When the news began flashing that photo, he’d be ready to tell them his story. How she lied and railroaded him. She’d paid off a witness for testimony. Then who’d be holding vigils? He made sure that legacy went with her to her grave.
FIFTY-THREE
“This is messed up,” the police department’s public information officer said.
“We had to get the news out,” John said.
“The media depends on us to be a trustworthy voice, and this kind of move is only going to kill that image.”
The pair stood behind the smoked-glass doors of the department’s public safety center on Freeport, watching a makeshift memorial built with candles and flowers from people who’d come to pay their respects. Handwritten messages to the fallen officer fluttered from their places in a chain-link fence.
The PIO rubbed a hand through his close-cropped hair. “This is giving me a migraine.”
“Anything yet?” a voice called out from over his shoulder.
The PIO turned. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Paula wore a bulky blue sweat shirt and had her hair tucked under a River Cats ball cap. She ignored him and looked through the smoked glass at the procession of well-wishers. She rubbed the spot on her chest where the slug hit. The lightweight ballistic vest prevented a fatal wound, but she was still sporting a deep bruise from the impact.
“Nothing. But Sherman won’t be able to keep away,” John said.
“Weird watching your own memorial,” she said.
John glanced at her. “When did you start wearing that vest? It’s not exactly department-issued body armor.”
She darted her eyes away. “When I heard Sherman might get out—I had this gut feeling.”
“I’m glad you did.”
“It made me feel like an old woman seeing ghosts in the shadows.”
“Nah, I just thought you’d put on a couple pounds,” John said as he stepped out of the range of a backhand.
“Ass.”
“You get ahold of your mom? Let her know what’s going on?”
“Yeah, she knows.”
“The lieutenant sent a unit over there, right?”
“He did. She’s probably feeding him right now. He’s supposed to keep everyone away from her. Hard to do if he’s in a food coma.”
“She understood how important it is not to talk to anyone?” John said.
“It’s killing her, but she gets it. The upside of being dead is that I get to skip one of her matchmaking attempts.”
“You actually faked your death to avoid a date. That has to be a new low.”
Paula’s expression turned dour. “You got the slug to Karen for a ballistic run on NIBIN?”
“Hoping we can get a hit in the system.”
“I want it back when she’s done. I might try my hand at making a necklace out of it so I can wear it to Sherman’s next trial.”
“He was across town at the chief’s press conference when you got shot.”
They watched a few people place candles and condolence messages at the base of the fence.
“While you were getting checked out in the ER, I talked to that kid Deshawn again.”
“The one with the artist mom?” she said.
“That’s him. He told me he didn’t see the shooter, but the car they drove away in belonged to guy named Stubbs—apparently a heavy with the Aryan Brotherhood.”
“What’s their end for taking a shot at me?”
John shrugged. “Deshawn mentioned the AB controls the drug trade in North Sacramento and sells ‘pills by the truckload.’”
“That lines up with what Ronland told us. You think Sherman used them as a distributor for his stolen drugs?”
“I bet Burger bought those pills from the Brand—the same pills he helped steal.”
“Who’s that by the fence?” Paula said.
She pointed to the left side of the fence, in front of a cluster of candles. Linda Clarke, the district attorney, posed before a news camera giving an interview. The news van hadn’t been there before the DA made her appearance.
The PIO checked his cell phone and messaged the station filming the spectacle.
“This isn’t going live. They’re recording it for the late evening news segment. So we have some time to unwind this.”
“Unwind what? One minute she wants to string me up by my thumbs and the next she shows up for a photo op mourning my untimely death. Let her look stupid,” Paula said.
“Who organized this vigil tonight, anyway?” John asked.
The PIO shrugged. “It’s all over social media.”
A crowd had gathered on the sidewalk and overflowed into the street. One traffic lane was blocked, and uniformed officers worked crowd control to keep the mourners out of the path of traffic. The usual assortment of community activists made use of the gathering to protest city hall and abuse at the hands of the police. A few signs popped up about who mattered and who didn’t. A small number of professional protesters shouted and paraded for the camera, but when they didn’t get the reaction from the media that they’d hoped for, they faded into the background.
The activity caused a traffic bottleneck when the crowd blocked another lane.
“There!” John pointed.
“Sherman?” Paula said.
“The car. That’s the GTO Deshawn saw leaving the hospital when you were shot.”
Paula put her hand on the door, and John grabbed her wrist. “Stay put. We got this.”
John raised a radio and thumbed the key. “Green GTO coming your way. Is it Sherman?”
“Negative. White male, midthirties, bald, heavy tats. Want me to stop him?”
“Not yet. Keep an eye on him.”
“10-4.”
“Who was on the radio?” Paula asked.
“Tucker. He’s one of the ones we can trust with your little secret. Besides, when he heard it was you, he couldn’t stay away. I think he’s still sweet on you. Though God only knows why.”
“You’re such an ass.” Paula pressed to the window and picked out Tucker in uniform directing traffic around the swelling crowd. A wistful smile crossed her lips.
“Looks like the festivities are about to start,” John said.
