by Dave Stanton
The door on the far side of the lobby buzzed, and the dour-faced female detective stood in the doorway and crooked her finger at me. I followed her down a hallway to the same cement-walled room where I’d been held until one A.M. the night before. I took a seat at the metal table, and she looked toward the opaque window covering one wall. Then she sat on the edge of the table, her hip nearly touching my hand. I looked up at her. There were black hairs growing from her nostrils and two moles trapped in the folds of skin under her jawline.
“We need to review everything you said last night,” she said.
“You’ve got it all in writing. You taped it, too.”
“Forget about that. Let’s start from the beginning.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?”
“We did this last night. For three hours. You have my statement.”
She lowered her face, and I raised my eyes to meet hers. “You’re saying you won’t cooperate?” she said.
“I’m saying I already have.”
“You see, that’s the problem. We’re not buying your bullshit.” She got off the table and walked to the side opposite me, put her hands on the table, and leaned in until her face was six inches from mine. “Six dead bodies, and all you can say is they must be friends of Duante Tucker?”
“That sums it up, Detective.”
“You know, I’m really tempted to slap that smirk right off your mouth.”
“I came here voluntarily, and this is what I get? If you were going to arrest me, you already would have, so get out of my face.”
She shot me a withering glare, then walked out of the room, the steel door clanging behind her. I looked into the window and shrugged my shoulders.
It was five minutes before Russ Landers came through the door. He wore black slacks, polished wing tips, and a sky-blue button-down shirt that looked painted to his barrel-shaped torso. A perfectly knotted necktie rested against his bulk, and his sports coat was gray with patches on the elbows.
“So you’re Cody Gibbons’s running buddy,” he said. He sat across from me. His hair was jet black and hair-sprayed in place.
“That’s right.”
“What are you doing in San Jose?” He probably had once been handsome, but the flesh on his face had turned meaty with booze and middle age. His nose was small and pitted, and his chin was split by a vertical crease running down from the center of his lower lip.
I sighed. “Like I told your detectives last night, I’m investigating Duante Tucker, who was acquitted of a rape in South Lake Tahoe after the evidence disappeared from the police locker.”
“What have you found out so far?” He spoke quickly, the words quiet and clipped.
“There’s no doubt Tucker committed the rape, and he also impaled the victim with a twelve-inch screwdriver. He’s a sadist and a world-class degenerate.”
Landers shook his head. “You’re not answering my question.”
“All right, Captain. I’ve also found out Tucker used to live in Compton and grew up in gangs, and has probably killed people and dealt drugs. Other than that, I haven’t learned anything that’s been helpful to my investigation.”
“If you keep lying, we can hold you indefinitely.” His upper lip jerked when he spoke.
“I call my lawyer, I’ll be out of here in an hour.”
“You think so, huh?” He glowered at me, brow furrowed, his eyes lighted with an anger that seemed inappropriate and a little too sudden.
I stared back at him. Landers was a career cop who had risen through the ranks and was probably a competent detective and administrator. He had also successfully worked the system, taking dirty money and living in a home far more expensive than one affordable on a police captain’s salary. His ability to line his pockets while avoiding consequences meant he was a savvy crook. It also indicated a police organization that allowed graft to exist, as long as crime rates stayed low and the corruption was invisible to the general populace. But those were tricky caveats.
“Let’s take a walk, Captain,” I said.
“What?” he replied.
“It’s a beautiful morning. Let’s go get some fresh air.”
“You’re either a moron, or you’ve lost your mind. Which one is it?”
“Neither.”
Landers eyed me warily, then his countenance turned contemplative. After a moment, he said, “Okay, PI. You want to walk, we’ll walk.”
When we left the room, I recognized the assistant DA, a woman named Anisa Clark. I caught an exasperated expression on her face before she turned on her heel and walked away from the one-way glass window. She was probably annoyed at wasting her time listening to the detectives futilely try to badger me into a self-incriminating remark. Or maybe her irritation was directed more specifically at Landers.
We went outside and strolled up the street toward the court building on Hedding. It was sunny and the rays reflected in bursts off the patrol cars that drove in and out of the parking lot ahead of us. To our left, traffic flowed on a raised section of Guadalupe Parkway. When we stopped at a traffic light, Landers turned toward me.
“All right, Reno. Say what you gotta say.”
I stood looking at him. There was a hard glint in his eyes, cocksure and defiant, but beneath it I could tell he was at full alert, trying to anticipate my play, trying to guess what angle I might have. I think I surprised him.
“You’re shoveling the coals to a black prostitute who looks like she could be in a Miss Universe pageant. I’ve got pictures and a recording of your voice, calling her ‘Mama’ and moaning about her sweet ass. Sound familiar?”
I saw the blood rise in his face. “You son of a bitch,” he said.
“I suspect you’re busting my balls because you and Cody Gibbons got bad history. But I don’t have time for your bullshit. Your DA’s already determined my shooting was self-defense, so this little time-wasting exercise is over.”
