by Colin Conway
“Of course, you do,” Clint said. “Your girlfriend Kayla Trent is the realtor. That’s connection one.”
“Connection? What the hell?”
Clint kept rolling. “Two shooters.” He held up two fingers. “You and Talbott. That’s connection two.”
A wild panic flashed in Pomeroy’s eyes, and that was when Clint knew for sure. He kept his body loose and prepared to go hands on or draw his pistol if Pomeroy made a sudden move. The detective just stared at him, sputtering, “This…this is bullshit.”
“Talbott just happens to find drugs in Garrett’s house while you’re there, too. That’s connection three.”
“We were sent there to interview him on the assault! Ask Flowers!”
“He dirty, too?”
“No, he’s…” Pomeroy stopped. “Fuck you, Ward. You don’t know shit.”
“But I do. I know Talbott’s duty day ended but then he followed Garrett out to Liberty Lake and tried to murder him. That’s connection four.”
“He was working overtime. What, you never logged OT to close out a case?”
“I think he was trying to close out Garrett, pure and simple.”
“You’re crazy.”
“I’m just talking facts, like I said.” He counted off on his fingers. “One connection is a coincidence. Two connections, maybe an anomaly. Three is a pattern. And four? Conspiracy. These are the facts.”
Pomeroy rubbed the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re spouting complete bullshit. Everyone knows you’re paranoid, man. No one is going to believe a word of this crap.”
“Maybe, but there’s more. See, Talbott didn’t die on scene.”
Pomeroy’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “I hadn’t heard that.”
“They took him to Valley General. A Liberty Lake cop rode in the wagon with him. You remember Jerry Anderson?”
Pomeroy shook his head.
“Former SPD. Sharp guy. He talked with Talbott all the way to the ER. It seems that Butch knew he was going to die. He could sense it. Sometimes they can, you know? And he wanted to unburden.” Clint paused dramatically, then asked, “You at all curious about what he said?”
Pomeroy’s hands were trembling slightly. He made fists to stop them. Clint could see a sheen of sweat on his gaunt face. “What?” he asked, sounding as if the question came out against his will.
Clint smiled then. Not a friendly smile, but a knowing one. “Come on, Justin. You already know, don’t you? He spilled it all.”
“How do you know?”
“I went to the hospital first. It was closer than the crime scene, anyway. Jerry told me. As soon as the staties get things wrapped up at the crime scene, they’re going to get to the hospital, too, where they’ll hear the same thing I did. Won’t be much longer after that before they come to see you, don’t you think?”
Pomeroy shook his head. “Talbott’s a liar. I…I don’t know what kind of shit he was into. We were never that close. He—”
Clint moved smooth and fast, surprising Pomeroy. It took him barely more than a second to have his grip and to twist Pomeroy’s wrist and arm into a two-point leverage hold. The thin detective was more flexible than most, but Clint found his range of motion easily enough and applied pressure.
Pomeroy sank to his knees, letting out a cry. “Shit! Let me go!”
“Tell the truth,” Clint urged. “What were you and Talbott into?”
“Nothing!” Pomeroy protested.
Clint cranked down, eliciting another yell from Pomeroy. “The truth,” he repeated.
“Okay, okay, okay!”
Clint eased off just a touch, keeping Pomeroy at the edge of discomfort. “Talk.”
“Garrett turned on us,” Pomeroy said.
“What?!”
“He turned on us. He was cutting us out.”
“Bullshit,” Clint raged. He leaned into his grip and applied more pressure.
Pomeroy howled in pain.
“Don’t fucking lie to me!” Clint told him.
“I’m not! Jesus, stop!”
Clint let up slightly. “Tell the truth. Stop trying to drag a man down.”
Pomeroy stared at him with panic-filled eyes, grimacing in pain. “That is the truth,” he grunted through clenched teeth. “You can break my arm if you want, but it’ll still be the truth.”
