by Don Easton
Lance shook his head. “If you’re thinking of a bug, forget it. They never talk business inside any building. Same for vehicles. Any talk is done outside.”
Jack sighed.
Lance eyed him. “Yup, Pure E is going to be hard to get.”
“Does the three-three get paid extra money for what they do?” Laura asked.
“No, it’s more for the prestige. Sometimes they get money for food, car rentals, and hotels. Basically only whatever they need to get the job done. Their expenses generally aren’t questioned.” Lance smiled. “They’re a bit like our politicians. Receipts aren’t necessary. It’s a matter of trust.”
“Right … so what do you know about the Barlow murders?” Jack asked.
Lance gave the details, describing how he’d used Mack Cockerill, the go-between for Satans Wrath and the Gypsy Devils, to gather them together. He then described how the murders took place.
Jack and Laura already knew the details from Cockerill, but feigned surprise at the appropriate moments. The revulsion they felt when Lance described what took place in the farmhouse was genuine.
“You hear much from the Gypsy Devils since then?” Jack asked.
“Dropping like flies,” Lance replied. “It’s only been a week and I understand they’re down to six guys. Any less and they won’t qualify as a club.”
“Who are the six left?” Laura asked. “Also, do any of them have legit jobs?”
“Carl Shepherd is still president. He’s a mechanic and works out of his garage at home. Their sergeant-at-arms I only know as Thor. He’s the one who gutted Neal.”
“Norman Thorsen,” Jack said.
“Yeah, he’s built like Godzilla but doesn’t have the brains that God gave a goat. He used to be a bouncer but got canned for putting some university student into a coma.”
“And the other four?” Jack asked.
“One guy goes by Mouse and runs a stretch-limo service.”
“Mickey O’Bryan,” Jack said.
“Okay, then there’s Banjo. Don’t know if he works or not.”
“Banjo is an alias for Frederick Smith. He’s only a prospect.”
“Until two days ago,” Lance said. “They gave him his full patch when the others quit so they’d still have enough to form a club.”
“I see.”
“Another guy goes by the name of Smiley. He’s missing his upper two front teeth and has never bothered to get false ones. I got no idea what he does.”
“David Greene,” Jack said. “He works part-time as a drywaller.”
“The last guy is Bad Boy — sometimes called Bad Boy Brent or Triple B.”
“That’d be Brent Jones,” Jack said. “I don’t know much about him.”
“I don’t think he works. His guys tease him about spending all day blogging on his computer. Originally he’s from Toronto, but has a brother out here he’s living with.”
“Do you think anyone in the Gypsy Devils would ever make the cut to patch over to your colours?” Jack asked.
“I doubt it,” Lance replied. “Bad Boy has smarts, but he hasn’t lived here long enough for us to really know him. As far as the Gypsy Devils go as a club, I doubt they’ll be around much longer.”
“Your club planning any hits?” Jack asked.
“Not that I’m aware of. Some Chinese gangs are giving us a headache. I thought we’d settle things peacefully, but with Pure E, it’s anybody’s guess.”
“Tell us who in your club is up to what,” Jack said.
Over the next half-hour, Lance gave the names of a dozen club members involved with prostitution, credit-card thefts, drug trafficking, and other assorted criminal ventures.
“Any significant dope deals on the horizon?” Jack asked.
“Got two taking place around the end of the month,” Lance replied. “One for three hundred keys of weed and another for one hundred and twenty of coke.”
“Wow, one hundred and twenty kilos of cocaine sounds nice,” Jack said. “Very nice.”
“Yeah, I thought that’d grab your attention. It’s coming in from Montreal.”
“Montreal?” Jack was surprised. “I’d have thought you’d be dealing direct with the Mexicans or bringing it into Vancouver through the port.”
“We were, until we found out Damien talked. We know he told you about the boatload you took down in France, but we don’t know what else he told you. Pure E wants to let our regular connections cool for a while.”
“Do you know how it’s being delivered from Montreal?”
“A guy from here by the name of Shane McRooney is driving it back.”
“I don’t know him.”
“That’s the idea. He’s not a club member and doesn’t have a record. He’s rented a storage locker to stash it in once it’s here.”
“Under a fake name?”
“Nope. He runs a small moving company. It’ll be locked in some trunks and stored in among some household furniture. He’ll have a fictitious invoice to make it look like he was paid to haul household goods back from Montreal.”
“With the idea of being able to deny knowing about it if the police got onto it.”
“Yup. I don’t know where the storage locker is, but his truck won’t be hard for you to spot on the highway ’cause it has his name on the door. I’ll know more details about both transactions next week.”
“Does McRooney then deal the coke out himself?”
“No, his part is only to get it here. After that, we use a prospect from my chapter — Buster Linquist. He sometimes does legit work for McRooney, so the storage company is used to seeing him come and go. It’s one of those places where you supply your own padlock. Both McRooney and Buster have keys to the outside lock, but only Buster has keys to the trunks.”
“Buster Linquist,” Jack repeated.
“Yeah, I don’t know where he lives, but if you like, I’ll have one of the guys call him and a couple other prospects to the clubhouse and give them some shit job to do. Then you can follow him after.”
