Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 10

by Serpent's Tooth

  Thank you, Joachim.

  Thank you, God!

  Dashing through the house, Decker shouted, “Where’s Malcolm Carey? I need Malcolm Carey!”

  Two loud pops.

  Gunfire.

  Someone grabbed his arm.

  Marge shouted, “Upstairs bathroom.”

  “Christ!”

  They raced up the stairs, just as the bathroom door caved in. A body halfway through the second-story window, another figure desperately stuffing junk down the toilet. Narcs pulled him down first—to the ground, kicking open his legs, jerking his hands behind his back, intoning Miranda as they secured him for arrest. He wasn’t the challenge. He melted like ice cream in the Sahara.

  Decker’s eyes went to the floor, to the white face. “Hello, Sean.”

  The kid retched, gagged. Decker said, “Turn his head to the side. Don’t let him aspirate. And careful with his hands. I want them paraffin-tested. See if he fired the revolver—”

  “I swear, I didn’t shoot—”

  His words were drowned out by screams.

  The body out the window.

  Officers trying to grab on to a set of kicking legs. Fighting with all their strength. The sounds emitted. Animal sounds. Grunts, growls, snarls. Agents sweating as they tried to pull his body back through the window and into the bathroom. As if reeling in the big one. Too bad no one had a gaff. Among the group was Niels Van Gelder, the detective who had called Decker earlier in the day. Big bull of a guy with big hands. All six of them talking at once.

  Niels shouted, “Anyone find the gun?”

  “Watch the hands! Watch the fucking hands!”

  “No gun?”

  “Watch the fucking hands—”

  “Slow, slow…slow down!”

  “Is he packing—”

  “Does he have anything in his hands?” Niels asked.

  “It’s dark, man. Can’t see a fucking thing—”

  “Look at the hands!”

  “Careful—”

  “If you stick your hand out—”

  “You wearing a vest, Condor?”

  “Yeah, I’m covered.”

  Condor was Arnold Myerhoff. Five eight, one seventy, and bald. Five years with L.A. Narc, ten years prior with Miami Narc. He grunted, “Someone grab the fucker’s arm while I hold the legs—”

  “I can’t see—”

  “Watch your face. Pull back—”

  “Go for the arms. The arms. You got the arm?”

  Silence.

  “Got it?”

  “I…got it.”

  “Yank it inside—”

  “It’s in a bad position. Don’t want to break the suck—”

  “Just pull it inside, Marc.”

  Marc Kirby, a fifteen-year veteran Narcotics officer, pulled an empty fist into the room.

  Niels said, “Now get the other hand so we can pull—”

  “Check the pockets—”

  “Hold this hands while I get the other—”

  “Shit, bastard’s trying to scratch me—”

  “Wrap the hand up, Marc.”

  “In what?”

  “Just push it up his back.”

  “Got the other arm?”

  “No.”

  “Got it?”

  “Yeaaaa…got it!”

  “The hand, the hand—”

  Finally, Marc brought up a second empty fist.

  “All right!” Condor called out. “Pull the fucker up!”

  First came the legs, then the torso, then the face.

  A feral face. The mouth opened, a gaping hole, like a snake unhinging his jaws.

  Decker screamed, “He’s gonna bite!”

  Marc jerked his face away, swore as he looped his arm around Malcolm’s neck.

  Coiled muscles popping from the teen’s neck. Arms as stiff as wood. He continued to kick and flail, tried in vain to land punches using anything he had—including his head. Though he didn’t have a chance against six grown adults, he fought as if he did. The ear-piercing screeches resonated throughout the room as the body was brought onto the floor.

  And then it was over, the kid was down. Cuffed and shackled.

  Decker recognized the boy. “Yo, Malcolm. What’s up, dude?”

  The kid’s shriek seemed to emanate from his bowels.

  Decker said, “Who’s doing the booking?”

  “Yo,” Condor answered.

  Decker said, “Arnie, before either one is washed down, paraffin-test the hands to see who fired.”

  “Where is the gun?”

  “Fucker probably dropped it.”

