by Joseph Flynn
“So you like Thunder inviting the devil in?”
Ron smiled. “Yeah, nice turn of phrase. I think DuPree was brought in through his cousin, the deacon. Let’s say Jimmy Thunder’s TVQ ratings have slipped for whatever reason, and his take is down. He starts to see the beginning of the end. He’d already lost his place in the high life once, he damn sure doesn’t want to lose it again. Hell, he’s only lived up here on the top of the mountain for a few years.
“So, he says to the deacon, go ask your cousin Didi if he’d like to have me wash some money for those folks he knows with all that cash on their hands.”
“A drug connection?”
“Could be drugs. But, hell, people are making fortunes smuggling immigrants and even goddamn Freon into the country these days. So who knows about that? But we know that he got a positive response, from what Art Gilbert told me. And we also know that Thunder got cold feet.
“Now, looking at Didi’s sheet, he doesn’t strike me as the type who just shrugs off getting jerked around … but he can’t kill Thunder. That would defeat his purpose. Without the reverend, there’s no way to make the money laundering scheme work. So what’s DuPree going to do?
“He kills Thunder’s son as an example. He figures losing an estranged kid won’t mean that much to Jimmy. But by crucifying Isaac he sends a very specific message to the other man of the cloth: Play ball, or you get nailed to the next tree.”
All of that played for Oliver, but he still had a question. “This DuPree is light enough to be mistaken for a white man?”
“Sergeant Stanley came up with his picture. Got it from the Texas prison authorities. I found it on my desk when I walked in this morning.” Ron flipped the photo of the man to Oliver. “You tell me if a half blind pastor looking across a dimly lit church couldn’t think this guy was white?”
Oliver looked at the picture and nodded. “Yeah, he could pass for white.”
“So why do you like this Ring character so much?” the chief asked.
The deputy chief laughed mirthlessly. “Probably shouldn’t say so, but one of the reasons I like him is I’d really like to stomp the sucker flat into the ground.”
“You know, Oliver, I couldn’t get away with saying that about a black guy.”
“You could if it was just the two of us, and the black guy was as big an asshole as Ring.”
“But you’ve got other reasons, right?”
“Yeah. The man was right out front that the whole purpose of his book is to destroy Jimmy Thunder. In fact, the fucker was tickled about it. But the stuff he has on Thunder, at least what he told me, it isn’t all that bad. Not by today’s standards. He beat his wife and ran out on his child. That’s shameful, except how many times have we heard it before, and how much sense of moral outrage does anybody have left these days, anyway? The worst thing Ring brought up was when Thunder killed that Braddock kid who played QB for New York. But he did his time for that, and everybody already knows about it.
“So I was asking myself, ‘What if Ring has himself a book contract and no book to go with it?’ At least no book that’s going to sell worth a damn. Seems to me he’d be in some serious shit. But then the last thing he tells me is, wouldn’t it be just great for him and his book if Jimmy Thunder did his kid?”
“We all know the answer to that,” Ron said.
“Right. So I ask myself, could this prick have given himself the great ending his book needs by doing Isaac Cardwell and hoping we pin it on Jimmy? Even if we don’t, he can write that we should have.”
The chief nodded. “Yeah, I can see that, just taking your word for the kind of jerk Ring is. But Thunder’s still a real possibility. Say that Isaac found out about the deal his father and Didi had cooking and made a threat to his father to expose it. Tell Jimmy Thunder that he was going to tell Ring everything. That made Jimmy hesitant to go forward with the money laundering. Which fits with Art Gilbert overhearing DuPree’s threats. Add DuPree’s threat to Jimmy deciding he wants to keep living the good life. What’s Jimmy’s only choice? He tells DuPree to take care of Isaac and save his reputation, and he’ll go along with the deal.”
“Now, you’ve got two ways of putting DuPree in the church.”
“And you’ve got one way for Ring,” the chief said. “But we know my guy’s got a rap sheet, and we don’t know if your guy does.”
