by Mark Schorr
BORDERLINE
BY
MARK SCHORR
ALSO BY MARK SCHORR
Red Diamond, Private Eye
Ace of Diamonds
Diamond Rock
Bully
The Borzoi Control
Overkill
Seize the Dragon
An Eye for an Eye
Gunpowder
BORDERLINE Copyright © 2006, 2020 by Mark Schorr.
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Originally published by THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data (TK)
First Edition: September 2006
Smashwords Edition: January 2020
Table Of Contents
PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
To my wife, Sima, for her reading, editing, and nagging
PROLOGUE
Henry “AK” Dekalb had earned his nickname two decades earlier, when he was thirteen years old and sprayed a rival gang member’s car with an AK-47. Since then he’d been a suspect in a dozen killings involving disputes over drugs and territory. He was a striking figure, with a small gold star in a front tooth that he bared in a predatory smile. Weight lifting during frequent prison stints had given him Popeye-esque forearms. The hedonistic life when not imprisoned had resulted in a generous potbelly.
AK had moved to Portland in 1989 when his independent crack-dealing operation in Oakland was facing police scrutiny and, more scarily, intrusions by both Crips and Bloods. In Oregon, being unaffiliated was not a problem. He built his network and hired enough independent muscle to enforce his operations. His sloppy hits were characterized by gunmen wreaking havoc with Tec-9s, Uzis, or MAC 10s. In his most recent execution, a seven-year-old girl in the house next door to his target had been killed.
Wolf knew his history as he followed AK through Lloyd Center, Oregon’s biggest mall, with four major anchor stores, close to two hundred smaller businesses, and an ice-skating rink that had briefly hosted Tonya Harding. Walking a quarter-mile-long promenade was running the gauntlet of franchised America—Gap, Victoria’s Secret, RadioShack, Lady Foot Locker, and on and on.
AK sauntered through a half dozen mall stores, a young woman on either arm, taking great pleasure in buying them clothing and accessories. The women had tight skirts and bare midriffs, looking a bit flashier than the typical mall rats.
Even with the women hanging on to him, AK took the time to flirt and banter with numerous other girls in the mall. He also had whispered conversations with several tough-looking young men. Some walked with him for a while, then dropped off and began talking into their cell phones.
Wolf watched the transactions from less than a dozen yards away. AK was a merchant king doing business with no sense of shame or fear of legal retribution. The mall was crowded with shoppers who scarcely noticed; the few who did more than glance in his direction were quickly intimidated into looking away.
Wolf carried a Sears shopping bag that made him look like just another happy shopper. He had an wool cap pulled low, hiding his hair and ears, with Gap clothes that made him look like a middle-aged guy trying to be cool.
Wolf had initially planned a quick hit-and-run with a stolen car. But during a week of following AK, the gangster was never alone. There were bodyguards, bimbos, family members, or part of the large posse that clung to him like remoras on a shark.
AK led his entourage to the third floor food court. At McDonald’s he paid for fifty dollars’ worth of Big Macs, McNuggets, and assorted side orders and beverages for the two women and three beefy young men who had joined him. At one point, AK threw pieces of food down from the balcony on the ice skaters below. His followers laughed and the girls fed him French fries.
After about a half hour he strutted, by himself, down the corridor to the men’s room. Inside the bathroom, a couple of teenage dudes preened in front of the mirror. Wolf entered and used the urinal next to AK. Wolf nodded to him; AK gave his gold-toothed smile. “Faggot, better go look elsewhere or I’ll kick your motherfucking ass,” AK said. “This ain’t the showers at San Quentin.”
The preening teens left. Wolf looked away, seemingly embarrassed. He reached into his pocket and took out a thumb-sized black aerosol container labeled “Security Pepper Spray.”
AK deliberately bumped into Wolf and said, “Get outta my way.”
“Sorry,” Wolf said, driving a quick palm heel strike to AK’s forehead. While the dealer was momentarily stunned, Wolf grabbed him in a headlock and sprayed the aerosol up his nose. The synthesized crack, four times a recreational dose, overstimulated AK’s heart. The dealer’s eyes grew wide and he reached to grab Wolf but crashed to the floor.
Wolf dragged AK’s thrashing body into a stall. The drug dealer was still conscious, his saliva-frothing mouth pressed against the toilet.
“Didn’t think it would end like this, did you, pretty boy?” Wolf whispered. Using toilet paper, Wolf pulled a dime bag of crack from his pocket and dropped it on the floor, half open.
As Wolf stepped out of the stall, a couple of young men were coming in. Their casual chatter about the movie they’d just seen stopped instantly when they saw AK’s legs sprawled across the floor.
“Call security!” Wolf said. “This guy just OD’d.”
The young men exchanged looks as if trying to decide what to. Finally, they nodded their heads and hurried out.
They rushed to one of the food counters, trying to get the attention of a young cashier who was more interested in serving McFlurries. Eventually, she made the call to security.
