“I’m a free man?” I asked.
“You are. When the hospital releases you, you’ll have no more problems with the law. Sure, there’s still some small things we could follow through with, but nothing justifies what we charged you with. So we’ll drop the lesser charges. You’ll be receiving an apology from the entire Oakland Police Department. Myself most of all. I’m very sorry, Quint.”
I looked at my mom, who smiled from ear to ear. To her it was a joyous moment and I didn’t want to spoil it.
I extended my right hand and Ray Kintner took it in his.
“I apologize for everything,” he said.
“Apology accepted,” I said.
“This is Detective Steven Declan from the Walnut Creek Police Department.”
I realized I knew Detective Declan as well. It’s not like there were that many detectives in the WCPD and with me having written about crime for nine years, we had crossed paths.
“Hi, Quint. We’ve met a few times before.”
“Quint Adler. Friends with every cop around,” I said, bringing a brief moment of levity into the room.
“Are you up for answering a few questions?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said.
Just then, a doctor walked in. She was around fifty and had a quick smile. It amazed me how most doctors were quick to smile after all the things they’d been burdened to see.
“Happy to see you’re awake, Quint. I’m Doctor Abbot. I’m aware of your situation, but if you are too tired, you can answer these questions later.”
“I just woke up. Might as well get them out of the way.
“If you insist,” she said. “I’ll come by a little later and explain everything we’ve done for you. Just so you know, your prognosis is great.”
“Thanks so much, Doctor Abbot. I’ll talk to you soon. But I’ve been trying to clear my name forever, so talking to these officers right now is actually a blessing.”
Doctor Abbot smiled again. “Alright. I’ll come see you soon,” she said and walked out.
I responded to Detective Declan’s questions for the next ten minutes, going over my trip to Annie’s, my date in court, the visit to Starbucks, and finally what I remembered from being shot. Which, surprisingly, seemed to be just about everything. I described the man and Detective Declan asked if he could bring in a sketch artist at some point. I said yes.
At some point in our interview, as the pain in my shoulder began to increase, and I started looking forward to getting back to sleep, someone else walked into the room.
The detectives both took a step aside and I knew a bigwig had entered.
“Nice to meet you, Quint. My name is Devin Moore and I’m the federal agent in charge of the Charles Zane case.”
Devin Moore cleared everyone from the room and I was stuck talking to him alone. He was in his late thirties and intense, with a military-type haircut. It may have been stereotypical of an FBI agent, but it was also the truth.
My shoulder was in acute pain, but once I heard the name Charles Zane, I knew I’d make it through it.
He told me before the interview commenced that he was aware of my previous lies and this was the time to come clean. That actually sounded nice. I’d told too many lies over the last several months and they’d taken their toll. While I could excuse each one individually, when I looked at them as a whole, I knew I’d been wrong.
“I know you’re the victim here. I’m not trying to trip you up,” he said.
So I told the truth. The whole, entire truth. Meeting with Paddy Roark. Talking to Dennis McCarthy. My dad’s letter. Tailing Doug Anderson and Charles Zane. I didn’t leave anything out.
It felt good, like I was cleansing my soul.
What didn’t feel good was my shoulder. The pain became unbearable.
“Mr. Moore,” I said, not sure how to address an FBI agent, “I can barely stay awake. My shoulder is killing me.”
“Alright, I’ll let you go to sleep, but there are still some questions I need to ask when you wake up.”
I awoke several hours later, and after a few minutes alone with Doctor Abbot, Devin Moore came back into my hospital room.
“I’m sorry to bother you again, Quint, but this is a very important time in our investigation.”
“Have you arrested Charles Zane?” I asked. “I’m sure he’s behind this.”
“How do you know that?” he asked.
“Because,” I said and then paused. “Because it has to be.”
Hardly a convincing argument.
“Why?”
I realized, even after all that had happened, I had nothing concrete on Charles Zane. Dennis McCarthy suspected he was sending me the letters. Doug Anderson met him at the horse track. What else exactly did I have?
“I don’t know. I just assumed he had to be.”
“I’m not saying you’re wrong. In fact, we think you’re right. Charles Zane is as dirty as they come. But we deal in evidence. We can’t just arrest him on suspicion.”
“Sadly, I think suspicion is all I got.”
“Since you’ve found yourself immersed in all of this, I’ll tell you something I probably shouldn’t. We have some warrants being executed within the hour at Charles Zane and Doug Anderson’s homes. Hopefully, that will secure us the evidence we need.”
“Did I have any part in this?”
“A small part. Although we’ve been monitoring Zane for a few years now, so this predates you. He’s a smart guy and doesn’t leave any incriminating evidence. More so than anyone I’ve ever encountered in organized crime.”
“Is that what Zane runs?” I asked.
“Yes, but not in the way you’re probably thinking. He isn’t some old-school Mafia don.”
“So what is he?”
