Strange Bedfellows v5

by Paula L. Woods

  “Where?” I asked, tension making my voice shrill in my head. “Back to the office?”

  Taft was already in the shotgun seat, facing the back. “Too much traffic over there,” he said, which I took to mean Verdelle Shabazz. “I’ve got another idea.”

  Taft called out directions over his shoulder, his weapon trained on Muhammad through the front seat. Soon we’d left downtown and were in the Oakland Hills, at the edge of a heavily wooded park off Joaquin Miller Road that offered sunset views of downtown Oakland and the Bay beyond.

  Taft directed me up Sanborn and past a ranger station with an Oakland PD cruiser parked in front. “Why are we here?”

  “Keep driving.” I could just make out the glint of Taft’s teeth in the growing darkness. “It’s a nice night for a walk.”

  I tried to let the queasy feeling in my stomach nestle as comfortably as that marble in my pocket, but it was no use. “I’m not feeling this, Paul,” I warned, remembering to soften it by using his first name.

  He flashed me a nicer smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep you out of it.”

  He instructed me to pull into a deserted parking lot. A snuffling sound was coming from the backseat, along with the telltale smell of ammonia. “Wh-what the hell do you want with me?” Muhammad stammered.

  Taft got out of the car and hauled Muhammad from the floor. He sat him up in the backseat and slapped the back of his head. “What’d I tell you about your manners?”

  “Ow! What the—what you want with me, man?”

  “Paul, can I speak with you for a moment?” I asked.

  Taft frowned and compressed his lips. “About what?”

  I was already out of the car, digging the Altoids tin out of my handbag. “In private?”

  I locked Muhammad in the car and walked Taft over to a road that was blocked by a yellow metal gate. The fragrant crunch of pine needles under my feet did nothing to soothe my stomach, nor did the antacids or that little marble in my pocket.

  I stopped about a hundred feet from the car. “You want to fill me in on what we’re doing here?”

  Taft threw his head back, looking up at the dark canopy of redwoods. “I used to hike up here on the weekends. Park’s named after this wacky California writer, supposed to honor the poets and writers of the state.”

  I shook his arm roughly. “Paul, what in God’s name is going on here?”

  Taft’s glance shifted sideways, to some point in the distance. He leaned close and whispered, “Charlotte, I know these little pigs-are-the-devil pieces of shit,” as if someone else was listening. “He’s not going to give you anything if you play it by the book.”

  “If this is the way you get information from people, count me out, okay? And you Feds have the nerve to be on our case about civil rights violations!”

  “This has nothing to do with the Bureau.”

  “What?”

  “I’m just assisting the LAPD in a murder investigation.”

  “And trying to sabotage my case! What if Muhammad conspired to kill his brother and here you are, coercing a confession out of him without even Mirandizing him? This bullshit stunt you’re pulling will cause whatever information we get to be tossed out of court along with you, me, and what little is going to be left of my career!”

  “You don’t know these people like I do, Charlotte. If they don’t want to talk, they won’t.”

  “So, slapping Muhammad upside the head and threatening to kill him—”

  “I never threatened him!”

  “Well, you did something to make him pee in his pants like that! What do you think is going through his mind, you bringing him out to this remote location?”

  “Remember, you drove. Besides, what can I do with the Oakland PD right here?”

  I said a little prayer of thanks that they were, or who knows what might have happened. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but I’m out of it!”

  “You’ll never get ahead in law enforcement if you aren’t willing to push the envelope, get creative.”

  “Pushing the envelope is one thing. You’re about to blow the damn thing up!”

  “I’m just treating him as a hostile informant.”

  “You’re the one who’s hostile, Paul. Tell you what—from now on, stay away from Mr. Muhammad, and stay away from my case, you hear me?”

  “I thought you, above all people, would be open to being more creative than this.”

  “Just because I’m with the LAPD doesn’t mean—”

  “Get off it!” Taft shouted. “Don’t go trying to play Miss Butter-Wouldn’t-Melt-in-My-Mouth with me. Not with your pedigree and history!”