Wolf left as attention focused on the men’s room. The posse, seeming to realize their king was dead, abandoned the table to race toward the bathroom. Mall security rent-a-cops tried to establish a perimeter and keep the crowd back.
As he passed by the table, Wolf picked up an unopened Big Mac, fries, and a Coke, and headed to the parking lot.
ONE
Brian Hanson held the phone six inches away from his ear as Tammy LaFleur screamed on the other end. He could predict what her barely intelligible words would be.
“I tried to come in, really. But they were outside my apartment again, those men. They’re watching me. They’re probably listening in on this call right now.” Her voice rose a notch in pitch and volume. “I don’t care, you bastards, hear me?” Her voice lowered to a harsh whisper. “I know they’re spreading rumors about me and I’m gonna get them. They think they got me, but they don’t know who they’re fucking with. I know about their tampering with my mail. Yeah, you bet I do. But anyway, that’s why I couldn’t come in.”
If Brian charted that she had missed another appointment, her PO would revoke the twenty-eight-year-old’s parole. Coming in for every-other-week counseling sessions was part of Tammy’s plan to clean up charges of possession with intent to distribute, prostitution, and resisting arrest.
Layers of makeup did little to conceal the damage done during her ten years of methamphetamine use. She had gone from fashionably lean
to gaunt, with strangely protruding silicone breasts. Her bleached blond hair looked brittle. Her nose, broken by an abusive boyfriend, listed slightly to the left. Her teeth would cost as much as a Lexus to restore to presentable.
In early sessions with Hanson, she’d brought in five-year-old Glamour Shots. While carefully maintaining boundaries he’d agreed how beautiful she had been. She had set goals of getting back that glow and recognized that she’d have to stay clean and sober, attend Narcotics Anonymous and an anger-management group, and keep counseling appointments.
The first few months she had been treatment compliant. Hanson had gotten optimistic, not that she’d be a beauty queen, but that she could swim out of the hopeless whirlpool she was in. Stop dating exploitative boyfriends. Maybe get her son back from child protective services custody. Resume community college classes to become a veterinary assistant.
Brian knew he’d changed in measuring success from when he’d first started in the mental health field, nearly twenty-five years earlier. Using veteran’s benefits to get a master’s in counseling after going through his own turmoil, he’d been convinced he could change the world. Don Quixote with a couch.
Her diatribe broke into his thoughts. “Why do I even bother calling in? You don’t give a damn. No one cares. You’re part of the whole fucking moneymaking system. Telling me what to do, not really helping. Making things worse. I’m better off without all of you stuck-up bloodsucking bastards.”
What a schmuck I’ve been, he thought as Tammy continued to spew her anger. It was a struggle most days to convey hope to his clients when he had little himself. For too many years he had seen people at their worst, vicariously absorbing jolts of their pain. On top of his own.
Tammy had missed two appointments already. With some clients, like those with ADHD or dissociative problems, Hanson would allow them to exceed the clinic’s three-strikes rule. With those who had substance abuse or personality disorders, limits and consequences even-handedly enforced were vital to the therapeutic process.
His small office was near the waiting room and he could hear Mr. Edgars—a gaunt man in his sixties who was most at peace when he was in the waiting room of the Rose Community Mental Health and Addictions Agency—wailing and railing against the demons that haunted him. When on the streets his paranoia would cause him to waylay citizens, get picked up by police, and wind up in the psych ward. Mr. Edgars was harmless, but only those who knew him could tell. The wailing was louder than usual.
Tammy was talking about the conspiracy. “They know I’ve got proof. I’m involved with big names. You’d know ’em right off the bat. The newspapers would love it too. They don’t know who they’re messing around with. I’m gonna make those bastards pay and then go down to L.A. I got a cousin who’s been an extra in a bunch of movies.”
Tammy’s delusions didn’t have the obvious break with reality that Mr. Edgars’s did. There were no aliens or CIA satellites beaming messages. Her beliefs were not plausible but they were possible. Her paranoia could be coming from meth relapse or be part of her personality disorder. Still, Hanson wondered if she was experiencing a first major psychotic break and showing signs of schizophrenia. Usually it hit earlier, though the illness could have an insidious onset. Like most of the clients in the clinic, La Fleur already had several serious diagnoses.
“What do you want from me?” Hanson asked, trying to keep the weariness out of his voice. Phone crisis work was particularly difficult. There were no visual cues to assess, and he needed to find nonvisual ways to show the client that he was attentive.
“I gotta come in and see you. I don’t want my PO giving me a hard time.”
Hanson was about to wonder out loud how the PO would feel about her leaving the area with money she had extorted from the conspiracy that was persecuting her.
“I know you don’t believe me,” she said. “Maybe that’s why I trust you. You’re not trying to sweet-talk me. I might tell you a little. Guarantee it will rock your world. The conspiracy is bigger than you think. I’ve seen people at your center I know are involved.”
There was more noise from the waiting room. A thump. Unintelligible sounds.
