Jerry Langton Three-Book Biker Bundle (36 page)

Yolanda, shocked, crawled over to Scott on her hands and knees. He was dead.

Ordinarily, Clegg would be irritated by a trip to the hospital. The antiseptic smell, the groans of the elderly, and stink of the food were a part of his job he could do without. But he was there to see Lara, so things were different. The overwhelming feeling he had was concern. He didn't want to betray any emotion as he sat in the chair beside Lara's hospital bed. But he couldn't help himself. “You know this wouldn't have happened if I was here,” he said. “And I'll catch the bastard who did this.”

“I know you will,” Lara said softly. “And it's not because you're a good cop.”

“What?”

“It's because I'm a good reporter,” she said. “The license plate number is TAC 820.”

He laughed and wrote it down.

It didn't take that long to track down Lara's shooter. Clegg visited the owner of the Jeep registered to the TAC 820 license plate, who said it had been stolen and had a copy of the police report to prove it. He told Clegg who he thought had stolen it—a neighbor who lived down the road and had always admired the Jeep. He ran with a tough crowd, might even have been a biker. Clegg asked for a more thorough description. The description matched what Lara had told him, so he called some of the cops he trusted the most and told them there was someone dangerous he absolutely had to take down.

Thirty minutes later, eight cops had surrounded 4915 Walmer Road. It was a run-down little shack just out of town. It had boarded-up windows and the remains of a chain-link fence. There was an old washing machine rusting away in the back yard. And there was a stolen Jeep parked in the doorless garage. Clegg figured the man inside was bold but not very smart. He considered that a dangerous combination.

He sent Detective Jimmy Lewis to go look into the front window. Lewis signaled that the man was inside and he trained his gun on him. Clegg kicked the door down, and he and another cop came rushing in with their guns drawn.

The man inside, Preston Wilhite, ran for the back door. Two cops had already come bursting through it. Preston put his hands up. Clegg grabbed them and put them in cuffs. He read him his rights as he led him to the car.

Back in the interrogation room, it didn't take Wilhite long to crack. Once presented with a charge of first-degree murder, he quickly admitted that he was involved, but was not the triggerman. After very little convincing, he gave up the name Pat Duncan.

He didn't know his address, but it didn't matter. Clegg was well aware of who Duncan was. A former Lawbreaker, he changed sides after he saw how quickly the Sons of Satan routed the Lawbreakers in Martinsville and how his fellow Springfield Lawbreakers brothers did nothing to help their brothers in the big city.

Many considered Duncan something of an up-and-comer in the organization, but it was clear that the Death Dealers were forcing him to go through a period of hazing, perhaps penance, before they would allow him any real responsibility. It made sense to Clegg that Duncan would have to kill for the club to gain membership—and that a high-profile daytime job would definitely cement the deal.

Clegg left Wilhite to chill in his cell, and collected some of his friends to bring down Duncan. They arrived at his innocuous but valuable suburban house in unmarked cars. After it was established that he wasn't home, they waited in their cars. When a silver Honda pulled up in front of the house, Lewis ran the plates. It was registered to a sixty-two-year-old woman named Deborah Duncan. “It's him,” Lewis said.

Just as Duncan was getting out of his car, the cops stormed him with weapons drawn, laser sights converging in a red spot on his chest. He dropped his briefcase and put his hands in the air. When they got to the car, Lewis arrested Duncan, and Clegg grabbed the briefcase.

Back at the station, they couldn't get Duncan to talk. But it didn't matter too much because Wilhite had already ratted him out. The best he could hope for would be a plea bargain down to aggravated assault. And Wilhite wasn't smart enough to ask for a deal, so he was going down for a few years at least as well.

But what puzzled Clegg was Duncan's briefcase. Inside, it was stuffed with spreadsheets. Pages and pages of spreadsheets, no less than two-and-half inches thick. Each of them had sets of numbers set against names. It was obvious that it listed dates against amounts and dollars. He didn't know exactly what he had, but he knew he had to keep it.

Clegg didn't like Steele's replacement as district attorney, Murray Hamilton. He knew him from when he was in private practice and considered him something of a soulless ambulance chaser. That he was appointed to take Steele's place after the murder was a great disappointment. Steele could be a bit of a pain with his ego and pomposity, but he put bad guys behind bars. He was thorough and fearless. Clegg didn't think that Hamilton would have quite the same ethical discipline.

Although it was unorthodox, Clegg asked Hamilton to meet him in the interrogation room. He sat in the small, windowless, pea-green cell. He wasn't bothered by its harsh fluorescent lights and their prominent hiss. He had grown too used to them to notice.

Hamilton arrived with a few associates, but they stayed outside the interrogation room. Clegg closed the door.

“Nice place you got here,” Hamilton began. “A few plants, some drapes, could be something.”

“C'mon, man,” Clegg laughed. “You're a prosecutor now, Murray; you're not on the criminals' side any more.”

