Charlie-316

by Colin Conway

  Clint followed his gesture. “John Stockton meets Jimmy Buffet,” he said.

  Farrell let out a snort. “That’s actually pretty funny. I didn’t realize you had a sense of humor.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  “Hey—”

  Clint walked purposefully toward Tillman, half-expecting Farrell to grab him by the arm, but the captain let him go. As he approached Tillman, he saw a man with a lean, athletic build, sitting with his elbows on his knees, cradling a bottle of water. He looked up at Clint.

  “I got nothing more to say until my lawyer gets here,” he said.

  “When, pray tell, will that be?”

  “He’s on his way.”

  “On his way, huh? A lawyer who does house calls.”

  “He’s a friend of the family.”

  “Fair enough. Then, are you under arrest and no one told me?”

  “Why would I be under arrest? I’m a bystander.”

  Clint settled onto the stoop next to him. “Well, you’re more than that, aren’t you? Officially, I guess you’re still a witness, albeit an uncooperative one. That could change, depending on what they find out in the next hour or so.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You know what rendering criminal assistance is?”

  Tillman’s eyes flared open, then narrowed. “If it means what it sounds like, I think so.”

  “Good, then you can’t plead ignorance later on. See, if they find out you knowingly helped Garrett while he was a fugitive from justice, then that’s the charge they’ve got on you. At that point, you will need a lawyer and not the imaginary one you ain’t called yet.”

  Tillman didn’t answer, but Clint could see he’d guessed right.

  “Look, I’m going to level with you, Derek. I’m SPD. Not Lake police, not state. This is their show. If they connect the dots here, they’ll think Ty shot a cop while on the run.”

  “The other guy shot first. I saw it.”

  “I believe you.”

  “Ty’s innocent. This is…it’s a perfect storm.”

  “I’ve thought the same thing exactly, but things are only going to get worse for Ty. I want to bring him in safely. Help him through the process.”

  Tillman eyed him warily, as if considering something, but then he just shook his head. “I can’t help you. I wish I could, but I don’t know if you’re the one I can trust.”

  “I am.”

  “I don’t know that.”

  Clint looked left and right to make sure no one was listening. That was when he spotted Alan Rogers striding angrily in their direction. He needed to close this out. He slipped his business card in between Tillman’s foot and his sandal. “Derek, I’m only here because Ty called me right after this happened. He trusts me, and I need you to trust me, too.”

  Tillman shook his head again. “I don’t trust cops. Ty was the only decent one I ever knew. I’ve got nothing else to say to you.”

  Clint pointed to his card. “If you change your mind.”

  “I won’t.”

  Clint exhaled, defeated. He rose and headed back toward Farrell.

  Rogers intercepted him. “What are you doing talking to my witness?” he barked.

  “Exchanging barbeque recipes,” Clint said, not slowing down.

  “I want you out of my crime scene. Now!”

  “Fuck off,” Clint growled, but kept walking.

  When he reached Farrell, the captain grabbed him by the arm and tugged him away from the gathered investigators. The state detectives looked on dispassionately, but the Liberty Lake chief glared at him. Farrell hauled Clint toward the crime scene tape. After a moment, Clint shrugged out of the hold. “Don’t touch me.”

  “Then move your ass.”

  The two men walked silently toward the edge of the yellow tape. Jerry lifted the tape, giving Clint a look of concern. Clint didn’t meet his gaze, but instead kept walking past him and through small crowd of civilians. Neither he nor Farrell said a word until they reached Clint’s car. Then Farrell broke the silence.

  “That was stupid,” he observed.

  “Rogers is small time. He mostly investigates shopliftings and drunk boaters.”

  “It was still stupid.” Farrell was quiet for a beat, then said, “You know about the arrest warrant, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Garrett is on the run. This is blowing up.”

