A Hard Place: A Chauncey Means Novel

by Sean Lynch

  With Greg gone there was nothing I wanted more than to slink under the covers and unplug. But I had work to do and the clock was ticking. I grabbed the phone and began digging through my wallet for numbers.

  The first number I dialed was San Leandro High School Resource Officer Dave Boyer’s cell phone. He didn’t answer, so I left a voicemail message informing him that Belicia had split. I also mentioned the shooting last night, so he’d know the urgency of the need to locate her. I finished the message beseeching him to call me back at his earliest convenience.

  The second number I called was Russ Dijkstra. Again, I got his voicemail. I left Russ a message explaining what happened last night, and that I needed his help. Then I told his answering machine what kind of help I needed, and asked him to call me back.

  Next I called Karen Pearson; voicemail again. Apparently I was one of very few people awake and available on Saturday morning before nine o’clock. I left her a message asking her to call me; we were still tentatively scheduled to meet tonight.

  I called Sergeant Alvero Quintana’s cell phone next; he answered.

  “Quintana,” he barked.

  “This is Chauncey Means,” I said. “I need a favor.”

  “Don’t you ever rest?” he asked.

  “No time. Belicia Hernandez ran away from home. We’ve got to find her before somebody else does.”

  “Belicia who?”

  “Marisol Hernandez’s little sister. She’s fourteen; goes to San Leandro High School. She’s tied into all this; she might be in Drop-Dead Bullock’s stable, or getting groomed to be.”

  “You think she knows something?” Quintana asked.

  “Somebody thought I did, and they tried to erase me. Might try the same with her.”

  “I get it. What do you need?”

  “Whatever you got on Bullock.”

  “Why?”

  “Going to pay him a visit.”

  “You don’t fuck around, do you?” Quintana remarked.

  “No Al, I don’t. You find Holly yet?”

  “Yeah, we found her. That’s the good news.” I didn’t like the sound of that.

  “What’s the bad news?” I had to ask.

  “When we found her,” Quintana answered, “she was face down on Skyline Boulevard minus her heartbeat.”

  “Shit,” I hissed. “That’s pretty fast work. Somebody is covering tracks. How’d she buy it?”

  “Looks like she was beaten to death, but it’s too early to say definitively. She was dumped along the side of the road. Motorist called it in about two hours ago.”

  “At least this time they didn’t shut down business on the Track,” I said. “They took her up into the hills to do her. I’ll bet Holly’s cell phone wasn’t on her body, either.”

  “I don’t know, but I wouldn’t take that bet,” Quintana said.

  “We’ve got to find Belicia,” I said again.

  “I’ll get what I can on Bullock,” Quintana promised. “I’ll call you back.”

  I hung up. My head was pounding.

  Before I made my final phone call, I washed down a couple of aspirin with a tall glass of water. Taking my shotgun and the phone into the bedroom, I undressed and set my security alarm. The fatigue was really taking hold. I lay the Mossberg next to me on the bed. Not as cuddly as a teddy bear, but infinitely more comforting.

  The last call I made, before sinking into the bliss of sleep, was to Lothar the Merciless. I left another voicemail asking him to call me.

  I could always count on Lothar.

  Chapter 19

  I had hoped to get at least six hours sleep before the phone calls started coming in; no such luck. A little after 2:00 PM Russ called me back. I fought myself to wakefulness and picked up the phone. I told Russ what happened last night and what I needed. He told me he’d gotten out of surgery and would run home and retrieve what I’d requested. He promised to be at my place within an hour. Russ Dijkstra is a stand-up guy. I thanked him and hung up.

  I got out of bed and headed for the bathroom. While I was shaving, Dave Boyer called back. He asked a lot of questions about what happened on Bancroft Avenue in Oakland the previous evening and I deflected them as politely as I could. I really didn’t want to talk about it; that’s all I’d been doing since the shooting. I steered the conversation to Belicia Hernandez.

  “Any word on Belicia?” I asked him.

  “Nothing,” said Dave. “I had her entered into MUPS as a potential runaway-at-risk. If she surfaces, we’ll get a call from the law enforcement agency that found her.”

