Poisoned Justice

by Jeffrey Alan Lockwood

  “Slow down. There’s nothing to worry about. Nothing. It’ll all be clear tomorrow after he leaves. Like I told you yesterday, I don’t want you fretting over details and getting distracted. The more you know at this point, the more likely that you appear unnatural or say something to raise suspicion.” I stroked the back of her hand with my thumb, trying to soothe her.

  “But what happens when the police show up?”

  “The way I have it worked out, you’ll be asked a few simple questions. You simply deliver the lines that I’ll give you tomorrow, they’ll applaud, the curtain drops, and you walk away.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I know how these guys think. I was one of them. If there’re a couple pieces of evidence that match up with a sensible story, they’re only too happy to close a case and move on. I just need you to focus on the next act.”

  Sarie sighed deeply, reached for the vial, and put it into a desk drawer. I must’ve looked worried because she said, “I can do it, Riley. There’s nothing to worry about.” She smiled at having turned around my words. I kissed her forehead and closed the door softly. On my way out of Kroeber Hall I ran into a gaggle of wide-eyed high school kids taking a tour of the university, in the hope that they might gain access to such a virtuous institution filled with noble scholars.

  I spent the rest of the day back in the city. Too preoccupied to schmooze with prospective clients, I changed into work clothes at the shop and caught up with my crew. They were on a big job in a grain warehouse on Pier 30. This was the real San Francisco, where the smell of sweat and diesel mixed with the salty stench of rotting kelp. This morning, the seagulls were rioting over the remains of some greasy mound of hair—most likely a wharf rat or an alley cat—their angry squawks filling the air along with their frantic flapping.

  I’d always liked the South of Market neighborhood. At least when I was growing up, this was where a tough kid could find trouble among the transients, sailors, and working-class men who lived and drank hard. The old Victorians with the stable residents provided a sense of nineteenth-century affluence, which was tempered by a skid row of dingy streets and trash-filled alleys.

  The fancy developers with an eye toward gentrification began to clean up the Embarcadero about ten years ago, which pushed the gays into this neighborhood. Living on the margins, they’d built their own gritty community among the warehouses and industrial sites. I couldn’t care less what they were doing behind closed doors. What mattered is that these guys had managed to fend off the city’s redevelopment efforts and keep South of Market from turning into another prettified neighborhood for the tourists and financiers. I’ll take a leather-clad homo who can hold his own over a suited-up banker who lives off the poverty of others.

  When I got to the warehouse, Dennis and Isaac were laying out the fumigation tarps and Larry was busy running numbers to figure out the right amount of gas. I leaned across the hood of the truck and double-checked his calculations. You don’t want to screw up with methyl bromide.

  Grain beetles are tough little bastards, and cleaning them out requires good, airtight seals. Climbing into the rafters to tape ventilators and ducts was hard work. And wading through the cavernous bins to break up the grain crust was just plain dirty as the dust turned into a thin layer of muddy sweat. It felt good. Once the fumigation commenced, there wasn’t much to do but stand around to watch for leaks and make sure that no idiots ignored the warning signs posted all over the place. Isaac and Dennis called it a day and headed back to the shop.

  Larry insisted that he’d watch over the site until the gas had dissipated. I grabbed some fried chicken for him at a not-so-savory takeout joint a few blocks away. At least he’d have something for dinner because I was sure he wouldn’t leave until the place was safe. A buddy of his from ’Nam working for another exterminator had been the one to find a dead runaway kid who’d snuck into a warehouse during a fumigation a year ago. They’d seen plenty of death in the jungles of Southeast Asia, but seeing a fifteen-year-old girl who’d vomited and drowned in her own fluids, skin blistering as she left scratch marks inside the door that locked behind her, was pretty hard to take.

