The look on Eric’s face would’ve made him laugh, if it were any other fucking time. Like Eric had just thought he’d bought a hooker on the sly, and that hooker turned out to be his wife living a secret life. Eric started to say something, but Mallen put his gun up, aiming right for Eric’s face.
“Nope,” Mallen said, “you’re gonna need to take me in, or let me ride over you, man.”
“But—”
Mallen strode forward, knowing there wasn’t time, hoping for any extra seconds. He swung his gun at Eric’s face. The barrel slashed a deep gash across Eric’s cheek. Eric dropped his gun, and Mallen let his fall to the ground as he piled into Eric, driving a knee into Eric’s midsection.
“Make it look good, man,” Mallen whispered.
Eric gave him a good chop to the ribs. He thought that the rib might have actually broken, the pain was so heavy and intense. Then they were down on the ground, rolling in the muck of the back alley. It reminded Mallen of being back at the academy, when they’d have to try and disarm each other in a drill, or use each other as tackling dummies. They exchanged kicks and blows in the alley, some heavier than others, both knowing that Mallen’s life now depended on it looking real. People had to buy into it.
Then Mallen felt himself hauled off of Eric and slammed against the hard brick of the building. He was turned around and shoved into the wall, blood getting in his eyes, his vision turning red and blurry. There was the sharp stab of the cuffs on his wrist. He was turned around and again shoved hard into the wall.
Eric walked up to him then. Winked, then slugged him hard in the gut. Not too hard, but just enough. Enough to make Mallen think his friend had enjoyed it.
“Come along now, little bad man,” Eric said as he made a show of leading Mallen back to a cruiser, “and if you’re really good, I won’t face-plant you into the gravel and tell the judge you were so whacked out on smack you kept falling.”
He tossed Mallen into the back of the car, the door slamming tight behind him. The windows of course had the wide metal bar across them to prevent anyone from escaping. On a whim, he angled around and gave the glass a few good slams with his boots. For effect, he told himself, but actually because he was fucking pissed that someone, somewhere, had fucked it up. Badly. It was entirely possible that Franco, already paranoid, would equate this outcome with Mallen being there. Maybe Franco would want to play it safe, meaning that Mallen would be put down like a syphilitic mongrel with three legs. He’d heard worse stories. Eric hit the bar welded across the window with his billy club a couple times. To “calm the passenger” as it was called. Then he climbed behind the wheel. As Eric started the engine, he said without looking at him, “Sorry man, we didn’t know.”
“You sure?” He didn’t like it. The fact only reinforced his uneasiness. The raid had been planned without the knowledge of them having a man inside, or it had been planned because someone knew a man was inside. There was no third option. Either someone was incredibly fucking stupid, or someone knew he was there.
Eric glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah, I’m sure.”
Mallen got better situated in the back seat. “This is fucked.” He sighed. “Well, at least hit the AC, okay? Then take me down to booking. Call Stevens, tell him you ‘caught a blackbird.’”
The cruiser was out in the street by this point. Eric did a double take back at him. “Caught a black bird? What the fuck kind of horseshit spy crap is that?”
“Hell, I just do what they tell me.” Mallen gazed out the window for a moment, trying to guess at all the angles he’d need to cover to make Franco relax enough to keep him on the inside. Maybe he could use his being in jail until bailed out to lend the needed authenticity. Hell, could fuckin’ happen. “Who set up the raid?” he asked.
“Dietrich.”
That didn’t make him feel any easier, either. That fucker was almost worst than Jas. Jas with a badge, for fuck’s sake. Could it really be that way? Could he have been set up? But why? He wasn’t even high up yet. He was still a street dog. “When was it planned? When did you hear about it?”
“Why?” Eric replied. “What’s going on?”
“Just fucking tell me, man!” he yelled. He was feeling strung out, worn out.
Eric guided the car onto the next street. They were close to booking now. Had only a few minutes. “Just this morning,” came the reply. Told quiet. Flat. “Everyone just looked at each other, and then we went out. We were voluntold, basically.”
And that made him feel way worse than any other news could’ve. It was sounding more and more like someone either had it in for him, or at least wanted to send a message to Franco that people were in his tree, getting ready to shake his leaves.
Mallen lay back on the seat. Stared at the ceiling of the cop car. Something was going on. But what was it? He tried to get comfortable. Couldn’t. If—if—he had been ratted out, then jail was the worst place for him to be. He’d be dead, right down there in the holding tank, maybe. He had to get a message out. But, to who?
“Hey,” he said to Eric, “remember to call Stevens, yeah? And then call Chris for me, okay? Let her know when you dropped me off. Let her know what you just let me know.”
Eric glanced over his shoulder. “What will that do? If it’s bad, like you’re saying, what the fuck will that do?”
“It’ll go on the fucking record, if nothing else,” he replied, but not with much heart. He knew he had to get ready. There would be signs ahead. He had to be ready to read them. Would he be put in solitary? Or with the rest of the dirt? Would Stevens get him out fast, or would he spend days behind bars?
Either way, he noted with growing anxiety, he’d have to suffer that lovely dance known as the strip search.
