She also looked like a girl with a lot on her mind. But that was understandable: this area used to be wall-to-wall working girls, and now here she stood all alone.
“Have to ask,” Miller continued. “What inspired you to become a cop-caller, Markus? Isn’t that against the code or something?”
Chief Jansen exited the Club, wearing his SBPD uniform and looking smug as ever. He got into his cruiser and backed out of his parking space.
“If it was good enough for Karl, its good enough for me,” I said, my attention divided as I focused as much on Jansen’s actions as on Miller’s words.
“So how is Karl?” Miller asked. “He was supposed to get back to me a while ago. How come I’m not speaking to him right now?”
“You’re saying you’re not aware he’s dead?” I grinned to myself despite the subject matter, letting him hear my sneer. “Maybe you junior G-Men aren’t as all-knowing as you’d like us common folk to think you are.”
As Jansen came out the exit his gaze clicked over to as if magnetically attracted to the girl at the bus stop. He stared at her, not even glancing in my direction though I was only twenty feet away across the street.
Agent Miller was silent for several seconds. “How did it happen?” he finally asked, in a quiet voice.
“You sure suck at interrogation,” I said. “It’s hard to be offering me a soda or a smoke over the phone, but shouldn’t you at least be trying to establish rapport or something? Maybe play schizo and give me Good-Cop/Bad-Cop all rolled up in one package?”
“Quit playing around,” Miller said. “I shouldn’t have to work you if your brother’s dead. If I’m wrong about that, just hang up and stop wasting my time. Otherwise, spill what you know and be quick about it.”
I clucked my tongue at his impudence. “It was a justifiable shooting by Stagger Bay law enforcement. Apparently in dealing with my brother you were associating with a major pot dealer, the kind of guy who’d try to shoot the cops serving his warrant. Funny how that works, huh?”
“All right,” Miller said. “All right, let’s both cry uncle here. What do you need from me?”
Chief Jansen turned on his cruiser’s trouble lights so they spun and glowed atop his car. He blurped his siren for a second but turned it off right away, creating a short, choked digital wail as he hung a right and pulled up in front of the young hooker.
“What was Karl doing with you?” I asked. “Was it a two-way street, a team effort between you guys? Or was he just a low life CI you were using up and throwing away?”
“Have you ever heard of a federal judge named Juanita Herrera, out of San Francisco?” Miller asked.
Jansen had the girl assume the position and gave her a cursory frisk before cuffing her, chatting her up all the while. He helped her to climb into the back seat of his cruiser and then drove away, having done his bit to clean up Stagger Bay one working girl at a time.
“Judge Herrera’s daughter was hitchhiking through Stagger Bay a few years ago and went missing, all the way, without a trace,” Miller said. “She hasn’t been seen nor heard from since.
“It’s no secret Stagger Bay is drop dead dirty, there’s bad mojo happening up there in your neck of the woods. Ordinarily when we suspect corruption and malfeasance in a county entity, the State Police would have complete jurisdiction. They’re the next higher level of law enforcement; this should be all theirs.
“But when a federal judge like Ms. Herrera makes it her life’s mission to bust a place wide open, we feds are the first ones invited to play. Markus, I’ve been up to Stagger Bay more than once, trying to find reason to widen the investigation. Your county stinks like day-old puke. I know it. I can feel it.
“Still, believe it or not, we still need a warrant to really dig, even in these turbulent times,” Miller said. “To get a warrant you need probable cause. And in Stagger Bay there are just too many places to bury the bodies. Literally.”
“Isn’t that why you get paid the big bucks? To pull the rabbit out your hat?”
“Rabbit out my hat? Don’t even start,” Miller said. “You of all people should know Stagger Bay’s county covers an area the size of Connecticut, and that it’s almost all old growth redwoods, mountains, rivers, and foggy coastline. Where are we going to search if we don’t know specifically where to bring the cadaver dogs? How are we going to know who to grill if everyone’s either too afraid to talk or has too much to lose? Anyone not familiar with how isolated Stagger Bay is couldn’t possibly understand the handicap we’re working under.”