  A breeze whispered through the trees, making the hairs on my neck stand at attention. “What in the hell are you talking about? Have you gotten hold of my files?”

  Taft looked at me long and hard, as if doing so would make me confess to some secret I was harboring. When I didn’t, he said, “Look, I’m sorry.” Hands up, he backed away as if I’d drawn my weapon on him. “I’ve overstepped my bounds. I misjudged the situation and I misjudged you.”

  “You’re damn straight!”

  The smile Taft mustered wasn’t nearly so warm this time. “So how do you want to handle this?”

  How indeed? How on earth I could deal with the nutcase standing in front of me, recover the situation with Muhammad, and still keep my job? I had the odd sensation of my mind floating away from my body, almost like I was watching myself from above. And from that vantage point I could see Muhammad, Taft, and me in a virtual standoff that could result in someone getting dead. And I was damned sure it wasn’t going to be me.

  Then something Taft did gave me an idea. “I need to think for a minute,” I said as I turned and walked back to the car.

  “I don’t know if we can salvage this.” Taft was muttering to himself, his words tumbling over each other as he laid out options, but he kept coming back to one sticking point: “It’s unfortunate I had to ID myself. Wouldn’t’ve had to if you hadn’t called me by name, first and last. There’s no getting around that.”

  The way he said it let me know my instincts weren’t wrong, that I was going to have to do something to bring this to an end before Taft did something to Muhammad and maybe me, too. I put my hand on his arm. “Give me the key to the cuffs, Paul.”

  “What for?”

  “I want to have a little chat with Mr. Muhammad alone.”

  “You think that’s a good idea?”

  “Why not? When in doubt, I always fall back on the tried and true methods. I know I can get some useful information out of him without it coming back on you or me. But we can’t treat him like a criminal.”

  Taft looked at me warily before handing over the key. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”

  “Don’t underestimate a woman’s touch,” I said, giving his arm a squeeze. “And when I’m done, I’m going to call my sister and cancel that dinner. We’re gonna need that drink.”

  Turning my back on him, I walked swiftly back to the car, putting a good ten feet between us. “It’ll be fine. I’m going to give you my weapon in case he gets rambunctious, and I’ll talk to him over by that picnic table. You cover us, okay?”

  “And if it doesn’t go well,” he called out, “I’ll shoot him and say he tried to escape.”

  Nodding my head, I pulled my weapon from its holster, but instead of handing it over I turned and pointed it at Taft, who froze. “What the fuck are you doing, Charlotte? Trying to hold me up?”

  His voice had gotten louder, as if he were talking to an assailant. I glanced toward the cruiser and the ranger’s station, looking for signs that someone had heard him, but saw no one.

  “You wanted creative, Taft, you’ve got it. Toss your weapon on the ground. Don’t argue, and don’t try yelling to tip off the Oakland PD. Just do it!”

  “Wha—?”

  “Do it. Now!”

  “Okay, okay!” He tossed his weapon in the dirt.

  �
�Now, move back about ten yards,” I ordered, advancing until I could grab his weapon and tuck it into my waistband.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked, moving a step closer.

  I backed him up with my weapon. “I don’t want you anywhere near me or Mr. Muhammad.”

  “Stop and think about what you’re doing, Charlotte,” he reasoned, no hint of flirtatiousness in his voice. “You’ve drawn a weapon on a Federal agent.”

  “Bullshit! If you try selling that one to the FBI or LAPD, I’m sure Mr. Muhammad and I can convince them otherwise.”

  “That hump’s not worth blowing your career over.”

  “Neither are you.” The way I aimed at him convinced him of the strength of my convictions.

  Taft took in and exhaled a breath. “Now what?”

  “I’m going into that ranger station with Mr. Muhammad. And you can just drive back to the Golden Gate field office, or to L.A., or to hell, far as I’m concerned.”

