Sweet Dreams Boxed Set

by Brenda Novak

  He reached across the table, took the note, looking around to check if anyone had noticed. “It looks like gobbledygook,” he complained after a glance.

  “Maybe, but Cole Hansen risked his life getting it to me in prison. He couldn’t know his release date would come so quickly.”

  Cruz lifted one eyebrow. “Don’t make Cole Hansen into some kind of hero, Dr. Jones. He’s an ex-felon. He’ll say or do anything to make his life easier.”

  “Maybe.” Frankie shifted in her chair. “But I don’t think he’s a killer. I think he’s a guy who got caught up in something he doesn’t know how to get out of.”

  “In every one of his prison terms he’s been ganged up,” he reminded her.

  “You know how it is in prison,” Frankie returned hotly, pink flushing her high cheekbones. “It’s all about survival.”

  Cruz sighed and rubbed his right temple. Damn, the woman gave him a headache. What kind of prison doctor was also a liberal, left-wing supporter of prisoners’ rights?

  But she did look appealing when she blushed.

  “You may be right,” he returned, “but unless we can find Cole, get him to help us figure this out, it’s just a useless piece of paper.”

  “A piece of paper intended for the president of the Lords of Death,” she countered.

  Cruz nodded. “There’s that.”

  “We have to find Cole before someone else does.”

  “You need to worry about your own safety first. If you’re correct, and someone’s trying to get to you, you’re in trouble. If you won’t go to the police, do you have somewhere that’s secure?”

  Frankie had already found her safe house, but only nodded.

  “Okay, go to this – this place you have – and make sure no one follows you,” Cruz ordered, pushing back from the table, throwing a few bills down.

  He reached for her phone lying on the table and programmed his number into it. “Wait for me to call. We’ll talk about that – ” He nodded at the note “ – later.”

  “Wh – what are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to locate Cole Hansen.”

  Cole needed help, but didn’t know where to turn.

  As his last few dollars ran out, he scrounged around for empty soda cans and got enough change for a cup of coffee and a dollar sandwich at McDonald’s. Another manager, another young kid, gave him warning looks as he huddled quietly in the corner, so he left.

  By now he was real grubby. He hadn’t washed since he’d left prison and was sure the frowns and stares he got from people in Old Town was from the stink coming off him. He’d never lived on the street before. In between jail and prison stints, he always found someone who’d give him a place to stay, a few weeks here, a few there, even if it meant sleeping on the floor or in the garage.

  Desperation was a ball of sodden bread clogging his throat.

  He sat on the steps of the Washington Street Church. Looked around the corner to see the small sign of the Jesus Saves building. Cruz had said the woman there, Angie Hunt, was good people. Cole didn’t know if he could trust his parole officer or not, but what choice did he have?

  He was that desperate.

  Chapter 31

  Cruz caught up with Cole Hansen by sheer accident.

  Cruising down Washington Street, he swung his jeep into the parking lot behind the Washington Street Church where the parishioners served breakfast on weekdays for the homeless. A few stragglers lingered about, drinking coffee and eating breakfast bars.

  Cruz idled his vehicle a few moments, watching the people who exited the back door of the church. Suddenly, Cole came out of the wide double doors and looked around carefully. He hoisted his backpack on one shoulder while he sipped from a Styrofoam cup.

  Clearly, Cole didn’t recognize Cruz’s car. The parole officer eased out of the seat, closed the door quietly, and started walking toward the parolee. Cole caught the movement, and in a flash tossed aside his cup of coffee and hauled ass around the side of the building.

  Damn! Cruz hated the runners. He took off after him.

  Cole was faster on his feet than Cruz had expected, but no match for him. He worked out regularly and ran five to seven miles a day. Single, with few hobbies, and both parents passed away, Cruz had little else to do with his spare time.

  He caught up with Cole three blocks away in a residential section of the town. Tackling him hard, he twisted his arms behind his back and cuffed him.

