by Sean Lynch
“Don’t even think about it, Matt; one swing is all you get. You take a poke at me again I’ll rip your lungs out and make balloon animals out of them.”
Matt’s nostrils flared. Quintana stepped between me and Matt.
“Take it easy, Sergeant,” Quintana said to Matt in a low voice. “You too, Chance. People are watching.” They were.
He pulled Matt aside. “Cool off. I’ll take Means to Highland to get his blood drawn and then meet you at the station. Stay here and conduct your preliminary scene survey.”
Matt glared at me but stood down. He allowed Quintana to escort him away from me. Matt busied himself with talking to a crime scene technician who was photographing the two bodies in the street. Occasionally he’d look over his shoulder at me. It wasn’t a friendly gaze.
“You sure know how to win friends and influence people,” Quintana said when he returned. “Come on; let’s get you out of here. You’ve done enough damage for one night.”
Quintana let me ride in the front seat as we rode to Highland, the Alameda County Hospital. While he drove he spoke on his cell phone. He gave the caller on the other end of the line a description of Holly, which was probably not her name, her last known location, and orders to detain her as a material witness to a double-homicide, if located.
It’s standard procedure to take a blood sample from a homicide suspect, which is what I was, as part of the investigation. I could refuse to cooperate and make Quintana write a search warrant, which would take a couple of hours to get signed by a judge. Then Quintana, along with several Alameda County deputy sheriffs, would get to restrain me while my blood was forcibly drawn and placed into evidence for testing. Since I had no drugs in my system, and hadn’t had a drink within the last twenty-four hours, there was no point in stonewalling on the blood draw; I had nothing to hide.
We drove to Highland Hospital wordlessly and Quintana muscled his way through the chaotic emergency room. Within thirty minutes he had cajoled a beleaguered nurse into withdrawing two vials of my blood. She gave them to Quintana and soon we were back on the road to the Oakland Police Administration Building downtown.
I asked to borrow Quintana’s cell phone to call my attorney. He handed it over. It took a few minutes of scrolling through the device’s menu to figure out how to make a call. I’m not very technologically savvy; especially with the super-computers that pass for phones nowadays. Quintana recognized my frustration and chuckled as he talked me through his phone’s operation.
I dialed Greg Vole; I had his number memorized. It was well after midnight when I woke him up. He agreed to meet me at the Oakland police headquarters.
When we arrived at OPD, Quintana took me upstairs to Major Crimes Section 1, which used to be part of the Criminal Investigation Division, and put me into an interview room. The room was three blank walls, a mirrored panel for observation, a table which was bolted to the floor, and a couple of cheap plastic folding chairs. I also happened to know there was a high-resolution pinhole camera in the light switch and a voice-activated microphone in the wall socket. We shook hands and Quintana told me to give him a call when I could. Then he left me alone.
Quintana did not question me about the shooting on Bancroft Avenue. He’d find out from his department’s investigation soon enough, and showed me the courtesy of not letting me compromise myself by giving up information which could potentially be used against me before I consulted with my attorney. It also saved him the paperwork of having to take a statement from me.
A tall, skinny, African-American man in his fifties, with a shaved head and wearing an expensive suit, entered the interview room and explained that as soon as my attorney arrived my statement would be obtained. Then he left. He didn’t introduce himself.
One of the physiological responses to life-endangering stress is the body floods itself with adrenaline. This ‘fight or flight’ response, as it’s commonly known, occurs automatically and instantaneously. It’s nature’s way of providing mammals a survival edge and ensuring the continuation of the species.
Unfortunately, a common after-effect of an adrenaline dump is exhaustion. It’s called after-action fatigue in military lingo. I was feeling it now. Consequently, when Greg opened the interview door I was dozing off and nearly fell out of my chair. I stood and shook his hand.
“Thanks for coming,” I said.
“You’re welcome,” he said, setting his old leather briefcase on the table. “I was briefed by the lieutenant, so I have a rough idea of what transpired tonight.” His brow furrowed. “You okay?”
