"For Caulkins, failing to make detective a seventh time caused his occasional drinking to escalate and eventually, broke up his marriage. His brother-in-law tried to keep his drinking under control but Caulkins wrecked a squad car down by Lover’s Point and was given the option to quit or be fired. Last I heard he lived in San Jose somewhere, working as a security guard and been on the wagon close to a year.
"That should have been the end of it and despite some initial attitude from Larry’s friends, I thought it was. Larry himself held no grudge against me, never has. But Jack Sullivan, the District Attorney was not only Larry’s brother-in-law, he was like a big brother and a best friend; introducing him to his sister, getting him into the Police Academy and pushing him year after year to try for detective.
"I even heard he was being groomed for the Chief’s job, but that all went down the toilet when he started drinking hard. I admit relief was mostly what I felt once he quit and perhaps naively hoped to put it all behind me.
"It started small, as most things like that do; a speeding ticket I received while off duty turned into a scathing reprimand from a normally even-tempered Judge, along with a three hundred and fifty dollar fine. Minor cases I brought to the District Attorney’s office seemed to get bungled or stalled for months on end.
"Nothing was ever said or done directly by Sullivan or his office, and yet the effect began to add up. My first year job review as detective was less than spectacular and I was working sixty hours a week. It was a new job for me, so I redoubled my efforts with little improvement. If not for Linda helping me to step back from it all, I probably would have gone down trying.
"It was a rare Saturday off and after listening to me rant about my job review for an hour, Linda pulled out a yellow pad and started asking me questions: ‘Why did the judge lower the bail on this suspect and why was that rape case delayed for three months? How did the evidence from that drug case get misplaced on the opening day of the trial and what was the reason given when it was found.’
"I admit I thought the county DAs office was a pretty sloppy operation, mostly because I thought all the department’s cases were being handled like mine. It didn’t occur to me that someone was sabotaging my efforts, I just wasn’t that paranoid.
"Linda finished her many questions and after I made a few calls regarding jurisdiction and local influence, a pattern emerged with Sullivan at the spidery center. Then I got paranoid! Especially when I couldn’t prove any of it since legitimate errors are made on cases. Like you, I could only watch my back every hour of every day.
"I documented every aspect of each case I handled and pestered the DA’s office as to what pieces of evidence were needed and when. This helped to a degree but if I slacked off even a bit, the errors picked up immediately. And always Sullivan did nothing overt enough to prove, and it remained that way until Linda was injured and I was arrested for attempted murder.
"Documentation couldn’t help me there,” he said, rising from the couch and walked the few paces to the front window. Pushing the drapes aside, he looked out on the impeccable gardening and the money it spoke of. His unmarked police cruiser sat on the street as he’d left it over an hour before, looking shabby so close to the new Jeep in the driveway or even the sky blue Mercedes across the street. Far older, in fact, than its two years. That’s what fog every afternoon will do he thought, and wondered what the couple from his lunch hour had thought of his car.
He let the curtain fall, sending the room and his dazzled eyes into a draconian kind of darkness. The lamp beside Mrs. McKenny flicked on after a moment, allowing him to maneuver back to the couch and see the perplexed look on her face. Leaning over the armrest slightly she folded both legs to the side and, pulling them beneath her, settled upright once again.
“You’ll find I have a particular dislike of repeating myself...officer Piedmont, but once again, I don’t understand. In light of what you’ve told me, why were you charged with attempted murder and, not to sound cold, what evidence was there to back up such a charge?”
He smiled at her and laughed, regretting it immediately as her face became a full-blown scowl.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. McKenny,” he said, trying to look contrite. “I was laughing at your dislike, not your very good question. At the risk of carrying an analogy too far, what was the most effective weapon used by the cheerleaders you mentioned?”
“Rumor,” she replied without hesitation. “You can’t disprove them and hell, half the time you’re not sure who’s spreading them and...”
