by Dave Stanton
“Good afternoon,” he said. I nodded and went by him to the elevator in the hall, where I entered the code on the keypad.
A minute later a ding sounded and the elevator door opened. When I stepped inside, I experienced a brief moment of elation when I saw I had timed it perfectly; the black woman was there. Then I almost did a double take. Her heels put her at my eye level, and her profile was stunning. Green eyes, a perfectly tilted nose, exquisite cheekbones and jawline. But to simply say she was beautiful wouldn’t be adequate. In a room full of gorgeous women, I had no doubt she would be the center of attention. I snuck a second glance at her and realized that what set her apart was a certain regal countenance, as if she belonged to a royal bloodline.
Her hair was done in cornrows, and I wasn’t sure if that was an affront to her noble carriage or perhaps a cultural affirmation. The elevator started up, and it was then that I noticed her body was also extraordinary. She wore a tangerine-colored sleeveless blouse, her breasts high and conical, the nipples denting the material. Below her tapered waist, her designer jeans were tight against the sweep of her hips. Unable to resist the temptation, and hoping I wasn’t too obvious, I took a step backward and saw her ass was heart shaped, pert and round, a perfect diamond of space visible between her legs.
The elevator stopped. We were on floor sixteen. Of course, I thought. I’d punched in her code. The elevator was probably programmed to go only to the floors indicated by the entered codes.
We got off, and she turned in the direction of 1602. I went the opposite way, stopped at a doorway, and watched her walk down the hall. I watched her all the way to 1602 and then, to my chagrin, noticed I was getting an erection.
She knocked on the door and I saw it open. I got a brief glance at the face of the man who answered. I was wondering if Duante Tucker was there, but it was the middle-aged man. His head was bald, and his jaw was hidden by a gray goatee that was squared off below the chin. Our eyes met for an instant, and I quickly looked away. I felt a pang of concern; I didn’t want him to see my face. But I told myself he would expect any man to eyeball her, and he probably took little notice of me.
The door closed and I strode down the hall to where the stairwell was across from 1602. I hesitated for a second when I got there, then I opened the EXIT door and quickly descended the stairs to the garage.
The tan Taurus was parked in the visitor parking area. I took down the license plate, found a door next to the car gate, and went out into the sunshine.
“What’s up?” Cody asked when I came across the street. I joined him in the shaded area where he sat.
“She went to 1602, all right. We rode the elevator up together.”
“Nice. What do you think?”
I took the camera from Cody and aimed it up at the balcony. No one was there. “I’m trying to think the right way to describe her,” I said. “Outrageously attractive would do it. But classy.”
“Like a high-priced escort?”
“No. I don’t think so. She seemed…too cultured. Maybe even a little haughty.”
“Haughty, huh?”
“I don’t know. We didn’t talk, and I didn’t hear her say a word. It was just an impression I got.”
“I’ve met haughty hookers before,” Cody said.
“I’m sure you have,” I replied.
“You got any idea what she’s doing up there?”
“Nope.”
“You want to follow her when she leaves?”
“Absolutely,” I said.
• • •
Twenty minutes later the Ford Taurus drove out of the parking lot, and we followed it down the street.
“Just enough time for a quick trick,” Cody said.
“Don’t rush to conclusions.”
We tailed her to Guadalupe Parkway and then onto 101 North. It was a clear summer afternoon, the kind that attracts residents to Northern California. Comfortable for shorts and a T-shirt, or a business suit. When I lowered the window, the air that rushed in was crisp and hinted at an early fall. We stayed back three cars and followed the Ford off the Sunnyvale exit and to a restaurant right off the freeway. Behind the restaurant a hotel was tucked away, hidden by a tall row of eucalyptus trees.
The hotel belonged to a small chain priced to cater to budget-minded business travelers, but there was only a small sign to advertise its existence, and its location was invisible from the main boulevard. We hung back until the Taurus reached the end of a narrow road that terminated at a parking lot in front of the hotel rooms, which were arranged in an L-shaped configuration.
