Untold Damage (4 page)

Six

Oberon stood in the
dank underground parking garage, the air bitter, cold, and damp, smelling of motor oil and urine. It was a quarter after two in the morning. Red and blue lights bounced and ricocheted off the dull concrete walls. Made the place look like a poor man's disco or some sort of sad rave. He sighed, knowing it would be many long hours before he saw a bed.

The reason for that thought lay at his feet. The body of a man, early thirties. Brown eyes that stared sightlessly at the ceiling. Military cut dark hair. The body had landed on its side from the force of the bullets shot into it. Two entry wounds, circular and ragged. Smallish caliber. Both into the back, left side, just behind the heart. The muzzle burns on the back of the man's shirt seemed a black exclamation point to the entire scene.

He looked over at forensics tech Veronica DeJesus, busy working the body, too involved to even glance up at him as he squatted down next to her, his knees castigating him as he did so. “How are your children doing, Ronnie?” he said. “Matt ever figure out how to snow-
board?”

“Unfortunately,” she said, “he did. Already broke his ankle.”

“Ah, to be young again.” He looked closer at the entry wounds. No, not a big gun, but used by an effective shooter. Execution style, too. One would've been enough, but two? Either it was the twitch of the trigger finger, or a pleasure shot. “Has a wallet been found?”

Veronica nodded. Indicated the victim's hands. “Still got his wedding band. Not very high end. Pinky ring has a good stone in it, though. Maybe the shooter got scared.”

“No other marks on him?”

“Just the two holes.”

This building rose twenty-five stories above them. He'd seen the registry—some of the floors carried at least seven businesses. He sighed as he stood, knees again yelling at him. “I'll get some uniforms to canvass the building. This gentleman will probably turn up an employee.”

Veronica got in closer to one of the entry wounds. Studied it for a moment. “I can have make and model of the weapon tomorrow.”

“So soon? My, I had no idea that forensics was so well funded. Your department is a veritable bank vault, it would appear.”

“Funny. I just don't want to be home.”

“With a son nursing a broken ankle? For shame, Mother DeJesus.”

“With an ex-husband who now sees himself as Florence fucking Nightingale.”

“Ah. The clouds part,” Oberon replied, then walked off to take another look around the crime scene.

It took only until eleven a.m. the following morning to find out the victim's name. An officer making the rounds of one of the floors had walked into a small software start-up on the seventh floor. The photo of the dead man's face matched one of the employees.

The victim's name was Carl Kaslowski. He had a small jacket, which topped out with a short stint in Folsom that ended a bit over a year ago. Drug-related. Like so many. Seemed the man had been turning his life to something other than incarceration since then, judging by his job, his clothes, and the way the people he worked with spoke of him when they heard the news. The officer gave Oberon the address where the man had lived. The Outer Sunset. Near Taraval and 33rd. Oberon wasted little time in getting to his car and pointing it toward the ocean. This was the hardest duty there was: questioning a loved one left behind. Sometimes he really hated being a Police.

The fog was in as he drove down Lincoln Way, making the left onto 33rd. The sky above was gray and bleak. A heavy scent of rotting seaweed swept in from the ocean. The address he'd been given belonged to a nondescript multi-unit building in the middle of the block.

Kaslowski's new widow opened the door at Oberon's soft knock. She was a short woman. No more than twenty-two or -three in years. She silently let Oberon enter then excused herself for a moment, answering the sound of an infant crying in the other room. All the furniture was IKEA, from a few years back, judging by its condition. Mrs. Kaslowski then came back into the room, baby in her arms. Sat on the couch, holding the infant tightly as she rocked it gently back and forth, a wan expression on her face.

Oberon sat on a nearby chair. Gazed for a moment at Kaslowski's now fatherless child. “Boy or girl?”

She cleared her throat. “Girl. Carlie.”

“How old?”

“Four months.”

He pulled out his battered notebook and opened it. “I am very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Kaslowski. I want you to know that I will do everything I can to find the person or people responsible. If you would like me to come back at a better time, I certainly will.”

She dismissed that. “What did you want to ask me?”

“The people employing your husband thought very highly of him. They told me he was very dedicated. Often worked late.”

“He worked hard.”

“Well,” Oberon smiled, “with a lovely family to support, who wouldn't?”

“Who would kill him?” she said, breaking down, the tears suddenly streaming down her cheeks. The baby picked up on it. Began to whimper. Oberon got up, came over.

“May I?” he said, indicating the baby. Mrs. Kaslowski nodded, and he carefully picked Carlie up, cradling her gently. Cooed at her as he bounced her softly.
“And life is given to none freehold, but it is leasehold for all,”
he said under his breath.

“What?” Mrs. Kaslowski replied as she wiped her eyes.

He smiled at her. “My apologies. Holding infants for some reason brings out the philosopher in me. It's a quote from a Roman poet named Lucretius. You mind if I hold her for awhile?”

