Delvecchio said earnestly, “See, the people at the unemployment office send me out on jobs. If I don’t go, I don’t get my unemployment benefits. This company I found myself, and they gave me some hours.”
“That’s all well and good. Randy,” Ann said, folding up the papers to give back to him, “but I don’t think it proves your innocence. There were three crimes here. Are you saying you were working at the time of all three crimes?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head, his dark eyes flashing, “I’m saying I was working the day that Estelle woman was hurt. The other days I don’t know where I was, but I know where I was that day, and that there is the proof.”
“I’ll check it out,” Ann said, standing and ringing for the buzzer, wishing she’d never wasted her time by coming over here.
“Aren’t you gonna take the papers?” Delvecchio said, picking them up and extending them to her, a pathetic look on his face. “Please help me. I don’t want to go to prison. The other inmates say they’re gonna charge me with murder now that the lady died. I didn’t do these things. Can’t someone help me?”
Ann fell back against the door and regarded him warily. The chances of Delvecchio’s being innocent were a million to one. The public thought innocent people were convicted all the time, but it just wasn’t true. It was hard enough to get a guilty person convicted, let alone an innocent one.
His eyes were so big and pleading, so full of need, that Ann suddenly felt compassion for him, as a mother would. She reached out and accepted the envelope from his hands before she even fully realized she had done so. “I’ll see what I can do.”
When Brett Wilkinson was situated in an interview room. Reed started the tape recorder whirring. “My attorney is on the way,” Brett said, nodding at the recorder.
“Oh, really?” Reed said calmly. He should have known Wilkinson would have legal representation right from the starting gate. That meant anything even vaguely resembling a confession would have to be obtained in the next few minutes. “Well, you and I can talk or we can wait for your attorney. That’s up to you, Brett,”
The young man’s eyes flashed with fear and indecision. He looked around the room, but he didn’t speak.
Reed sensed the boy’s fear and adjusted tactics accordingly. With a strong suspect, his method was to befriend him and catch him off guard. But when the suspect was afraid, he went the opposite direction, feeding into their fear. “You’re facing a prison term here,” he said sharply. “Your attorney isn’t the one who’ll be riding that bus to the joint.”
Brett’s face was ashen. “But if I talk, I’ll go to jail for sure.”
“Jail?” Reed said, laughing. “You’re worried about jail? Wait until you get to the big house.” He cut his eyes to the boy. “You know, you might just make it in the joint. You’re willing to put out, aren’t you, become some hairy con’s lady?”
“You shut up,” Brett yelled, beads of perspiration popping out on his forehead. “They’d have to kill me. I won’t fuck a guy. I’m not a faggot.”
This rich boy was going to crack, Reed thought, smiling. “You will, Brett. You’ve got that look, you know. I’ve seen it dozens of times. You could even take a shine to it. Hey, don’t knock something you haven’t tried.” This time he threw back his head and emitted an even louder burst of laughter.
Brett was fidgeting in his seat, trying to free his hands from the handcuffs. “Let me out of these things. I’m claustrophobic, man.”
“What?” Reed said, still laughing. “You don’t like confinement? How you going to survive in the joint if you’re claustrophobic?”
Sweat was streaming down the boy’s face now, his chest and armpits starting to show stains. Somehow he’d managed to get his hands up over the back of the chair and then ended up with the handcuffs on the other side, stretching the muscles in his arms to the limit. “Help me, please,” he cried.
Reed stood and walked behind him, watching as the boy tried to crane his neck around to see him. With one fluid motion Reed kicked the chair legs, and the chair tumbled over backward, crashing onto Wilkinson’s hands. “I’m so sorry, Brett,” Reed said. “That was an accident. Here, let me help you.” Bending down, he yanked Brett up by his shirt, the chair with him.
“I’ll talk,” Brett said, crying. “Please, just take the handcuffs off.”
Reed sprang to life, unlocking the handcuffs and shoving them in his back pocket. Brett rubbed his wrists, a wave of relief passing over his face.
