“Who the hell’s Sherman?” the voice called out to someone.
There was a rustle of the phone as it was passed around and the ear-splitting death metal mercifully backed down a dozen decibels.
“Hey, little pig, how’s it hanging?” Simmons said.
“I’m selling a house,” Sherman said.
“That right? The whole thing?”
“All of it.”
“Why don’t you use our regular broker?”
“Junior can’t handle a house this big.”
“How big we talking here?” The metal music disappeared as a door closed in the background.
“It’s all yours for one-point-five.”
“That seems a bit high for the neighborhood.”
“The appraisal is worth twice that. You’re getting a bargain.”
“I could see one.”
“How about seven-fifty plus a side job?”
“Must be a personal side deal if you’re willing to spend that much for it.”
“Something that needs doing, and I need to be seen somewhere else when it goes down.”
“So seven-fifty plus the side job? You understand if the home inspection doesn’t pan out, we’re gonna have a big problem, right?” Simmons asked.
“No issues on my end. Can you keep yours?”
“It’s gonna take me a little bit to pull together the funds, but yeah, it’s doable. And as a gesture of good faith, I’ll handle your side project up front.”
“Good.”
Sherman shoved the phone into the passenger seat and drove toward downtown. Almost done.
FORTY-SIX
Paula couldn’t sit still. It wasn’t from the caffeine she’d downed in the last twelve hours; she was one of those people who could drink a double espresso an hour before bedtime and still sleep soundly. The agitation came from feeling the noose tighten around her neck, and it felt like every move she made tugged on the rope.
Sherman’s release from prison was being cast as a perversion of the justice system. Or, even more damning, the result of corrupt cops. The only thing the two views agreed upon was that Paula Newberry was at the center. She either engineered his conviction with tainted paid-for testimony or had a hand in making sure the case against him evaporated before a retrial happened.
The district attorney was clear about her opinions. Others were starting to line up and turn their backs on Paula—literally. She’d walked down one of the hallways and officers would turn away. A sign that she’d betrayed the faith.
“Newberry, my office,” Lieutenant Barnes said, pulling her out of a dark cloud.
She got to the office door and Barnes motioned her in.
“I’m not sure where John went off to,” she said.
“Close the door.”
“That’s never good,” she muttered.
“The city council meets tomorrow. What do you have?”
“We have a witness to the Burger killing. Not the most credible of sources, but he puts Junior at the scene, along with a second man as the killer. That has to be Sherman. His DNA was on the victim.”
“You figure he was taking out the witnesses who could have gone against him in a retrial?” Barnes said.
“Sherman knew these guys were the only thing that stood between freedom and more time behind the walls. Could be that he lured these guys in and took them out. They used to work with the guy—hell, they might have still trusted him.”
“Sherman and Wallace—their relationship goes back to Solano County before their SSPNET assignments. Could Sherman have played that loyalty to get Wallace to fake the court removal orders?”
“That makes sense,” Paula said.
Barnes looked up and signaled Penley into the office.
“What’s up? I was getting some info on the gun used on McDaniel,” John said.
“The drive-by that wasn’t,” Barnes said.
“Yeah. Karen Baylor echoed what Dr. Kelly said. McDaniel was shot with a .380-caliber handgun. She identified the gun through NIBIN.” The National Integrated Ballistic Information Network maintained a database of almost three million visual images of bullets and cartridges collected at crimes scenes.
“It’s been used in a crime before?” Paula asked.
John nodded. “Yep, a drug-lab takedown. Any guesses?”
“SSPNET,” Barnes said.
“That’s why you’re the lieutenant. Specifically, Deputy Wallace confiscated the firearm and reported it destroyed.”
“The gun used on McDaniel isn’t supposed to exist,” Paula said.
“No trace, no paper work, no nothing. But it turned up in this shooting, and it’s my bet that Wallace gave it to Junior. Wallace had to be the gunman in the truck distracting everyone from the real shooter. Even the rust bucket blue van looks like the one I saw when the shooting went down.”
“Where’s the gun now?” Paula said.
“If they have any brains, Junior and his misfits tore it down and spread the pieces from here to Reno.”
The lieutenant picked up his desk phone on the first ring. “Lieutenant Barnes. Yeah, they’re right here. I’ll let ’em know.
“That was a call from the officer on Ronland’s protective detail. Ronland got attacked this morning, and our guy didn’t see a thing. He went knocking on the door when Ronland was late for work and found him.”
“Shit. How is he?” Paula asked.
“In surgery at the trauma center. Doesn’t look good—stabbed in the chest. Why don’t you guys head on over and see what’s happening. If he comes out, we’re gonna need to know what he can tell us.”
“That’s the last of them, isn’t it?” John said.
“Last of what?” Barnes asked.
“The SSPNET crew. Anyone who could have been in a position to challenge Sherman is gone,” John said.
“Except Wallace. Wallace knows he’s looking at criminal charges due to his role in Sherman’s little excursions from prison. He’ll be lying low if he hasn’t already split. He doesn’t know we have the NIBIN hit on the gun.”
