The Disposables (20 page)

“That's right.”

I looked up to see Robby smiling in the rearview. I saw an evilness I'd never seen before. It hadn't been there. Not when we partnered. Something had changed him.

Mack stared straight ahead. He looked at me with short, little glances. He wouldn't let Robby see his reaction.

I said to Robby, “If I'm one of them, then so are you.”

He laughed. “Now, just how do you figure? I'm not the one going down for the last time, kidnap, murder takes you out of the game for good, my friend. Me, I'm done. I'm taking a long, well-deserved vacation.”

“You're no different than I am. Worse maybe.”

“Oh, is that right? This is rich, tell me, please.”

“All those times you—we, planted evidence, lied in reports, for what? To what purpose? To put some scumbag in the slam. Each time we snipped off a little bit of our souls. We convinced
ourselves, each time we did it, it was for the better good. That's what we told ourselves. At first anyway, then it became as natural as any other department procedure. We committed felonies, multiple counts. How are those felonies different?”

“If you don't know, pal, I feel sorry for you.”

“We were nothing but a gang of street thugs ourselves, with tattoos, guns, and initiations, who constantly conspired to commit felonies.”

Mack squirmed in his seat.

“Those kids back there were in a bad place. I took them out of that place and gave them a chance. You—you—” Big hot tears blurred my vision and wet my face. “You put them right back in that hostile environment. They don't have a chance now. You're a big man, Robby Wicks, a big man. We stretched the rules to throw bad people in prison for the betterment of society. That was the theory, right? Tell me how it's different?”

We pulled up to the secure parking at the Century Station and waited for the gate to open and admit us. My last chance.

He said, “It's a lot simpler than some convoluted theory of yours. There has to be good guys and bad guys. These good guys just caught themselves a number-one bad guy, an ex-con out on parole for murder, a con who committed murder and kidnapping again for the last time. Our mission is accomplished. I'd like to say I felt sorry for what you now face. But I don't. You made your choices. It's Miller time.”

The gate wasn't yet open all the way, but open enough, and he gunned the car through the narrow gap. Robby skidded to a stop, slammed the car in park, and got out. To Mack he said, “Book him. I'll see you in four weeks. I'm en route to a vacation in Jamaica, mon.”

I'd been who he was after all along. I wanted to yell at him,
ask him about the torch who still prowled the ghetto, dousing victims and lighting them up. How could it not matter to him? I thought I knew the man. When we worked together he would never take a vacation when a major case remained open, especially one with a psycho out on the street torching innocent folks.

They let me cool out in an interview room, handcuffed, some of the black nylon rope from the hobble still tangled around my right ankle. The thought of my father in a cold, damp jail cell living out the last days of his life, all because of something I had done, something I had organized and put in play, made me look for a place to hang the rope. Not that it would help, as they were continually monitoring from the other room with a pinhole camera, waiting until I ripened for interrogation.

A while later Mack came in, t-shirt, Levi's, his shoulder holster empty, his hands full with two cups of coffee and a thick, brown accordion file folder he placed on the table. He did well fighting the urge to smile. They had won, brought in their prize. He'd come from the bull pen gloating over their victory. What he wanted now was a little gravy. He wanted information so he could act the big man when the FBI came in to adopt the kidnap case, take everything federal. He uncuffed one hand and secured me to the ring mounted in the table and slid the cup over. He was trying for Mr. Congeniality. Only that personality wouldn't fit, not the way I already knew him. I couldn't meet his eyes. He didn't know what to say to get it started. In the same situation I probably wouldn't either.

“You like it black?”

“That some kind of slur?”

“No, man, it's my attempt at being civil.”

“How's the deputy doing, the one that hurt his leg?”

Mack grunted. “He's going to make it, no thanks to you.”

“What do you want from me? You have your case. Book me and let's get it over with.”

“You know the routine,” he said. “I have to read you your rights.”

