Bury the Past

by James L'Etoile

Paula lifted the lip of the internal affairs file and peeked inside. “You left the SSPNET task force just before the shit hit the fan, didn’t you?”

  “If you mean before you and the rest of the rat squad railroaded those guys, then yeah, like I said, I got out just in time.”

  “How long had all the skimming of drug seizures gone on?”

  “Don’t know nothing about that.”

  Paula patted the file again. “Really? Because what I have tells me you were the senior man on the task force when you left. You’d have to know something was going on. Everything you’d set up, Sherman managed to screw up. Was he too greedy?”

  “I didn’t have anything to do with that. You’ve got nothing to say I do, or I’d have gone down with the rest of them. What Sherman did, what those guys did, skimming evidence, I guess they were greedy.”

  “Where were you when Larry Burger and Bobby Wing were killed?” John asked.

  “Working.”

  “Don’t you need to know the dates of the murders before you know if you were working or not?” John said.

  “I’m always working,” Wallace said.

  “You don’t have any idea where Sherman is?” John said.

  “Nope. You want me to tell him anything for you if I see him?”

  “Sure, tell him I can’t wait to see him in prison again,” Paula said.

  Wallace nodded. “If he’s done what you say he has, killing righteous cops and such, that’s where he belongs. You want me to go find him? He might trust me.”

  “No, we have that all locked down,” Paula said. She kicked her partner’s foot under the table.

  Wallace nodded again. His expression went from pissed to depressed in ten seconds.

  “So if you see him, let him know we’re onto him,” Paula said.

  “I don’t think I’ll be seeing him.”

  “Why’s that?” Paula said.

  “He’s got no reason to see me, and I got no reason to see him neither.”

  “We about done here?” Parker asked. “I got another appointment.”

  “Yeah,” John answered. The only appointment Parker had was a two-for-one happy hour special at a local cop bar, John figured.

  Paula stood and grabbed the file from the table. “Thanks for your time, Sergeant.”

  Parker and Wallace strode out of the break room.

  “You notice Wallace almost swallow his tongue when he saw your IA file? I thought all these were burned at your place,” John said.

  “Yep. They were.” She opened the file and dumped the take-out menus on the table.

  “He thought he missed one.”

  John’s cell rang. “Penley.” He smiled and said thanks. “Karen got the GPS tracker on Wallace’s truck.”

  “Now we can let Wallace lead us to Sherman. Did Karen have any issue putting that tracker on his truck without a warrant?”

  “She knows we need this to get you out from under the Sherman case. We’ve got your back, Paula.”

  “Wallace was a little eager to help find Sherman, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe he figured with Sherman gone, he’d take over Sherman’s stolen drug stash. He had to know about it from the task force work.”

  John grabbed one of the food delivery menus. “You hungry?”

  “I’m too pissed off to eat.”

  “How would you feel about delivering to a poor shut-in?”

  THIRTY-NINE

  “This is the poor shut-in you were talking about?” Paula said. They sat across from the meth house. Junior was getting his drunk on in the garage, and two other bikers were getting out of a blue panel van. There were only three motorcycles in the driveway, so they were likely looking at the sum total of the current biker population.

  “Run that plate, would you?” John said. He pointed at the blue van. “That’s the van I saw at the biker house when McDaniel was shot.”

  “And it’s back here?” she said.

  Paula started running the plate, then a motorcycle rumble sounded from down the block. A single biker parked behind the van, got off his ride, and approached Junior. He wore sunglasses, but as soon as he took off his Nazi-style bike helmet, Paula recognized him. “Wallace.”

  “Didn’t take him too long to finish up with his union rep. He damn near beat us here,” John said.

  Wallace spoke with Junior, who held out a bottle of beer to the newcomer. The conversation started off slow, then grew animated with Wallace gesturing toward the van. Junior raised his bulk from the lawn chair and tossed the full beer bottle.

  “You see that?” Paula said.

  “Something’s got Junior a bit pissy.”

  “He doesn’t look like he’s taking it out on Wallace, based on the body language. That and the two other bikers are staying out of the way.”

  Wallace put his hand out to his side and shrugged his shoulders, a gesture that said, “I don’t know.”

  Junior took a step forward and pointed a fat finger in Wallace’s face.

  “Okay, it just got personal,” John said.

  Paula finished entering the vehicle information into the computer. A flash hit the screen that stated the van was reported stolen six months ago.

  “Oh, this is rich, the registered owner who reported the van stolen is Mr. Wallace there.”

  A biker behind Junior tossed a set of keys to Wallace, who walked to the back of the van. He opened a rear door and pulled out an aluminum ramp, and he pushed his bike into the van’s rear cargo space.

  “He’s repossessing his own van?” John said.

  “Look there, on the floor next to Junior,” Paula said. The black nylon bag delivered by the bikers the last time they watched the house had reappeared.

  Wallace went back up the drive and spoke to Junior once more. Wallace pointed at the bag, and Junior kicked it behind him, keeping it away from Wallace. Junior spoke, and it didn’t take a lip reader to make out the demand: “Get out of here.”