“How about forensic accounting or something, like you guys did Al Capone with?” I asked.
“Well, we can get away with basic audits and default oversight inspections on anything we have any kind of jurisdiction over. But again, we need a warrant to delve much further than that, especially into the private sector. With even minimally imaginative bookkeeping, they can hide their trail easily.”
“You’ve put a lot of mental effort into this campaign of yours,” I noted.
“What’s my interest, you mean?” Miller asked. “Would it make you feel better if I pointed out just what a shot in the arm it’d be for a special agent’s career, if he broke open a case this big and had a federal judge owing him this kind of favor? A guy could transfer from a field office in, say, San Francisco, right into the Violent Crimes Unit back where the real action is, back in DC. Besides, maybe I’d enjoy putting the Staties in their place by making the bust federal.”
I could probably use this guy without having to be too afraid of his own personal agenda, then. “I got one more thing. Maybe you have some input for me.”
“Shoot.”
“What does it mean when a serial killer drives up to you on the street, says hello and tells you who he is, and then taunts you with his next victim while they’re his prisoner, still alive?”
“What the heck are you talking about?” Miller asked, his voice raised.
I explained, describing my encounter with the Driver, doing my best not to remember the little Hmong girl’s face. Miller was silent for a long while after that, then grunted.
“Markus,” he said. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. Serial killers don’t come right out and show themselves, anymore than a comic book super villain rips their mask off in public. One of the reasons your brother contacted me was because he knew I’m a fairly decent profiler; I’ve been shooting for VCU a long time. The big boys are back East, but I’m probably as good as you’re going to easily find out here on the Left Coast.”
“Markus,” Agent Miller said. “If the Driver is playing it that loose and crazy, he’s obviously on his last legs. He’s at what he sees as his end game.”
I saw the Club’s entrance door open and Mr. Tubbs walk out, Meshback Number One in front of him, Meshback Number Two behind him pulling drag.
“See, we generally differentiate between ‘spree’ killers and ‘serial’ killers, even though they both have multiple victims,” Miller said. “Sprees kill a whole bunch of people in a short time and then, often as not, kill themselves or suicide by cop. Serials may be organized or disorganized, but their murders are generally separated in time, with their technique becoming ever more similar and ritualized as they kill their way up along their learning curve.”
Meshback Number One got behind the wheel, and Tubbs climbed in to sit shotgun; Meshback Number Two was relegated to the back seat for this particular trip.
“Maybe this Driver is mutating from a serial to a spree?” Miller surmised. “If that’s so, then if he’s not stopped there’s probably a big body count blowout getting ready to happen, soon.
“Something’s changed drastically for him. In which case it sounds like all bets are off and he’s even more dangerous. Things are going to get even uglier with him now, and you need to be very, very careful, Markus. This guy just doesn’t care anymore.”
The Bronco pulled out the Club parking lot and started to make a left turn. But Tubbs saw me standing there and spoke
to his driver.
“Dang,” Miller muttered, his mouth aimed away from the phone. “I’ve got to go. I’m already late for a big meeting; time ran away from me here.”
Tubbs’ Bronco rapidly reversed and pulled to the curb butt first, stopping less than a foot from Sam’s front bumper – Meshback Number One could drive, it seemed.
“So what happens if I bring you evidence enough for probable cause?” I asked, avoiding Tubbs’ efforts to catch my eye.
Miller didn’t hesitate: “Then my people and I will be on the next chartered turbo-prop up to Stagger Bay, with a SWAT team, a stack of warrants, and a mob of cracker-jack accountants. You’ll be feeling the warm glow appropriate to any citizen doing his civic duty. And, incidentally, you’ll also have a federal judge who’ll love you forever, as well as a life-long good buddy in the Bureau’s VCU.”
