by Harvey, JM
BoDean was under the hood of the Malibu with a roll of painter’s tape. Beyond Bo, Slick Hernandez leaned against the workbench, looking cool and comfortable despite the heat, his brow dry, clothes crisply pressed and unwrinkled. One more reason to hate the guy.
BoDean stood up and ran a forearm across his sweaty brow. “Your keys are on the bench,” he said. Val nodded and Bo ducked back under the hood, making it clear that this wasn’t his business. Convict-etiquette, Val thought, his annoyance deepening toward anger. Against his better judgment, he turned to face Slick.
“You wanted to talk to me?”
“What’s up, copper?” Slick said with a sliver of a smile. His arms were crossed over his chest, the fingers of his right hand drooping toward the 9mm that bulged the thin material of his white silk shirt.
“You wanted to talk to me?” Val repeated with an edge. He kept his own hands at his side, feeling the .45 tight against his back. Slick was a paid killer; that was something it would not pay to forget.
Slick lost the smile and got to the point. “Word is that the Dirty White Boys green-lighted you yesterday.” He didn’t have to explain further, Val knew what green-lighted meant: the White Boys had okayed his murder.
Val thought about that for a moment. The White Boys were a prison gang with affiliates scattered across the country, inside and outside of prison, including the Confederate Syndicate. Hell, Jasper Smith was a member as had been Lamar and Lemuel and their daddy, Garland. Still, the green-light didn’t make sense. The White Boys sold guns and dope, a booming business, and killing a cop, even an ex-cop, was bad for that business. But it didn’t take Val long to figure it out: Garland and Jasper had probably promised the White Boys a cut of Lamar and Lemuel’s fifteen million.
But that didn’t explain how Slick had acquired the information.
“You have an in with the White Boys?” Val asked incredulously. The White Boys were hardcore white supremacists, not the kind of guys you’d see hanging out with a Mexican Mafia assassin.
Slick shrugged. “La Eme gave it a nod. Dallas is their turf and killing a cop is going to cause problems, but they figure it’s worth it to do a favor for the skinheads.” He shrugged again. “You know prison. Gotta live and let live. Give and take.”
Yeah, Val understood; a La Eme shot-caller had worked out something with somebody on the White Boys top tier. Nothing unusual there. While the prison gangs’ soldiers fought it out with shanks and fists, the gangs’ leaders made drug deals with each other and outsourced murder contracts on their own membership. Green was the only color that mattered at the top of any corporation, criminal or legal.
“Are you a part of that favor?” Valentine asked, his hand drifting toward the .45 tucked in his waistband. With fifteen million dollars floating around, every hired killer in Dallas would be after him, and the most efficient La Eme assassin was standing right there in front of him.
Slick caught the move toward the pistol. He lifted his hands, palms out, and shook his head. “No. Just a friendly heads-up.”
“Why?” If Slick was expecting some kind of reciprocation, a word in the ear of a cop or an ADA from a retired officer, he could forget it. Val wasn’t offering IOU’s to gangsters.
Slick shrugged. “Sandra Baptista,” he said. “You could have hung that on me. Sandra set me up pretty good.”
Val had worked the murder of Sandra’s husband, Alberto, a crime she had ultimately been convicted of. She had tried to pin the murder on Slick, who had been having an affair with the married woman. Sandra was clever, but not clever enough. Her husband’s maxed-out life insurance policies were as good as a bloody fingerprint.
“You didn’t do it,” Val replied. And that was all there was too it. He wasn’t looking for flowers or a thank you note. Not from Slick.
“Lots of cops wouldn’t have given a damn,” Slick said.
He was right about that. When the fingerprints on the gun had come back to Slick, Val had been tempted to let it ride. To take a known killer off the street, but the notion had been fleeting. He’d never seriously considered it. He was a cop. One of the good guys. It was that simple.
Val didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything. He grabbed his keys off the workbench, nodded once at Slick and headed for the Mustang.
