By midday, we were firing on all cylinders.
The three of us were still at the police station in La Mesa, finishing up our interviews with the prospects. Villaverde had as many bodies as he could muster out at the bureau’s office working on tracking down Pennebaker. Munro was doing the same with his people in LA. ATF was also in on the act, which was where I was putting my money, but the breakthrough I was waiting for was playing hard to get.
The prospects didn’t have much to say. In more mundane circumstances, that wouldn’t have surprised me. Biker clubs prized loyalty and commitment more than anything. In outlaw gangs, it was like a blood oath. Patch holders did not discuss club business with anyone outside the club, ever. So, normally, I would have put the prospects’ lack of chattiness down to them seeing it as an opportunity to showcase their worthiness to the club they were trying to join, but in this case, there was no club. Not anymore. Everyone in its mother chapter had been wiped out. So I didn’t see why the prospects would still want to protect their sponsors, given that they were all dead. Which told me that what they were telling us was the truth. Walker and his crew knew how to keep things quiet.
None of the local missing persons reports coming in threw up anyone whose profile matched the previous kidnap victims—scientists, chemists, pharmacologists. We were spreading the net up to San Francisco and beyond, across the whole state, but so far, nothing.
We did get one lead, though. Nothing major, but it was something.
It was from the squad car of the deputy who’d gone to pick up Soulpatch/Scrape from the grotto.
These days, more and more squad cars were being equipped with in-car video cameras. It made sense on a whole bunch of levels. Drunk drivers overwhelmingly pleaded no contest when told they were being filmed, resulting in less paperwork and court time. Municipal bean counters loved them—the cameras, not the drunk drivers—since they helped cut down on the tens of millions of dollars paid out in lawsuits on unsubstantiated claims that couldn’t be effectively thrown out without the video records. They were also a great boon in proving probable cause for vehicle searches and seizures, resulting in more confiscated drug money. And cops loved the fact that hardheads were far more reluctant to throw punches at them or even turn belligerent while on camera.
Unfortunately, the cameras didn’t stop the thugs who came after Scrape.
They did, however, allow us a glimpse into what had happened, despite the fact that the shooters had thought of pulling out the rewritable DVD from the overhead-mounted console inside the car. What they didn’t know was that the video system in Fugate’s patrol car also included an integrated hard drive that not only backed up anything that was on the DVD, it also added ten minutes of pre- and post-event footage to it.
It was all there for us, downloaded, cued up, and ready for viewing in high-res color.
We started with the footage from the front-facing camera. It was brief, but intense. The deputy’s car is heading toward the gate of the warehouse. No one else is around. Then a big black SUV, a Chevy Tahoe, turns into the complex and just charges at the squad car. We barely get a glimpse of it as the deputy curses and swerves to avoid it, and the camera angle swings away—then the picture rocks wildly and spins around as the SUV rams the deputy’s car and sends it sliding into a ditch.
Fugate curses again, but from that point on, the footage from the front view camera is useless. Nothing is going on in front of the stalled car. But that’s when the backseat camera comes into play.
The footage from it was far more disturbing.
It starts with Scrape, sliding across the seat, his hand pressed against his shoulder, muttering “Easy” and wincing with pain as he settles back. He doesn’t look great. Then the car drives off and he’s bouncing around back there—then his face goes wild with alarm, the SUV plows into them, and he’s thrown around like a puppet before he pitches forward and slams straight into the impact-resistant glass partition as the car hits the ditch and comes to a standstill.
And that’s when the footage got real bad.
With Scrape looking on, his face tight with terror, a gunshot rips through our ears and a splatter of blood hits the partition as, off camera, the deputy is shot through the head at point-blank range. Then Scrape starts to scream as he frantically squeezes as far away from the door as he can while a figure—unclear at this point—reaches in to drag him out. We hear the scuffle and the banging of Scrape’s boots against the partition and we see the dark figure’s gloved hands latching onto the yelling and screaming biker before yanking him out of the car by his legs. Then the image stays fixated on the ghostly backseat while in the background, faint but audible, some car doors slam shut and the Tahoe screeches off.