Clint’s mind was reeling. This wasn’t true. He guided Pomeroy to an overstuffed chair and pushed him into it. Pomeroy collapsed onto the cushion, then righted himself, rubbing his wrist and rolling his shoulder.
“Jesus Christ,” he protested weakly. “You tore up my rotator cuff or something, man.”
“Tell me everything.” It can’t be true.
“I want immunity.”
Clint drew his pistol and leveled it at Pomeroy’s face. “I don’t give a damn about law or charges here. I want the truth! Now, you give it to me straight or one more person is going to die today, I swear to Christ.”
Pomeroy swallowed. “None of this…none of this is admissible.”
“I give you the impression I’m building a case here?” He leaned forward slightly, bringing the barrel closer to Pomeroy’s face. “Now, you are going to tell me everything.”
Pomeroy drew a shuddering breath. “All right. All right.” He swallowed, his eyes flicking between the barrel of the gun and Clint’s face. “It was the three of us that were in on it. Butch was still SWAT when Garrett came on the team. Somewhere back then, the two of them cooked up the idea of hitting dealers for their cash. It’s not like they can call the cops about it, right? Butch brought me in after we’d been partners for a couple of years and he knew he could trust me.”
“How’d you pick the dealers?”
“Guys talk. We’d pick up things from the narco detectives, or through SWAT operations. Even after Butch left the team, Garrett heard stuff, but mostly, we got the info from ’Nesto.”
“Who?” Clint demanded, not believing what he was hearing.
“Ernesto Ocampo? He’s a mid-level dealer in Northeast. He’d clue us to the best houses. We’d hit the place and score the cash, and he’d get rid of some competition.”
“How’d you get with Ocampo? You bust him?”
Pomeroy shook his head. “No, man. He and Garrett went to school together.”
“Garrett brought him in?” Clint stared at him, incredulous.
“That’s what I’m telling you. It was Garrett. He’d get the info from ’Nesto, fill us in and then we’d take the place. Did four or five rips a year, plus some smaller shakedowns. We put a few people on the bus to Seattle or Portland, too. Things were going good. We were making some money. Then Garrett turned on us.”
Clint shook his head, as if he could somehow deny the words. “How?”
“He was cutting us out with Ernesto. He was going to do the rips on his own, or use someone from Ernesto’s crew.”
“You’re lying!” Clint shouted, jabbing the gun at him as spittle flew from his lips. “You and Talbott are fucking dirty and you’re trying to put it on this man because he’s an easy target!”
Pomeroy held his hands up in surrender. “It’s the truth, man. I swear.”
“Stop lying to me! I’ll fucking shoot you in the face!”
Pomeroy let out a sound that was somewhere between a moan and a whimper, but said nothing. He shrank back into the chair.
Clint stood still, staring at the pitiful man in front of him. He noticed the tip of his barrel was wavering, so he lowered the gun to his side. In that moment, he felt his cell phone vibrating. He reached into his pocket and answered it, not taking his eyes off of Pomeroy.
“Clint.”
“This is Flowers. Where are you?”
“Working.”
“Well, last time I checked, you work for me. Drop whatever you’re doing and get over to the address I’m about to text you. There’s been a quadruple homicide in a house, and we need
more investigative support.”
“I’m not up on the wheel.”
“To hell with the wheel!” Clint could hear the frustration in the lieutenant’s voice. “One of my detectives is dead. I’m trying to get people in to supplement, but no one is answering. We’re hurting for bodies. I need you over there, now. That’s an order.”
“Copy that,” Clint said. “Send me the address. I’ll be en route.”
Flowers severed the connection without another word.
Clint slid the phone back into his pocket. “We’re not done here,” he said to Pomeroy. “I’m coming back to finish this interview, and you better be here.”
“I’m heading over to see Carrie,” Pomeroy said.
“That can wait. I’m coming back, and when I do, you better be here. And stop telling me these lies. I want the real truth. You better own up.”