  MUPS is the Missing and Unidentified Persons System, and has both state and federal reach.

  “Anything come up during Belicia’s physical examination?”

  “Sadly, yes,” Dave said. “She’s sexually active, according to the examining nurse. Evidence of recent oral, vaginal, and anal intercourse. She’s contracted chlamydia, too. Also, her initial blood toxicology screen showed THC, meth, and cocaine metabolite residue in her system.”

  “It’s like we thought,” I said. “Belicia’s being turned out. Step by step, right out of the pimp playbook.”

  “Looks that way,” Dave acknowledged. “We did a full sexual assault evidence kit on her. If a DNA match comes up with the shithead she was with he’ll get charged with statutory rape. But my guess is she’s had multiple partners and getting a match is unlikely.”

  “What about the shithead she was in the car with? Confirm his identity yet?”

  I heard Dave rustling some papers over the phone. “Let me take a look at his C.A.R. and R.A.P. history.”

  C.A.R. stands for consolidated arrest report. R.A.P. stands for record of arrest and prosecution.

  “His name is Efren Campos, age twenty,” Dave said. “Lives with his parents on 98th Avenue in Oakland. No high school diploma. Has a juvenile record for possession of marijuana for sales, auto theft, and assault with a deadly weapon. No adult arrest record yet. Probably has gang affiliation, but there’s nothing on file. His employment is listed as-”

  “He has a job?” I cut in.

  “Hard to believe, huh?” Dave said.

  Not surprisingly, most of the criminals I’d arrested list their occupation as NONE in the employment box on their C.A.R. when booked.

  Dave went on. “He’s a busboy at the Yucatan restaurant in Oakland.”

  “So our Romeo pimp cleans tables at a Mexican eatery,” I said. “What about the car?”

  “The Honda is registered to him at his parent’s address,” Dave said. “Strangely enough, Campos actually has a valid driver’s license. He just didn’t have it on him when we hooked him up.”

  “The pistol?”

  “Gun comes back registered as a stolen firearm. It was taken in a theft last summer at the Oakland Airport by a gang-affiliated luggage handler when a batch of guns was being shipped from the manufacturer to a sporting goods store in Daly City.”

  “How about the phones? Belicia’s and Campos’s? Any luck with the data dump? We need what’s stored in those phones if we’re going to find Belicia.”

  “I turned them into our computer forensics guy yesterday,” Dave said. “It’ll be sometime next week before he gets to them.”

  “Can’t you speed it up? Make it a priority?” I told Dave about Holly the B-girl’s fate.

  “Holy shit,” Dave remarked when I was finished. “Last night you go out to the Track posing as a John and ask a B-girl a couple of questions about Marisol Hernandez. Within an hour you’re unsuccessfully hit. By morning, the hooker you were talking to is successfully hit.”

  “Now do you understand the need for urgency? We have to find Belicia.”

  “I get it. I’ll make a call to my watch commander and see if I can get some overtime authorized to get Belicia and Campos’s phones scanned and dumped as soon as possible.”

  “What about Campos? Is he still in custody?”

  “For now,” Dave said. “He was transferred to the Santa Rita Jail from the Nor
th County Jail this morning. He’ll be there at least until Tuesday when he sees the judge. Most likely he’ll be released on his own recognizance until his preliminary hearing. Slimy little bastard probably won’t even have to post bond.”

  I knew what Dave was complaining about. The county jails were at capacity, so anyone without a significant adult criminal history, which Campos did not have, and a valid address, which he did have, was eligible for release. He would be expected to show up at his next court date on his promise to appear; ‘own recognizance’ it was called. Essentially, the courts took the word of pimps, thugs, gangsters and crooks that they’ll keep their next court appointment. Further proof the California criminal justice system is irreparably broken is not required.

  “What do you say we pay Mr. Campos a visit at Santa Rita first thing on Monday?” I asked.

  “I’d say it’s a date,” Dave said. “But don’t get any ideas. You want to get past second base with me, you have to buy me dinner and meet my parents.”

  “That’s not what it says on the bathroom wall,” I told him.

  “Anything else I can do for you?” he asked with a chuckle.

