Untold Damage (17 page)

“How were those guys killed?”

“Shot, just like Dockery. I have a feeling that the bullet will match up with the other killings.”

The old sense of excitement welled up inside his chest again. He was smack dab in the middle of a good case. No way to deny it. And his drive to solve it had taken him over. Hadn't felt this good in years. “Those two other guys? Carl and Tony? Any reports of them saying they were being followed?”

“No, nothing.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“Yes. Stay out of my way. You're doing something on your own, and I'm not happy about that, but I have to say it's better than sticking needles filled with junk into your arm all day. However”—and here he stared Mallen straight in the eyes—“don't do anything to screw up
my
side of it. Are we clear on that point, Mark?”

Mallen glanced down at his drink before answering. Struggled over how to frame the thing he was about to ask Oberon. Fuck it: the only way inside was through the door. “Obie,” he said, “let me help you on this.”

The detective stared at him for a moment. Laughed without humor. “You are joking, right?”

“Come on. I could help. You know that. Now that I'm clean.”

“Now that you're clean,” Oberon echoed. Shook his head. “True, but you're not even close to being kosher when it comes to being a detective. No license. No nothing.”

“Well, how about this?” he said as he ordered another drink with a nod of his head. The hefty Chinese bartender came over. Winked at him. There was the dull sloshing sound as she filled up his glass, more than what was probably the usual amount. Winked at him again as she walked away. “I'll work
for
you, not with you,” he said to Oberon. “Maybe I can dig up something? Like that both Kaslowski and Scarsdale were worried they were being followed, too, maybe?”

Oberon shook his head, took a pull from his glass. Sighed. “It's certainly of interest that Dockery knew both of those dead men,
and
Eric Russ. They all seem to have done time together. I don't like it when cases grow tentacles like this, Mark.” Oberon finished his drink. Put the glass quietly put down on the stained and scarred wood. “If you screw this up and draw fire in my direction, I will disown you. Completely. Got it?”

“Got it,” he replied with a smile. “I'll just do a little quiet digging. See what I can see, okay? Come on, I'll be a help to you. It'll be just like the old days.”

“I am so going to regret this,” the detective replied as he shook his head. “I just feel it in my bones. Mama Kane is right now turning over in her grave at her poor son's stupidity.”

Twenty-Nine

Mallen woke to the
sound of Anna's whimpering. He got out of bed, Chris murmuring something to him he didn't catch. Probably something about Anna's medicine. Chris had been sick, too—as sick as Anna. Chris's fever had only recently broke. Whatever had brought both his girls down so low had been traveling around the city like a cheap hooker at a convention hotel.

He padded across the hall to the bathroom and got the bottle of red liquid the doctor had prescribed earlier in the day. Grabbed up the teaspoon next to it.

It had been a risk to come home, he knew, but if his little girl was sick like she was, he had to take the chance. He'd received Chris's coded text early yesterday morning, before the sun had come up over the Berkeley hills. He'd been asleep in the loft he lived in, south of Market. The place everyone in his undercover world thought he'd bought with drug money made back east before he'd moved to San Francisco. Luckily, no one had been crashing on his couch, which sometimes happened when one of Franco's gang didn't want to see their old lady, or if they thought maybe the cops might be watching their usual haunts. He knew it must be serious if Chris had sent the text. She wasn't one given to overreacting. That was him more than her.

He went into Anna's room. She'd kicked off the covers to the floor, was sprawled on her back, dressed in the ice blue footie pj's he was so proud he'd bought for her. They had a little embroidered sheriff's badge on the chest, compliments of Chris's handiwork. She whimpered again. Shook her head from side to side. Only four, and already having nightmares. Just like he had been as a little boy. Her lovely face, that little four-year-old face, was scrunched up tight with fear, eyes closed tight, lips quivering as she whimpered again.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said softly as he gently laid his hand on her shoulder. “It's okay. Daddy's here.”