BoDean rose from under the Malibu’s hood, laid the tape aside and trailed Val out into the sunlight. Val was opening the Mustang’s door when Bo spoke.
“Where you going with that gun, Valentine?”
“Chasing ghosts,” Val said after a moment’s hesitation.
“You don’t need a gun for that,” Bo replied, “You need a psychiatrist.”
Val shrugged. “Better to have it and not need it…”
BoDean looked less than impressed. He sighed and shook his head. “If you’re gonna play cowboy you’ll need someone to watch your six,” he said. “Give me five minutes.” He turned back to the shop, but Val stopped him.
“No,” he said, the single word coming out more harshly than he had intended. If BoDean violated his parole he’d find himself back in Huntsville serving the remainder of his original twenty-year sentence. Val wouldn’t be responsible for that. “But I appreciate it,” he continued, his tone softening.
Bo started to protest, but Val wasn’t listening. He slid into the Mustang, the vinyl seats singeing him straight through his jeans and T-shirt. His sweat output skyrocketed as he cranked the car and shifted into reverse. He backed the car through a U-turn and headed back the way he had come, leaving BoDean staring after him.
He flipped on the air conditioner when he reached the end of the driveway and was rewarded with a gale force blast of cold air. BoDean must have put the fan motor from a Greyhound bus under the Ford’s hood. It was enough to blow Val’s sweat-damp hair back from his face. But he wasn’t complaining. He turned out onto the street, his expression grim, and headed south for IH 45.
Toward the Sutton brothers’ last hideout.
Hunting ghosts.
38
Deputy Foster was waiting for Victoria in a booth in the back of Herrera’s dining room, facing the door, sitting low in the seat. Her face was red, eyes bloodshot. She had a half-empty frozen margarita in front of her, salt glittering along the rim. And her slurred ‘Hello’ as Victoria slid into the booth across from her made it clear that it wasn’t her first cocktail.
The waitress approached them before Victoria could say anything to Foster. She was a young girl, one of the owner’s many granddaughters. Victoria ordered only a Diet Coke. After two of Hector’s cheese enchiladas, she wasn’t going to have another lunch. When the waitress had departed, Foster silently pushed a single sheet of paper across the tabletop.
“I almost got caught getting that. I had to hang around through the shift change. The sergeant asked me what I was doing and I said I was copying my reprimand,” Debbie started to cry almost soundlessly, the tears sliding down her chubby cheeks, but Victoria wasn’t paying attention; she was scanning down the column of names on the visitation room list. She recognized most of them: cops, defense attorneys and public defenders. Only one jumped out at her: Herbert Lubbock of Lubbock and Associates was listed twice. She scanned across the page to see who Herby’s other client was: Harold Bloom. Harold was a member of the Dirty White Boys with a rap sheet that was two-inches thick. Mostly drug charges and assaults, for which he had spent a total of a dozen years in Huntsville. Herby and Bloom had used room two, the same room that Albert Pico and Randall Rusk had been in when Victoria met with them.
But if Bloom had planted the shank and the handcuff key, how had he gotten them past security? He would have been strip-searched before and after his visit with Lubbock. But maybe it wasn’t Bloom? What if Herby had planted the weapon and the key? Herby was a jailhouse habitué, it was barely conceivable that he had been able to bullshit his way past the deputies without a frisk or a search of his briefcase, though Victoria had always been searched and run through the metal detectors herself. A
nd, if Herby was involved, he could have easily arranged to meet with Axel Rankin at the same time that Albert Pico was scheduled to see Randall Rusk…Victoria’s pulse started to rise. Herby wouldn’t be the first criminal attorney to cross the line from defense counsel to defendant. But how could Herby have known what room Randall Rusk would be taken to?
Victoria looked up at Foster. “Who assigns the rooms?” she asked.
Foster swiped at her eyes and shrugged. “First come first served. There’s not a room assignment. Some of the cops like one particular room or another. They’re all superstitious, you know,” she gave Victoria a crooked smile that was more margarita than mirth. It vanished as fast as it had appeared. “Other than that they get whatever room is open. But we were down to just two rooms yesterday. The cameras in rooms one and four weren’t working. They just installed a new computer system and everything is messed up.” Foster had more to say on the subject but Victoria quit listening.