A local minister from one of the God-in-a-box, nondenominational Christian churches sprouting all over the region stepped in front of the crowd. From where John and Paula stood, they couldn’t hear the words being spoken, but heads bowed in unison and a stillness spread.
A crackle from John’s radio sputtered.
“The GTO is making another pass. The driver is definitely checking out the scene,” Tucker said.
“I see it,” John said.
“He’s parking about a block up. Getting out of the car. He’s alone. He’s getting something from the car. A backpack—a pink backpack,” Tucker said, laughter in his tone.
“Say again?”
“A pink kid’s backpack. I swear this skinhead is sporting a Hello Kitty backpack.”
“Any sign of Sherman?” John asked.
“Negative.”
John thumbed the radio key again. “Team one on the GTO. Team two on the skinhead with the pink backpack. Approach, but do not engage.”
The two teams signaled back, and eight of the “mourners” split off from the crowd and set up in positions to watch the car and their target.
“A third of the people paying respects are plants. Damn, that stings,” Paula said.
“Live a better life next time if you want a better turnout.”
“I can see the guy with the backpack,” Paula said, pointing at the back of the crowd. “Doesn’t look familiar. Definitely not one of the SSPNET guys, but with those prison tats, he’s got to be hooked up with Sherman somehow.”
The man scanned the crowd and didn’t seem to be interested in the prayers being offered for the fallen officer. The more time that passed, the angrier he looked.
A passing Honda slowed as it reached the skinhead. John couldn’t see the
driver and asked Tucker if he had a line of sight on the man behind the wheel.
The driver tossed something at the feet of the man with the backpack, flipped him off, and drove away.
“I missed him,” Tucker said.
The man bent over to pick up the object at his feet—a paper bag from a fast-food place.
John watched as he opened the bag and rustled around inside. He sorted out something and nodded to himself. The backpack came off his shoulder, and the fast-food bag was held tight in his left hand.
“What is he waiting for?” John said.
The man’s attention keyed on the line of traffic like he was going to try to run between cars. He waited until the Honda reappeared and timed his jump into traffic. Instead of dashing between the cars, he ran to the open rear window and tossed the pink backpack in the back seat.
“You see that?”
“Tucker, stop that car,” John said. “Team two, take him down.”
A hand came out of the car as it accelerated.
A loud pop sounded, and half of the mourners bolted from the sidewalk into the street.
One of the protestors dropped his sign and yelled, “The cops are shooting at us!”
Vehicle traffic snarled in seconds as drivers slammed on their brakes to avoid the fleeing bystanders. An old woman froze in midstride and Tucker moved her out of the path of an oncoming city bus.
Tucker keyed his radio, “Lost him. It was a firecracker as a diversion. No shots fired.”
“Team two. Eyes on target?”
“Affirmative. Target in custody.”
The PIO pressed a thumb into a throbbing temple. “Jesus, this is a total cluster.”
The undercover officers dragged skinhead to the closest door, where John and Paula had watched the events unfold. John opened the door for them, and the officers led their captive inside.
“Take him to interrogation,” John said.
Paula watched as the man went by, but she still couldn’t recognize his face. She shrugged to her partner, indicating she didn’t know who this thug was, or if he was the one who’d shot her. She’d hoped for Sherman, not this stand-in.
She continued to eyeball him as the officers pulled him down the hall, hands cuffed behind his back. Missing fingers on his left hand.
FIFTY-FOUR
Sherman changed direction and drove downtown, parking the Honda in an underground parking garage off of Fifth Street, far enough away to make certain he hadn’t been followed and close enough to take a light-rail train to a stop within ten blocks of his squalid little hidey-hole of a motel.
A fistful of the cash in his backpack could get him a room at the Sheraton across from the capitol, and he could live off of room service and pay-per-view for a week. But the long game meant watching Newberry’s legacy go up in flames.
The light-rail stop on K Street near the corner of Fifth was a busy connection, one of the reasons Sherman chose the line. He’d be able to mix with the crowd and blend in. He stepped into the middle car seconds before the train lurched forward. The passenger mix was benign in the afternoon. Half-day government workers and students heading for classes at Sac State made up most of the ridership. A homeless man staked out a rear corner seat and slept.
Sherman hadn’t felt claustrophobia in his prison cell, but the walls of the light-rail car began to press down. Sherman felt everyone’s gaze—heavy on him, judging him. When he’d whip around and look, he couldn’t catch them watching. They knew who he was. He felt it.
He had trouble breathing. There wasn’t enough air in the rail car. He tried opening a window, but it was sealed.
“Dude, you okay?” a young man with an open backpack full of books asked.
The train conductor announced the next station, and Sherman pushed his way to the door, squeezing out as it opened. His pink backpack stole a few glances. He took off his shirt and wrapped the backpack in the sweaty fabric and walked off the platform.
He walked straight to his motel and made certain the room was as he had left it and that no one else was hiding under the bed, in the shower, or in the closet. With the drapes drawn, he tossed the Hello Kitty backpack on the bed and ripped the zipper in his haste to open it. He held the bag by the straps and shook it over the bed.