  I headed home, showered, and wandered down to O’Donnell’s Pub for a burger. Brian was in the back doing inventory so his nephew was bartending. What the kid lacked in conversation he more than made up for with his ability to pull a beer with a perfect head. The place was quiet, except for the Monday Night Football game on television. It just doesn’t seem right that baseball and football should overlap, but America had bigger problems to solve with unemployment, nuclear arms, and the prospect of a peanut farmer as President. Between Fran Tarkenton’s aging arm and Walter Payton’s explosive legs, Howard Cosell had more than enough raw material to drown out Gifford and Meredith’s commentary. The Vikings and Bears were evenly matched, but I couldn’t stay interested in the game. The television chatter faded into the background, and for the first time all day, I had a chance to mull over and refine my plan.

  In one sense, I had everything I needed for my agreement with Laurie Odum. I could drive over to Berkeley, deliver the goods, and demand payment. With what I had, she could turn the case over to the police, who would have to conclude that poisoned underwear combined with the death scene and an autopsy added up to murder. Then she’d score the double indemnity, I’d get my cut, and Tommy’s Fund would be in the black for years. There’d be an investigation, but the story that Howard first gave to me would be believed (the dead flies and winged ants were long gone) and the case would sit in the files until the report turned yellow and the detectives turned gray. And assuming that Sarie’s confession was on the up-and-up, Morley would reassert control of the dope network for the Bay Area. The cops and courts do their best and it’s usually enough, but they only claim to enforce the law—not to provide justice.

  The alternative was my plan. If Sarie came through, Morley would be exterminated and she could move on. I could go to Laurie with what I had (or at least the parts of the story that she needed to know), and we’d all live happily ever after. Except, of course, for the corpses of a drug-smuggling ecology professor, an innocent Mexican girl, a slimeball anthropologist—and a slew of paraquat-poisoned kids. So much for fairy tales. But if Sarie blew it, things could get ugly. I played out various scenarios and none had happy endings. Morley would surely punish her disloyalty after he extracted what she knew about me. Depending on how the tangled mess unfolded, she’d likely end up on the wrong end of a bullet and I could find myself on the wrong side of a desk in a police interrogation room. Or Sarie could choke at the last minute, go back under Morley’s control, and it wouldn’t be long before he knew that I had the information to bring him down—a most undesirable situation. I was just getting all twisted up, so I headed over to Marty’s Gym.

  After breaking a good sweat jumping rope, I saw Marty in the doorway of what passed as his office, watching a couple of skinny Mexican teens wailing on each other in the ring while their trainer scowled. The fighters had plenty of piss and vinegar but a decided lack of skill. The bare bulb in his office didn’t provide much light, but it looked like the side of Marty’s face was purple and swollen. I wrapped a towel around my neck to stay warm, and detoured by his office on the way to the bags. Marty started to shift the cigar to the other side of his mouth, and then flinched.

  “You run into a truck, Marty?” He squinted through his black eye. I could tell he was deciding whether to send me on my way with a quick lie, or come clean.

  “Nah,” he croaked, tilting his head toward the inside of the office. He went in and I followed. Marty leaned against his desk, which was covered in rolls of athletic tape, wads of Ace bandages, folders with their contents leaking out, sporting goods catalogues, and a collection of ashtrays emblazoned with the names of Vegas casinos from his days in the big time.

  “I’m telling most people that I tripped over a mop bucket in the locker room, but them’s that need to know are already getting the word.” I lo
oked him over, and it was pretty evident that the old guy hadn’t fallen, unless he’d managed to land on his knuckles as well as his face.

  “Got into it with somebody, eh?”

  “I lent one of the up-and-comers a C-note. Probably shouldn’t have, but his manager was a real piece of work. Wouldn’t advance the kid enough for a suit and bus ticket to his father’s funeral.”

  “So what happened?” I asked, wiping my face with the end of the towel.

  “Turns out there wasn’t no funeral. I was the sap. The kid needed the money to pay off a bookie and figured he’d stiff me for the loan.” Marty rubbed the backs of his bruised hands.

  “And you collected.”

  “Never lend money that you can’t collect yourself.”

  “Bet the kid didn’t count on you still having your stuff,” I smiled, imagining the surprise when the grizzled has-been gave the hotshot a lesson outside the gym.

