by Jo Robertson
Cole looked sadly at Frankie, and then gazed thoughtfully toward the ceiling. “There’s drugs, of course, street drugs. They do a good business in northern Cal, took the biggest share from the non-white gangs. The Professor runs it all from Pelican Bay.”
“What else?” Cruz asked.
“Well, there’s prostitution, money-lending, guns and ‘jackings – stripped cars and parts – stuff easy to move.”
“You hear about anything unusual – activities other gangs aren’t into?” Cruz asked.
“Something you didn’t tell the authorities when you debriefed?” Frankie encouraged.
Cole squirmed in his chair. “Hmm, I dunno. I mighta – uh, overheard – some talk, uh – about stuff that’s not – uh, usual.”
Frankie and Cruz exchanged a glance, intrigued by Cole’s sudden bout of stuttering. “What?” both said in unison.
Cole downed the rest of his coffee, shoved his plate and cup aside, and folded his hands on the table top. “I dunno if it means anything, but I heard some chatter ‘fore I went into the SHU, right before that dust up in the yard.”
“What kind of chatter?” Cruz asked.
“Jest bullshitting, you know how the guys do.” Cole looked at Frankie.
“What was the BS about, Cole? How was it different from the usual talk?” Frankie asked.
Cole scratched his head, pulled on his ear lobe, and frowned, as if thinking was a complex trigonometry problem he couldn’t quite get his mind around. “Jest, like dealing in illegals, you know?”
“Drugs?” asked Cruz.
“Nah, not the usual stuff. Things I never heard of before. Like – okay, this is stupid – but it was about, like, music – a piano or keyboard, somethin’ like that – music.” He looked hopefully at them with sad, worried eyes. “They talkin’ about pirated DVD’s or CD’s, you think?”
“Music?” Frankie echoed, frustration warming her cheeks. She breathed deeply and tried to calm herself. “Cole, think about this. Do you mean musical instruments?”
She glanced at Cruz, who closed his eyes and rubbed his temples in frustration. She noticed, irrelevantly, and with some disappointment, that he’d shaved off his five-o’clock shadow.
“Get serious, Cole,” Cruz said patiently. “They wouldn’t deal in pirated material – music or movies. There’s not enough profit. Could ‘music’ be a code for something – like weapons? Are they gun trafficking?”
“Sure, they are.” Cole looked surprised that he’d even ask. “Everyone deals in guns. I told you.”
“Do you think it’s something more than guns?” Cruz asked, even as Cole bobbed his head, a vague expression on his face.
Music? What did it mean? And how was it connected to Frankie?
Patch Wilson finished up the autopsy on Dickey Hinchey around 10 p.m. Howard Casey had gotten off work at five, and the morgue was eerily silent. The body was stitched up and a white sheet drawn up to his neck.
This autopsy had occurred when Patch was in the Bahamas, and was performed by a local physician called in as a substitute coroner. Dr. Mason Foster was a general practitioner, older than God. Patch knew he often rubber-stamped the conclusions of the police department.
Patch shook his head and vowed never to vacation again.
The Rosedale Police Department had ruled death by multiple knife wounds. While this was a fact, in spite of the blows to the head and body, the puzzle of how and why Dickey Hinchey had died was a much more complicated conundrum than that. One that Patch enjoyed trying to solve through forensics.
The first murder, which was actually the second autopsy he’d completed, appeared to be similar to the first autopsied body – that of the seventeen-year-old young woman. But there was a very important difference.
Patch rolled the body into the autopsy drawer and reached for his cell phone. He hesitated, considered the late hour, unsure if any of his findings were significant.
He punched the numbers to Slater’s phone anyway.
Chapter 39
In the garage Frankie made a bed on a camping cot covered with a sleeping bag and blankets. Cole washed up in the bathroom off the laundry room and seemed glad to rest and be by himself.
“I don’t like leaving you alone with him,” Cruz said as he shut the garage door behind him and followed Frankie into the kitchen. “He’s an ex-con and unpredictable.”