“I’ll find out,” Oliver said. “My money says he does.”
“No bet,” Ron replied.
Ron knew that he had to find Didi DuPree soon to keep working his angles on the killing. That was assuming the man was still in town. Ron hadn’t served in the army during the Vietnam War, but he’d met plenty of older guys who had. He knew what di-di meant in Vietnamese: Get outta Dodge.
Even if the man had left town, though, DuPree’s cousin, Deacon Meeker, was still nesting under Jimmy Thunder’s roof. Ron might have to have a heart to heart with the deacon. Come to that, maybe he should have another little talk with the good reverend himself. Rattle the man’s cage a little harder this time.
Ron drove over to Thunder’s estate and pulled up at the entrance. He pushed the button on the intercom.
“Who is it?” came the gruff tones of Deacon Meeker.
“Chief Ketchum. I’ve come to talk to you. Let me in.”
There was a long moment of silence and then, “Just wait right where you are.”
Neither Meeker’s tone nor his message was at all accommodating, but there was a tone in the man’s voice, almost a cockiness, that made Ron think it would be in his own interest to show some patience. He sat and looked out at the grounds, at Art Gilbert’s handiwork. The man had more than a green thumb, he had a serious gift.
Ron wondered how much Gilbert would charge to replant his windowboxes.
It took six minutes by the chief’s watch before a golf cart pulled up to the other side of the gate. Deacon Meeker was driving. But Ron’s focus was on the passenger. He had a hard time not grinding his teeth when he recognized Marcus Martin.
Ron got out of his Explorer as Martin stepped from the cart.
“Do you have a warrant to enter this property?” Martin asked from the other side of the gate, not bothering to address Ron by name or rank.
“No.”
“Then you can’t come in.”
“I don’t necessarily want to come in. I’d just like to talk with the deacon there.”
Deacon Meeker smirked at the chief.
Marcus Martin said, “As of now, I represent Reverend Thunder and everyone in his employ. I’m authorized to tell you that none of my clients will be speaking to the police. Not unless they are legally compelled to do so, and then only through me.”
“Somebody worried about something?” Ron asked.
“With certain people there is always reason to worry.”
“You making this about me, Marcus?”
“It’s well known you have a certain history.”
Ron looked over the lawyer’s shoulder and saw two figures step out from behind a stand of trees. Jimmy Thunder and Ben Dexter. Martin followed Ron’s gaze, then he looked back at the chief.
“How’s it feel to be on the outside looking in, Ketchum?”
“Like I’ve already got you surrounded, Marcus.”
The lawyer didn’t like the crack, but Ron was already turning his back on him as he headed back to his unit with a wave of his hand. “Thanks for the advice, Counselor. Next time I come, I’ll bring warrants: search, arrest, whatever I need.”
“Hey, wiseass,” Martin hissed.
Ron stopped and turned. “Now, Marcus, that remark was positively uncivil.”
“You think you’re something, don’t you? You were lucky those other times. Lucky I didn’t peel the lily-white skin right off your ass.”
The chief looked at his lifelong nemesis for a silent five count. He wouldn’t put it past the asshole to be wearing a wire. Just hoping to record something he could use against Ron. So the chief decided on an indirect app
roach.
“You want to play some ball, Marcus?” Ron asked. “I’ve got a key to the gym at the rec center. We’ll play a little midnight basketball, just you and me. You look like you’ve pudged up a bit, but maybe you’ve still got it, huh? We’ll play one on one to twenty-one — or until whoever’s left standing. Whaddya say?”
Hate came off Marcus Martin in waves.
“Come on, Counselor,” Ron taunted. “You’re letting down your side. After all, you called it, I’m white. You afraid to play basketball with a white guy?”
The lawyer started shaking so hard Deacon Meeker looked worried. Ron himself wondered, in a detached way, if Marcus was going to have a seizure. Fine with him if he did.