  He shook his head sadly. “I had such hopes for you, Charlotte. I must say you’ve disappointed me.”

  I held my weapon steady, reminded myself to breathe. “Think how I feel.”

  “Talk to your people, honey,” he whispered. “You don’t want to fuck with me. I can be your best friend or worst enemy.”

  I forced a smile. “The feeling is mutual, Agent Taft. Now get the hell out of here before I put a cap in your ass.”

  13

  Taft’s Tip

  Joel Garza, the Oakland police sergeant in charge of the ranger station, was surprised by my request to use their office but took it in stride, especially after he saw the handcuffed Muhammad sitting in the middle of the parking lot and Taft’s Crown Vic receding down the road, trailing an angry cloud of dust. After listening to what went down and checking my ID, he asked: “Did the agent say why he wanted to interview your guy up here?”

  “I think he wanted somewhere secluded.”

  Garza exchanged a puzzled look with one of his officers, a beefy-armed white guy with the name RAMSTACK stenciled on his green uniform. “Park’s closed from dusk to dawn,” Ramstack said, “so there’s not much vehicular or pedestrian traffic up here right now.”

  “Overall,” Garza added, “it’s pretty self-containing. Trail bikers getting into altercations with the joggers, that’s about it. Nobody wants to be down in the flats. It’s a three-ring circus—murder, drug dealing, prostitution.”

  And one crazy FBI agent. “Well, whatever Taft’s reasons,” I replied, “I’m not letting this situation go sideways on my watch.”

  Garza still looked suspicious. “I’d better call this in to my C.O., let him know what’s up.”

  “Call Sergeant Word, if you want a character reference on me,” I added quickly. “Richard Word. He and I were on a panel at the National Black Police convention a couple of years ago.”

  “I’ll do that,” Garza replied, making a note. “Anything else you need from us?”

  “A phone.”

  Garza went to his car to radio in the report, and Ramstack kept an eye on Muhammad while I stepped into another room to notify Thor and Stobaugh of what had happened. Stobaugh had already left for the day, but Thor was still in the office with Detective Perkins, sorting through their notes from the interview they and Wunderlich had conducted with Shuttleworth and Bezney’s audit manager.

  “Before you start,” I said, “I need to fill you in on what’s going on up here.”

  “From the sound of your voice, I don’t think I’m going to like it.”

  “You won’t.” I explained my misadventures with Special Agent Taft and Rashaan Muhammad, and where Malik’s half brother and I were now. “Took you to some park in the hills and left you? What the hell kind of game is that asshole playing?”

  “You tell me. Taft made some vague threats about how I should talk to my people and how I don’t want to fuck with him, so I was thinking maybe I should ask you was there a reason you were so gung-ho about that tip he gave us.”

  “Not gung-ho, interested. You know as well as I do that the Black Muslims have a checkered history in this country. Do I have to remind you of the Malcolm X shooting?”

  “Come on, Thor, that was damn near thirty years ago, and some people think the FBI set Malcolm up!”

  “What about the hate Farrakhan and his henchmen have been spewing lately? Some of the things Wunderlich has been telling me would curl your hair!”

  “If the FBI is so tough on their case, do you really think the Nation of Islam would risk killing Shareef for doing business with a white man? Don’t fall for this mind game these Feds are playing with us!”

  “Don’t get me wrong. Regardless of what’s going on within the so-called Nation, there’s no way anyone in the department would go along with the kind of cowboy stunt Taft pulled up there!”

  “Good, because something’s very wrong with that man. On top of what he did to Muhammad, he seemed to know some stuff about me that was disturbing.”

  “Like what?”

  “Personal information and professional, too.”

  There was a long pause on the line, then: “He mention Chinatown?”

  I felt as if I’d been stabbed in the gut by a hot blade. “How would Taft know about that?”

  I heard Thor tell Perkins to give him a moment. I heard a chair scrape, then: “I . . . uh . . . Big Mac and Stobaugh thought I needed to know about BSS, Charlotte. But it’s not gone any further than me, I swear! And, I assure you, nobody here would have said anything to an outsider.”

