by Jon Mills
“This seat suits me fine.”
“First rule of being a good reporter, Kelly. You’ve got to ease up, let your hair down and be willing to do whatever it takes to get that story. You want that story?”
“The story, yes. You, no.”
“Suit yourself. But let me tell you something… you go barging into Grant’s life bombarding her with questions and you’re liable to get her back up. That woman is fragile. Damaged goods. You don’t know the half of what she’s been through. But me, I do.”
The guy thought he was an expert. So smug.
He walked off and sank down onto a black leather sofa looking all pleased with himself. Kelly narrowed her eyes and ground her teeth together before counting to ten under her breath. Okay, you can do this. She got up and joined him on the sofa leaving a wide gap between.
“OK, so what do you know?”
“Her son was one of the first murder victims. Yeah, some say the case got to her and that’s why she left the Chronicle. Others think she got too close and this guy you’re looking for isn’t the angel these witnesses make him out to be but has ties to the mob. You see, when I was looking into the case, I managed to talk to a source of mine down at SFPD, and rumor has it there was a big shootout between the cops and mobsters down at Pier 1 and among those they brought in was some guy who they did a deal with for immunity.”
“Immunity?”
He drained his bottle and clicked his fingers to get the bartender’s attention. The guy ignored him and Kelly smiled. “Yeah. So, like I said, the chances of you finding this mystery man are slim to none and even if you do, I wouldn’t be surprised if you find out that he’s more demon than angel. And you know what? They never did find that money that went missing.” Zach twisted in his seat frustrated that the barman wasn’t tending to his every whim. “Hey bartender. What’s going on with service around here? Do they pay you to just wipe down counters? You know, it only takes me two seconds to leave a crappy review on this establishment,” he said holding up his phone.
“Zach.”
Kelly went a deep shade of red and mouthed the word sorry to the bartender.
“What? I’ve seen better service down at my local Chinese restaurant and don’t get me started on that shithole. It took me a year to recover from food poisoning.” He turned back and requested two more bottles.
Kelly put her out her hand. “One is enough for me.”
“Fine. I’ll have yours. Anyway, as I was saying. I think our best bet is to milk this shit for all it’s worth. We tell Johnson that we are on a hot lead. We book into a five-star hotel in Telluride, take in the sights, run up one hell of tab on food and booze, followed by me coaching you in the fine art of lovemaking and we return and write up some bogus article about the guy being some dead mobster. Boom! Promotions all around.”
Kelly almost spat her drink out. “First, I doubt you even know how to make love and even if you could it’s out of the question. Second, that’s lying and third, are you outta your goddamn mind?”
He leaned back in his chair. “Johnson hasn’t a clue. All that man cares about is subscriptions and rubbing shoulders with the who’s who in this city. The way I see it is if this ship is going down, which it is, I’m taking it for all it’s worth, and believe me, it owes me a shitload. And if you’re smart you will do the same. I didn’t work my ass off for twenty-plus years to be turfed out on my ear without a nickel.”
“You really are a piece of work, Zach.”
“Yeah, I’m priceless.” He smiled before tossing another nut in his mouth.
At that moment, more than a thousand miles away, Jack settled in a spare room for the night. It was small, rectangular, with a built-in closet, a mahogany dresser to the right of the single bed, and an old bulky TV resting on top. Beside the bed was a round table with a lamp, radio and dirty ashtray. At the far end was a rocking chair with a hand-woven blanket draped over the back of it. All over the walls were photos of family, and there was a cross on the back of the door and a framed image of the Virgin Mary. Jack had noticed a Bible on the coffee table. Dalton would have felt at home here. He tossed his bag on the bed and pulled out the tablet to watch the video of Dana again. Just seeing her broke something inside him again. It frustrated him that he didn’t have anything to go on except a few old articles about unsolved murders. He’d scanned them a few times on the way down from Telluride but as he’d shared the rear seat with others he was conscious of staring.
