by John Knoerle
Bell whirled, his hand on his gun. The men raised their hands. "Don't shoot," drawled Green Suspenders. "We jest need ya to sign off on a buck."
Bell and Lyedecker followed the men over to a battered pickup. In the absence of a Fish and Game warden, Wislow cops were authorized to approve a kill made in the neighboring wilderness area. Only bucks with two point horns or better were legal game and the dead animal sprawled in the truck bed was barely that.
Wes examined the carcass. The buck’s blond coat was dusty and his flank caked with mud. Wes saw no blood, no entry wound, yet the animal looked just as dead as it was possible to be, his legs tucked up and stiff, his neck reared back and his mouth open. A cluster of flies busied themselves on an eye. The smaller man handed a form to Bell, who signed his name and badge number, saying, "Looks like some good eatin'."
The men tipped their caps and the two cops walked back to their squad car. Bell stoked the V-8 and headed west on Playa Road.
"How do we know hydriodic acid isn't used in refining diatomaceous earth?" said Wes after Bell leveled off at 50 mph in the number one lane.
Bell plucked a folded-up computer printout from the pocket of his uniform pants. He shoved it at Lyedecker. "Bernie ran it for me."
Wes attempted to unfold the printout, rolled up his window, tried again. The dot matrix type was hard to read in the cloudy gray.
Bell and Lydecker had double-timed it back to Bell's house, grabbed the lead-lined cannister and trekked back to the rusty corrugated pipe below the Department of Evil. Bell gathered up a sample and drove it down to the SBSO Lab and deputy coroner Bernard Fischer, who confirmed the presence of hydriodic acid in the runoff.
"Basically it says that hydriodic acid is used as a dairy disinfectant, couple other weird medical applications and thas are it," said Bell. They passed a yellow school bus full of junior high kids. The kids peered down at them curiously but none returned Wes Lyedecker's wave. Wes faced front in the passenger's seat. Bell hummed along with Gladys Knight and the Pips, his hands at ten and two.
"Then we go to the Chief and present the evidence," said Wes.
"OK, all right, that's fine," said Bell. "But, ya know, buying off federales is S.O.P. where these bad boys come from." Bell slowed for a red light at J Street. Pigeons huddled in the red and green light cyclinders.
"Chief Sunomoka is a rigid rules and regs kind of guy, maybe even obsessive sometimes," said Wes. He felt himself grinning. He had prepared for this. "The precise qualities that would make him very unlikely to accept a bribe."
Bell looked both ways and accelerated through the red light. The oldies station DJ segued from Midnight Train to Georgia to Papa Was a Rolling Stone. "OK," said Bell. "So maybe Shitamoko's not on the pad. But we go to him with what we've got now and, assuming he doesn't can our butts for continuing the investigation without his approval, the most he does is pass it along to the defectives who the last thing they're gonna do is act on a tip from two lowly patrol officers who've been eating dick sandwiches for lunch in public the last six weeks."
Bell waved as he passed Little Jim, who was headed east on Playa Road. Little Jim tooted his horn.
"Then we go to Florence, tell her what we've found and ask her to demand an investigation. She'd do it in a second."
Bell chewed on his lower lip and squinted at this partner. "They have someone on the inside, peachfuzz. We go to the higher ups with this and any evidence of a meth lab on the grounds of the Department of Evil mysteriously disappears."
Wes said, "What clues have you developed that led you to this conclusion?"
Bell said, "Very funny," and hung an immediate right on R Street. He curbed the unit under a bottlebrush tree, killed the engine and unhitched his seat belt.
"How could they not?” said Bell. “John Aubuchon's not gonna agree to put a meth lab on the premises of his multimillion dollar plant when he's approached by some well-heeled rep of the Sinaloan drug lords who knows he's gouged out almost all the diatoms there are to gouge out around here and sez his people are interested in a protected permament lab site so they don't have to keep shifting around from bracero camps to mobile home parks and said people are willing to pay for it with obscenely large sums of unmarked nonsequential hundred dollar bills. John Aubuchon’s not gonna say ‘Sounds good to me’ unless he, John Aubuchon, the Prince of Darkness is 1000% certain that he's got the local Mayor in his hip pocket."