  Wallace made a step toward the bag, and the two other bikers moved between him and the bag. One had a hand behind him, like he was reaching for a gun tucked in his waistband.

  Wallace got the message and put his hands up and backed off. He went to his van, and as he got in, he yelled back at the bikers, “I want my money!”

  “Not my problem,” Junior replied. “Now get the fuck outta here.”

  Wallace closed the van door and patted a heavy shoulder holster back into place under a leather vest.

  “You catch that?” John said.

  “Yeah. Wanna take him down now?”

  “We don’t have enough to make it stick. The bag might have some forensic value, but we didn’t see him in possession of the damn thing. And we can’t say for certain what’s in it—drugs, money, or a Mary Kay delivery. I’d have a hell of a time getting a judge to get that warrant based on what we have now. Besides, one of them is going to lead us to Sherman.”

  Wallace started the van and sped away from the biker lair. John and Paula waited another ten minutes until Junior stopped pacing and returned to his lawn chair throne.

  “You got ’em?” John asked.

  “Yep.” Paula turned and grabbed a paper evidence bag.

  They walked up the drive under Junior’s glare. “What the hell you doing back here? Want my boxers now?”

  “I thought you’d be more of a tighty-whities guy,” John added.

  Paula tossed the paper bag in front of Junior. “As promised.”

  Junior opened the bag and dumped his boots onto the garage floor. A missing strip of leather on the toe had been thoughtfully covered with duct tape.

  “You and Wallace have a falling out?” John asked.

  “You been doing your neighborhood watch thing again?” Junior asked.

  “Just happened to see him drive off in a huff, is all,” John said.

  “Well, just happens that I don’t need cops around here, his kind or yours.”

  “I’m glad you have standards to uphold. Say, mind if I take a pe
ek in that bag?”

  One of the boys picked it up and brought it inside the house.

  “Matter of fact, I do. Now, as I told Wallace, get the fuck outta here.”

  “And here we came all this way to give you your stuff back,” Paula said.

  “Gee, thanks.” Junior pulled back the taped section on the boot.

  “Turns out that wasn’t blood on the boot.”

  “I coulda just told you that.”

  “Whatever you and Sherman have going is over,” Paula said.

  “That right?” Junior didn’t seem amused. His eyes flicked in the direction that Wallace had fled.

  “Yeah. I hope you didn’t expect anything outta him.”

  Junior hoisted himself up from the lawn chair, grabbed his boots, and started for the house. “When they say one door closes, another opens—well, sometimes it don’t.” Junior smacked a button on the garage door panel by the back door and sent the garage door down. John and Paula were left outside on the driveway.

  “He wasn’t concerned about Sherman,” Paula said.

  “Like he already got what he needed from the black bag.”

  They walked back to their car, and Paula glanced at her watch. She turned when she reached the passenger door. “How long did it take us to get here?”

  “I don’t know, twenty minutes maybe.”

  She bit her lower lip.

  “What?”

  “Wallace went home, changed clothes, got his bike, and still got here almost the same time we did.”

  “Yeah, he was in a hurry. So?” John said.

  “He thought Sherman was gonna be here to make the deal.”

  “That means Wallace doesn’t know where Sherman is.”

  John made a call to the officer watching the front of Wallace’s home. “Go do a knock and talk. See if Sherman’s home.”

  “What are you thinking?” Paula asked.

  John waited to respond until he heard back from the officer. He disconnected the call.

  “If Wallace doesn’t know where Sherman is, then neither do we. The place is empty. Sherman’s in the wind.”

  FORTY

  Paula suggested they go back to Wallace’s place and check it out. When they got there, Wallace’s Ford truck was gone, but there was no ping from the GPS unit to indicate it had moved. According to the technology, the pickup truck was here. They circled the block, using the alleyway behind the home, and found the blue panel van tucked next to the back fence of Wallace’s yard.

  Paula hopped out of the passenger seat and pressed her face against the dust-covered window of the garage that made up a third of the back property line.

  “The motorcycle is here,” she said.

  She got back in the car with John. “He unloaded the bike and put it in the garage. Why not park the van in there too?”

  The vehicle was big and boxy, but it would have fit easily in the old garage. “There is a space all cleared out for another car. We figured Sherman had an out when we came here the last time, right? Maybe it was the van, set to go in the alley.”

  “And then it turns up in Junior’s driveway, packing only God knows what was in that bag he didn’t want us to see.”

  “A drop vehicle. Park it somewhere and Junior’s boys know where to pick it up.”

  Paula activated the GPS program on a tablet computer and the red dot on the screen showed the device at this location. “He must have found it and tossed it in the yard somewhere.”

  “Maybe,” John said. He pushed open his door. “Hang on a second.” He got out and went up to the van, went on one knee and fished a hand up in the fender well of the rear wheels. Inside the passenger wheel well, he found the GPS unit, power light still strobing.

  He came to Paula’s window, dusted off his pant leg, and hooked a thumb at the van. “He found it all right. He put it on that hunk of rust.”

  “He wanted us to think he was still here,” she said, tapping the tablet.

  “Or maybe he put it there so he could track the van.”

  “He could get access to the program to track that unit. It’s not like it’s rocket science or anything.”

