Extreme Justice (23 page)

“Maybe not. But he might still come in handy. Maybe he saw something; maybe he heard something.”

“Don’t you think he would’ve said so by now?”

“Sometimes people don’t realize the significance of what they know. Sometimes they forget. I’ve seen people totally forget important pieces of information till they’re on the witness stand. You never know.”

“Well, I’ll set somethin’ up, but I don’t want you givin’ Scat no bad time. He’s been around a while, you know?”

“I know.”

“Man’s old as Moses, and about as good. He’s done a lot for me. Me and the Professor both. So I don’t want you treatin’ him like no criminal.”

“You have my word, Earl.”

“All right then.” He wiped his face with a napkin. “What else?”

“I’ve spoken with Lieutenant Morelli at police headquarters,” Ben explained. “He’s says they’re still not prepared to make an arrest. But he also told me Police Chief Blackwell is under pressure, both from the press and from the city council, to make an arrest. So you figure it out.”

Earl grunted. “It’s gonna happen. They’re jus’ bidin’ their time.”

“Yeah, but their time’s gonna come quickly. We have to be ready. That includes Tyrone. He’s all that’s kept you out of the hoosegow this long.”

Earl coughed into his hand. “About Tyrone. I wanted to talk to you about that.”

“Is there a problem? Is he threatening to recant?”

“No, no. I jus’ don’t want the boy involved.”

“Earl, we don’t have any choice. He’s critical to our case.”

“If he testifies for me, he puts himself on the line.”

“He’s already on the line. Those warrants bearing his name will exist whether he testifies for you or not.”

“But he could get out. He could deal. Right?”

Ben didn’t say anything.

“If he becomes the witness that puts a dent in their nice neat case against me, they’re gonna go up against him with everything they have. Hell, they’ll probably call in both warrants and charge him jus’ so they can say he’s a criminal when he takes the stand.” He leaned forward. “Right?”

Ben pursed his lips. “It’s possible.”

“But it’s a sure thing they’ll go against Tyrone, right? Don’t lie to me, Ben.”

“Lieutenant Morelli doesn’t think either charge amounts to much. But if your case goes to trial”—Ben drew in his breath—“you’re right. The prosecutor is certain to go after Tyrone.”

“Well, I don’t want that to happen. Tyrone’s a good boy. He’s tryin’ to straighten himself out. He deserves a chance.”

“But if he knows something, he has an obligation to come forward.”

“You’re not listenin’ to me, Ben. They’ll crucify him.”

“You can’t be sure of that. You don’t even know he’s guilty.”

“I know the cops have a way of makin’ a man guilty if they want him to be.”

Ben didn’t argue; Earl was the expert on that subject. “Look, let me talk to Tyrone. See what really happened. If this fraud warrant is a bum rap, I’ll do everything in my power to get him off.”

“And if it isn’t?”

“We’ll find out how strong the prosecution case is. We’ll see what they’ve got, then take it from there.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning we’ll talk about the possibility of not using Tyrone as a witness. Just let me talk to him.”

“I’m supposed to be meetin’ Tyrone tonight.” Earl checked his watch. “In fact, I’m late.”

“It’s a little late in the day for a sax lesson, isn’t it?”

“This wasn’t no sax lesson. This was for me to give him a wad of cash and tell him to get the hell out of Dodge. Before he gets dragged into this mess.”

“Please don’t do that, Earl. Please.” Ben leaned across the table. “Look, let me keep your meeting. I’ll see Tyrone, try to get this thing worked out. There must be some solution that doesn’t send anyone to prison. Or worse.”

“I don’t know. I—”

“Please, Earl, trust me on this one. Give me a chance.”

Earl stared at Ben. “All right,” he said finally. “You keep the meetin’. But I want to hear about it, and if you can’t get him off the hook—”

Ben nodded. “We’ll discuss that when we get there.”

He checked his watch once more before leaving. Good, just enough time to make the appointment.

He was pleased to see it was a dark night. He had completely repainted the van; still, it was best not to take any risks. The whole purpose of this venture was to terminate the risks, not to create new ones.

He made sure he had everything—keys, wallet, and most important, the shiny silver blade. That would come in handy tonight.