“And one more thing friend,” Miller said. “You don’t strike me as a law enforcement groupie. Heck, if I were you I might not be one either. But I swear to you on my life, if you give me what I need I’ll take them down hard, I’ll burn them to the water line. No getting off on technicalities, as few plea bargains as possible. Trust me, Markus.” He hung up.
“Hello, Sam,” Tubbs said from the Bronco’s shotgun seat, his lipless gash of a mouth compressed into the rictus that was as close as he could get to a friendly smile.
“Mr. Tubbs,” Sam mumbled, looking down at his feet as he never would have for me.
“Hello Markus,” Tubbs said, shifting his gaze to target me in turn. “If you’re done talking to whoever, I think you might want to give me some of your time.”
Chapter 41
“Got some good news for you son,” Tubbs said as we stood together on the sidewalk; he had one hand sticking in his pocket with the thumb out as he aimed that contorted smile up at me. “I have me a little pull in Sacramento – got me some good old friends up there in the capitol – and I made some calls on your behalf. Looks like you’ll be getting that quarter mil for your time in prison after all.”
“I could use the money,” I confessed. “But you don’t owe me nothing.”
Tubbs chuckled. “Meaning you don’t owe me nothing neither, right? But you’re wrong anyways, son, leastways about me owing you. I meant what I said before about being a man who pays his debts.”
He gestured toward the Club. “You need to go in there with me now, Markus, and let me introduce you to the boys. They’ve all been wanting to meet you. You’ll be more than welcome.”
I glanced sidelong at Kendra’s dad. “It’s pretty fancy in there,” I said. “I’d feel weird. It’s not really my kind of place.”
Sam’s face sagged more fully into expressionlessness. What, did the kid expect me to shoot Tubbs down on the spot?
Tubbs nodded but his eyes were twin laser beams aimed right at me. “I can relate, son. I’m an old redneck myself – I assure you I felt like a fish out of water the first few times I walked through those doors. Tell you what though, it’ll feel like no more than your due after a while.”
“I’m sure you’re right. You’re painting a very pretty picture here,” I said. “But you’re focusing on what’s in it for me, like y’all are altruists or something.”
I tossed a shoulder, pretending the Club didn’t look strangely sweet from here on the outside. “I know you know the score; you’re the one sitting behind the stack of chips. Me, I’m just a newbie getting dealt in cold. I’m sure you’ll admit it ain’t exactly been a pat hand. How can I trust, if I don’t know what’s in it for you?”
“All right, that’s fair,” Tubbs allowed with a laugh. “I knew I was right about you. You never make no excuses for yourself. You don’t ask for shit from nobody. You’re one of my kind, son – you watch out for number one, I saw it right off. You’re no fool whatever some may think, and I’m for sure not fool enough to treat you as one.”
Tubbs and I crossed the street with the Meshbacks behind us, ready willing and able to pluck the petals off me like a dandelion. I heard a car door slam and turned to see Sam sitting in the driver’s seat of his Lincoln, drumming his fingers on the wheel.
“Maybe it’s off topic, but what about the Gardens?” I asked as we walked up the front steps of the Andersen Club. I glanced back at Sam again even as he refused to return my look.
“Do you really even care, Markus?” Tubbs asked as we stepped through the front door. “They’re not even tenants with rights – they’re illegal squatters, for Christ’s sake. I’m sorry about the little girl and all, not that I really know anything about it. Maybe those people thought you walked on water before, but I’ll bet they’ll never think as highly of you again.”
The flunky in the monkey suit muttered inconsequentials from behind his podium station, and granted us full Club access with obsequious gestures. Behind him, a sweeping tongue of a stairway curved down, wide enough for a squad to have marched abreast on. At the first landing above, a stained glass window filled the entire wall – you could have driven a bus through it.
“Hell, son, your jacket from when you were a kid was all for Class-A felonies, a lot of them violent,” Tubbs said as we passed the doorway to the dining room.