“I'm not a fool. You're wasting your time. I'm invoking my right to remain silent.” Saying the words brought me back into the real world. Far off in the back of my mind, I realized there was a chance, a slim chance with a good lawyer and a sympathetic jury that I could walk. The next logical thought popped up, I could make a deal, take all the heat of the case to get Marie and Dad off. I sat up straight.

Mack stood to leave.

“Wait. Can we deal?”

Mack couldn't help himself, he looked up to the corner of the room as if asking permission. There was nothing there, the camera lens professionally camouflaged. This was a slippery slope. I had invoked and then asked for a deal, both of which were beyond Mack's skill level and pay grade. He didn't have the ability to negotiate nor know how to take a second waiver. Even so, he sat back down.

As a sign of good faith, with my free hand I sipped the tepid, acrid coffee.

He again pulled out his waiver card. “Because you initially invoked, I have to readvise you.”

“I used to be a cop. I know all about the Miranda admonishment.” I looked up at the corner of the ceiling. “I know my rights and I waive them.”

“Okay, then.” He sipped his coffee as a stall to collect his thoughts. “What kind of deal?”

I picked my words carefully, “I want my girl and my father cut loose.”

Mack waited, thinking it over. “That's a separate issue.”

“What?”

“She's up on separate charges. Aiding and abetting, you know the routine. We need to talk about this other thing.”

“What are you talking about? What other thing?” This was an interrogation technique, throw a little out there and let the subject wonder, and out of guilt he starts to talk.

“I can get the DA in here, but I don't think he'll deal on those charges when he's got such a strong case against you on this other thing. I'm just here to get your statement if you want to give me one. The big boys from Homicide will be here in a minute.”

“What other thing? Why is Homicide involved? What am I being charged with?”

The nasty Mack returned, “Don't play dumb. It's not gonna to work.”

“I'll ask you again. What am I being charged with?”

He sat back, gave the-cat-that-ate-the-canary smile. “Kidnap and murder one, multiple counts, six to be exact. And here in California it rates the death penalty.”

I was numb. The revelation didn't faze me. I laughed. “Who are all these folks I am supposed to have killed?”

“Okay, we can play it your way. Ned Bressler's one. He's also the one who tripped you up on all the others.”

“Ned Bressler? What are you talking about? When did I purportedly commit this heinous crime against society? Not that Bressler qualifies as a human.”

Mack didn't answer, a wise move when interviewing and trying to get something, anything to get a wedge into the suspect.

“Tell me, Detective Mack, how was I supposed to commit these murders with a crack team of Sheriff's Violent Crime detectives following me twenty-four seven?”

“I'm not going to lay the entire case out. I'm not the fool you think I am. There is strong physical evidence you killed Ned Bressler. And, according to your employer and friend, John Ahern, aka Jumbo, you had plenty of motive.”

“There can't be any evidence because I haven't laid eyes on Bressler for the better part of a week.” I didn't want to give it to him, tell him about the train heists if they didn't already know about them. I didn't think it would bode well for my case. The murder rap was all smoke and mirrors.

“So,” I said, “in the words of all the famous criminals who have gone before me, put up or shut up.”

The light that ignited in Mack's eyes scared me. On his flat pie-pan face a wide, ugly smile slowly materialized. He reached over to the brown accordion file, his meaty hand disappearing inside, and came out with a gun in an evidence bag.

My mind spun trying to hook onto the possibilities. What gun could they possibly have?

Mack kept it out of reach, “It's not loaded so don't even think about it. We lifted your fingerprints off it.”

The .45. It could only be the .45 I took off Q-Ball, the one in the trunk of the root beer-brown Plymouth the BMFs had staked out. The one Vanfleet took a beating over. Sure, that gun would have my prints on it. The only gun I could think of that I had touched in recent history. But I didn't kill anyone with it. But from where I sat, the distance, coupled with the plastic bag obscuring the black metal, it did look like Q's .45.

“Is that Q-Ball's gun?”