“And Sherman?” Barnes asked.
“I lost him at the storage yard. The van went north and—I just lost him,” Paula said.
“The GPS unit ran out of juice or something. Its last reported location was at the storage facility. I asked for a warrant to get in there, and I’m waiting for the night judge to give us the go-ahead,” John said. Then to Paula, “You didn’t lose anyone. Sherman slipped us both.”
Barnes nodded. “Paula, if there’s anything you need to tell me, now’s the time. I can’t help you if—”
“I didn’t let Sherman get away. Jesus, Lieutenant, you too?”
“I have to ask, Paula. If Sherman has something on you—something he’s using to—”
“Dammit. I have nothing to do with that asshole.”
“Don’t make it personal,” Barnes said.
“Listen to what you’re saying. It is personal. Sherman made it that way. I’m so busy covering my ass that I can’t think ahead.”
“Remember when you came here from IA?” Barnes said. “You were so caught up in making sure you did the right thing or followed the exact letter of department policy that you lost sight of the big picture. Brice Winnow exploited that blindness when he kidnapped Tommy Penley. Don’t let Sherman do that to you.”
Paula went silent. Her jaw was tight, and it looked like she was about to respond.
“But you learned to work through that,” Barnes went on. “Every case is personal if you let it get to you. You’re a better investigator when you focus on what matters. Taking down Sherman isn’t what this is about.”
The room went cold.
“It’s about solving cases. Burger, Wing, McDaniel—all of them. They are what this is about.”
John needed to break the tension in the room. “We gotta get to the trauma center and get us a dying declaration from Ronland,” John said. “No sense in letting Wallace run free. Can you get us a BOLO for him—his b
lue van and that shiny Ford truck of his?”
“Will do,” Barnes said.
John and Paula grabbed their gear from their desks and started for the car. Officer Stark was coming on shift and glared at Paula. She’d had about enough of him.
“You got a problem, Stark?”
“With you? Yeah, I do.”
“You worthless waste of space. You and Sherman are just alike,” she said and jabbed a finger into his chest.
“Get your hands off me.” He turned to John. “I’m telling you, Penley, she’s gonna drag you down just like she done all the others.”
“You and Sherman were pretty buddy-buddy back then, weren’t you?”
“We had some times together. Sherman was good people,” Stark said with a glare toward Paula.
“You guys have any place special you’d hang when you were having your ‘times’?” John asked.
“Why would I tell you?”
“Because something ain’t right about Sherman and Wallace, and I think Sherman may be getting the raw end of the deal,” John said.
“Him. Yeah, Wallace is a piece of work. Only met him twice when Sherman brought him around. That dude is one messed-up critter. On my boat one time, he started talking about how much easier it would be to drop drug dealers in the river instead of booking ’em.”
“Does Wallace want anything from Sherman?”
“Like what?”
“You tell me.”
“I dunno. Wallace was the jealous type. Sherman had a new car, Wallace went and got one. A bigger house, better flat screen—it was always one up with that guy. The overtime checks must have been something on that task force,” Stark said.
“Yeah, I’m sure it was the overtime,” Paula said.
“I heard the rumors too, Newberry, but Sherman never showed off like he was on the take. You were wrong about him.” He headed away to the preshift briefing.
“How much of that do you believe?” Paula asked.
“There was a time when Stark was a decent cop. I’d say he knew something was off about Wallace; he just couldn’t see it for what it was.”
They headed to their car, and the morning sunlight glared in their eyes. There was someone leaning on their car, but it wasn’t until they were ten feet away that they were able to see him clearly.
Charles Sherman rested on the front hood, arms crossed and casual.
“Hi, Newberry. Looking for me?”
FORTY-SEVEN
Paula’s hand went for her weapon.
Sherman put his hands out in mock surrender. “You’d like nothing better, wouldn’t you?”
“I’m gonna be the one to put you down, one way or another,” Paula said.
“What are you doing here, Sherman?” John asked.
“I have a meeting with the DA and the chief of police about my suit against the city—and you.”
A news van rumbled up to the front of the police department building.
“Ah, here they are,” Sherman said.
“What do you have for these scavengers?” John asked.
“Seems that I’m gonna be the story of the hour.”
“When we take you down again?” Paula asked. Her hand backed away from her weapon.
“I’m an innocent victim here. The city’s agreed to make this go away.”
“Really? I didn’t know the city invested in bullshit,” she said.
“I wish we could have ended this differently, I really do. But you didn’t give me any other choice.”
“Yeah? How’s that?”
“Stick around and find out.”
An officer in uniform came from behind Paula and John. “Excuse me, detectives, the chief needs this guy.” The public information officer looked like he was hating life about now. “Mr. Sherman, this way.”
“That’s my cue.” Sherman rose from the car’s hood and strode past Paula and John.
The PIO shook his head and said, “Sorry, guys.”
“You want to stay back and watch the show? I can go sit on Ronland and wait for him to come out of surgery.”
Paula sighed. “No, if I stick around, they might catch me on camera with my hands around Sherman’s neck.”