“He’s harmless.” She smiled. “I’ve established a relationship with Cole, and I trust him. I’ll be okay.”
Cruz took the coffee cup she handed him as they entered the kitchen, stared intently at her. “You’re too soft. That’s going to put you in serious danger one day.” He reached up to wrap a loose curl around her ear. Inappropriate, he knew, and stepped back awkwardly.
She pretended not to notice. “Maybe, but it’s better than being cynical and untrusting.”
Was that a poke at him?
Not ready to go yet, he said, “Before I leave, let’s take another look at the note.”
Frankie pulled a sheet of paper from a bookcase and laid it on the kitchen table. The original note lay between them like an inexplicable omen of foreboding. Carefully, she copied the letters and numbers one by one, this time writing them vertically instead of the way they were initially written – horizontally.
1BTO+O-HKDD11-15RP10P
Cruz laughed. “It’s worse that way.”
“Maybe not,” Frankie began. “It’s clear the first symbol is a one – ”
“Or the lower case letter ‘l.’”
She smacked him playfully on the arm. “Then the ‘O’ could be a zero or the capital letter ‘O.’ If it’s an ‘O’ what could it stand for?”
“No weapon I know starts with the letter O,” Cruz said.
Frankie felt giggly and silly, punchy from the two long days of worry. “Didn’t Cole mention something about music? Musical instruments – two oboes, two ocarinas, two octavins – ?”
“You’re just making things up now.” Cruz smiled and steadied himself in the laughter in her eyes. It felt good. He found himself lingering over the coffee long after any discussion had yielded any new ideas about the code.
As he left through the front door, he hesitated, turned back, his hand on the knob. Her safety loomed over both of them, a dark cloud of threat. He reached up to graze her cheek with his fingertips. “Don’t take any chances.”
She nodded and shut the door behind him. He heard the safety locks and chain click in place.
Frankie leaned against the door after Cruz had left. She smiled faintly, then sobered. This was no time to develop a crush on a hunky parole officer, she reminded herself.
She hummed all the way upstairs to her bedroom.
After leaving Frankie and Cole, Cruz decided, even at this ungodly late hour, to call the Bigler County coroner directly. Patch Wilson was not happy to be disturbed after his long night of autopsies, and he certainly wasn’t going to release information to someone he didn’t know.
“You finish the Hightower autopsy yet?” Cruz asked after identifying himself.
A grumpy Wilson rankled at the parole officer addressing the young victim so casually. “Her name is Valerie, officer. Valerie Hightower.”
Cruz had the grace to remain silent a moment. “Sorry,” he apologized. “Can you tell me anything about Valerie or Dickey Hinchey?” Dickey was Cruz’s responsibility. He needed to be sure the autopsy was straight forward.
“You were his parole officer?”
“Yes,” Cruz said defensively, “and I’d sure like to know how he died.”
“I finished attending to Mr. Hinchey’s body late – later than now,” he added pointedly. “Sheriff Slater has the results.” Wilson relaxed his formal manner for a moment before continuing. “I’m very sorry about your friend, Officer Cruz. The internal examination confirmed what Dr. Mason Foster suspected. Multiple knife wounds and blunt force trauma – cause of death.”
“Nothing unusual?”
“Not unless you cons
ider violent murder unusual,” Patch answered before disconnecting.
In for a penny, in for a pound, Cruz thought, and contacted the second angry man in one night. Sitting on the edge of his bed, removing his boots, he waited for the sound of the Sheriff’s gravelly voice.
He started in without preamble. “What’d you find in Sac County?”
Slater growled out a loud harrumph. “Lazy, half-assed coroner!”
“I take it you mean the Sac County medical examiner.”
“Shit, yes. No examination of internal organs. Just a slipshod outer exam,” Slater explained. “Clarence is putting pressure on the M.E.’s office. We should get something by tomorrow.”
“I called Dr. Wilson tonight.” Cruz hesitated. “He wasn’t pleased.”