“Oh, I forgot, I'm dealing with Mike Clegg—judge, jury, and from what I hear, executioner, of Springfield's east side,” Hamilton said. “Why don't we just get down to business?”

“Fine with me,” Clegg answered. “With this Carter asshole, we got them all dead to rights.”

“Uhhhhh, about that John . . ..” Hamilton said. “I can't do it, old buddy.”

Clegg exploded. “Whaddaya mean, you can't do it?” he shouted at him. “ We have an assassin—
the
assassin—who is ready to give up everybody in the Sons and half the Italian mafia and you're telling him ‘no thank you?'”

“But that's exactly the problem, John,” Hamilton responded calmly. “You have to think about what he'll look like in court—what we have is an admitted serial murderer who is also a lifelong drug addict and petty thief. He's not exactly the type juries identify with.”

“You're really saying no, you don't want his testimony to bring down most, if not all of the organized crime in this city?”

“Nobody will believe him, John. They just won't and you know it—and we don't want to be seen as letting him get away with murder.”

Clegg sighed and ran his hand over his short, bristly hair. “They've gotten to you Murray.”

Hamilton grinned. “What do you mean, John?”

“What I mean is that they have gotten to you,” Clegg said monotonously, without looking at Hamilton. “Either they have paid you off, or they've told you that you'll end up like Steele—who was twice the man you'll ever be.”

“Those are some pretty severe accusations,” Hamilton said. “You're lucky nobody else is in here to hear them or I'd have your ass.”

“That's why we're in here,” Clegg told him. “I was afraid something like this would happen.”

There were no cars around Steve's mansion when Ned drove up this time. No buzz of activity in the air. Ned correctly assumed it wasn't a filming day. After he got out of the car he was greeted by a couple of guys he knew to be prospects. They didn't recognize him, but the guy at the door did. He laughed at the outfit he was wearing. Ned had forgotten to take off his new work clothes, and suddenly felt foreign and strange in his khakis and pressed, blue, button-down shirt. “I'm working undercover,” Ned told him, and they both laughed.

Steve was sitting on his couch in his now-familiar white bath-robe and staring blankly at the TV.
SpongeBob
was on, but the sound was off. Steve didn't seem to be watching anyway, just staring. He looked awful. Big bags were under his eyes, his skin was a pale yellow, and his lips were dry and cracked. He looked gaunt, as though he had lost at least twenty pounds.

He brightened up a little when he saw Ned, but Ned had a feeling it was contrived—a form of bravado. “Hey, you old son of a whore,” Steve said, smiling. “How's it going?”

“Great, and you?”

“Good, good,” Steve nodded. “Got a great new product . . . yeah . . . it's Viagra—I get a guy in Thailand to make it for me; then he ships it over in bags of candy. All I have to do is hire some girl to pick the purple ones out. It really works too.”

“Sounds great; what do you think of the new setup?”

“Well, I don't like sharing the town with the fuckin' Lawbreakers, but I guess I always kind of did anyway.”

“Hey, we're all brothers now, right? At least they're not shooting at us anymore.”

“Always the company man, Aiken,” said Steve. “What's with the getup, anyway?”

“So Ivan didn't tell you?” Ned said. “I mean, he said he wouldn't, but I wasn't sure whether or not to believe him.”

“Tell me what?”

“I'm not with you anymore.”

“They call you up to Martinsville? Getting a chance in the bigs?”

“No, I'm running a new group out of Hamner.”

“Hamner? From my bar?”

“Ivan says it's not your bar anymore.”

“I guess it's yours?”

“Yeah.”

Steve put on a brave face, but Ned could tell he was crestfallen. “That's cool. I never got out there anyway. Besides, my focus should be here in Springfield.”

“Yeah.” Ned didn't have the heart to tell him that under the new deal, he was now essentially Steve's boss. He figured that he'd find out soon enough.

“So if you're not with the Death Dealers—oh, sorry, Sons of Satan Springfield East—anymore, you're gonna have to give back all the stuff I gave you.”

“Well, I haven't lived in the house for a while, and I never used the vehicles,” Ned said. “Except the Harley. I rode it here. I can leave it if you can get me a ride back to Hamner.”

“Sure, sure thing, ask one of the assholes outside.”

“Thanks.”

Steve grinned. “Why're you is such a hurry? Why don't we have a little fun for old time's sake?”

Ned instantly wondered what would happen if Steve were to die. Would Mehelnechuk give him Springfield? Would he be boss of the city, or at least half of it? There's no fuckin' way he'd hand over his own hometown to the former Lawbreakers. Would the man who killed Steve get punished or rewarded? What if they never found out who it was?

Steve could tell Ned was deep in thought, so he snapped his fingers in front of his face. “Hate to wake you up there, buddy. You gotta stay out of the product,” Steve said. “I thought you might want to have a little party with old Steve-O.”