The One That Got Away (23 page)

Beck put Brando in his Honda Pilot and drove out to Javier Muñoz’s home in Hayward. The lights were on in the house, but Muñoz’s Challenger wasn’t outside. He continued on to Muñoz’s other haunts—a couple of houses in Hayward, a bar in Union City, and a strip club in San Francisco—but struck out at each one. He finally found the Challenger parked in Fremont, outside the warehouse that was the front for his dog-fighting operation.

He couldn’t believe Muñoz had returned to the scene of the crime. He supposed once an asshole, always an asshole.

There were no other cars around, so this wasn’t a fight night. He wondered why the promoter was here. He turned the SUV around and parked a few blocks from the entrance to the warehouse.

“Stay here a minute,” he said and patted Brando on the neck. He felt knotted muscle and tension. “You remember this place, don’t you, boy? Plenty of bad memories. I know. I get it. Don’t worry. No one is sending you back.”

He climbed from the SUV and walked toward the Challenger. The area was dead. The occasional derelict vehicle sat silent, but there was little else. The streets were so quiet he could hear the hum of the streetlights. The seclusion was the reason the area worked so well for Muñoz and his dog-fighting ring. And seclusion would be the reason tonight would work so well for him.

He stopped by Muñoz’s car. He listened for a moment, then smeared the contents of a dog-poop bag over the driver’s door handle. The shit had been happily provided by Brando during their walk.

Tying off and repocketing the bag, he went in search of Muñoz. He gained entry into the building through a boarded-over door. The place had been a factory of some kind in a past life. He found himself in the office area, judging by the rotted partitioning and open studs. It stunk of piss. He guessed he was standing in the holding area where Muñoz had kept the dogs. He waved a penlight at the ground. There were no signs of previous pens or cages. No doubt the cops would have taken everything as evidence, leaving only the smell.

He listened for noise and heard faint movement deep inside the building. He threaded his way through it until he reached the factory floor. Over fifty thousand square feet of open space stretched out in front of him, punctuated only by steel support columns. This would have been where they trained the dogs and held the fights. Nothing provided any indication of that now. The place was bare except for trash and rubble on the cracked floor.

He spotted Muñoz waving a flashlight over the debris. It lit up what was left of his business—namely nothing. He rooted around in the mess and muttered to himself in Spanish.

Beck couldn’t decide whether Muñoz was searching for something or examining the wreckage of his enterprise for a possible reboot. It was academic. There’d be no do-overs or restarts. It all came to an end tonight.

He’d seen enough. He’d learned what he wanted to learn. Muñoz was alone and isolated. He backtracked his steps to the entrance of the factory, used a concrete pillar to conceal himself, and waited for Muñoz to appear.

Twenty minutes later, he emerged. He had a funny gait. He pressed forward with his head down and his arms swinging. His thick build and squat size reminded Beck of a fire hydrant.

Muñoz reached his car and grabbed his shit-covered door handle. He jerked his hand away and examined it under the glare of his flashlight.

“
Que la chingada
,” he snarled.

Beck laughed.

Muñoz swept the flashlight in his direction. He stepped out into the beam’s path.

Muñoz held up his hand. “You think this is funny, asshole?”

Beck laughed again. “Very.”

“Will you be laughing when I make you lick it off?”

Beck backed up a step, then broke into a run, retreating in the direction of his waiting Honda. He turned back when he heard the patter of Muñoz’s feet. The piece of filth ran with a stunted and clumsy gait, which was no match for his longer and more developed stride, from years of being a runner. He knew that he had the measure of Muñoz in a footrace. It was why he’d parked the vehicle four blocks away.

“Don’t think you can get away, fucker.”

“I have no intention of getting away,” he said to himself with a grin as he reached his car.

“I’ve got you now.”

Muñoz didn’t. He was still over a block behind, beating a flat-footed tattoo on the asphalt.

“No, I’ve got you,” Beck said. He yanked open the passenger door and said simply, “Take him down.”

Brando burst out and pounded the pavement with his powerful legs. His acceleration as he zeroed in on Muñoz was a thing of beauty to observe.