It was downright risky for Ron to bait a black man even obliquely, especially if he was wearing a wire. But he hated Marcus Martin, had hated him since the first time they’d met, and he wasn’t going to hold back now, whatever the risk.
“Pussy,” Ron said with contempt. Then he corrected himself. “Oops, sorry. That was sexist. And besides I just met a woman who could whip your ass on the court. What I should have said was: chickenshit.”
Maybe it wasn’t smart to be so blunt but, brother, was it satisfying. If he ever had to own up to his words in court, it would be worth it. Of course, now that he thought about it, recording a person without his prior knowledge and consent was a crime in California. That thought gave Ron a wonderful feeling of license about what he’d said.
He turned his back on the lawyer again and had the door of his patrol unit open before Marcus Martin found his voice. “You know why I’m here, you cocksucker?”
“Racial solidarity and a big fee?” Ron opined, looking at Martin once more.
“I’m here because Special Agent Francis Horgan, head of the FBI office in San Francisco, said a prominent member of the local African American community might need his civil rights protected. You be real careful about any warrant you obtain. Ain’t just us niggers you got to worry about. Cut just one little corner and the federal government will be breathing down that red neck of yours again.”
“Score one for you, Marcus,” Ron said, keeping a lid on his temper. “Give me a call at headquarters if you change your mind about playing ball.”
Chapter 30
Corrie Knox and Tucker Marsden had been out hunting the mountain lion since four A.M. They followed the big cat’s tracks through the pine forest above the north end of Lake Adeline. The trail led them to the skull of a fawn.
“Look,” Tucker told Corrie. “The fucker’s gone back to eating Bambis. All is right with the world again.”
Tucker held his rifle at the ready while Corrie knelt for a closer inspection of the young deer’s skull. She had a professional’s detachment about the demise of the fawn. Deer were the staple of a lion’s diet. It was one of their reasons for being. Even so, she felt a sense of foreboding as she looked at the fragment of bone.
“This is one hungry animal,” she said, rising. “It’s almost as if he knows he won’t be able to hunt much longer, so he’s gorging while he still can.”
She scanned the forest, not forgetting to look up.
Tucker said derisively, “Don’t go all mystical on me now. Let’s remember we’re the professionals here.” Then he paused to look around, too. “You know, I think that bastard’s not too far away. He could be watching us right now.”
“I feel the same way,” Corrie said.
“Heeeere, kitty, kitty, kitty,” Tucker crooned. “Come on out so we can put a couple rounds between those great big cat eyes of yours.”
The two game wardens stood back to back, rifles ready, straining to see any sign of the cat. The animal was close; they both sensed it. They also knew there was almost no chance they’d get so much as a glimpse of it, much less a clean shot.
“So what’s this chief of police you’re bunking with like?” Tucker inquired softly.
“We’re not bunking.”
“No?”
“No.”
“So, it’s platonic?”
“So far,” Corrie responded. If Tucker wanted to be so nosy, she thought, let’s see how he responded to that.
“Guy’s supposed to be a racist, if you can believe what you read in the paper,” Tucker said. He felt Corrie stiffen against his back.
She said, “He’s supposed to be in recovery, if you read closely.”
Tucker tried another tack. “Must be an older dude, being the chief of police and all.”
“Yeah, he’s older.”
There was a flash of movement through the trees that caused both hunters to bring their rifles to bear. But it wasn’t the lion, just a mature doe, perhaps the dead fawn’s mother. In the twinkling of an eye, she disappeared. Corrie and Tucker watched to see if the big cat, who they were sure was nearby, took up pursuit. But no chase ensued.
Their adrenaline drained and they slumped against each other.
“Kitty didn’t take off after Bambi’s mom,” Tuck said. “And there’s a lot more meat on her bones.”
“She’s a lot faster and stronger, too. Maybe our cat isn’t up to that kind of chase any more.”
“Would explain why he’s taken a fancy to us puny bipeds. So how old is this guy you’re not sleeping with?”
“Pretty old.”
“Like he could be your father?”