With only two interview rooms open, it would have been easy for Herby to plant the shank and key in room two when he met with Harold Bloom and then ask for room three when he met with Axel Rankin, ensuring that Randall Rusk and Albert Pico would have to use room two. She looked up at Foster, who was still talking.
“—God, that was a hassle. With just two rooms we had to juggle the schedule. Inmates don’t like that. The routine is all they have. They—”
“Who took Herby and Harold Bloom to interview room two?” Victoria cut Foster off.
Foster hesitated. “I did,” she finally said. “Why—”
“Did you search Herby?”
Foster nodded but her eyes slid away. “Of course.”
“Don’t lie to me.” Victoria leaned across the table. “You didn’t search him.”
“I looked in his briefcase,” Foster said, but she still wouldn’t meet Victoria’s eyes.
“Did you have one of the male deputies pat him down?”
Foster hesitated. When she replied, she didn’t answer the question.
“Herby’s a good guy,” she said. “He bitches and complains, but he treats us good. Some of the lawyers are real assholes. Always with the complaints. The accusations. Like we got nothing better to do than beat up on detainees. We—”
“Did Herby ask for room three when he met with Rankin?”
Foster looked at her glass then nodded wordlessly. She seemed about to say something more, then thought better of it.
“How much did he give you?” Victoria asked on sudden impulse, playing a hunch. After years in the courtroom she was used to thinking the worst of everyone.
“It wasn’t like that,” Foster said, but she didn’t sound like she believed it. Her eyes stayed on her glass. That was all the confirmation Victoria needed.
“How much?” she leaned further across the table, so angry that she was tempted to leap across it and grab the woman by the throat.
“It wasn’t a bribe,” Foster said.
“Bullshit,” Victoria spat the word. “How much?”
“Five hundred,” Foster said. “It was a wedding gift. I’m getting married next week. The card was really nice. It—”
“Herby isn’t the generous type. What else did you do? Did you give him the shackle key?”
“No!” Foster shook her head furiously. “I didn’t do anything!” She grabbed the empty margarita glass by the stem and waved it at the waitress, signaling for another.
Victoria let it go for the moment.
“What did Herby do after he left the interview room?” she asked. Herby had been in the hallway when Axel and Victoria emerged from room three, though jail policy didn’t allow anyone to linger; everyone was escorted in and out. “You let him stay back there?”
Foster shook her head, still throttling the glass. “No. Herby was pissed. Hollering and threatening legal action. He asked me to take him to the monitoring room so he could watch the interview. Listen in.”
Only years of experience with the dark side of humanity kept Victoria’s jaw from dropping to the tabletop. Herby had been in the monitoring room, where all the cameras were fed to a bank of computer monitors and digital recorders, at the same time that an ‘electrical glitch’ had taken the entire system down. It couldn’t be a coincidence.
“You left him there alone?” Victoria asked, unable to hide her contempt. Foster was a screw-up of the first order. She deserved to lose her job. Hell, she deserved to go to prison.
Foster shook her head but her eyes went shifty again. Another lie, Victoria felt certain.
“No way. I stayed with him. When you got done with Rankin, I escorted him back inside. He said he wanted to talk to you.”
“Did you give Herby the shackle key or did you slip it to Rusk?” Victoria asked harshly, coming back to the accusation again, treating Foster like a defendant on trial. “Exactly just how much were you willing to do for five hundred dollars?”
“No way! Are you crazy? I told you I didn’t give him a key!”
Victoria stared at Foster for a long moment before grudgingly nodding her head. Victoria was good at spotting a lie, that was her job after all, and she believed Foster about the key. It was probably the first thing the deputy had said that wasn’t a lie.
“So where did the key come from?”
“There was no key. Sheriff Swisher said—”
“There was a key,” Victoria said. “I saw it.”
