Angle of Attack

by Lee Baldwin

  We step over the side. After 30 minutes we’re jumping small streams in the riverbed. Moving beneath trees down here, I’m following the GPS and watching for landmarks, one tree in particular.

  I find it easily but when I do I am not very happy. The tree has broken about 50 feet up. The top 25 feet of it toppled and hung up in a neighboring pine, forms a slender bridge between them. With binocs I see tangled bungee cord and the outline of something that could be the small dry bag I’d left. Why is it still here? Stupid Mick. I could have come back for it easily. But I wasn’t in his long-term plan.

  “You’re sure that’s it,” Rayne says, holding the binocs.

  “We’re at the coordinates. Not much doubt.”

  “But wait,” Tharcia says, peering through the binoculars. “I don’t think you have to climb the tall tree. Go up the smaller tree. I think you can dislodge the broken top.”

  I look again, follow what she’s thinking. “Might work. Could use the loppers to cut the broken part away, let it fall.”

  Then, I wonder, what does it do? Maybe it breaks off and falls to the ground. Great. But if it doesn’t snap off, what we’re after could dangle out of reach.

  “How about this,” Rayne says. “Tie a rope on the broken part, then we break it free by pulling from down here.”

  Well she’s got a brilliant idea, only hitch of course is the execution. No better ideas come, so I start to climb. The rain has let up but everything’s slippery cold and wet. I’ve got the loppers and the saw and about 200 feet of line, my stupid looking bicycle helmet, which helps with pushing through the branches. Loppers and saw dangling from my belt, constantly getting tangled. Anyway after about 10 minutes I’m up here staring across at the bridged treetop. Small rubber dry bag only 15 feet away. I’m dying to know what’s in it.

  The broken tip of the other tree goes right by my face but it’s only two inches thick here. Marginally strong enough to hold me. So I want to get the rope around a cluster of branches about 10 feet out where the grip will be secure. The three of us will be able to pull it down.

  I am having no luck getting a loop out there, taking a breather and looking things over when branches shake below me. I look down and there are Tharcia’s baby blues peering up through the pine needles.

  “What you think you’re doing? Are you demented?”

  She laughs. “Why miss all this fun? Think of me as a silent observer.”

  “Hah, as if you could ever be silent.”

  “I have my quiet moments.”

  “For instance?”

  “When conjuring the Devil.”

  “Lunatic.”

  Now she’s squirming up through the branches next to me and we’re eye to eye in the pine needles. Raindrops sheet her cheeks. All she has for noggin protection is the soggy Red Bull baseball cap.

  “So what are we doing Captain,” she asks, looking at the fallen treetop. “Hey is that it, is that your bag?”

  “Yuppers. I’m trying to rig a line to this, then climb down and we all pull on it. Want to get the rope tied farther out.”

  “I already have a better idea,” she says confidently.

  “Hit me with it.”

  “Tie the trees together real tight so this part can’t fall. Then one of us climbs out there and unhooks your bag.”

  “Not bad. May I suggest a safety harness first?”

  We talk about it then finally I start to work, using some of the rope to lash the broken top to the trunk we’re holding onto. Branches slap me in the eyes as I work.

  “Speaking of ideas, I had one the other day,” I tell her, trying to feed the line around a branch.

  “Like what?”

  “You were saying you don’t want to live at your mom’s?”

  “Yeh. Feels too strange. Mean and sad.”

  I take a second to yank a knot tight. “Well, there’s a room and bath at my place, any time you want it. Room for Rayne too. I’ll throw in the services of a certain cat.”

  “Stuka! That is the coolest ever.” She’s quiet for a minute. “That’s close to Cal Santa Cruz isn’t it?”

  “Um, twenty minutes.”

  “Killer,” she says, from a foot away.

  I can’t tell you how happy that makes me. I go back to lashing the two trunks together, look up when it’s tight, and get a real shock. Tharcia has worked her way out along the broken section of the other tree. The whole thing is sagging like a bow. She’s ten feet out, the tree I’m in is leaning toward the other one. Her legs are dangling down and she’s inching along.