He’d had trouble sleeping lately. He was plagued by nightmares. Fears that the stupid-ass kid in the bathroom might finally realize who and what he had seen.

He couldn’t let that happen. He would get no rest until that threat was eliminated.

Which was what tonight was all about.

He fingered the handle of the long serrated blade tucked in the holster of his belt. This was the night he put his fears to rest. This was the night the nightmares stopped, the long darkness ended.

He stopped on his way out the door, touching that shiny gold Supertone sax for luck. There had to be some luck coming off that, didn’t there? Had to be something special about it.

He left the house and started toward the garage. He was feeling lucky already. This would be the last night for his problems. The last night he would have to worry.

And the last night—period!—for one Tyrone Jackson.

He smiled, his hand gripping the knife. Tyrone Jackson—and anyone else who got in his way.

W
HEN TYRONE ARRIVED
at Uncle Earl’s, no one was there. The lights were out and the door was locked. He waited ten minutes, but no one showed. He peered through the club window, but he didn’t see anything untoward. Maybe Earl had forgotten. Maybe he’d gotten tired and gone home.

Long enough, Tyrone decided. It was dark out here, and he was alone, and for some reason, the whole situation gave him the creeps. He’d better start heading back if he expected to make his other appointment. He definitely did not want to be late. He was in deep enough with Momo already. He’d come back tomorrow and find out what had happened with Earl.

He returned to his car. Why did he have this overwhelming
creepy
feeling? Shivers raced down his body. He checked the backseat, making sure he was alone. Then he slid into the driver’s seat, locked the doors from the inside, and started the car. It was stupid, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching him.

He backed the car down the gravel driveway and pulled onto Brady, heading north. He could be in Rockwood in ten minutes, and the sooner the better, as far as he was concerned. He was ready to finish this. There was too much uncertainty in his life. Too much risk. Too much of this nauseating feeling that at any moment he might go tumbling over the brink.

He had left the gang for a reason—so he wouldn’t have to go through his entire life feeling this way. He didn’t like it. He wanted to spend his time blowing the sax, not worrying about whether—

His eyes darted to the rearview mirror. A pair of headlights gleamed in the distance, maybe a hundred feet behind him. High off the ground, too—probably a pickup or a van. Not that close; actually, he’d be happier if it was closer. Then he wouldn’t have this uncomfortable feeling that whoever was driving the thing didn’t want to be spotted.

Those headlights had been with him since he’d left the club. And he didn’t like that at all.

He leaned forward, squinting slightly, trying to see the car behind the headlights. He couldn’t make out any details, couldn’t get the color or the make. But it wasn’t long enough to be a pickup. It had a different shape, a wider, roomier look.

It was a van. Had to be.

He pressed his foot down on the accelerator, creeping steadily over the speed limit. The van fell back at first, as if taken by surprise, but soon accelerated to keep pace. No closer, no farther. It just maintained the same distance behind.

The driver couldn’t really do anything to him while he was driving, Tyrone reasoned. But as soon as he stopped somewhere …

Tyrone made an abrupt right turn, careening off the main road and tearing down a residential street at a speed much too fast for the narrow, pothole-pocked road. He bumped and rattled, scraping his muffler on the concrete.

The turn had been quick, but not quick enough. The headlights followed.

As his pursuer rounded the corner, Tyrone got a good broadside view.

It was a van, all right. Definitely a van. And who did he know that drove a van?

Well, Kincaid, for one.

And the man in the disguise who delivered the rug. The man who probably killed Lily Campbell.

Tyrone made another sudden right turn, then another at his first opportunity. He didn’t have any illusions that he was going to lose this van, but he suddenly had a desperate desire to get back to the main road. If something did happen, he didn’t want it to happen here in the shadows, off the beaten track. Most of these houses were empty, and of the few that weren’t, there was no chance the residents would be opening their doors this late at night.

On a sudden hunch, Tyrone slowed his car outside the last house on the block, stopped, and laid on the horn. In his rearview, he saw the van slow and stop just before it made the last turn. It was waiting for him to move, not getting too close, just in case someone responded to the horn.