“And after awhile,” he broke in, looking straight at her, “it doesn’t matter because they take on a life of their own.” Oliver glanced at his watch; suddenly aware he’d been out of radio contact with PG base for almost an hour.
“I need to call in to my office, Mrs. McKenny, if that’s all right?” He scooted to the couch’s edge. She seemed to hear him only after a few seconds passed, then jumped up, embarrassed.
“Umm...sure, I'll just get us something to drink.” Pulling her shorts with a quick little tug, she walked down the hall toward what appeared to be the kitchen.
“Yeah Tom, everything’s fine. Just having a heart to heart with Mrs. McKenny.” He could hear her puttering around the in kitchen, the way everyone did it seemed and a moment later, heard the high pitched whistle of escaping steam along with an accompanying gurgle.
“Yeah, Yeah. I Should be back into the station in half an hour or so...Yeah... sure, ok...see you then."
He ended the call and returned his cell to its leather pouch on his belt, then stood waiting for her to return. When she did not, he walked toward the kitchen and the clinking of china. Turning a corner, he found a steaming espresso being held out to him.
“I’m afraid I should have offered this when you first came in, Detective Peidmont, I...” She seemed about to go on, but nothing followed. Her face was a mixture of embarrassment and searching.
“Three cups of coffee during lunch would have nixed that, Mrs. McKenny,” he lied, accepting the small demitasse cup.
“Please call me Jenny,” her eyes finally met his.
Her request was genuine, he saw and taking a sip of the steaming black liquid, he broke another one of his personal rules.
“Oliver,” he said extending one hand while balancing his cup and saucer with the other. He found her hand surprisingly cool as they exchanged a polite little handshake.
She sat down on the opposite side of the small kitchen island, pulling out an unseen stool and motioned for him to do the same. She waited till he was settled before speaking.
“So why were you charged with attempted murder?”
“I wasn’t initially,” he said, setting down his cup. “Though the paper made it sound like I was. Actually, a suspect can be detained for up to forty-eight hours under suspicious circumstances. Since I actually lived in Monterey, Sullivan looked for anything he could to hold me and when he found out about the 911 call, he had reasonable cause. When Linda failed to regain consciousness and slipped into a coma later the next day, Sullivan had the perfect opportunity for the pay back he’d wanted all along. It wasn’t hard to justify, what with my fingerprints on the knife, Linda sprawled on the floor with a serious head injury and a ‘gash’ on her leg.
“Such a story is a windfall to the local papers,” he said after taking a sip of his espresso, placing his cup on the beautiful blue-grey tile set into the island tabletop.
"I became the Crime Of The Summer and lurid details were served up daily. The fact that men cut themselves worse while shaving or that it was I who called 911 simply didn’t stay in the paper long.
"Only after Linda pulled out of her coma eleven days later and what should have been a two week investigation was dragged out for three months, did such trivialities become relevant once again. I was cleared of all charges and eventually put back on duty, but there’s nothing like three months of sensational headlines to make a lasting impression.” He lifted the small cup to his lips, drained it an
d rose.
She took his cup and placed it along with hers in the sink and then led him to the entrance. She halted before the heavy oak doors and stared momentarily at the tile beneath her before finally looking back up.
“I’ll go ahead and press charges against my husband,” she said, leaning against the doorframe. Burning like twin candles before him, her eyes closed for a few seconds and when they reopened, two smoky beaten-down coals stared at him. “If you think it’ll do any good.”
“If you don’t, he’ll just do it to the next Mrs. McKenny.” He waited as she took this in and finally she reached for the door and pulled it open.
“I’ll come to the station tomorrow morning, if that works with your schedule?”
“Works just fine,” he said with a smile and stepping out, turned back and extended his hand.
Perhaps in Los Angeles or even San Jose, a car’s engine pushed to the limit is a common distraction, but the outraged whine behind Oliver sent all his internal alarms off the scale.
