But it meant taking orders from the Serbs, and they put this one called Vaso right up in his grill. Jimmy hated him, hated his voice, hated always having to meet him at night in places like this.
At least the darkness covered his own twitching muscles.
He was here with Ryan Malik, his right-hand guy, in this spot in the unincorporated hills between LA and Ventura counties. Officially it was the Ahmanson Ranch, but at this hour it felt like a graveyard. The smell of tumble brush in the night wind was strong. Jimmy never liked it. It smelled like camping, and he hated camping. Better to be where there was cement and asphalt and concrete and his boys and girls.
Vaso flashed a penlight at Jimmy’s face, making it impossible to see his expression.
“Come on, man,” Jimmy said.
“Speak only when you are spoken to,” Vaso said. His voice was low and scratchy and all out creepy. Jimmy knew he had to respect him, but he wasn’t going to be walked on. If anybody else had talked to him that way, they’d be buried right now. But this was Vaso, and you did what he said.
“Sure,” Jimmy said, but with a little edge, just to let him know.
“You ordered the hit on the girl?”
He was talking about Esperanza Gomez. “Yeah, she was gonna testify against me.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“That don’t got nothin’ to do with distribution—”
“You didn’t ask.”
“I gotta ask every time?”
“Do you know what happens to those who do not ask?”
Ryan spoke. “We took care of it, clean.” Jimmy heard a little waver in Ryan’s normally hardcore voice.
“You don’t talk at all,” Vaso said.
“Come on, man, enough of this,” Ryan said.
Jimmy saw a movement behind the pen light and then a whump sound. Ryan screamed and went down.
For a moment Jimmy froze between rage and fear.
“My leg!” Ryan cried.
Jimmy dropped to his knees, put his arm around Ryan.
“Did you have to do that?” Jimmy said.
“No,” Vaso said. “I could have done this.”
Whump.
Jimmy felt Ryan’s head snap back. Ryan made no more noise. Blood gushed out onto Jimmy’s shirt. He opened his mouth, it was dry, no sound came out of it.
“Next time, you ask,” Vaso said.
Chapter 20
Early Thursday morning they shackled Chuck, herded him onto a bus with the other criminal masterminds, and took him to the Van Nuys courthouse. They stuffed everyone into a holding cell where Chuck got to hear about cops planting evidence or kicking in doors, and a hundred other complaints.
Chuck said nothing. He was still trying to sort out what was real and what was dream in the last twenty-four hours of his life. Like a drowsiness that will not fade, his sense of being captive in a nightmare—one that was only just beginning—refused to drop from his head.
He didn’t know what time it was when the voice called his name. He went to the bars of the holding cell and saw a young woman with auburn hair and a serious look and an arm full of file folders. “My name is Carrie Stratton from the Public Defender’s office,” she said. “I’ll be representing you today. You know that you’re being charged with the attempted manufacture of a controlled substance, right?”
“That’s what they told me,” Chuck said. “But––”
“Health and Safety Code section 11379.6, sub a, and Penal Code section––”
“I don’t need––”
“––section 664. Any questions?”
“Yeah,” Chuck said. “How can they possibly be doing this to me?”
“I’m here to help with your initial appearance. I haven’t seen the police report yet.”
“Will they let me out on bail?”
“Do you have a prior record?”
“No,” Chuck said.
Carrie opened a folder and glanced at some papers inside. “You apparently have a friend in the courtroom who said he’d post if you needed it.”
“That would be Royce.”
“He spoke to me. You know him how?”
“We met at the VA.”
“You’re a veteran?”
“I was a chaplain.”
“And you were at the VA hospital?”
“For awhile.”
Carrie looked at his neck. “You were wounded?”
“Not exactly,” Chuck said.
“How’d you get that scar?”
“Is that relevant?”
Carrie shrugged. “If it’s war related, might hold sway with the judge.”
“Then leave it at that.”
“War related?”
“Yeah.”
“Good,” Carrie said, and pulled a pen from her coat pocket and scribbled something on one of the papers. “That’s very good. I’ll argue you have no record, you served your country, and maybe we can get the judge to give you a get out of jail free card.”
“What else do I have to do?” Chuck said.
“Plead not guilty and we’ll ask for a continuance and you can figure out whether you’re going to be represented by private counsel or qualify for the public defender’s services.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes,” Carrie said. “Keep your mouth shut.”
.
Rodney “The Terror” Terrell loved this time of the morning, especially when the beach was closed in by fog. It gave him the wonderful sense of being alone in the world, which is what he was anyway, and preferred it that way. He did not like people much. He liked fish.
For a few weeks in 1967 The Terror had been the number three middleweight in the world. But that was many dollars and many blows to the head ago. Now he lived alone in a motor home and caught his dinner in the early morning before the beaches got crowded. The crowds reminded him too much of the fight game, and he never liked fighting in front of people. It was all about the boxing for Terrell, the art of it. Not satisfying the blood lust of the frenzied masses.
But the returns for his boxing career were not so great. He was on welfare now and his head didn’t work so good. He couldn’t get his thoughts to pull together very often.
And when he got around people and got too excited, he was liable to punch somebody just to stop the confusion.