Mack's smile didn't waver. After a second, his head moved from side to side. “So you're saying you know whose gun it is? You cop an insanity plea, they might put you in the booby hatch for the rest of your life. Shooting Ned Bressler and lighting all those folks on fire, who wouldn't believe you were absolutely batshit?”

“What the hell are you talking about? I didn't burn those people. I was trying to help Robby find the guy, remember?” I had broken my cool and had said far too much. Mack knew it. He leaned forward. “Robby had an idea it might've been you firing up those poor people, burning them to the ground with a can of gas. Think about it, you even led us on a wild-goose chase, giving us the Grape Street Crips. Looks bad, real bad. You can't take this to the box, a jury will crucify you. Tell me now, and I'll do everything I can to get you the booby hatch, Patton State Hospital for the criminally insane, should be a piece of cake.”

He continued to talk. I sat back and let all the events that led up to this spin around in my head. What linked me to all of these murders? The gun in the plastic bag? How so? The others were random, no links, killed with gasoline. None of it made sense.

Mack's words registered again, “Robby knew you were into those train heists. That's why we were on you. A high-profile case with a lot of heat, a lot of pressure from the FBI, the theft of interstate cargo. It was his idea to get close to you. He just didn't know how to approach you. Then the liquor store shooting, a perfect intro to present the ruse to get you to help him. He always said keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Not long after that, Robby started to put it together. That liquor store where you worked was right around the corner from one of the fire victim's. Closer if you went out the back door. Nobody would know you were gone.”

Mack violated the cardinal rule of interrogation: never give more information than you receive. I let him talk.

“We ran the timeline with all the killings against our surveillance log. The times you lost us and went out of pocket, matched. For the most part anyway, each of the killings. We got you, man, we got you locked up tight.”

“You don't have me. Because I didn't kill anyone.”

“Bullshit, you got priors. You forget what you're on parole for?”

“I can shoot holes in your timeline. You're going to look like a bunch of buffoons. Your whole case is going to break down.” His timeline would in fact break down. It had to. But to do it, I would have to come clean with every place I'd been during those times. In every instance, when I went to intense countersurveillance mode, I had been en route to a criminal caper, either taking a kid out of a hostile environment or out with Jumbo on a job or, on occasion, going to the safe house to check on Dad. To clear myself I would have to implicate and damn myself to life in prison. They had me boxed tight. I asked, “Where did you find that gun?”

“I'm not at liberty to give you that information. Homicide will be here soon.”

Mack wasn't supposed to be talking to me at all, not with Homicide on the way. He thought if he broke me down, there would be something in it for him.

“What kind of gun is it and who's it registered to?”

Mack gave a little squirm as he tried to decide if it was worth giving it up. He knew it was a major interrogation point. He weighed the pros and cons.

I gave him a little nudge. “You give me something, I'll give you something.”

“It's an H&K .40-cal registered to Jonathon Kendrick.”

He said the name of the registered owner with emphasis like it was supposed to mean something. It did. Back in the far recesses of my brain, I knew the name, only couldn't pull it up. It was there and vitally important, and I couldn't pull it up. The anger made it worse. I tried to relax. It would come to me later. I knew the way my mind worked. In similar instances, out of a dead sleep, I'd sit up in bed as the answer
bubbled to the surface. I needed it right away. This information was critical to what was happening now. This time he had not mentioned the kids. Why had he not thrown them into the pot to raise the stakes? Maybe he thought too many charges would spook me into silence. Why muddy the water anymore than it was. Ned Bressler, the perfect patsy nobody would miss.

“I gave you something. Now hold up your end.”

“Kendrick? Who's Kendrick?”

“No. You said you'd give me something.”

I needed some extra time. I needed out. Like Dad always said, never depend on anyone except yourself. And the only way to help myself was to create a little wiggle room.

I looked at Mack and said, “It's Tuesday, isn't it? I need to take a piss.”

Mack looked as if I'd slapped him in the face. He sat back, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.