  “Wallace wants to find out where Sherman went.”

  Paula’s brow creased. “Or he’s trying to get Sherman to lead him to the stolen drugs. The stash McDaniel talked about.”

  “Wallace doesn’t know where it is.”

  “Want to pull it and shut it down?” Paula asked.

  John took a step toward the van and stopped. “If he can track it, so can we. Let’s let Wallace lead us to Sherman’s stash.” John placed the GPS unit back under the blue van’s fender well.

  John got back in the car and pulled through the alley. While they drove back to the detective bureau, Paula scanned the side streets and parking lots for Wallace’s chrome-tailed truck.

  “If we ask for a BOLO for the truck, Wallace will find out and go to ground, don’t you think?” John asked.

  Paula was lost in her own thoughts.

  “Hello?”

  She jarred back to the present. “Sorry, what?”

  “What took you away there?”

  “Sherman. I mean, why risk everything to make some deal with Junior? I get the whole bit about them sharing a cell for a while, but Sherman literally got a get-out-of-jail-free card from the DA. Why mess with a lowlife like Junior at all?

  “His play has to rest in the Burger and Wing killings. They represented a threat to his potential freedom. I can see the hit on Burger to stop him from testifying, but Wing and McDaniel? They weren’t gonna roll on him.” She looked at her partner. “What if it was never about the testimony against Sherman? Burger, Wing, and McDaniel all knew what happened to the drugs siphoned off from the task force arrests.”

  “Burger, Wing, and McDaniel in the drug business? I don’t know. How could Sherman have run a drug operation from inside a prison cell?”

  “He’d have to have someone on the outside, someone like Junior or Wallace to make the connections,” Paula said.

  “What if Burger and the others were connections too and someone started getting greedy? Those pills we found in Burger’s throat—could they have come from the stolen drugs? They were older, according to Dr. Kelly.”

  Paula shook her head. “Maybe Burger had a role in it, but if you were running a high-risk operation, would you trust a pillhead like him?”

  John parked in the lot, and they made their way into the office, where a brown paper-wrapped package sat in the center of his desk along with six phone message slips. Four of the six messages were for Paula.

  The two remaining messages were from the principal at Kari’s school. Great.

  John called the number, and it rang three times before it picked up. At first, John thought it was a recording, from the sickly sweet voice on the other end.

  “Mrs. Thompkins.” The insincere voice sounded like it belonged on one of those late-night infomercials hawking kitchen knives or nonstick cookware.

  “John Penley, returning your call.”

  “Mr. Penley, thank you so much for calling. I need to speak with you about your daughter.” There was paper rustling in the background. “Kara.”

  “Kari.”

  “Pardon?” she said.

  “Kari. My daughter’s name is Kari.”

  “Yes—yes. Well, Kari’s behavior is causing some concern here at the school. I’m afraid that she’s become a distraction to our learning environment.”

  John squeezed the bridge of his nose. “What are you saying?”

  “We take threats of violence very seriously.”

  “Violence? You mean the spat she and her friend Lanette had?”

  “I cannot downplay the seriousness of this unkind behavior and the hostile environment it creates for all the children.”

  The language—unkind, hostile, children—set his teeth on edge. “It was a disagreement between two teenaged girls.”

  “You don’t seem to understand the seriousness of today’s infra
ction—”

  “Today? What about today? She’s on suspension.”

  “Your daughter disregarded her suspension and threatened the safety of another student. We have a zero-tolerance policy, and with her history of violence—”

  “Wait. History? She had one single altercation with another girl. Don’t blow this out of proportion.”

  “One cannot condone threats of violence against another student. Moreover, she came to the school campus after being suspended.” More papers rustling in the background. “Kara told the other student, and I quote, ‘I will kick your skanky ass if you get in my face again.’”

  “That’s it? Kick your skanky ass? That’s the threat of violence? And my daughter’s name is Kari.”

  “This is serious, Mr. Penley. I need a parent to come and remove her from school grounds. Kari has been suspended until the board reviews this for expulsion.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “Mr. Penley, I never.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it.” He slammed the phone onto the cradle.

  He dialed Melissa, and the phone went directly to voice mail. “Well, shit.”

  John grabbed the message from the medical examiner and dialed the extension for Dr. Kelly.

  After connecting with her, she put him on hold while she got to her office.

  “John, you still there?”

  “Yep. Did I pull you out of anything?”

  “Anyone would be more accurate. But it’s always that way around here lately. I wanted to give you an update on the ballistics on your victim.”

  John paused. “Which victim are you talking about?”

  “McDaniel, George. White male, midthirties.”

  “He was alive this morning. What the hell happened?” John said.

  “I’m sorting that out, but I wanted to give you the ballistics information and let you run with it.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Two high-caliber rifle slugs, I’m guessing .223,” he said.

  “Are we talking about the same case here? McDaniel had two gunshot wounds all right. Two .380-caliber bullets from a handgun.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “It’s kinda what I do.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way, Doc. It’s just not what I expected.”

  “I will get back to you with a determinate cause of death. It may, or may not, be resultant from the gunshot wounds.”