  “See now, Cole, that’s exactly what you’re not supposed to do.” He puffed out a long breath and hauled the parolee to his feet, glowering down at him. “Running from your P.O.? Worst thing you can do.”

  Cole looked like a cornered animal. “Don’t violate me, please. I can’t go back to Pelican Bay.” Surprisingly Cruz saw tears squeeze out of the corners of the man’s eyes. “I’m a dead man if I go back there.”

  “Jeez, Cole, are you going to cry like a little baby? Come on, man up.” Cruz felt uncomfortable disrespecting the man, but he knew it was the best way to handle this situation.

  He tugged on Cole’s arm and looked around. No one had followed them, but there might be a crowd when they got back to his car. They took their time returning to allow any church stragglers to disperse. The brief spurt of fight had gone out of Cole.

  Cruz shoved Cole into the back of his jeep and drove off, getting on Interstate 80 and heading to Placer Hills and the Bigler County Jail. Halfway there, he realized he didn’t want to drag Cole into the office where everyone could see him in handcuffs. Once that happened, he’d be forced to violate the man’s parole.

  What was he going to do with Cole?

  Impulsively, he pulled off the road, put on his hazard blinkers, and called Frankie Jones’ number – the one he’d programmed into his cell phone.

  “I found him,” he said as soon as she answered.

  “Officer Cruz?”

  “Chago,” he corrected. “I found Cole.”

  Cruz looked over his shoulder, but Cole was staring gloomily out the window, his hands and shoulders twisted awkwardly from the cuffs. “Idiot ran as soon as he laid eyes on me.”

  “Is he hurt?”

  Hurt? Did she imagine he would abuse one of his parolees?

  “No,” he said abruptly, “of course not. Where are you now?”

  Frankie hesitated. “At the – the house, the place I told you about.”

  “Right.” Cruz thought a moment, then lowered his voice, trying to imagine what kind of house she had and how secluded it might be. “We both need to question Cole and find out what he knows before I decide if I’m going to violate his parole.”

  “Do you have to violate him? If he goes back to jail or prison – ”

  “I have some discretion,” he interrupted impatiently. “Right now I have to decide where to keep him.”

  “Wait until dark and bring him here,” Frankie suggested after a moment.

  Cruz sighed heavily. “Think about that. Do you really want Cole Hansen to know where you live?”

  Cruz could hear the shrug in her voice, her being brave. “It’s not my primary residence. Besides, if you arrive at night he won’t remember the address or how to get here. It’ll be okay.”

  “All right,” Cruz capitulated reluctantly. “See you soon.” He clicked off and watched Cole through the rear-view mirror. The man slumped against the back seat, a look of abject desolation on his face, as if his world was fast coming to an end.

  Maybe it was.

  The newspapers screamed about the recent murder. It had happened not here in Rosedale, but in a park in Sacramento County. Why was someone interfering with his work? Some lunatic killing on a whim. Were they imitating him? Mocking him for what he’d done by accident?

  He was having a hard time keeping it together – at work, the demands, the pressures.

  Who was it? Who’d have the balls? Who’d take the risk?

  He gnawed on the skin around his right thumb until it bled. Gnawed on the problem until it dro
ve him crazy, tearing his brain apart. He didn’t want to repeat that first – accident. He wanted to bury the whole experience so deep in his mind he’d never have to deal with the – with that – with it, again.

  He couldn’t allow himself to even think the word. Murder, it whispered, like a wicked siren, enticing him to madness.

  Murder was what had happened in Sacramento to that poor, homeless woman. Only a monster would attack someone weaker than himself.

  He knew he drank too much – not often – but when he drank heavily, sometimes he passed out, waking up in the most bizarre places with no memory of what he’d done. Was it possible? Could he have ... No! He wasn’t a monster. He was a regular guy with a job, friends.

  His mind stumbled on the idea of family and stuttered to a halt. His family – his father was – No! Better not go there.

  Chapter 32

  Although Folsom Prison inmate number Z143973 – Roger Franklin Milano – was a level four inmate, he was allowed a level two exercise yard, and therefore, had a kind of freedom. Although freedom within a prison setting was a paradox.

