A Fine Balance Page 3

  “I doubt it. Whistle blowers get cold feet more often than not. And this guy doesn’t have an address, a phone–nothing.”

  “You’re sure.”

  The muscled ex-cop with close-set eyes, a hard face, military haircut and a couple of years served for boosting too many firearms and drugs from the evidence room shrugged. “I’ve seen lots like him, thinking to parlay their information into permanent status here. Maybe even get a cut of the take. They see too much TV.”

  “Make certain for me.”

  “He’s a nobody from nowhere. The AG’ll scratch him off their appointment calendar without missing a beat. But I’ll ask around. Ease your mind.”

  The man smiled thinly. “And earn your money.”

  “I already do that.” The burly ex-cop wasn’t intimidated by rich men who used others to fight their battles.

  If Hayes was looking for thanks, his way-too-high price per diem was thanks enough, the sleek, pampered man behind the desk decided. “Let me know when the first deliveries come down.”

  “A couple weeks, maybe three. Plus or minus.”

  “Call me tomorrow about the other item.” With a nod of dismissal the man–influence peddler extraordinaire--leaned forward and punched the intercom button with a manicured finger. “Is my nine-thirty here?”

  The back door to the office closed on the fixer just as an Armani-suited secretary opened the door to the waiting room. Megan was beautiful, blonde, curvaceous and accommodating when it came to blow jobs. Always a requirement for a secretary to California’s most prominent lobbyist.

  “Mr. Gerald Abbot, sir,” she said, standing aside to allow a businessman with a personal interest in a bill coming up for a vote in the assembly to enter.

  “Morning Jerry.” A perfect lobbyist smile, all teeth and feigned sincerity. “Coffee?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “Two coffees, Megan.” His male clients always said yes to coffee. It gave them another chance to ogle Megan’s double D’s. “Come, sit, Jerry. Tell me what’s on your mind and we’ll see what we can do to help you.”

  Chapter 4

  Jack spent the rest of the day making his usual rounds up to Willits, down to Ukiah, over to Boonville, back to Mendo and Bragg. Only the secretary, Lucy, and one of the technicians were left in the sheriff’s office at the end of the day. Neither had any news about the dead man. Doc Peterson wouldn’t be in til tomorrow. Getting the key for the evidence room, Jack found the victim’s clothes piled in plastic bags on the counter. Jeannie’s video interview had been transferred to the computer. Someone had left Carl’s face frozen on the monitor screen. A few smaller bags held some bits and pieces of as yet unidentified fingerprints picked up at the scene. Most of the prints would be useless. Still, they’d be sent through the system. There was always that snowball’s chance in hell they might get lucky.

  But what he’d wanted to look at was the shoe. An inchoate but persistent thought had floated around the fringes of his consciousness all day: why or how had the shoe left the victim’s foot? Mostly why. Snapping on some latex gloves, he carefully withdrew the shoe from the bag and turned it in his hands. The soles weren’t worn, the treads still deep, the laces had been neatly tied not so long ago by someone still alive. Jesus, it always bothered him–the needless death he saw. Like this guy who was too young to die. Especially so brutally.

  It made one think about pay back.

  Jack understood he had a tendency toward rough justice. He’d been warned against the liabilities of personal vendettas by the police psychologist after a bloody shoot-out in South L. A. that had made the front page of the papers. The department didn’t like that kind of publicity. It wasn’t normal to get so involved the psychologist had told him. Take it easy, she’d cautioned. Revenge was a dangerous stimulant.

  On the other hand, his sense of justice had made him a good cop, his lack of ego made him one of the best. His total commitment, or recklessness others called it, had brought him a degree of fame in tinsel town’s LAPD where solve rates and conviction counts were the lifeblood of departmental success.

  Not that he missed any of it. He’d never been a team player. Not even in his marriage. Particularly in his marriage. Monty had probably done him a favor taking personal care of Sarah. Maybe he shouldn’t have beaten the shit out of him.

  Turned out the department frowned on internecine violence. Go figure. He was given a choice–resign or face charges for putting Monty in the hospital.