“He’s a new school crime lord. Drugs, for the most part. There’s millions upon millions to be made in prescription pills these days. We believe Zane has a virtual monopoly on them from Santa Cruz up to Sacramento. He also deals in prostitution. Sells black-market guns. And other terrible shit. The problem is he’s got so many subordinates below him doing the dirty work, it’s hard to pin back to him. And he’s only getting worse. He’s been trying to branch out to other illegal activities. Gambling, for example. And if he sent those letters encouraging you to investigate Dennis McCarthy, I’m sure that’s why. He was trying to kneecap his opposition, who’s been in the gambling business much longer. Dennis McCarthy is in his late sixties. Charles Zane is in his mid-fifties.”
“Is Dennis McCarthy part of this investigation?”
“Only on the periphery, as it relates to you.”
“Is he dangerous?”
“He’s not in the same universe as Charles Zane. The only people with anything to fear from McCarthy are people who don’t pay their gambling debts. And he’s not a killer.”
“Sounds you like have a soft spot for him.”
“I’d take a hundred Dennis McCarthys over one Charles Zane. People gamble on their own accord. Opioids are helping to ruin our society.”
“Agreed,” I said.
“Anything else you wanted to ask?”
“I told you what the next-door neighbor, Annie, saw. Is child trafficking one of his crimes?”
“We don’t believe so, but who knows at this point? We’ll see what turns up after these searches are conducted. I think the vise around Charles Zane may finally be tightening.”
“Had you ever heard my father’s name mentioned before I brought him up?”
“No, but that doesn’t mean your suspicions are wrong. Just never passed by our radar. After what you told me earlier this morning, I went and read the police report. The SFPD think it was a run of the mill mugging.”
I closed my eyes. “There’s nothing run of the mill about it for me,” I said.
“I’m sorry, Quint. That’s not what I meant.”
I started thinking about my father and just how much I loved him. The idea that his murderer was still out there enjoying lif
e infuriated me to no end.
“It’s alright,” I said.
“Your mother and girlfriend are waiting outside. I’m going to bring them back in.”
He turned to go.
“Agent Moore?”
“Yes?”
“I know you’re the FBI and keep things close to the vest, but if you could just come back and give me a thumbs up or thumbs down after you execute the warrants, I’d appreciate it. The man tried to have me killed, after all.”
“I’ll see what I can do, Quint.”
“Thanks,” I said.
My mother came in and I spent the next fifteen minutes with her. I told her I’d met with Doctor Abbot and I was going to be released in a few days.
She asked where I wanted to live. It hadn’t even crossed my mind that I would be persona non grata at Avalon Walnut Creek. But I understood her point. Would you want to live next to someone who had been shot at less than a week earlier? I wouldn’t. And I’m sure Avalon felt the same way.
They were certainly in a tough spot. If they allowed me to move back in and another shooting occurred, they’d be sued from here to kingdom come.
My mother also expressed concern about the killer coming back after me. She tried to be as delicate as possible, knowing that me being alive was the most important thing. But I could tell it weighed on her. I explained rationally that the last thing the killer wanted to do was come near me. I told her he was probably ten states away. I didn’t buy it and neither did she, but at least it gave us a reason to change the subject.
I brought up my ideas on my father, but my mother quickly shot the idea down. The SFPD said he was mugged and that was enough for her.
While she wanted to keep talking about practical things like where I was going to live, I didn’t. I asked her, in the most polite way possible, if she could send Cara in. Unoffended, my mother brought her in, telling me she’d wait in the lobby.
“We haven’t had much alone time, have we?” I said.
Cara pulled a chair flush against my bed and held my right hand as I talked. My left hand and shoulder continued to be elevated in the massive sling.
Cara’s hair was dirty and up in a bun. She had no makeup on. And she still looked beautiful.
“Probably be a little painful for you,” she said.
I laughed. “Not the alone time I was talking about. That can wait.”
She smiled. “Agreed. Let’s get you healthy first. We’ll have plenty of time to fool around once you’re out.”
I laughed and she squeezed my hand tighter. I couldn’t wait to fool around with Cara.
“Do your parents know what happened?” I asked, deciding to change the subject. They lived in Marin County, just north of San Francisco.
“Quint, everyone within a hundred miles of the Bay Area knows what happened. The man accused of killing Griff Bauer is almost murdered and then the police drop the charges against him. It’s big news.”
“Probably a good thing I’ve been out of it the last few days.”
“Gary Rodgers has been on the news a few times.”
“Good for him. I hope he uses the publicity to his advantage. He put up his home for my bail, after all.”
“He’s talked about suing the Oakland Police Department for arresting you with such little evidence.”
“He’s not wrong,” I said. “But I’m not sure I want to sue anybody.”
“They made your life a living hell.”
“They did. But I made some mistakes as well. I’m just hoping someone will allow me to be a writer again. I’d take that over some money in a lawsuit.”
“No one has to allow you to be a writer. You can always write. And it doesn’t have to be for some boring paper.”
“How dare you!” I said, through a smile. “The Walnut Creek Times is second to none.”
“Speaking of which, I saw Tom Butler at court the other day,” Cara said.
“Yeah, so did I. Have they been covering my shooting?”
“In yesterday’s edition, you were front and center.”
“I guess I can’t blame them. Too bad the best crime story to come around in years involves me. I’d have preferred writing it as opposed to being smack dab in the middle of it.”
“Can you believe it’s been less than two months since your birthday?”