“Not that old.”
“Well, tell me he’s good looking at least.”
“He’s good looking … and he can hit a jump shot from the three-point line.”
Tucker laughed. “A cop and a jock. How phallic can you get?”
“Yeah. Its’ almost as bad a combination as a game warden who’s a rock climber — and we know how great that worked out. There is one difference between the two of you, though.”
“Yeah, he’s old.”
“The difference I meant is that Ron’s a grownup.”
“I’ll grow up when I get old.”
“I don’t want to wait.”
“Which was why we broke up.”
They let a long silence ensue, before Tucker finally filled it. “I hate to admit this, but if you get something good going with this guy, I’m happy for you.”
“Why do I feel there’s a kicker coming?” Corrie inquired.
“No kicker. I’m only sorry it couldn’t be me.”
“What, you got noble when I wasn’t looking?”
“Yeah … Makes you hot, doesn’t it?”
Corrie gave Tuck an elbow in the ribs, but not a hard one.
“You think your new friend is going to catch his killer?” Tuck asked.
Corrie paused a moment, then answered, “I don’t know. But I think he has to be doing at least as well tracking his quarry as we are with ours.”
The patrol unit carrying Officers Jack Dennehy and Bert Cardozo pulled up behind the chief’s car on Lake Shore Drive just outside of Jimmy Thunder’s estate. The two uniformed patrolmen walked over to where the chief sat waiting for them.
They greeted him with salutes, a gesture Ron appreciated after all of the various kinds of shit he’d been taking from people. After his confrontation with Marcus Martin, the chief had backed his unit onto the public thoroughfare and radioed Sergeant Stanley to send him the two senior patrol officers on duty.
“What can we do for you, Chief?” Dennehy asked.
Ron handed him a copy of the photo printout of Didi DuPree, along with DuPree’s rap sheet. Dennehy shared the material with his partner. The chief instructed his two officers, “Wait right here and watch for this guy. He may be on his way in or on his way out. Better for us if you collar him trying to get in. But either way, you make the arrest.”
“What’s the charge, Chief?” Cardozo wanted to know.
“Suspicion of murder. One look at this guy’s sheet, you know he’s bad. So be careful.”
“How careful, Chief?” Dennehy asked blandly.
“As careful as you have to be. I’ll back you whatever you do. But the point of all t
his is I want to talk with this guy.”
“Anything else we should watch out for?” Cardozo inquired.
“There’s a lawyer inside the gates name of Marcus Martin. He may try to give you some grief about harassing Jimmy Thunder. He gets in your faces, try to be polite. You’re public servants on a public street doing the public’s business.”
“Tell him to piss in his hat, only politely,” Cardozo said.
“Kid gloves all the way?” Dennehy wanted to know.
“As long as the only hassle he gives you is verbal, let it roll off your backs. But if DuPree shows up, don’t let Martin stop you from bringing him in.”
“Didi Du, straight to you. Gotcha, Chief,” Cardozo said.
Dennehy rolled his eyes. “He wants to do stand-up, Chief. Everybody’s a comedian but me. I don’t have a fucking sense of humor at all. I’ll make sure we bring this mope in if he shows.”
Ron had considered replacing Cardozo, and Dennehy had seen what he was thinking. The cop interceded for his partner.
“Really, Chief. Bert’ll be okay. And he’ll do better than me talking to this lawyer, if he comes out. I hate fucking lawyers. Especially since my divorce.”
Now the chief wondered if he should replace them both. Maybe have Oliver and Caz Stanley sit out here. But he didn’t want to take the time or cause any griping in the ranks. He’d have to trust them.
“Okay. Just remember, don’t underestimate DuPree.”
The two cops saluted again, and Ron left.
That, he hoped, was one chore taken care of. Now he had to keep his cool when he confronted Special Agent Francis Horgan of the FBI — even though the fed had sicced Marcus Martin on him, trying once again to screw him and hijack the Isaac Cardwell case.