  Christ, he must be tired if he was traveling that far down memory lane.

  Refocusing his thoughts, he turned the shoe around, scrutinized the inside from every angle. His eyes passed over the minute protrusion the first time but his cognitive reflexes dragged him back and returning his gaze to the insole arch he felt that small stir of excitement that was the addictive drug of police work. If he tipped the shoe just so, an infinitesimal bulge caught the light on the outside edge of the insole. Right over the arch. People kept money in their shoes. Don’t get excited. It could be nothing. But he was breathing a little faster as he took out his pocket knife, snapped the blade open and cautiously slid the tip under the insole.

  The blade hit something solid.

  He was inclined to shout Eureka and knew he’d been watching too many old movies. He had to get out more. Be less of a hermit. But the exuberant word kept looping through his brain as he pried up the insole, drew out a small key on the tip of the knife blade and studied it.

  Perhaps the shoe had been kicked off for a reason.

  A Hail Mary pass in the last moments of life.

  As he was carefully slipping the key into one of the plastic bags piled on the counter, he heard a familiar voice yell out, “When did he go down there?”

  Oh crap. Morrie’s nephew. His asshole nephew. The one who thought he was qualified to be sheriff after Morrie retired because they shared a last name. Jack shoved the plastic bag in his jacket pocket just as the door to the evidence room was punched open so hard it bounced off the wall.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Brad McCaid stood in the doorway, pugnacious, beefy, his hair razored close to disguise his receding hairline, a Glock 40 strapped to his thigh like some SWAT cowboy.

  Jack always wanted to say, Stop taking steroids. Your nuts and hair’ll stop shrinking and you’ll be able to get it up again. But sensibly, he never did. He smiled instead. “What can I do for you McCaid?”

  “Answer my goddamn question.”

  “If only you were my boss,” Jack drawled, giving him a big smile instead of punching him.

  “A real smart ass ain’t yah?”

  “You need something?”

  “I need you to leave.” The quiet warning in Jack’s tone apparently hadn’t registered. Nor the fact that Jack had as much right to be here as anyone in the department. But then steroids and paranoia were dance partners.

  Someday he’d have to take on McCaid. But he was avoiding it as long as he could cause the last time he’d done that he’d put himself out of a job. “Have you seen Carl’s interview?” No one did lazy indifference better than Jack. “I was just going to run it.” He turned from the shithead in the doorway and moved to the computer. He almost wished the clown would jump him. Get it over with. Find out who was king of the hill.

  “Who cares who whacked the frigging wetback? One less is good, a couple dozen more dead would be even better.”

  One could only hope Morrie never retired. A McCaid had been sheriff in the county since the mid nineteenth century. If dumb-as-a-screwdriver Brad was on the ballot there was a good chance the name alone would elect him. Scary fucking thought.

  Flicking the space bar, Jack sat down in front of the monitor and, ignoring the racist Neanderthal in the doorway, began listening to Carl’s statement. Before he’d finished he was alone. Brad couldn’t stand still for long. The ‘roids made him jumpy. Although it had probably been a good choice–Brad’s leaving. Saved bloodshed.

  Jack ran through the intervi
ew twice more, then a fourth time for good measure. He found repetition useful. Carl’s answers and explanations, the white noise of Jeannie’s questions would percolate through the filter of his subconscious and if he was lucky–if not now, later--some small discrepancy would leap out.

  As for Carl’s skill as a mechanic, that was a real advantage. A diesel engine had driven by, he’d said. He was sure. You could always tell by the sound. So. The key along with a fix on a vehicle. It was a start.

  Jack signed out the key on the clipboard hanging by the door. Not that anyone ran a tight ship here. But it never hurt to cover your ass. He’d call Morrie later, tell him what he’d found. Leo, the old locksmith in Mendo, might know something about this style of key. Too small for a door. More likely for a padlock, safe deposit box, mailbox. He’d check it out tomorrow.

  It was after six when Jack stood in the doorway of Ray’s bedroom, scowling at his baby brother who was still dead to the world. He cleared his throat.

