by Brenda Novak
“Shit,” Cruz said.
“Yeah, shit.” A long pause over the line. “Anything on your case?”
“Patch Wilson, our number one pathologist, is on vacation, somewhere in the Bahamas, and his replacement is ... well, let’s just say, he’s not as thorough as Patch.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s his name?”
“Mason Foster, but it’s Patch’s assistant, Howard Casey, who does most of the work. Dr. Foster doesn’t like to mess up his manicure.” Cruz’s voice was full of sarcasm.
“Well, no one could be as good as Patch, could he? Being as he’s the best in the business. Haven’t heard of this Foster guy, but Howard Casey – that name almost rings a bell.”
Cruz continued, “We’ve gotten everything we could from the substitute coroner – lab work’s back, no fingerprints or DNA except the vic’s, but we did find the backpack in a dumpster near Jesus Saves.”
Slater was familiar with Angie Hunt and the work she did at the shelter. “Anything in it?”
“No, but it belonged to Dickey. Angie ID’ed it and Detective Flood’s got it in evidence now.”
“No leads?”
“So far, RPD hasn’t kept me in the loop,”
“So what’s next?”
“Hell if I know.” Cruz spat out the words. “RPD has the same attitude toward the homeless that your friend’s county does.”
“There’s one thing left,” Slater said, disgust in his voice.
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“Wait for another murder and hope the crazy fucker gets careless.”
The parole office was dead quiet at this time of the day. Cruz fiddled with a pen on his desk blotter, reflected on the latest death. If it was the same killer, he was an arrogant bastard, didn’t seem to care how quickly his victims were found. The homeless woman was somewhere between thirty-five and fifty-five years old, scrawny, nearly toothless – and carved up much like his parolee Dickey Hinchey.
He shook off a wave of pity for her wasted life.
Determined to track down the doctor, Cruz reached one more time for his landline. The phone rang, a jarring sound that made him jerk back his hand.
The first words the woman on the other end of the line said were, “I need your help.”
Distracted, Cruz didn’t recognize the voice immediately, but sensed the urgency and fear in it. “Who is this?”
“Frankie Jones,” she replied shortly. “I asked you for information about Cole Hansen?”
Of course. The stormy gray eyes, the long dark hair, the medical doctor who looked nothing like a medical doctor. “Dr. Jones. Yes, I tried to catch you before you left my office yesterday.”
“You did?” She sounded dubious.
“Yeah, sorry about that. Things got real busy at the office.” Cruz thought again of the two dead street persons. “One of my parolees died.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” A long, pregnant pause as if she were deciding whether to ask for his help after all.
I need your help, she’d said.
“Can we meet?” In spite of the concern in her voice, the words had the effect of a decisive command.
“I’m in Placer Hills now. How about a late lunch? There’s a diner on the corner of Highway 49 and Grant Street. Maybelle’s? You know it?”
“Yes,” she answered, “I grew up around here.”
“Great. See you there at three o’clock.”
His mind whirled with ideas. Why had he mentioned Dickey Hinchey’s death? How much should he tell Dr. Jones about Cole Hansen? Trying to track down Hansen was part of his job, so he might be able to help her.
Though definitely no longer his purview, finding out who’d murdered Dickey was more important to him. As far as RPD was concerned, he’d be sticking his nose in their business if he continued looking into the case.
Cruz checked his watch. He barely had time to wash up, put on the extra clean shirt he kept in the office, and make his lunch date. He didn’t question his need to look less rumpled when he saw the edgy Dr. Jones.
The woman had been stressed when he’d first seen her. Now she sounded almost frantic. He wondered what the direct, but worried, Dr. Jones wanted now.
Chapter 28
At Folsom Prison, California state prison inmate number Z143973 received notice that he had a visitor thirty minutes before visiting hours began. He washed up at the stainless steel sink, combed his dark hair – heavily threaded with gray, grown long now, and tied back in a queue – and changed his shirt.
A visitation for inmate Z143973 was a rare thing and he went through the preparation with a mild sense of shock.
It had to be her. She was the only person who’d ever visited him during the fifteen years of his prison sentence for second-degree murder. She hadn’t come at first, or rather, wasn’t allowed to, but gradually she’d pushed the family rules or sneaked around, or whatever – he didn’t want to know – in order to visit him occasionally.
He hadn’t seen her in nearly a year.
In many ways doing time had been hard for him, learning the rules, who to trust, who not to turn your back on, but in other ways it’d been easy – no independent decisions. Everyone told you what to do and when to do it. Eat, sleep, take a crap – all normal activities were granted or withheld by correctional officers.
Inmates took on halting, indecisive behaviors, anticipation of direction. Without it they were like statues waiting to be animated, waiting for orders.
Doing time was tedious, but for an introverted, reflective person like inmate Z143973, prison was a relief from the harried pace of everyday life in the outside world. He realized by the end of his second year of incarceration that no one would rescue him, that he’d serve out his sentence with basic needs provided for, and that he really wasn’t a man made for the uncertainty of life outside prison walls – for the profound betrayals that occurred there without warning.