  Every year, if an inmate didn’t get written up for a violation, he could earn credit for good behavior. This lowered the number of points he entered prison with, depending on the level of crime he’d been convicted of. The lower the points, the less dangerous the inmate was considered.

  Roger had fifteen years of good behavior even though his “crime” was a violent one: he’d been found guilty of murdering his wife without premeditation. Murder two. Ironically, although convicted of a violent act, he enjoyed the privilege of being incarcerated with criminals who were much less violent than society viewed him.

  Access to a lower-level yard made it possible for Roger to gather all kinds of information. Inside the walls of a prison, information was currency. He’d learned to use his currency wisely. Listen and learn. Learn and pass on – or withhold – as the situation called for.

  As a member of the Lords of Death, Roger had access to careless chatter dropped among all of the white inmates who hung out together in the prison yard and ate at the same tables in the cafeteria. Gangs were divided along racial lines scrupulously adhered to. The 187 Crew, a white supremacy gang, ruled at Folsom, unlike at Pelican Bay where Anson Stark’s LODs had set up a tight network that dominated not only the incarcerated whites, but all gangs.

  But white was white, and as long as Roger didn’t get up in some other guy’s business, the 187’s and the Lords managed a kind of truce.

  In fact, Roger played chess with a 187 member, the only inmate good enough to beat him. Check that. The only player better than him in chess was a black dude.

  But playing with a black was out, of course, since black and white didn’t play chess together. Black, white, brown or yellow didn’t do anything together, even watch television on the same unit. Riots had begun and blood had been shed over this hard and fast rule.

  As much as racism played out in silent, subtle threads in the real world, within the system where Roger lived, the rules of segregation were raw and immutable. Race lines were clearly drawn in California prisons.

  Sam Houston, with the unlikely name of the famous Texan, was a member of the 187 Crew and a close second to the black chess player who was good enough to beat Roger. Although Roger usually won, Sam sometimes sneaked a new play in on him, crowing with delight when this happened.

  Sam was an inveterate talker. Other inmates said he had diarrhea of the mouth disease, but often he was a good source of information. Whenever something went down in the yard, he knew ahead of time. Not only was he a reasonably good chess player, he was a good source of prison gossip.

  Doing life without parole on an enhanced murder one charge, he looked about seventy with a shocking mane of white scraggly hair and an untrimmed beard which he continually stroked like a woman’s soft flesh.

  “Fuckin’ maniacs!” Sam complained after making a good opening gambit in their current chess game. “No offense, my man, but they’re whacked half the time.”

  “Oh? Who?” Roger feigned concentration on the chess board and his next move.

  Sam rattled on the most when you pretended disinterest in what he had to say. Almost nobody put much store in his ramblings and spurious claims – like he really was a descendant of Sam Houston, the governor of Texas. He was always trying to prove he knew something no one else did, but sometimes there was a nugget of truth in his verbal wanderings.

  “Yeah, fuckin’ vampires,” Sam continued. “Not here a’ course, but I heard up at Pelican Bay they’re getting new recruits to – ” He stopped suddenly, bobbed his head around like a yoyo.

  Roger responded irritably. “Why are you always blathering on about weird shit like vampires and – ”

  Sam looked offended, put his hand on a chess piece and leaned closer. “Not real vampires, scumbag. I said the Lords are acting like vamps, losing turf blood.”

  “Turf blood? What the hell does that mean?” Roger growled.

  “You know how the Sureños and Norteños say ‘blood in, blood out’?”

  Roger nodded slowly. “Sure, most gangs do.”

  “Well, Lords are upping the price.” He stroked his beard, looked uncomfortable. “It’s blood in. And – and something more.”

  “Hell, Sam Houston, you make about as much sense as a politician.”

  “You’ll see.” Sam bobbed his head and cackled, but Roger heard the underlying fear in his words. “You’ll see. Surprised you haven’t heard. Blood in – and something more.”

