A Fine Balance Page 13

  Jack nodded. He wasn’t a good Samaritan for the whole world. He just kept watch on his own home turf. “Thanks, Harvey. That was fucking fabulous. Almost as good as sex. Give your friend, Leon, a big wet kiss from me. Tell him I owe him one.” He picked up his beer, leaned back in his chair and felt the content that came with a real run of luck. “Could you e-mail me that video? I’ll show it to Morrie. What time is it? Am I keeping you from anything?” He poured half the beer down his throat.

  “Hell no.” Harvey smiled. “I’m home alone. Marcy went to Monterey with her sister.”

  “Then if you don’t mind, I might use your computer. I’ve a friend in L.A. who’s looking up some info for me. He has access to data bases outside my pay grade. If I give him a call and he has anything, I’d like to pull it up here.”

  “Go for it. I’ll go order us something to eat.” Harvey pointed at the clock. “Marilyn says it supper time.” A relic from some fifties garage wall, the clock face displayed the cheesecake photo of Marilyn Monroe in her memorable red swimsuit pose. “You need anything, give me a yell.” Harvey dipped his head. “Another beer?”

  “Why not? I’m punching out soon.” Quickly draining the bottle, Jack handed it over.

  As the door closed behind Harvey, Jack took out his phone, found Eric’s number and waited while it rang and rang. And rang. Shit. He was scrolling through his directory looking up Eric’s home number, when a call came through and Jack smiled. “Hey, Dude, you made my day. I thought I’d have to call you at home and I know you don’t approve.”

  “My wife doesn’t approve.”

  “Same thing. I’m screwed. But life’s good now. You called back.”

  “I was just walking out the door with the lab crew. Too many people around to pick up. I found a ton of stuff for you. You’d be surprised how many bent cops, psycho contractors and BCD ex-military are out there in the world.”

  “Did you happen to run across a Matt Hayes?”

  “Name sounds familiar. I sent you an e-mail a couple hours ago. Records, rap sheets, mug shots. Check’em out.”

  “Thanks, Man. I’ll send you a case of that wine your wife likes.”

  “Then we both thank you,” Eric said, a smile in his voice. “It always puts her in the mood.”

  Jack laughed. “Glad to hear it. I’ll tell our marketing people.”

  “Cute. A word of warning though,” Eric cautioned. “Watch your back. All those names on the lists I sent you know how to handle themselves. So shoot first and ask questions later.”

  “My boss won’t let me.”

  “Then don’t tell him. I mean it, Jack, these dudes are all killers.”

  “Thanks for the warning. Say hi to the wife and kids.” He and Eric had walked the beat long ago when they were both green-as-grass rookies and they’d come up through the LAPD system, watching each other’s back. It was that kind of department, no different than any other where politics trumped merit, and if Jack hadn’t almost killed Monty, he’d probably still be there.

  But that was all harmless memory tonight when he was hot on the trail of the perps who’d murdered Luis’s brother. Sitting in Harvey’s chair, he pulled up his e-mail and first scanned all the mug shots. Two hits. Hayes and a Falcone, both ex-cops. He slowly scanned their records, police work, time served, although at different institutions in different years, current employment, last known address. He printed up the relevant pages, then turned off the computer and re-read the information. Nothing about Gavin Remington. Although the slick lobbyist would hardly acknowledge hiring an ex-con. He underlined the two current addresses, decided he’d stay in town tonight and check them out tomorrow. He’d pay Gavin Remington a visit too. Ask him a few questions. Rattle his cage a little. See what happens.

  Chapter 20

  Harvey had extended an invitation to stay at his place, but Jack preferred a hotel. He woke early the next morning with the sound of the ocean in his ears, a slight headache from one too many of Harvey’s beers and a view out his window that was popular on postcards. The city skyline across the bay from Sausalito gleamed in the sunlight, sailboats drifted to and fro on a light breeze, Alcatraz was enveloped in an early morning mist that softened its outline and made one less mindful of its violent history.

