jamie nodded. “Perfect. Let’s go see what we can find out.”

  Mei followed Jamie into the club. The flashing, circling lights were off, and now Mei could see why the club was called Blue. The bar was solid cement, tinted blue, as was the floor. The walls were textured in various blue fabrics. One appeared to be thick blue corduroy, another blue velvet. Everything, in fact, was blue, including the bartender’s shirts, which Mei had thought were black on Saturday.

  Jamie approached the bar where a woman was stacking glasses. “Can I help?”

  “I’m Jamie Vail. I’m an inspector with the SFPD, hoping to talk to someone who was here Saturday night.”

  “I was here.”

  Mei pulled out the picture of Amy and set it on the bar. If possible, Amy looked even younger in the picture. It was impossible to imagine the doe-eyed girl as a nefarious character.

  “Something happen to her?” the bartender asked, leaning over the picture.

  “No. She’s fine,” Jamie said without explanation.

  She shook her head. “I didn’t notice her, but that doesn’t mean anything. I don’t notice this type. Too fresh-faced for me. You’d want to ask Barney.”

  “Barney?”

  “Yeah. He’s our bouncer. Works the front door. Has a thing for faces.”

  “A thing?” Mei asked.

  “He remembers them. He can tell you who was here which night, who was kicked out and went home and changed her clothes and came back an hour later.” The bartender smiled. “It happens more than you’d think. If she was here, Barney would probably remember her.”