Nineteen
Oberon entered into the small file-strewn office of parole officer Denise Lewis. She was a short, harassed-looking woman in her late thirties. Understanding the harassment was easy, judging from the mountain of files that surrounded her. Some of the file stacks he counted were forty high, at least. Had to wonder at the sheer magnitude of it all. Each case represented a person who would, or wouldn’t, get their life turned around. Odds were they wouldn’t.
He smiled pleasantly at her. “I’m Inspector Kane. Thanks for getting me the file on such short notice.”
She looked him up and down for a moment. Gave him a shy smile. Leaned back and grabbed up a stuffed manila folder off a two-drawer file cabinet behind her. “I’m always happy to help one of the branches of justice, Detective Kane.” She laid it on the desk right in front of her, next to the release letter.
“If you don’t get it back to me, you’ll have to buy me a drink,” she warned.
“Well now,” he said as he signed his name, “maybe I’ll just have to grow forgetful.” The file was thick. Scarsdale’s past with the criminal justice system was lengthy. He started to flip through it. Found the usual: drug addiction and escalating crimes.
“How’d he die?” Lewis asked.
“Shot. In what looks like a very execution-style killing.”
She pondered that. “He didn’t seem like that type. Not the one for that level of enemy. He did have the drug background, of course. That’s pretty much a given at this point. But still … his known acquaintances just didn’t seem that hard-core.”
There was no Kaslowski listed under known acquaintances. Well, it was a long shot it would be that easy. “He seemed to have not checked in recently. Was that normal?”
“We have them call in, and I hadn’t checked the logs lately,” she said as she looked down at the pile of forms on her desk. “But no, I wouldn’t say that was normal. I know he was having trouble finding work. He was also getting down on himself. Liked to hide in bars. I believe he was seeing prostitutes. I tried to warn him off that once I found out, but you know how guys can be about their hookers.” She smiled.
“As legend has i
t.” If there was no connection in this file to Kas-lowski, he would have to speak to people out at Folsom. Maybe they would have something. He tucked the file under his arm. “Thanks again, Mrs. Lewis. I’ll only have it for a couple days.”
“It’s Ms.—Ms. Lewis. And I’ll be waiting for that drink,” she said with a wink.
Oberon took a sip of his coffee from the same mug he’d been using for the last ten years—an old off-white diner mug he’d found at a garage sale. A couple on his street had been selling their row house and moving to Marin. Well, the city isn’t for everyone … Something about the cup had registered with him because it was the identical type of cup his father had drunk coffee from every morning of his life. That is, up until the man had died of a heart attack back when Oberon was just entering the academy as a cadet filled with hope and idealized visions of right and wrong. And in a sort of homage to the man who had shaped his life, Oberon always drank coffee as his father had: heavy on the cream and sugar.
He looked up from Scarsdale’s file and over at the old proto-digital electric clock on his desk. The kind where the numbered tiles flip down with every minute. Somehow, way long ago, a cockroach had gotten inside the device and died. It’s mummified carcass still lay there to this day, pressed behind the clear plastic, just under the minute plates as they plocked away the passing of time. Somehow, it all made sense.
It was late. Much later than he’d intended to stay. What kept him at his desk was that part of him enjoyed being there when it was quiet and still, as it was now. Most of the other detectives were out on calls or off duty. He looked once more at the computer screen. Just to be sure of his facts. Wrote some information down in his notebook. Turned out that Scarsdale and Kaslowski had indeed been at Folsom during the same period of time. Overlapped for just over fourteen months until Kaslowski was paroled. Scarsdale had served on, doing another ten months. Oberon had made a mental note to call Folsom after reading that bit of news, knowing he’d need to speak with the warden’s assistant or anyone who would know if Scarsdale and Kaslowski ever mixed while they were incarcerated.
His phone rang then, startling him. His direct line. Grabbed up the receiver. “Inspector Kane.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. You work the same shit hours I do,” said DeJesus with a yawn.
“So it would seem.”
“I have something for you. Thought I was going to leave it on voicemail.”
“Just pretend I’m a recording.”
Soft laughter on the other end. “Okay. The bullet that killed Scarsdale and the one that killed Kaslowski came from the same gun. Same twist. Everything lines up.”
Worst fears confirmed, or best-case scenario? He couldn’t decide which at the moment. “Thanks, Ronnie. I owe you.”
“You know it, inspector,” came the reply, but he heard the humor attached to it. “Get some sleep,” she said and then hung up.
This new fact made him very concerned. It was official: there was something going on. He leaned back in his chair. Wished for the seventh time this week that he’d never given up smoking. Okay, the same gun had killed these two men. So, what could the motive be? They’d both been in the same prison at the same time. Just coincidence? Revenge? Did they both know something? He sighed. Reached over and picked up the phone. He knew someone would answer, no matter what time.
Sure enough, after pushing 0 for the operator and giving his badge number to the computer, he got through to a live person. The phone line had the hollow sound of being tapped. The usual.
“Folsom admin,” said the voice on the other end, which could’ve been one of those old gypsy fortune-telling machines you’d put a dime into and get your fortune.