  “Wasn’t sure I did,” he grinned and gingerly touched his swollen cheek. “The world’s gone soft, Riley. People figure that somebody will solve their problems. They hire a strong-arm to collect on a debt, or even worse, some candy-ass lawyer to sue the guy.”

  “Everyone wants the cops or the courts to make things right,” I agreed, thinking about my own desire to pass off Morley to the system.

  “Damn right, Riley. And half the time what’s right and what’s legal don’t line up. Laws are written by politicians. You ain’t gonna get gold nuggets outta the rear end of a horse,” he chuckled. “And you ain’t gettin’ fit by listening to an old crank. Better start on the bags before you cool off.” He ushered me out of his office, and I started pounding away.

  Tomorrow wasn’t about saving the world. It was personal. Laurie’s money would make things right for Tommy in the future. But for what Morley had already done, somebody had to make things right. That is, if Sarie was telling the truth. Her story was credible, but it was all I had—and I’d learned that a smart suspect can weave a convincing lie. I wanted to lure Morley into either affirming or refuting her account, and then I could be satisfied with what he had coming.

  When I finally called it a night and headed up the hill, my shoulders were burning and my arms were like lead. I’d sweated out the booze and never felt better.

  CHAPTER 42

  The morning promised another crisp and sunny fall day. No clouds, no drizzle, no fog, no gray. Not exactly weather to fit what I had in the works. I stood under the shower until the hot water ran out, steaming the soreness out of my shoulders. Then, I pulled my suit out from where I’d hung it Sunday night after the concert. Dressing up twice in three days was some sort of a record for me. But I wanted to create the right impression with Morley. I decided to wear the blue silk tie again. My father would not have taken any pleasure in what I was planning. Neither did I, for that matter. However, he knew the importance of duty, of a man doing work that needed to be done, even—maybe especially—when it was not a pretty task.

  I walked down to Goat Hill Extermination, hoping to slip in before Carol got to work. No such luck. She gave me a hard time, asking if I was going to a funeral. I couldn’t help but give an ironic smile, and she let the subject drop. In my office, I pulled a briefcase from on top of the bookshelves and blew off the dust. I didn’t carry one of these things unless I was visiting a potential client who was the sort to expect a business owner to have one. I’m pretty much a take-it-or-leave-it guy when it comes to offering my services, but I can appreciate the formality of the old-school types. And I’m happy to accommodate their expectations, especially when a big contract is at stake.

  I thoroughly wiped the bottle of paraquat for prints and put it in the briefcase along with a pair of rubber gloves. There was a stack of city maps for northern California, some blank pads of paper, and a pair of black dress socks that had somehow been left in the briefcase. I didn’t need the maps or socks, but they came in handy to keep the bottle from banging around. I went through the expandable folders in the lid of the briefcase, looking for business cards, receipts, or anything that could link me to the contents if I had to abandon the thing for any reason. Satisfied of anonymity, I pulled from my desk drawer the note that I’d had Sarie write to Morley, slipped it into a pocket in the lid, and latched the briefcase.

  Then I unlocked the filing cabinet and pulled out the bottom drawer, where I kept my snubnose .38. It had been my personal weapon while I was on the force. Plenty of guys preferred a bigger piece, but I’d found that it was much faster to clear a holster with this gun. And working the streets in plainclothes, the snubnose was comfortable to carry and easy to conceal. Sure, you give up some accuracy, but all of my encounters involving guns were close-range affairs. And if, by some chance, things went completely awry and I needed to draw down on Morley, it wouldn’t be from more than a few feet. I slipped the gun into the holster inside my waistband. My suitcoat covered the bulge nicely.

  My father had given me the holster as a Christmas present when I made detective. He’d used his connections with Mr. Guicciardini—an old guy down the hill from us who had emigrated from Tuscany—to locate his brother, who hand-tooled the most gorgeous leather goods in the city. As good luck would have it, when my father arrived at the fellow’s shop, he saw some dermestid beetles crawling inside the store window. He warned Mr. Guicciardini’s brother that his leather was probably infested. I don’t know how my father could’ve afforded the custom holster without the man insisting that it was his gift for saving his stockpile from terrible damage. So that’s how I became the only cop toting a full-grain Italian leather holster with “Erin Go Bragh” tooled into the side. It was too bad that such a fine piece of craftsmanship was hidden away, but it felt good to have it pressed up against my body.