They got in the car and pulled out of the lot as Clarke and her entourage from the DA’s office arrived. She was dressed in red and ready for prime time.
“They are gonna exonerate him. The only one who stands to lose in that scenario is me,” Paula said.
“Focus on what you can control, give up the rest,” John said as he found a parking spot in the trauma center lot.
“You sound like a walking twelve-step meeting.”
“I am your higher power.”
She smacked him on the arm.
They badged their way into the trauma center and got an update on Ronland. He was in surgery, and as soon as he was out, they’d send someone to let them know.
The trauma waiting room was a sociological experiment. The worried faces of domestic abusers tensed when anyone entered. Rival gang factions claimed opposing corners of the room. A fragile detente allowed the gangs some time to patch themselves up before the next conflict over turf brought them back here. In the middle were mothers with sick children, a piece-rate craftsman who’d hacked off a finger, and parents of an accident victim waiting their turns for assembly-line medical care.
A lone woman sat, stiff-backed, on the edge of one of the plastic sofas in the waiting room. In her midforties, the woman clutched a wadded handkerchief in her hands. Her face bore a striking resemblance to George Ronland. John nudged Paula, and they went to her.
“Excuse me, are you here for George Ronland?” John asked.
The woman froze; her eyes widened.
“What’s happened? Is he all right?”
“We’re with the police department, ma’am.”
A wave of relief swept through her. “You startled me. I’m trying to hold it together.” She dabbed the handkerchief under her eyes. “I’m George’s sister, Patricia.”
“George mentioned he was living with you. Is that right?” John asked.
“Yes, he is.”
“Were you home when he was attacked?”
She shook her head. “I left early. I had a seven fifteen flight. I was at the airport, about to board, when the hospital called. I’m George’s emergency contact.”
“I’m very sorry. Do you have any idea who might have wanted to hurt your brother?”
A crease formed in her forehead when she looked at John. Her eyes now bore anger, not worry or grief. “I have a good idea who’s behind it.”
“Care to share?” Paula said.
“Since George left his job in law enforcement, he’s been harassed by white supremacists and other cops. Rather than blame a white cop for testifying against them, they try and lynch the black man.”
“You ever witness any harassment?” John said.
She narrowed her eyes. “I didn’t have to witness it. I saw the result. George would come home, and you could see it on him. The weight, the guilt they put on him was awful.”
“You said white supremacists; what makes you think that?”
“I saw them leave the house once as I came home. Their motorcycles blocked my garage door. Those men with their Nazi tattoos and white-power patches on their leather vests didn’t like a black woman telling them to move their shit.”
“When was this?”
“About a month ago.”
“Anyone stand out that you can recall?”
“The leader—I think he was, anyway, because he was the loudest and was in my brother’s face—I remember him. A huge man, long stringy hair and a scar on his left cheek.”
“Sounds like Junior,” Paula said.
“Can you remember anything they were saying?” John said.
Patricia paused for a moment. “No, it didn’t make any sense.”
“What didn’t?” John pressed.
“The big guy, the one you called Junior, said something about one of th
eirs getting out of prison and George had to take care of it.”
“It?”
“I don’t know what they wanted him to do, but from the look on my brother’s face, he wasn’t happy about it. He wouldn’t talk about it after they left, saying some people are too greedy for their own good.”
“Family for George Ronland?” a woman at the check-in counter called from behind a thick glass barrier.
Patricia stood, and the woman behind the barrier said, “Dr. Pierson will be out in a moment.”
“Do you and George have any other family I can call for you?” John asked.
“No. All we have is each other, which is why I know he didn’t do anything to deserve this.”
A set of automatic doors opened, and a slight woman in light-blue scrubs entered. “Ronland?”
Patricia gathered her belongings and went toward her. John and Paula followed at a respectful distance but held close enough to listen.
“Ms. Ronland?”
“Yes. Is he?”
“He’s been badly injured. But he’s a strong man. He has a tough next twenty-four hours ahead of him, but barring any infections or unforeseen complications, he should pull through.”
Her shoulders relaxed. “When can I see him?”
“He’s in recovery now. Let us get him out from under the anesthetic and settled in a room. It’s going to be a while, at least a half hour.”
John held his badge for the doctor. “We need to collect his clothes and process them as evidence.”
The doctor nodded. “Already done. Along with the knife. If the assailant had pulled it out, the blood loss would have been unrecoverable. Leaving it in place may have saved Mr. Ronland’s life. I gave the weapon and the clothes to the officer who rode in with him. I really need to get going.” She didn’t wait around for a response. Another busy night in the trauma center.
John spoke to the woman at the counter while Paula took Ronland’s sister back to the waiting area couch. The televisions were muted, but the scrolling closed caption text captured the dialogue.
Local news coverage interrupted the network morning talk show, and the image went to the parking lot outside of the police department. The department’s emblem loomed behind a podium with the chief of police in midstatement.
“. . . Cannot tolerate the disregard for legal process. Justice matters for everyone.” The scene scrolled the message.
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