“Okay, let’s talk about Jimmy Sawyer,” Reed said, quickly taking his seat.
Brett wiped his sweaty face with his shirttail. “What about him?”
Reed was in no mood for games. “He’s a bad actor, a real bad actor. We have no idea what all he’s involved in. I bet you don’t either…not all of it, anyway.” Reed paused, forcing himself to slow down. If he seemed too eager, Brett would clam up. “See, I just don’t want you paying for his crimes, and that’s exactly what’s going to happen here. Sawyer’s going to spill his guts to save his own neck, then he’s going to walk and you’re down for the fall.”
“What’re you talking about?”
Reed gritted his teeth and popped his knuckles. “First one to cut a deal, Brett. That’s how it goes down.”
The boy sensed an advantage. “Are you offering me a deal?”
“No,” Reed said. “I’m not offering you anything. Only the district attorney can negotiate a plea agreement. But who do you think puts the pressure on them to do a thing like that?”
“You,” Brett said, studying the detective’s face.
Reed smiled warmly. Now was the time to win him over. “You’re a smart boy, Brett, even if you don’t know how to pick your friends. Now, we know you were running a drug operation from that house. From the price of the cars you guys were driving, it was a pretty big one.”
Brett shrugged this off, his confidence returning.
“What cars? I wasn’t even driving a car today. Ask that asshole who arrested me.”
Reed leaned back in his chair, irritated. If Brett had been arrested in his BMW with a stash of narcotics, the car could have been legally seized as the profit of drug trafficking. These boys knew too much about the system for kids not long out of high school. When they made a play for girls, they drove their flashy cars, but when they dealt drugs, they knew enough to maintain a low profile.
“I got you on the car, Brett,” Reed said, looking him straight in the eye. “Those cars were purchased in one day, and all three were bought with cash. Not many honest people walking around with over a hundred grand in their pocket, all green. So let’s not fence about that. That’s something we know for sure, Brett. In fact, I’m not even going to ask you a lot of questions about that lab. All I want to know is the name of the chemist. Is it Peter Chen?”
Brett hesitated, knowing he was at the crossroads. Once he rolled over on his own, there would be no turning back. But his friends weren’t sitting here with this hard-nosed detective hammering away at them. If they were in his shoes, he thought, they’d give him up in a second. “Yes,” he said, his voice low. “It was Peter.”
Reed moved the tape recorder closer. “Say it again, Brett.”
“It was Peter,” he said, his voice louder.
“Okay,” Reed said, “that’s a start. Keep going.”
“It’s just all so messed up. I don’t know where to start.” The tough veneer had vanished. He looked as if he was about to cry. “There are awful people out there….Things got so fucked up. My parents are going to die. My father has a heart condition.”
“Okay,” Reed said, unable to tell if Brett’s emotion was real or simply staged for his behalf. “Where did you move the lab?”
Brett shook his head, his lips clamped shut.
“Does that mean you won’t tell me, or the lab is no more?”
“Gone,” Brett said, looking away. “Everything’s gone.”
“I see. Decided to close up shop temporarily,” Re
ed said, trying to contain his excitement. Brett’s response had just given them the narcotics operation. “Okay, Brett, you’re doing good. Real good. I’m proud of you, buddy. Now, let’s move on, if you don’t mind. Let’s talk about the contents of that refrigerator of yours.”
Once Brett Wilkinson’s attorney showed up, the interview was terminated and Wilkinson was booked into Ventura County Jail on charges of manufacturing and distributing controlled substances. Any satisfaction Reed felt was cut short, though, by a call from the chief. “Get your ass in here, right away!” Rosemary Sawyer had called the mayor, claiming Ann Carlisle had seduced her son. Reed had beaten up her husband, and the police were harassing her entire family for absolutely no reason. Apparently the Sawyers had contributed a bundle to the mayor’s last campaign. Of course, the mayor had called the chief, and Reed got an earful.