  Clint met Farrell’s gaze and held it. “What do we really know, Captain? All we’ve got are a bunch of unanswered questions, even going back to the shooting on Sunday. Things have been happening so fast that events have outpaced our ability to make sense of them, or even compile the facts. Hell, the shooting that started all of this is three days old and we haven’t figured it out yet. How can we know what we’re dealing with considering everything that’s happened since?”

  “What I’ve got is a shit situation,” Farrell said. “I’ve got one cop who shot another cop.”

  “Witnesses say Talbott shot first.”

  “Witnesses are notoriously unreliable. You know that.”

  “Sometimes,” he admitted, “but usually not when they all see the same thing.” He paused, then added, “A lot of other people are prone to seeing the same thing when they look at Garrett. They see black.”

  “I thought we covered that.”

  “Oh, yeah. I forgot you’re the expert.”

  “Why do you always have to poke the bear?” Farrell asked. “It’s like you have oppositional defiant syndrome or something.”

  “I’m just saying that when the powers-that-be are deciding who to believe and who not to believe, the fact that Garrett is black and Talbott is white comes into play.”

  “What comes into play for me is who is under indictment, and who isn’t.”

  “Captain, what if that’s the problem here?”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “What if Talbott was dirty?”

  Farrell rolled his eyes and sighed. “Another conspiracy theory? Do you ever stop seeing shadows in every bush?”

  “You’re willing to believe Garrett is dirty, but not Talbott? What’s the difference?”

  Farrell started to answer, then thought better of it and closed his mouth. “I don’t have time for this.”

  “Think about how we got here. If Talbott planted those drugs at Garrett’s house, it drives all of the events since then. If that’s true, and Garrett doesn’t want to come in, can you blame him? I wouldn’t, either.”

  “You’re not the best benchmark for reasonable behavior, Ward.”

  “It’s Wardell, Captain. You can stand there and insult me all you want. I don’t hear you responding to the logic of what I’m saying, though.”

  “That’s because it isn’t logical. It’s full-on JFK-was-killed-by-the-CIA-because-the-aliens-in-the-Illuminati-ordered-it conspiracy theory.”

  Clint gave him time to settle down, then asked, “You’re an educated man, right?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got my master’s degree. What about it?”

  “Be open-minded for a minute. If Talbott planted the drugs, doesn’t everything that follows make sense?”

  Farrell waved a hand. “Sure, I guess, but that’s a monumental if.”

  “Garrett being dirty wasn’t just as unlikely?”

  “Look, Wardell. A lot of things are possible in this world. Contrary to what goes on behind those glasses of yours, most of the time what happens is exactly what it looks like. I’m talking Occam’s razor. All things being equal, the—”

  “The simpler explanation is the more likely,” Clint finished. “I know the law of parsimony. I also know that the world is a complex place full of complex people. When you multiply complex times complex, you get a lot of possibilities squared.”

  “In my experience, the simplest explanations almost always end up being what happened.”

  “Or what we’re led to beli
eve happened.”

  Farrell threw up his hands in frustration. “Enough philosophy. You can theorize all you want. As far as I’m concerned, it comes down to one thing. Innocent people don’t run.”

  “They do if they don’t think they can get a fair shake.” Clint frowned. “And you claim to be an expert on race issues.”

  Chapter 40

  Ty Garrett walked through the north Spokane neighborhood. The late afternoon sun beat down on him as he hurried to his destination. His mind ran through various schemas on how the rest of the day would play out. Amid the visualizing of outcomes, Garrett would occasionally break into a jog to make up distance.

  He had parked the pick-up in Post Falls, Idaho, in a grocery store parking lot. After calling Wardell Clint, he immediately called SpoCab and asked if they had a cab close enough to Post Falls that would be willing to pick him up. The dispatcher checked, found one in Spokane Valley, and told him it would be there in fifteen minutes.

  Garrett used that time before the cab arrived to call Angie.

  “Hey, baby,” he said, trying to sound calm.

  “Where are you?” Her voice was panicked. “What is this phone number?”