Foster shook her head again as the waitress put down a fresh glass encrusted with salt. Foster took a gulp and put it back on the table. Her hand was shaking so badly that she spilled some of the pale green liquid across the tabletop.
“I saw it, so don’t shake your head at me,” Victoria said. “There was a shackle key lying on the floor beside Sandy. And you were unconscious so don’t tell me what was there and what wasn’t.”
Foster shrugged and looked down at her glass. “We must not have cleared the room well enough,” she admitted. “Sandy must not have,” she corrected pointedly then her face crumpled like a used tissue and she started to cry again. “But I’m going to take the blame!”
“Sandy’s out of a job, too,” Victoria reminded her. “And his exit interview was a hell of a lot tougher than what you’re facing.”
Foster didn’t argue. She took a gulp of her margarita then sat there, head hanging. Tears dripped into the swirl of ice and tequila. Finally she nodded.
“I know it’s my fault. I have to live with that.” She took another huge swallow of her drink. It was already almost gone. She waved at the waitress for another.
Victoria didn’t acknowledge the comment; she was looking appraisingly at Foster. The woman was a nervous wreck, and Victoria couldn’t afford to let her slip over the edge into a nervous breakdown. She needed Foster to make an official statement detailing Herby’s actions in the visitation area.
“Sandy wasn’t your fault, Debbie,” she lied, but she didn’t feel bad about it. Foster had brought this on herself, and possibly gotten Big Sandy killed “You were stupid, but stupidity isn’t a crime. In this business, people die.”
“More and more people every day,” Foster said, her eyes fixed on her glass. She slurped up the dregs of her margarita as the waitress arrived with her refill. The young girl gave Foster a worried look, but placed the glass on the table and took the empty away without comment. Victoria remained silent until the waitress was gone.
“What’s that mean? More and more every day?”
“The other guy? Tate? The old guy they brought in with Rankin? He hung himself last night.” She was talking about the grizzled biker dressed only in boxer shorts, Victoria realized.
Damn it! Victoria hadn’t even had a chance to talk to Tate.
Foster started to lift her glass, but Victoria put a finger on the rim and pushed it back down, spilling half of it in the process.
“I need something from the jail,” Victoria said, “and you can get it for me.”
Fear flashed across Foster’s face, burning right through the
alcohol haze. She pointed at the piece of paper in front of Victoria. “I got what you asked—”
“I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. I want to know who was on duty when Tate was hung.”
“I can’t go back there! They sent me home!”
“Do you want your job back?” Victoria prodded.
Foster said nothing.
“Do you want to go to jail for accepting a bribe?” Victoria asked, her tone turning icy.
Foster’s eyes went wide. “I didn’t do anything! It wasn’t a bribe! I—” Suddenly, Foster’s gaze jumped past Victoria’s right shoulder. “Oh, God, no,” she said as she dropped her head and hunched her shoulders, slinking down in the booth.
Victoria turned her head and followed Foster’s gaze. A dark haired man in a blue suit had just entered. The hostess approached him and he pointed to a booth in the far corner of the L-shaped dining room. Something about the man was familiar to Victoria, but she couldn’t immediately place it. She turned back to Foster.
“What?” Victoria asked. “Do you know him?”
“He’s a cop,” she said.
Victoria looked back at the man who was sliding into the booth. A police officer? Maybe that was why he looked familiar. Victoria had probably seen him in the Crowley building. Maybe questioned him in court. He—
And then it hit her. She spun back to face Foster.
“A cop?” Victoria asked, her voice dropping to a whisper. She recognized the man, but not as a police officer; he was the janitor that she had almost run down twice in as many days, once outside her office and once in the Crowley’s lobby. It was the suit and tie that had thrown her. A stark contrast to the drab gray uniforms that the janitors wore. “Are you certain?”
“I think so. I’ve seen him in the building. With Captain Hockley. He must have followed me! I gotta get out of here!” she looked wildly at the back of the restaurant, desperate for another exit. Her hair swung through her margarita, picking up flecks of ice and salt. She didn’t seem to notice.
