Rules of Honour (18 page)

‘All in a day’s work for us,’ I told him. I smiled to show I was only joking. ‘It was important for your protection that we got away, don’t forget. It’s much better for everyone if we can bury the killer without the cops ever learning who he was. It’s the only way to save you ending your days behind bars.’

I left the rest unsaid, but Parnell got it. He knew that if the cops pulled him in he’d end up telling them about the cellar. He shut his eyes, and I wondered if he was weeping. I glanced over at Faulks. He was staring into vacant space. Or maybe he was looking back into the past. I left them to their reminiscences and turned to Rink again. ‘You’ll struggle getting your mom out now. The cops will probably be watching her after this.’

‘Good. While the cops are around it means she’s safe from the killer. We can concentrate on getting our buddies here outta the way.’

I hadn’t considered that.

We took the Bay Bridge out of the city, Rink hurling his cellphone out of the window and into the water below in case Jones was tracing its signal. We bypassed Oakland and Alameda on the Nimitz Freeway and headed into San Leandro where we would be well placed for when McTeer and Velasquez arrived at Oakland International. We cut across town to meet the MacArthur Freeway, followed it for a mile or so south and then took a road into Chabot Regional Park. The area was a golfers’ paradise, with no fewer than three courses in the immediate vicinity, and the hotel we headed for was more expensive than anywhere the police would expect us to flee to.

It was set out as individual lodges that had great views across Lake Chabot to where redwood trees dominated the craggy skyline. While Rink confirmed the booking, paying for a full week’s stay on a credit card, I took over driving duties and took the old men to their lodgings. There was no fear that we’d be traced by Rink’s credit trail – the card was registered to a shell company he’d fed money into, set up for just this kind of emergency – but there was always the chance that someone might recognise Parnell or Faulks if the police chose to flash their pictures to the desk staff. It was a shame that we were in such a beautiful location, because they could not make the most of it. For the next few days they would have to stay inside while their babysitters did all the coming and going.

While I escorted them inside, and got them settled, Rink made his way to the lodge on foot. It didn’t escape me that Rink was rather distinctive, much more memorable than either of the anonymous old men, but he had taken precautions, shedding his gaudy shirt for a plain T-shirt he’d fetched from the trunk, and hiding his hooded eyes behind reflective sunglasses. I watched him approach the lodge through a window, walking slightly bent over, his hands in his trouser pockets. He didn’t look anything like his normal self, which was good.

‘Everyone comfortable?’ He straightened up as he came in, pulling off the shades and hooking them in his collar. He made a quick scan of the lodge, and found it to his liking. Parnell and Faulks were positively out of their comfort zone, though. They stood at the centre of the main room, looking abashed, as though they’d just been caught red handed in a place they’d no right being.

‘How the other half live,’ Parnell said, casting his eye over the luscious furniture and décor. ‘This must cost an arm and a leg.’

‘Make the most of it,’ Rink said. ‘I can guarantee you’ll be sick of the sight of it in a couple of days’ time. Joe’s told you that you can’t leave, yeah?’

‘Could think of worse places to be locked up.’

‘A gilded cage is still a cage,’ Faulks put in. ‘Not that I’m ungrateful, Jared, but how long do you think we’re going to have to stay here?’

‘Hopefully it won’t be too long. But who can say? It depends on how fast we locate this bastard and take him out.’

I clapped Rink on his shoulder. ‘You’ll be OK on your own for a while? I’d best go and get things over with. Jones isn’t going to wait forever before he puts out an APB on us. Best that I go and speak with him before he makes it impossible for us to move around.’

‘Take the car,’ Rink said. ‘I’ll order a rental and have it delivered here. No, wait. On second thoughts, the cops we gave the slip to would have put out a description, maybe you’d best get a cab.’

I tossed him the keys. There was a phone on the wall, and I chose to use it rather than my cell. If Jones was resourceful enough he would already have requested a call log made from Rink’s phone. It was at the bottom of the bay now, but mine could still be traced if he found the number. I opened my cell, took out the battery and snapped the SIM card in two. It was one thing throwing myself to the wolves, but I didn’t want them finding the others.

