With his music thumping and the top down on the red Mercedes, he drove through the dark streets of L.A. Thinking about how he’d jammed JT made him smile. Pulling out his phone, he brought up Misha’s number and waited for her to answer. She didn’t. Although the connection rang and rang, her voice mail didn’t kick in either. He shrugged and cut the call. He’d catch up with her later.
Bobby pulled into a post office near UCLA and dropped the envelope into the box. He was stripping off the gloves and about to drive off when a cop car appeared behind him seemingly out of nowhere. Taking in a deep breath, he slowly and smoothly dropped the gloves to the floor at his feet and hoped the cop now advancing on him wouldn’t see them.
“Problem, officer?”
“Registration and license, please.” Bobby kept his annoyance in check while he dug out the IDs and handed them over.
“Back in a minute.”
Bobby didn’t have any tickets or warrants, so when the cop returned and said, “I need you to come to the precinct,” he asked, “Why?”
“Questioning in regards to a case.”
“What case?”
“Not sure. You’re not under arrest, Mr. Garrett, but the department would like your cooperation.”
“I’m calling my lawyer.”
“That’s fine. Let me know when you’re ready to go. I’ll follow you.” And after telling him which precinct to drive to, the cop walked back to his cruiser.
Reese was watching the interrogation from behind the one-way glass, and he had to give it to Garrett, he hadn’t cracked; not in temperament, body language, or intonation. He’d remained calm and smooth throughout the session, and gave the same answers no matter how many times the detective rephrased the questions.
Garrett’s story was that he’d bought the player off of a kid on the street and had no idea who it belonged to previously. He’d didn’t know Gus Pennington. Never heard of Gus Pennington. And was in Houston with a lady friend the night of the murder. Reese knew of Garrett’s gang past and could tell by the way he conducted himself that he’d played this game dozens of times. Add that experience to the polish and veneer he’d acquired in the years since, and he became a hard nut to crack. But he didn’t believe a word Garrett was saying. Granted, that could be because he wanted Jessi’s nemesis to be guilty, but his cop sense was blaring from all speakers, and he’d learned to trust it.
In the end, Garrett was allowed to go. The detectives had no real evidence tying him to the murder, and they all knew it. This had been nothing more than a meet and greet that also served to put Garrett on notice that he was under the microscope. They also advised him not to leave town. If he was guilty—and Reese was convinced that he was—it would only be a matter of time before he tripped up and allowed the detectives to prove it.
With that in mind, Reese thought he could step away from the twin investigations for a while, go up to the Bay, check on his lady’s welfare, and then fly back to New York for a couple days and set up the office he’d yet to see because he’d hit the ground running. Staff had to be hired, and no matter how much he preferred to hover over Jessi, he had an obligation to his job and to the old friend who’d hired him. If she agreed to go to Michigan so his family could keep an eye on her and keep her safe, he’d be able to handle his job and not worry about her 24/7, even though he knew he would anyway. He planned on keeping close tabs on the investigations, though, not only because of the league’s interest in the outcome of the Pennington case, but because of his personal interest in the bombing.
After Garrett and his lawyer departed, the detectives conferred on what would happen next, and Reese reminded them of Garrett’s possible ties to the bombing investigation being handled by the Feds up in Oakland. Neither Mendes or his men wanted the Feds around, but they were willing to contact Agent Tate to see if she’d dug up anything that might pertain to Garrett’s L.A. doings.
When Reese left the precinct, it was past ten. He wanted to call Jessi, but guessed she was asleep, and even if she weren’t, was in no shape to be talking on the phone. He’d grown accustomed to their late night phone calls and missed the sound of her voice. Missed her, as well. The urge to see her was so strong, he thought about just jumping on the 405 and taking the 5 north to the Bay area, but decided against that because of how dead he’d be by the time he finished the long drive. Instead, he drove the rental car to his airport hotel room, had burgers for dinner, and booked another flight to Oakland. His last act of the day was to send Tay an e-mail detailing the day’s events, then he went to bed and dreamt of the Lady Blake.