Even in his years in the army, he’d done solitary work – ordnance at Ft. Lee, Virginia. Not much more of a job than a military secretary. And very isolated. Which he’d preferred.
He wasn’t a man who inherently knew how to interact with other people. Not any longer.
The guards released the cell doors and accompanied him and the other inmates in a straight line into the visitors section. Their guests waited on round stools on the other side of an elongated plexiglass wall that separated them from the prisoners.
Phones to the right were for communication. He entered his coded number and nodded to his guest to pick up the receiver on the other side of the window. He peered at the visitor through the glass barrier.
It wasn’t her after all. Unexpected disappointed squeezed his heart.
His court-appointed attorney sat on the other side. No contact with the man in at least five years and he barely remembered his name. He’d done a creditable, if unremarkable, job of defense, but – whoops, no cigar.
Inmate Z143973 had been charged with murder two, a sentence of fifteen to life. However, when he’d come up for parole, the agitation surrounding the murder had prevented his paroling. It was beginning to look like he would do the full time.
He frowned uncomfortably. What was the lawyer’s name? Ah, John Wright, who worked for the county as a public defender. No pro bono, high-profile, hot shot attorney from Sacramento. Just some low-paid county worker.
Not that Wright hadn’t done the best job he could. It was just that fifteen years ago, Wright was so new to law you could rub the shiny off him with a rag.
Because Wright was the attorney of record, the two men were allowed the privilege of a secure room, no recordings, no video tapes. At least in theory. After what’d happened to him, inmate Z143973 – Roger Franklin Milano – didn’t trust police or guards or anyone anymore.
Apparently Wright had decided to meet with Roger in regular visitation with the other inmates. No confidentiality. Was that good or bad? It must be important.
Surprise or shock or something must’ve registered on his fa
ce because Wright’s first words were, “Walt sent me.”
A jolt of terror raced through his blood like wildfire because he knew immediately what that meant.
“It’s Frankie. She’s in trouble,” Wright continued, his sad basset-hound face drooping almost comically.
“What?” Roger whispered, his voice as rusty as an old engine. He realized he rarely used his vocal chords anymore. “Who? Why?”
“I’m trying to get a private room,” Wright assured him. “I don’t want to say more here.” He glanced around. “Publicly.”
Roger looked at the door where a guard waited for visitation to end, and behind Wright where the reception officers watched through tinted windows. Every word said during inmate visits could be recorded and listened to later – no expectation of privacy inside a prison facility.
“Walt said to give you the message about Frankie, and see what you can learn about ... ” The attorney looked down meaningfully at Roger’s hands splayed on the counter. The letters L-O-D were tattooed into the first three fingers of his right hand, below the knuckle joint.
Roger Franklin Milano – inmate Z143973 – was a member of the Lords of Death.
“I’ll see you tomorrow under privilege,” Wright continued, “and tell you everything I know about – about what’s happened.” He cleared his throat. “Try not to worry. We’re taking care of it.”
Wright stood abruptly and exited the room before time was up, leaving Roger staring after him. He sat on his round stool, gazed fixed on his folded hands, thinking desperately of the only thing in the world that mattered to him anymore.
What had happened to his only daughter – Frankie Jones she called herself now – and what could he do about it stuck inside his concrete cage?
Chapter 29
Maybelle’s was a breakfast-lunch restaurant that had been an established attraction in Placer Hills for three decades. Worn and a little seedy, it served the best food in town and was still operated by the original owners.
Cruz had just settled with a menu and a glass of water when Dr. Jones entered the diner and spotted him in the corner. She was as stunning as he’d remembered, and wore a casual look again today, her hair up in a loose ponytail.
Slow down the hormones, he warned himself, as he rose from his chair.
Instantly recognizing him, she sat down quickly while the wait server placed a menu and glass of water before her.
“What’s good?” she asked, scanning the list.
“They serve breakfast all day.” Cruz wondered why she seemed so jittery. Her fresh face and wide-eyed expression contrasted with her ill-at-ease body.
“I like the biscuits and gravy with a side of sliced tomatoes, so I can pretend I’m eating healthy.”
She tried a lopsided smile that didn’t quite work and ordered the same. They settled into an uncomfortable silence until the server, whose name tag said “Sally,” placed their breakfasts and the check on the table.
“Let me know if you need anything,” Sally said. “We’ve got great bread pudding if you’re hankering for dessert.”
They ate a few minutes without talking while the other customers gradually left and only they remained. He was starved. Being so occupied with his cases, he hadn’t taken time to eat all day.
“Tell me about Cole Hansen,” she said at last, laying her fork down.
Again, a command, not a request.
“We talked about confidentiality, Dr. Jones,” he answered, testing the waters.
“Frankie, please.” She removed her sweater and hung it on the back of her chair. She wore a tank top that hugged her slender figure without being too revealing.
“All right – Frankie,” he conceded, trying to keep his mind on her words. “I can’t give you parolee information without cause.”
She sighed, patted her mouth, and placed her napkin beside the empty plate, signaling for the server. “I’ll have a Pepsi, please, lots of ice, and try that bread pudding you mentioned.”
“Same for me.”