Once she parked, we pulled into a spot on the opposite side of the lot and watched her leave her car and walk toward the green painted doors on the first floor. I pointed my camera and zoomed in. From a hundred feet, I could make out the detail of a silver bracelet around her wrist.
“Let me see,” Cody said. I handed him the camera.
“Yowza,” he said. “Look at that body. A real African queen.”
“Snap a couple shots before you get too distracted.”
She reached one of the doors and knocked. The door opened almost immediately, and I glimpsed a white man with hair that looked too black. He had a thick torso, muscular but fat, and stood about six feet. He opened the door wide, and she went in.
“Well, fuck me,” Cody said, and clicked a final picture.
“What?” I asked.
“That’s Russ Landers.”
“No way. You’re sure?”
“There’s no mistaking that asshole.”
• • •
The controversy that ensued during Cody’s termination as a San Jose cop had left him with a few cautious allies on the force, but far more sworn enemies. Chief among his adversaries had been his boss and the precinct captain, Russ Landers. According to Cody, Landers not only epitomized corruption but was in fact the squad’s most egregious participant, back before Cody’s accusations had resulted in a widespread investigation. The investigation resulted in the conviction of three cops, but somehow Landers had avoided the fallout.
The chief of police in San Jose had declared his department graft free after the arrest of the three officers. Meanwhile, Landers kept his job and his two-million-dollar home in Los Gatos. He’d also remarried after Cody had a brief affair with his soon-to-be ex-wife.
• • •
“You ever talk to Landers after you left the force?” I asked.
“Once or twice.”
“How’d it go?”
“He suggested I leave the state, if I remember. Wait here for a minute.”
“What are you doing?”
“Just sit tight.” Cody got out of the Toyota and walked across the lot to the door where the black woman had entered. He stood near the front window, trying to peek though the drapes, and then pressed his ear against the glass. After a minute he strolled back to where I waited.
“Ole’ Russ is having himself a hell of a time,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“He’s banging the hell out of her.”
“Did you see anything?” I asked.
“No, but I heard the bed springs squeaking away, and I could even hear the son of a bitch panting. Then he says, ‘Mama, you got the sweetest black ass I’ve ever seen.”’
“Wow.”
“You still doubt she’s for hire?”
“Guess not,” I said.
We sat for a minute. A breeze blew a scattering of leaves across the pavement, and I noticed some cars were coated with yellow dust. From the nearby trees, a flock of birds cawed and took flight, and a white splat hit our windshield.
“So she’s a call girl,” I said. “You want to spend any more time here?”
He looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “Yeah, I do. I want to know who she is.”
“You think it’s more than a coincidence that Farid Insaf and Landers share the same hooker?” I asked.
“I’d say it’s suspicious. Landers has the moral standards of a cockroac
h. I wouldn’t put anything past him.”
“We got her license plate.”
“Yeah, but there’s no guarantee the car’s registered to her,” Cody said. “So let’s stick with her a while.”
I grunted and tried to get comfortable in my seat. “I’d rather be back at the Skyscape.”
“I doubt she’ll be in there much longer.”
Twenty minutes passed. I tried to imagine what connection Landers could possibly have to Farid Insaf or the Tucker case. Tucker and Suggs were dealing heroin, but it seemed small time. Landers probably wouldn’t take a bribe unless it was worth the risk, as in thousands of dollars. That raised the potential that the heroin business could be bigger than I thought. Maybe Farid Insaf was behind it. Maybe he was connected to the Arabs who supplied Tucker and Suggs.
When I shared my thoughts with Cody, he shrugged. “Anything’s possible,” he said. His eyes remained fixed on the hotel room door.
“Could be Landers is just taking a freebie from a high-paid escort,” I said.
“That’s about his speed.”
Yeah, and this is all speculative bullshit, I thought. Some investigations involved little more than a few interviews, and the facts revealed themselves as readily as a prostitute sheds her clothes. Quick, tidy, instant gratification—or damn near. But from the moment Ryan Addison hired me, I knew this case wouldn’t resolve itself like that. We needed to keep probing, and eventually we’d get a breakthrough. “Work hard, get creative, make your own luck,” an old boss of mine used to say.