  I waved to Carol, who was on the phone, fired up the old Ford, and headed across the Bay. Traffic was heavy, but I’d left plenty of time. Why everyone was in such a rush to get to work was beyond me. Most of the poor slobs were heading to the financial district or some other prison masquerading as an office. I suppose the work put bread on the table, which, given the country’s economic mess, was saying something. I’d loved being a cop, but not the hierarchy, which more often reflected department politics than professional competence. I had to say that being your own boss had lots going for it in terms of freedom and control. The biggest downside was that there’s nobody to blame when things fall apart.

  That’s not quite true. I knew plenty of guys who blamed the city hall, tax collectors, and state inspectors when their businesses failed. But I didn’t have any government fall guys this morning—if anything spun out of control, it would be my screw-up. Even relying on Sarie was my call. I could’ve taken care of Morley on my own and done so with far less uncertainty. But it’s not just about getting the right outcome. It matters how you close the deal.

  In Berkeley, I parked a few blocks from campus in a legal spot where the ratty apartments for students ceded real estate to ranch-style homes with big picture windows looking onto a not-very-picturesque street. No sense drawing the attention of the campus parking patrol and having my license recorded by some ticket-happy rent-a-cop. It’s always the small stuff that gets overlooked and comes back to bite you. Setting aside incompetent criminals, who account for the majority of arrests, most cases are made on the details—an eyewitness across the street, a movie ticket in a coat pocket, a fingerprint on a windowsill, a dead fly on a mattress. Not that I was planning to have Morley’s death trigger a murder investigation. But my father was fond of declaring that “an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure”—and this held true whether exterminating cockroaches or their human counterparts.

  The campus was quiet, either because classes were in session or the students were still recovering from the weekend. Probably some of both. On the plaza in front of the administration building was a single longhair whose sign showed a map of the world under a photo of the Pentagon, along with the caption, “Humility. Don’t leave home without it.” A clever
play on the credit card slogan, all in all. I gave him a nod and walked through the archway onto campus. The September day was just the way I like it—too cool in the shade, too warm in the sun. It made a fellow feel alive, at least for the moment.

  I got to Kroeber Hall and stopped at the top of the stairs to read the announcements of university lectures pinned to a bulletin board. Not that I was terribly interested in or could even fathom what might be addressed by talks on: “Dynamics of Protons in Hydrogen Bonds through Vibrational Spectroscopy,” “A Linguistic Survey of Sandaun: The Politics of Enumeration,” or “The Significance of the Rose as a Symbol of Male Hegemony in 18th Century British Literature.” However, perusing the flyers gave a natural excuse to be loitering in the hallway, along with the perfect angle to see into the anthropology office. Miss Hoshor was behind the counter, facing away from the door. I could hear the chatter of women’s voices along with the clatter of an electric typewriter. The odds of her turning and recognizing me as I passed were slim, but I had a few minutes to spare and continued to study the announcements, halfway expecting to find a lecture on a new technique for counting the number of angels that could dance on the head of a pin. When Miss Hoshor went into the next room to admonish the other secretaries to buckle down with their work, it was a simple matter to slip past the doorway and head upstairs.

  Most of the faculty apparently shared the students’ disdain for mornings. Only a few offices had lights on. Sarie’s was one of them. I knocked softly and went in. She was wearing a sleeveless pale blue dress and a white cashmere sweater as if to stave off the morning’s chill, despite the sun pouring through the window. She smiled like a scared girl trying to appear brave. For all of her bravado in bed and her homicidal adventure in Los Angeles, Sarie now looked incredibly vulnerable. She got up to unlock the door between her office and Morley’s. As she turned back to her desk, I took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. She responded with a forced smile. Neither of us spoke. There was nothing to say—no pep talk or review of the plan would help. I had to trust that she’d come through.