  “One more question. You ever heard of an Oakland cop named Alvero Quintana?”

  “Big Al?” Dave said. “Yeah, I know him. There isn’t a cop working Juvenile or Sex Crimes in Alameda County who doesn’t know Sergeant Al Quintana. What about him?”

  “Met him on the Track last night. What can you tell me?”

  “He’s the supervisor of the Alameda County Child Exploitation Task Force. He’s also OPD’s expert on the Track. I’ve known him for years. He grew up in Oakland. His family has money, I think. Heard somewhere they own a chain of restaurants. Competent street cop, but he’s got a rep. Lot of cops steer clear of him. He’s not real popular.”

  “What kind of rep?”

  “Al’s kind of larger-than-life. Always does things in a big way. Cops usually have big egos anyway, but Al takes it to the next level.”

  “How so?”

  “From what I’ve heard, Al’s a major cock-hound. Always sniffing after somebody’s wife. One of those guys who’s got a perpetual hard-on. Been divorced a couple of times, and has kids with each ex. He was a lieutenant for a few months, but got busted back to sergeant.”

  “What did he get busted for?”

  “I heard it was a sexual harassment beef. I also heard he was banging his captain’s wife. Maybe both are true; who knows?”

  I thanked Dave. He told me he’d call me early Monday morning and hung up.

  I finished my shave, clipped my hair with my Flowbee, the most useful technology created by man since the invention of draught beer, and hit the shower. I was toweling off when the doorbell rang.

  I answered the door with my Mossberg 12-gauge in hand. It’s unlikely anyone coming to finish me would politely ring the doorbell unless as a diversion; a possibility I couldn’t rule out. A peep through the eyepiece in the door revealed Russ Dijkstra.

  I opened the door. Russ was wearing surgical scrubs and carrying a gym bag.

  “Wow,” he said when he noticed my attire and the shotgun. “That’s a look you ain’t going to see on the runway in Milan this spring.”

  “Don’t act surprised,” I said, motioning him inside. “It’s not like you’ve never fantasized about me answering the door with my robe thrown recklessly open.”

  “True,” Russ agreed, “but the shotgun is definitely a boner-killer.”

  “You’re the urologist; you would know.”

  Russ came in, set down his bag, and helped himself to a Deschutes Mirror Pond Ale from my refrigerator. I fetched him a glass; Mirror Pond needs to breathe.

  “You look as bushed as I was earlier,” I said.

  Russ sipped some beer and rubbed his eyes. “Got called into surgery at five-fucking-thirty,” he groaned. “But it spared me the hell of having to wake up with my wife.”

  “It’s the little things that matter most,” I said.

  “I brought you something,” Russ grinned, digging into his golf bag.

  “I appreciate this,” I told him.

  “Glad to be of help,” Russ said dismissively. “It’s what men do.” He emerged from his bag with a zippered leather case about the size of a large book. Opening it, he revealed a 1911A1, .45 caliber, government-model semi-automatic pistol. He locked the slide back with the muzzle pointed in a safe direction, checked the chamber with his eyes and hands, and handed me the pistol. I accepted it, re-checked the chamber visually and physically myself, and inspected the weapon.

  “This is a Les Baer,” I whistled. “Russ, I can’t borrow this. It’s too valuable.”

  “Bullshit,” Russ said. “Of course you can.”

  Russ Dijkstra owns quite a number of firearms. He’s an avid hunter, shooter, and all-around gun guy, and very good friends with the owner of one the largest firearms and firearms accessories distributors in the world. I’d called him this morning to borrow a pistol from his extensive collection.

  I wasn’t wealthy, like Russ, nor did I have a friend who was the owner and CEO of a firearms distribution company. Under California law, it requires at least ten calendar days to lawfully purchase and take possession of a handgun. Criminals aren’t hindered by that protocol.

  My old Sig Sauer P220 .45, perhaps the most reliable production .45 ever made, and my back-up Smith & Wesson .38 revolver, are the only handguns I own. Both weapons were currently locked up in the Oakland police department’s Property and Evidence section, and would be there for several weeks until the district attorney’s office formally adjudicated my shooting investigation. As a result, other than my Mossberg, I was essentially unarmed. Last I checked, it’s pretty tough to find a concealment holster for a 12-gauge pump-action shotgun.