Which is why he liked being alone, and today looked like a good day for it. He carried his bucket of bait and his pole, his jeans rolled up, the cool sand between his toes. He got to his favorite spot. But somebody else was there. A somebody who was sleeping where he liked to set up shop.
Which was fine. He didn’t own the beach. But it was a little strange for a guy to be sleeping there at this hour without a blanket. It was cold-fog wet.
Then Terrell saw the blood. It was soaked in the sand around the guy’s head. Terrell bent over for a closer look—and saw it was just a kid, and somebody had jammed a mean-looking stick of red wood under the boy’s chin. In the red-black hole of the skin, milling around in the dead flesh, were a couple of wasps.
Rodney “The Terror” Terrell dropped his bucket and his pole and tossed his breakfast onto the beach. Then he ran up to the road to try to flag somebody down. He didn’t have a phone, and his thoughts were really jumbled, but he knew one thing for sure—the police ought to know about this.
Chapter 21
Chuck kept his mouth shut. It was all over in a matter of minutes. And the lawyer, Carrie Stratton, was very good. She convinced the judge to let him out on his own recognizance and an hour after that he was standing with Royce Horne just outside the Van Nuys courthouse doors.
“So, Dillinger, you want to tell me what this is about?” Royce said. He was everyone’s picture of a tough soldier––square jawed with beard stubble you could strike a match on. Marine tat on his left deltoid, avenging angel on his right. They’d connected at the VA a year after Chuck got back, in a PTSD group. Royce, a couple years Chuck’s senior, had served in Iraq. He ran a little gardening
business now. He also ran interference for Chuck with the VA, like he did with a lot of the guys who were having trouble getting what they needed.
“Let’s get out of here,” Chuck said.
“Let me buy you a Quiznos. I’ll spare no expense.”
“How’s Stan?”
“Don’t worry about your brother,” Royce said. “I did like you said and talked to him and that teacher, what’s her name again?”
“Wendy Tower.”
“I like her, Chuck,” Royce said. “Stan says you like her, too.”
“Just tell me if he’s okay.”
Royce nodded. “I told him I was going to get you, and he said that was good because he had a plan to come bust you out if they didn’t let you go. I think he meant it.”
“No doubt. Why don’t we––” Chuck stopped when he saw Detective Sandy Epperson striding toward them.
“Mr. Samson,” she said.
“What is this?” Chuck said.
“I’d like to talk to you. With your attorney present, of course. I’ve cleared it with Ms. Stratton. Court is in recess, and we can meet in the PD’s office. This is not related to the current charges.”
“Fantastic. You have more you want to lay on me?”
“Not at all. I do think you’ll find it to be important.”
Royce stepped between them. “Can’t you give him a break here, detective?”
“And you are?” Epperson asked.
“A friend,” Royce said.
“Would you mind waiting for a few minutes?”
Royce turned to Chuck. “You don’t have to do this.”
No, and Chuck didn’t want to, either. Yet there was something in Epperson’s face. She didn’t look like a detective out to set traps. And as long as his lawyer was there . . .
“All right,” Chuck said.
“I’ll be right here waiting for you,” Royce said.
Chapter 22
“I am recording this interview,” Detective Epperson said within the confines of Carrie Stratton’s cubicle. Epperson placed a digital recorder on the corner of Carrie’s desk. “It is 10:43 a.m., and Charles Samson is present with his attorney, Carrie Stratton of the Los Angeles County Public Defender’s Office. Mr. Samson, how much do you know about Edward Hillary?”
The name was a spike to Chuck’s chest. It was a name he’d been trying to forget for seven months. “I know he was the guy who killed my wife.
Epperson opened the file folder sitting on the desk. “A retired cop. Clean record.”
“So they say. What do––”
“Moved to Beaman a year and a half ago.”
“And I should care about this why?”
Epperson scanned the sheets. “His blood alcohol level, according to the toxicology report, was point-two-two at the time of the hit-and-run. That’s a lot of alcohol.”
“Yeah it is, but what’s all this got to do with what I’m charged with?”
“Bear with me. I’ve been looking over the accident report. The local police questioned a bartender at a place called the Tall T. He said Hillary came into the bar that night at approximately 7:15, and left at approximately 9:30. The accident happened at or around 10:12.”
Chuck said nothing.
“The bartender also said he served Hillary three beers while he was at the bar. Hillary spoke to the bartender, a man named Renner, and other patrons.”
“Detective, please get to the point of all this.”
Carrie Stratton put her hand on Chuck’s arm. She had a look on her face that indicated he should be patient. Like she knew where this was leading.
“Just a few more facts, Mr. Samson,” Epperson said. “Edward Hillary was six feet, three inches tall, and weighed two-hundred-and-sixty pounds. He was not a small man. There is no way that three beers in the span of two hours-plus could have given him a point-two-two, even if he came into the bar with some drinks in him. So the question is, how did he get so tanked before the accident?”
Chuck looked at her a long moment. “What are you saying?”
“I’m just asking questions,” Epperson said.
“Well I don’t have any answers.” He was starting to feel tongs gripping his temples. “Just tell me why you’re talking to me.”