  “It’s a pre-paid cell. Mine is at home. I didn’t get to take it with me.”

  “Have you seen the news? They issued a warrant for your arrest.”

  Garrett nodded to no one and gripped the truck’s steering wheel. “It’s okay, Ang. I’m going to get it all figured out. I’m working with Wardell.”

  “Wardell Clint? The detective who sees black helicopters everywhere? You’re kidding me, right?”

  “No. He believes I’m innocent. He’ll get this straightened out.”

  “Baby, that man isn’t right. Who knows what he thinks? Or how he thinks?”

  “He’s the only friend I’ve got in the department now.”

  Garrett steered the conversation away from him and to the kids. When the taxi arrived, Garrett said, “I love you. Don’t believe what you see on the TV.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means someone is trying to bury me, Ang. I’ll get through it. I may not talk with you for a bit, but I’ll be okay.”

  “You’ve got me worried, Tyler.” She always used his full name when she was upset.

  “I have to go, baby. I love you. Kiss the kids for me.”

  He ended the call, exited the truck and ran toward the cab.

  The taxi dropped him off in a neighborhood at least a mile from his final destination. He would walk the rest of the way. It didn’t seem that the driver recognized him, and he paid in cash, but Garrett figured that if the man was ever approached by a detective, the best information the driver could provide would be some random neighborhood.

  Garrett slowed as he approached his destination, his mind feverishly spinning. The zip code he stood in was the poorest in Eastern Washington. The neighborhood was built post-World War II and the majority of houses had fallen victim to absentee landlords and tenants who didn’t respect their homes.

  Many of the cars along the street were in the same state of disrepair as the houses. However, in front of one house was an immaculate purple 1962 Chevy Impala. Its frame had been lowered to the ground and it looked freshly washed and waxed.

  Garrett turned on the sidewalk in front of the Chevy and headed toward the house. He dropped the brown paper sack he was carrying on the front porch, opened the door, and stepped inside with his right hand inside his pocket.

  An overweight Hispanic man in khaki shorts and white T-shirt sat in a recliner while a woman wearing a tight-fitting dress with heavily applied make-up lounged on the nearby couch. The dress had ridden slightly up her hips and revealed that she wasn’t wearing any underwear. There was a bong and a bag of marijuana on the table in front of them.

  They were watching Star Wars on a big screen TV with the sound turned up.

  The man saw Garrett enter the house and he moved to stand but fell back into his chair. He laughed at himself and shook his head.

  Garrett watched until the man composed himself. Finally, he lifted his chin toward Garrett a couple times in a greeting and then thumbed toward the back of the house.

  The woman, who looked in her late twenties, watched Garrett with her droopy eyes. She smiled lazily at him. “Hey,” she said, dragging the word out.

  Garrett ignored her and walked to the back of the house.

  He pulled the gun from his shorts and opened the bedroom door quietly.

  A small Hispanic man with tattoos on his back was on top of a pink-haired woman. She was moaning loudly. Garrett hadn’t heard their noise from the front of the house due to the loud explosions from the movie.

  Garrett closed the door and moved to the side of the room allowing him to see if the door opened.

  Finally, Garrett said, “’Nesto.”

  Ernesto Ocampo rolled over exposing himself and the naked young woman underneath him. Both focused on the gun in his hand. Ocampo’s pock marked face was in stark contrast to the blemish-free face of the teenager with him. She looked barely eighteen years old to Garrett.

  Ocampo nudged the teenager and said, “Get out.”

  “No,” Garrett said, flatly. “She stays.”

  Ernesto pushed himself back against the headboard and spread his legs, further exposing himself to Garrett. “Why are you here?”

  The young woman also pushed herself against the headboard and covered herself with a pillow. Her eyes were locked on Garrett, but he ignored her, instead focusing entirely on Ocampo.

  “Are you setting me up?” Garrett asked.

  Ocampo smiled, revealing extremely white teeth. “Why would I do that?”

  “I don’t know. I’m trying to figure things out.”