  A sudden stench filled the small room. Decker looked down at Sean Amos’s soiled pants. The kid had lost total control.

  Niels said, “Who wants to play plumber in the john?”

  “It’s Gayola’s turn,” Marc stated.

  Gayola Weyman was six one, one eighty, with a size-sixteen neck. Her specialty was hand-to-hand combat. She started gloving up. Malcolm screamed again.

  “Will someone shut him up?”

  Condor said, “Man, it stinks in here.”

  To Decker, Marge said, “I’ll go look for the gun. Maybe he dropped it on the lawn while he was out there hanging.”

  Marc searched through Malcolm’s pockets. “Got a nice packet of powder…two of them—”

  Gayola moaned. “God, the toilet’s backing up—”

  “All the shit thrown inside. Might be needles there. You double-glove?”

  “I double-gloved.” Gayola stuck her hand down the plumbing, brought up the first load. Looked it over. A couple of packets of rock crystal, some packets of milky liquid—powder diluted by water. She went down for a second dip, brought up some melting pills and crinkled paper.

  “What in the world is this?”

  “What?” Decker asked.

  Gayola handed Decker several crumpled, toilet-soaked glossy pictures, a sheet streaked with runny ink.

  Decker smoothed out the snapshots. Neck-up portraits. Familiar face. It took a few moments to give it a name.

  Wade Anthony.

  “What the hell?” Decker looked at the paper, eyes scanning the writing. Appeared to be someone’s schedule, the activities listed by the hours.

  1. Eight o’clock: wakes up, dresses, eats breakfast, reads the paper.

  2. Ten until two…tennis practice. Next to the line was an address. Four, seven…maybe a five or a two. With the runny ink it was hard to tell. The street name was clear.

  3. Two to four P.M.…in the spa, then physical therapy.

  Gayola brought up another picture of Anthony. This one was a full body shot. He was sitting on a couch, looking quite content, smoking a big fat stogie. A nice picture except for the dart board bleeding ink over the snapshot. A big red heart drawn over the chest was the bull’s-eye.

  Suddenly the events of the day came into knife-edge focus. Decker grinned. Couldn’t have planned it better had he tried.

  Malcolm screamed once more.

  Decker said, “Take them back in separate cars. Separate bookings, separate cells, and separate lawyers. No interchange between them. And don’t forget about the hands.”

  To Condor, Marc said, “You want the screamer or the shitter?”

  “I’ll take the shitter.”

  Decker said, “Arnie, after you paraffin his hands, give him some jail rags and let the kid clean himself up before you book him. Let him have his shred of dignity.”

  36

  Savvy kids.

  They all immediately asked for lawyers.

  No prob, man. Just need to take your picture first.

  The station house had become a riot of activity. Twenty-one arrested as pounds of pharmaceuticals were bagged and checked into evidence. The firearms were entered separately. A mammothsized bust—children from some very high-powered families. Narcotics was elated. Parents were outraged. Throughout it all, Decker just did his job.

  Not nearly enough cell space at Devonshire so the kids were tra
nsferred immediately to Van Nuys for booking and arraignment. Between the paperwork, cataloging, and car-pooling, Decker didn’t get to Malcolm Carey until hours later, about one in the morning. He brought Marge with him for backup.

  Decker found the formerly out-of-control teen sitting comfortably, slouching in his chair, dressed in jail blues. He sipped water, smoked a cigarette. A square face, sporting patches of beard growth. A high forehead, strong jawline. Thin arched eyebrows. Pecan-colored hair clipped close to the scalp. Dull blue eyes. Still, they weren’t completely expressionless—not like the eyes of hardened cons. That would come later on.

  Since Malcolm was of age, his parents had been excluded from the interview. But Dad had sent along his best wishes in the form of Rupert Flame—a fifty-plus criminal defense attorney, whose haircut budget equaled a month of Decker’s salary. He was of medium build, gray hair, brown eyes, ruddy face with the wet complexion of the recently shaved. He wore a superbly tailored double-breasted navy nailhead suit.

  Decker took his seat, exchanged glances with Marge, both of them waiting for the lawyer to begin.

