Dominion (76 page)

“I said they came up with thirty-two thousand cash for a car dealer in Sacramento. That doesn’t mean they had that money in the car when they came to Oregon. And they almost certainly didn’t have it in southern Oregon when they were pulled over by the cop who called me.”

“How do you know?”

“Officer Seymour searched the car.”

“Don’t you need a warrant for that?”

“Well, first he saw the marijuana pipe poking out from under the passenger seat, with the seeds in it. So, under the plain view provision he legally confiscated it. Then he asked if they had any more drugs. Naturally they said no. Then he said, ‘So you wouldn’t mind if I searched the car, would you?’ They said, no, go ahead.”

“You mean they agreed to a search? Even when they didn’t have to?”

“Yeah. He asked for them to open the trunk. He said they had these smirks on their faces, like they thought he was some goat-roper cop who didn’t know how to handle smart city boys. He waited till backup got there, a cover unit. Didn’t want to be bending over the trunk and have the lid slammed on him. Of course, he patted them both down. They were unarmed. One had a pocketknife, that was all. He checked their wallets, escorted the passenger, the shorter guy who looked more menacing, to the backseat of his patrol car.”

“They didn’t seem nervous?”

“No, not at all. That tells us a lot. Number one, if they have the HK in the car or that kind of money, they don’t give permission for a search. Number two, if they do, they’re sweatin’ bullets hopin’ he won’t find their secret cache. How do you hide an HK53 and at least thirty-two thousand in one hundred dollar bills—over three
hundred
one hundred dollar bills? That’s a pile of money, and that’s just what they spent on the car. Who knows how much more they had? But the officer said they were cool as ice water. Like they knew he couldn’t get them for anything but a teensy little violation.”

“I don’t get it,” Clarence said. “Then where was the gun and the money?”

“Well, one possibility is they’re innocent and never had the gun. Okay, not entirely innocent—obviously they were up to no good to steal those plates. But maybe they didn’t do the shooting. Thing is, I ran a full listing of crimes done in Portland that same night. One armed robbery, four burglaries, a rape, two car thefts, a few miscellaneous drug deals and prostitution arrests. Quiet night. Your sister was the only homicide. The armed robber was caught, and one of the burglaries and the rape happened while Herb says these two were at Taco Bell. The other three burglaries were in the middle of the night, after your sister was killed. The largest amount of cash was six hundred dollars, plus some jewelry, a microwave, and a stereo. If they hung around to do a burglary, no way they did the shooting. You don’t pull off a major hit, then fool around with a dinky burglary. You get out of town pronto. Besides, you don’t come to Portland to do burglaries. There’s plenty of nicer homes in San Diego, L.A., and the Bay Area. I mean, we’ve had some guys fly in and pull off some major heists, but we’d know if that happened.”

“They fly in to steal stuff?”

“Sure. They pull off their job, go straight to the airport, they’re on their flight home and gone. Plus they earn frequent flier mileage. And sometimes get to see a movie. Then there’s complimentary beverages and peanuts. Occasionally, a nice little chocolate. Anyway, we know they didn’t do a burglary. The officer didn’t find anything when he searched their car. No TV, microwave, nothing.”

“So where does this leave us?”

“Well, if they stole the license plate, we know they were up to no good. If they were up to no good, the only thing we know about that they could have done was the shooting.”

“But if they did it, they’d have the HK53, right? And the officer should have found it.”

“You can’t hide the HK in your boxer shorts, that’s for sure. They could have gotten rid of it. Maybe sold it cheap to somebody in Portland on the way out of town, but I doubt it. Too much risk of being identified and traced. If I were them, I’d disassemble it and throw it out piece by piece, one section off the bridge into the Willamette, the others off 1-5, maybe a hundred miles apart.”

“Would they really ditch a weapon that valuable?”

“If they’ve got brains, yeah. Especially if they know they’re coming into some really big money. Then a weapon worth a few thousand bucks doesn’t mean much. Why risk a murder charge by hanging on to a fancy gun? Not when you can buy ten fancy guns and still have another fifteen thousand pocket change.”

“Okay, you’re saying they were paid to kill Leesa? By whom?”

“Well, it’s a hunch, but right now I’m thinking this may be tied to Norcoast.”

“What?” Clarence’s eyebrows crawled up his forehead. “Norcoast? Ollie, I know neither of us likes the guy, but
murder?”

“Look, whenever a pregnant teenage girl dies, there’s always one big question. Who’s the father? Turns out Leesa didn’t have a boyfriend. And most important, Leesa and Norcoasts’ daughter, Katie, were best buddies. Leesa almost lived over at Norcoasts’ house, stayed overnight there a couple of times a week right up to June or so.”

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“Hey, I’m just saying somebody wanted to kill Leesa, and they tried it twice, assuming she didn’t take up cocaine spur of the moment. The killer succeeded the second time. Whoever was behind the thing had money, connections, and a plan. Politicians have money, connections, and plans, especially if they’ve slept with a minor and gotten her pregnant. Hey, it’s just a theory. I’m open. Do you have a better one?”

“Not offhand.”

“There’s more. If our boys in the Lexus did the job, they were paid big money to kill Leesa. We know they didn’t have the money when they were pulled over in southern Oregon. But we know they
did
by the time they bought the car, before they left Sacramento.”

“Didn’t the car dealership have to make sure the title was clear?”

“Sure. Everything checked out. The dealer did the paperwork—they faxed it to me. It’s standard procedure for them to photocopy the driver’s license. They faxed that too, but it’s real grainy.” Ollie pointed to his file folder. “They’re sending me a color photocopy.”

