Dominion (19 page)

“You know, I told you Detective Chandler is on Dani’s case,” Clarence said to Jake. “What can you tell me about him?”

“Ollie? Well, he’s brilliant, for one thing.”

“Brilliant? Are we talking about the same guy?”

“Yeah. Unorthodox, maybe. A few idiosyncrasies. Okay, more than a few. But he really knows his stuff. I’ve told you about what he did on the case when my buddies died. Remember, he’s the one who saved my life.”

“That counts for a lot with me,” Janet said.

“Mormance, over at the
Trib
,” Clarence said, “told me your Detective Chandler is into police brutality.”

“Into it?” Jake asked. “There was only one accusation I know of, and he was cleared of all charges.”

“But was he guilty?”

“No, I don’t think he was. He did hammer on somebody, yeah, but the guy was resisting arrest and out of control, grabbing everything he could to use as a weapon. He was a danger to everybody.”

“What color was the guy he beat up?” Clarence asked.

“Well…he was African American.”

“You mean black?”

“Yeah, black,” Jake said. “He was a criminal who happened to be black.”

“Jake looked into it before he even knew Ollie,” Janet offered. “He talked to some witnesses. That’s how he formed his opinions.”

“Those opinions weren’t very popular at the
Trib
,” Jake said. “Ollie got crucified in a couple of articles and an editorial. After a week of research and a half-dozen interviews, I wrote a column in his defense. Okay, he’s a Nam vet, so maybe that’s why I showed some special interest at first. But I don’t believe he’s a racist. And I don’t believe he was guilty of police brutality.”

“I’ve heard different,” Clarence said.

“Well, maybe you’ve heard wrong. You’ve obviously gotten one side. If you want to get the other, you better talk to Ollie directly. If you’ve got that kind of prejudice, you’re not going to be able to trust him.”

What do you know about prejudice?

“I
don’t
trust him,” Clarence said. “And he hasn’t told me as much about the case as I’d like.”

“He doesn’t have to tell you anything,” Jake said.

“Clarence hasn’t always had good experiences with cops,” Geneva said.

“Ollie’s had horrible experiences with reporters,” Jake said. “Maybe you both need to trust each other more.”

A few seconds of uncomfortable silence followed.

“Look, guys, could we talk about something else?” Geneva asked. “We were having a good time. Let’s get back to it, okay?”

“Sorry, Clabern.” Jake put his hand on Clarence’s, white on brown.

“Me too, Jake.”

When the food was served, Jake leaned toward Clarence and said, “One good thing. If you spend any time with Ollie, you won’t have to worry about health food.”

An hour later they ordered dessert, talking and laughing. Clarence seemed to be enjoying himself again.

When the waiter finally got a yes to, “Will that be everything tonight?” he brought the check to the table and set it in front of Jake.

Clarence reached over and grabbed the check. It was his turn to treat.

They walked over to Clackamas Town Center to look around for forty-five minutes before closing. Clarence had turned quiet again.

The two couples walked into Meier & Frank. After a few minutes, Janet glanced over at Clarence, who seemed to be pacing and looking over his shoulder. Geneva came up and said to her, “We’ll just be sitting on the bench out in the mall. Take your time. No hurry.”

“Clarence seems upset, and Geneva looks like she’s about to cry,” Janet said to Jake. “Did we do something wrong?”

“I don’t know,” Jake said. “Maybe it’s a fight or something. Guess they need some space.” Jake looked out in the mall at the couple sitting uncomfortably on the bench. He felt like he knew them well and yet somehow didn’t know them at all.

“Clarence seems really angry these days, on the edge,” Jake said. “I’m worried about him.”

The English bulldog sat poised, his neck two-thirds the width of his colossal chest. His short stocky legs looked like thick pedestals supporting an oversized load. Spike was a fire hydrant on four legs, his head disproportionately sized, almost human in mass, stuck on the end of a short squatty body that looked like a giant bulging sausage.

“Oh, you’re a fine lookin’ boy, now aren’t you?” Geneva asked Spike. “All the girls are crazy about you! See those cocker spaniels on their walk yesterday? Had their hair done just so? Tryin’ to impress my little boy, that’s what they were up to!”