A gust of wind shook the tree. Red bottlebrush follicles slithered down the windshield. "Which is why they dosed Sherri,” said Bell. “The bad boys were upset. They were upset that we bagged some of their product and busted a regional sales rep, yes, but what really got their cojones in an uproar is that we blew their political protector, their El Cacique, out of the water in the last election."
"That's a fascinating theory," said Wes. "But it has a fatal flaw." Wes waited for Bell to ask. Bell did. Wes answered. "Political protection is worthless without the cooperation of the police. And you already admitted that the Chief wouldn't take a bribe."
Bell smiled his font-of-all-wisdom smile. "He doesn't have to be corrupt. He just has to be himself."
"Meaning…"
"Meaning Chief Frank Sunomoka would never, on pain of death, authorize a raid on the city's most influential citizen without first going up the chain of command and informing his superior, the honorable Lester T. Krumrie."
Wes watched an Asian woman watch them as she tossed trash bags into a dumpster. Bell made a convincing case, damn him. "So what's the plan?"
"We innocently follow my wayward dogs into the area - I know where there's a hole in the fence - locate the lab and place the evildoers under arrest."
"Wouldn't the lab be…no, I guess not."
"What?"
"I was thinking the lab would be heavily guarded but that would just call attention to it."
"Correctamundo moosebreath” said Bell. “I figure it's well away from the central plant, what with the smell and all. Off in a corner someplace. And downwind." Bell refastened his seat belt and started the car. "It vill be, how you say in dis country? Piece of cake, no?" Wes did not reply. "Hey look, Braintree, some are born to push the envelope and some are born to lick it. If you don’t wanna do this I'll understand."
Yeah, thought Wes, that I'm a gutless wonder. "Give me twenty-four hours to think about it."
"Fair enough. You're not gonna go crying to Florence about this, are you?"
Wes felt Bell's watery blue eyes lock on. He wanted to look away but he didn't dare. "No, no," said Wes. "What kind of partner do you think I am?"
Chapter 20
Larry Tenace led Wes Lyedecker to a musty corduroy couch in the living room. The couch made a crunching sound as Wes sat down. "Can I get you anything?"
"No thank you," said Wes, facing a smoke-blackened fireplace. The muslin curtains on either side of the fireplace were sun-bleached the color of dried blood. Three yellow roses stood in a cruet atop a varnished blanket box that served as a coffee table. Wes noted with approval that the room had no TV. His mother always said the decline of western civilization began with the introduction of television to the parlor.
"Florence'll be out in a second," said Larry, still standing, his arm draped over the back of an overstuffed chair upholstered in a grimy rose petal print. That would be his chair, thought Wes. What the hell was he doing home at 12:24 PM on a Friday? Wes braved an upward look. Larry's befuddled blue eyeballs tracked him like an orbiting satellite.
"Great," said Wes. "I'll just wait here." Well, duh, he thought. But Larry Tenace was making him nervous. Wes understood why Larry was a highly-regarded public defender. Those unblinking eyeballs would be very effective in court.
"Allrighty," said Larry and returned to the kitchen.
Wes sank back into the corduroy couch. Larry's saucerlike stare had gathered up his guilt, focused it and bounced it back. He was about to betray his partner, no two ways about it. Except was it really betrayal if he later told his partner what he
had done as he absolutely intended to? They were cops. If cops didn't follow the rules, who would? Except the rules dictated that Wes tell the Chief of Police what he was about to say, not the Mayor-elect. Except the Chief had promised their immediate termination if they continued their meth investigation and telling the Chief about their discovery would force him to carry out his threat and probably tell the current Mayor who, if Bell was right, would tip off the drug thugs who would then run on down the road. Rules, Wes concluded, were a tricky thing.
"Wes, how are you?" said Florence. She was wearing a black and white houndstooth skirt, a long-sleeved white stand-up collar cotton blouse, a choker of pearls with matching earrings and house slippers. She perched her pert derriere on the lip of the grimy overstuffed chair and tugged at her skirt. "Alas it's too early for a drink and I've got meetings all afternoon…how about a nice cup of English breakfast tea? Larry, would you brew us two of your English specials? Do you like it sweet?"