  Coming awake at the sound, Ray pushed himself up on his pillows, shoved his dark hair out of his eyes and grinned. “Words fail?”

  “Damn right. What the fuck did I tell you?”

  “I know. I shouldn’t have believed the girl, but she was”–

  “Incredible I suppose. And a trap.”

  “Yeah. How about that?”

  “You gotta grow up some day, kid. They must have seen you coming a mile away. It’s not like here or in Europe where people like you who game the system get a slap on the wrists or do minimum time if they have a good lawyer. Over there they like to see that people like you who hack into their bank accounts end up in the river somewhere. You were lucky.”

  “The girl sent the police before her bosses got to me.”

  “You owe her then. Wade and I expect to be paid back too.” The necessary bribes had added up.

  “I know. I’ll get it to you tomorrow.” Ray was well compensated for what he did. “And thanks. Wade said you called in markers with all the right people over there once you figured out where I was.”

  Moving into the room, Jack dragged up a chair to the bed, sat and gave his brother the once over. Ray was painfully thin–his ribs showed. He had bruises everywhere, half-healed now, smears of yellow-green skin. Unshaven stubble shadowed his jaw, dark circles under his eyes bore witness to his exhaustion. “You look like hell.”

  Ray smiled. “The Thai penal health care system is disappointing. Not a doctor on call.”

  “Pichai said your skills proved useful.” What Bangkok’s police colonel had actually said was that Ray had survived only because those at the top of the food chain found out that Ray could make them some money inside. After that, a laptop with a high speed connection had been put into Ray’s beaten up hands that went with his beaten up body and his living conditions had improved.

  “Those skills saved my ass before you really saved my ass. By the way, as if you didn’t know, the global banking system is a sieve.”

  Jack grunted in reply, then gave his brother one of those fuck-with-me-and-you’ll-lose looks. “Don’t think about going back–girl or no girl.”

  “Christ, don’t worry.”

  “Good. Someone said you were limping.”

  “I’m not sure I’ll be able to play the piano again.”

  “Funny. I’ll have Doc Henderson come over.”

  “Thanks.” Ray blew out a breath. “I mean it.”

  “Stupid kid. Stay out of trouble for a while will you?”

  “Definitely. I gotta be in Paris for Rafe’s wedding next month, so nothing but clean living from now on.”

  “The billionaire?”

  “Yeah. He fell in love. It can happen to anyone, maybe even you.”

  “Meaning?” Jack drawled, hitting his brother with a stare.

  “Sarah didn’t seem your type, that’s all.”

  “I don’t have a type.”

  Ray grinned. “That’s what I’m hearing.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Jack grumbled and changed the subject. “I don’t suppose you want to go out to eat?”

  “Naw. I’m going back to sleep. I may sleep for a week.”

  Jack came to his feet and put the chair back in front of the desk. “I’ll send over the doc and I’ll stop by tomorrow to see how you’re doing. Just so you know, no one’s said anything to Mom about your little holiday in Bangkok.”

  “Thanks again.” Sliding back under the covers, Ray shut his eyes.

  “And stay away from Chrissy,” Jack said as he walked toward the door. “You two together are nothing but trouble. You have enough problems.”

  This probably wasn’t the time to mention he’d already called her. Ray half smiled as he drifted off to sleep. What could he say? After hacking, Chrissy was his other consuming passion.

  Chapter 5

  Jack stopped by Palmer’s, figuring Wade would be there for his usual cheeseburger, chop, chop salad and two Seattle Vodka martinis he claimed were fit for the gods with the linden-blossom infused vodka made a bottle at a time in someone’s garage outside Seattle.

  Palmer’s door was wide open as usual, the din of the crowd and the flickering light from seven muted televisions set on different sports channels pouring out the door.

  Standing on the threshold, Jack spotted his brother at his customary corner table under the moose head. He was watching some European soccer match. When Jack reached the table and dropped into a chair, Wade lifted a deterring finger, then a second later scowled and dropped his hand. “Jesus, Liverpool can’t score for shit this year.” He turned and smiled at his brother. “I shouldn’t bet on these games. Did you see Ray? What’d you think? I think we got him out just in time.”