“No,” she replied with a small smile. Oberon stood there for a moment, cooing and tickling Carlie until she was giggling and staring up at him like he was the biggest thing in her universe. After a minute longer, he handed her back to her mother.

“Shame I can't write and hold an adorable baby such as that at the same time.” He sat back down. “Now, can you tell me, was your husband having any troubles lately? Anyone you—or both of you—might consider as an enemy?”

She thought for a moment. “No.”

“You sure?”

A nod.

“I know about his time inside. Men inside sometimes make enemies that follow them outside.”

She glared at him then, if only for a moment. “I knew they would use that as an excuse. Why waste time on someone like Carl, right? Figures.” The bitterness in her voice was thick. Strong.

That pulled him back a bit. “I'm in charge of this investigation, Mrs. Kaslowski. I assure you, whether your husband was rich man, poor man, beggar man, or thief, I will find his killer. A man—a family man and by all accounts a good man—has been tragically taken from this world.” He leaned forward. Said quietly, “I will find his killer.”

She wiped at her eyes. “Thank you for saying that. I believe you, you know? Thank you.” Gazed out the window as she continued, “He only got out last year, but had been working his ass off trying to make it go. Worked so hard to stay out and change his life. A friend of his got him in contact with that office. He studied computers and accounting. Everything. They took a chance on him. And he slaved to show them they'd made the right choice. And now …” She wiped at her eyes again.

He'd have to look again at Kaslowski's jacket. Maybe that would turn up something. “Had your husband been acting differently lately? At all? Even if it might seem trivial, it might be very important.”

She thought about it for a moment. There was no sound in the room except the infrequent noises made by Carlie as she wriggled in her mother's arms. “He did get a phone call a couple days ago. It upset him.”

“Did he say why it upset him, or who it was from?”

“No, he wouldn't tell me. He just got quiet. That was his way. When confronted with a problem: go quiet. I tried to get him to talk, because he seemed pretty upset. It was no good. That was unusual, actually. I could usually get him to talk, eventually, but not when it came to that call.”

Oberon wrote all this down. “Did the call come to his work? Here? His cell?”

“Here.”

He finished writing his notes. Put the notebook back in his jacket. “Thank you very much for your time, Mrs. Kaslowski,” he said as he rose. Went to the door. “If I need more or have news, I'll be in contact.” At the door, he stopped and looked back at her. At her child. “I
will
be in contact,” he said, then left.

Seven

Mallen frowned as he
looked at his needle-ridden reflection in the mirror. Hair like an overgrown brillo pad. Deep-set gypsy eyes. Well, once they'd been puppy dog eyes, but that was about ten years ago. A Roman nose, broken only once. Before Chris, before the needle, he'd never lacked in opportunities for dates, thank you very much. But now? Well … The sport coat and trousers, threadbare in places, were baggier than remembered. If the shaving job he did had been a blow job, he would've asked for his money back. At least there was still the cleft in his chin.
Haven't lost everything.

He sat on the edge of the bed, gave his scuffed shoes a quick shine that didn't do shit for them. There weren't two socks in the whole place that matched or didn't have holes. Ran his hand through his tangle of dark hair as he tried to neaten it, but stopped then. Stopped dead, like he was an actor caught on stage forgetting his lines.

What the hell am I doing? I can't go see Eric's widow.

What the fuck was he thinking? What was he really going to be able to do? Why was he even considering doing anything at all? Let the cops do their job. The tension set off The Need. A fix. Now. Yeah, just fix a small shot to take the edge off.
It'll help me calm down
, he thought,
make it easier to see Jenna
. That brought him up: was he still thinking of going to see Jenna? The battle was tearing apart his mind, and his soul.

A giant cramp racked his body. Bent him up like a hairpin turn. His stomach was on a rampage. He
had
to fix, and bad.

But he couldn't.

It was the first time since getting hooked that he felt that way. The thought entered his consciousness like a sudden and unwelcome party guest.
Fuck being a pallbearer; I'm in some agony here.
The rig was in the coffee can. He stumbled across the cold floor. The sweat across his back made him shiver. He set the fix as fast as his shaking hands would let him. The sharp odor of Butane filled his nostrils as he held the lighter under the spoon.
Soon
, his mind crooned,
soon …

There was the sudden explosion of a car back-firing outside. Sounded just like a Glock.

Eric's gun.

It had been his gun, too, until he switched to something easier to hide: a Heckler and Koch M7. Insanely, he still missed that gun. He'd never forget the day he had to turn it in. Like saying goodbye to one world, turning the corner into another.

His hands began to shake, crouched there on the floor with the spoon and lighter in his hands. Sweat dripped into his eyes. The world went wavy. It didn't feel like it was his choice when he put the rig down and stiff-legged it to the window like an old man without his walker. He needed air.