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” he said.
Tyson’s mother Shanice entered. She eyed him suspiciously and looked around the room as if to check that he hadn’t stolen or damaged anything.
“Tyson told me what you did for him. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“He’s a good kid. A little too trusting at times but good nonetheless. Me? I’ve been on this earth long enough to smell trouble. Are you trouble, Mr. Weslo?”
“I’ll be out of your hair tomorrow.”
He glanced at the oxygen tank and she noticed. “Cystic fibrosis,” she said taking a seat in the rocking chair and wheeling the tank around to her right side. “After Tyson’s father left us my health went downhill. Doctors thought it was hormonal disorders, then kidney disease, lupus and finally depression. It took another year before an ENT doctor figured it out and had me tested for CF.” She breathed slowly. The sound of air was faint but noticeable. “I was diagnosed with it six years ago. I’m waiting on a lung transplant but it’s tough and I’m not guaranteed to live beyond another ten years. Staying alive isn’t cheap, Mr. Weslo. Just the cost of treating this has put us in the red and that doesn’t take into account the cost of a lung transplant, or the health care costs after that.” She ran a hand over her face. “If it wasn’t for my brother, and Tyson working I don’t know what we would have done so far. I worry about him. When I’m gone I don’t know if he’s strong enough.”
“Seems like a strong kid to me.”
“That’s what he wants you to think. He tells me he’s cleaning homes but I know he’s running errands for Jeremiah Pope. That man is trouble. I don’t like it and I’ve tried to speak to him but he won’t listen.” She smiled. “He’s probably told you he has this dream of becoming a prizefighter, the next champion, but he hasn’t thought about the health risks, ending up with hepatitis, staph infections or worse — brain damage. All he sees is those bright lights, all he hears is the chants of fans.” She shook her head.
There was quiet for a few seconds.
“How much does it cost for a lung transplant and ongoing costs?” Jack asked.
“The transplant, inpatient treatment, pharmaceuticals, medical services, complications, diagnostic tests… it’s somewhere up in the $306,000 to $500,000 range.”
Jack blew out his cheeks. “That much?”
“Yeah, great health system we have, huh?” She breathed in deeply and looked at her feet and then placed a hand on the image of the Virgin Mary. “Are you a God-fearing man, Mr. Weslo?”
He stifled a chuckle thinking of Dalton’s repeated attempts to convert him to his way of thinking. “I’m not sure what that even means. But I’m not afraid to die, if that’s what you mean?”
She turned and looked at him.
“Tyson says he’ll raise the money even though I’ve told him not to bother.”
“Why? People have these surgeries all the time. It extends their life. A transplant could save you.”
“That’s not a given. Organs are rejected every day. I might not be a good match. I would hate to have wasted someone’s lungs. I’ve talked this over with him but he won’t listen.”
“He cares.”
“Yeah. Yeah he does. But that’s what worries me. I can handle dealing with this on a daily basis,” she said shaking the oxygen tank. “But I’m afraid for my son, Mr. Weslo. I’m afraid he’s going to wind up like his friend Nicky or get caught up on the wrong side of the law and I don’t think I could handle
that.”
Jack bit down on his lower lip. “Where’s his father?”
She scoffed. “Who knows? Drunk in some bar down in Texas. Dead. Who cares? Even when he was around he wasn’t here.”
Jack knew a thing or two about that.
“Anyway, I just wanted to thank you for what you did for Tyson. You’re welcome to stay longer if needed.” She walked over and looked at the photos on the wall of her when she was younger and healthier. “Life goes by so quickly.” She turned with tears in her eyes. “Do you have anyone special in your life?”
His chin dropped ever so slightly and he nodded.
“Hold on to them, Mr. Weslo. You never know when they’ll be gone.”
She smiled and bid him goodnight, leaving him with his thoughts.