“Little tired,” I admitted.
“That’s not what I meant,” he said. “You were almost killed tonight. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Doing better than the three guys who tried to do me in,” I said.
“Three? The lieutenant said you shot two assailants,” Greg said.
“He’s forgetting the dude in the crash car who rammed me to start the fireworks,” I told him. “He’s in the wind.”
Greg sat down, opened his briefcase, and pulled out a legal pad and a pen.
“Let’s get started,” he said. We did. It took about an hour to tell Greg what happened. He asked a lot of detailed questions while he took notes. We’d done this drill before.
After I’d run down the night’s shenanigans, glossing over most of what transpired on the Track before I picked up the tail, Greg left the room to notify the lieutenant I was ready to give my statement. When he did, I stretched, yawned, and rubbed my eyes and face. In doing so I discreetly retrieved the SIM card which had been leaving its coppery taste in my mouth all this time. Then, under the guise of straightening the notes Greg left scattered on the table, I tucked the SIM card into his briefcase.
A few minutes later Greg returned. This time he brought three other men with him, each carrying their own folding chair. Greg introduced one as a district attorney’s deputy, another as his investigator, and the third was Sergeant Matt Nguyen. I smiled nonchalantly at Matt.
Greg made introductions. Matt and the district attorney’s inspector each placed digital recorders on the table. Then Matt read me my Miranda rights, which I waived with Greg’s approval.
I spent the next hour answering questions. I gave only a cursory explanation about the investigation I was conducting, and why I was dressed like a John and speaking to a street prostitute named Holly in my car on the Track. I gave a lot more detail about the crash and gunfight.
When it was over, all the men, including Greg, left the room. Forty-five minutes later Greg returned. This time he brought only Matt Nguyen with him.
“C’mon, Chance,” Matt said. “I’ve got to book you.” I looked at Greg; he nodded.
“What we know so far about your story,” Matt said, “jives with the physical evidence. Both cars were stolen. Both of the guys you dumped were convicted felons with extensive criminal histories, including assault with a deadly weapon, assault with great bodily injury, attempted murder, and pandering. Neither one of those goons should have been in possession of a firearm, much less stolen ones, which they were. There’s still a lot of work to be done, but it doesn’t look like the D.A. is going to file on you.” He gave me a weak smile. “Once you’ve been booked, you’re free to go.”
Greg gave me a pat on the back. “I’ll wait for you in my car. I’m parked in front of the D.A.’s office.”
Like any homicide suspect, even one not getting charged, I still had to get processed. My status as a former cop gave me no special privileges. They needed my finger and palm prints and a current photograph as part of the packet for the district attorney’s final review.
Matt walked me out of the building, down 6th street one block, to the Alameda County Glenn E. Dyer Detention Facility, otherwise known as the North County Jail. There I was led into the jail, searched, and booked like any other suspected criminal. The process involved a deputy thoroughly searching my clothing; including looking into my open mouth and under my tongue. Once this was completed
, I had my finger and palm prints electronically recorded via a LiveScan terminal, and a digital photograph taken of my sleep-deprived mug.
When the jail staff was finished humiliating me, Matt nodded to a deputy and we were let out of the jail through the sally port onto 6th Street again. The sun was beginning to come up on what looked to be another cloudy day. My head hurt.
Matt turned to me before we reached Greg Vole’s BMW.
“I’m sorry for coming down on you earlier,” Matt said. “Things aren’t going so well for me right now. I guess I took it out on you.”
“I had kind of a rough night myself,” I told him.
Matt gave me a weak smile. “At least now you get to go home and get some sleep. Thanks to your nocturnal activities, my day is just starting.”
“That’s the glamorous life of a big city homicide detective for you,” I said. “Something I don’t miss.”
“You can say that again.” Matt handed me my wallet. Then he stuck out his hand.
I took it. “So when do I get my guns, and vest, and other stuff back?”