I pulled my SIG out and handed it to Rink. Not a good idea to take it into a police station with me.

Then I walked out towards the exit gate, discarding the parts of my cellphone in a trashcan on the way. My cab arrived shortly after, and I gave the driver instructions to take me back into San Francisco. We took a different route back via the San Mateo toll bridge and Bay Shore Freeway, until I asked him to stop on the corner of 8th Street and Mission. I paid the driver, plus extra for the toll charge, and gave him a decent tip. I wasn’t too lavish with the cash, because I didn’t want him to remember me, but the guy had come a long distance out of his way and had to go back again. As soon as he’d pulled off I began looking for another cab, and flagged the first to come along.

‘Police station on Vallejo Street, please.’

The driver was a bit of a wise guy. ‘Normally when I pick someone up looking like you they want to avoid the cops.’

I’d washed, but my clothing was still dirty and smelled faintly of smoke. The guy probably thought I was a street person. ‘I’m good for the fare, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

‘I ain’t worried, just saying.’

Climbing into the cab, I pushed twenty dollars at him. ‘That’s for the fare up front.’ Then I slipped him another ten bucks. ‘That’s for the good advice. But drive there anyway.’

‘Your funeral, buddy.’

‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.’

Chapter 22

When he’d shot at the stranger he had made a big mistake.

It wasn’t the act of shooting itself, because that had achieved the desired result. The suppressor on his pistol had muffled the retort and hadn’t attracted any untoward attention. All witnesses had turned at the sound of screeching tyres as the stranger took evasive action, and their attention held as traffic began to pile up on the street. He had to wonder what the outcome would have been if he’d shot the stranger on one of the fast-moving freeways as opposed to a surface street. As it was the carnage went way beyond anything he had anticipated. He would have liked to check that the stranger was dead, but the magnitude of the crash meant that patrol cars would be responding very quickly. He could not see how the man could have avoided certain death. A cattle truck flattened his car, and even if he had survived the bullet he’d have suffered tremendous injuries. Dead or not he’d be in no shape to offer protection to the next people on his list.

No, the mistake he’d made was in wearing his uniform while out on the street. It was stupid and reckless, and could identify him if anyone had indeed witnessed the shooting, or his quick run back to his car and subsequent speedy getaway. His work clothes weren’t distinctive in themselves – it wasn’t as if it was a police officer’s uniform or anything else immediately identifiable – but it wouldn’t take much tracking down by a determined investigator. He had been acting on impulse, he recalled. The uniform had offered good disguise as he’d fled from Yoshida Takumi’s house, but he should have shed it before shooting at the stranger. He wouldn’t make another amateurish mistake like that again.

It was hours later now, and still he wore the same jacket and cap. As soon as he was out of here he would ensure they were well out of the way at home when he went for the next target. He couldn’t keep his mind on his job for the distraction of thinking about tonight. He had to plan every move, make sure that there were no slip-ups. This time he would not mess around but get in, kill his next victim and get out again. The cops weren’t fools and would be closing in. It was only a matter of time until they recognised the pattern and zoned in on the remaining conspirators and took them into protective custody; he couldn’t imagine how he would get at them then. Unless he dropped an anonymous tip – told the police what the bastards had done forty years earlier. If they were arrested and subsequently sent down, well, things would be different then. They would be out of the way, incarcerated behind bars, but there were always ways and means where a prison was concerned. Money placed in the right hands, a door
accidentally
left unlocked, a guard willing to turn a blind eye, and many a prisoner’s life had been ended in a welter of violence.

Earlier he’d thought about ringing in sick, taking the day off to plan and recoup after the disaster at Yoshida’s place, but it was imperative that he not attract any unwanted attention. Best that he kept up his usual life and not give anyone a reason to question what he was up to outside of work. There were a number of nosy people around here and he didn’t want any of them putting two and two together. If he stuck to the programme, separated his paying career from his vocational work, then he should be fine. When all of this was done, and he avoided discovery, he would still need his job. Despite bragging to Daniel Lansdale about continuing his mission he had no intention of pushing the issue too soon. Revenge is a dish best served cold, he’d heard. Once the conspirators were all punished, he’d be happy to go back to his normal work for a while, before seeking out those others deserving of a visit from him.