“Don’t bother, I know where he lives,” Jack said, feeling pleased that the hours he and Laura had spent on surveillance of the prospects earlier had already paid off.
“Figures that you’d know and I don’t,” Lance said dryly.
“You’ve done good,” Jack said. “We’ll give you our numbers. Anything happening, day or night, I want —”
“Yeah, I know. I’ll call.”
“There’s one more thing.” Jack pulled a tape recorder out of his jacket pocket. “I’ve recorded our chat. Still am.”
Lance’s mouth fell open in both shock and rage. He leaned forward, placing his hands on his desk like he was about to leap over it. “What the fuck?”
“Settle down. This is our insurance policy. Don’t try to move your money out of your Cayman account or do anything else to piss us off until we’re even.”
Lance sat back in his chair. “Christ, Jack, where’s the trust?” he grumbled.
“Five million is a lot of trust.”
Lance appeared to think about it. “Yeah … I guess. Make damned certain you take care of that recorder.”
“No worries.” Jack waited a beat. “In the end, the consequences for Pure E need to be serious.”
Lance raised an eyebrow. “Serious or fatal?”
Jack didn’t answer him, just turned off the recorder and stared hard at Lance.
Jack saw the smile on Laura’s face when they returned to their car. “Happy?” he said.
“Happy? That’s an understatement! That was fantastic!”
Jack grinned. “Pure E isn’t going to be popular for long. We’ll have to protect our friend, but we’ll still be able to create havoc — and tell the investigators to thank Pure E for every bust that’s made.”
“Our friend is going to be a gold mine of i
nformation. In fact, he already is.”
“You’re right about that. Better enjoy the weekend. Once the task force is up and running we’re going to be busy.”
“Can’t be any busier than we’ve been all week.” Laura yawned. “Getting home tonight before midnight will seem like a treat.”
Jack’s thoughts were elsewhere. “They’ll never know what hit them. Might even get the one hundred and twenty keys of coke seized in Montreal. That’d let them know that Pure E’s tactics will affect them nationwide.”
“When you picked up the picture from Lance’s desk, he said there was no need to smash it. What did he mean?”
“The first time I turned him, he had a family photo on his desk. Things got a little heated when it came to convincing him to talk. I smashed the picture and told him if he didn’t co-operate he’d never see them again.”
“Bet that caught his attention.”
“It did.”
“One more thing. You never answered when he asked if the consequences for Pure E needed to be serious or fatal. All you did was shut off the recorder and stare at him.”
“I wanted to let him wonder what lengths we’d go to if our families were threatened. If Pure E brings the idea up again, maybe he’ll try harder to talk him out of it.”
“I see,” Laura said thoughtfully. “It’s kind of funny he brought it up. He’s had such a violent life that he auto-matically made a presumption that you wanted Pure E dead.”
Perhaps he knows me better than you realize.
Chapter Fifteen
On Sunday afternoon Jack’s game of pool with his son Steve was interrupted by a phone call. He answered and a man said, “It’s me.”
Jack recognized Cockerill’s voice. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Didn’t expect to hear from you.”
“What, you thought I meant it when I gave you the finger last time? I was only fuckin’ with ya.”
“You’re okay, though?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Thought I’d pass somethin’ on to ya.”
“You don’t need to. As far as I’m concerned, we’re even.”
“I know, but you treated me good, so I thought I’d give you a little heads-up. I was at the clubhouse last night and your picture’s on the wall. I was told to get a prospect to deliver a copy to the Gypsy Devils.”
“My wife and kids, too?”
“Nope, only yours. A good face shot of you walking out of your garage.” Cockerill paused. “With your hair and beard you look like one of us, but they got the word ‘cop’ written underneath. There’ll be a copy in the Eastside clubhouse, too.”
“Thanks for letting me know.”
“Yeah, yeah, no sweat,” Cockerill mumbled. After a moment, he said, “There’s somethin’ else you might want to know.”
“Oh?”
“Buck’s struttin’ around with ‘3-3’ tattooed on his arm.”
“Already?” Jack pretended surprise. “Isn’t it unusual for someone to go into the three-three without some kind of special training or connections? Especially considering he only got his full patch a couple of weeks ago.”
“I talked to Floyd Hackman about Buck joining his team so soon. He told me that there ain’t nothin’ Buck wouldn’t do. ‘Ice cold’ is how he described him. Said he was born to be a killer. Everyone outside the three-three thinks Damien fled the country, but from talkin’ to you, I knew better.”
“No, you’re not telling me that —”
“Yup.” Cockerill paused. “Buck whacked his old man. I’m sure of it.”
I’m sure of it, too.
On Monday Jack picked up Laura on his way to work and told her about Cockerill’s call and Buck’s new three-three tattoo.
“The bloody psychopath is proud of what he did!” Laura was aghast.
“So it would seem. I was also told they’ve got my picture up in the clubhouses and gave a copy to the Gypsy Devils. Only mine, though, not Natasha or the boys.”
“Those assholes,” Laura muttered.
