by Mark Dawson
Hicks had rolled atop the second man, pummelling him with rights and lefts until he stopped struggling.
Milton saw the garish pistol. He scooped it up and pressed it against the back of de Lacey's head.
"End of the road, Fitz.”
"Milton!" Josie called out.
"Don't," de Lacey said. "It's over. You got me."
Milton gritted his teeth. He pressed down, his finger sliding through the trigger guard. He could end it here. All of de Lacey's money and influence and power could cause trouble later, just like they had before, but they were impotent now.
It was just the two of them and the Browning.
Milton felt the familiar old feelings surging back again, the power he had once revelled in, the ability to snuff out life at a whim, all of it amplified this time by the unquestionable certainty that this was the right thing to do.
"Milton! I'll shoot!"
Milton’s moment of disinhibition would pass, and, if Milton let it, he knew that there was a chance that de Lacey would be able to rescue himself.
If he gave him the chance.
"John."
It was Hicks.
"She means it. You have to trust her now."
Milton looked up. Josie was edging around toward him. Her gun was on the third man, and Milton could see that he had noticed her distraction. The longer she had her attention split between the two of them, the more likely it would be that he would take his chances. They had the advantage now. It was theirs to lose. It was time to cash in his chips.
Milton reached to the side and handed the gun to Hicks.
He stood and turned to Josie. "He's all yours."
He thought that he heard the sound of laughter.
He turned back. De Lacey was on his elbows, looking up at him. His face was a mess from where Milton had struck him: he grimaced through a mask of blood and mucus and spit. But there was the barest hint of a smirk on his face.
"What was that?" Milton said. “You think this is funny?”
" Do as you're told, John, like a good boy. You should've shot me. You won't get another chance."
De Lacey's head was at the same height as Milton's shin. That was convenient. Milton drew back his foot and booted him in the jaw.
"He's all yours," he said to Josie again as he crossed the clearing to secure the man she was covering.
86
JOSIE SAT across the table from de Lacey. The digital recorder was between them, and the camera in the corner of the room focused its little black eye down upon them. She had arranged for a trolley with a TV and PC to be wheeled into the interrogation room, too.
The interview had not gone very well. She had taken de Lacey back through the events of the previous day and then asked him a series of questions. He had refused to answer any of them, responding with a mixture of nonchalance and ease that she quickly found infuriating. She concentrated on maintaining her professionalism.
"Milton was sitting where you were last week," she said. "He was there and I was here. And now look."
"Lawyer," de Lacey said.
"You know you're going to be charged with attempted homicide, don't you?"
"Lawyer."
"Your friend shot my colleague. A police officer. He's in intensive care. They don't know whether he'll make it. Fifty-fifty, they said. If he doesn't, you're looking at murder."
"Lawyer."
"Are you sure, Mr. de Lacey?"
"I am."
"It won't matter," she said. "There are three witnesses to what you did. There's nothing a lawyer will be able to say that will make any difference."
"Milton's going to testify against me? Really? I doubt it."
"He doesn't have to. Let me show you something."
She went over to the PC and woke the screen. It was the native video player, and she set it to play.
The frame filled with the video that they had shot from inside the wrecked trailer. Dalisay had brought the old camcorder that Josie remembered him using at the tenth birthday party of his daughter a month or two ago. It was a small palm-held unit, and they had been able to install it in the back of the burned-out space so that it could record through the broken window without being too obvious from the outside. She scrubbed through the footage until she saw the Mercedes making its way down the slope to the clearing. She pressed the play button so that it ran at normal speed, presenting a nice clear shot of the men who got out of the car and the weapons that they were carrying. Hicks and de Lacey were clear, too, and, as she let the footage run, they watched as the other trailer was shot to pieces, as Hicks was ordered to the ground, and as de Lacey came forward to press the barrel of his pistol against Hicks’s head.
Josie saw de Lacey's reflection in the screen: he looked almost bored.
She stopped the playback before Dalisay was shot. She had watched it once to make sure that it had been recorded, and she had no interest in watching it again.
The picture froze with de Lacey snarling down at Hicks, the gun at his head.
"You see?" Josie said. "I don't need Milton. I don't need anyone. I've got all I need."
"Lawyer."
She clenched her fists and fought the urge to bang them against the table. "You're going back to Bilibid, Mr. de Lacey. And you won't be getting out this time."
He smiled at her. "Lawyer."
"Fine. You had your chance. We're done."
She reached over and switched off the recorder.
"It's going to give me a lot of pleasure to put you away," she said.
She stood and went to the door.
"Officer," he said.
Josie stopped and turned back.
De Lacey was staring at her. "Do you really think your government is going to want to put me on trial? Be honest—do you really think that's likely?"
"I think they'll relish it after what you’ve done."
"Then you're even more naïve and out of your depth than I thought."