  Flame said, “He’s a kid—”

  “Over eighteen,” Marge corrected. “Birthday was two months ago.”

  “He isn’t what you’re after.”

  “What are we after?”

  Flame said, “You want the big guys, offer me something. He doesn’t talk until you lay something on the table.”

  Decker said, “You know what we have your client on, Mr. Flame?”

  “I know what you have—”

  “In order of severity, we’ve booked him on two counts of attempted murder of police officers—”

  “Man, I thought you were robbers,” Malcolm broke in.

  “Mal, we clearly identified ourselves,” Decker said.

  “I didn’t hear—”

  “Malcolm, you mowed down the door with a semi-automatic,” Marge said. “And you did fire the gun. Paraffin tests don’t lie.”

  Flame said, “He was panic-stricken, Detective. His judgment was less than ideal.”

  Decker said, “Twenty counts of selling illegal substances. Five counts of possession—”

  “I was framed, man. The Narcs put the envelopes in my pocket—”

  “One count of resisting arrest. Two counts felony reckless discharge of a firearm, not to mention one felony possession of a firearm.”

  “Nobody likes a pusher,” Marge turned to the kid. “Mal…can I call you Mal?”

  The teen smirked, “You can call me sweetheart—”

  “Lieutenant, listen to me. Malcolm is over eighteen. But emotionally, he’s still a child, a dumb kid—”

  “A basic retard,” Carey broke in.

  Flame snapped, “Unless you want your asshole reamed, buddy boy, you shut your mouth!”

  Surprisingly, the kid blushed, turned quiet.

  Flame took a deep breath, said, “He has a big mouth as you can see. Dumb and brash with a big mouth. But just bark, he turns into a lamb.” The lawyer kept Malcolm silent with a stony look. “Just rolls over and takes the beating. And that was what happened to him, Lieutenant. He started selling to be a big man on campus. Nothing heavy…maybe just a few joints of marijuana—”

  “A regular saint—”

  “We concede that the boy sold marijuana on his own. But within a few weeks, he was in way over his head, Lieutenant. He got involved with the wrong people. People you don’t mess with if you want to breathe.”

  “Uh-huh,” Decker said. “Meanwhile, he’s racking up a grand or two a month.”

  “The money wasn’t the reason he pushed,” Flame said. “Yes, Malcolm continued to push. We concede that as well. But not because he wanted to play Mr. Big Shot. He sold only to prevent some foreign animal from cutting off his dick and stuffing it down his throat.”

  Marge said, “I see. He was coerced into making two thou a month. Slick defense, Counselor.”

  “It’s the truth, Detective,” Flame insisted. “When Malcolm tried to stop, he was threatened. Stalked. Even beaten. We have proof of that.”

  “Uh-huh,” Decker said.

  Flame leaned in close. “He’s a pawn, not what you and Narc are after.”

  Decker said, “Actually, Malcolm is exactly what I’m after.”

  “You’re missing the big picture,” Flame replied. “We can give you names, Lieutenant. Make you and Narcotics very, very happy. Just give us something to work with.”

  “I want to talk about Sean Amos,” Marge stated.

  Flame was taken aback. “Sean Amos?”

  “The kid who was with Malcolm when we took him down.” Decker’s eyes shifted to the teen. “He’s sitting in a cell as we speak. I haven’t talked to him yet. But that can be remedied—”

  Flame broke in. “What are you talking about?”

  Decker said, “Specifically? The pictures Amos tried to flush down the toilet. What was the deal, Mal? Things flew so well first time out, you decided to do a repeat?”

  Flame’s face was the picture of confusion. Malcolm turned pale, said nothing. But he was no longer smirking.

  Flame stumbled, “Lieutenant, what are you getting at?”

  Decker said, “Ask your client.”

  “Then give me a minute with my client.”

  “You take your minute now, you might as well make it an hour. Because you know what I’m going to do, Counselor? I’m going to talk to Sean Amos. He wants to go state’s witness against your client—instead of the other way around—it’s fine with me—”

  “State’s witness?” Flame stuttered out.