I had to ask. My guns, ammunition, knife, holsters, flashlight and ballistic vest were by now on the way to the Oakland police department’s evidence room.
“It’ll be awhile,” Matt said, confirming what I already knew. “We have to run ballistic comparisons and go through the rest of the evidence collected at the scene. I’m guessing a few weeks, at least. You know how these things work. Sorry, Chance.”
“Thanks anyway.” I started to walk towards Greg’s parked BMW.
“Hey Chance,” Matt called out to me as I opened the car door.
“What is it, Matt?”
“Do us all a favor, will you? Stay off the Track.”
“You’re kidding, right?” I asked.
“No, Chance, I’m not. You almost got killed last night; isn’t that enough?”
“You expect me to forget someone tried to do me in? Tonight’s shooting gallery on Bancroft Avenue wasn’t a coincidence, Matt. It was a pre-planned, and well-executed, mobile ambush. That means coordination, command, and control. Which means somebody was calling the shots.”
“Let it go, Chance.”
“Sorry, Matt. No can do.”
“You don’t quit, do you?”
“No, I don’t. It’s part of my charm.”
“If you aren’t careful, your luck is going to run out,” Matt said. “Good night.”
“It’s morning,” I corrected him. He held up his middle finger as he walked away.
“What was that all about?” Greg asked when I flopped into his car.
“Nothing worth mentioning,” I said.
Chapter 18
Greg and I didn’t speak much on the ride home from Oakland. It’s tough to converse when you’re asleep. Within minutes of climbing into the passenger seat of his car I was in la-la land. Next thing I knew, Greg was shaking my shoulder and his voice was jarring me into wakefulness from what had been a dead slumber.
“Chance, wake up. I need directions. I don’t know which exit to take.”
When I finally realized where I was, slumped in my attorney’s car as it proceeded eastbound on the Sergeant Daniel Sakai Memorial Highway, I groggily told Greg which exit to take to Castro Valley.
I sat up, rubbed my eyes, and directed Greg to Crow Canyon Road. Ten minutes east of Castro Valley, a couple of miles west of San Ramon, was the unmarked dirt road which led to my house. The structure is more than a half-mile off the main road and obscured from view around a steep hill. My neighbors are cows, coyotes, and hawks. Greg parked in the driveway and waited while I unlocked the door and turned off the alarm.
“This isn’t easy to find,” Greg remarked taking in the landscape.
“Not a coincidence,” I informed him.
Once inside, the first thing I did was put on a kettle to boil water for tea. The second thing I did was retrieve my shotgun.
Greg put his briefcase on the kitchen table, sat heavily down on one of the stools, and rubbed his own eyes. I’d gotten him up pretty early. Those eyes widened when he saw me emerge from my bedroom with my Mossberg model 590 Military 12-guage shotgun and begin inserting rounds into the tubular magazine.
When I was a cop we trained with and deployed exclusively Remington shotguns. I preferred the Mossberg. The Mossy is just as reliable as the Remington, twice as durable, and if good enough for the Marine Corps was good enough for me. You’ve got to love a shotgun with a bayonet lug on it. The first two rounds I inserted into the weapon’s eight-shot tubular magazine were slugs; those would be the last ones out. The next six into the gun were 00 buck. I left the chamber empty and the safety off. I placed the scattergun on the counter and began to attend to the tea.
“You going elephant hunting?” Greg snorted, peering at the Mossberg.
“Nope,” I said matter-of-factly. “It’s pimp season.”
“Didn’t you get enough gunplay last night?”
“Just because my name is Chance doesn’t mean I’m taking any.”
“Aren’t you being a little paranoid? Who the hell could find you out here?”
Greg had a point. I put effort into staying off the grid. My telephone was unlisted, and my internet connection was linked to the phone. All my mail went to a post office box in San Ramon. My car, before it was turned into a bullet-riddled accordion, and my bank account, were both registered to the P.O. box as well. I rented the house from my friend Russ, so no utilities or services were in my name. And I was very discriminatory about who I let visit. If somebody wanted to find me, I could be found; anybody could. But anyone looking for me was going to have to do their homework.