Simmons had lived up to his end. In wrapped bundles, one hundred thousand dollars fell from the backpack. Each one hit the surface and kicked up a swirl of dust. All Sherman smelled was freedom.
He went to the dresser and reassembled the cell phone, snapping the battery in place. He redialed the last number and waited.
Simmons answered on the first ring, without the chorus of heavy metal music this time. It sounded like he was in a vehicle on the move. “You got some balls on you.”
“Thanks for noticing,” Sherman said.
“I’m gonna rip your throat out.”
“I kept my end of the deal, and you did yours. As far as I’m concerned, we’re good to go.”
“How do you figure? My guy didn’t show up after the exchange.”
“Not my problem.”
“It’s your problem now.”
“He wasn’t smart enough to get away. I did, so I don’t know what his problem was. Unless he wanted to keep what he saw for himself.”
“I want my money,” Simmons said.
“I can do that, or do you want to finish this deal and we both walk away happy?”
Simmons didn’t reply right away and the traffic noise heightened in the background. Downtown sounds—horns, chirping crosswalks, and construction activity. The AB boss was retracing Stubbs’s route.
Someone in the car with him said, “There, that’s his car. Shit, there’s cops all over it.”
“What happened to Stubbs?” Simmons asked.
“I didn’t see him after we made the exchange. He had time to split.”
“If you crossed me—”
“Just stop with the threats.” Sherman parted the drapes to see if anyone had approached. “You want the shipment? Here’s how it’s gonna go down.”
FIFTY-FIVE
The interrogation room pulsed with anger, and Stubbs pulled at the eyebolt in the table that held his handcuffed wrists secure. Left to stew in “the box” for forty minutes, the white supremacist had worked up rivulets of sweat on his bald head. An observation camera in a corner delivered a feed to a screen outside.
“He must have taken a hit before the drop. His body temp looks like it’s up, and look at the tremor,” John said.
“Meth will do that to ya. A little artificial courage before he wore his pink fashion accessory out in public,” Paula said.
John hefted an evidence bag in his hand. The wrinkled fast-food bag inside weighed about a pound. “Let’s see what was so important to bring him out here.”
“Other than my memorial? I’ve heard it was the social event of the season.”
John unrolled the greasy, stained white paper bag and tipped the contents onto a white blotter in the center of the table.
Individual plastic baggies, some bearing an SSPNET evidence sticker, poured out. Twenty-four in total.
“Oxy, Vicodin, methadone, Ecstasy, and a little heroin and meth thrown in for good measure,” John said, sorting the bags.
“A menu of what’s available?”
“The SSPNET evidence bags corroborate what McDaniel told us about skimming off the confiscated drugs.”
“I’d bet it was Sherman on the other end of that exchange,” Paula said.
“Makes sense, but why would he make this kind of drop in the middle of a bunch of cops? It was like he was daring us to catch him.”
John pulled a set of three photos from the fast-food bag and laid them on the table. They showed the blue panel van, back doors ajar, packed with bags and boxes. One of the photos featured a close-up of the open boxes, filled with bottles of OxyContin, and evidence bags, each with a handful of pills.
“Jesus, that’s a shit-ton of drugs,” Paula said.
“The stash
Sherman loaded up that night at the storage facility.”
“No doubt. And I was a minute late, or we could’ve taken him down with this haul.”
“Let’s ask our friend in there why Sherman hung him out to dry. It looks like a going-out-of-business sale,” John said.
John scooped up the drugs and put them back into the bag.
Paula hit the room first, threw open the door, and took the chair directly opposite Stubbs.
The Aryan Brotherhood member turned a lighter shade of white. He hadn’t expected to see Newberry alive and in the flesh. He recovered quickly, hiding behind a veneer of prison thug.
“Nice to meet you, Erica.” Paula looked at a printout with Stubbs driver’s license. “Seriously, Erica? Were your parents high or something?”
“It’s Eric. The extra letter was a mistake on the birth certificate.”
“I guess I know why you go by Stubbs, then,” she said.
“I bet you’ve been paying for that mistake all your life. Might make someone overcompensate to prove they’re a real man and all,” John said.
“Ain’t nobody questions that. I’ll show you if you want.”
John stood behind his partner and dangled the fast-food bag. “How about we start with this gem?”
“Ain’t never seen it before. Is that your lunch?”
“You were on live television in possession of this bag full o’ goodies. There’s enough here to make a case for possession for sale.”
Stubbs tightened his jaw and turned away.
“We can make that all go away,” Paula said.
“You oughta know by now, I ain’t a snitch. So you can stick that bag up your ass.”
“Now why you gotta be like that? If you don’t play nice, you’re the one who’s gonna be taking things up the ass when you go back to prison, Erica,” she said.
Stubbs pulled against the restraints. Paula was getting under his skin.
John sat down and poured the contents on the table. “Why would Charles Sherman set you up for a takedown?”
“Because he’s a weak-ass punk.”
“What was in the backpack you tossed in his car?”
Bury the Past Page 23