Because of his history and his being bigger and stronger than the largely female staff, Hanson was the de facto security guard. There had been talk at one point of having a real guard, but the majority of the staff felt that would “create an oppressive atmosphere.” Instead, it was just added to his responsibilities.
“Okay, Tammy, I’ve got an opening at four p.m.,” he said quickly. “If you don’t make it in, I will notify your PO and close your chart for ninety days. Do you understand?”
“Thanks, Brian. Listen, I appreciate the slack you’ve cut me. I know you don’t believe that I’m clean, but you know my UAs have been good.” It was not the time to talk about the fifty creative ways clients could beat a urinalysis. “Yes. Just be here at four.”
“I will. I been thinking, maybe, like as an insurance thing, I should tell you my proof. You have to keep it confidential, right?”
“Unless there is a threat of imminent danger to yourself, someone else, or abuse of a child, senior, or developmentally disabled person.” He had said it so many times during intakes that the exceptions spilled out like a menu recited by a bored waiter.
Another loud thump. The receptionist yelled, “Stop it! Stop it!”
“Tammy, I gotta go,” Hanson said, hanging up and hurrying to the nearby waiting room.
Several clients had backed away. A few stared, wide-eyed. One woman didn’t look up from the three-year-old Ladies’ Home Journal she was reading. Mr. Edgars sang a hymn. Roxanne, a three-hundred-pound 45-year-old, was as silent as Mr. Edgars was noisy. She sat in her usual corner, glowering at anyone who came in, her four shopping bags spread out on the seats around her. A couple contained food clearly past the expiration date.
A man and a woman thrashed around on the floor. They slapped at each other, more concerned with getting attention than actually doing damage.
Ginger, the always emotional receptionist-file clerk, had climbed on top of the front counter and was screaming, “Stop it! Stop it!”
It had taken Hanson a fraction of a second to take in the scene. The door behind him opened and his supervisor, Betty Pearlman, barreled through. She was a stout woman with close-cropped gray hair and a no-nonsense manner. They’d worked together for more than ten years, had never had any contact outside of the office, but had a powerful camaraderie on the job.
She nodded to him and they went into action. Hanson grabbed the man’s belt and yanked, his other arm dislodging the woman. Pearlman hustled the woman into an interview room in the back. Hanson easily ducked under the man’s theatrical punch and grabbed his wrist, tugging the man forward. With his left arm he pushed up under the elbow, folding the man over. His movements were smooth, conveying the complete confidence of someone who had several years’ inpatient experience as a psych tech.
“I’d like to talk with you,” Hanson said. “If I let you stand upright, can we walk into the back without any trouble?”
“Okay,” the balding thirty-year-old said docilely.
Another clinician who wasn’t in session came into the waiting room to calm the other clients. And the receptionist.
Sitting in the six-by-ten cinder-block-walled treatment room, Hanson resisted the urge to give his sore shoulder a rub. He secured Fred’s basic demographic information and was assured that the man wasn’t suicidal or homicidal. “Okay, Fred, what’s going on?”
The man wanted to complain about his wife. Hanson redirected him repeatedly, trying to get enough information to see if he was appropriate and eligible for treatment. Fred finally explained that police had dumped the couple at the center after responding to a half dozen domestic-disturbance calls at their apartment over the past week. The couple had been arguing about having a kid. He wanted to, she didn’t.
Hanson made a mental note that that would be his entree into working with Fred.
Hanson continued his assessment, drawing out that Fred had no prior treatment, drank “a few beers” every weekend and reported no substance abuse, had an uncle who had bipolar disorder but no other mental illness in the family. “Other than my wife, who’s fucking nuts!” Even though structured by Hanson’s directed questioning, the conversation had helped the man de-escalate. It took a little more than forty-five minutes to gather the basic information, a tribute to Hanson’s skill and Fred’s willingness to talk.
“Well I think there are issues we could work on.”
“How nuts women are? Are you married?”
Hanson nodded, thought momentarily of his own marriage, then rapidly shifted his attention back to Fred. “I see you’ve got strong conflicts with your wife.”
“Wouldn’t you? I mean, she’s—”
“We only have a few minutes left. I want you to know what we can help with and what we can’t help with.”
Fred nodded.
“Okay, you’ve got conflicts. In my experience, there’s usually energy coming from both partners.” Fred started to speak and Hanson cut him off. “Not always fifty-fifty. It may even be ninety-ten, but there are always some issues both partners can address.”
Fred nodded.
“You want to have a child with her. I presume that means you want to stay together?”
Fred murmured, “Yes.”
“You want your kid to grow up in a house where his parents are acting like they’re part of the World Wrestling Federation?”
Fred almost smiled. “No.”
“Fine. We can work on that.” Hanson’s words were gruff but his eye contact and warm facial expression were welcoming, a professional balance. “I’m going to talk with my supervisor, who’s with your wife now, and see if we can develop a treatment plan for you two.”
“That woman is your boss? You see, they’re running everything.”