The police association would provide him with legal representation if he was sued, but it would still be a hassle, and, as the chief pointed out, bad press for the entire department. But at least when Reed explained how Dr. Sawyer had provoked him, almost striking Ann, the chief did not mention any disciplinary action. Reed knew his pristine record was a definite plus at this point. An officer who lost his cool in an isolated incident was not the same as an officer who did it repeatedly. On the other hand, if the Sawyers continued to press, the department would have no choice but to order a full investigation. In the long run, it could even end up worse than a civil suit. They could insist on charging the detective with assault and battery.
Once Reed returned to his desk, he reviewed the status of the case. Brett Wilkinson had rolled over on his friends. He had admitted that Sawyer and Chen were manufacturing narcotics in the house on Henderson, admitted that Peter Chen was the chemist and mastermind, and then admitted that Sawyer was dispensing sundry pills to his social contacts within the local community. He didn’t, however, seem to know anything whatsoever about any drug runners from South America, and Reed had thought that was strange. Either he was scared of retaliation or Phil Whittaker’s snitch had conned them. Brett had said they did have a financial backer, though, basically a silent partner. He swore the person’s identity was known only to one person: Jimmy Sawyer.
So, Reed thought, there were more players than just the drug trio.
Every time Sawyer’s name had come up, Brett had started zigzagging all over the place. He had denied any information regarding Ann’s shooting, denied that Sawyer owned any firearms. As to the fingers, the young man had simply laughed. “What in the hell are you talking about? You mean, fingers off a real person? Don’t think so, asshole. Drugs, yes. Fingers, no way.”
So much for Ann and the finger sighting, Reed thought. On second thought, though, he realized Wilkinson wasn’t stupid enough to confess to something that serious. He might get sentenced to a few years in the slammer on the drug charges, granted, but even possession for sale was a far cry from attempted murder—or, in the case of the mysterious fingers, mutilation and murder. For the drug case he’d get maybe four years at the max. With what they called good time and work time, Brett would hit the streets in less than two years, about the time it would take to graduate from junior college.
The way the case looked right now, all roads led back to Jimmy Sawyer. At any rate. Reed thought, once he was apprehended, he could kiss his freedom and fast-wheeling life-style goodbye. Even if they couldn’t nail him for Ann’s shooting, the drug offense would violate his original probation, and Sawyer would certainly go to prison.
An idea suddenly flitted through the detective’s mind. Could Jimmy’s father be the financial backer? Surgeons didn’t make the money today they used to, not with the cost of malpractice insurance. If Dr. Sawyer was the silent partner in the drug operation, the supposition that he could have acted as Jimmy’s accomplice during the break-in at Ann’s house was not that farfetched. Granted, the idea that the doctor would risk arrest simply to bail his son out of a sticky situation didn’t fit. What seemed feasible, though, was that the doctor would do whatever was required to protect his investment.
Glancing at his watch. Reed saw that the day was almost over. Soon it would be night, and Ann would be alone and vulnerable. Did Jimmy’s father own a gun? Reed decided it was time to find out.
Chapter 15
That evening, after downing a few beers and taking a cold shower. Reed called to check on Ann. All he had managed to come up with for protection was advising patrol to make frequent drive-bys. He could handle the surveillance himself, but he was too exhausted to remain alert, and for that reason Ann would be better off without him. If she thought he was protecting her, she would develop a false sense of security. Would they come back tonight? Reed knew there was a possibility, a slim one, but with Wilkinson in custody. Sawyer had to be nervous as hell.
“Hey, David,” he said when the boy answered. “What’s happening, big guy?”
“Nothing,” he whispered. “I think my mom’s asleep.”
“No,” Ann said, cutting into their conversation from the extension phone. “I’m just resting. Tommy.”
“I’ve been trying to reach you all afternoon,” Reed said, eager to hear her version of the phone call from Hank. “Claudette told me what happened in the office.”
“What happened. Mom?” David said, concerned. “Did something bad happen today?”
Ann was furious at Reed for bringing this up with David on the line. “Nothing bad happened, honey,” she said quickly. “I’m hanging up now, Tommy. I’ll call you later.”