"Am I?"
"You know how long I've been in business? Years. Even when I was locked up, I still had people working for me. Nothing stops. The wheels keep turning. There are always deals to be done. People always want the goods I can find for them."
"Do you want me to remind you? You shot a police officer."
De Lacey ignored her. "I've worked for all kinds of people. I've worked for individuals. I've worked for companies and organisations. And I've worked for governments. Another question?"
"Shoot."
"How do you think I got out of Bilibid?"
"I don't care."
"You should. There is a deal to be done between two governments. It needs me before it can be completed. Pressure was exerted. A phone call was made and favours were offered. The deal still needs to be completed and I’m still needed. All you’ve done is slowed things down by a day or two. How long do you think you'll be able to keep me here before you're told to let me go?"
"That's not going to happen."
"We'll have to agree to disagree, then, won't we?"
"I suppose we will."
He looked up at the clock on the wall. "I'll give you my prediction. I'll be out of here by the end of the day."
"Good luck with that."
"I mean it. I'll be out of here before you finish your shift and go back to your mother and your child. How are they? It's Angelo, isn't it? Your boy?"
Josie fought against the sudden pulse of rage. She had to bite down on her lip so hard that her tooth sliced into the flesh and she tasted blood. He was threatening her. He was threatening her son. She felt almost light-headed: a mixture of fury, fear and outrage that he had so little regard for her that he was prepared to make threats despite the certain knowledge that the camera overhead was recording everything that he said and did. He thought his money could buy him impunity.
She was afraid because she knew, deep down, that it was true. He was confident for good reason.
He smiled at her and leaned back in his chair. "Now," he said. "I'd like to spe
ak to my lawyer, please."
JOSIE ARRANGED for de Lacey to make a phone call and, before the hour was out, she heard the clamour as two men and a woman were shown through the station and down into the basement where the holding cells were found.
Josie went to the door to the stairs. Gloria joined her from the lobby.
"Lawyers?" Josie asked.
"Wearing suits that cost more than I make in a month."
"OFFICER HERNANDEZ?"
It was Station Commander Ocampo. He was responsible for the Sampaloc district and was an ornery, irascible veteran of thirty years. Josie had never spoken to him before, and he had only ever made fleeting visits to the station.
She had been writing up the events of that afternoon. She stood, grimacing at the throb of pain from her leg. "Yes, sir?"
"Were you responsible for arresting the man in the basement? Mr. de Lacey?"
"Yes, sir. I was."
"You've got to let him go."
"What?"
"You heard me. Let him out."
"One of his men shot Manuel Dalisay. I've got it all on tape."
"Let him out, officer. That's an order. And, if I were you, I'd lose the tape."
"No," she said. "I won't."
The commander took her by the elbow and led her into the corridor where they were less likely to be overhead. "I'm serious, officer," he said sternly. "You think I want to do this? I know what he did. But this comes from the top."
"What does that mean?"
"It means the District Director called me twenty minutes ago and told me that he's been leaned on by someone senior in the Justice Department. Very senior. Do you want me to spell it out for you?"
He paused.
"It’s Josie, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Think, Josie. This is being discussed way above us. Someone very important wants de Lacey to be out. We can’t just put him back inside again, despite what he’s done. If even half the things that I’ve heard about de Lacey are true, if he’s connected to even a fraction of the people he claims, can you imagine for one second what would happen next? That the president won’t get a phone call from Langley telling him that he has to make the problem go away? Or Beijing? Or Moscow?" He shrugged. "I’m not blaming you. You didn't know where the case was going to go. You did a good job. But when it turns out this way, sometimes you just need to be pragmatic. This is one of those times."
"No," she said. "That's bullshit. He shot Manuel. He might die. And we know he's already directly responsible for at least four deaths."
"What? The girl?"
"The owners of the bar and the hotel, too. At least. He threatened me and my son."
"How is any of that going to count when you set it against the trouble that this could unleash?"
"He killed someone. That counts. He can’t be above the law. I'm sorry, sir, I can't close my eyes."
"It doesn't matter what you can or can't do," he said. "You will process him and then let him out. That is a direct order."
"If I let that go, I—"
"This is the big leagues, Josie. You don't count for shit. I’ve been here for thirty years. I don't count for shit. Decisions get made at pay grades way above us and, if we want to stay employed, we do exactly what we're told to do. That's the way this works. If you can't deal with that, you might as well just hand in your badge and go back to whatever it was you were doing before."
Josie took a breath. There was no point in arguing. "Fine," she said. "I understand, sir."
"There's one other thing. I need you to take him to the marina. You are to see that he gets onto his yacht tonight. That's from me. He's not welcome in the Philippines any longer. You are to stay there and watch until he sets sail."
"Yes, sir."