  “You lunatic,” I yell out. “At least you should have a safety line. Get ready I’ll toss it.”

  “Cool your jets, Clay. Told you I’m an experienced rock climber.”

  “This is a tree, you nutter, there’s a diff.”

  Tharcia laughs it off. “Also Rayne’s down there she’ll catch me. You roped that nice and tight I presume.”

  About this time Rayne notices what Tharcia is up to and yells bloody murder from below. Tharcia’s reply is a looney laugh that echoes among the trees. I’m prying my mind away from disbelief as Tharcia, 15 feet away and suspended over the clearing on the sagging broken trunk, she’s using her knife to cut my dry bag loose.

  “Okay if I just drop it?” She’s holding the bag in one hand now.

  “Should be all right.”

  The bag and the tangle of bungee cord falls free and plops on hard earth 40 feet below.

  Jeez, watching it drop all that way is too graphic, with Tharcia dangling out there. “Can you get turned around okay?”

  She says oh sure, spends a while maneuvering, the whole thing bobbing and swaying. I am not going to describe how she does this, but only a woman’s hips could manage it. My hair’s standing up when she gets turned around, working her way back. Ten feet away, now eight feet. Something in my mind is starting to ask why that tree trunk broke in the first place when with a loud crack it snaps in two, five feet behind her.

  She doesn’t scream. But the section she’s clutching swings down and disappears into branches below, Tharcia clinging to the slender trunk. My lash job twists and groans but holds tight.

  “Tharcia! Are you all right?”

  She’s not saying anything. I’m climbing down as fast as I can. Can’t see her. Soon enough I’m there, and Tharcia’s draped over a branch and gripping it like a lover. Her mouth is open she’s gasping for air. But her eyes twinkle. I get close and hold her jacket with both hands.

  Her face is scratched up and her hat’s gone.

  “Knocked the wind out.”

  Meanwhile Rayne down there is screaming her head off for somebody to tell her what the fuck just happened. She hollers she’s coming up. I yell down no don’t she’s okay got winded can’t talk just wait.

  Eye to eye with her as she’s catching her breath, I ask the question I have been holding onto. “Tharcia? Did you say anything to Ricky? About Mick.”

  At first it seems she’s about to cry. But a worn smile lights her face.

  “Everything, Clay. I told Ricky everything.”

  “Sensational. Would you...”

  “Testify?” She looks at me, all courage and resolve. “That a-hole is going down.”

  Ten minutes later were sitting on the ground congratulating ourselves for still breathing. Rayne, after totally loving her up, launches into a long string of profanity. Threats and imprecations. She has a point, it was a risky move. Tharcia smiles tiredly.

  I pick up the dry bag. The Velcro separates with a loud rip. And then I’m holding what’s become for me the Holy Grail, the zippered fanny pack I’d carried up the mountain in a car, down the mountain on a bike, shot up a tree on bungee cord, and which Tharcia has just retrieved by damn near splattering herself.

  I open the zipper. Inside there’s an opaque blue plastic bag that’s taped shut. Feels like money packs. But instead of the bundled cash I’d visualized every day of my life since then, it’s only newspaper. In the bundle is a roll of bla
ck velvet, secured with rubber bands.

  I unroll the velvet on the ground. Inside, each in its own small transparent sealed baggie, are fifteen cut and polished pink diamonds.

  “Stuka.” She’s kneeling next to me looking at what’s on the black cloth. Rayne’s close too, and for a minute were just staring at them. I feel like my plug’s been pulled. Fifteen Argyle diamonds, not in settings, just perfect cut pink stones. I don’t know carat sizes, but a couple are phat wedding ring size, larger than those on Montana’s 5-stone necklace. Diamonds that Carla told us are beyond price, but hot as they are, have no value.

  Zero.

  But a small voice comes, reminding me that the world being how it is, there has to be something we can buy with these. Emotionally I’m on overload. I start shaking, my insides convulsing like I wanna puke my guts. But that’s not it. Sure, I’ve waited four years for this moment, but it’s Montana. She was devious and scheming. But.

  “I miss her, Tharcia. I do.”