  But he had people to see no matter how pleasant the view, so he threw his covers aside, rose and walked into the shower. A half hour later, he was showered, shaved and dressed in clean clothes from the overnight bag he always carried in his car. Taking the outdoor staircase, he made his way down to the first floor terrace for breakfast. The small hotel, built into the steep hillside, rose four stories in a hap-hazard, asymmetrical construct. It would have fit right into any Italian coastal village with its pink stucco exterior, flower-filled window boxes, and wrought iron balconies.

  Since he stayed here often, his triple espresso and the paper were set before him minutes after he sat down. “Thanks, Brittany,” he said with a smile. “How are the kids?” A fixture at the hotel, Brittany was one of those perfect waitresses who remembered what you liked. She was a runner, slender and strong; she could bench press one fifty without breaking a sweat.

  “The kids are growing like weeds. New sneakers and jeans every three months.”

  “They’re at that age aren’t they?” She had a tween boy and girl. “Is Bob’s job still hanging in there? They say things are getting better.”

  “Bob’s boss hired two new machinists last week. So it’s looking good. What’re you doing in town?”

  “Business. Trying to track down some losers.”

  “Good luck, then. Are you having some food with your caffeine rush?”

  “Whatever Tony’s cooking this morning is fine.” He pointed. “And another of these.”

  “Overdid it last night?”

  “Seems that way.”

  “Tony has some organic, hand-made chorizo he’s raving about this morning.”

  “Perfect. Tell him extra peppers.”

  As she walked away, he downed his iced espresso like a shot of medicine and reached for the San Francisco Chronicle. His headache melted away by the time he’d checked out the latest headlines and football stats and shortly after, Brittany brought him his second espresso and a breakfast omelet, heavy with veggies, peppers, and chorizo. He was alone on the café terrace which suited him just fine. He could enjoy the balmy weather, the view and his breakfast in peace.

  Or relative peace.

  He’d thought of Jillian way the hell too much since waking. But he wasn’t fifteen, nor stupid, so he didn’t follow through on his urge to call her. Not necessarily because he was so self-disciplined. Rather, the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question got in the way: Call and say what? He had no idea when he’d be back. Idle chit chat wasn’t his thing. He couldn’t say, I’ve been thinking about fucking you pretty much constantly since I left you. That was seriously uncool. And bottom line, he had a helluva busy day.

  So screw wishful thinking.

  As if to immediately test that prompt to duty, his cell phone rang.

  It was Liz. He softly groaned. Did he answer? If so, did he tell her the truth about where he’d been yesterday? If he did, how would she take it? More aptly, how much evasion would it take to smooth things over? And last but not least, did he want his breakfast to get cold?

  A glance at his food, a small sigh and he picked up.

  “Where have you been?”

  No hello, a little grit in her words. “Working,” he said, bland as hell. “In fact, I’m in San Fran following some leads on that dump murder.”

  “I stopped by your place yesterday morning,” she said, sounding slightly frazzled.

  “Sorry I wasn’t there.” Okay, so the truth wasn’t on the agenda.

  “I called you five, six times. Maybe more.”

  Now that was definitely frazzled, not like the Kate he’d been seeing of late. “I was on the road all day. You know what the cell coverage is like. What’s going on?”

  “When are
you coming home?” A little tremor in her voice.

  “I’m not sure. Depends what I find today. Look, are you okay?” He’d never been a prick with women. Why start now?

  “I haven’t been okay for the past year.” A sigh like a balloon deflating. “Probably longer.”

  “So tell me about it,” he said with an inward sigh of his own. He shoved his plate away, figuring he’d order again.

  “I had a fight with Chris. It was worse than usual.”

  “You could get a divorce.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “It always is.”

  “Mine is complicated plus. You know how my mother likes Chris. She thinks he walks on water.”

  “That’s not a good reason.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Your mother’s been fucking with your head for years.” And he should know since she tried to seduce him when he was sixteen. Thrice married Cheryl MacIlleny was a selfish, narcissistic child; it was a wonder that Kate had done so well with a mother like hers.