Slater snorted. “Yeah, I imagine. Breakfast at 8:00 at Denny’s. I’ll bring you up to speed. Nothing that can’t wait – ” A pause while he checked the clock. “Five fucking hours. Hell, Chago, you’re a pain in the ass.”
He clicked off, his low grumbles broadcasting until the connection was severed. Cruz knew by Slater’s use of his nickname that he wasn’t really all that angry.
Angie Hunt had settled down her “boys” for the night. This evening the Methodist Church on Douglass Avenue was feeding and housing the homeless men and women. They always liked M.C. night because the wealthy parishioners fed them generously, often with steak and the kinds of food many of them only smelled walking past a fancy restaurant.
Angie smiled as she locked up the Jesus Saves office, leaving the soft interior lights burning. It’d been a bad few weeks, but she hummed softly as she walked to her car parked on Grape Street, where a row of older homes was a remnant of the once-thriving area when the Pacific Fruit Express transported thousands of pounds of produce around the country.
Angie didn’t hear the killer step from the shadow of an old oak tree. Didn’t hear his muffled attempt to stifle his arousal of anticipation. She staggered under the hard blow to her temple, felt a fierce pain and rough maneuvering as he pushed her into the passenger seat.
She didn’t hear the faint jingle of her car keys as he removed them from her lax fingers. By the time he drove away in her car, she welcomed the empty, sweet relief of unconsciousness.
Most of all, she didn’t register the angry, brooding face behind the wheel of her own car.
Chapter 40
The Professor sat straight-backed on his cell floor in the SHU, legs crossed and hands loosely held on his knees in the Sukhasana yoga position. He concentrated on breathing, slowed down his heart rate, and tried to empty his mind.
But he couldn’t relax, try as he might. His thoughts drifted from calm to agitation, composure to irritation, as he considered the current situation.
His second-in-command, Eugene Griff, known by his so-called associates as “Bones,” had reported back to him. Bones served Anson Stark’s purpose – for the moment. Anson hadn’t liked the necessity of covering for him in the prison yard murder, but he’d done what had to be done for the safety and health of the organization.
A second misstep from Griff would be another matter. Anson would replace him without a thought if he screwed up again.
Griff was a giant hulk of a beast, a white supremacist through and through, born and bred in the hollers of Kentucky. The other Lords respected him, followed him, and paid allegiance to him. That’s why he was useful to Anson. Although Griff wasn’t the most clever of men, he had a cunning wiliness that embraced the basics of leadership organization.
And he was completely loyal to the Professor, another point in his favor.
Anson moved into another position – Bhujangasana, cobra pose. Simple movements, but his brain wasn’t concentrating anyway. Griff’s recent communication had alerted Anson to the rather lovely, but meddling, Dr. Jones. He’d thought he’d taken care of that problem, but hadn’t anticipated how tenacious the troublesome doctor would be.
He wondered about her fierce stubbornness. What fueled such a beautiful woman to enter such a competitive field as medicine, and then choose, of all things, a prison facility in which to work? And what caused her to continue snooping after both subtle and overt threats?
When he visited her in the clinic, he was mildly shocked at her familiarity. Had he seen her before? Somewhere else? She reminded him so much of ... some illusive someone. But who?
He loosened his yoga concentration, just for a slivered moment while he pulled himself back to the present. Although he didn’t like indiscriminate killing, he would do what he must with regard to the good doctor.
He shifted into downward facing dog – Adho Mukha Savanasana – his least favorite pose. It reminded him rather too much of his late wife.
He pondered the recent changes he’d initiated. The “blood price” had been a brilliant idea from the start. Griff had been the first inmate to pay the membership requirement. The rest of the inner circle followed like lambs.
How better to commit oneself to a cause, to the LOD’s, than donating a body part? Though crude, the nurse in the SHU clinic was a far more skilled surgeon than Anson could have hoped to find. The death rate had been negligible and the disposal of the merchandise smooth, thanks to the guards on LOD’s payroll.
Satisfaction all around, and why not? Everyone likes money and no one was seriously harmed. Not really.
That was how the idea of expanding his business had been born.