Once his mother was off the phone, David’s voice elevated and cracked. “Why can’t you find the person who shot my mom?” he pleaded. “She’s so scared. Tommy. I don’t think she wants to be alone.”
“Well, son,” Reed said softly, “that’s why she has you.”
David lowered his voice to a whisper again. “When I came home today, you should have seen the house. I don’t know what she did here, but it looks like she had a big party or something.”
Not quite a party. Reed thought. “She needs you now, David. You’re the man of the house. Isn’t that what I always tell you? My pop died when I was about your age, and I had to more or less take over. You gotta stand tough, you know? Be mature.”
“Yeah, I know,” David said.
“I know this has been hard on you,” Reed said, wanting to console him, “but it’s going to be okay. No one’s going to hurt you or your mother. Understand? Not as long as old Tommy is around.”
As David was prone to do, as soon as the subject moved close to the subject of fear, he wanted no part of it. “Sure. Hey, I gotta go. I’m watching this great video movie. It’s about this guy everyone thought was dead and then he comes back. He was just hiding out to get the insurance money.”
“David,” Reed said, “you’re not still harboring thoughts that your dad is coming back? It’s not good for you to think that way. It’s what they call unrealistic expectations.”
“Oh, yeah, well, they also call it false hope,” David said. “That’s all the stupid shrink ever talked about. But see, I don’t have false hope or unrealistic expectations. I know, Tommy. My dad’s coming back. I don’t know when, but I know he’s coming back. And when he does, Mom and I will be happy again.”
Before Reed could say anything else, David had hung up the phone.
Ann was in the bedroom, staring at the ceiling. She had to tell David the truth about last night, but she couldn’t force herself to do so. First someone had shot his mother, and now she had to tell the poor kid that somebody had broken into his home.
Slipping on her robe, Ann went to check on him. “You’re watching a movie, huh?” she said, finding him sprawled on the sofa, his head propped up with pillows.
“Be quiet,” David said. “It’s almost over.”
“Look at this mess,” she said, running her fingers through her hair. His schoolbooks were in the middle of the floor, and his nylon parka and five or six comic books, as well as an empty sack of microwa
ve popcorn. “I’ve told you a dozen times not to leave your stuff in the living room.”
“Mom,” he yelled. “You’re standing right in front of the television. I can’t see.”
Ann bent over and started picking up his things. “I just want to clean—”
“Great, Mom,” he said sarcastically. “I’m missing the end of the movie. Thanks a lot.” He stormed out of the room and slammed the door to the bathroom down the hall.
“It’s just a video, David,” Ann said through the bathroom door. “You can rewind it.”
When he opened the door a few minutes later, he found his mother hovering outside. “What are you doing?” David said.
“Nothing,” Ann said self-consciously, following him back to the living room. “How about some cookies?”
“We don’t have any,” David said.
“Maybe I can make some peanut butter cookies. Stay here, I’ll see what we have. I should have some flour and some…” Her voice trailed off as she wandered into the kitchen.
Shaking his head at her peculiar behavior, David cleaned up his mess and carried it all to his room. Returning back down the hall, he peered around the corner into the kitchen to see what his mother was doing. Offering to make cookies for him when she was always all over him about his weight struck the boy as strange. But it wasn’t half as weird as seeing his mother dropping spoonfuls of peanut butter straight from the jar onto the cookie sheet. “Mom, don’t you have to make dough first?”
“Oh,” Ann said, without turning around. “I don’t have any flour.”
Okay, David thought, tiptoeing off. His mother had gone completely bonkers again, just as she had after his father disappeared. What he had to do was get out of the house before she forced him to eat whatever it was she was making.
All the same, the mere mention of food had his stomach growling. If he hurried, he could get to the video store on the comer before it closed and rent another movie. While he was there, he could sneak in a candy bar. He grinned. If he was going to eat something fattening, he decided he’d rather eat a candy bar than burned peanut butter.
First Offense Page 22
