Mitch fumbled for the remote. “You been watching this too, huh?”
“—the judge clearly agitated with the prosecution’s mishandling of evidence…”
Footage followed of the giant in a much too small bulletproof vest over a bright orange jumper in a courtroom with the caption “San Diego County Courthouse.” The camera panned the room to show a crying Asian family, then the bearded behemoth, his lawyer, cut again to a grim prosecutor and settled on the judge, an angry, fiftyish black woman.
“With the prosecution’s loss of evidence, then admission of its failure to disclose said loss to the defense, I find that the state’s case is withering on the vine, Mr. Guitterez,” the judge said. “In other words, rotten. This a correct assessment?”
“That is astutely correct, Your Honor.” The prosecutor spread his hands in entreaty. “It has come to our attention that there were some careless mistakes and they are being addressed. Nonetheless, the state maintains the accused is a danger to society and should continue to be held without bail. Innocent lives are at stake, Your Honor. We’re asking a week’s extension, whereafter the state will zealously produce evidence to demonstrably convict the accused of kidnapping, molestation, child endangerment and murder in the first degree.”
“Innocent lives at stake is right, and your handling of this case has jeopardized those lives.” The judge’s brow wrinkled as she looked down her nose at the defendant. “Due to Mr. Parish’s violation in registering as a sex offender upon his last relocation but also taking into account that he has registered”—she checked her notes— “eleven times punctually before, I will grant you one week to do The People’s work, Mr. Guitterez. Don’t produce, however zealous you feel. Prepare something more concrete to bring before this court.” She turned to the defendant. “Travis Lee Parish you are hereby remanded back into the custody of the San Diego County correctional authority until one week from today”—she conferred with her clerk— “July thirtieth, 9:00 a.m. This court is adjourned.”
The reporter who had shorn her long blonde hair was reporting again near a campground dumpster outside of Coronado. The screen flashed her name: Elise Hutchens.
“Aesha Yi’s mutilated corpse was discovered here two months ago. She was three years old. Her parents, second-generation Korean immigrants—”
Mitch remuted the TV. “Horrific.”
McConnell nodded. He had gutted his share of game—deer, elk, bear, countless fish and fowl—had slaughtered both pig and cow and had recently killed a man in cold blood, even shooting him first in the groin. But “Pincer” Parish’s bloody handiwork made his stomach revolt.
“Did you see the leaked autopsy pics on Rotten.com?” Mitch asked.
“Hell no. Why on earth would I want to?”
“To see the evil that men do.”
Mitch needed out of the basement. Get laid, walk his dog in a sunny park. Something.
“Think they’ll release him?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me.” McConnell recalled Anj’s stricken voice after learning Odom was back on the street.
Mitch nodded. It wouldn’t surprise him, either. Not much evil in the world apparently did.
Maybe this was about devils after all.
CHAPTER 27
JULY
Spokane, Washington
“Have a good evening,” Karla purred sweetly, locking the glass doors of Mariposa behind the two teens and their mother with a roll of her eyes. “Finally. Hello? Mall’s closed for thirty minutes and you don’t even buy? Snotty little bitches!”
Raven-haired, a slight bend in her nose and a wiggle in her Italian hips, Karla Kaluza, Jersey transplant, sauntered her way over to the counter topped with a messy mountain of trendy tops, jackets, pants, shorts and capris. She twirled in circles the last few feet, her short, black pencil skirt flying high, revealing an olive-skinned bottom.
“Where are your underwear?” Marissa inquired evenly.
“Gave them to Todd.”
“Pourquoi?”
“He asked for them. Don’t act all offended. It’s not like you haven’t seen my cooch before.”
“Way more than I care to admit.”
“But not up close.” She smiled wickedly. “Want to?”
KK wasn’t a lesbian, she just wanted to play one on YouTube. The insatiable tart, her roommate besides, contended her incorrigible nature was the providence of a resentment of her mother’s repressed sexuality and her childhood development in Newark where she had charged the fifth grade boys a dollar each to feel her burgeoning bosoms behind St. Andrews.