  “I know.”

  “So don’t listen to her.”

  “Easy for you to say. Your parents were normal.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be disagreeable.”

  “It’s okay. Everything’s a mess anyway. I actually took a sick day yesterday when a trial date was canceled; got the hell out of my office. Then I couldn’t find you when I needed a shoulder to cry on.”

  “My schedule’s been crazy with this murder.”

  “I might be pregnant,” she blurted out.

  He stopped himself from saying, It’s not mine. He never took chances.

  A small silence fell.

  “It’s not yours,” she said.

  “I know.”

  “It’s his.”

  “How sure are you about this?”

  “Not a hundred percent yet.”

  “So it might blow over.”

  “God willing.”

  “Should God be on vacation, will Chris see this as a problem or not?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Do you care what he thinks?”

  “Don’t know. When you coming back?”

  “A day. Two at the most.”

  “Call me. You survived a divorce. I need advice. And I need someone to hold me.”

  “Okay. But I’m not sure when I’ll be back. Can Julie help?”

  “I already talked to her. She’s great, except for the holding part.”

  “Gotcha. I’ll let you know when I’m back in town.”

  “Thanks,” she said, whisper soft.

  The line went dead.

  His first selfish thought was, Why me? Although, he understood why. Liz had turned to him because they’d been friends forever. More than friends. But now her complications had become his, along with his already, super-complicated life juggling a murder case, a young boy with possible assassins on his trail, and the voodoo magic of Jillian Penrose playing hell with his libido and work ethic.

  Chapter 21

  Jack left the hotel by eight. An hour and a half later he was in Sacramento, following his GPS to Eric’s last known address for Hayes.

  Surprise, surprise. The address turned out to be an empty lot. But then Hayes knew the state of the overworked, cash-strapped parole system. A case officer barely had time to meet with his parolees and fill in all his paper work. Visiting the homes of parolees was relegated to the when-Hell-freezes-over category.

  At least a building existed at Falcone’s last known address, although the run down gas station in the run down part of town hardly looked like a home. It barely looked like a business with its old gas pumps, lack of prices on a sign that had seen better days and a monster dog chained out front.

  Was this another parolee pick-an-address scam? Since he saw a person inside, at least there was someone to ask. Parking his car across the street, Jack crossed the potholed road, stepped over the chipped curb, traversed a wide stretch of cracked cement, slid between two old Shell gas pumps and approached the gas station door with an eye on the length of chain holding back the growling pit bull/mastiff mix.

  “Good dog, nice dog,” he crooned, giving it a shot. Dogs liked him. “Hey, buddy boy, what’s your name?”

  The young chocolate-colored pup was huge, but untrained and at Jack’s soft murmur, the ersatz guard dog, flopped down on the cement, started wagging its tail and gave a dog imitation of a smile.

  “That’s a good boy,” Jack whispered, leaning over to scratch his ears. “You’re a real beauty you know. Does anyone tell you that?”

  “Fucking useless dog.”

  Jack glanced up. A glowering skinhead in a Harley t-shirt, torn jeans and boots that helped make up for his lack of height stood in the doorway. “The dog’s young,” Jack said, coming upright.

  “And shit-for-brains stupid.”

  “Give him time.”

  “Fuck that.” The man pitched the cigarette in his hand at the animal. And missed. The dog was quick.

  “I’m looking for Franklin Falcone.” Jack smiled politely rather than punch the guy. Cruelty to animals pissed him off. “You wouldn’t happen to be Franklin.”

  “Never heard of the guy.”

  “He left this address with his parole officer.”

  “Can’t help that.”

  “Have you worked here long? Or is this your place?”

  “Who’s asking?”

  Jack showed him his badge. “Let’s start again. Worked here long?”

  “Couple years,” he muttered.

  “Got a record? I can find out in under thirty seconds so you might as well tell me. Or I can drag you down to the station and ask you there.”

  “I’ve been up to Chico once.”

  “For?”

  “Drug bust.”