  “He’s bluffing,” Carey blurted. “He’s bullshitting—”

  Decker lied, “I never bluff. I never bullshit. I want Sean Amos’s head, Malcolm. Either his or yours. So either you talk or we’ll talk to him.”

  Marge said, “You talk to us now, Mal, maybe we can cut you a deal with the DA. You play mute, then Sean’ll do your talking for you—”

  Flame cut in. “If you’re planning to bring new charges against my client, you have to come clean. You can’t conceal evidence.”

  “I’m not concealing anything,” Decker said. “Counselor, we’re not at the discovery phase of this case because as yet, I haven’t charged him—”

  “Lieutenant, you hold back, you’re in procedural error. Which messes up your entire case.”

  “Now you got me quaking.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Decker said, “We’re planning to charge your client and Sean Amos in a murder-for-hire scheme—”

  “What!” Flame glared at Carey. “I thought you said you told me everything!”

  The teen started to speak, instead looked down and stubbed out his cigarette.

  Marge said, “The intended victim is a man named Wade Anthony. That’s why there were pictures of Anthony stuffed down the toilet along with Anthony’s daily schedule—”

  Flame stuttered, “Who is Wade Anthony?”

  “A paraplegic tennis player.”

  Flame said to Carey, “Do you know this Wade Anthony?”

  Carey whispered, “He’s talking shit.”

  “Actually, it was probably Sean Amos’s idea,” Decker went on. “He felt that Wade had stolen away his girlfriend. Looks like Sean got desparate, was in the process of hiring your client as a hit man when the bust went down.”

  “We hadn’t agreed on anything yet,” Malcolm said to Decker.

  “Shut up!” Flame ordered.

  Coolly, Carey said, “Can I just talk for a moment?”

  “No, you may not!” Flame ordered.

  Malcolm discounted his counsel. “Since when is it against the law to talk about things? Even things like murder? I mean, how many times have you said you’d like to kill someone?”

  “It’s isn’t against the law to talk,” Decker said, “but it is against the law to contract. More important, it’s against the law to act on that contract. And you’ve climbed that mountain before, son. In the form of stic
king dope into people’s veins. And we both know what I’m talking about.”

  The teen blanched.

  “What are you talking about, Lieutenant?” Flame asked.

  Marge said, “If Sean drops first, you go home without a pot to piss in.”

  The boy stumbled, “You have no proof—”

  “We have fingerprints,” Decker lied.

  “That’s fucking impossible! I used glov—”

  “Shut up!”

  The room fell quiet.

  Decker went on. “Not to mention the dragon we collected from you, Malcolm. It has the exact same gas chromatography spectrum as the heroin pumped into David Garrison’s veins. Know what the odds are of that, son?”

  “Evidence doesn’t lie,” Marge fibbed.

  “Who’s David Garrison?” Flame demanded.

  The teen broke out in a sweat. “You’re trying to freak me out—”

  Marge interrupted, “Sean or you, Malcolm?”

  Flame stood up. “Before you go two any further, I need to consult with my client. Obviously, we’re in a different league now.”

  “We don’t have all night,” Decker said.

  Marge said, “And Sean’s awaiting—”

  “No!” Carey protested.

  “I insist that I converse with my client privately.” Flame’s voice had become as wound up as a catapult. “But, please, I am asking both of you to hold off talking to this other party. Just give me a few minutes.”

  “You know what? I’ll give you five of them.” Decker started for the door, turned around, looked at his watch. “Starting now.”

  Outrage was stamped across the defense lawyer’s face. But he maintained an even voice. To counteract Flame, Decker had brought in Morton Weller—a man who had packed in over twenty years with the DA’s office. Scrawny, with a narrow face, deep-set eyes, and a long neck bisected by the node of an Adam’s apple. White downy fuzz sat atop his head. He had on a gray single-breasted suit, white shirt, and red tie. He shook hands with Flame, sat down.

  Calmly, Flame said, “Give me a show of good faith.”

  Weller scratched his ear. “No death penalty—”

  Carey screamed, “Fuck that! I didn’t kill anybody!”

  “Malcolm, calm down. He’s trying to rile you.”