  “I think you got it wrong, ese.”

  The teenager said, “You’re the guy on TV, right?” She looked to Ernesto.

  “I guess you’re famous,” he said with a shrug.

  Garrett shook his head and said, “I never wanted to be.”

  Chapter 41

  Detective Wardell Clint hesitated at the edge of the garage door for the house. He’d approached from the side, walking through the front yards of the neighboring houses. When he spotted the maroon detective’s car through the garage window, he was glad for his caution. Sidling up to the front door, he listened and didn’t hear anything. No TV, no music, no movement.

  Standing to the side of the door, he depressed the doorbell. The chimes were old school, nothing fancy, just a quick ding-dong, so Clint hit them again. He watched through the small window in the door as a figure approached.

  Pomeroy, Clint confirmed with a glance. The drooping mustache would have given it away, even if all he’d seen was the profile. The detective wore a pair of jeans and a black polo shirt. There was no badge on his belt, no gun that Clint could see, and his hands were empty.

  Pomeroy hesitated, standing in his living room and staring at Clint through the small window in his front door. He rubbed his mouth nervously.

  Clint gave him a slight wave but kept his expression neutral.

  He waited.

  Whatever internal discussion Pomeroy was having reached its conclusion, and he ambled toward the door. He opened it up, and eyed Clint warily. “What’s up, Ward?”

  “It’s Wardell. We need to talk.”

  “Talk about what?”

  “About how messed up your life is about to become if we don’t.”

  Pomeroy swallowed, but put on a brave face. “That’s sounds like some real deep-dive conspiracy shit, Clint. Listen, I’m done for the day, so—”

  “Talbott’s dead.”

  Pomeroy took a long wavering breath. “I…I know. I saw the news.”

  “The bosses ain’t been calling you?”

  “My phone died. It’s charging in the kitchen.”

  “Pager died, too?”

  Pomeroy frowned. “I don’t carry that leash when I’
m not next up on the wheel. Besides, why we even still have pagers is beyond me.”

  Clint glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone was watching and to make a point. Then he turned back to Pomeroy. “Listen, man. You really want to have this conversation on your front porch? Neighbors and all?”

  Pomeroy considered, then stepped aside to let Clint enter. Clint walked into the living room, then turned to face Pomeroy as he closed the front door.

  “Say what you gotta say,” Pomeroy said, “and then leave me alone. I…I gotta go check on Carrie.”

  “Talbott’s wife?”

  Pomeroy nodded. “It’s the least I can do. Butch was my partner.”

  Clint nodded. “He was a real piece of work, your partner.”

  Emotion flashed across Pomeroy’s face, but to Clint’s eye, it wasn’t strictly anger. He saw some fear in there as well.

  Pomeroy pointed his finger. “Watch how you talk about him! Don’t talk shit.”

  “I’m not talking shit, just facts. Facts you better get your head wrapped around.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like he tried to shoot Ty Garrett a few hours ago. Why do you think that is?”

  “That son-of-a-bitch shot him!” Pomeroy yelled, pointing his finger again, and jabbing for emphasis this time. “He’s a dirty piece of shit. He killed Trotter, shot him in the back. He was dealing drugs, and now he murdered Butch. He’s a lowlife menace, a goddamn n—”

  He stopped abruptly, staring at Clint.

  “A goddamn what?” Clint asked evenly.

  Pomeroy wiped his mouth again. “He’s dirty,” he said finally.

  “Dirty, huh?” Clint repeated.

  Pomeroy nodded.

  Clint took a deep breath and let it out audibly, giving Pomeroy a hard stare. He wasn’t certain of the next piece, or at least he didn’t want to be, yet he forged ahead, because that was what he did. “That house where the shooters were, it’s up for sale. Did you know that?”

  Pomeroy shook his head, but Clint could see he was lying. It never failed to amaze him how bad most cops were at lying. He always thought people that were good at detecting lies might be better at telling them.