“It’s a long story.”
Greenspan checked his poker-chip-thin black-and-gold watch.
“How about the condensed version?” he said. “Seriously, Jake, I want to know about this. Maybe I can use it.”
“I doubt it.”
“Regardless.”
“It happened about nine, ten years ago,” I said. “Dalrymple and I were in uniform together and—”
“Seriously? I didn’t know that.”
I nodded. “Dalrymple had been a cop for about four years—and he was one gung-ho mother—when I was a rookie. MacArthur started when I did, too.”
“That I knew,” Greenspan said. “And I have a feeling if he were handling this, we’d be home free.”
“No doubt.”
“But anyway,” he said.
“But anyway, Dalrymple and I were working the Five Points area and we took a call on a possible gang rape. Some guy had seen three men pull a woman into an abandoned building. Just as we hit the front door, these three black dudes, teenagers, came busting out, knocking us on our butts. One guy had a razor, and when they ran over us, he slashed Dalrymple across the face.”
“Jesus. That’s how he got the scar.”
“That’s how. The slasher and one kid took off down the street with Dalrymple chasing them, blood pumping out of his face. I chased the other kid into a dead-end alley. When he turned around he was pointing a gun. I was about to put a slug in his chest, when he dropped the gun and raised his hands. By the time I’d cuffed him and got him back to the car, smoke was sifting through the boarded windows and pouring out the doorway of the building, which the three dudes had torched to destroy the evidence. I called for fire trucks and backup for Dalrymple, who still wasn’t back, then went inside, looking for the rape victim. She was just a kid, maybe thirteen, gagged and tied to the radiator pipes. It was a good thing I found her right away, because the building was going up fast.”
“What about Dalrymple?”
“He caught up to the other two guys about six blocks later in the backyard of a house and shot them both dead.”
“Jesus. They both had guns?”
I shook my head no. “The only weapons found were a razor on one guy and a pocketknife on the other. They’d been trying to break in the back door of the house—their house, it turns out. When Dalrymple ordered them to stop, he says they turned and attacked him.”
“Is that what happened?”
“There were no witnesses,” I said. “But I believed Dalrymple. He may be hard, but he’s not a killer. Trouble was, he wanted me to lie for him.”
“About what?”
“He and a couple of his buddies wanted me to back him up on something he’d told the internal affairs guys—namely, that when those black kids ran over us, at least two of them had been carrying guns. One of Dalrymple’s pals went so far as to hint that if I said I’d seen another gun, they’d find a gun. But the only gun I’d seen was the one pointing at me in the alley, and I stuck to the truth. It didn’t help Dalrymple any. I guess I was too honest, or maybe just too new.”
“You did the right thing, Jake.”
“I suppose,” I said. “In any case, there was a lot of flak from the black community—a white cop killing two black kids in their own backyard. To keep a lid on things, the department suspended Dalrymple for six months without pay and gave him an official reprimand. And to make things worse, at least from his point of view, I got a citation for bravery for saving the girl and capturing an armed rapist.”
Greenspan shook his head. “Considering his suspension and all, I’m surprised he made lieutenant.”
“Don’t be,” I said. “When he got back in uniform, he worked twice as hard as before, which was about eight times harder than anybody else. Kept his record as clean as a nun’s bib. In fact, if it hadn’t been for that one incident, he’d probably be a captain by now.”
“And he blames you for that?”
“I guess I’m convenient.”
The bondsman arrived—a squirrely-looking dude named Hensey. He was prepared to put up my bond, but he wanted his thousand bucks.
“It’s at home,” I said.
“Hey, Jake, come on.”
“You come on.”
“Look,” Hensey said, lowering his voice, darting his watery blue eyes here and there as if we were surrounded by Gestapo, making Greenspan sigh in irritation, “I shouldn’t even be taking less than five grand.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I looked at Greenspan. “Uh, Abner?”
“Christ almighty,” Greenspan said.
