by Dave Stanton
7
We’d gone to bed at midnight the night before but hadn’t slept until two. When I woke in the morning, I opened my eyes to see Candi coming out of the bathroom nude, wisps of light hair in the triangle between her legs, her pink nipples high on her breasts. She slid under the covers and reached between my legs.
“You’re not wore out from last night, are you?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
“Let’s find out.” She swung her leg on top of mine.
“Nymphomania is a treatable disease, you know.”
“Oh, hush.”
Fifteen minutes of heavy breathing later, I limped out to the kitchen. Candi made coffee, and we sat looking out the big window at the yard and the green meadow beyond. The sun cast a broad stripe across the table where we sat, and I stretched my forearms out to feel the heat.
“I’m going to start a new painting,” she said. “I took a lot of neat pics, and I have an idea for a Texas ranch landscape.”
“Cool, babe. I’ll take you out to lunch later.”
“It’s a date.” She went off to the room she’d converted to an art studio, and after a few minutes, I went to my truck and got my camera.
While downloading the photos I’d taken over the last two days, I updated the case report I owed Ryan Addison. I included my conjectures on possible relationships and motivations, but when I reread it, the words sounded like rambling guesswork. I reduced the paragraphs to bullet points, which at least lent a bit more structure to it. Then I spent thirty minutes detailing my hourly activity and expenses. At double rate, it was a good chunk of money. Maybe not to Ryan Addison, but to me it was.
I absently picked at a spot on my desk where the paint had chipped away from the metal surface. Addison was also paying Cody the same amount. For that kind of money, he should expect results.
I started going through the pictures on my computer monitor. I separated the blurred shots from the sharper images and blew up the best ones to full screen. There were a couple good shots of the black prostitute and one that showed Russ Lander’s face in the doorway as she was leaving. She looked as good in the photos as in person. I lingered on her pictures and felt a pang of guilt, but she was a woman of extraordinary beauty and sex appeal, and I had a hard time taking my eyes off her.
But more interesting to me were the shots of the man on the balcony who seemed to be housing Duante Tucker. Two of the images, once I worked them over with photo enhancement software, were good, clear face shots. He was about fifty, with some discoloration on the skin below his heavily lidded eyes. Other than that he was handsome; straight nose, square cheekbones, the features even and well-proportioned.
I studied his mug for some time, then I compared it to Duante Tucker’s face and also to Lennox Suggs’s. Besides the skin color, there was no commonality with Suggs. But with Tucker, I did see similarity. The lips perhaps, and definitely the eyes. The same thick hoods and deep bottoms. Could the man be Lamar Tucker? If so, that would explain his son staying with him. I examined their faces again. Yes, I decided. This could definitely be father and son. And the man on my screen looked about the right age.
I dialed Sheriff Grier at his office, and a secretary told me he was on patrol. So I called his cell, even though I knew it would annoy him.
“Yeah?” he grunted after half a dozen rings.
“How you doing, Marcus?”
“What’s up?”
“I’ve been in San Jose the last couple days.”
“That’s nice,” he said. “What’d you find out?”
“Tucker’s living in a fancy high-rise and is involved in heroin dealing.”
He paused for a moment, then said, “How’s that relate to the rape case?”
“Don’t know yet. I could use your help on a couple things.”
“I should have guessed.”
“Lamar Tucker is Duante’s father,” I said. “He spent some time in prison, but I think Duante might be living with him now in San Jose. Can you pull his record?
“Anything else?” he asked.
“Did anything come of the polygraph tests all the cops were supposed to take?”
“Nothing positive so far. What else you got?”
“How about running a license plate?”
“Serves me right for asking. Give me the number.”
I recited the tag number from the Ford the prostitute was driving. “Come by my office at five,” he said.
We hung up, and I hiked a foot on my desk and thought about Lamar Tucker. According to what I heard in Compton, he’d been big in the drug trade and used the profits to buy local real estate, but then he was sent to prison. Maybe he’d been released and cashed out his investments and moved to San Jose to be with his son. Maybe he felt bad about not being there when Duante was growing up, assuming Lamar was imprisoned during that time.
Another angle was that Lamar Tucker might have big plans for Duante, big enough that Lamar financed the disappearance of the evidence. And what could those plans be? The obvious answer was drugs. Could be that Lamar was building something big in San Jose and was using his son as a front man, which meant Duante would take the fall if anything went wrong. The hustler in Compton had said Lamar was a coldhearted son of a bitch, so it wasn’t much of a stretch to imagine he’d use his son to insulate him from the law.
I stared off, running all sorts of related what-ifs through my mind. Most of my thoughts just opened more unanswered questions, and the exercise began to feel pointless. On the other hand, you get enough ideas swimming around in your head, you might hit on one that makes a difference, once the right scrap of information comes along.
At one o’clock Candi asked if I was ready for lunch. I hadn’t realized it was that late. I drove us to a restaurant that overlooked a sandy stretch of beach on the west side of the lake. It was a warm afternoon, and we sat on an outdoor deck under an umbrella. A family with two small children was on the beach, and the children were playing where the water lapped at the shore. Further out, a group of sailboats tacked toward the center of the lake.