Releasing her hand, he craned his neck in time to see the sky blue Mercedes skid to a halt behind his cruiser as a burst of gunfire splintered the doorframe beside him. Two other bullets smacked mid-center into his Kevlar vest, their impact sending the two of them toppling onto the tiled entrance.
CHAPTER FOUR
Another burst of gunfire shredded the wall above them as they struck the unforgiving tiles, instinctively clinging to each other as they rolled free of the doorway.
“Call 911!” Oliver half shouted, releasing Jenny as he rose to a crouch. Heart jack hammering, he drew his weapon, switched off the safety and stepped to the door’s edge, ready for the pounding of attacker’s feet up the walkway. Instead, an engine’s roar mixed with the squeal of tires pushed him back until it trailed off down the street.
He leaned against the inside wall and felt the inevitable adrenaline-induced urge to react, to do anything except sit and wait for backup and only a minute or two later he heard the wail of approaching sirens.
“Jenny," he called, turning back toward the hallway. "You okay?
“Yea...yeah. I’m okay,” the small shaky voice came back. “Are...are they gone?”
“Yes,” he said after dipping his head briefly into the doorway and back out. “But stay put till I give the all clear, okay?”
Her shaky, incredulous laugh came back, “Hah, no argument here!”
What sounded like several squad cars whipped around the two ends of the street and seconds later two of them screeched to a halt beside his cruiser. He popped his head out and saw Willy Johnson, Pacific Grove’s only black police officer push his door open and bring his barrel-chested frame to a quick crouch behind it. The other car, just out of sight produced matching sounds. Oliver forced himself to wait until they responded.
“THIS IS THE POLICE! PUT YOUR WEAPONS DOWN AND STEP OUT WITH YOUR HANDS ABOVE YOUR HEADS!”
Willie’s amplified and thus tinny voice boomed up to the house and back across the neighborhood. He waited until the echoes died before calling out.
“Willie! This is Oliver Piedmont!” Resisting the urge to step out the door, Oliver waited for a response. An exemplary cop, Willie remained behind his own door until he could make visual identification.
“Ollie, you know the drill...step out with your hands in the air.”
Oliver flicked the safety back on, then placed his weapon onto the tiled entryway. Inter-lacing his fingers atop his head, Oliver slowly stepped into the doorway and carefully walked down the wooden stairs, keeping both hands above his head until the two cops could recognize him.
“Jesus Christ Almighty...” called out a voice as he reached the sidewalk. “You can’t stay out of trouble, can you?”
Oliver turned to see John Collinson come out from behind the unseen cruiser and holster his weapon. Oliver smiled through gritted teeth, but turned toward the other car.
“Willie,” he called. “Have PG base put out an APB for a sky blue Mercedes, older model maybe 2009 or '10.” Scrunching his eyes, Oliver searched his memory for some identifying mark from that one backward glance. Opening his eyes, he snapped his fingers. “Back right tire missing a cover. Suspects should be approached with extreme caution and are armed and dangerous.” Willie ducked back inside his squad car and began to speak, his lips moving silently through the windshield into the microphone.
“Come on, Collinson,’ Oliver motioned for his friend to follow but stopped when Collinson whistled high and long. He tried to turn back around but felt two fingers press through two bullet holes in his ruined jacket and into his flak vest.
“Looks like you need a tailor, Ollie.” Collinson said.
Ollie stepped free of the two fingers scraping the flack vest and strode up the walkway.
“Couple of patches will do wonders, John...besides, it’s a trend now.” Oliver smiled without turning back, aware Collinson was a hopeless fashion follower and often looked more like he stepped out of GQ than a small town detective.
Collinson let out another piercing whistle behind him as he passed through the bullet decorated entranceway and into the residence. Oliver halted, picked up his gun from off the tile foyer, then proceeded down the down the hall.
“Jenny, come on out!” Oliver called a moment later. “The cavalries arrived!”
A squeaking door hinge answered, followed a few seconds later by an ashen-faced Jenny McKenny.