At seven-thirty the next morning Bobby was banging on Kelly’s front door. He was boiling after being grilled by the police. Somebody had given them the music player and he wanted to know who.
His thundering summons was answered by David Young, pistol in hand. “What the hell you doing knocking on my door like you the FBI or somebody! Get the fuck off my porch!”
“I want to see my son!” Bobby yelled at him through the screen, wishing he hadn’t left his own piece in the car.
Kelly, dressed for church, appeared at David’s side, and her anger was plain. “What?” she snapped at him coldly. “What the hell do you want?”
“You raising my son to be a snitch?”
“You got a lot a damn nerve coming here. The police pick you up?”
His eyes flashed.
“They did, didn’t they? I’m glad, because if they ever drag my son in again because of you, you won’t have to worry about David shooting you. I’ll kill you myself. Close the door, David.”
He did, with much force.
Bobby slammed his closed fist against it. “Kelly! Kelly! Open this damn door! Kelly!”
She didn’t.
He ranted and cursed until the neighbors started looking out of their blinds. Stalking back to his car, he snatched open the door and yelled out furiously, “I’ll get you, bitch!” Grim, he sped off, tires squealing.
Bobby had problems and he knew it. If the police had him figured for the killing, they were getting ready to get knee deep in his life. With the new antiterror laws on the book, the Feds could do just about whatever they wanted, from tapping his phone to confiscating his computers. For all he knew, they could have had him under surveillance for weeks. He wanted to bust Kelly in her face for bringing this down on him. He’d get her, though, he promised himself again. But that didn’t help with the now. Ham would have to be told about the police, and so would Bo Wenzel. Both conversations were going to be ugly, so he put them off until later. Instead he put in a call to Misha again. He wanted to know how long it would take to download all of his personal computer data so the Feds wouldn’t find anything. But just like the last time, no answer, no voice mail. Wondering what the hell was up with her, he snarled and cut the connection.
Even though he’d been told by the police to stay put, leaving town did cross his mind. There had to be at least one country in the world that didn’t have an extradition treaty with the United States. Barring that, if push came to shove he could go underground. He still had gang contacts, but the idea of living the rest of his life as a phantom in the urban jungle he’d spent the last decade trying to leave behind wasn’t anything he really wanted to do, so, what were his options. Right now, he had none.
If Bitch Blake hadn’t fired him way back when and then bad-mouthed him so no other agency would take him on, he wouldn’t have been in the conference room that night the janitor walked in, and there wouldn’t have been a shooting. As always, his troubles began with her. No matter what happened, she had to go down permanently because that would be his only consolation if he wound up on Death Row. To that end, he pulled out the pay-as-you-go phone he kept for private transactions and made some calls. He needed somebody to keep an eye on Bitch Blake.
Bo Wenzel paced the large confines of his Dallas hotel suite and pondered the future. He’d just gotten a call from Garrett’s man Ham. Seems Mr. BG3 was questioned last night by the LAPD. Ham had no idea why, but a cop on his payroll saw Garrett and his lawyer being escorted into one of the interrogation rooms. Supposedly, the session lasted about an hour, then Garrett and the lawyer left. Ham promised to get back to him as soon as he had more info, and for Bo it couldn’t be fast enough.
For all of Bobby Garrett’s faults, Bo couldn’t see him as a snitch, so what the hell had he been doing there? Having his lawyer in tow ruled out dropping off a check for an LAPD charity, he thought sarcastically, but it could mean Garrett was involved in something no one else knew about, and that’s what worried him. He knew next to nothing about the man, and Garrett could be mixed up in who knew what. If that were the case, would it splash on the operation he had set up? He also wondered if the commissioner’s man, Reese Anthony, was involved. Still smarting from being caught in the lie about the realtor, he knew that the former cop had interviewed Garrett. Had he found something damning? Too many questions and no answers. He couldn’t wait for Ham to call so they could get to the bottom of this.