  Men aren’t supposed to cry, according to rules somebody made up. Tharcia’s arms come around me, then Rayne’s. They’re rocking me. I feel like wanting to be sick, but that’s not even close. Unsteadily I roll up the velvet with the diamonds inside. It makes a small bundle I can zip inside a jacket pocket. I wad the dry bag and the other stuff into my pack, get busy collecting our gear. The rain has stopped. Slowly we make our way up the wet hillside to Rayne’s truck. We leave the mountain clean.

  Hours later we’ve left I-5 and we’re heading across 152 toward Gilroy and San Jose. I put the batts back in my phone. Looking through my messages, something completely throws me off. From Montana’s phone, this morning. Blindly grasping at hope, I punch through and listen. Brutal disappointment. Should not have even hoped, she’s been gone over a week now. I’m cursing too fluently to hear what Detective Wolfe’s message has to say. I replay it.

  “Mr. Clay, forgive me calling on Agent Harrison’s phone but I must reach you at once and you may be screening my calls. We need to see you at my office as soon as possible. It is imperative you contact me immediately.”

  Still fuming, I dial the number. His, not Montana’s.

  “Mr. Clay, is that you?”

  “Wolfe you have no idea what you put me through.”

  “Of course. I am very sorry, Mr. Clay. It was unavoidable. Some issues have come up around Agent Harrison. It is vital we talk in person as quickly as possible.”

  “What is it?” I snap. His apology is probably acceptable to a sane person, but right now I am enraged at his deception.

  “How soon can you come? We have made an arrest and have information about Agent Harrison’s activities. I believe you can fill in some gaps for us.”

  “Will it shorten my parole?”

  “Mr. Clay, I can make no promises but...”

  “I’ll be there in two hours,” I snap, and kill the connection, cursing.

  So by six o’clock I’m touring the uninspired institutional hallway, wondering distractedly how the people that work here can keep their sanity in these inane surroundings. I find Homicide and the sign-in sheet. I don’t have a chance to sit before Wolfe sweeps through the waiting area carrying several thick manila folders, a uniform cop in tow. Wolfe introduces us. Firm handshake both ways and I’m now a valuable witness.

  Unbefuckinglievable.

  I walk quickly after these two, Wolfe stops at an interview room and the cop walks on ahead.

  Inside, another shock awaits me, it’s Deputy Parole Officer Yamamoto, my former owner. The guy Montana snagged my case from. Odd seeing him in an interview room instead of his office. Dressed as usual in a tweed jacket and black jeans, Yamamoto does not look happy. He glances at me and then away.

  “Mr. Clay, Mr. Yamamoto, I’m sure you know one another,” says Wolfe. My guidance counselor is entranced with the texture of the table between us.

  Wolfe jumps right in. “Mr. Clay, let me bring you up to date. Since the night of Agent Harrison’s tragic shooting, a number of facts have come to light. First of all we have, thanks to Officer Yamamoto here, the answer to your question. As to why were you transferred to Agent Harrison.”

  The hefty Japanese looks like he’d rather be anywhere else, preferably smoking an unfiltered cigarette.

  “Um. Yes,” my former case officer says. “This activity goes back over two years. Hannah, Agent Harrison, was in the habit of requesting certain cases from me. Well, not only me, but other parole officers in the section.”

  “Is this usually done, Mr. Yamamoto?” Wolfe prompts.

  The officer shakes his head. “It is not unheard of, but not prevalent. I am getting ready for retirement, and did need to offload casework in preparation for that.”

  “The numbers,” Wolfe prods.

  “Yes. It was much more frequent. In the last two years, a dozen of my cases went to her roster, at her request. She acquired cases from other officers as well.”

  “Mr. Yamamoto,” the detective says, “how would you characterize the cases that she requested?”

  “As we’ve seen in the last week, they are similar offenses, usually drugs and smuggling, extortion.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Yamamoto.” Wolfe flips through a file folder, hands me a sheet of paper with a list of names.

  “Mr. Clay, please review this list and tell us what you see. This represents roughly fifteen percent of Agent Harrison’s caseload.”