Gazed out at the street. A typical Tenderloin street. Filled with people struggling, people hustling, people fronting. They were all fighting something. Addictions. Evictions. Unemployment. Their family. Their past. The government. Hell, even the whole world. There was a major part of him, however, that no longer felt a part of what he saw down there in the street. A junkie walks alone, they always say.
Four years is a long stretch, man …

He was hit with another spasm of pain. A real bad one. Like being folded up with a vise clamping down on him. He was barely able to make it through the agony into the bathroom to splash water on his face. Could hear the needle, hear it softly crooning to him from the other room. The siren's call.

One that wove its way inside …

Relentless, unforgiving.

Unable to keep the song away from him, he went back to the main room. The needle pointed right at him, the spoon glinted in the light. Winking. Crying for him …

Just a small one, man.

Shooting just a little turned out to be a fucking brainstorm.

It took the edge off but still left him able to function. He felt invigorated as he decided to just walk up Polk Street toward California. Hell, why ride that shit number 19 bus? He again took out the address Phoebe had written down, forgetting her last words to him. Well, Jenna lived in a nice part of town. California was a good street. Close to Whole Foods, bars, some good places to eat. Some bars. Far enough away from the shit, but not north enough to where you got charged both nuts for rent. Should he bring flowers? Didn't people do that, when they went and visited people who had lost someone? He used to know this stuff. Anyway, he figured he'd go and tell her how sorry he was. Maybe he could learn a little about why Eric had done what he did. It really broke his heart that Eric was gone. Yeah, maybe Jenna could help him make sense of it. Good plan.

He was sweating in his old car coat by the time he made California and turned right at the Out of the Closet used clothing store. The weather had turned cold, bordering on nasty, but he felt hotter than usual. Probably not the greatest shit that Dreamo had ever sold him. That was unusual. He huffed his way up the street, passing the old, now closed Lumiere on his left. Crossed California to the north side, wishing he had time to step inside the Hyde Out. Nice place to drink, even if it was too well lit for his tastes.

The building Jenna lived in was usual for the area: built long ago and covered now with stucco. He hit the buzzer to number 12 and waited. There was no response. He swore under his breath; he should've remembered to ask Phoebe for Jenna's phone number. That would've made this entire episode a lot easier. Glanced at the front door. Didn't look shut all the way. Looked like the lock wasn't set well in the door anymore. Loose. Probably knocked that way from years of tenant abuse. Could he be that lucky? He pushed on it and, sure enough, it opened. He went inside.

The lobby was carpeted in a modern pattern made up of green and blue rectangles. The walls were stark white with the old, fancy trim painted yellow ochre. A brief recon showed him four flats on the street level. He went to the elevator and pushed the Up button. The elevator clanked its way down to him. Got in. There were only three floors, so he pushed 3.
Four times three is twelve, so number 12 would be on the third floor
, he thought, stupidly proud of his deduction skills.

After a brief ride, he slid aside the doors and walked out into the hall.
Nice hall
, he thought. He needed to move. Get out of the Loin. That would probably help him quit the junk. If he had a better environment, he bet he could quit it easy. He just needed a change of scenery.

After a glance to his left, he figured Jenna's place would be on his right. Probably toward the back. He moved down that way, the sweat starting to dry under his arms and across his back from his long walk. He hoped he didn't look too scummy. Wondered what Jenna would be like. What kind of woman would Eric be serious about? Someone with a big heart, that was for sure. Someone who gave a shit about stuff.

He got to her door and knocked, the door pushing back silently. It was quiet beyond. Still. Another old feeling woke up in him then after a long-ass time asleep: the feeling that he needed to proceed with caution. More old cop instincts kicked in as he pushed gently on the door. “Hello?” he called loudly. “Jenna? My name is Mark Mallen. I was friends with Eric, back in the cop days. Hello?”

No answer. He pushed the door open a little more, and out of another old habit, hid a bit behind the wall to the right of the knob as he did so. Peered through the doorway. The place had been ransacked. Real tore up.

“Shit.” He tried to take in as much of the room as he could from his vantage point. Stuff was thrown everywhere. “Jenna?” he said again. Figuring taking one step inside wouldn't set the world on fucking fire, he moved through the doorway. Place looked like a one bedroom. On his left was the living room. Ahead was the dining room area, and off that was the kitchen. A hallway opened directly on his right. He took another step forward. There was the crunch of broken glass under his boot. There was a framed photo nearby, the glass broken and gone. It was of Eric and Jenna, taken on some beach somewhere.

Mallen couldn't help himself. Picked it up. Eric looked happy. So did Jenna. She had intelligent eyes. A kind smile. Pretty lady. He and Chris had looked that happy, too, at one point in their story together.