After Sally left, Frankie continued, “There – there are – odd things happening at the prison where I’m head doctor. I can’t elaborate, but I think Cole Hansen is in serious jeopardy.”
She leaned over the table and lowered her voice when Sally left to fill their dessert orders. The neckline of her tank revealed smooth, white flesh. “I saw him in my clinic right before he paroled. He dropped out – you know what that means?”
Cruz nodded. “Debriefing. Snitching.”
“Yes, and he had six months’ time left on his sentence, but after he dropped out, he was paroled that same day.”
Cruz shrugged. “Lucky guy. So what’s the problem?”
She lifted one dark eyebrow and leaned back in her chair. “Really. You don’t know that debriefing effectively puts a target on his back?”
“Maybe, but it depends on what he gave up. If he just named small-time gang members, gave insignificant information about their activities, he wouldn’t be bothered on the inside or the outside.”
“It’s the Lords of Death,” Frankie said flatly.
“Ah.”
“Yes, ah.”
“Still, I don’t see what this has to do with you.” Cruz dug into the bread pudding Sally set before them. “You’re a doctor at Pelican Bay. Hansen is a parolee. I don’t see how you fit into any of this.”
“They’re going to kill him,” she insisted ferociously.
“What makes you so sure?”
“Like I said, I saw Cole in the clinic the day before his release. A murder had just gone down in the prison yard. An inmate stabbed in the jugular. Hispanic – Norteño, I think.” She shook her head. “Or maybe not even ganged up yet. I’m not sure. They got him to the clinic, but it was too late. He bled out.”
Cruz lifted both shoulders and concentrated on his dessert. “So?”
She frowned, a look both angry and disappointed shadowing her face. “So, Cole admitted to stabbing the man – no provocation at all – and landed in the SHU. He confessed, but I’m positive he didn’t kill that man.”
Frankie willed the parole officer not to dismiss her. He scraped a hand across his jaw which was starting an early five-o’clock shadow. Her eyes followed his hand, brown and strong-looking. She’d always had a thing for well-shaped hands in a man.
“And you think he took the fall because the Lords of Death shot-caller ordered it,” Cruz said
Frankie nodded, forcing herself back to the topic. “Cole’s just not smart enough – or vicious enough – to do something like that.”
Cruz tried to recall the details of Hansen’s rap sheet and parole record. If he remembered right, it was petty stuff, possession, dealing, theft – but no violent crimes. A lowly criminal like him didn’t usually escalate to murder, but you never knew.
Prison had a way of changing men.
Cruz spoke the words aloud.
“You don’t understand.” Desperation weighted her voice like stones in a stream. “Cole has information I need to find out.” She pushed aside her plate, took a deep drink of soda, and eyed him levelly across the table.
“Cole may not be the only one in trouble.” A tiny line of perspiration dotted her upper lip. She dabbed at it with a napkin.
“What do you mean?”
“I think someone’s trying to kill me, too.”
“Why would someone try to kill a prison doctor?”
“Because I – I think I know something, maybe something I don’t know I know.”
Chapter 30
Even through the convoluted words, Cruz knew what she meant. Frankie Jones had uncovered information she wasn’t supposed to have – information that put her in danger.
Her hand rested on the table, palm downward. Without thinking he covered it briefly with his own. He’d only meant a gesture of comfort, but an unexpected tingle ran through him. For a single moment their eyes met, and he knew she’d felt it, too.
“Tell me everything,” he said, signaling for anot
her round of sodas.
Frankie Jones recounted each detail – from the murder in the prison yard to the note Cole Hansen had slipped her. From Anson Stark’s menacing visit to – finally and reluctantly – the attack in the prison parking lot. Cruz sat stunned for long moments.
“It sounds like a made-up story, I know,” she said at last, but the look in her stormy gray eyes told him she was desperate for him to believe her. “I’m not crazy.”
“And this friend of yours – this Walt Steiner? – what about him?”
“I – I don’t know. I called him and he – he told me a place to go.”
“Can you trust him?”
Her face hardened. “No, and I thought I could trust a lot of people. Now – now I’m not sure.”
She clasped her hands together on the table top. He noticed the slim fingers and the clean nails, cut short and bluntly. Capable hands. She seemed like an efficient woman, a steady woman not prone to fanciful imaginings.
“You’re safe enough here, don’t you think? So far from Crescent City?”
She bit her bottom lip. “Maybe. I don’t know. I was followed by a low rider car last night. I didn’t dare go back to my motel room.”
“Gang bangers?”
She spread her hands helplessly. “They were white, not Mexican, but they looked like gang members.”
“Go to the cops,” Cruz advised. “What can I do for you?”
“No cops,” she insisted. “If CO’s at the prison are involved in this, why not local police? You can help me find Cole.” Her face was a stubborn wall of determination.
Why would someone who worked for Corrections and Rehabilitation not trust the authorities?
Frankie pulled a paper from her handbag and shoved it across the table. It was the coded message, wrinkled and torn, she claimed Cole had given her when she was examining him in the prison clinic. “Can you tell what it means?”
Cruz was impressed by her composure. The attack and threats must’ve been terrifying, but she managed to maintain a cool outward façade.