Before setting off on his crusade, he had been a relatively law-abiding man, and if he hadn’t learned the horrible truth from Bruce Tennant most likely he would be now. However things had changed and there was no going back to the person he used to be. The thrill of the chase was all-encompassing at present, and if he slipped back into his normal life he would miss the excitement. He got some action during his ordinary day-to-day duties, and though he occasionally fed his desire for violence, there was a line he was not allowed to cross. He did not wish to endanger his employment here, he needed a wage because killing required an income. Plus, he owed a lot to this place: who’d have thought it would have led to the discovery of those responsible for murdering his father?

Bruce Tennant wanted more alcohol. He was barely tipsy and wished nothing more than to be speechless, so that when he returned home he’d be oblivious to the stench and grime, so that when he lay down to sleep he wouldn’t be conscious of the bugs crawling over his face, let alone the noises from his neighbouring apartments. He had spent all the cash he’d scratched from his pocket, and had managed to scam a couple of drinks from one of his drunker barfly buddies, but then he’d allowed his temper to get the better of him and began mouthing off. The barkeep at the
Dynamo
had grabbed him, told him there were no more warnings and had thrown him out on the street. He had to learn to keep his goddamn mouth shut; one of these days it was going to get him in real trouble.

He stumbled along, aware of the hobos sitting in doorways, their hands out, handwritten notes begging for change. More than once he thought about rolling one of them for their takings, but he knew where that would lead. Before long he’d be spending more time in their company, and soon he’d be sitting alongside them with his hand out.

There was a Seven-Eleven on the corner of his street. He went in, lingered around the counters. An Iranian teller watched him the entire time, and he stumbled outside again, his opportunity to boost a bottle or two missed. As he came out the door, swearing under his breath, a big guy had blocked his path. The man had grunted something – almost like an exclamation – before shoving past and into the shop. ‘A little fucking manners wouldn’t go amiss,’ Tennant shouted at him. Then he recalled his earlier resolve to mind his mouth, and he loped away before the guy could chase him down.

This part of the city was run down. That was an understatement if ever he’d heard one. It was downright
shitty.
He had no right to complain, of course. It was his own fault that he’d ended up here, and having been kicked loose from prison only weeks before he should feel damn fortunate to have found a landlord willing to give a room to an ex-jailbird. He didn’t feel lucky. His house wasn’t fit for rats, let alone human habitation. The fact that it was all he could afford was beside the point, and it didn’t mean he had to be happy about the arrangement. He shared the house with two other men. Both were drunks, and he trusted they were out in the bars, mooching free drinks in exchange for raunchy stories. He was going to get his head down – it would be impossible if either were home. One of them was so deaf he had to yell even when speaking to himself. The other fancied himself the
Great Caruso
and sang freakin’ opera at the top of his voice.

He had a key to the front door, but it was pointless. The frame was so warped that the components of the lock didn’t meet. As he usually did, he grabbed the handle, twisted it, and shoved with a shoulder against the door until it popped open. He closed the door in reverse. His heels scuffed through a drift of accumulated trash: mainly crushed beer cans and flyers, unopened bills and soiled clothing. There was no light bulb in the hall, but enough ambient city light came through the grimy window at the top of the stairs to guide a path through the junk. He passed the Great Caruso’s room on the left, and the door to the basement on the right. He lived on the second floor. The stair carpet was threadbare, holed in places, and a trap for the unwary. But he’d learned to navigate the danger spots – even drunk – so went up the stairs, grasping the rail for support. He had only made it part way up when he heard the door shoved open. Shit, his plans of dropping off to sleep now were scuppered. He swung round, a warning that his housemate
keep the fuck quiet
building on his lips.