by Dave Stanton
“Any suspicions who Shanice Tucker was meeting?” Royce said.
“No. But here’s something to consider. Shanice was also turning tricks with none other than Russ Landers. I doubt that’s a coincidence.”
“Elaborate on that,” Cohen said. His face was impassive but he had leaned forward, his elbows on his desk.
“Landers was probably taking heroin money from Tucker or his associates,” I said. “He’s been crooked for a long time.”
Cohen didn’t blink, but I caught a tiny nod of his head, a brief tightening of his lips.
“Why would Lawrence Tucker want to bomb the Skyscape building?” Royce said. His tone had turned aggressive, a hard edge to his voice. He sat upright in his chair, and it struck me that he was about my age and my size. For a moment I wondered if our similarities posed us as adversaries in his mind.
“There’s one theory that occurred to me,” I said. “Lawrence Tucker cut a deal with al-Qaida. In exchange for heroin, he offered to blow up a building in San Jose. Kind of like a small-scale nine-eleven. Maybe al-Qaida liked the idea of sending a message that no city is safe.”
“But the building didn’t go down,” Royce said. “Not even close.”
“I think Tucker had to hurry his plans. Cody Gibbons and I were closing in on him.”
The creases in Royce’s forehead grew deeper. He stared past me for a long moment. Then he picked up his briefcase and stood.
“If there’s nothing else, we’re done for now,” he said. “But don’t be surprised if we contact you down the road.”
“My charges are dropped, and Gibbons too, right?”
He tilted his head and looked at his watch. “Greg Stillman asked me to relay a message, Mr. Reno. He says he considers you a patriot. Between you and me, I’d consider that a high compliment.” He nodded at the DA, then turned and left the room.
I sat there silently until Cohen sighed and said, “It’s been quite a Saturday.” He picked up the phone, and I heard him give instructions to release Cody and me without delay. “They’ll have your property at the desk,” he said after he hung up.
“My Beretta, too. That was taken earlier this week.”
“Yes, I’m aware. You can have it.”
“Good. See you later, then.”
“Let’s hope not,” he said.
• • •
The sunlight assaulted my eyes when Cody and I walked out of the police station. The white steps to the street glared blindingly, and silver bursts ricocheted off the steel fence poles at the impound yard where we picked up Cody’s Camry. I put on my sunglasses and waited for a cop, who was clearly in no hurry, to process the release of the automobile. When we finally drove off, it was almost five o’clock.
“Where are we headed?” I asked.
“Today’s been a long, weird day,” Cody said. “I’m starving and thirsty, and I’d say it’s time to celebrate.”
“Celebrate what?”
“Huh? Snap out of it, Dirt. We’re free and clear, and Duante Tucker is off the playing field.”
“Our work’s not done,” I reminded him. “Ryan Addison hired us to find out who stole the evidence.”
“Fine. Call Grier and see what he’s found on the CDs. But as your friend and spiritual advisor, I strongly recommend you partake in strong drink beforehand.”
“Why?”
“Because you look like you’re ready to have a brain hemorrhage. You’ll feel like a new man after a couple pops. Trust me.”
Cody took the Lark avenue exit and drove us to the lounge I used to know as Gerhard’s Garden Room. We sat at the bar and ordered burgers from Lana, the tall, sultry bartender. Cody also instructed her to mix us whiskey-seven highballs in pint beer glasses. “Make ’em fifty-fifty, Lana,” he said.
On the television above the bar, newscasters were reporting on the explosion at the Skyscape. The reporter at the scene said the police suspected it was caused by a gas leak, but other possibilities were being investigated, and federal authorities had become involved. The camera zoomed in on the jagged hole where unit 1602 had been.
“Let me tell you, there’s nothing that tastes better on a hot summer day,” Cody said when Lana placed the tall cocktails in front of us. “Drink it down and tell me I’m wrong. We’re getting ripped tonight.”
“You heard him, Dirty Dan,” Lana said with a wink.