Muñoz stuttered to a halt before turning tail. Beck grinned. He wondered if the dog promoter knew he’d been played. Did he realize he’d been drawn out into the open, far from the safety of his car, so that Brando could have his revenge? Beck doubted it. Deductive reasoning probably wasn’t in his skill set.

Brando caught his tormentor before he’d gotten sixty feet. The dog slammed into the man’s back, driving him to the ground. The second he was down, Brando lunged on his prey.

Muñoz screamed out for help. He raised his arms to protect himself, but Brando simply bit the hands that had previously forced him to fight to the death. The night was filled with more howls and pleas, which would go unanswered.

Beck reached inside the glove compartment and removed his marking knife. He grabbed Brando’s leash before casually walking toward the very one-sided fight.

By the time he caught up to the carnage, Muñoz’s arms were a never-ending series of lacerations. He was no longer able to keep them raised to protect himself, and Brando had latched on to his throat. Blood was jetting from a wound in his neck and had spattered the street where the dog had dragged him.

Muñoz looked at Beck with dread and fear. But Beck felt no sympathy.

“It’s not so entertaining to see two animals fight to the death when you’re the other animal, is it?”

Muñoz said nothing. He was beyond speech. He was beyond saving.

Brando finally released his quarry when Muñoz was long dead. The dog simply stepped back from his handiwork, and Beck slipped the leash around his neck. Brando let him do it without a fuss.

He pulled out his marking knife to add Muñoz to the score, but then stopped. It wouldn’t be right—this was Brando’s claim, not his.

He looked down at the dog and stroked its head. “I know this doesn’t make up for what he did to you, but at least he paid the price for his crimes.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Zoë was having a hospital breakfast the following morning when her protection arrived. Her dynamic duo consisted of Officer Martinez, out of uniform for once, and Ryan Greening. Greening looked how she felt. He must have driven through the night from Bishop to get back here. She swore he was wearing the same clothes she’d seen him in yesterday when they’d searched for the Tally Man’s compound. A wave of shame washed over her at the sight of Martinez. He’d been good to her, but he’d rescued her from too many drinking binges over the last year. She guessed they were meant to be her feel-good detail—people she knew and trusted.

“How’re you feeling, Zoë?” Martinez asked.

Wrecked
was the simple answer. With her adrenaline supplies depleted, her body was letting her know how much of a fight she’d put up and amplified the message. She felt every bruise, scrape, and torn muscle fiber. It took extra effort to move this morning.

“I think I’m doing a little better than him,” she said, nodding at Greening.

“Forget appearances. I’m good. I just need a change of clothes,” he said. “And speaking of clothes, I’ve got these for you.”

He held up her roller bag. “One of our female officers packed you a few things to last you for the next couple of days. She was flying blind, so if there’s something specific she missed, let us know and we’ll get it over to you.”

She was glad someone had thought about clothes, seeing as Ogawa’s forensic people had taken everything but her underwear last night.

“So, what’s the plan?”

“We leave for Dr. Jarocki’s place in Napa as soon as you’re ready.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s at the house already,” Martinez said.

“You didn’t catch the Tally Man yet?”

Greening frowned and shook his head. “Sorry, no.”

So, hiding from the world it was. “OK, let me get changed then.”

Greening and Martinez saw themselves out. They stood guard with the assigned officer outside her room. She would have loved a shower before changing into fresh clothes, but she wanted out of the hospital more.

She hopped out of bed and went through the bag that had been packed for her. It looked as if the cop had been thoughtful about it. In addition to the basics, the officer had been considerate enough to include a dress, heels, her shampoo, a hairdryer, and makeup. These things would help make her feel like herself instead of like a frightened animal in hiding.

She changed into yoga pants and a T-shirt and put on running shoes. If she needed to run or fight, her outfit wouldn’t hinder her. She also pulled on a baseball cap for anonymity.

She checked herself in the mirror. She was a roadmap of violence. She examined her jawline. There was no swelling, just one big, purple bruise that clambered up the side of her face where the Tally Man had socked her. It blended nicely with the handprint bruises around her throat where he’d choked her. She lifted her T-shirt and sighed at the bruising that mottled her stomach where she’d been kicked and slammed into her sofa. She let go of the fabric, and it covered the worst of the injuries.