He stole another glance around the room. There was a desk in the living room. Seemed to be the main focus of the search. He went over.
Old habits die hard
, he thought, remembering back to all the tossed rooms he'd ever investigated. What could someone be looking for? The laptop was still there, on the floor where it had been tossed. Not a burglary. Then he picked up a drawer that had been thrown on the ground. The only thing left in it was a business card that had caught in the side, where the bottom and back met. He pulled it out. A counseling center for drug addicts and ex-cons. Phoenix Today was the name. On impulse he put the card in his pocket. Maybe he could call them, get some help. He turned back to face the rest of the room but couldn't shake the feeling there was someone else there. Went quietly to the hallway. Noticed a few dark droplets on the wood floor. Blood. Put his back to the wall even as his mind shouted at him to just get the fuck out and call in a 911. No one in the bathroom; it hadn't been touched. Moved to the bedroom. The door was partway open. He pushed on it.

And there was Jenna, lying on the floor. On her right side, facing away from him. Mallen went to her. There was an ugly welt on the side of her temple. Blood had seeped out of her mouth. “Jenna? Jenna? You hear me?” Checked for a pulse. Thready. “Jesus,” he said as he got up, glancing around for a phone. He found the bedroom
extension and picked it up.

“Freeze, asshole. Put your fucking hands on your head and turn toward me,” said a heavy male voice behind him.

Mallen froze then, realizing that he was now living the most fucked up day of his life in recent memory. He hadn't heard them at all, either.
They must be doing some great stealth training nowadays.

“Do it!” the voice barked at him. Typical cop voice, one he knew how use himself, once upon a time. He knew there would be a Glock pointed at his back, safety off. As slow as he could manage, he put his hands on his head and turned around to face the cop. There were two of them, actually. Both were young. Big and young. “Now, wait a minute, guys,” he said to them, “I just got here. Her name is Jenna Russ. I was friends with her husband­­—”

“Shut up. Step toward me,” the officer in front said. Mallen followed the order. “Turn around,” the cop said.

Then he made a mistake. He later blamed it on the junk. “Now, look man, I just—” He didn't get to finish because the second cop swooped in and spun him around to the wall. Smashed him into it. His right hand was wrenched behind him and he heard the jangled clink of the cuffs as they came out. He heard more than saw the other cop go to Jenna.

“She's alive. I'll get an ambulance,” he said. Pulled out his radio. Spoke into it urgently as he requested the paramedics, stat.

“Look,” Mallen said, panic setting in as his other hand was cuffed. All his life as a civilian, he'd never gotten arrested. He'd always stayed as far off the radar as he possibly could. All it took for him to break out in a sweat was the mental image of him walking through booking, then to the holding tank.
Maybe it's what you need, junkie,
said a quiet voice inside him. He was shocked the junkie part of him didn't protest more. “Look,” he repeated, unable to remember ever feeling so fucking desperate, “Call Inspector Oberon Kane. He knows me. Call him, please. He'll help straighten this out.”

“How do you know Inspector Kane?” the cop who'd cuffed him asked. The man turned Mallen around, pushed his back into the wall.

This was it. He wondered if he was still known around the department. Maybe in the four years he'd been gone, they'd forgotten mostly about him. “I know him because I used to work with him sometimes. My name is Mallen. Mark Mallen. My old badge number used to be 0412
.
Come on, man, please? Just call him.”

The two cops looked at each other for a moment. A siren grew in volume. Approached quickly, then cut off. The paramedics had made good time.

“Mallen, huh?” the first cop said. “Yeah, I heard about you from my sergeant.” Looked him up and down. Not impressed. “Take this fucker downstairs and put him in the back of the cruiser.”

He had to sweat it out for about an hour. All that time, he sat in the back of the police cruiser, trying to ignore the looks from the locals and other officers that had arrived. One of them, a plainclothes detective, smirked at him as he passed. His hands were going numb from the cuffs. He kept flexing his fingers, sitting sideways in the backseat to keep the pain to a minimum. It was hot, too. Stuffy. All the windows were up. Partway through his time in the car, he watched Jenna get wheeled out on a gurney and into the back of the ambulance. With a roar of siren and lights, the vehicle tore away up the street. He hoped she was going to be okay.

He glanced again out the window, trying to not see the stares, glancing constantly around to avoid the eyes trained on him. He felt like a circus act gone wrong. Someone had snapped the high wire. His knives had killed the beautiful assistant.

And that was when he saw them.

At first he didn't recognize the two men standing there in the crowd. And he, or the junk, couldn't be blamed for that one, as it had been four years and some change since the last time he'd seen them. Had to admit that the last time he'd been around them hadn't been a fucking heartfelt goodbye party anyway. He'd never been on great terms with either of them. Never liked them, and they'd never liked him. Just a “junkyard dog” thing, he'd figured. And then when he knew for sure, he didn't want to admit it was really them.