It was against my better judgment, like many things Cody prescribed during our long friendship, but I raised the glass to my lips anyway. Then I ate two cheeseburgers and drained two more drinks. Afterward, I checked my watch a couple times and decided the call to Marcus Grier could wait. We moved to a table near the jukebox, and when Cody went to the restroom, Lana came over, flashed me her freckled breasts, and said her shift was ending soon. I declined as politely as I could and called Candi and told her I’d drive home in the morning and take her to dinner. That, unlike many of the events of the evening, I remember specifically.
By the time the sun went down, we had moved on to another bar—for a nightcap, Cody said—and I lost count of drinks. A strange woman wearing star-and-crescent necklaces and turquois bracelets came in with a man who disappeared shortly afterward. She moved next to me at the bar, touched my hand, and offered to tell my fortune. I don’t remember what she said, but after a while, it occurred to me she had been reading my palm for too long. I looked around for Cody but couldn’t find him, and then he came from a hallway with a curly haired blond woman who looked tiny next to his frame. I vaguely recall an introduction being made.
I don’t know what time it was when we made it back to Cody’s house. I woke up on his couch, and sun filtered around his curtains and lit the room with a fuzzy warmth. I had been dreaming I was in a diner with my parents, and realized it had been prompted by the smell of bacon and potatoes frying nearby. I blinked the dream away, then heard a woman’s voice and sat up and saw Cody in the kitchen with someone.
I rested my head on my palms and noted the bottle of aspirin and a half-full plastic water bottle on the coffee table. I was dazed but in no horrible pain, and for that I was thankful. It had been months since I’d been drunk to oblivion.
“Up from the dead, Pegasus rises and flies to the sun!” Cody exclaimed when he looked over. He held a glass in his hand. “Bloody?” he asked.
“Breakfast of champions,” the lady added. She was grinning and drank from a straw. Her jeans were tight and low on her hips, and she was petite except for heavy breasts, which swayed unencumbered beneath her blouse.
“Put your shirt on and get some grub,” Cody said.
“What time is it?” I mumbled.
“It’s Sunday, kemosabe, time for love and libations and libidinal excursions and livin’, man!”
The woman laughed merrily, her pretty smile framed by locks of blond hair that fell on her cheeks. “What a life!” she exclaimed.
I think I tried to smile, but the best I could manage was a parting of the lips and a hollow-eyed stare.
• • •
There’s a particular virtue to hangovers. The alcoholic fog dulls the mind, thoughts slow to a crawl, and details blur into smudges. Yesterday’s problems become insignificant, as if they were part of some fabricated and unnecessary illusion. In a numbed stupor, there’s no energy left for worry or action. A good hangover is not always a bad thing, especially if you need a day off from your life. The trick, though, is to resist the temptation to drink your way out of it.
Although I felt far from great as I drove home, at least my heavy head was quiet. I was still a little drunk, and in this whiskey-induced peace I drove automatically, slumped in my seat. I didn’t think of talking to Marcus Grier or reporting the recent developments to Ryan Addison. I also didn’t think of what would become of Lawrence Tucker or Russ Landers. If anything, my thoughts were of getting home to Candi and immediately taking her to our bedroom. My brain cells may have been deadened, but I was horny as a two-peckered billy goat. Another by-product of a hangover, I sup
pose.
When I got home, I undressed Candi and our lovemaking was raucous and exhilarating, and her fervor nearly matched my own. Afterward, I was sated and tired and sat on the couch for most of the afternoon and didn’t do a shred of work. In the evening I finally snapped out of it after drinking two vodka tonics, strictly for medicinal purposes. When Candi and I got back from dinner, we watched television and by ten o’clock I was asleep. And it was not the sleep of the damned either, like I half expected. I didn’t wake up for ten solid hours.
12
The next morning I assembled all my notes on the case and began working on an update for Ryan Addison. I was almost done by nine o’clock, which was when I called Marcus.
“Did you figure out who Shanice’s john was?” I asked.
“Maybe. I need you to send me the other hotel dates and times you said you have.”