“Well, you’re still here,” she said to her reflection.

She opened the door to the room, and Greening and Martinez turned to face her.

“Ready to go?” Martinez asked with a smile.

She wasn’t sure she liked the smile. It smacked of forced optimism. After last night, there was no room for optimism, but for nicety’s sake, she said, “Yeah.”

“This way,” Greening said.

He took the bag from her, and she followed the policemen down a corridor to a staff elevator.

“We have a car waiting outside,” Greening said. “I don’t expect there to be any issues, but should anything happen, just follow our instructions. OK?”

“OK.”

Despite Greening and Martinez’s casual attire, they stood out to Zoë and probably to anyone else who was paying attention. Their jackets bulged awkwardly where their weapons hung. They both moved with a cagey gait, not like visitors unfamiliar with the layout. They looked like what they were—a conspicuous security team trying not to be conspicuous. Zoë didn’t let it bother her too much. She had numbers this time. Three of them to his one.

They took an elevator to the street level and emerged on the back side of the hospital, away from the main entrance. They headed toward a green Ford Expedition parked in a red zone, beyond another cop standing idly by.

“We good?” Greening asked as they passed.

“No one went near it.”

Martinez went ahead, unlocked the SUV, dumped her bag in the trunk, and opened a rear passenger door for her. She climbed in while Greening and Martinez got into the front, Martinez taking the driver’s seat.

As soon as they got moving, Greening and Martinez talked in cop speak, cutting her off from the conversation. Greening kept his gaze centered on the vehicles around them. Martinez made a number of circular maneuvers and doubled back on himself twice before pronouncing, “We don’t have a tail.”

“OK, let’s get out of here,” Greening said.

Martinez picked up US 101 and headed toward the Golden Gate Bridge. Despite his pronouncement, Greening kept a lookout until they were across the bridge, then he relaxed.

It didn’t take long to reach Napa. When Jarocki had said he had a family home there, Zoë had pictured someplace surrounded by vineyards. Instead, they ended up in a residential neighborhood backing on to a park. Martinez turned into the driveway and stopped the car in front of a large, ranch-style dwelling.

Jarocki emerged from the house with a smile and a wave. He hugged Zoë and shook Greening’s hand. The street was quiet with no one passing by, but he said, “Let’s get inside. I don’t want to make a spectacle.”

The house was cool with the air-conditioning churning. Zoë guessed Jarocki was around fifty, but the place seemed furnished by someone much older. There were lots of floral prints and furniture that predated IKEA by a few decades.

“I’ll show you to your room,” Jarocki said, and led them to the master bedroom. “You’ve got your own bath, so you’ll have total privacy.”

“I don’t want to take yours. Any one will do for me.”

“This isn’t mine,” he said. “It was my parents’. Now it’s the guest room.”

Martinez put Zoë’s bag on the bed.

“Dr. Jarocki, Officer Martinez needs to go over some security precautions for the property, and I need to go over some things with Zoë.”

Jarocki nodded, and Martinez led him out of the room. Zoë followed Greening inside. He perched himself on the window ledge, looking out at a secluded backyard.

“OK, this isn’t witness protection, and you’re free to do as you want, but here are some ground rules,” he said. “Stay inside. Don’t answer the door. If you need anything, ask Dr. Jarocki to get it for you or text me—you have my number. If you take precautions, you won’t come to any harm.”

Zoë sighed. “It doesn’t sound like fun.”

“It’s not meant to be. Look, I know this sucks and it’s going to drive you crazy, but please be sensible. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

She dropped down onto the corner of the bed. “Are you or Officer Martinez staying here?”

He shook his head. “You aren’t in protective custody.”

“I’m just hiding out.”

He frowned. “Yes. I wish I could have someone here with you at all times, but to be honest, you’re better served having every possible officer working the case. I’ve asked the local PD to drop by every couple of hours, and I’ll be checking in with you throughout the day to make sure you’re OK.”

“How long do you honestly expect me to stay here?”

“I can’t give you a realistic answer at the moment. There are too many unknowns. Let’s give it two weeks, then we can reassess.”