Wes shrugged.
"Give it the works, hon," said Florence, reaching out as if to touch his arm from six feet away. Larry didn't reply. But he stopped doing what he was doing in the kitchen and filled the kettle.
"I'm so glad you called. I asked you to keep me posted but I didnt really think you would. I know how you cops are, one for all and all for one and all that but, really, I've never understood why this is so hard for some people to grasp, we're all on the same team here!"
Wes snugged himself back into his corner of the couch. Florence was certainly wound up this afternoon. "I agree completely," said Wes, agreeing completely. "But, well, I have to insist in advance that this conversation remain confidential."
Florence shook her boyish cut. "I do love the way you talk. You'd make a great press secretary." She shivered from head to toe. "Someday. When I run for governor. Anyway, to answer your question, that's a given. You're talking to your good friend private citizen Florence Jillison and no one else."
Water molecules pinged hollowly inside the tea kettle. Wes leaned forward and lowered his voice. "We, Bell and I, have strong evidence, physical evidence, that indicates a methamphetamine lab is operating inside the grounds of the diatomaceous earth plant."
"Whoaa," said Florence, all eyebrows and eyelashes. She looked inward for a moment, blinking furiously. "What?" she said. "What evidence exactly?"
"Uh…well…"
"Doesn't matter," said Florence, holding up her hands, rearing back. "So long as it's nailed down."
"It's nailed down. We've got lab results."
Florence rolled her tongue around her mouth. "Well then," she said. "That's that. Have you told the Chief?"
"No," said Wes. "Bell's afraid if we tell the Chief we would be fired for freelancing or, at least, pulled from a case we have developed from day one and risked life and limb to pursue to its ultimate conclusion."
Florence shot a look at the kitchen. The tea kettle was whistling furiously. Larry picked up the kettle and the whistle sputtered out. "Have you or Bell actually seen this lab operating?"
"No."
"And you naturally feel that you should be rewarded, not punished, for, how do you say, conducting an investigation that could lead to the biggest bust in Wislow since temperance preacher Ezra Jenkins got caught making sour mash in his corn crib."
Wes laughed, relieved that Florence was doing the talking for him. "Absolutely."
Florence sat back in the overstuffed chair, resting her arms on the armrests. Wes thought it a poor throne for such a regal woman.
"And you were wondering if I would, shall we say, encourage the Chief to let you and Officer Bell lead the investigation from here on in."
"At this point I'd settle for us not getting fired."
Florence frowned. "Don't talk like that. A case this big is as much politics as law enforcement. And in politics, at the start of negotiations, you always ask for everything you want."
"I can always get another job. What I really want is for Bell not to get the axe. I know he's a little rough around the edges but, Christ, the guy was born to be a cop."
Florence surprised Wes by saying, "I agree with you."
"There's a further complication." Florence nodded for him to continue. Wes paused to gather his words. "Bell thinks that Lester Krumrie may be in on it, providing political cover for John Aubuchon, otherwise why would Aubuchon risk it?" Florence Jillison put a hand to her mouth. "If he's right then…well, you'd somehow have to convince the Chief not to tell the lame duck Mayor that John Aubuchon was being investigated."
Florence pursed her lips and pressed the tips of her fingers together.
Larry appeared, holding two steaming mugs. Florence slid a copy of Vanity Fair across the blanket box. Larry set the mugs down on a picture of Demi Moore. "Enjoy," he said.
Wes thanked him. Florence said, “Shit! I plain forgot. Wes forgive me all to hell but I've got to call Joyce at the Shelter." She braced her hands on her knees and stood up. "I'll be back in a flash." She snagged her husband's arm before he could slip away. "Hon, entertain our guest for a second."
Both men recoiled at this very unpleasant prospect but Florence scuffled off in her slippers before they could object. "As you wish, Perlina," said Larry to her back.
Wes Lyedecker sucked up a lot of air through his nose, then released it very slowly. He studied the cast iron fireplace tools. A black leather billows sealed with bright brass studs hung from the tool stanchion by a strip of cowhide. He checked his sytems. He was awake, alert and sober. He had heard what he had heard.