“Did Todd offer you a job?”
“Why? You think my panties are worth a job?”
Marissa tossed a kitschy top at her, started the printout of the nightly sales.
“You know, it wouldn’t hurt you to have a little fun around here,” Karla observed.
“I just want to get out of debt. Not everyone was born with a silver spoon up her butt.”
Karla shrugged. Her college years had been paid, true, but her phlegmatic parents had cut her off after graduation. She picked up a flowery print with one disgusted finger. “Who buys this crap?”
Marissa grabbed it, folded it, conceding its garishness.
“Are you going out tonight or what?” Karla fell in half-heartedly beside her.
She shook her head, yawning.
“All work and no play makes Missy a dull girl.”
She kept folding.
“Alright, what is it?” Karla poked her in the arm. “You’ve been a downer for two days.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“When has that ever been my problem?”
“Alan Odom was killed.”
Karla’s wide eyes widened. “Whoa. How? When? And why are you sad about it?”
“He was shot during a robbery. They found his body in an alley.”
“And…? Not to be crass, but that’s not exactly bad news. Is it?”
Marissa hadn’t thought so that morning. Not so much now. But wait a while, the winds would change.
“It goes against my Catholic turn-the-other-cheek upbringing but good riddance. Hope the bastard burns in hell. You’re coming out tonight. We’re toasting that asshole’s descent into the underworld proper.”
“You’re evil.”
“How’s your mom taking it?”
Marissa shrugged. Her mom’s take was identical to Karla’s. Why she still felt a repugnance about his death God only knew.
“Do they know who killed him?”
“No, not yet.” She wondered if that would make a difference. Knowing who killed her sister’s rapist. Probably not. “Holy shit,” she said staring at the glass doors.
“What?” Karla said turning to look. “Holy shit.”
He was standing there in jeans and T-shirt. He offered a weak wave, pointed to the locked glass doors.
“Wait! Don’t—” But it was too late, Karla was already holding the door open for him.
She came around and leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “What are you doing here, John?”
Karla locked the door and came to stand beside her.
“I left you a message. Messages.”
“I heard them. You don’t always have to leave your last name.”
“Well, I wasn’t sure how many Johns you knew.” Pause. “That sounded kinda bad, like, uh—”
“Like I’m a prostitute? What do you want?”
Karla crossed her arms. “Yeah. What do you want?”
He squirmed.
“I’m sorry I slapped you,” she said.
Karla faced her, mouthed, You slapped him?
John said, “It’s fine. I mean, I probably deserved it. Look, I hate asking, but—”
If you ask me to do you a favor I’m going to scream.
“I’m going out of town. Think you could watch the beasts again? I know we’re not exactly seeing eye-to-eye, its last minute, but you’re the only one I can ask. I’ll pay you.”
She d
idn’t scream. She closed her eyes.
There were pluses to his request. Her sister’s cats for starts. And she could study without listening to Karla bump boots with whatever flavor of the night she picked up.
“I’ll probably regret it, but alright. I can hang with G-man.”
“G-man?”
“That’s what I call Geronimo. G-man. He likes it. How long are you going to be gone?”
“A week. Maybe a little longer. I really appreciate it. I know we’re not, uh…anyway. You sure you don’t want any money?” Pause. “I did it again, didn’t I?”
“No. That’s cool. So you don’t mind if I bang a few guys in your bed.” His look was priceless “Kidding. Is that it?”
“Yep. That’s it.” He looked about the room, likely for a quick exit. His eyes landed upon Karla who offered her deviant smile. “Nice hair.”
He smiled that half-smile of his.
Marissa bristled. “You still owe me dinner,” she said to John, followed by, “Call me from the road. You know. If you get bored.” Good God.
“Sure,” he said slowly. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks.”
She rolled her eyes as John McConnell finally found his exit and left.
Karla smacked her in the arm. “You slapped him? When was this?”
She shrugged, returned to folding. A little mystery did Karla good.