After a moment of stunned silence, I said, “Let’s see that again. The part where the shooter goes for Scrape.”
We watched the grim sequence again, looking for a tell that would help us track down the killers. I was hoping we’d get something on the guy who leaned in to grab Scrape—a glimpse of his face or maybe just a reflection of it on something in the car. But most of his head was blocked by the bulky metal frame of the partition. Then I spotted something and hit the Pause button.
“Right there. What is that?”
I went back a few frames and held it there, on an image of the killer struggling with one of Scrape’s legs. He was wearing something dark and long-sleeved, but as he fought to hold down the biker, his left sleeve had ridden up and I could see something around his wrist, between the top of his glove and the edge of his sleeve.
I got the tech to zoom in and enhance it as best he could, and we got a clearer look at it. It was a leather wristband. An elaborate one, about half an inch wide. It seemed intricately tooled, with silver strands and some tiny blue gemstones.
Not exactly a fingerprint, I grumbled inwardly, staring at the screen, puzzled by why they had taken Scrape and not shot him on the spot, and wondering what state he’ll be in when we finally catch up to him.
My deliberations were interrupted by our point of contact at La Mesa PD knocking on the door. Villaverde gestured through the door’s glass inset for the cop to enter and he quickly joined us, his body language telling us that whatever he had to say was important.
“Karen Walker wants to talk to you. She’s on hold. Line four.”
I duly pressed the button and put the call on speaker.
“Karen? This is Agent Reilly.”
“I thought of something else. About Guru’s kid brother, Marty. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it yesterday, but maybe it can help you find him.”
She was obviously serious about earning her immunity.
“Shoot.”
“Marty had a girlfriend. Dani—Danielle Namour. He and Dani were really close and she was devastated when he died. So devastated I wondered if there was more to it, if I was missing something, and I asked her about it. Turns out, she was newly pregnant. The kid was Marty’s. I don’t know, maybe it’s nothing, but maybe it’s not, you know?”
“Everything helps, Karen. Where can we find her?”
“We lost touch not long after the shooting. Maybe she was following Guru’s lead, I don’t know. She didn’t want to have anything to do with us either. I heard she did have the baby. A girl.”
“Karen, where can we find her?” I pressed again.
“Last I heard, she was living down in Chula Vista, working in a high-end fashion store at the Chula Vista Center. But that information’s a couple of years old.”
“Thanks, Karen, that’s great. We’ll talk to her.”
I could hear some relief in her tone. “Like I said, I want you to get the bastards who did that to Eli.”
I ended the call and looked at our POC, who was already heading for the door.
“We’ll get right on it,” he said as he left the room.
I stared at the phone and played the call over again in my head. It might turn out to be nothing, but then again, blood is the thickest of all ties, especi
ally when tragedy strikes. A fact I had just experienced at first hand.
Pennebaker clearly had a conscience.
Maybe it extended to his niece.
34
Tess felt uneasy as the color drained from the principal’s face.
The woman, Marlene Cohen, hadn’t heard the news about Michelle’s death, and Tess hadn’t relished being the one to break it to her, but she didn’t have much of a choice. What she did, though, was avoid going into too much detail about what had happened, limiting herself to telling her that there had been a break-in at Michelle’s house, and that the intruders had shot her, fatally.
They were in the principal’s office at Merrimac Elementary, a smart and cheerful preschool-to-grade-six school that sat at the end of a cul-de-sac by San Clemente Park, close to where Michelle lived. Tess had checked out the website of the school before heading out there, and the first thing she’d noticed was how glowing its reviews were. Clearly, Michelle had done her homework and had chosen a highly regarded school for Alex. It made Tess think of the exercise she’d soon need to do herself on that front—school selection, admissions, and everything that went along with being the parent of a young child in today’s manic, highly competitive world. It had been years since her daughter, Kim, had been in grade school, and the thought of going through it all again was daunting. Surfing through the website of Alex’s school had made her stop and think, in more gritty detail, about how very different her life was going to be from now on.
