Beneath the Cracks (23 page)

"Sure."

"He just picked up a van load of shelter
guys from Darkwater proper this Saturday past, about two hours
after that, our latest dumpster dude turned up in Downey. I reckon
he dumped Cox and then made his way to Darkwater proper for some
replacements."

"How many?"

"Two."

"Men, Tony.  How many men did he pick
up?"

"Six."

"Hmm.  Do me a favor and keep looking
for others who can confirm that information.  Try working your
way back to Downey with a description of the van.  I want to
know if any other shelters were visited between the two
locations."

"We'll do.  Are we gonna powwow
later?"

"Six at the diner across the street from the
division," I said.  "I trust that meets your standards."

"You made me a very happy man.  How
goes the FDA thing?"

"Wrapped in more red tape than Santa's
workshop.  I'll fill you in at the diner."

Briscoe hung up, but I pretended to continue
the conversation.  "I see.  Is he sure?"

I glanced up at Johnny and shook my head
lightly.  "All right.  If you're sure, yeah.  I'll
come right over."  I replaced the receiver.

Johnny's shoulders slumped. 

"Sorry…"

"You're not gonna get so wrapped up with
this nonsense tonight that you forget to call me about…us…are
you?"

I rose and stepped close to where he perched
against my desk.  Wedged between his thighs, I hinted at a
more intimate meeting later.  "Not on your life, Orion. 
You should be glad we're making good progress on this case. 
It was your detective that died last weekend after all."

He growled, and his hands spanned my waist.
 "That doesn't mean I have to like it that the job isn't nine
to five."

"Walk me out?"

"Sure," Johnny sighed.  "Ah the life of
the man who loves a cop."

"Yeah, yeah," I grinned.  "Let's not
pretend I don't know the truth about what you do for a
living.  We're in the same boat here."

His fingers dug into my side.  "Are
we?"

"We're both working in law enforcement," I
said.

"Oh."  Johnny's eyes darted away. 
"I thought maybe you were telling me something else."

"Johnny –"

"It's all right.  You're gonna need
more than three or four days to see what I've known for
months.  We just feel closer than a few days, Helen.  You
know?"

I reached for the roses on my desk. 
"Why don't you take these home with you, and we'll figure out what
to do with them later."

"I was thinking a vase might be…oh. 
Oh
.  Mmm, a bed of roses.  I like that,
honey."

With a wave from the car, I headed in the
general direction of Darkwater proper before veering toward Beach
Cliffs.  The plan had gelled in my mind after Johnny showed up
with his bouquet of flowers.  Everyone expected me to play a
certain role – Johnny wanted the besotted woman; Briscoe wanted a
brilliant but obedient profiler; I still haven't figured out what
Conall wants yet.  The patrons at Uncle Nooky's Bar and Grill
would be no different.

The trick to gaining their cooperation lie
in catching them off guard, just like I'd done to Johnny with a
tiny suggestion that the roses might have another use later tonight
rather than wilting in a vase on a table somewhere. 

I knew exactly where the box that contained
the proper
role
was stored in my house.

Chapter 20

"Eight."  Briscoe beamed and dropped
his notes on the table of the booth where I sat waiting for them at
dinner time.

I rose and hugged Charlie Haverston. 
"Good to see you, my friend," I said.

"Sorry about Saturday night.  Maybe
you'll do it again sometime when Rose and I can be there."

"I'd love that."  I turned my attention
back to Briscoe.  "Eight what?"

"Eight witnesses who not only identified Dr.
Denton, but confirmed that he had six men in a van when he left the
shelter in Darkwater proper.  Well, one of the shelters. 
They got quite a few of 'em as it turns out."  Tony slid into
the booth and waved a finger in the air at the waitress.

I flipped through his notes.  "Well,
this confirms my instinct that he lied to us today.  Now we
need to catch him in the act.  I'm concerned that with our
attention, showing up at his lab the way we did and asking about
the homeless men, that Denton might be wary of trolling at his
usual haunts Friday night.  Jason Blake said he was scheduled
to be at the Sixth Avenue Shelter for a pickup."