“Hey, I’m good for it. Besides, didn’t I give you a nice rolltop desk just the other day?”
“Having that desk restored is costing me three thousand dollars.”
“Oh.”
“Christ.”
He wrote Hensey a check, and ten minutes later we were outside.
“You can mail me a check for the thousand,” Greenspan said as we descended the long concrete steps. “I’ll see you in a week at the hearing. Try to stay out of trouble.”
“I’m not just going to sit still.”
Greenspan stopped and grabbed my arm. “Meaning what?”
“Obviously, Dalrymple and Krenshaw aren’t looking past me to find Meacham’s killer.”
“So what? That has nothing to do with how we’ll proceed with your defense.”
“Whatever. I intend to question the residents of the Frontier Hotel.”
“I’ll get someone to do that,” he said.
“I’ll do it.”
“You can’t conduct your own investigation.”
“Why not?”
“Because you can’t possibly be objective.”
“Objectivity is overrated.”
“Look, Jake, if you go kicking around over there, you’ll just get frustrated and probably intimidate a witness or maybe step on a cop’s toes and Dalrymple will bust you for obstructing justice and the judge will raise your bail and—”
“I’m only going to talk to them, Abner.”
“As your attorney I would advise against it.”
“I’ll call you in a few days,” I said.
16
I FINALLY REACHED HELEN Ester at Caroline’s house. I realized I was starting to get defensive, because there was nothing gentle about my mood or my tone of voice.
“Jacob, I’ve been trying to reach you,” she said.
“What a coincidence.”
“The police have been hounding me day and night. I think they’re trying to pin Zack Meacham’s murder on you.”
“Funny you should mention that. I’m coming over there now to talk to you.”
“Ah, well, can we get together later tonight instead? Charles and I were—”
“Now.”
She put her hand over the mouthpiece and I heard her muffled voice. Then she said to me, “All right, if you insist.”
Twenty minutes later I was parked in front of Caroline Lochemont’s house, right behind the beat-up green Chevy of Willy Two Hawks. There was a rusty brown pickup across the street by the small park. Two guys, both about Caroline’s age, sat in the truck and nipped wine from a bottle in a paper sack. The driver looked enough like Willy Two Hawks to be his son. The passenger had similar features—brown skin, flat nose, high cheekbones—but he was as big as a bear, with long, black braids that fell forward across his shoulders. They watched me get out of the car and go up the walk.
They were still watching when Caroline Lochemont opened the door. She glanced nervously past me toward the truck, then led me into the living room.
“Hello, Jacob,” Helen said. She sat on the couch with Soames—too close to him, I thought. Willy Two Hawks slouched in the Windsor chair. He nodded at me and smiled from behind his coal-dark shades.
“Have a seat,” Soames said, “but make it snappy. We were on our way out the door when you called.”
“What’ve you been telling the police?” I said, standing in front of Helen.
“What do you mean, Jacob? I told them what happened that night.”
“Plus a few extra lies.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know damn well.”
“Don’t be talking to her like that.”
“Shut up, Soames.”
“Why, you son of a bitch …”
He started off the couch, and Helen grabbed his arm. “It’s all right, Charles,” she said.
“Get out of my house,” he told me.
I ignored him. “What about it, Helen?”
“Get the fuck out or I’m calling the cops,” Soames said.
“Jacob, I swear to you, I only told the police what I know. You went into the hotel to talk to Meacham and then I heard shots. That’s all.”
“Did you hear what I said?” Soames asked.
“Go ahead and call the cops,” I told him. “I’m sure they’ll be interested to know that before Meacham died he was making threats to a convicted murderer.”
Soames started to speak, then clamped his jaws shut. The veins in his neck stood out like small, purple vipers. I turned to Helen.
“You told Dalrymple I had an automatic with me that night.”
“Automatic? I don’t understand.”