The petite brunette narrowed her eyes. “You said he was fat. He’s not fat at all.”
“Not anymore. On some health kick or something.” She had to admit, “He looks good.”
“Uh-huh. So why did you slap your sister’s good-looking ex-boyfriend?”
Marissa ignored her.
“Lighten up. I’m just busting your balls, Missy.” Karla twisted a lock of her black hair. “In full disclosure though, you do know, I slept with his brother.”
She stopped folding. “What?”
“Truth be told, we didn’t do much sleeping,” Karla corrected unabashedly, then cocked her head. “I wonder. The apple might not fall far from the apple.”
Marissa headed her off at the pass. “He’s too old for you. Divorced, has a teen daughter. Unemployed, so he can’t buy you expensive pretty things.”
“I can adapt.”
“Not your type. And you’re certainly not his.”
“I’m every man’s type! Why do you even care?”
“I don’t.” She didn’t. But he was Anj’s ex. And… And what?
“I can’t believe you slept with his brother.” When in doubt, go on the attack.
“It was first year, I’d just gotten back from holiday break.” Karla shrugged. “We were young, we were drunk, he was in uniform, there was mistletoe. Shit happens, what can I tell you?”
“Oh, comment les choses ont changé.”
“It would be a mistake for you to date him.”
“We’re talking about you. Why would it be a mistake?”
“Because you’d be doing it hoping that falling in love with the same man as your sister would bring you closer to her.” Karla reached out, squeezed her hand. “She’s gone, Miss. Sometimes we just have to let go,” said the woman who had never loved and lost.
They righted the models and displays, took out the trash, turned out the lights and locked up.
One woman disappeared in what passed for Spokane’s nightlife, intent upon “gulping down shots and playing tonsil-hockey” with strange, potential bedfellows.
The other found herself outside a pink house, ostensibly to check on the animals therein. And, if it so happened, to catch their owner before he left.
But she was too late.
CHAPTER 28
JULY
Stockton, California
Pete Jackson had come a long way since receiving his first hummer from gap-toothed Marcee Collins, parked beneath the old trestle in his mustard-yellow Nova. He operated out of a slick, black 7-Series these days. Still reminisced about Marcee on occasion. The south, not so much.
It was a Sunday and he was feeling a bit self-indulgent, which he could because he was The Man. He had called up the blonde bubble-butt who wrote her number on a cocktail napkin next to a glittery lipstick kiss the other night he and Chad Lucas had torn it up some. What was her name? Lila? Lily? Lita. Lita what? Who gave a shit. On her way over; he was going to tap that ass.
He sucked in hot air thick as a blanket. His tempting pool not ten feet away but ten feet might as well have been a mile in that delta humidity. Sipping at his Jack and Coke he slid his chair further into the shadow of his big-ass patio umbrella. That unabashed sunlight was something else. Could be his hangover from last night. Or that he burned easy—whoever said niggas didn’t burn didn’t know jack shit. Or maybe it was a condition passed on, what with all those years his godforsaken ancestors had picked cotton all goddamn day beneath a goddamn sweltering sun. No direct sun for Mr. Jackson now. Or cotton. Unless it was Egyptian, eight hundred thread.
Two decades ago back in Tennessee Scrawny Pete had broken his cherry with simple B&Es, his last earning him a stint in Turney until the sheriff of Bedford County (his uncle and only living kin) had called in a favor to keep his scrawny ass out of prison then encouraged him to get the fuck out of Dodge.
No need to tell him twice. He put moonshine country in his rearview, sights set on California to be a rapper. Dre and Eazy-E, those niggas made it look easy. But he was no good at slinging rap or crack, and, conforming to cliché, took up with a crew moving truckloads of stolen goods. TVs, stereos, Walkmans. A grunt at first, making just enough to avoid real work, then Fat Larry choked on his pastrami on rye, and out of necessity he ran things until the higher-ups could find a more proficient criminal mind.