“Who’s the suspect?”
“We need collaborating evidence, so send it over.”
“Who is it, Marcus?” I persisted.
“I’ll let you know when I’m good and ready. Like after we make an arrest.”
“I need to know as soon as you do. Don’t forget, you wouldn’t be onto him if it wasn’t for me.”
“I doubt you’d let me forget that for half a minute. I’ll be waiting for your e-mail.”
After we hung up I added a few sentences to my case report, then called Ryan Addison.
“Hey, what’s happenin’, No Problemo Reno?”
“I’m about to send you an update, Mr. Addison.”
“Good. But no hurry, I’m on the road. Cody called me yesterday.”
“What’d he say?”
“He said he shot Duante Tucker in the spine, and the scumbag is paralyzed, and they got him on tubes. His mind is fully functioning, but he’s a slug, and his chances of surviving the next six months are maybe fifty-fifty. Right on, huh?”
“Are you in town?” I asked.
“No, I’m driving to San Jose. Lindsey’s with me, too. We’re going to pay Duante a visit, just to say hello, you know? I think it might be very therapeutic.”
“You sure that’s what you want to do?”
“You know, Dan, nothing against you, I think you’re a pretty good guy, but there’s something we never quite synced up on,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“Have you ever had a family member badly fucked over? If you have, you might understand where I’m coming from. But my guess is you’ve never had that experience.”
“You guessed wrong,” I said.
“Really? Well, maybe we’ve been on the same page all along. Could that be the case? Whatever, I’m pleased with the outcome, my man. You might even say, tickled pink.”
“The investigation’s not over yet. But we’re getting close to identifying who stole the evidence.”
“Glad to hear it. They better prosecute the son of a bitch.”
“I think South Lake PD has every intention of that.”
“They better. If they screw up again, don’t be surprised if your phone rings.”
• • •
Three days went by. I left two messages for Greg Stillman, and he didn’t respond. I also left Marcus a message asking for an update. He didn’t return my call, either.
During that time, the national news media ran daily stories reporting that the Skyscape explosion was not the result of a faulty gas valve, as local authorities had suggested. Anonymous sources had leaked that not only was the blast caused by plastic explosives, but federal investigators had discovered enough C2 planted in the stairwells to bring the entire building down.
That afternoon I called General Horvachek.
“Did you talk to the media?” he asked abruptly.
“No, why?”
“If anyone from any news agency contacts you, hang up on them. I’m serious about that. Don’t say a word, just hang up.”
“What’s the issue?” I asked.
“People get the idea that al-Qaida tried to blow up a building in a city like San Jose, it creates problems. It’s bad for the economy, bad for politicians. Our government doesn’t want the public in a panic.”
“Best to keep the civilians blissfully ignorant, huh?”
“I’ll let you draw your own conclusions on that.”
“How about Lawrence Tucker, General? Did the CIA find him?”
“He’s in their custody.”
“I suspected he was scheming to bring a shipment of heroin into the US. Any perspective on that?”
“He was apprehended in a trawler approaching a containership eighty miles east of the Golden Gate,” said Horvachek. “That’s all I can tell you.”
“Will he be charged with a crime?”
“The military has first shot at him, for desertion and treason.”
“I know this is a stretch, but any way I can talk to him?”
The general laughed. “Not a chance.”
• • •
I waited until just before five o’clock that afternoon before calling Marcus’s office number. I told the receptionist I was a detective from the county seat in Placerville, and she put me through.
“Sheriff Grier.”
“Talk to me, Marcus.”
“Representing yourself as a law officer is a crime,” he said.
“Tell me something I don’t know. Like who hijacked the evidence against Duante Tucker.”
He blew out a long breath. “It will be announced tomorrow. But I suppose you don’t want to wait until then.”
“You suppose right. Who was it, Marcus?”
“Christian Wayne Sawyer. Judge Christian Wayne Sawyer. He presided over the case.”
“The judge?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did he confess?”