Her eyes shot open and for a moment, she didn't seem to recognize him. Those blue eyes, with the insanely thick limbal ring. He'd heard a thick limbal ring was a sign of high IQ. It was hard to argue with that, based on what he'd witnessed in his daughter so far. Already so far ahead of other kids her age. Hell, he'd been a Neanderthal at four compared to her. Again: give the props to Chris.

She sat up and reached out to him, and he held her tight for a long moment. The smell of her hair reminded him of a warm day in a berry patch. She was very hot. Was there reason to be concerned, at all her nightmares? The doctor had told them it was normal, that as the child's imagination grew during this early phase, the line between the real world and the magically realistic world often blurred.

“It's okay, rookie,” he told her as he laid her back down and then took the cap off the medicine, “the law is here now. He'll make wrongs right.”

Thirty

Mallen stayed at the
bar awhile after Oberon had left, waiting for Gato. He'd called his friend, and if Gato had been pissed before at Mallen being attacked by Jas and Griffin, he was ballistic now that someone got shot right in front of his apartment. Mallen chilled him out, telling him about how it hadn't been a black Escalade, that the gun that had killed Dockery had not been Griffin's .44. He had a moment where he was afraid that Gato was just going to hang up then and there and tear the city apart looking for those two killers, but after
he'd
blown off some steam, Gato seemed to come back to earth. Mallen was about to ask for a ride out to the avenues again to check on Phoebe and Hal, but Gato had cut him short before he could even ask though, saying to him, “Dude, don't move from where you are. I'll be right there. You need protecting, bro. I'll be right there to the rescue. Where are you?”

Again he wondered about when the Lord had started looking out for recovering junkie, ex-cops so well. He told Gato where he was, and Gato said he was on his way. Mallen sat there for a moment, feeling a little like that guy on
Spenser: For Hire,
and Gato was steadily turning into his Hawk. Laughed at that. Thought about Phoebe and Hal. There were more questions to ask about Eric's time in prison. He was in agreement with Oberon: there was something in those days that linked all the murders together. Had to be.

He sat at the bar and nursed a scotch on the rocks as he thought about what his next moves would, or should, be. Dockery had said he was being followed. Oberon said that, to his knowledge, neither of the other men had been tailed before they were killed. There was no way to know that for sure, though. Had to figure they were, if it was the same gun. Same gun, same MO, same shooter. They'd all been in jail together, with Eric. Eric would've said
something
to Jenna. He had to talk with her again, too. He heard a car horn honk then, an old-style car horn. Looked outside to see the Falcon at the curb, so he slid off the stool, drained the rest of his drink, and left.

Gato was wearing a blindingly white T-shirt and baggy jeans. He also looked like he hadn't slept any more since the last time he'd seen him. When Mallen asked what was up though, Gato only shook his head and mumbled it was wrapped up with his
hermana.
He left it at that, so Mallen let it be and gave Gato their destination.

Traffic was light, making it a short ride over to the Russ place. Gato found parking on the block, the gods of parking being with them today. Mallen strode up to the house and rang the bell. To his surprise, Jenna answered the door.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. She stepped aside to let him in. The air was close. Still, as if the windows hadn't been opened for sometime. Felt like to him like a house waiting to die. “Is everything okay? How're they doing?”

She shrugged. “Phoebe's upstairs in bed, Hal's in his den.” Jenna led him down the hall to the kitchen. There was light here, coming in from the west windows that overlooked the backyard. Like he had every time he'd been in this kitchen, because he couldn't help himself, he glanced over at the photos on the fridge: Eric, Eric with Hal, Hal with Phoebe. Happier times.

“He ever come out of the den?” he said.

“Yes.” There was something in her manner that he noticed right off as soon as she said it.

“What is it?”

“He's not being there for her. He's being gone. And when he comes back, he smells of alcohol and cigarettes, or fast food. It's frustrating.”

“I'm sure it is,” he agreed as he sat at the kitchen table.

S
he looked at him for a moment, toyed with the stem of an empty wine glass. “You look like you've been through the wringer since we last talked,” she told him. “You're not … ?”

“No,” he replied. Smiled. “I'm still good. Just a little bit of my past caught up with me, is all.” After a moment, he added, “Jenna, I was going to call you and see if we could meet again, so maybe it's providence that made our paths cross.”