Clarence pulled the fax and stared at the picture, wondering if he was looking at the killer.

“Let’s get back to the Sacramento connection,” Ollie said. “What can you tell me about Sacramento?”

“Capital city.”

“Who lives there?” Ollie asked.

“Lots of people.”

“What kinds of people?”

“All kinds,” Clarence said. “Tons of political types, for one thing.” He looked at Ollie. “Possible link to Norcoast?”

“Why not? There’s a lot of inbreeding with politicals. May explain their mental condition. Suppose Norcoast needed somebody taken out. He’s not stupid. He’s so high profile and so much is on the line, he wouldn’t go straight to some gang member, certainly not a local. And how many L.A. gang members would he know and trust? But he might casually mention to someone with gang connections the name and address of someone he wishes would take a permanent vacation, and then say, ‘By the way, I want to give you some big money just for being my friend. No strings attached.’ Then the guy knows he’s supposed to call in some boys to get rid of his problem. The middle man can pay the guys handsomely and still keep a slug of the money for himself, while the guy who drops the hints can say he never ordered anything.”

“You really think that’s possible?”

“Of course it’s
possible.
Not probable maybe, but it’s a hunch. It fits a lot of the facts we know. That’s what detective work is about. You keep coming up with theories that fit the facts. When more facts materialize, you revise or eliminate your theories one by one. What doesn’t get eliminated is the answer. Anyway, right now I just want to find out one thing.”

“What?”

“Who does Reggie Norcoast know in Sacramento?”

Ollie and Clarence walked into the prison side by side. Ellis’s visiting hours were already used up, but they’d set up an official police appointment to meet Ken Gold, a.k.a. Big Dog. It struck Clarence as ironic he was about to meet a stranger with no glass divider between them, when he hadn’t been able to touch his own brother for twenty years.

A guard escorted Big Dog. He was medium-sized and soft-featured, contradicting his nickname. He was young but looked like a gang veteran, with a prominent scar across his chin and a crease in his jaw that looked as if a chunk of flesh had been shot out.

“You’re Ellis’s brother?” Big Dog asked.

Clarence nodded. “I’m Clarence. This is Ollie Chandler. Homicide detective.”

“Okay.” Big Dog looked a little nervous. “I just got transferred in here a few weeks ago. Ellis has been talking about his sister. Well, I was there that night. I saw the guys that did it.”

“Tell us exactly what happened,” Ollie said.

“Me and my posse got down that night, done some smack, some ludes, some ice. I was on my dime speed, just kickin’ it up Tenth, comin’ home from Irving Park. I was almost to Brumbelow.”

“What time?”

“About midnight. Heard all these pops, just a couple blocks away, toward MLK. Sounded like a war. But just one gat—no retaliation or nothin’. Like it was a big-time drive by, takin’ some dude outta the box. I knew somebody sufferin’, need bufferin,’ man, no doubt about that. Heard the tires squeal. Pulled a ghost, man, I mean they vamped outta there.”

“What’d you do?”

“I hear them comin’ my way, toward Tenth, man. All of a sudden they hang a right and they’re just two blocks away comin’ at me, crossin’ Moffat. I ride up over the curb, throw down my dime and jump behind this fence on Brumbelow, by McKenney’s old place. Then they fly by. See, I’m lookin’ out through a crack in the fence toward the passenger side and I see this loc starin’ out the window, rolled down. He had this herky rosco tucked up against the side-view mirror, pointed out at the street. At first I thought it was a gauge, but it looked more like some piece out of the movies, like Snipes or Arnold would carry. Ready to fire on someone, I’m tellin’ you, finger on the trigger. Like he was expectin’ a fight with 5-0 or was gonna get anybody who saw them. I was pressed up against that fence. Yo, he never saw me, or he’d a shot me, sure of that. Thought I was gonna get jammed for sure.”

“What then?”

“They jetted outta the hood, the gat man and his Ace Kool—I’m tellin’ you they were gone. Went down a few streets and turned out toward MLK.”

“What did the guy with the gun look like?”

“Wearin’ a red sweatshirt, like a Crab, with the hood down. Had a TWA and a mustache, maybe some chin whiskers. He was draped—could see gold chain on his neck.”

“TWA?” Ollie asked.

“Teeny weeny afro, you know, short crop.”

“You mean he was … what color was he?” Clarence asked.

“He be a brotha.”

“Black?”

Big Dog nodded, looking at Clarence as if to say, Did you ever meet a brotha who wasn’t black?

“You see the driver?” Ollie asked.

“Not real good, not like I seen his Ace Kool. But I could see a little from the streetlight. Had on a red sweatshirt too. And definitely a brother. No way was he a Spic.” Ellis had obviously told him Mookie’s story.

“Anybody else in the car?”

“Not unless they was lyin’ flat.”

“What kind of car?”

“No bucket, tellin’ you that. Impala? Not even close. Deft, real deft. Laces, man, chrome spokes. And lifts maybe. Not so sure on that.”

“Make and model?”

“Don’t know my rides that well. Real fancy. Like a Beemer, but trickier.”

“How about a Lexus?”

“Maybe.”

Ollie pulled a Lexus catalogue from his briefcase and started flipping pages. “Look familiar?”

“Yeah. That’s it! Or maybe that one.” He pointed first at one picture, then at another, the LS. Ollie turned to the back and showed him a page of a dozen exterior colors. Big Dog pointed immediately at the Alpine Silver Metallic. “That’s it for sure.”