His short tawny lion-like coat was bright, smooth, and brindled, flecked with dark spots and little streaks. His largely lion-brown face was divided by a streak of white that culminated in a coal black nose.

“Can you believe Daddy wanted one of those big ol’ Rottweilers? Yeah, but Mama talked him into an inside dog. You were the only one studly enough for him. That’s my boy!”

Spike’s wrinkled gargoyle-like face left anyone who didn’t know him ill at ease. His teeth bared and his lower jaw protruded sternly, at least two inches beyond his flat nose. His harness served the purpose of black leather jackets on fifties tough guys, giving an even more rugged look to the most solid forty-five pounds on four feet. His eyes were so wideset, people couldn’t meet them both. Nervous folks glanced back and forth from eye to eye, wondering what the other was looking at.

“How’s my little boy in a doggy suit? How you doin’, Spikey, huh? Here’s some pizza bones for you.”

He was putty in Geneva’s hands, rolling in that shuffling, sideways motion. Wriggling the half inch fold of flesh over his flattened nose, Spike took the pizza crusts gingerly from her hand, then devoured them, looking to her for more. Clarence walked in, startling Geneva.

“You’re spoiling that dog.”

“Spike? Spoiled?” Geneva laughed. “That’s just part of the fun. You’re not supposed to spoil children. But it’s okay to spoil a dog.”

Clarence put one knee to the floor, prompting Spike to do the doggy dance of joy. “Mama tryin’ to make a sissy out of you? What happened to your nose? Been chasin’ parked cars again?”

One glance at Spike’s ferocious profile was enough to terrorize everyone from Jehovah’s Witnesses to the UPS man. But behind the stern face and the intimidating physique was a kindness and loyalty to his family.

The only ones who needed to fear him were those who brought harm to his loved ones. And they were right to fear him. Given opportunity, he would tear them to shreds.

Clarence stood outside the big window on the fourteenth floor of the Justice Center, eyed by the receptionist.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No. But I’ve got some important information. Trust me, he’ll be interested.”

Three minutes later Ollie Chandler opened the door.

“Abernathy. What’s going on?”

“Got somethin’ for you.” Clarence tried to look casual. “The car was a large gold lowrider, maybe an old Impala or Caprice, late seventies. There were two guys, both Hispanic, wearing white T-shirts. The driver had a light mustache.”

Ollie stared at him, as if wondering whether this was a joke. “Come in,” Ollie said. He pointed to an interrogation room and closed the door behind them. “Who told you all this?”

“I did my own investigating. Found a kid named Mookie who was walking home on Seventh Street, you know, a couple of blocks over from MLK. He heard the shots, then saw them screeching down Jackson. Right in front of him.”

“I want to talk to this kid,” Ollie said.

“Sure. I’ve got all the info.” Clarence pointed to the yellow legal pad in front of him.

“How’d you find him?”

“I put out word on the streets.”

“Yeah? So did we,” Ollie said. “What word did you put out?”

“I offered a hundred dollars for information.”

“You what?”

“I said I’d pay for information. I gave Mookie a hundred dollars.”

“That’s not the way to do it.”

“Oh? And how many witnesses has your way uncovered?”

Ollie’s red blotches started to expand. “Okay. I’ll take whatever I can get. Don’t kick a gift horse in the teeth.”

“You mean, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth?”

“Why would you want to look him in the mouth?”

“Never mind,” Clarence said.

“Okay, so how do you know Doogie isn’t conning you?”

“Mookie.”

“Whatever. Sounds like an easy hundred bucks for makin’ up a story.”

“Look, it was all solid. I kept asking him questions, different ways. No contradictions. He sounded authentic. Didn’t come across like he’d made it up.”

“And you’d know the difference?”

“I’m a journalist, okay? I have to figure out people all the time. You get a feel for who’s shooting straight and who’s shooting bull.”

“He didn’t happen to see the license number?”

“No. Gold Oregon plates, that’s all.”

“He’s sure on the racial tag?” Ollie asked.

“Like I said, two Hispanics. He’s positive about the driver anyway. Window was rolled down. Got a clear view. Pretty sure on the other guy, the shooter. Positive on the car—size and shape and color anyway.”