"There were a couple of places in Darkwater
that had never heard of him, Helen.  We could stake them out
Friday night," Charlie offered.  "You could have your guys at
Downey keep an eye on Sixth Avenue.  Whoever sees him first
can haul him in for questioning."

"That would be fantastic, Charlie.  But
I'm thinking he might be inclined to pick up his recruits before
Friday and avoid us all together."

"We're on it," he said.  "I can have
the shelters in Darkwater proper under surveillance in ten minutes
if that's what you want."

"What do you two think about camping out on
Sixth Avenue?" I asked.

Crevan shrugged.  "I don't see why we
can't.  We can head over there right now if you like."

"What I'd like," Tony said as the waitress
approached with a plate heaped with burger and fries, "is to have
five minutes to wolf down a little sustenance before I go freeze my
ass off all evening watching some damn homeless shelter. 
Molly, could you get me a couple of coffees to go?"

She smacked her gum and winked.  "Sure
thing, Tony."

"Did you make any progress with the FDA?"
Crevan asked.

"Still waiting for my contact to get back to
me.  In the meantime, if we catch Denton picking up homeless
guys, it'll give me a little leverage with him – I hope."

"Are you gonna be tagging along on this
stakeout?"  Grease drizzled from the corner of Tony's mouth
into a cavernous fold of jowl.  "Or are you otherwise engaged
tonight?"

"Work comes first, Tony."

"Ah, hell.  There ain't no sense in all
three of us freezin' our butts off tonight.  Why don't you run
along and have your evening?  We all know we'll never hear the
end of it if you contract so much as the sniffles."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive," Crevan agreed.

"Did you guys show any of the photos of our
John Doe victims while you were talking to people in Darkwater
proper?"

Charlie nodded.  "We got the same
nicknames this time that cropped up last spring when they were
found.  Either
Stinky
's mom really hated him, or it was
a street name.  The other man was called Moses after he lost a
couple of toes to frostbite during a rough winter we had a few
years back."

"Stinky and Moses.  Not exactly names
that will do much good in a search of any law enforcement or public
health database are they?"  It gave pause though.  "Does
the roaming clinic van from MSUH go to all the shelters in
Darkwater Bay?"

"I think so," Charlie nodded.  "But
they're not going to divulge information about patients,
Helen.  HIPAA and all that."

"That applies to the living.  We can
show the pictures of the homeless men to the staff that operate
that van.  Besides, we're only asking for names.  I can't
imagine they'd accept Stinky as the name for a chart.  I'll
make some calls, and if I can't get the name of the person in
charge of that particular endeavor, I'll call hospital
administration first thing in the morning."

"So we all got business keepin' us occupied
tonight."

"Gentlemen, you have my cell phone
number.  Call me immediately if you see Denton.  Talking
to him trumps everything else right now."  I slid out of the
booth.

"Ain't you gonna eat somethin'?"

I grinned.  "I thought you wanted me to
keep my other plans for the evening, Briscoe."

The answer was titillating enough to placate
the nosy detective.  I slipped away; across the street the
duffle bag containing my latest costume waited in the
Expedition.  Very few women beside Finkelstein and me worked
at Downey Division, so the women's locker room was almost always
deserted.  I wasted no time, shimmying into the tight leather
pants and skimpy camisole.  The front of it was emblazoned
with the logo from a rather infamous bike club in
Massachusetts.  I picked it up during a case we investigated
years ago with the FBI.

That fed stench Tony mentioned yesterday
when I was interviewing people in the vicinity of Sixth Avenue had
proved too powerful for the disguise to be of much use then. 
In fact, it had garnered a few threats from club members who knew I
wasn't really one of them.  Three thousand miles ought to
solve that problem.

The black leather bike jacket concealed both
badge and holster.  Hopefully I would have time to blend in
and chat without resorting to more official means of eliciting
information.  A day and a half had passed since I spotted
Uncle Nooky's Bar and Grill.  The desire for a closer look had
only grown stronger.