“Don’t worry about it. I was already thinking about changing my appearance. Natasha doesn’t like beards. Especially bushy ones. She says mine has gone to seed.”
Laura glanced sideways at Jack. “I’d have to agree with her.” She paused, then said, “Guess the good news is Weenie Wagger is coming back to us. It’s always nice to have two informants to verify what each of them tells us.”
“I don’t think Weenie looks at the club as his family anymore.”
“Great, so we adopt him,” Laura said, feigning disapproval. Then she pointed out the window. “Hey, you missed the turnoff.”
“I’m going straight to I-HIT. Today is when we’re supposed to take a run at Vicki. They’ll want us wired up.”
“Oh, man, I forgot all about that.”
“It’d be nice if we could get her to admit something.”
“Good luck with that,” Laura replied. “She’s one wicked woman.”
Jack and Laura sat in their SUV in the hospice parking lot near Vicki’s vehicle, a white Cadillac Escalade. George Hobbs and Dan Philips from I-HIT were parked a block away, listening through Jack’s hidden transmitter.
“I’ve got a visual on T-1,” Jack said. “Approaching her car now. It’s showtime.”
“Not even 1:00 p.m. yet,” Laura noted as they walked toward Vicki.
“The dutiful daughter,” Jack said. “Probably shoved a spoonful of porridge down his throat and left.”
“Maybe he should consider himself lucky she hasn’t killed him,” Laura replied.
Vicki was pulling her keys from her purse when Jack and Laura caught up with her. “You set Damien up to be killed,” Jack said, sounding matter-of-fact. “We’d like to know why.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” Vicki gave a tiny gasp and put her hand over her heart. “Are you telling me my husband is dead?”
“Knock it off, Vicki,” Laura said. “We know. We’re trying to help you out. Get your story out before I-HIT takes you down.”
“My story?”
“Come on, Vicki,” Laura persisted. “We know it must have been hell living with him. Was he … physical with you? We know he had a temper.”
“Never! I love my husband. I can’t believe what you’re saying. I’m horrified.” Then with a sneer, she took her hand off her heart and said, “If he’s really dead, I’d like to see the body. I’m sure you’re mistaken. If you’re not, what a cruel way to tell a loving wife that her husband is dead … and then to accuse her of having something to do with it! I’m tempted to go to the media.”
“How do you feel about being charged with conspiracy to commit murder?” Jack said sharply.
“I’m innocent. You’ve got nothing on me — unless of course you’re thinking of framing me for something. I certainly wouldn’t put it past you.”
“You don’t think we have something on you?” Jack shook his head. “Three weeks ago you met us in a hotel room and gave us the information on Damien’s money-laundering scheme, complete with bank accounts. I told you then that if you weren’t being straight with us, I’d feed you to the wolves.”
“Are you threatening me? First you tell me my husband is dead. Then you accuse me of killing him. Now you’re saying I squealed on him? My God! I came to you that day to beg you to drop charges against my son, as any loving mother would. Bank accounts? Money laundering? From what I heard, it was one of Damien’s lawyers who ratted.” Vicki actually looked amused.
You bitch! That does it. You won’t be laughing when I’m done with you.
“This meeting you allege we had,” Vicki said smugly, “I’m sure you would’ve recorded it, wouldn’t you?”
“You know we didn’t,” Laura said. “Our concern was to protect you and keep your identity secret.”
“Unlike today, I suppose.” She looked at each of them and then smiled.
Jack looked at her, stone-faced. “I’m guessing you watched when Buck and the three-three took Damien away.”
“So what if I did? I don’t know where they took him or what they did when they left.”
Good. I’ve established that you at least were a witness to that. “You must be proud of Buck.”
His comment appeared to affect Vicki. “Buck’s family is the club,” she said sullenly. “I don’t have anything to do with him anymore. If you think you’ve got something on me, go ahead and arrest me. I’d like to call a lawyer. If not, then fuck off.”
Jack and Laura glanced at each other, then returned to their SUV. Once inside, Jack said, “Sorry, guys. We tried. I did get her to admit that she saw them take Damien away. Might come in handy later. I’m shutting the wire off,” he added, then flicked a switch on the transmitter hidden under his shirt. He turned to Laura. “I’m not going to let Vicki get away with what she did. Someday … somehow … justice will be served.”
“I think she thought that exposing Damien as an informant would bring Buck back to her,” Laura said. “Instead, the opposite happened.”
Jack felt his phone vibrate and answered.
It was Rose. “You still waiting to talk to Vicki?” she asked.
“No, we tried a few minutes ago and she told us to fuck off.”
“Which you expected,” Rose noted.
“Do have some good news, though. Friday night Laura and I reconnected with that new source we’d talked about. I’ll fill you in when we get back.”
“Good, but I’ve something to tell you. It’s a little disconcerting. You need to get in here pronto. Mortimer wants to see you.”
“His first official day in the office and we’re granted an audience? Must think we’re important people,” Jack joked.
“There’s no ‘we,’” Rose said gravely. “I told him we’d be there as soon as you returned and he curtly informed me that if he wanted me to attend, he would’ve said so. He only wants to see you.”
“That’s weird. Did he say why?”