“Don’t play dumb. ‘A flat black gun’ you called it. An automatic pistol.”
“Jacob, no, I … I never said anything like that.”
She looked frightened. Lomax the meanie, picking on a little girl. Soames sensed it and held her hand.
“What’s he talking about, babe?”
I didn’t like him calling her babe.
“Meacham was shot with a nine-millimeter automatic,” I said, “and the cops haven’t found the gun. Without it, they have practically nothing to make a case against me—nothing, that is, unless an eyewitness swears she saw me carry such a gun up to Meacham’s room.”
“But I never—”
“They’ve charged me, goddammit. The D.A. wouldn’t file unless he had something, and you’re it.”
“No.” She shook her head. There were tears in her eyes.
“Dalrymple told me.”
“No … no, why would he say that?”
I’d been coming on strong to make sure she wouldn’t hold anything back. She wasn’t lying; it was Dalrymple. Even though he had no case against me, he wasn’t going to drop things, not yet, not until he’d made me squirm, or worse, took me to court with falsified evidence. His hatred went deeper than I’d imagined.
“Jacob, I … I swear.” Tears ran down Helen’s cheeks, leaving thin streaks of mascara.
“You satisfied now?” Soames said, disgust in his voice.
“Want me to call in my boys?” Willy said. He sat comfortably, looking amused. “They can take care of this joker.”
Soames shook his head. “No. We’re leaving now for the mountains, like we should’ve in the first place.”
He stood and so did Helen. She wouldn’t look at me. Soames’ gave me a small shove as they stepped past. Willy slapped me on the arm, grinning like a thief.
“See you in the funny papers.”
I watched through the front window as they walked away from the house. Soames and Helen climbed in the backseat of Willy’s Chevy. Willy spoke to the two guys in the rusty pickup, then got in his car and drove off.
Caroline came into the living room.
“Oh. Where’s my grandfather?”
“He left. They all left.”
Outside, the bear with the braids got out of the pickup and crossed the street. He stood next to my Olds.
“You can leave, too,” Caroline said.
“Your grandfather said they were going to the mountains. Where in the mountains?”
“As if you don’t know.”
“I don’t, honest.”
The big Indian was squatting down near the hood of the Olds. I could just see the top of his head.
“Please leave,” she said.
“At least tell me where they went.”
She cocked her head to the side, letting her short hair fall away from her face.
“You’re not with them?” She nodded toward the front window. The big Indian was back in his pickup.
“Who, those guys?”
“Yes, those guys. Tom and Mathew Two Hawks. Willy’s sons.”
“The big one’s his son, too?”
“That’s Tom,” she said, a trace of fear in her voice. “Now please leave.”
“You know what I think?”
“I could care less,” she said.
“I think you need a friend.”
Her face softened for a brief moment, then she put on her little-tough-guy look. At least she tried to.
“Go away,” she said. “Please.”
When I got to my car, the two Two Hawks were still sitting across the street in their pickup. They looked pleased. And why not? My left front tire was flat—the valve stem had been cut off. I opened the trunk and got out the spare. It was dirty and mushy. I hoped there was enough air in it to drive on.
“Whatsa matter, pard, got a flat?” big Tom asked.
“Hey, you’re not as dumb as you look.”
I wrestled out the jack and hauled it around to the front of the car. Apparently Tom hadn’t appreciated my remark, because he climbed out of the truck and crossed the street. The magnum was beginning to feel comfortable under my arm. I crouched down and shoved the jack beneath the front bumper.
Tom came up and stood over me. Loomed, actually. He wore cowboy boots, blue jeans with a silver-and-turquoise belt buckle, and a faded red chamois-cloth shirt. The shirt had enough cloth in it to cover the backseat of my Olds. It pinched Tom at his biceps and shoulders. He looked as strong as a grizzly. When he spoke, he sounded like one, too.
“How’d you like to change that tire with a broken arm?”
“Is that a rhetorical question?”