Landers face flushed red, and when he spoke, spittle flew from his lips. “You got all the answers, huh?”
“I’m gonna split now, Landers. You can keep you dick in your pants or not—I don’t give a rat’s ass. But fuck with me or Gibbons, and I’ll send the pictures and tape to everyone you know, including your wife.”
“That sounds like blackmail to me.”
“Call it whatever you want. Cody Gibbons was a good cop, probably the best investigator SJPD ever had. He left the force because assholes like you were taking payoffs from the worst criminals in San Jose, and Cody would have no part of it. You railroaded him out of a job because he was an honest cop.”
“Get the hell out of my city, you scumbag.”
The light turned, and I began crossing the street. But before I made it two steps, Landers said, “I better never see those pictures.”
I looked back over my shoulder. “Get back to your minions, Captain. They await your example.”
I caught a brief glimpse of Landers expression as it changed from anger to something less certain. Then he turned and stolidly paced back to the police headquarters.
• • •
I drove toward Cody’s house but pulled over as soon as I got off the parkway. I parked at the curb in a residential neighborhood and dialed the number for General Horvachek. He answered after a single ring.
“I was just about to call you,” he said. “Where are we on Lawrence Tucker?”
“He’s living at the Skyscape high-rise in San Jose under the assumed name of Farid Insaf. Sixteenth floor, number 1602.”
“You’re a hundred percent sure it’s him?”
“As sure as I can be,” I said. “And that’s where I saw the C-4.”
“You were in his home? How’d that happen?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Okay, I won’t. But as soon as we hang up, I’m calling the CIA.”
“Do me a favor and leave my name out of it, all right?”
“Sorry, no can do. Best I can do is vouch for
you.”
“Hmm. They’ll want to talk to me, I imagine.”
“Count on it.”
I stared out my windshield. Most of the homes had large trees growing in their front yards, a mix of weeping willows, maples, and elms. The lawns were shaded, but the sun was high, and the street was bright and warm. Up the street two teenagers were running pass patterns and throwing a football, the ball spiraling through the air and bouncing off the pavement. A couple walking a dog waved at a trio of little girls jumping rope on the sidewalk. Through my closed window, I could hear the girl’s laughter and a singsong rhyme they chanted.
The scene struck me as profoundly Californian: the well-kept middleclass homes, happy children, and friendly neighbors suggesting an American dream that was alive and well and immune to the crime and violence that plagued other countries, or other cities, or just simply other nameless people. I looked out at the street and then realized with a surprised pang of nostalgia that my perceptions were from my childhood, a flashback to the innocent, cheery times before my father was killed.
“Reno?” said the general.
“Did you find anything on Ahmad Jones?” I asked.
“Yes. He was a lance corporal, Marine Corps. Deployed in Afghanistan, fought the Taliban in the Korangal Valley. Went MIA during a battle in December 2009. Likely captured and presumed dead.
“You might tell the marines to check with the Santa Clara County coroner’s office,” I said.
“Why?”
“Ahmad Jones didn’t die in Afghanistan.”
The line went silent. When the general spoke again, his voice was subdued and edged with suspicion. “Care to comment further on that?”
“Yeah. Jones was likely working for Tucker. Find the connection, and that might explain what Tucker’s up to.”
“What I meant was, how do you know Jones is dead?”
“Call it a strong rumor.”
• • •
The cars had been towed and the crime scene tape removed from the front of Cody’s house. When I looked through the busted front window, I saw Cody sitting in his recliner, his leg outstretched, a pair of crutches propped against the wall. “Come on in, the water’s warm,” he said. I went through the front door and surveyed the mess, then found a broom and dustpan and began sweeping the broken glass in his living room.
“A glassman is coming out. I got to get a new TV.”
“Will insurance cover it?” I asked.
He laughed. “Yeah, right.”
“I talked with Landers,” I said.
“What’d my old buddy have to say?”
“Not much, after I told him we got pictures.”
“Wish I could have been there for that.” Cody smiled, then held his leg and grimaced. “My meds must be wearing off. You called the general, right?”
“Yeah. I suspect CIA agents will be showing up at the Skyscape any minute.”
“Good. Maybe they’ll haul Lawrence Tucker off to a local version of Guantanamo Bay.”
“We’ll see.” I finished with the broom and looked around. A bottle of prescription pills sat on the table next to the recliner. Cody tilted the bottle to his mouth and drank from a plastic glass.
“We should get caught up on the bugs,” I said.
“Bring me my computer.”
After Cody e-mailed me the updated audio files from the Skyscape and Lennox Suggs’s house, we settled in, headphones on. I’d already drawn the conclusion that Lawrence Tucker was responsible for putting the hit on us and also was behind the Duante Tucker case. But these were assumptions without any substantive evidence.
An hour into the process I came across an interesting section. It was time stamped 7:38 A.M. Tuesday morning at the Skyscape, which was roughly thirty hours ago.
Sound of front door opening, keys jangling, footfalls.
Male voice: “What the…”
Ripping sounds (I assumed to be duct tape being removed from Duante Tucker’s eyes and mouth).