“What were you going to call me for? Did you find out anything about Eric?”

“I'm not sure. What I wanted to ask might sound weird, I know. But, Eric ever tell you that he was being followed? Maybe he wasn't even sure. Maybe just
thought
he was?”

She gave him a look like she did indeed think it was a weird question. “Not that I know of, no. Why?”

“Not sure, but there's something strange going on about his death, and I'm not talking about the H and my address.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, there was this guy named Dockery I saw outside this house last week …” He then told her about what Dockery had said to him after they'd fought.

To his disappointment, she shook her head like the name didn't ring a bell. “And he said he knew Eric in prison?”

“Right. Said he wanted to apologize to Phoebe. Told me later, that he, or ‘they', had ‘done Eric wrong.
'
”

She thought about that for a moment. “What do you think he meant?”

“Won't be able to find out, now. He was killed last night. Shot right in front of me.”

“Oh my God,” she replied. “Jesus. What happened?”

He told her how it had gone down. Her eyes were wide by the time he was done. “Oh God, Mark. You could've been killed, too.”

He just shrugged that away. “I'm pretty sure I wasn't a target in this. Only Dockery. But, it's
not
just him, either. Two other guys have been shot and killed who knew Dockery in prison. Guys who may have also known Eric. One guy named Kaslowski, the other one Scarsdale.”

“Are you kidding? Jesus!” she said, getting up and pacing around the kitchen in her agitation.

“Now, take it easy, okay?” he said. “I know, it's weird. There's got to be some sort of connection. Eric wasn't using, or dealing, so it's not that. I need to ask you about Eric's time in prison again. Really think back, okay? He must've mentioned
somebody.
Nobody goes into the joint and comes out without knowing at least a couple guys. You
have
to form alliances in there, or you're dead. That's just a fact.”

“He never talked to me about it, and I never pressed him. I knew it was a painful subject for him. That was obvious, you know?” She went and poured herself a fresh glass of wine from an open bottle on the countertop. She turned to him then and indicated the den. “You could ask Hal. If Eric talked about it, he'd talk about it to his father.”

“That's true, thanks.” Got up from the table. The door leading to the den seemed somber to him. Like a portal into sadness. He knocked on the door and waited.

“Yeah?” Hal said quietly, his voice a flat tone.

“It's Mallen, Hal.”

There was a silence. Then, “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”

Entering the den felt like entering a tomb. The air was stale with alcohol and cigarettes. The long curtains seemed to have taken on a smoky color, adding to the thin, brown light. It was hard to breathe, or maybe it was his mind playing tricks. He sat down on the couch opposite Hal's dark husk.

“For Christ's sake, Hal,” he said as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, “open a curtain or something, yeah?”

The big man stared at him for a moment, a strange look in his eyes.
Is this man going to make it?
he wondered.
Will he and Phoebe be able to live any semblance of a normal life ever again?
As Mallen sat there, he began to strongly doubt it.

“You come here to see me?” Hal asked.

“Yeah,” he replied, “and to check on Phoebe. Thought maybe you and me could talk about Eric.”

Hal lit up a cigarette. “You know, I used be quit of these, once. Twenty years quit. Now … I'm already up to half a pack a day.”

“It's bad for you.”

“Yeah. You want one?”

“Sure,” he said. Pulled one from the offered pack. Lit it with a match. Hal watched him for a moment, then chuckled quietly to himself.

“What's so funny?”

“Nothin', Mallen. Nothin'. Why do you want to talk about my son?”

“I'm trying to figure out a couple things, is all.”

“Like what?”

“A friend of mine is a detective with SFPD. Homicide. He's got a couple killings that might tie together with another man who was shot last night, at my doorstep.”

Hal took a long drag of his smoke. Reached over and poured himself a glass of whiskey. Took a sip. “On your doorstep?”

“Yeah. A man who says he knew Eric in prison.”

“My son never talked much about his time inside,” he said quietly. “Never much.”

“When he got out, didn't he ever talk about the guys he knew in there?”