But he had a gift, took to logistics like a duck to water. Bumping up profits seventy-five percent by his second week, another fifty by month’s end. Pete was made permanent, they expanded east, all the way into Texas. Life was good for a while.
Recuperating in his Inglewood condo after having his wisdom teeth pulled, doped up on Percs in front of Richard Pryor swearing like a motherfucker on fifty-two projected inches, he wasn’t there when a rival outfit with more chutzpah and less brains killed most of Pete’s crew and torched their warehouse.
The call was to sit tight and he did until he shat himself when someone pounded the fuck out of his door in the middle of the night. He didn’t answer. Instead he stared at the walls and ceiling until morning, imagining some goon busting down his door and slitting his throat while he slept. A nigga knew when to light the fuck out and out his bathroom window he lit, leaving his life behind, moving in with his girl up in Redding he kept for just such an occasion. He went civilian at a distribution center for one of the big supermarket chains, worked his way up to foreman, was promoted warehouse supervisor. The hours hell but no one wanted to kill him. It was alright. For a while.
Late one afternoon a domineering presence in trousers, polo and Ray-Bans strode purposefully up the loading dock, workers shrinking back from its shadow stretching ahead of it.
“PETE JACKSON! Front and center, boy!” General Barringer only had two stars back then. He wanted Scrawny Pete to join the Army.
“Enlist?” Pete asked, nearly shitting his shorts for the third time in his life.
“No son, I mean as a civvy contractor.”
“Why me?”
“Why not you?” the General barked. “I hear you got talent and you know when to zip your lip. That true?”
It was.
“You’re gonna run my operation. Be all you can be. Be The Man.”
The General had a plan for The Man. And Pete wanted more out of life than predicting spoilage charts. Thirty-five around the corner when the General found him and what did he have to show for it? A pot to piss in, but not much of one.
Forty-five now, he had pots galore. Shiny, expensive motherfuckers, too.
Speaking of pot…He lit a blunt, made a quick call to Sergeant Clemente at the depot. The Army was swapping out M-16s for the new M-4s, the
old to be serviced and stored, an absurd waste, they were perfectly good for perfectly killing someone somewhere. The serials sanded off, eight hundred perfectly good rifles were on their way to Fort Hood, from there to Louisiana and on to Darfur. Those Christians liked to shoot Muslims almost as much as the Muslims liked to shoot Christians.
“All on schedule, boss,” Clemente assured.
Pete was the boss. He had become The Man. Nothing happened in that depot without his say. The field teams weren’t shit without him. CID couldn’t touch him. The General needed him. He was one indispensable nigga. Life was good for The Man.
He tossed back his JC, sucking the liquor off an ice cube as he gazed up at the Heights. Economy tits up they had stopped mid-construction up there. The view must be spectacular. He should look into what they were asking. Probably a steal. Did he need a bigger house? Fuck no. But that wasn’t the point.
His eyes fluttered open. He’d fallen asleep. Bitch was late and he was sweaty, even under all that shade. Where was that ho?
He made a mental note to talk to Chad about Kosinski. Kid was poking his nose way above his paygrade over last week’s medical supplies intended for an NGO in Afghanistan that had been rerouted to Nigeria where some warlord or another would sell them to another NGO to buy guns off the French. No crime in that. It was the free market; world made its spin around the sun powered on it. Stupid, fucking Polack. Time for that motherfucker to grow the fuck up. Else he was apt to have a discussion with the General. Or worse, a talk with Tan.
He shivered. Even in that heat, the thought of a talk with that crazy fucker made a man’s balls shrivel.
He fumbled up his joint, took a couple puffs, fixed another drink, patted at his potbelly. Scrawny Pete wasn’t so scrawny anymore. Drink in hand, Ray-Bans on, he left the safety of the shade and made that long journey to the pool. Damn that light was bright. He dunked under the water, holding his drink aloft, then clambered onto the gray air mattress. Quick adjustment of his shades, then his nut-sack, he tried to enjoy being in the open like that. How his ancestors had—
The doorbell rang.
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