“What was your wife doing in Beaman?” Epperson asked.
“I told you, some stupid alligator farm story.”
“I find that strange,” Epperson said. “I checked. There aren’t any alligator farms in Beaman. Never have been.”
Little sparklers snapped at the corners of Chuck’s vision. He closed his eyes and tried to shake them away.
“Are you all right, Mr. Samson?”
“Do I look all right? What the hell are you saying to me? That my wife was lying to me?”
“I’m trying, believe it or not, to help you, and help myself,” Epperson said, her voice calm yet firm. “I have a murder on my hands, Grant Nunn. The man who killed him may be the same man who threatened you with the knife. There’s probably a connection. And when I started looking into your background, I found your wife’s death, and this report, and now I have more questions. I want to know what you’re into, Mr. Samson. And maybe it’s not something you started. But here you are.”
Carrie Stratton said, “You don’t have to say anything else. I advise you not to.”
Chuck looked back and forth between his lawyer and the cop. “I’m not into anything,” he said, standing. “That’s all you need to know. Nothing. The sooner you drop this the better for everybody, especially you.”
Blindingly, unthinkingly, Chuck swept the back of his hand at the file in front of Detective Epperson. The contents went fluttering to the floor.
Epperson did not react like Chuck expected. She didn’t clench her jaw, point her finger, or answer immediately. Instead she gave him a lingering glance and nodded slowly. Like she understood. She said, “Thanks for your time, Mr. Samson. You know how to reach me. Advise your lawyer if you ever want to talk.”
Chapter 23
Royce was still in the spot where Chuck had left him.
“So what did she want?” Royce said.
Chuck let out a long breath. He felt like he hadn’t slept in weeks. And like he wanted to punch a tree, any tree. “Something about Julia’s death.”
“Like what?”
“Like I don’t know! I don’t even know what day it is anymore.”
“Thursday.”
“Well that’s just great. What do I get on the weekend? A murder indictment?”
Royce said, “You need to regroup, bud. You need some help in this. I’ll call Shel.”
Shel Simpson was an investigator of the Los Angeles District Attorney’s office, a Gulf War vet. He was part of a regular poker group at Royce’s apartment, a group Chuck sometimes joined. Shel knew all the best defense lawyers in town because he’d seen them operate in court.
“I’m not rolling in dough,” Chuck said.
“We’ll get some together. The Wild Bills will kick in.” The Wild Bills was what the poker group called themselves.
“I can’t ask you to do that,” Chuck said. “This Stratton seems competent.”
“You don’t want just competent, Chuck.”
Chuck looked at the sky. It was slate gray. The kind of LA sky that doesn’t threaten rain, just shuts out the sun.
He felt his phone vibrate. A text message.
Samson. Smrt.
“Bad news?” Royce said.
“What is this?” He showed Royce the text.
“You’re smart?” Royce asked.
“Apparently.”
“Who sent it?”
Chuck swallowed hard. Private number.
He felt Royce’s hand on his shoulder. “You feel your triggers coming on?”
Chuck shook his head.
“Don’t hold out on me,” Royce said.
“I won’t.”
“Let’s get that sandwich.”
“Just take me to the motel,” Chuck said.<
br />
“I think you need—”
“Let’s go.”
They got Royce’s car in the lot on Sylmar and fought traffic down Van Nuys Boulevard.
“Know what let’s do?” Royce said. “Let’s you, me, and Stan go out on my boat again. Go out to Catalina. Remember the dolphins?”
Chuck wasn’t remembering anything. He was breaking out in cold sweats. And shaking.
“Hey, man,” Royce said. He pulled into a Mobil station and parked in the air and water bay. Chuck was starting to feel sucked into the dark memories again. He jammed himself back against the seat, as if doing so would keep him grounded in reality.
“Breathe easy,” Royce said. “I’m right here.” He clutched Chuck’s arm, and Chuck tried to take in more air. Noises reverbed in Chuck’s head, the sound of explosions getting closer.
Royce said, “Try to get it out.”
“It’s bad. I don’t know why it’s happening now.”
“Confront it, like the doc said.”
Chuck winced, like he was having a tooth pulled. “Let’s just go.”
“What do you see?”
Figures. Three of them. Indistinct. “It’s the same,” Chuck said. “It never gets clearer.”
“Sounds?”
“Booming. Exploding.”
“You’re on the battlefield.”
“No. I think it’s coming from somewhere else.” Chuck grabbed his head, squeezed. “I just want it to stop.”
“If you can get one picture or voice, that can open it all up, “ Royce said. “That’s what they say. It’s like lancing a boil and all that puss comes out.”
“Wow, I’m hungry. When’s lunch?”
“Come on. Try to see one thing.”
Chuck clenched his mind. He wanted his brain to gush it out, like Royce said. “All I see is Dylan Bly, and the explosion. Three shadows.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute! That’s new. Who is Dylan Bly?”
“He came to me, had something he wanted to tell me. The night before the patrol.”
“The one where you got captured?”
“Yeah.” And the one where the concussive blast of the RPG had knocked him senseless before he could get to the dying Dylan Bly.
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