Maybe Matt was right, he thought. Maybe it was time to cut bait. But the lure of such easy money was hard to walk away from. On paper the setup was perfect: He got the drugs from an old friend down in Mexico who had a high-tech lab in a barn on the grounds of an orphanage outside Tijuana. Neither the people running the place nor the local law cared as long as they got their cut. Once the bags were loaded into his small two-seater plane. he flew the drugs back over the border and landed at a tiny municipal airport whose strip was nothing more than two ruts in the road.
His old friend was a disgraced Texas politician who’d fled the country ahead of a drug indictment for selling coke to other highly placed politicians. When word got out about his dealing and a grand jury convened, the clients realized they were looking at some serious jail time, so they turned on him like pit bulls in a cage and he ran for the hills. Federal law agencies, Interpol, and the rest looked for him for over a decade, but must have given up.
Because Bo had run into him on the streets of Tijuana last year. They’d had a few drinks, and when Bo asked him what he’d been doing, he told him, then asked Bo if he wanted a slice of the pie. All Bo had to do was find a connection to handle the distribution and he could set up his own network. The coke was lab coke, the kind made in Europe before the big bust made famous in the movie
The French Connection,
and not the swill being made in barrels filled with who knew what and cooked over crude outdoor fires. The money Bo was promised had more of a kick than the tequila they were drinking, and he’d said yes.
But because Bo didn’t run in those circles and knew nothing about finding a connection, he turned to a Grizzlies cheerleader he’d been sleeping with who had a roommate who loved coke like he loved big breasts. As fate would have it, her connection was BG3, who was doing some discreet dealing for Ham on the side. Garrett had been all ears when Bo approached him, and Bo met Ham a few days later. The partnership was formed, and now everything might crash like the stock market in 1929 all because Pennington had walked in while Ham had been explaining the ins and outs of dealing, weighing, tasting, and Garrett killed him.
What a mess, Bo thought. The idea had been to use the team’s away schedule to shield his and Ham’s movements as they dropped off coke in the cities they traveled to, because Ham had connections all over the country. The deal in Oakland last week had gone down nice and smooth. The Dallas deal was scheduled for after today’s game at yet another seedy hotel. He hoped it would be easy too, but he kept his passport and other necessities handy because if the situation got sticky and the cops came a’calling, it would be every man for himself.
JT was sitting up in bed Sunday afternoon when Reese came striding into her flower-filled private room. She didn’t know what was more gorgeous, him or the huge bouquet of white callas in his hand. The choice was no contest, he could have walked in with a bag holding last week’s garbage and she would’ve still been mesmerized by all that he was. The policewoman on duty had seen him before but made him open his coat, which revealed his holstered weapon strapped against his gray silk polo, then she patted him down. It was the reception every visitor allowed into the room was given. When the officer was satisfied, he pulled two of the callas free from the bunch and handed them to her with a flourish.
She gave him an amused skeptical look. “You know bribing an officer of the law is a felony, Mr. Anthony.”
Reese feigned innocence. “Bribe? Me? I wouldn’t bribe an officer of the law just so Ms. Blake and I could have a few minutes alone.”
She smiled and then, as if the thought suddenly occurred to her, told them, “I think I’ll go see if the nurses have a vase.”
Once she was gone, JT cracked, “You are a mess,” hoping she sounded a lot less banged up than she knew she was. “And where the hell have you been? Took you long enough to come see me.”
He didn’t speak, he kissed, slowly, tenderly, breathlessly, until the only drug in her system flowed from his lips. She fell so deeply under his spell, a soft moan of grateful welcome slipped out before she could stop it. Next she knew, he was sitting on the edge of the bed and she was in his arms. Her cast was in the way, and because her busted ribs hurt, she couldn’t hold him like she wanted to, but the lazy kisses, oh my, the sweet lazy kisses were like manna from heaven.
“If you don’t get off my patient, I’m going whip your Denzel-looking behind!”
They both jumped.
It was JT’s nurse, Lena Sanchez. The Spanish beauty had been sending JT’s male visitors into fits. “Back off,” she said. “This is a hospital, not a pay-by-the-hour motel.”
Looking as guilty as two teenagers busted necking on the front porch, they couldn’t help but grin.
She shook her head. “I came in to take her vitals but everything will probably be off the charts now, thanks to you.”