Pomeroy shook his head. “I’m not lying. I wish I was, but I’m not.”
Chapter 42
Clint didn’t wait for the patrol officer to finish writing his name on the crime scene log before heading into the inner perimeter. He spotted Bo Sherman in uniform at the front door to the house. He wasn’t sure if the big man was waiting for him or guarding the door.
“What’s up?” he asked. “Who’s lead?”
Sherman shrugged. “I don’t know how you all work that. Marty Hill is already inside, along with Detective Hollander. I forget her first name.”
“Leanne,” Clint said.
“Sure,” Sherman said. “All I know is she’s old as dirt and has about the same personality, my man.”
Clint nodded. That sounded about right. “You logging entry?”
“Nah. I’m just an overpaid bouncer right now. You can pass, my brother.”
Clint gave him a short nod and went through the door.
Inside, he found Marty Hill carefully scanning the living room. Leanne Hollander was squinting at a still body, probably examining the wounds. Clint caught Hill’s attention. “How many?”
Hill pointed to the body Hollander was examining. “Hispanic male, gunshot wound. On the other side of that chair is a smaller female, also deceased, also gunshot wound.” He pointed toward the back of the house. “Two more in the bedroom. Hispanic male, single shot to the forehead. That one’s pretty gruesome. Blood and brain spatter all over the wall and headboard. Final victim is a juvenile female, also a single shot. Hers was execution style, behind the ear.”
Clint nodded that he understood. This one was going to be a lot of work, which was a problem. He had to find a way to get back to Pomeroy soon. “Got any ID?”
“Still trying on the juvenile. Chubby over there is Jorge Salazar. He’s got a sheet, but not too long. The woman is Galina Herrera. Couple of possession pops, nothing big. The guy in the bedroom with the juvenile female is a little rougher. His name is…” Hill consulted his notepad. “Here it is. Ernesto Ocampo.”
Clint felt the air go out of his lungs as if he’d just been kicked in the stomach. He wanted to cry out against the information but knew it would do no good. Reality was what it was. All of the pieces had fallen into place with a resounding click.
“You okay, Wardell?” Hill asked.
“Fine, Marty.” He cleared his throat. He needed some air, so he could think. He might have been played a fool, but the play wasn’t over yet. “What do you need from me?”
“You want to make sure that the canvass is rolling? After that, we can plug you in here.”
“Perfect.” Clint turned and left. He didn’t say anything to Sherman as he passed. When he got to his car, he put his hands on the trunk and leaned forward, taking a few deep breaths.
How could I be so stupid?
He had to fix it. He should have seen it coming, and he didn’t, so he had to fix it. But how?
The correct thing to do was pull Detective Hill aside and tell him everything. Garrett was a suspect in these murders, and he deserved to know. Marty Hill was one of the few detectives that Clint thought was both a stellar detective and a decent person. He shouldn’t keep this from him.
Yet what did he have? Pomeroy’s inadmissible confession? He needed corroboration first. Pomeroy would fold when the investigators hauled him in for questioning. He’d get his immunity, or at least something that passed for it. Without some kind of corroboration, all he had was one dirty cop’s statement against another, and what? The coincidence that Ocampo and Garrett went to the same high school? That didn’t mean anything. There were five high schools in Spokane. There was a twenty percent chance that Garrett went to high school with anyone who graduated three years before or after him.
He looked up, taking another deep breath and trying to clear his head of all the anger and bitter, dark betrayal roiling around inside. He saw a female patrol officer interviewing an elderly white female two houses away from Ocampo’s. She was making notes and nodding her head frequently while the woman spoke and pointed in the direction of the house.
Clint walked toward them. The patrol officer noticed him as he came up the walkway and motioned for the woman to wait. She met him halfway down the walk. Clint glanced at her nametag and read Mixon.
“Paula Mixon,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
He’d never met her, but he’d read several of her reports. She was solid, and thorough. “What do you have?”