Once he’d latched onto the idea with the “blood price,” the rest had been simple communication among his members, both inside and outside Pelican Bay.
Although his face showed nothing, the Professor’s thoughts darkened and a slow-raging storm began to build inside him. All was well except for the meddlers.
Like the prodding, resolutely inquisitive Dr. Frankie Jones.
He struggled to breathe deeply, calm the thundering within. He finally succeeded. Standing up from his yoga pose, he stared at the nothingness of the concrete wall through the grated barrier to his cell. His face was impassive, his mind clever and ruthless. He had made his decision.
Clearly Dr. Jones was a problem that had to be eliminated. Too bad. She was a lovely woman. He shrugged mentally. Even beautiful women had to be sacrificed.
Still, he wished he knew who she reminded him of.
Before she had a chance to resist, the stupid bitch went down with a single fist punch hard to the temple. Her eyes rolled back in her head as he pushed her into the car.
He planned to have a little fun before he squeezed the life out of her, but the sight of her bony body through the shirt and jeans stirred nothing in him. He just wanted to get on with it, get rid of her, so he pulled off the road and threw her limp body in the trunk of the car.
Edgy and anxious, he wondered if taking someone so familiar to the community had been a stupid move. All the street people and meth heads knew her – the great, reformed Angie Hunt, who was a savior in their eyes.
Through the window he’d watched her cleaning up the lobby of Jesus Saves, and he lurked beside his car until she came out. She’d thrown a careless glance his way, gave a quizzical look, but otherwise barely acknowledged him as she walked down the street to her car. She’d be sorry for the disrespect.
She hardly knew him, but Angie didn’t like him. She made that clear whenever their paths crossed. He didn’t think much of her, either.
Her bleeding heart liberal attitude riled him, and their mutual animosity made her a perfect target. He shifted impatiently in his car seat, watching her with grim satisfaction as he slipped out of the car and quietly tailed her.
She had no idea how afraid of him she should be.
Waiting for the fury to rise up in him, he tried to conjure his father’s words about people like Angie Hunt who helped others game the system. Every time he looked at the state and federal tax bite taken out of his paycheck, he cursed people like her. They were ruining the country.
He hated the smell and the look and the sounds of the pathetic beings that ma
de up the homeless masses. His father’s words rang in his ear again, “Don’t give them anything. They probably go home in a car nicer than mine and live in a house swankier than ours.”
Professional beggars – that’s what they were. They wouldn’t work as long as the government paid them so well not to.
Chapter 41
“The Professor says take care of both of them,” Bones Griff whispered in Earl Perkins’ ear as they sat side by side on the metal bench in the prison yard at Pelican Bay.
Perkins was being paroled in less than twenty-four hours. Not so much paroled as released, since they couldn’t make the charges against him stick. On appeal, the defense discovered the prosecution had withheld evidence during discovery. The judge had no choice but to overturn the conviction.
Perkins was the luckiest son-of-a-bitch in the world. No doubt he was guilty of the crime, a contract killing ordered by Anson Stark. Sometimes Griff thought the loopholes of the law were a glorious thing. And an inmate’s best friend.
“I don’t wanna get jammed up the minute I get out,” Perkins fretted. He was only doing a dime on voluntary manslaughter anyway, because they couldn’t prove the murder for hire.
He was the best man with a knife Griff knew.
“The Professor ain’t asking, dude,” Griff returned, thinking the man was a dumb son of a bitch if he thought he could cross Stark and get away with it.
“Shit, Bones, you know how it is. I gotta stay clean for a – ” He interrupted himself when Bones reached out and lifted his shirt, pulled at his prison trousers, exposing the jagged scar on the right side.
Bones said nothing, just stared with that accusing look, the one that reminded you of your obligations. Bones would’ve made a good drill sergeant, Perkins thought.
Goddamn!
“A blood oath, a blood price,” Bones murmured, although the verbal reminder wasn’t necessary. Perkins was one of the lucky few who’d been selected to enter the inner circle of the gang. Not all the Lords were so fortunate.