  Was that what Taft meant by my pedigree and history? Was there anyone I could trust?

  Go along to get along, my little voice reminded me.

  How on earth was I going to do that?

  Before the silence stretched on forever, I said: “Now that I think back on it, Taft never said anything specific.” I reached for the marble in my pocket and tried to slow my breathing. “Just a bunch of vague innuendos. He was probably fishing, trying to get over on me.”

  “Don’t let him,” Thor said, a note of dismissal in his voice. “The Feds are notorious for trying to trip people up. I’m more concerned about how we get straight with Mr. Muhammad.”

  As much as I hated to admit it, so was I.

  “Where is he now?” Thor asked.

  “Under the watchful eye of the Oakland PD. I’ll interview him, see what he can tell us about Eddie Aycox. Then I’m getting the hell out of here.”

  “I wouldn’t waste a lot of time with him. What we learned from Deinhart might be much more relevant.”

  “How so?”

  “Deinhart copped to a slew of accounting irregularities in effect at CZ Toys since he started on the audit three years ago.”

  “Like what?”

  “That retreat in Montecito Alma Zuccari mentioned to Lippincott—it’s really an eight-thousand-square-foot house the ex is living in. And that European jet you picked up on—eighty percent of the miles logged last year were for what the pilot’s log indicates was Gabriella’s personal use, not to mention hundreds of thousands in designer clothing bills she racked up that were expensed as research.”

  “How much are we talking here?”

  “About a million a year, which the auditors were told by management would be reimbursed before they issued their report, and it always was. But last year, they found consulting fees to an overseas company with no contract, no paperwork filed with the IRS. So now the figure is up to six million.”

  “From one to six million over the course of a year sounds serious. Did Deinhart discuss it with anyone at the company?”

  “Mario Zuccari, last February, who promised everything would be cleaned up before the auditors wrote their opinion letter. But when Zuccari’s staff didn’t produce the contract or issue the appropriate tax forms to the consultants, the audit partner at Shuttleworth and Bezney told Deinhart it wasn’t material and deleted the comment from the letter. Deinhart thinks it’s because they were afraid they’d lose the audit a
nd consulting fees they’ve been pulling out of the company if they pressed too hard.”

  “What kind of fees are we talking about?”

  “Three million a year,” Thor replied, “which Perkins and Wunderlich tell me is way out of line for audit and consulting services, given the company’s revenues.”

  “And if the auditors were getting that much, there’s probably more hanky-panky going on than Deinhart was able to confirm. Now I understand why he was flipping out on drugs. Did Renata Lippincott say anything about this when you talked to her yesterday?”

  “Nope, but remember how Mario was trying to convince his sister that Internal Auditing should look into the cash Engalla might have embezzled instead of some other matter the audit committee had asked about? Perkins is thinking this might have been what he was talking about.”

  “If Mario’s diverting funds, it figures he wouldn’t want the board to find out. Did Deinhart by any chance talk to Chuck Zuccari about this?”

  “He says no, but Perkins and I are wondering if Zuccari found out some other way.”

  “If he did and took it to the board before he was shot, it would explain why they named Gabriella interim president and CEO instead of her brother.”

  “But not why the board would want to keep this from us,” Thor countered. “This provides Mario with a motive.”

  “Think about it—if Mario shot his father, it means the company loses not only its CEO but its CFO as well. And if they were the brains behind the operations . . .”

  “The company would take a big hit in the stock market if they were both gone.” It all fit, but we had no evidence to tie Mario to the crime. “When are he and his sister due back from New York?”

  A phone started ringing in the background, and Thor called out to Perkins to pick it up. “I’ve got a call in to Mrs. McIntyre to find out. In the meantime, I’m getting started on a search warrant for Mario’s personal financial and business records. Maybe we’ll find some paperwork that ties to the overseas company or deposits in his accounts that correspond to payments CZ Toys made.”