Chapter 9
Five hours. That’s all Jack slept that night. In the early hours of the morning as the sun began to peek over Santa Fe he’d stepped out for a run. The solitude of running trails in Colorado had always given him a way to unpack his thoughts and release pent-up frustration. He thought it might have the same effect that morning. It had become a daily practice Dana had instilled in him, that and meditation were just a couple of the suggestions she had for keeping a lid on what troubled him. After jogging for forty minutes through the hilly terrain surrounding the neighborhood, Jack stopped to take a breather. There were no real aches or pains from the night before even though he’d exerted himself. His knuckles were a little tender but that came with the territory of dispatching five guys. It could have been a hell of a lot worse. He placed his hands on his knees and glanced out over the valley. The glare of the sun made him squint into the horizon, its warmth enveloping his face. He took a swig from a water bottle and took a seat on a boulder overlooking the homes. He couldn’t allow his anger to get the better of him. It could cloud his judgment, make him reckless, which would only make it that much harder to find her. Sitting there he pulled out the wad of news articles and went over them again. What had drawn Dana’s attention to these murders? What was she doing in Santa Fe? He’d begun to think that perhaps she didn’t fly but drove to the city not long after he’d left for L.A. She could have got there within the day. He also believed she hadn’t mailed the tablet but returned to Telluride. That was the only logical explanation for how the safe could have been opened. Unless she was forced to give it up. She was the only other person who knew the combination. He thought about the video again. She was certain she was being followed. But by who?
Without the flash drive he was missing an important piece of the puzzle leaving him with little to go on. Looking down at the articles he pondered. Why keep these? What did each of them have in common? How were they linked? What did the dates have to do with it? It had been the first time since Telluride that he’d properly read each one. Up until that point he’d scanned them but his mind couldn’t concentrate. The victims were ordinary, working-class people. Some were married, others single. The murders had occurred across the United States in different states at different times of the day and night. Some were found on the street, others in businesses, in homes and even on public transportation. The nature of the killings was brazen, precise and swift. Jack had rubbed shoulders with many killers over the years. There was a method to their madness and more often than not they would stick to one way — strangulation, stabbing, shooting or poison. There were few who mixed it up as that could mean delays, and mistakes. No, a killer was usually comfortable with routine. Then there was the disposal of the body, that couldn’t be overlooked. Some enjoyed the notoriety that came with leaving their victims out in the open, others went to great lengths to conceal and others took it to the next level with purposely positioning them to send a message.
What was the message? Was there one?
His gut told him this was the work of multiple killers, but if that was so, what had drawn Dana’s attention to these? Was it just a fascination with the macabre? No, she had winced as he retold some of the murders he was involved in. Collecting these articles demonstrated purpose, storing them in a safe deposit box was a sign that she was fearful of losing them. There were only a few who did that — collectors and the law. It was evidence but for what? Why gather it? Why visit Santa Fe if she felt her life was in danger? Why take the risk? Jack looked down again at the articles. There were thirty-two articles from different newspapers with the oldest dating back to the early nineties. The only common thread was that they all included a photograph of the crime scene. Why keep these, Dana? He squinted at the images trying to make sense of it. That’s when he noticed something, or better put he remembered. He flipped back several articles to check. Sure enough, there it was, a chess piece. Jack thumbed back again. A pawn nearby, tipped on its side with the tip facing the body, in another he saw it left on a windowsill, and in another next to shampoo bottles, and… he thumbed furiously through the articles scanning the photos. Every single one was the same. The piece was always there even if it was inconspicuously placed. It was a calling card, a signature left behind to send a message. Dana was collecting these because she’d found a common thread.
After returning to Tyson’s home, he showered and dressed and ambled down the stairs to find Tyson quietly talking with his mother over the breakfast table. There were a few plates of toast, a bowl of butter, a box of cereal and a pot of coffee in front of them. It smelled like fried bacon. Tyson raised his eyebrows. “Hey Jack, I have to go into town this morning to run an errand, I thought we could grab a bite to eat at a local café, if you’re up for it?”