  “No doubt. Thanks to Pichai.”

  “And a boatload of money.”

  “That too. Did you call that woman I”--

  “You mean I had a choice?” Wade grinned. “I thought it was an order.”

  “Cute. Can you help her?”

  “Maybe. We’re meeting tomorrow.”

  “Thanks.” Jack’s blue gaze narrowed, sharpened. “What?”

  “Nothing. I was surprised that’s all. It sounded personal when you called.”

  “It’s not. She’s had a tough time lately.”

  A dramatic pause. A grin. “I see.”

  “Jesus, stop already. Larry Durbin told me the bankers are foreclosing on her. He’s her neighbor. That’s it.”

  “I’m guessing she’s good looking.”

  “So?”

  Wade was enjoying himself. “So tell me you’re just playing Good Samaritan.”

  “If you tell me why you give a shit?”

  “So how good looking is she?”

  “Help her and you’ll find out. How about that?”

  “Gotcha.” His questions answered. “Are you here to eat?”

  “Might as well.”

  As the brothers ate and drank–in Jack’s case the daily special and a Guinness–they discussed their baby brother’s seeming indifference to what passed as the normal strictures of society. By the time they finished with their meal, the noise from the pool room in back had racheted up to a deafening roar–one voice in particular louder than the rest.

  “They don’t usually come in here,” Jack said, his nostrils flaring faintly.

  Wade shrugged. “Maybe they got kicked out of the last place. They were drunker than hell when they came in.”

  “I think I’ll head home. I’ve already had to talk to the asshole once today.”

  “You’re going to have to do more than that soon.”

  “I’m trying to delay the inevitable. Out of respect for Morrie or regard for public policy or”--

  “Bullies never quit until they have to. You know that.”

  Jack shoved his chair back and rose. “Not tonight though. Not here.”

  The booming voice rose over the crowd noise. “Look what we got here, boys. If it ain’t the busted narco cop who come home with his tail between his legs.” Brad stood
in the doorway to the back room, his face red with drink, his body balanced like a fighter. Naked belligerence in every drunken syllable.

  There was no question who he was addressing. Jack had made no secret of his reasons for leaving L.A. No more than he’d spent any sleepless nights over why he’d done what he’d done.

  Jack nodded to Wade and walked toward the door.

  “You a coward too, Morgan?”

  The bar room had gone silent at Brad’s first comment, everyone frozen in place. Now a sharp intake of breaths hissed through the air.

  Jack slowly turned. “Let’s do this another time, McCaid,” he said softly, instead of Shut your fucking mouth or I’ll shut it for you.

  “No. Now,” Brad snarled, his face a mask of pure fury, booze and drugs fueling his aggression. “Chicken-shit, candy-ass narc.”

  Other than a twitch along his jaw nothing moved in Jack’s taut frame, his gaze ice blue and steady. “Lew doesn’t want his bar broken up. Do you Lew?” He glanced at the owner behind the bar whose hands had gone still on the glass he’d been polishing.

  “Not unless you pay damages.” Lew’s voice was plain vanilla; he’d seen this a few hundred times before.

  “There you see, McCaid,” Jack said in his best fake pleasant voice. “You can’t afford it.”

  By this time Lew’s bouncers had circled around and were advancing on Brad. Jack knew the routine. Everyone did except blotto hotheads like Brad who finally took notice of the wall of muscle closing in.

  Jack turned and walked out the door.

  He didn’t want trouble. Tonight or anytime, although he was realistic about Brad’s resentment. But Morrie had come to him when he’d moved back home. Offered him a job. Practically begged him to join up. He’d refused at first. As shareholder in the family vineyard, Jack had grown up making wine and planned on doing it again. But Morrie’d been insistent. He didn’t care about Jack’s reputation as a lone wolf and l’enfant terrible. He only cared that Jack had brains, imagination, guts and was steady as a rock under fire.