“Okay, write down his phone number and address for me. I’ll get hold of your Mookie today. Nice job, detective. You maybe found us our best witness.”

“Maybe?”

“Just being cautious,” Ollie said. “I’m optimistic.”

“I’ve still got the word out. And I’ll keep nosing around.”

“Just be careful, okay? Remember, it’s not your case.”

“She was my sister.”

“You keep saying that. I’ve got a sister too, Holly, lives in Minneapolis. That’s why I’ve been talking to you. Manny thinks I’m crazy, but maybe he’ll change his tune with the info you dug up. Remember, though, I can’t let you too far in. You’ve got too much at stake in the whole thing to stay objective.”

“If some guy wasted your sister, what would you do?” Clarence asked him.

“Go after him.”

“Think the Minneapolis cops would let you in on their case?”

“Of course not. I mean, not officially. Shoot, my own lieutenant wouldn’t let me head up the case if it happened right here. You have to be able to keep your objectivity.”

“So that would keep you from going after the guy?”

“I’m saying officially I wouldn’t be able to—”

“I’m not talking officially. What would you do unofficially? If it had been almost three weeks and the cops hadn’t caught anybody, you’d nose around, wouldn’t you?”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“I’m trained. I know what I’m doing.”

“Guys don’t go after people who kill their sister because they’re professional detectives. They do it because she’s their sister.”

Ollie sighed. “But you still can’t—”

“I’ll do my part one way or the other. With you or without you.”

“You can always tell a journalist,” Ollie said. “But you can’t tell him much. The last time I let someone in on a case it was Jake Woods. He almost bit the big one. And I got a reprimand. ‘Keep civilians out unless they’re essential.’ That’s what the lieutenant told me, as if I didn’t know. And ever since Jake, I haven’t let civilians inside. Bottom line, Mr. Abernathy, you’re not essential.”

“Yeah? What did you know about the guys who shot up my sister until I got involved? Maybe I’ve got more time and interest than you do. How long before this case gets buried? You have to care about the other cases, I don’t. So maybe I
am
essential. Anyway, I’m not giving up.”

“Just don’t expect me to deputize you,” Ollie said.

“I’m not asking you for anything, okay? Maybe I’m just asking you to keep me posted, that’s all. What can I do to convince you? Besides offer you a Häagen-Dazs, I mean.”

“You’ve been talking to Jake, haven’t you? It won’t work. I won’t compromise my position for an ice-cream bar.”

“I didn’t think you would.” Long silence. “How about a double burger, fries, and a blackberry shake at Lou’s Diner?” Clarence asked.

“Now you’re getting closer.” Ollie got up from the desk. “Make it onion rings instead of fries and I’ll think about it. Woods is dog meat.” Ollie hesitated. “Before we hit Lou’s, you still want to see the computer image of the scene?”

He went over to a centralized computer ten feet from his desk, entered a program, called up a file, and a schematic of Dani’s room popped on the screen. The accuracy and detail stunned Clarence. Everything was labeled. Window, blinds, closet, big bed, little bed #1, little bed #2, all of them with enough reference points to form an outline of their shape. On the far wall were twenty-three dots labeled “bullet holes,” numbered consecutively. There were also some small items. One of them said “lunch pail.” There on the floor, points forming an outline, he saw two forms, the larger one labeled “dead body,” the smaller “live body.”

Clarence’s heart raced. “There were forty shots though, right?”

“Yeah. Some pierced the floor, some the side walls. See here?” He reoriented the screen so Clarence could see the other markings.

“I’m still a little skeptical about this new-fangled computer stuff,” Ollie admitted.

“But it’s the latest thing, huh?”

“Yeah, well, next month drive through dentistry may be the latest thing. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna do it. But I’ll give it a chance.”

“Drive through dentistry?”

“No. The laser unit.”

The phone rang. “Ollie Chandler. Yeah. Our turn again, already? Say it ain’t so. Okay. Off Southeast 39th and Powell? What’s the numbers? Got it.”

He put down the phone and sighed. “We’ll have to do Lou’s tomorrow, but I’ll hold you to it. Open case number four. Murder takes no holiday.”

“Jake?”

“Yeah, Clabern?”

“Have you ever asked God to heal Carly?”