Briscoe and Conall would have my spine
impaled on a pike if they knew what I was doing, but it was more
important that I strike without warning, and two men who screamed
detective
with every breath they took pretty much killed the
element of surprise.  In defense of my wild plan, Briscoe and
Conall would be only a few blocks away if anything happened.

"Here's hoping I can lie, charm or shoot my
way through any problems that might arise." 

I drove out of the lot behind Downey
Division.  Tony's Crown Vic was long gone.  Good
enough.  Everyone was in position but me.  With a few
punches into the GPS, I had the quickest path to the bar on Third
Avenue and made my way through Downey's late evening traffic. 
It shrank to a trickle the deeper into the bowels of the bad part
of town I drove.  Either the residents in the neighborhood
relied on public transportation, or they had the good sense not to
be out after dark.  The only vehicles on the street were those
that sent loud rumbles echoing through the empty streets.

"The bikers are at Nooky's house."

I parked between Second and Third on a dark
little street that had lost its sign.  The holster held my
Glock, in easy reach of my left hand, and additional clips of
ammunition on the right.  I patted it and muttered a good luck
wish to the invisible stars hiding behind dense fog and thick
clouds.

The pointed heels of my Jimmy Choo boots
clicked along the buckled concrete sidewalk.  Wearing them had
been a strategic choice, one that went beyond accenting the
distraction of long legs encased in tight leather.  They made
lethal weapons should jujitsu come into play.

Uncle Nooky's place was a rundown dive with
a door half rotted off the hinges.  A closer view of the bikes
parked along Third Avenue revealed various versions of machines
that had definitely seen better days.  The bikers I
encountered in Massachusetts revered theirs, keeping the chrome
polished to a blinding shine, the paint without so much as a nick
or scratch.  They'd have killed the mechanic before letting
oil drizzle from the engine to pool on the pavement.  The
upholstery on several of these seats was gouged or taped with
silver duct brand.  It lulled me into a sense of premature
judgment, that the men and women I might encounter inside the bar
were far from an organized gang of motorcycle
enthusiasts. 

I flung the door open, intentionally letting
it smack hard against the crumbling brick wall outside the
door.  The revelry ceased when my boot hit the unvarnished
hardwood floor.  All eyes turned to the stranger.  So
much for blending in.

"I'm looking for the owner of this fine
establishment," I announced.  Since stealth wasn't an option
in this getup, bold was all that was left.

The barrel chest reminded me of something
I'd expect to see above 13,000 feet on Isla del Sol.  His long
salt and pepper hair hung like oily spaghetti strands past his
shoulders.  A long beard was stained from chewing
tobacco.  He spat on the floor, expertly aiming the stream of
brown liquid in front of the tip of my boot.  Beefy arms
perched on hips too narrow for the torso they carried. 
"What'd he do, win a date with the latest centerfold in
Easy
Rider
?"  His eyes roved a slow perusal that made my skin
crawl.

It was his mistake to step forward with a
grab toward my chest.  What's that old saying?  The
bigger they are, the harder they fall.  Burly greeter got his
thumb pulled back to his wrist with a loud crack that surprised him
enough that I could pull him forward and kick his legs out from
under him.  He hit the floor with a thud and a whoosh of
breath from his lungs.  My boot heel pressed against his
windpipe almost as fast as the hidden badge was exposed and a
chambered round pointed at his forehead.

"I asked nicely.  Don't make me say it
again."

One thick finger pointed at his chest. 
"Me," he rasped.  "I'm Uncle Nooky."

Off to a fantastic start, I snapped the
safety on the gun and stuffed it back into the holster.  "You
could've just said so," I reached down with one hand and a
grin.  "Helen Eriksson, Darkwater Bay PD."

Warily, he accepted the hand up and gave a
quick nod to his patrons. 
At ease
.  "What brings
the PD into my bar?"  Nooky tried to rub his low back
unnoticed.  How it could hurt more than the dislocated thumb
was the real mystery.  "Have I forgotten to make my annual
donation to the policeman's ball?"

"I'd like to ask you and your patrons a few
questions," I said.

"We don't take to cops bustin' down our
doors for no good reason, officer."