“Are you okay, ma’am?” Collinson asked as Oliver pulled his coat off and gathered it around her shoulders. She nodded absently, her eyes just out of focus. After mouthing, ‘Shock’ to Collinson, Oliver led her out into the afternoon sunlight.
As if stepping from a police poster, Willie Johnson’s square-jawed visage greeted them at Oliver’s cruiser and with a polite nod toward Jenny, opened the passenger door before he walked back to join Collinson by his own vehicle.
Oliver kneeled down beside her as she settled into the seat, then rolled the window down before gently closing the door with hardly a sound.
“I need to take you down to the station to make a statement.” He smiled into her upturned face. “But first I’d like to brief the others, if that’s okay with you?”
A few seconds passed before his words seemed to register. “Uh, sure.” She seemed to shake herself, then said more strongly, “Sure, I’ll be...right here.”
He reached in and squeezed her shoulder, then walked back to where Willie and Collinson stood.
“She okay, Ollie?” Collinson asked.
“Yeah,” he said, putting his coat back on. “Just shook up I think.”
“Understandable.” Willie nodded and looked toward the figure in the car ahead. “Anyway, Ollie, I reached all the surrounding cities but nothings turned up so far.” After a glance at Collinson, Willie turned back toward him. “So Ollie, you’re not about to tell us this was a drive-by are you?”
Willy’s incredulous tone relieved Oliver of stating an uncomfortable truth. Though he worked for the Pacific Grove police Department, Willy lived in Seaside, the predominantly black community on the Monterey Peninsula and while not a regular occurrence, Seaside had been the only community to suffer from this crime, until now.
“I've gotta say it sure felt like a drive-by, Willy.” He leaned against the car. “But either crime is paying better or the guy didn’t think we’d live long enough to identify his high-priced car.”
All three cops turned as two more police cars appeared around the corner and crawled to a stop behind Willy’s cruiser. The farthest back, Oliver saw, was the forensics team.
“Well, whatever it was,” Willie looked up and down the street. “...You’d think curiosity would pull people out of their houses to see what just happened.” He shrugged, “I guess I’ll knock on a few doors and find out if anybody happened to be looking out the window at the right time.”
“Ollie,” Collinson smiled at Oliver as Willy crossed the street.
“Why don’t you drive Mrs. McKenny down to the station, get
her statement and then maybe…take her to dinner. With a woman like that, going through this all alone, you could...”
“John...” Oliver said abruptly, loud enough for Willy to stop and look back toward them. Oliver waved him on, then turned to Collinson. “Stow it,” he said, forcing a sick grin onto his face.
Even before his arrest, Collinson’s views weren’t something Oliver much liked and dating advice from the man didn’t suit him any better. Collinson’s smile froze, then melted as both hands rose in mock surrender. Hendricks and York arrived with the forensics team in tow and Oliver set to work, briefing them.
Sliding into the cruiser, Oliver suddenly wished it were cleaner, seeing only now the many stray bits of multicolored trash and closed the door with a sigh.
“How are you doing, Jenny?” He turned toward her and inserted the ignition key. “You okay...”
“Sshhh,” came back at him. She was staring at the two-way radio.
“What?” he said, with a laugh of surprise.
“Carol,” she said, turning toward him. “That’s Carol’s address.”
“What address?” He adjusted himself to face her. “Jenny, what are you talking about?”
“The man on the radio, he just said a ‘Possible 10-71 had been reported and then read off Carol’s address.” Her lips began to tremble. “What’s a ‘10-71?”
In answer, he reached over and grasped the microphone.
“PG. base, this is Peidmont.” A brief moment of static passed until he released the com button.
“I read you, Ollie." Richardson’s familiar, though somehow warmer voice responded. "You okay?”
“Yeah, just a little surprised.” He switched the microphone to his left hand and with his right, reached over and covered Jenny’s white-knuckled interlaced fingers.
Bay of Deception Page 3