The website informed her that the school ran some summer camps, which meant there’d be staff there for Tess to talk to. It also had a list of faculty members, but there were no Deans on it. Tess hadn’t been able to get anything more out of Alex about who he was talking about. In fact, most of the faculty were women. So she’d taken a cab out to the school and asked to see the principal.
Cohen, a tall, elegant, gray-haired woman who reminded Tess of a figure from a Modigliani painting, took a moment to collect herself before inquiring about Alex, how he was doing, what would happen to him. She told Tess she didn’t know the boy personally, but she thought she remembered seeing him and Michelle at school events.
“What can I do to help you?” she finally asked.
“I found a drawing that Alex had done that I was curious about, and when I asked him about it, he said his mom took him to see someone called Dean. I’m thinking maybe it’s some kind of counselor. Does that name mean anything to you?”
Cohen pursed her lips and shook her head. “No, not really. We don’t have any Deans on staff here. What was the issue with the drawing?”
“I’m not really sure. It shows Alex and someone else, kind of an ominous-looking figure. And when I asked him about it, he didn’t want to talk about it. He seemed scared by it. What about his teachers? Maybe they know something.”
“Alex was in prekindergarten,” Cohen said as she checked her computer. “He was in room two. Miss Fowden’s group.”
“And she never mentioned anything to you about him?”
“Nothing.”
Tess frowned. “Is she around? I’d love to talk to her.”
Cohen’s nose crumpled apologetically. “She’s not working this summer.”
“I really need to talk to her. Can I call her? Do you know if she’s around?”
Cohen looked at her, uncertain.
“Please. It’s important.”
Cohen smiled. “Sure. Let me try her.”
She picked up her phone, glanced at the computer screen to get the teacher’s number, and dialed. Tess watched anxiously as the call seemed to go unanswered, then Cohen spoke up.
“Holly, it’s Marlene. I’ve got a woman here who needs to talk to you. It’s about Alex Martinez.”
Tess’s heart deflated. From the principal’s tone, she’d evidently reached the teacher’s voicemail.
Tess gave Cohen her cell phone number, which Cohen included in her message. Then she thanked her and left.
As she walked back to the waiting cab, she felt the midday sun weighing down on her, draining and oppressive. She relived her chat with Alex, and the fear she saw on his face was still there, like a wraith, stalking her through the heat haze.
It was still there as the cab drove off, and she pulled out her iPhone to let Jules know she was on her way back. Her hand stopped and she stared at the phone for a moment.
The edge of her mouth cracked with a small grin and she hit two on her speed dial. Reilly’s number.
“Everything okay?” he asked, picking up promptly, as he always did.
“Yeah. I’m at Alex’s school. I just had a chat with the principal. It’s a great little place. Nice people.” She didn’t really want to mention the drawing again. “Tell me something. You guys have Michelle’s phone, right?”
“We do.”
“Could you check and see if there’s a Dean in her contacts list or in her calendar?”
“Why?”
“Alex mentioned something about Michelle taking him to see someone by that name. I don’t know who he is, but . . . might be good to have a chat with him, don’t you think?”
Reilly went silent for a second, then said, “This is about the drawing, isn’t it?”
She cursed inwardly. He knew her way too well. “Yes. I asked him about it, okay? He was scared, Sean. He was definitely scared and he didn’t want to talk about it. All I could get out of him was that Michelle was also curious about it and took him to see this Dean to discuss it. That’s worth checking out, isn’t it? I mean, what if someone was threatening him? What if it’s related to what happened to Michelle?”
Reilly went quiet again. “Dean.”
“That’s it.”
“Okay,” he relented, clearly not convinced. “I’ve got to go.”
“Love ya, big guy.”
“Right back at ya.”
She put her phone away, stared out the window, and exhaled heavily, trying to ignore the prickles of impatience that were stabbing away at every pore of her body.