"You've done good work. It'll stand in your favour when the time comes."
"Thank you, sir," she said.
He nodded down at her leg. "And go home, please. You shouldn't even be here."
He went back to the front of the station.
Josie limped to the bathroom. She took out her phone and stared at the blank screen.
She was shaking with anger.
Let him go?
How could she do that?
De Lacey had to pay for the things that he had done.
She thought of Manuel in the hospital. There was a good chance that he would die. She thought of his wife and child. She wasn't sure how she would be able to reconcile herself with that. She thought of the owner of the bar. Dead. The husband and wife who had been shot in their office and then burned. Dead. She thought of Mendoza's corruption. She thought of what Milton had been put through.
De Lacey cloaked himself in death. It followed him everywhere.
She thought of her mother and her son.
She knew that they wouldn't be safe.
No.
She woke the phone and dialled.
87
JOSIE STRAPPED on her weapon, grabbed her cane, and hobbled through the office to the stairs that led down to the basement. She paused for a moment at the top to gather her composure and, her nerves settled, she started down.
De Lacey was lying on the bench at the side of the cell. There were only four other detainees, and they had arranged themselves so that they each had space to stretch out. De Lacey looked reasonably comfortable; he was flat out on the bench, his legs straight and his arms folded across his chest.
She went to the clipboard where the paperwork was kept, took it down and signed that she was taking custody of prisoner 1535, de Lacey, Fitzroy.
De Lacey saw her and swung his legs around so that they were on the floor. "Ah, Officer Hernandez. Nice to see you again."
"Get up," she said.
"I told you," he grinned. "I'd be out before you finished your shift."
"You did," she said. "Turn around. Hands through the slot."
"What for?"
"I'm going to cuff you."
"No, you're going to release me. Why do I need to be cuffed?"
"My station commander has ordered me to transport you to the marina and put you on your yacht. He wants to make sure that you leave the country."
"I can get my own driver to collect me. This isn't necessary—"
"Turn around and put your hands through the slot, please, sir. The sooner you do that, the sooner I can put you on your yacht and watch you fuck off over the horizon."
"Where are my lawyers?"
"We told them that you're being released," she said. "They’ll meet you at the yacht."
He looked as if he was going to protest before he shrugged his shoulders, turned and put his hands through the slot. "Fine," he said. "Get on with it."
She took her cuffs and slapped them on.
"Careful," de Lacey said with a grimace of pain. "You caught my skin."
"Sorry about that.”
She called for the door to be unlocked and, when it was, she led him out.
SHE COULD have taken de Lacey in the back of a squad car, but that didn’t suit her. One of the station meat wagons was being hosed out after, she guessed, it had transported an addict into custody. The trucks grew hot and the druggies often threw up in the back. The smell always seemed to linger no matter how many times they were washed out. The thought of de Lacey baking in the back of the truck with the acrid tang of someone else's vomit in his nostrils gave her a small measure of pleasure. It was something.
An officer that Josie knew was playing solitaire in the office. His name was Carlos. The rumour was that he was part of Mendoza's crew, and he was certainly someone with whom she would not normally have chosen to speak. But he was here, she needed a driver and, she thought, he was well suited.
"Give me a ride?" she called out.
"I'm off duty," he said.
"Just to the marina. It'll take twenty minutes. Station commander wants it done."
"So take a squad car."
"He shot Dalisay," Josie explained.
That got through to him.
“This is him?”
She nodded. "I want him to get a ride in the truck."
He tossed his cards down on the table and got up.
Josie led de Lacey around to the back and waited for Carlos to grab his keys and unlock the door.
"Get in," she said.
"It stinks," de Lacey complained.
"You want me to put you back in the cell again? Your choice, sir. You either get in and I get you on your way, or you can go back and wait for someone else to take you. What's it going to be?"
Carlos was a meathead, and Josie had plenty of reasons to doubt his morals, but she knew how he would react to attitude from a man who had shot a fellow officer, no matter how important he was reputed to be. He didn't give de Lacey a chance to answer. Instead, he grabbed him by the lapels, marched him up to the back of the truck and then bundled him inside. De Lacey's shins clashed against the lip of the entrance and he cursed in pain; Carlos slammed the interior door and then the exterior one before he could complain.
"Let's get him out of here," he said.
IT WAS a journey of around five miles from Police Station 4 to the marina. There were two ways that Carlos could have chosen: the fastest would have been to take the Skyway to Abenida Epifanio de los Santos, continue west to the Globe Rotunda and then go south on the J.W. Diokno Boulevard. The alternative was more direct but along slower roads: east on Edison Avenue, then Buenida Avenue and finally south on the Boulevard. Carlos paused at the top of the station ramp and indicated that he was going to turn right, toward the Skyway.
"Go the other way," Josie said.
"Why? It's slower."