“You haven’t had breakfast?”
“No, apparently mine is not good enough,” Shanice said before pursing her lips.
Tyson laughed and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “You know I love it.”
Jack glanced at Shanice and she gave a nod before disappearing into the rear living room.
“So?”
“Sure, I’ll grab my stuff.”
“Ah leave it, man. I mean unless you need it or are planning on leaving the city today? Are you?”
“I wasn’t planning on it, at least not yet.”
He slapped him on the arm. “Good. Then you’ll stay with us.”
Jack threw up a hand. “Tyson. I don’t want to impose.”
“It’s okay. It’s not a problem. In fact it was actually my mother’s idea.”
“It was?”
He nodded. “Yeah, and if you’re interested I think I might be able to hook you up with a job with Jeremiah. He’s always looking for new blood.”
Jack half heard him as he turned to head back up to collect his bag. He didn’t want Shanice snooping through it and he had an idea she might, if only to get a better feel for him. He could tell she was leery of having him around and for good reason. She didn’t know him, and by the sound of those Tyson was running with she must have expected he was no different. When he made it to the bottom of the stairs, Tyson was outside having a cigarette and petting the dog. Jack headed into the back to make sure Shanice had suggested he stay. He didn’t want to outstay his welcome. She had returned to sitting at the table drinking coffee and reading through a newspaper when he stepped into the arched doorway.
“Mr. Weslo,” she said without looking up.
“Tyson—”
“Yes, I suggested it. If you’re staying, that is,” she said lowering her paper and peering over her small glasses at him. “The way I see it, Tyson could use a positive influence. You know — someone to watch his back with Nicky in the hospital and all. Lord knows he’s got enough unsavory characters around him.”
“But you don’t know me.”
“No I don’t,” she said looking down at her paper again. She flipped a page over. “But the Lord and I had a good conversation last night and call it a gut instinct, I think he would have you stay.”
Jack studied her and nodded slowly. The Lord spoke to her? Who was he to call her out on her bullshit? He fished into his bag and took a roll of cash and set it on the table. “Well I don�
��t know how many days I’ll be staying, but it won’t be long that’s for sure. Either way, here’s something to cover any cost.”
“Keep your money.”
“It’s not a problem.”
She lifted her eyes. “It is when I don’t know where it came from.”
They exchanged a glance and he understood what she was insinuating.
“The money’s clean. I wouldn’t accept it if it wasn’t.”
She eyed the roll of green and looked at him again. Jack could tell she was tempted. It wasn’t like they were living in the lap of luxury. “Fine. Leave it there. I’ll pray about it.”
Again he nodded slowly as he bid her good day and backed out of the room. He was used to Dalton’s religious lingo but this lady took it to a whole other level. She truly believed the big guy upstairs was listening to her, even speaking to her. If only that was true, Jack would have a few questions. Although he didn’t adhere to the same set of beliefs he couldn’t help but admire those who did. There was something to it even if he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
Outside the day was beginning to heat up. An empty blue sky stretched out over the rolling hills as they made their way into town.
“Who’s Nicky?”
“Ah, my mother told you about him?” Tyson asked.
“Dropped his name. Said he was in the hospital.”
Tyson took a hard pull on his cigarette and then tossed it. “A fighter. He’s like an older brother to me. Took me under his wing and used to train me. He got injured a few nights ago at an event called Rage in the Cage.” He shook his head. “Anyway, the doctors had to put him into a medically induced coma. They don’t think he’ll make it but I know Nicky. He’s a fighter. I’ve seen him bounce back from multiple ACL injuries. If anyone can make it out, he will.”
“Rage in a Cage?”
Several trucks roared by on their way into the town as they walked on the dusty hard shoulder.
“Underground fighting. Jeremiah has been running the event for years. It’s unsanctioned, and illegal, but there is big money to be made if you’re willing to take the risk.”