“No, but we know he was dallying with Shanice Tucker,” said Grier. “And she’s cut a deal to testify against him.”
“What kind of deal?”
“He claims she was blackmailing him. But she says he was infatuated with her and offered to get her brother off in return for an ongoing relationship.”
“With a prostitute? He put himself at that risk for freebies?”
“She says she recorded every conversation they had. She’s got it all on tape. He’s done.”
“She skates, I take it?” I asked.
“What would we charge her with, besides prostitution?” he replied.
“How about aiding and abetting a criminal act?”
“Not part of the deal.”
I was silent for a moment. Actually, I didn’t know what to say. Christian Wayne Sawyer was a well-known member of Lake Tahoe’s upper crust. It was not uncommon to see his name and picture in the local newspaper, as he participated in charity events and lake conservation politics. He was a man in his midfifties with a full head of silver hair and a florid face, and I knew he was married because I remembered seeing his wife posing with him in newspaper photos. She was a fit woman of at least his age who had multiple cosmetic surgeries and was known to wear expensive jewelry and clothes. I imagined she worked very hard to maintain her fitness and sex appeal. Apparently that had not been enough to keep her husband faithful.
“There’s something else I should tell you,” Marcus said. “I asked the CIA agent if he would provide Lawrence Tucker’s DNA sample to help us resolve the Duante Tucker case. I received it last night.”
“What use is Lawrence Tucker’s DNA?”
“After we found out Duante’s father died in prison, I was curious why Lawrence would be motivated to spring Duante. After all, Lawrence Tucker seemed to have a lot of resources, right? Ex-soldiers, gangbangers—so why would he need Duante?”
“Because he could trust him?” I said.
“It was more than that. I had DNA samples from Duante that were not part of the court case. Our lab compared Duante’s DNA to Lawrence Tucker’s. They sent me the results. Duante Tucker is Lawrence Tucker’s son.”
“How could that be?”
“Lawrence was sleeping with his brother Lamar’s wife.”
“The results are that definitive?”
“There’s no doubt. I spoke to Shanice earlier today, and she confirmed it.”
“How would she know?” I asked.
“She said it went on for years, before Lamar went to prison and after, when Lawrence was on leave from the marines.”
“I wonder if Duante knows he’s Lawrence’s son.”
“Shanice said he did,” Grier replied.
I held the phone away and shook my head. Then I said, “Hey, Marcus?”
“Yeah?”
“Nice work, figuring that out.”
“And you think I just sit around on my fat ass all day long.”
• • •
The next morning a news story broke on the Internet. The DEA had seized one hundred kilos of pure heroin from a freighter churning toward the Port of Oakland. A group of men on a nearby deep-sea fishing vessel had been arrested in conjunction. The heroin was reportedly from Afghanistan, where the wholesale price was around $5,000 per kilo. The retail value of one hundred kilos in the US market, after being cut and packaged for street level sale, was over $30 million.
Later in the morning, I uncovered my barbeque and lit a bag of charcoal. When the coals were whitehot, I threw on a couple of chicken breasts I’d been soaking in barbeque sauce. While Candy made a salad, I sat at my picnic bench in the shade and scanned news sites on the Internet. I was looking for information on Christian Wayne Sawyer. I wanted to send Ryan Addison my final case report, and I hoped to include a confirmation that Sawyer had been taken into custody.
There was no report of Sawyer’s arrest, but I did find a brief bio on him. As a young man he had worked as a policeman in Tennessee and Alabama. He put himself through law school and became an attorney and a magistrate. Before moving out west, he’d run for public office and at one point had served as a zoning commissioner. His family roots extended deep into southern history. Among his predecessors were plantation owners, real estate barons, mayors, and bankers. I didn’t expend any effort in researching him further. I guessed his lusts and motivations probably stemmed from a cultural upbringing that reinforced particular entitlements. He chose to release a black rapist and to sleep with his sister because he thought he had the power to do so, as if it was part of some natural order. I imagined he was outraged and, on some level, shocked that he would be prosecuted for what he’d done.