  On the list are sixteen names, with dates, institutions and crimes. I’m only a few names down the list when I glance over at Wolfe. His eyebrows lift but he says nothing. I continue reading. Finally I get the idea.

  “Nine of these are familiar. My name is on it too, but you know that. I know six of them from the Men’s Colony, San Luis Obispo. Others by association or hearsay. One of those dudes I saw going into her office last week.”

  “I see,” Wolfe is nodding. “And how would you characterize this group of people?”

  “All of them have some drug activity, dealing, running, transportation. Two may be smugglers. And there is something else.”

  “Please continue, Mr. Clay.”

  “I’m thinking that most of them worked for McIntyre.”

  Wolfe says, to Yamamoto, “Then all of these are cases Montana asked you to transfer to her roster?”

  Yamamoto nods. “It is also significant that all of those men have had their parole chores lightened in a, shall we say, informal way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What he means, Mr. Clay, is that while these men were attending regular interviews in Agent Harrison’s office, they were not adhering to the terms of their parole.”

  “I have reviewed five of these cases so far,” Yamamoto continues, “and the record-keeping is questionable. Some home addresses are incorrect, employment records don’t check out. Several of them had arrests or trips outside their designated area. Ankle bracelet alarms that did not lead to parole violations. Certain technicalities are quoted in Agent Harrison’s write-ups.”

  “Technicalities that would...”

  “Allow these men to walk all over the Parole System,” Yamamoto says firmly.

  “With Agent Harrison’s willing assistance,” Wolfe supplies.

  The three of us are silent, looking at each other.

  “In short, Mr. Clay, what we are seeing in her case roster...”

  Now it’s my turn to finish Wolfe’s sentence. “We’re seeing part of Mick McIntyre’s gang network.”

  Bingo. Montana was Mick’s proxy gang boss.

  Wolfe goes on. “We are in the process of connecting Agent Harrison’s phone records to these people where possible. There is a pattern. We have searched her vehicle. The night she died, she had nearly fifty thousand dollars cash hidden in it. She had her service revolver, issued by this department, along with two clean heavy caliber pistols. One suppressor, which is not legal even within law enforcement teams. Any ideas, Mr. Clay?”

  I look from one to the other. “Tells me she could be managin
g a network of gangstas. Perfect setup. She can meet with them openly, here in her office, without suspicion. They could pass information or cash freely.”

  “Parole Agents,” says Yamamoto, “as opposed to DPOs, or deputy parole officers, have wide latitude geographically, and broad discretion in how they carry out their work. It is possible she was enabling McIntyre, on the outside, by giving parolees in his network a free pass.”

  My turn to ask a question. “I have one for you, Officer Yamamoto. Have any of these dudes been written up?”

  “First of all, yes. We have five parolees in custody, pending review of their status. There may be more.”

  “Meaning five of Mick’s guys went down?”

  Yamamoto nods, so I ask, “But why were you so cooperative with Agent Harrison?”

  Yamamoto now looks as he did when I’d first entered the interview room. Embarrassed. “This is difficult. I was protecting my retirement, which is due in two more months. At my last annual merit review, Agent Harrison caught me in a small infraction. Or claimed she had. Minor, but potentially damaging. I could not be sure, but it was easier to transfer the few cases she requested than face an official inquiry. I was supposed to say nothing.”

  A few more minutes of this and that, and Yamamoto makes his exit. I’m looking at Wolfe thoughtfully.

  “Money,” I say. “You found cash on her. Plus what was in her bank box. Any trail from that?”

  “In her office safe we also found records. The diamonds we found in her deposit box also confirm she is well connected to Mr. McIntyre.”

  I get up to leave. Wolfe motions me to wait. “We have been looking into many of Agent Harrison’s cases. Including yours.”

  “They have reopened my case?”

  “When you were arrested, it was based on Mr. McIntyre’s statements. There was no evidence that connected you to the diamond theft.”

  “That is what I have been saying all along, detective. I transported a pouch of money.” I say this on autopilot, but for the first time ever I know I am lying.

  Wolfe nods. “We searched your house, the farm where you were living. The drug dogs found nothing. Three weeks later, a quantity of cocaine was found among the evidence that was collected.”