  “Russ,” I said again, “I can’t borrow this gun.”

  Though a constant subject of debate among hard-core government .45 aficionados, Les Baer 1911A1 pistols are arguably the best of the breed. Each pistol is made by hand, of the finest materials, and by the top craftsmen in the field. And if that wasn’t cool enough, Les Baer pistols are made in Iowa; just like me.

  “You’re taking the gun and that’s final.”

  “This piece is worth more than my car,” I said, forgetting that after last night almost anything was. “What if I damage it? Or if I shoot somebody again and it gets put into a police evidence locker?”

  “Chance, you need a gun. And with your propensity for making lethal enemies you need the best gun you can get. As far as it getting damaged, or taken away, I don’t give a fuck.”

  ‘I don’t give a fuck,’ was one of Russ’s signature sayings. He had the bedside manner of a barker at a Tenderloin District strip joint, but his patients loved him for it. He dug into the bag again and handed me five magazines. “You got ammo?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Sorry I don’t have a holster for it,” he said. “This is one I don’t usually carry.”

  “I’ll find something to lug it in,” I said.

  “I’m actually grateful you’re taking the pistol,” Russ commented.

  “Why’s that?”

  “It’s a virgin gun, Chance. It needs to be broken in and christened. Bloody the thing, will you? Shoot me a righteous asshole with it. Give it some character.”

  “If I have another night like last night, that won’t be a problem.”

  “All bullshit aside, Chance; be cautious, huh? Take care of yourself. If you get killed, where am I going to hide out from my wife?”

  “I’m obliged, Russ. Thanks.”

  “Forget it.”

  “I need another favor,” I said.

  “Are we married?” Russ asked.

  “Can you give me a ride to the car rental agency in San Ramon? It’s on San Ramon Valley Boulevard, right next to the freeway. I’ll throw in breakfast at Nation’s.”

  “No sweat,” Russ said. “It’s on the way. I like afternoon breakfast.”

  Russ also b
rought me a new Texas fifth of Jim Beam. God bless him.

  I dressed, loaded the magazines for the Les Baer .45 with ammunition from my stash, and clipped on an old inside-the-belt rig I had for my Sig Sauer. The 1911A1 fit, but not snugly. I charged the .45, then removed the magazine and topped it off. I stuffed the remaining four magazines in my coat pockets. I also pocketed a spare knife and flashlight. My regular accoutrements had been taken from me by the Oakland police evidence technicians. Russ went out to start his car while I set the alarm and locked up. A minute later we were on the road.

  I live in rural Alameda County only a few miles from the Contra Costa County line, which also serves as the San Ramon city limit. Russ drove us to a strip mall a block south of Crow Canyon Road which is home to a car rental agency and a Nation’s hamburger restaurant.

  I didn’t know when I would have the time to purchase a new vehicle, and needed some wheels. Russ waited patiently while I filled out the paperwork to rent a gray Ford Mustang. Then we walked next door and I treated him to a Nation’s breakfast for a late lunch. Nation’s hamburgers are excellent, but nothing beats their omelets any time of the day.

  After we’d eaten, I shook Russ’s hand, thanked him again, and we went our separate ways. The next thing I did was drive my new rental over the Highway 680 overpass to a supermarket and bought a prepaid cellular phone. I also bought a month’s worth of minutes and paid for both in cash. I despise cellular phones and the electronic ball-and-chain they represent. Prepaid phones are untraceable to their users, so if I have to be tethered it’s somewhat palatable.

  My investigation into Marisol Hernandez’s death had become personal after the attempt on my life last night. I was going to have to stay connected to San Leandro School Resource Officer Dave Boyer if I was going to have any chance of finding Belicia and nail the bastard who’d orchestrated the hit on me. To do those things I needed resources only cops have.

  I sat in the parking lot of the supermarket where I’d purchased the phone and left voicemail messages for Greg Vole and Dave Boyer, informing them of my new, temporary, cellular phone number. Then I dialed Lothar the Merciless.