Oberon told them who he was, gave his badge number again. “I just need to know if you have any record of an Anthony Scarsdale and Carl Kaslowski mixing while there in your care.” He gave the voice the dates of their incarcerations.
“We’ll have to check. What number can you be reached at?”
He gave them his cell, saying it was very important to his murder case. After the usual civilities, he hung up with a sigh. They were busy. His request wouldn’t be a priority. Clicked off his lamp and sat there in the dark, thinking. Maybe if and when Folsom got back to him, there’d be something that would start the ball of thread unraveling. But what else could he do in the meantime?
Twenty
Mallen rolled over on his cot as the call went out for everyone to leave. Such was life in a shelter. He’d used his rolled-up coat as a pillow for two reasons: One, it seemed a better alternative to the one he’d been handed; and two, it would keep the gun close to him. He knew that things went missing, and men got stabbed in places like this. Why risk it? When he’d been back in uniform, right before hitching up with Narco, he’d answered a call on a dead man in a shelter over on Eddy, near Larkin. Some old man, stabbed over twenty times in the chest as he probably lay there, sleeping, thinking he was safe. They never caught the killer or even figured out a likely motive, other than it had been “a street thing.”
He’d walked around upper Knob for a while after leaving Jenna’s apartment. Even stepped inside Grace Cathedral. Just trying to stay safe and put Eric’s death, and his own new life, into some sort of perspective.
The attempt hadn’t netted much resolution, but at least it was quiet inside the church, and he felt safe there. A feeling he hadn’t felt since getting spotted by Jas and Griffin, and which was only reinforced by the beating Griffin had given him. It was as he sat there that he realized he would need a place to crash where he could feel safe. The local shelters offered that, if he got there early enough.
All in all, it hadn’t been a bad night. The usual white noise of a bunch of men all corralled together. Very much what jail was like. He’d been lucky, having arrived just in time to be one of the last admitted for the night. Found a cot right in the middle of the room, one of the last not taken. Sleep had been long in coming—his mind refusing to shut up—but eventually it had, and he got about four hours of decent sleep.
And then the call had gone out for everyone to leave. The inside of his mouth tasted like something better left untasted. He wanted to shower. That was another newly remembered feeling, now that his veins were back to being his own.
In short, he realized he’d have to risk going back to his place. Hell, shouldn’t Jas and Griffin have other things to think about other than one lone ex-cop, ex-junkie? He’d have to risk it.
Mallen had just put his boot on the first of the five steps leading up to his building’s street door when the gunshots cut the air.
Must be a slow time down at the ol’ drug den! he thought.
They exploded out of nowhere, heavy and concussive. The glass in the lobby door shattered into a thousand glittering shards. Knew instantly the bullets came from the other side of the street. Another volley, and he felt concrete and wood splinters rain down on him. There was the roar of an engine, an engine he now recognized, followed by the squeal of tires. He dove down behind a silver Jetta parked at the curb. Screams and yells from the citizens out on the sidewalks filled the air. It was the second time within days he’d been shot at. Must be some sort of fuckin’ record.
“Everybody down!” he yelled, hoping people would duck out and run for their lives. Peered over the hood of the Jetta just in time to catch a glimpse of the black Escalade. A muzzle flashed, and the Jetta’s windshield starred from a .44 slug. Griffin was feeling really determined in giving him a scare, that was for sure. And that’s what it had been about, too: a good scare. They’d had the drop on him. Could’ve iced him right there, right then. But they’d chosen to blast away at everything but him. It was a follow-up to the beating.
He had to admit that it worked. He had to fight to stop the shaking. He’d been so freaked and out of practice he hadn’t even remembered to grab his own gun. Not good. Those thoughts burned in him as he stood to watch the Esca
lade turn right at the end of the block and disappear.
Then he heard the sirens. The cavalry was on its way. Glanced over at the shattered lobby door. Well, they’d chosen a good position to fire from. If they’d meant to kill him, he’d be dead right now.
There had been no way to get gone before the cops showed. It was a “shots fired” call. That brought all the dogs running, ears pinned back. He’d had enough left as far as awareness went to run and hide the gun, sliding it under the gate that led back to the the trash cans the city picked up once a week. There was a dark patch of gloom there, just near the gate, and he’d managed to shove the gun deep into the shadows. All he needed was a bit of time, then he could go and retrieve it.
After arriving, the cops of course ran his soon-to-expire license. Of course. It was only five minutes later when a plain brown sedan rolled around the corner. He watched as Oberon got out and came over.
“Once again, you turn up a crime scene,” Oberon said. He got the highlights on what had gone down from the uniformed officer first on the scene. Turned back to Mallen. Almost did a double take, as he only then seemed to take in the bruises and swelling on Mallen’s face. He could tell by Oberon’s expression that the detective figured there would be more to this situation than just some random shooting.
“Mark, you’re a very lucky man,” Oberon said. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with your … previous habits, would it?”
“No,” he said emphatically. Hoped his friend would believe him. Obie stared at him a moment. At his eyes. Relaxed a bit. Yeah, he’d believed him.
“The officer told me what you told him. Now you can tell me the truth.”
“The truth? What do you mean, man?”
“Oh, Mark. That was quite poor.”
Untold Damage Page 11