“Feels like a lifetime,” I said.
I adjusted my body and let out a scream.
“Are you alright?” Cara asked.
“If I move the wrong way, I get this shooting pain through my shoulder. It’s agonizing.”
“Do you want to go back to sleep?”
I hadn’t been awake long, but the pain was getting unbearable. Again. “That’s probably a good idea,” I said.
“I love you, Quint.”
“I love you too, Cara. I’ve been an idiot at times over the years, but I’ve always loved you.”
“I know. Now get some rest. I’m looking forward to our time together outside of the hospital.”
She said it in a very seductive voice.
“You’re going to have to do all the work,” I said. “My shoulder is useless.”
Cara managed to laugh. She kissed me on the forehead and walked out of the room. I was asleep within a few minutes.
Agent Moore returned to my room that night.
“You wanted an update,” he said.
“Yes.”
“You know this is only for our ears. No one else’s.”
“I understand,” I said.
Moore paused, giving weight to what he was going to say next.
“I don’t think you have to worry about Charles Zane anymore.”
I’d seen the Stones live. And Radiohead. I’d listened to Miles Davis’s Kind of Blue on vinyl. And yet, these ears had never heard anything more beautiful than the sentence just uttered.
“Fantastic,” I said, unable to come up with a better adjective. “What did the warrants turn up?”
“Those are being executed as we speak. But we got one of his associates to admit on a wiretap that he tried to frame you for murder.”
I lay there dumbfounded. It was all coming together.
“There’s more,” he continued. “The associate admitted that Zane became concerned after you followed him from the racetrack. And that’s when he put the hit out on you.”
So he had seen me. I wanted to kick myself for being so stupid.
“And there’s one last thing,” Moore said. “This one is going to sting. A lot.”
“I can take it,” I said.
“The associate pretty much admitted that Zane had your father killed.”
Although I had my suspicions, I had never gathered any concrete evidence. So for an FBI agent to tell me that my father had been murdered still came as a shock.
I wanted to say something. Anything. But nothing would come out. My father, my hero, hadn’t died in a random mugging. He’d been murdered.
“I can tell this is an emotional moment for you,” Moore said. “I’ll let you be and come visit you later.”
“Thanks,” was all I could muster.
“Charles Zane is as good as over. I’m going to get him for all those he’s done wrong by. Including you. And your father. He’s going to be spending the rest of his life in jail. He’s on borrowed time, he just doesn’t know it yet.”
Lying in a hospital room, suffering from two bullet wounds, I’d never been more content. I thought of Tricia Knox. I thought of Aubrey Durban and James Neil. I even managed to think of Griff Bauer for a moment.
Someone could have handed me a million dollars and it wouldn’t have made me as happy as what Agent Moore had just told me.
But he was wrong.
PART III: OUT TO SEA
28.
(one month later)
And when I say he was wrong, Agent Moore was wrong about everything. Charles Zane wasn’t charged with my father’s murder. Or my attempted murder. Or even arrested. He was as free as I. Actually, technica
lly he was freer, because the Oakland Police Department hadn’t gotten around to dropping their final charge against me: withholding information in the course of a criminal case. It was in the process of being dropped, but the fact that I had a charge pending while Charles Zane walked the streets free drove me up the fucking wall.
I’d been released after a total of five days in the hospital, three days after Agent Moore told me that Charles Zane was on borrowed time. But it didn’t turn out that way.
Moore had made many assumptions, most of all that someone would turn on Charles Zane. While they did have a recording of one of his subordinates saying he’d murdered my father and attempted to murder me, the subordinate lied when questioned. He claimed he was joking and the FBI had no firsthand evidence of anything he’d said.
And while they still believed he had told the truth, they couldn’t prove any of it. A case built on hearsay was no case at all.
The warrants proved to be a bust as well. Nothing out of the ordinary was found at Doug Anderson’s home. Or the three homes that Charles Zane owned, including the high-rise I’d followed him to. His computers turned up nothing. And none of his subordinates who were arrested said a single word to the police. They asked for lawyers and then kept their mouths shut.
The FBI had been outfoxed.
After I got out of the hospital, Agent Moore wouldn’t return a single call of mine, so I heard all of this through Gary Rodgers. He was a man with a million connections, and that included knowing someone working the Charles Zane case. I’d almost wished he didn’t. The updates were always so discouraging, like someone punching me in the gut.
Adding insult to injury (literally), they didn’t have any suspects in my attempted murder. They had scrubbed my apartment and couldn’t find any DNA or prints. Ironic that they found my prints at a murder scene when I wasn’t even there, yet couldn’t find any when someone tried to murder me.
They tested the shell casings and the bullets fired at me, to no avail. They assumed the gun was bought on the black market. Which, according to Agent Moore, was one of Charles Zane’s illegal business activities. They also believed the shooter used gloves when entering my apartment, as well as when he escaped from the complex. A few people said they saw a tall man hurriedly leaving Avalon Walnut Creek around the time of the shooting and the local police hired a sketch artist. The resulting picture looked like a stick figure I could have drawn in fourth grade. I knew it was worthless.
Revenge at Sea: (Quint Adler Book 1) Page 18