Larry sat down in the overstuffed chair. Wes took a sip of tea, burned his mouth and said, "Perlina?"
“My wife’s nickname,” said Larry Tenace. “In Spanish it means ‘little pearl’.”
Wes tried to think what to do, which was not easy in the glare of Larry’s concave stare. Florence didn’t know her nickname was the biker’s dying word. Wes should just sit tight until she was finished with her phone call and act as if nothing had happened. But who was she really calling? You don’t interrupt a meeting about Wislow’s crime of the century to call Joyce at the Shelter. Larry Tenace kept his eyes on Wes Lyedecker. Wes checked his watch. "I really should be going," said Wes, hands on his knees.
Larry Tenace did not object.
Wes shot to his feet, said, "Tell Florence I’ll call her," and crossed the living room in three strides.
-----
The dogs didn't bark from the backyard like they usually did when Wes climbed out of his RX-7 and headed up the driveway to Bell's house. He grabbed for the tiny brass knocker, then hammered his fist on the door. He tried again to compose his statement to Bell, but his brain was moving way too fast. He would just have to blurt it out, admit that he'd been a traitorous scumwad, apologize profusely and tell Bell what he had heard.
Wes pummeled the pressboard door. Wes had been invited over for pre-shift coffee twice before. Bell always watched the 1 PM Star Trek reruns while polishing his boots, badge and nameplate. And bullets. Bell should be home. Probably on the throne. Of course Bell would want to launch immediately when he heard the news. What was his rookie partner, having shared evidence with a civilian and jeapordized the entire investigation, going to say then?
The door opened. "He's out walking the dogs," said Sherri, holding up mud-covered surgical gloves. "I'm potting geraniums." Wes followed her down the entry hall. "There's a spot of coffee left."
"No thanks," said Wes, standing by the counter as Sherri peeled off her gloves in the kitchen sink.
"Sherri, was Tom armed? When he went out?"
"He's always armed."
"Was he in uniform?"
She slid Wes a sideways glance. "And risk messing up his boots?"
"Is his assault rifle still here?"
A shadow flickered across her pretty Indian Maiden face. "Why?"
"Is-it-here?"
Wes trotted after Sherri as she tore down the bedroom hall and into the guest room that faced the street. She slid open a closet door, reve
aling a rack of faded dress shirts, old uniforms and a Russian-made SKS resting in the corner, bayonet retracted.
Wes cogitated. Of course the SKS was here. Bell wouldn't enter the Dept. of Evil in broad daylight carrying an assault rifle. Sherri mashed her lips together, fighting back questions, being a good cop wife.
"Where does he keep his kevlar vest?"
Sherri led the way to the master bedroom. She dug through Bell's tightly-packed side of the closet. "It's usually right here, next to his uniform."
Wes helped her search through the wall of clothing. No vest. Bell never wore his vest off duty, hated the damn thing. But Bell couldn’t possibly have launched by himself, not after agreeing to give Wes twenty-four hours to think about it. Unless Bell had second thoughts about putting his rookie partner in harm’s way once again. Unless this was his answer to Wes Lyedecker’s question. What kind of partner do you think I am?
“I need to use your phone." Sherri pointed to an extension by the bed. Wes sat on a pillow and dialed.
"Wislow dispatch," said a female dispatcher he didn't recognize.
"This is Officer Lyedecker, 12 Frank. I suspect that…that is we definitely have an officer in need of assistance," said Wes, awed to hear himself sound the universal battle cry of law enforcement.
"I'll connect you to the watch commander."
"No, I don't have ti…" Shit a fucking brick, thought Wes as Sherri stared at him with her hand to her mouth and the phone system played an instrumental version of Rainy Night in Georgia. He prayed that the watch commander was Sgt. Carruth.
"Sergeant Harrick."
"Sergeant, it's Wes Lyedecker."
"Yeah?"
"Sir, we have an 11-99 situation. My partner, Officer…"
"I know who your partner is."
"Yes. He's on the grounds of…" What the fuck was the name of the company anyway? "…the plant, diatomaceous earth plant and in grave danger."
"How? From who?"
"From heavily-armed drug dealers."