I handed Greg his tea. “I’m sorry for ruining your weekend,” I said. “And thanks for bailing my ass out last night. That’s another one I owe you.”
“Don’t thank me,” Greg said. “I’m the jerk who dragged you into this mess to begin with.” He sipped some tea. “I was going to call you this morning anyway. We’ve got a problem.”
“What problem?” I was bushed. After last night Greg would have to tell me the Earth was under imminent threat of a planet-destroying comet to get a rise out of me.
“Belicia ran away.”
“Since when?”
“According to Reyna, since yesterday morning. Apparently the cops brought Belicia home Thursday afternoon after some kind of trouble on campus.”
“I know,” I said. “I was there.”
“I suspected as much. She said Belicia had been suspended from school. But Friday morning, when Reyna woke up, Belicia was gone. She’d snuck out during the night.”
“Did Reyna report it to the police?”
“No,” said Greg. “She spent Friday hoping Belicia would come back, but by last night realized that wasn’t going to happen and called Amanda.”
“Belicia’s in serious danger,” I said. “We’ve got to find her.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much yet,” Greg said. “Reyna said Belicia has taken off a couple of times before, but always comes back within a day or two.”
“She’s not a typical runaway,” I told him. “It’s worse than that.”
“You don’t think what happened to you last night on the Track is connected to Belicia, do you?”
“Do the math, Greg; I was out on the Track last night asking questions about her dead sister and within the hour somebody tried to take me out.”
“I don’t know, Chance. We should talk about this. I’m not sure you should be doing any more investigating into this Marisol thing. It’s becoming too dangerous.”
“I told you that in the beginning of this shindig, remember?”
“I remember. But I didn’t think-”
“But nothing,” I cut him off. “Marisol got killed in a hard place. The creatures who inhabit the hard places don’t fuck around. Your wife Amanda said the reason she wanted me to handle this investigation is because I can navigate those habitats. What did you expect? I’d get a welcome party?”
> “I didn’t expect anyone to get hurt,” Greg said. “Two men are dead, and you almost got killed yourself.”
“What kind of people do you think we’re dealing with?”
“Chance, it’s not worth your life.”
“Tell that to Amanda; she’s the one who opened up this can of whoop-ass.”
“You’ve got nothing to prove. Not to me, Amanda, Reyna, or anybody else. Just because you said you’d do something, doesn’t mean you have to get yourself murdered doing it. You can quit, you know.”
“Quit isn’t in my DNA.”
“You’re being stubborn,” Greg said. “There are times when quitting is the right thing to do.”
“I couldn’t quit now if I wanted to; Marisol’s killer knows who I am. I scragged two of his soldiers last night and he isn’t going to let that slide. He can’t, and stay in business. A pimp’s reputation is everything. Besides, I think Belicia is going to be the next target, if she hasn’t already been killed.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Don’t be ignorant, Greg. You know I’m right.”
“This is a nightmare,” he said. “What have we done?”
I ignored his question. “There’s good news though; nosing around on the Track got results. By trying to kill me they signaled I hit a nerve; that I was on the right trail.”
“So you know who tried to kill you?”
“I’m not sure yet, but I’ve got an idea.”
“What’s your next move?”
I stood up and took Greg’s shoulder. “I’d love to tell you about it, but frankly I’m exhausted.”
“I get the hint. I’m leaving. I’m pretty tired myself. Can I use your bathroom before I hit the road?”
“Down the hall; first door on your left.”
Once Greg entered my bathroom, I entered his briefcase. After a minute’s worth of sifting I retrieved the SIM card I’d stashed there. I pocketed it as he emerged.
I walked Greg to his car, promising to call him within the next day or so. I elicited a promise from him to call me if any word from Reyna came in on Belicia’s whereabouts. We shook hands and he left.