  Back in his bunk, Roger considered Sam’s words, trying to decipher them. Blood in, and something more, he’d said. Most of the time the old man spouted a bunch of idiocy, but something rang true this time.

  What were the Lords at Pelican Bay up to that Roger and the Lords of Death here in Folsom knew nothing about? Did it have anything to do with the prison doctor?

  Did it have something to do with the old score surrounding her mother?

  Chapter 33

  The third victim was discovered the next day in Rosedale near Lindy Creek, a shallow, but long body of water that stretched between homes in a newer, upscale part of the city. In the spring the creeks and streams rose to flood depths when the winter snow in the Sierra Nevada Mountains melted, but now, in the dead of winter, they were shallow enough for children to play on its banks.

  Two fourth-grade boys on their way to Jefferson Elementary School found the body of a young female. The victim had been murdered in much the same way as Dickey Hinchey, the body bruised and battered, stabbed and beaten.

  Slater called and gave Cruz a heads up on the location and agreed to meet him at the scene. “We’ll run into Detective Flood at the crime scene,” Slater murmured, “but two killings in the same town, with a possible third one nearby – that sounds like a pattern, don’t you think?”

  Cruz thought a moment, a sharp jolt of terror cutting through him, muscle to bone. “Jesus, a serial killer? Two women, one man, different dumping grounds, only one a parolee. How do you figure?”

  “He’s target specific, isn’t he? Going after homeless people?”

  “Damn, Slater, that sounds crazy.” Cruz breathed deeply and exhaled slowly. “You’re saying that some crazy right-wing nut job has a hard-on for street people and is picking them off one by one?”

  “Well,” Slater grumbled, “when you say it like that – ”

  “Right, it’s insane.”

  Cruz tapped his fingers restlessly on his desk. “Look, I majored in psychology in undergrad. Let me do some research on this and get back to you. Changing the victim’s sex, choosing a young, strong girl instead of an older, weak man – that deviates from the pathology of the killer.”

  He shifted in his swivel chair. “And what’s the motive? There’s always a sexual component with a serial.”

  “You sound like a damned shrink,” Slater grumbled, “but, yeah, looks like no one messed with their junk.”

  “And the motive?”

>   “Oh, there’s one. We just don’t know it.” Slater returned. “Let me handle the crime scene by myself. That’ll make Flood less prickly. You check out the psych stuff. Aren’t you a little nuts anyway?”

  Cruz smothered a guilty laugh. He was loco for sure – following a couple of murder cases when he had parolees to check up on, and only one of the deaths directly tied to him. “Nah, I’d like a look at the body. Maybe I’ll recognize her, and I don’t mind pissing Flood off.”

  Patch Wilson had returned from vacation and was present at the crime scene at Lindy Creek. Unfortunately, as Slater had predicted, so was Detective Flood.

  Cruz and Slater stood out of the way and listened as Flood pontificated about the dead body, trying to act like he knew something special. While it was true he led the investigation, the M.E.’s role was sacrosanct. No one touched the crime scene until the pathologist had the first look, and Patch was particularly territorial about his work.

  Dr. Wilson gave Flood a discouraging frown. “Please step back, Detective Flood, until I finish my on-site examination.”

  “Same as the other one, right?” Flood prompted. “Street people get into all kinds of altercations with each other. Chances are some bum had a grudge against this one. Just like with Dickey Hinchey.”

  Cruz exchanged a glance with Slater and suppressed a grin, knowing Patch would be formulating a sharp reply.

  “Well, now, Detective, we won’t know until we finish our examination, will we?” When Patch, the most clever medical examiner either man had ever known, went into his professorial mode, using the royal “we,” he was ready to lambast his target.

  Get ready, Flood.

  “Step back, now, please, and let me do my work.” Wilson paused. “Unless you have a medical degree?”

  The statement had all the force of a presidential order. Flood stumbled several steps backward, regained his balance, and stuffed his fists into the pockets of his natty suit.

  Dr. Wilson studied the corpse an abnormally long time. “Why’s he taking so long?” Cruz asked Slater.