The light was muted in the dining room, and a husky Asian woman in a strapless evening gown sat in the corner playing the harp. The table linen looked crisp, and the serving staff was right there in attendance at the diners’ elbows; you wouldn’t have to chase any of these waiters down. The air was delicious with the smell of foods I couldn’t even put a name to. The subdued clatter of silverware and crockery flagged as most of the diners facing our way stopped to track us as we passed the doorway.
“You had no problem taking advantage back when you were a kid,” Tubbs pointed out as he continued fronting me down the hall with the Meshbacks body-guarding my rump. “Are you claiming to be a saint now?”
“No,” I admitted. “I’m no saint.”
And he surely had a point: Back in the day I might have even rolled with him if Karl gave the go ahead. Maybe this wasn’t back in the day, maybe my big brother wasn’t nowhere around, and maybe I wasn’t that little monster anymore. But I could hang here, couldn’t I?
I could cross my fingers even as I swore into whatever blood oath equivalent this Club required. I could be a fifth column in here; I could destroy them from within. I could have them eating out my hand before they realized my offering was laced with strychnine.
“This is a boom town these days. I know you can smell it,” Tubbs said as we rounded the corner and passed through the wide archway into the main club room. Now we were face to face with all the people Tubbs so desperately wanted to hook me up with. “Think of it like Dodge City. Maybe a few bystanders get caught in the crossfire once in a while, but that’s just collateral damage. You got to look to your own house, Markus. You got to quit trying to mend other people’s fences.”
He had another point there: What exactly had I accomplished so far in this town? I’d caused Natalie’s man’s death, I’d impressed Big Moe enough he wanted to use me as a throwaway weapon, I was on standby for whatever sketchy purpose Elaine had gotten me freed for, and I’d made no headway at all with my own son.
And the Hmong mother who’d never see her little girl again outside of dreams? That lady had to be thinking I was the cat’s meow.
“You’re not feeling the love here, that I can see,” Tubbs said when I didn’t answer.
But I wasn’t blowing him off; I was just scoping out the venue he’d plopped me in the middle of. The wide, invisibly clean picture window spilled a bar of golden sunlight across a floor covered by what appeared to be a genuine Persian. The overstuffed leather chairs looked comfortable, and the tropical hard-wood end-tables were polished to a solemn glow.
Sitting alone at the bar in the far corner was the coroner, the guy whose county paycheck obligated him to come out and take away the little Asian girl’s body. He was parking his muzzle hard and frequent in the brandy snifter he clutched in a death g
rip.
Despite the luxury of the club house, the smell of high-end furniture polish and designer cologne, the hushed sense of exclusivity and entitlement? The coroner’s angst flashed me right back to the joint. If you took the thirty-odd people in this room out of their thousand-dollar suits and stuck them in prison garb, they would have appeared right at home on the yard inside.
They were all separated into cliques along lines of mutual interest and shifting loyalties, watching one another’s backs and scheming on how to take advantage of any perceived weaknesses. Just like inside there’d be backstabbing and turncoats here, snitches running from group to group scavenging information to trade for profit. They were hunkered together for protection against forces outside their control, just like all the cons I’d known in prison.
Most of these club folk didn’t even pretend not to stare at me. Despite the smiles they wore, despite the welcoming expressions they aimed my way? I knew I was the new fish here.
One man stood and said something in a low voice to his table companions before turning to approach us carrying two flutes of champagne. A beautiful brunette sitting at his table glanced my way, but I didn’t meet her eyes.
I’d never seen the approaching man before, but his suit sure got my attention. It was a Savile Row, several quanta of rank higher than those on most of the other club members.
Angela had been a closet fashionista; she’d schooled me on all the name brands, she’d loved leafing through the style magazines. She’d always gone on and on about how, just once, she’d like to see me wear something nice.
If I’d pimped for her in a suit as gorgeous as this man’s, Angela’s face would have been beet red with pride. If I’d styled it for her in our bedroom she’d be fussing with my tie, her gaze downcast in pleasure until she looked me in the eyes and we realized we were alone together behind closed doors.
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