She motioned toward the woman. “Her name’s Nona Henry. She may have seen the shooter.”
“How’s she know?”
“She saw him go in, heard some shots, and watched him come out.”
“From where?”
“Her kitchen window.”
“Did she see a gun?”
Officer Mixon shook her head. “She got a good look at him, though.”
“Description?”
“Black male. Thirty-ish. Handsome.”
Clint glanced over at Nona Henry, who was watching with mild concern. He noticed she was wearing glasses. “How old is she?”
Mixon consulted her notes. “Eighty-two.”
“How’s her eyesight?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”
Clint brushed by her, heading toward Nona. She noticeably pulled away from him as he approached. He didn’t see personal animus in her eyes when he looked there, only whatever fear and bias she and most of her generation soaked in just from living life. “I’m Detective Clint, ma’am.”
Nona glanced over at Mixon and then back to him. “Hello,” she said uncertainly.
“How’s your eyesight, ma’am?”
“Pardon?”
“How well do you see?”
“Oh. Well, I suppose fair enough. I can still drive if I have to, though I don’t like to. Usually my son will—”
“Ma’am, I need you to listen to me. I’m going to be back in a couple of hours to show you some photographs, to see if you can pick out the man you saw next door. Are you able to do that?”
“I believe so, but I was talking to that nice lady officer before.”
“She’s helping me,” Clint explained. He handed her a card. “From now on, it’s important that you don’t talk to anyone but me, all right?”
Nona took the card with bony fingers. “Well, if you say so, but…”
“Thank you, ma’am. You can go back inside now.” Clint turned away and walked toward Mixon. He held out his hand. “You have her horsepower there?”
“Huh?”
“Her name, DOB, all of that. In your notepad.”
“Oh. Yeah, it’s here.”
“Let me have it. I’ll finish up with this witness.”
Mixon tore off the page and handed to him. “Detective Hollander told me to bring it to her.”
“I’m helping her. You’re all good, Officer. Go ahead and hit the rest of the block.” He handed her a card. “My cell number is on that. Let me know if you get any other good witnesses.”
Mixon took the card and put it in
her shirt pocket without looking at it.
Clint didn’t wait for her to ask another question. He headed back to his Crown Vic, got in, and headed toward the station. Once his phone was synced up to the Bluetooth, he placed the call. He didn’t like using a phone, much less a cell, but it was unavoidable.
The phone range twice before it was answered with a terse, “Captain Farrell.”
“Captain, this is Clint. I need to talk to you.”
“We are talking.”
“In person.”
“All right.” Farrell sounded cautious. “Is this regarding the county’s investigation?”
“Yes,” Clint said, figuring that was close enough. “I’m going to be near the station soon. Meet me in the parking lot at the Veteran’s Memorial Arena. Just you.”
“Just me…? What’s this about?”
“Better if I give it to you in person.” Clint hung up before the captain could answer. He parked a half block away from the Public Safety Building and took a side entrance. Instead of going to the SPD investigative wing, he slipped into the sheriff’s detectives’ bullpen. There was no sign of Harris or McNutt. Clint shrugged that off. He could go to them later if it made sense to do so. Quickly, he made use of the ident mugshot computer system at an empty desk, glad for once that the city and county shared the same software, so his login and password worked. He created a six pack of photos that included Ty Garrett’s recent booking photo and printed off several copies. Then he slipped out of the sheriff’s office area and made his way back to his car.
Captain Farrell was waiting for him when he pulled into the empty arena parking lot. Clint car-sided him, pointing his car in the opposite direction and putting their driver’s side windows next to each other.
“What is this all about, Clint?”
“It’s bad, Captain. Real bad.”
Chapter 43
Garrett leaned forward and rested his head against the passenger seat in front of him. He was exhausted.
The taxi driver, a heavy-set woman with frizzy hair, asked, “You okay?”