“Only a little, I think. Like I said, not much.”

“Did he ever mention a man named Dockery? Leon Dockery? Or Kaslowski? Or a Tony Scarsdale?”

Hal took another drag off his cigarette, and shook his head. “Sorry.”

Mallen put his half-smoked cig out in the nearby overflowing ashtray. “Don't be. It's possible I'm totally wrong, but I thought I'd ask anyway.”

“What's your next step gonna be, detective?” Hal smirked as he said it. Might've winked, but it was hard to tell in the dimness.

“Don't know. Talk to the people who knew these three men.” After a silence, he added, “I think I'm a little worried about you guys.”

“Shouldn't be. We're fine.”

“Yeah, you look great.”

Hal's bulk shook in the gloom as he laughed silently. “I just need to get out once in a while. Clear my head. It's hard now. Very hard.”

“Phoebe any better?”

“Better is a relative term, my young friend. I live in hope.”

“Don't we all?” Went to the door, “See ya later. Take it easy.”

He found Jenna still in the kitchen, washing dishes. They looked like dishes that weren't dirty. She washed with a lot of focus, like there were stains there only she could see. She stopped when he walked in. She picked up the wine glass and took a long pull.

“Don't make a habit of it.” He smiled as he came over, indicating the glass.

She turned her eyes on him. “Voice of experience?”

“Hell yes. You think Phoebe's awake?”

“Probably. When I showed up today, she asked if I could give her a hand with the house … do some cooking and cleaning. Said she didn't have the energy, that she just wanted to rest for a while.”

He could understand that feeling. He really just wanted to rest, too, but if he was going to keep ahead of The Need, he needed to keep going. Hopefully, one day, it wouldn't be like this. “I'm going to go check on her,” he said as he went down the hall and climbed up the carpeted stairs to the upper floor.

The door to Phoebe and Hal's bedroom was open, but like with the den below, the curtains were drawn. However, Phoebe was up, sitting in an overstuffed chair, the floor lamp on, casting a bright light up to reflect off the ceiling. She'd been reading, the open book resting in her lap. She'd been looking at the door as he entered, like she'd heard him downstairs and had been waiting.

He came and sat on the bed near her. Indicated the book in her lap. “What're you reading?”

“Some escapism,” she replied.
“
Medea.”

He chuckled. “I would read a comic book.”

She laughed back. Put the book down. Looked at him. “How are you, Mark?”

“Okay, actually. I think it's going to stick.”

She got it. “I'm glad. Happy for you, just like I was for Eric.”

“Phoebe,” he said, “I know that Eric probably only ever spoke to Hal about his prison days, but I need to ask you to really think hard. Did Eric ever,
ever
tell you he thought he was being followed? This would've been in the days leading up to his death. Anything at all?”

After a moment where she sat there, staring at nothing, remembering back to a time when her son was still alive, she said, “I can't remember anything like that, Mark. I'm sorry. He talked of getting his life back together. Maybe fixing it with Jenna so they could really be together again. Nothing about being followed. Why do you ask?”

“It was just a long shot. There's something going on, with a group of men who all knew each other in prison, and all of them knew Eric. Just trying to make sense of it, is all.”

She considered that for a moment. Said, “Are you any closer to the reason he had drugs on him, and your address?”

“No, I'm not. I guess I'm more rusty at the detective thing than I realized.”

“He wanted to work undercover at some point, you know?”

“Yeah,” he replied, “I knew he was getting burned out on the beat. He had told me once that he wanted to go undercover, but I chalked it up to being burned out on the job. I'd seen it happen a lot, and I hadn't been on the force long.” It was true: the burnout rate for cops was horrible. Killed a lot of men.

She looked away. “He'd talked to me about the job. I could see it. I wasn't that surprised when he quit, but I was surprised when he quit and started on … his road.” She then closed her eyes. Wiped at them. Looked back at him. They glinted now, wet with tears. “I'm sorry, Mark,” she said, “but I don't want to talk about him anymore.”

He got to his feet. “I understand. Sorry to take you away from your book. Take it easy, and I'll check on you guys later, okay?”