Tom blinked, then decided to stick with his original train of thought. “A lot of guys around here get flat tires, pard, plus broken arms and busted heads.”
“Pop said take it easy, Tom,” brother Mathew said from the truck.
I hoped Tom was listening, because I knew what was on his mind—my people had stolen the land from his people and shoved them around for a few hundred years and sooner or later his people were going to rise up and pay us all back and now was as good a time as any to get started.
“If I was you, I wouldn’t come back here no more,” Tom told me. “Stay away from Charles Soames.”
I started loosening the lug nuts with the four-way wrench.
“Understand?”
“Do me a favor,” I said. “Start jacking up the front end. That’s it over there on your left.”
I spun the wrench on the last few nuts while big Tom formulated his reply.
“Get up, asshole,” he said.
I put down the wrench and reached under my jacket for the magnum. In no way did I want to tangle with this hombre. But Tom had other ideas, or else he’d seen my move, because before I knew it he’d grabbed my arm and collar, picked me off my feet, and slammed me into the car. I swung with my free left arm and nearly broke some knuckles on his chin, then stomped on his instep with my heel, but that just made him madder. He shifted his grip and got me in a bear hug, arms locked around my chest, the top of his head shoved into my face. If he didn’t crack my ribs and squeeze all the air out of me, he’d surely break my spine. I hit him a few times in the side of the head, but he didn’t seem to mind, and I would have shot him if I’d been able to get at my gun. The blood was rushing to my head and I wondered exactly which part of me would give out first and I made one last effort and jammed my thumbs deep into the nerves under his ears. Tom let out a war whoop and backed off. I gave him four stiff fingers in the larynx to shut him up. He squawked and gurgled and I fumbled with the shoulder holster and came face to face with brother Mathew, holding the four-way wrench like a stubby crucifix above his head.
He hit me with it.
17
>
I WOKE UP IN the street with Caroline kneeling beside me. She looked worried.
“Are you okay?”
“Are there any more Indians around?”
She helped me to my feet and walked me to her house. The inside of my head felt like the aftermath of a buffalo stampede.
“Shall I call the police?”
“No.”
She led me to the bathroom and sat me on the toilet lid, then soaked a washcloth in cold water, wrung it out, and dabbed at a very tender spot on my head. When she rinsed out the washcloth in the sink, the water turned pink.
“Maybe you should see a doctor.”
“I’m all right.” I stood. “See? Besides, I get hit on the head every week or so.”
She gave me a wry smile. “You act tough, but you’re not.”
“Don’t tell anyone, okay? It would be bad for business.”
I followed her out of the bathroom, then realized how seldom I get the chance to play on anyone’s sympathies. It’s a tough business, but somebody’s got to do it.
“Gee, I do feel kind of dizzy,” I said, holding my head. “Could I rest for just a minute?”
We sat in the kitchen.
“The warriors out there told me to stay away from your grandfather,” I said.
She looked at me carefully.
“So you’re really not with them, are you?”
“I’m not with anybody.”
“Oh, yeah? What about Helen Ester?”
“Okay, maybe her. A little.”
“You like her, don’t you.”
“A little.”
“I think she’s a sneaky, conniving bitch,” Caroline said.
“Hey, don’t sugarcoat it on my account.”
“I mean it.”
“I believe you,” I said. “Where did she and Willy take your grandfather?”
Caroline stared out the kitchen window and gritted her teeth, showing me a small bunched muscle under her little gold hoop earring.
“They’re looking for the jewels, aren’t they?”
“All these … people,” she said to the window. “They’re clinging to my grandfather like leeches because they think he knows where the jewels are.”
“Does he?”
“Of course not.” She looked at me, then quickly looked away. “I’ve told them and he’s told them, but still they hang around. Why won’t all of you just leave us alone?” There was a note of pleading in her voice.
Blood Stone (The Jacob Lomax Mysteries Book 2) Page 10