35
Sitting at the solitary booth in the back of the Black Iron Burger Shop on East Fifth Street, Perrini wiped the last traces of the burger and the side of onion rings from his mouth and stretched his arms out lazily. As freelance jobs went, this one was almost embarrassingly easy. He knew this was a rarity, especially after one of the previous year’s jobs for Guerra had turned from strictly an information-gathering exercise into shutting down the local operation of a particularly aggressive Mexican cartel that was trying to muscle its way into the city.
Initially he had balked at turning off one of his newest suppliers of cash-stuffed envelopes, but the rival cartel that had hired Guerra in the first place were so pleased with how things had turned out that they had given Perrini a rather sizeable bonus, albeit one from which Guerra had creamed off a hefty twenty-percent commission. Nevertheless, it would be enough to put Nate, Perrini’s eldest son, through college, and a good one, too.
Perrini had taken no chances with the fallout. Within a week of the entire upper echelon of the incoming cartel’s New York City contingent being sent to Rikers, Perrini had ensured that his sometime contact had been fatally stuck with a rather nasty shank by an up-and-coming lieutenant of the incumbent African-American gang in the South Bronx, a favor arranged by an old friend at the Forty-first. The killing had been marked down to a racial slur and had therefore been logged as having nothing to do with a turf war between competing Mexican gangs.
It was a win-win for Perrini, as the freshly triumphant outfit was from then on more than generous with both their cash and their product. In fact, he had a twenty-gram bag of their finest uncut cocaine sitting in his left trouser pocket at this very moment.
He waved over the waitress to ask for another vanilla malt and saw Lina Dawetta walk into the restaurant. He watched her glance around edgily, clearly making sure there was no one she knew in there. She then walked over to the booth and sat on one of the vacant stools facing the detective.
Seeing as the restaurant was just a couple of blocks from the precinct house, bumping into somebody one of them knew was an occupational hazard, though the only time it had happened to date, Perrini had calmly fielded a sly smile from a homicide detective with whom he was on no more than corridor-greeting terms. Let them think he was screwing a lowly PAA. Though the powder was gradually taking its toll, Lina was strikingly attractive in an olive-skinned, auburn-haired Sicilian way, and Perrini knew that the unspoken code between male cops would keep his wife from ever hearing about it.
“You want something to eat?” said Perrini, smiling at the young police administrative assistant as though she were his favorite niece or beloved sister, rather than a civilian who earned a third of his detective’s basic salary.
“No. Just a Diet Sprite.”
She set down her open purse on the vacant stool beside her.
Perrini relayed the order to the waitress, then without taking his eyes off Lina or changing the smile on his face, nonchalantly removed the bag of cocaine from his pocket, stretched his hand underneath the bar-height table, and dropped the bag into Lina’s purse.
It was a point of principle with Perrini always to go first in any exchange. It promoted trust and reduced his risk should the meeting be compromised before the end. He never understood why so many people insisted on the kind of ridiculous ballet you saw in movies. He was happy to trust the other party to make good, just as the other party should trust that he would not be amused if they tried to fuck him over.
Lina took out her lipstick and compact from the purse in a practiced movement that included moving the cocaine bag to a side pocket where it couldn’t be viewed by a passing customer.
The waitress delivered their drinks as Lina ran the lipstick across her pale lips, returned both objects back to where they’d come from, then took out a folded sheet of yellow legal paper and opened it on the table in front of her.
“Hazel Lustig. Born July 18, 1947. Sister of Eileen Chaykin, nee Lustig. Never married. No children. No federal warrants. No local traffic violations. Taxes all in order. Qualified as an equine veterinarian in 1971. By 1985 had her own practice in New Jersey specializing in race horses. Sold it in 1998 and retired to Cochise County, Arizona, where she owns three hundred acres and cares for about forty retired racehorses. The ranch isn’t open to the public. Two bank accounts, both in the black. One significantly so.”
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