He honked again, several times rapidly, as if trying to get someone’s attention. With luck, the driver of the van would get the mistaken impression that he was waiting for someone, expecting to pick someone up. Or to put it another way, that he had made this detour through the residential section for a reason other than losing his tail. Tyrone thought it best that the driver not realize he had been spotted, or at the least, that he not be sure.

After a few more honks, Tyrone made a big show of shrugging his shoulders, then put the car back into drive. He returned to the main road and started cruising, just a few notches beneath the speed limit. Sure enough, the van followed him onto the road and assumed its former near-invisible position about a hundred feet behind.

Who the hell was it? Tyrone pounded on the steering column. He could feel sweat trickling down the side of his face—for the second time tonight—and he didn’t like it. Damn. He thought he’d left all this crap behind, all this cloak-and-dagger, macho, crimes-and-misdemeanors BS. He didn’t want this in his life!

Especially when he didn’t know who was after him. That was what bothered him most. It wasn’t Momo back there. It wasn’t Bulldog and it wasn’t the cops. It was some unknown asshole in a van. Tyrone didn’t know who he was. And he had a distinct feeling he didn’t want to find out. Or that if he did, it would be the last thing he ever did.

He was getting close to Rockwood now. In a few minutes, he would return to where he had left his car earlier that evening. Then he would have to get out and thread his way through the back alleys to Momo’s hideout. And he didn’t particularly want to be doing it with Mr. Rug Delivery breathing down his neck. If that guy got his hands on him, Tyrone felt certain he’d never make it to his meeting.

He eased off the gas pedal, slowing the car. Nothing sudden, nothing that would raise immediate suspicion. Forty-five, forty, thirty. As before, the car behind him was initially surprised, then adjusted its speed to compensate. As soon as the van was back in its respectfully distant place, Tyrone slowed the car even more. Thirty, twenty-five, twenty.

Just as he reached the point where he would’ve parked anyway, he brought the car to a sudden stop. He was going slow enough that he could do it quickly, without tipping off the van driver until it was too late for him to do anything about it. The van passed Tyrone, still cruising, then rounded the curve in the road ahead, brakes squealing.

Tyrone knew he didn’t have much time. He scrambled out of his car and made a beeline for the safety of Rockwood. If he could immerse himself in that labyrinth of ruins and rubble, the van driver would never be able to find him. And he could still get to Momo before Momo was even madder at him than he already was.

Doing his best impression of an Olympic sprinter, Tyrone bolted across the highway and made for the nearest building. The ABC Cab Company—at least that’s what it used to be. It was nothing now, rusted old cab frames hoisted onto cinder blocks and forgotten.

He plunged into the dark alleyway and pressed up against the side of a building to listen. He didn’t hear anything, thank God. The Rug Man was not in pursuit. Tyrone actually managed to give him the slip.

Tyrone found a fire escape ladder on the north side and scaled it till he found a safe perch on the roof. He stepped cautiously; he knew this roof was probably far from safe. Crouching on all fours, he crawled across till he got a view of the street below.

He could see his car, even in the darkness of these unlit streets. And from his high perch, he could see the van, around the bend and perhaps four or five hundred feet ahead. He had expected the driver to turn around and double back. That would be the logical thing to do.

Unless the driver was smarter than that.

He peered down at the van, dark and motionless. There were no lights on. Although he couldn’t be certain, he saw no indication that anyone was sitting inside.

The driver had abandoned his car, just as Tyrone had abandoned his. Neither of them could use them, or would need them, on this particular battlefield.

The driver was on foot.

He could be anywhere now. Anywhere at all.

Ben checked his watch, checked his speedometer, then pressed the pedal all the harder. He’d been late for Earl’s appointment with Tyrone even before he knew there was an appointment, and he knew Tyrone wouldn’t hang around forever. If he didn’t get to talk to him now, there was no telling when or if he would. Tyrone might do a bolt, might decide to forget what he saw. Anything could happen, none of it good. He needed to talk to the kid.

He crossed over Archer and headed into North Tulsa. He was coming up on what was left of the old Rockwood development. He hated this part of town; it reminded him of the profound disparity that still existed, too often along racial lines, between the haves and the have-nots in this city. Worse, it reminded him of a harrowing chase he and Mike had made through this part of town after a little boy who had been abducted. Just driving down the road gave him the shivers.