Second male voice (Duante Tucker): “Motherfucker. My arms—cut me free.”
Male voice: “What the hell happened?”
Two distinct snaps (I assumed the plastic ties binding Duante Tucker’s wrists to his feet being cut).
A prolonged groan of relief. “I got up to piss in the middle of the night. Someone was here.”
“Who?”
“He caught me unaware, choked me unconscious.”
“What did he look like?”
“White. Dark hair. Wearing black. Over six feet.”
“Not the big bearded one Shanice described.”
“No.”
“His partner, maybe.”
“Could be. How could anyone get in here? You said this place was secure as Fort Knox.”
An unintelligible grumble, then, “How long have you been tied up?”
“About four fucking hours.”
“Are you okay, Duante?”
At that point I paused the recording and replayed it. The tone of the conversation between Duante Tucker and the man I assumed was Lawrence Tucker had been relatively emotionless until the last sentence. I replayed it three more times. There seemed to a genuine concern expressed by Lawrence for Duante, who was probably still sitting naked on the floor. Maybe Duante was showing some sign of physical stress, the result of being hogtied for hours. But the degree of sympathy in Lawrence’s voice seemed odd, not only because both men came from violent backgrounds but also because Lawrence had supposedly spent most of the last twenty years outside the United States, which made it unlikely he’d formed much of a relationship with his nephew. I thought about that for a minute, then continued the playback.
“I’ll be all right when I get my hands on that motherfucker.”
“Go get yourself cleaned up.”
“Does this change our plans?”
“I’ll let you know.”
The file skipped past five minutes of silence, then resumed.
Lawrence Tucker’s voice, loudly: “Duante, my box is gone. Did you see him take anything?”
“I couldn’t see anything through the goddamn duct tape.”
“This changes things.”
“Why?”
“Because now they’ll know who I am.”
“What do we do?”
“Find out who has my box. Then we’ll fix it.”
“Right on.”
“Get some rest. I need you sharp.”
After fifteen minutes of silence, the tape began again. It was 8:00 A.M.
“Duante?” (the voice a whisper)
“What?” (voice groggy with sleep)
“Don’t say anything. I found a bug.”
“A what?”
“A listening device. Shut up and help me search the house.”
The remainder of the audio file was blank. It hadn’t taken Lawrence Tucker long to discover his home had been bugged, and he wasted no time in neutralizing the tactic. I shouldn’t have been surprised. He was a man who’d spent years dodging our government’s ultramodern electronic surveillance efforts and he’d been able to slip into the United States undetected. He’d also assumed a new identity and was no doubt involved in felonious activity, and had, until now, avoided the scrutiny of police and government agencies. It probably took him all of five minutes to find the bugs once he decided to search.
“Lunch break?” Cody said, when I got up from his kitchen table.
“Hold on,” I said, and walked into the guest bedroom. I knelt down and looked under the bed where I’d left the metal box I’d taken from unit 1602 at the Skyscape. I slowly returned to my feet and walked back to where Cody sat. “You didn’t happen to move Lawrence Tucker’s box of memorabilia, did you?” I asked.
Cody removed his headphones. “No. I don’t even know where you put it.”
“It was under the bed.”
“So?”
“Now it’s gone.”
“What?”
“It was here last night when I went to sleep.”
/>
“Wait a minute. Maybe the cops took it.”
“No.” I sat on the couch and watched a glass repair company truck stop at the curb. “Lawrence Tucker did. Must have done it this morning after I left.”
“That son of a bitch was in my house?”
“Him or one of his boys. Maybe he sent Duante.”
Cody’s face looked like a ripe melon, the skin taut as an overfilled volleyball.
“I’m gonna search for bugs,” I said.
“Do me a favor, would you, Dan? Go in my closet and bring me my sawed-off Remington.”
• • •
It was midafternoon before we finished with the audio files. The recordings from Lennox Suggs’s residence had terminated at 8:15 A.M. yesterday, right after the bugs went silent at the Skyscape. Obviously, the Tuckers must have called and alerted Suggs. The same phone call probably instructed Suggs to put a tail on us, but there was no record of either conversation. But there were a couple interesting conversations from the previous day.
In two separate phone calls, Suggs repeatedly spoke of “D-Day,” and he also made references to an eagle landing. In one sequence, he said, “After the eagle has landed, it’s gonna be fat city for us. You ain’t got to ask those questions, the details is my business. All you gotta know is, I’ll put you in diamonds, know what I’m sayin’?”
I played the sections for Cody, and he said, “They’re not very creative with their code words, are they?”
I looked up at him. “Drug dealers have been saying ‘the eagle has landed’ for years,” he said. “It means a shipment has come in. They got it from some old movie, I think.”
“What about D-Day?” I said.
“The invasion of Normandy. The American forces landing in hostile territory to kick ass on the Nazis. The liberation of France and the rest of Europe. The beginning of the end for Hitler.”
“Thanks for the junior high history lesson. You got any idea what it means to the case?”