Someone was seriously motivated to see Duante Tucker go free. But who, and why? What could be the motivation to keep a violent rapist out of jail?
The core reason for most crimes always boiled down to one of three issues: love, hate, or money. Who loved Tucker? A girlfriend? It seemed unlikely a man of his tendencies would have one. His family? That needed looking into. Where was his father, Lamar Tucker? Or his sister, whose name I couldn’t remember?
As for hate, did someone hate Lindsey Addison, or the Addison family, enough to orchestrate Tucker’s freedom? While possible, it seemed a stretch. If anyone had a real problem with the Addisons, there’d be far easier ways to cause them grief.
That left money. What value could Tucker provide that would be worth the risk and expense of threatening the witnesses and making the DNA disappear? At least we had a clue as to that; Tucker was involved in heroin trafficking, though it seemed to be street-level stuff. Could that be a prelude to a bigger score? Maybe the Arabs at the restaurant where Tucker and Suggs picked up a shipment were looking to move kilos rather than ounces.
The black woman emerged from the room after almost exactly a half hour.
“She does have a certain look, doesn’t she?” Cody said. Her clothes were molded to her body, and she held her head high, as if she’d just completed an act of great dignity and importance. She walked to her car, strutting like a fashion model on a runway.
After exiting the lot, she drove west on the freeway and exited within a few miles. Five minutes later she parked in front of an apartment building in Sunnyvale, not far from where I lived when I was going to college.
The apartments were called the River Glen, even though there was no river nearby. Three white trellises stood along the sidewalk, and a sign offered a lease signing bonus. The paint on the wood siding was fresh, and the shrubbery was neatly trimmed. Probably renovated recently, I thought. Target tenants would be young professionals just starting on their path to the American dream.
From the corner, we watched her go to a door facing the street. She took her keys from her purse and let herself in. Cody pulled forward and I jotted down the apartment number. Then my cell rang. It was Candi.
“Hi, babe,” I said.
“Hi. Are you still in San Jose?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Oh, darn it. I was hoping you could pick me up from the airport tonight.”
“You’re coming home early?”
“Yeah. I don’t know why I planned two weeks here. It’s too much. I’m going nuts with boredom.”
“Did you already reschedule your flight?” I asked.
“I did. I’ll be landing in Reno at ten tonight.”
I looked at my watch. It was almost four o’clock. “I’ll call you back in five minutes,” I said.
Cody turned onto Lawrence Expressway and darted in front of some slow-moving traffic. “I heard,” he said. “I’ll take you back to your rig.”
“What? I haven’t decided anything.”
“What’s to decide? Candi’s a good woman. You don’t run into gals like her very often.”
“That doesn’t mean I should neglect my job just because her schedule changes,” I said.
“You’re not neglecting anything. I can hold down the fort here.”
“We need to get back to the Skyscape, get—”
“I’ll take care of it. Do the right thing, Dan. Go pick up your girlfriend. And work the local angle.”
“I can drive back here tomorrow.”
“Look,” Cody said, sighing. “This ain’t about being pussy-whipped, so don’t even think that. It’s about keeping your priorities straight. Take a couple days. Snoop around, talk to Marcus Grier or the DA, see what else you can find out.”
Cody accelerated hard and blew through a light just as it turned red. Then he downshifted and veered onto the freeway ramp heading toward downtown San Jose. Ahead I could see the long flanks of the Diablo Range rising over the valley. Much of the terrain was barren, and the dirt hillsides rose steeply into a series of ravines and chasms. At the highest point I could see the white observatory on top of Mount Hamilton.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll be back in a couple days.”