“Tell me about your new case,” Candi said.
I hesitated. I didn’t want to hide anything from Candi. I didn’t want to lie or misrepresent anything I was involved in. But I saw no reason to burden her with sordid details. Ten years ago, Candi’s sister had been raped, and later committed suicide. The mere mention of rape would cast a pall over an otherwise pleasant afternoon.
“Do you not want to talk about it?” she asked.
“A man committed a violent crime but was found not guilty when the key evidence vanished from the police locker. The family of the victim hired me.”
“Wow. They want you to turn up the evidence?”
“They want to know who took the evidence and why. They want the man to pay for his crime.”
“So, they want you to make up for the incompetency of the police?”
“Not really. How about if we talk about it later? I’m really kind of burned out on it right now.”
“Sure,” she said, but I could see a flicker of hurt in her eyes.
I reached out and touched her hand. “There’s some grim stuff involved, Candi. I just need a break. I really don’t want to screw up our day by getting into it.”
“I understand.” She squeezed my fingers.
“Look at those sailboats,” I said. “Have you ever been on one?”
She shook her head. “How’s Cody doing?”
I continued gazing out at the lake for a moment, then turned back to her. “Pretty good.”
“Is he behaving himself?”
“Yeah, he is. I think he makes a special effort when I’m around.”
“That’s good,” she said. “It sounds like he respects you.”
“Respects me?” I said, eyebrows raised. “I’ve been friends with Cody for twenty years. I’ve never questioned if he respects me or not.”
“Yeah, but people change as they get older. Friendships aren�
��t always forever. Actually, most aren’t.”
“I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
“I’m just commenting,” she said.
A waitress came to take our orders, and when she left, we were quiet for a minute. The sky was cloudless, and the surface of the lake was like glass. Two small birds landed within arm’s reach on the railing and eyed us expectantly.
“Candi,” I said, “Cody’s my best friend, and I don’t expect that will ever change. His personal life may be rough around the edges, and sometimes it seems like he’s at war with himself, but he’s the best friend a man could have.”
She ran her nails through the hair on the side of my head, then patted it into place. “You’re a loyal man. I think that’s a great way to be.”
“Thanks, babe.”
“Just promise me you’ll be safe and sane. Especially around Cody.”
“That’s always my intention.”
“I just worry sometimes,” she said.
“You really shouldn’t. I’ve been doing this work for a long time. I know how to stay out of trouble.”
She smiled, but there was a certain sadness behind her shiny eyes, as if my words were obviously disingenuous and uttered only as a clumsy attempt to appease her.
“I know my work is sometimes dangerous,” I said, “but so are a lot of jobs. Hell, I know a tree trimmer who got zapped by a power line. And a fisherman who fell from his boat and drowned.”
“I’ll be fine, Dan. Don’t forget, my dad was a cop. I can handle it. Just be careful out there.”
“I promise I will.”
• • •
When we got home, I lifted weights in the garage and then jogged a five-mile loop that rose and fell along the base of the foothills. My shirt quickly became soaked under my twenty-pound pack, and I had to keep wiping the sweat out of my eyes. By the time I got home, my body had that empty, cleansed feeling that comes after a good workout. The exercise had left me in a tranquil mental state, as if my subconscious had reached conclusions and was at peace. What conclusions those were, I didn’t quite know, but when I got out of the shower I felt rejuvenated. I looked in the mirror, and my muscles were tight against the skin. I left the house just before five and drove to the police complex.
A young patrolman escorted me through the squad room to Marcus Grier’s office. Grier sat behind his desk, peering intently at his monitor. His beefy shoulders hunched forward as he worked a mouse and tapped at his keyboard. Tiny curls of salt and pepper hair sprouted from his ears, and his eyebrows were pinched in concentration.
“Take a seat,” he said, his eyes glued to the screen.
I sat and looked out his window. Cars were parked in the shade cast by a line of tall pines on the far side of the lot, leaving the spots nearer the building open. A Mexican couple left the police station and walked down the sidewalk, clinging to each other as if they were suffering from tremendous emotional strain and might collapse if separated. They climbed into a small car with a dented door and drove away.
After a minute, Grier said. “I got the lowdown on Lamar Tucker.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He rubbed at his mouth. “Tucker was one of the pioneers of the crack trade down in Watts, during the eighties and early nineties. He rose up in the Crips and supposedly made a lot of money. But then he got busted and sent up the river on a mayhem charge.”
“I heard all that. I’m curious what he’s been up to more recently. He’s not still in prison, is he?”
“Nope.”
“When did he get out?” I asked.
“He didn’t,” Grier replied. “He died in Corcoran State Prison.”
My head jerked. “He did? When?”
“In 1996. He’d been there about a year before getting into it with the Aryan Brotherhood.”
“They killed him?”
“Yeah, after he killed one of theirs.”
“You’re sure?”
“They caught him alone and beat him, broke his arms. Then they held his head to the cell bars, and a three-hundred-thirty-pound AB enforcer kicked his head through. The bars were five inches apart.”