  “Your name?”

  “Howie.”

  “Last name. Don’t con me. My temper’s not good.”

  The skinhead hesitated, then answered, “Richards.”

  “There you go. That wasn’t so hard. Now for the key question. Do you know Franklin Falcone? Think about it before you answer,” Jack said in a don’t-fuck-with-me tone. “Talk to me now or you could end up on the witness stand talking to some prosecutor.”

  “I said I’ve never heard of him.” Stone cold eyes with a drop dead look in them.

  Jack had been intimidated by better men than Howie Richards, armed men, bigger and smarter. “How about a Matt Hayes?” he asked, watching Howie’s eyes. “That name ring a bell?”

  “Nope.”

  The question registered a flicker of recognition, maybe fear in those cold eyes. “Big guy, military haircut, late thirties. Any of that jog your memory?”

  “You hard of hearing? I already said no.”

  Jack indicated the building with a sweep of his arm. “I could get a search warrant for this piece-of-crap station. Tear it inside out. Make your life hell.”

  “Be my guest,” Richards snarled. “I got nothin’ to hide.”

  By the time he rustled up a search warrant, whatever was in this fake gas station would be long gone. And Howie knew it. “Tell you what,” Jack said with a cool smile. “If you should run into Hayes or Falcone, you tell’em I’m looking for them. I have a couple of questions about a murder. The name’s Jack Morgan. Don’t forget.”

  No answer, no response, a blank stare.

  “One other thing,” Jack said. “I’ll take that dog off your hands. You and him? I don’t feel the magic.” He slid his jacket aside enough to reach his jeans pocket and to let Howie see his shoulder holster. Pulling some bills out of his jeans pocket, he counted out five hundreds, set them on an empty oil rack near the door. “You have yourself a nice day, Howie,” he drawled and turned toward the dog who was watching them, his gaze flicking from one to the other. “Hi there, pup. Let’s bring you out to the country where you can run.” He un-clipped the chain from the dog’s collar and stood up. “Come on, boy. Feel like an In-N-Out Burger?”

  The dog
followed him like he was the Pied Piper and hopped into the back seat like it was home. Jack tossed a few things on the floor, making room for the pup, stalling briefly before getting behind the wheel, giving Howie plenty of time to spread the word. As he fired up the ignition, he could see Howie with his cell to his ear, talking fast. If only he were a lip reader. Not that it mattered a whole helluva lot.

  Mission accomplished.

  He’d flushed out his targets.

  Now to see how quickly the news made it to Gavin Remington.

  At warp speed was only a slight exaggeration, Jack decided, a short time later as he was being ushered into Remington’s office by his sex kitten secretary who accidently brushed Jack’s arm with her impressive boobs as she stood aside to let him pass.

  “Deputy Jack Morgan, sir,” she announced in one of those breathy voices that reminded him of a bad actress in a porno flick.

  “Come in, come in,” Gavin said, smooth as silk, scanning Jack from head to toe in a quick assessing glance. Undercover all the way, he thought. Some men just had the look. “Would you like coffee, Deputy?”

  “No thank you.”

  Megan didn’t actually frown because that would leave lines, but her mouth formed into a definite pout. Was Deputy Morgan gay? Gavin’s clients always wanted coffee and her. If only in their dreams.

  “That will be all, Megan,” Gavin crisply noted, irritated at her scrutiny of Jack, the stark difference in age and looks between himself and the deputy even more irritating. “Please, sit down.” The lobbyist waved Jack into a chair as the door closed on his secretary. Leaning back in his black leather chair, he steepled his fingers under his chin so his expensive Bulgari cuff links and flashy Rolex were on display. So there was no question that he was a man of wealth. The small gesture having satisfied his vanity and restored the balance of power between a mid-rank government employee and himself, Remington lazily smiled. “Now tell me how I can help you.”

  Amused, Jack felt like saying, Why don’t we whip out our dicks and see whose is bigger? But since the answer wasn’t in doubt, he said instead, “What makes you think I need your help?”