• • •
I wasted no time getting on the road, but I was too late; the northeast traffic on 680 was clogged with commuters heading home to where real estate was less expensive, in Livermore, Tracy, even as far out as Stockton. I crawled forward and looked out over the sea of cars. It was hard to imagine an existence that included three hours of stop-and-go traffic on a daily basis. But that’s what these folks did, making the sacrifice to provide a better life for their families.
During my early career as an investigator in San Jose, I worked for three different outfits. I drank my way out of my first job, and my second ended when the bail bondsman who hired me was forced to close up shop. My third job was for a penny-pinching incompetent named Rick Wenger. That gig ended when I freelanced a case in South Lake Tahoe. The resulting payday allowed me to move to Tahoe and buy my home.
I don’t think much about my history in San Jose anymore. But occasionally I take stock of certain episodes. Many of the regrettable things I can attribute to my immaturity and drunkenness and just plain selfishness. Over time, I’ve worked to address those issues. The violence, however, I view differently. It was always sudden, beyond my control, and disconnected from any decision-making process. I think back to when I rammed my truck into a Mexican cartel member or to the time I shot a child molester who was trying to slit my throat. I believe in my heart that these men deserved their fate, and the world is better off with them dead. At times, my conscience questions my logic, but I win those arguments.
But what I cannot account for is the way I treated Julia, my ex-wife. She was a bright woman with a sunny disposition and freckles that danced beneath her eyes when she smiled. It was shortly after we married that I first killed a man. I convinced myself that the rational, justifiable reaction to that was a full tilt drunk binge, one that lasted for weeks. Much of it I don’t remember, but a few things are time-stamped in my brain, like damaged nerves that have scabbed over but won’t fully heal. I remember having sex with a drunken woman in a kitchen next to a grill that reeked of grease. I remember when two wannabe bikers wrestled my wallet from me in a bar bathroom. And I remember, near the end of the binge, waking up in the sunlight, curled in the fetal position against the stucco wall of a seedy wino b
ar in San Jose called the Corners Club.
When I finally sobered up, Julia forgave me…then divorced me. I could hardly argue her decision. I knew I didn’t deserve her. Eventually I realized that was a main issue behind my self-destructive behavior. She was too good for me, so I set out to prove it. Did a damn good job of it, too.
Some benefit did come from those days, though. I learned about myself. You probe the bottom of a toilet bowl, there’s no place to go but up. I didn’t drink for two years after the divorce, and when I started again, I never felt inclined to abuse the privilege. While that was certainly due to a lack of alcoholic tendency in my genes, I’d also experienced a catharsis of sorts. I’d hit my rock bottom and, having survived it, set out to live a better life. A reasonably sober life, a stable life, and a life I hoped might include another woman to love.
Previous to Candi, my only relationship in the four years since moving to Tahoe was a misguided affair with a much younger woman. Other than that, I’d spent long months celibate, save for the occasional fling. I was cautious when I met Candi, who lived out in Elko at the time. Because of the six-hour drive separating us, our relationship proceeded slowly at first. But when she left Elko and moved into my home, I never regretted it. Among other things, she brought a cheeriness to my life that I had long lacked. And also something else, something that once I recognized, I did not want to give up—she brought a sense of normalcy.
I sat at a dead stop and checked my mobile device. Candi’s flight was still on time, but at this pace, I wouldn’t be. The minutes ticked by, and finally the traffic eased past the 580 interchange. I drove at eighty for a while until I hit more gridlock outside of Concord. Crossed the Benicia Bridge, then slowed to a crawl again on 80.
It took three hours to drive the 125 miles to Sacramento and another half hour to clear the city traffic. Then Highway 80 opened up, the pavement wide and smooth, and I hauled ass through Rocklin and Auburn and into the Sierra foothills. The sun dipped behind a granite ridge, and the clouds turned purple and orange against the florescent sky. I drove hard, and by the time I cleared Donner Summit, it was full dark. My headlights swept over rows of pines that rose like black ghosts until the forest gave way to the sparse landscape of the high desert. I crossed over the Nevada border under a crescent moon and bombed down the straights, my speedometer bouncing off 100, my tires humming in anticipation.