“That was the end for him, huh?” I said.
Grier nodded. “Massive head trauma. His skull broke apart. They had to scoop his brains up with a dustpan. You ought to see the pictures.”
“Can you print them for me?”
He hit a few keys, and his printer began clicking and whirring.
“How’s the internal investigation going?” I asked. My voice sounded distant to me, the words forced.
“A couple IA pricks from Sacramento showed up yesterday. They’re running around like they own the place. A real barrel of laughs, these guys.”
I crossed my arms and stared at the printer as it chugged out pages. “Shit,” I said. “Lamar Tucker had money. I thought he might have been behind this.”
“Not unless he’s doing it from the grave.” Grier looked at his watch.
“Farid Insaf,” I said.
“What?”
“Duante Tucker is staying at a fancy high-rise condo in San Jose with a middle-aged black man I thought was Lamar Tucker. But Farid Insaf is the listed resident. I thought Lamar might have converted to Islam, changed his name.”
“You were wrong.”
“Can you run Farid Insaf through your system? I’m trying to figure out who he is. Maybe he has a record.”
“Write down the address for me.”
While Grier typed, I stood and paced a lap around his office, then I leaned against the wall and squinted out the window. I had assumed the man living at the Skyscape was the listed tenant, Farid Insaf. But there was no guarantee that was true. Farid Insaf may have bought or rented the unit, then subleased it out. Or he could just be letting a friend stay there.
Grier looked up after a minute. “What do you got?” I asked.
“There’s no record of anyone named Farid Insaf in California. There’s a few in other states, but none have criminal records except for minor traffic infractions.”
I sighed and stared blankly at a smattering of papers tacked to a corkboard behind Grier’s desk. “Did you run that license plate yet?” I said.
“No. I’ll do it now, but I got to get going.”
“You have any suspicions who took the DNA, Marcus?”
He glanced at me with bleak eyes. “There’s a few cops around here I wouldn’t trust as far as I could throw them. But they passed the polygraph, and we haven’t found any indication of wrongdoing.”
I stuck my thumbs in my belt loops. It was happy hour, and I suddenly craved a good belt of whiskey.
“Hey, look at this,” Marcus said.
“What?”
“2006 Ford Taurus, registered to Shanice Tucker. Is she related?”
“Shanice? Jesus Christ, I think that’s Duante’s sister.”
“I’ll check,” Grier said. “I’m sure it’s in his file.”
As Grier started clacking away again on his keyboard, my mobile phone beeped with a text message alert. It was from Cody. “What’s shakin? Call me,” it read.
“You’re right, she’s Duante’s sister,” Grier said. “Twenty-two years old. You saw her in San Jose?”
“You got a picture of her?” I asked. Grier nodded and motioned for me to come behind his desk. I looked and saw a driver’s license blown up on his monitor.
“Yeah, she was in San Jose all right,” I said.
“What’s she up to?” he asked.
“That’s a good question.”
• • •
Grier wanted to split for home, so our conversation ended there. I drove away, fighting the urge to stop at Whiskey Dicks for a shot or two. The calm, relaxed state I’d felt before meeting Grier had vanished. I’d convinced myself earlier that Lamar Tucker was living at the Skyscape condos under the assumed name of Farid Insaf. But Lamar Tucker was dead. He had died when his son was just nine years old. If I had any doubt, all I had to do was look at the
graphic pictures from the prison death report Grier had printed for me.
But the man at the Skyscape bore a family resemblance to Duante Tucker. Or did he? They all look the same, racists like to say. I stopped at a light on Highway 50 and flipped through the pages to a mugshot of Lamar Tucker from 1994. His heavily lidded eyes started back at me, hostile and threatening. His son had the same eyes, but what about the man at the Skyscape? Similar, but not quite the same.
And what about Shanice Tucker, the stunning vixen—what could she possibly have to do with all of this? Running around and performing tricks with, of all people, SJPD captain Russ Landers. Duante Tucker’s little sister, her beauty such a contrast to the ugliness of her brother’s acts.
I parked in my garage and went inside. Candi was sitting on the couch, one leg outstretched, surfing the channels.
“Ready for happy hour?” I asked. I walked to the kitchen and began mixing a double whiskey seven.
“Sure,” she said.
When I came to the couch, she took a ceramic pipe from a Tupperware container and packed the bowl with a small bud of marijuana. She stood, lit up, then exhaled out an open window next to the front door. We have an even distribution of vice, Candi and I. She smokes, I drink. I find the arrangement convenient, especially when I’ve had a few and she drives. My DUIs are over ten years old, but I can’t afford another.
I drained half my drink in a long pull. “I thought I was getting somewhere on my case this morning,” I said. “But Marcus Grier just blew my theories out of the water.”
“That’s too bad. What do you do now?”
“Keep peeling the onion—come up with new theories.”
“Nothing more specific?” she asked.
“I got to sleep on it, Candi.” I finished my drink and headed to the kitchen for a refill. But before I got there, my cell rang. It was Cody.
“Is your old lady within earshot?” he said.
“Yeah.”
“Well, go into your office. I got to tell you something.”