The Second Coming (8 page)

“Calm down,” Big Pete said motioning with his hands. “According to Mr. Rafferty, he and Shelly were having a final drink when someone opened the front door and stood in the doorway.”

“Could he identify him?”

“He was wearing a hood and it was too dark. When he confronted the man, he slammed the door. He checked around the building and then went home.”

“Does he have an alibi?”

“No, he lives alone.”

“Do you believe him?”

“I don’t think he could have killed her and transported her body to the church. He’s too old.”

Mike sat quietly contemplating. “Did he say anything that might help us?”

Big Pete nodded his head. “Shelly hadn’t seen her biological father since she was a child and she was estranged from her mother and step father because he sexually assaulted her.”

“Does he know where they live?”

“He thinks in Montana.”

“Alright, you track her parents down and let them know what happened and see if they have an alibi. I’m going to search the database for any information about the orphanage and the symbol.”

As Mike stared at a photo of horror on Shelly’s face, he remembered that it was the same “Oh shit!” expression on his dad’s face when he found him. Mike didn’t care what anybody said about there being no pain when you shoot yourself in the head; that it was over before you knew it. Mike knew that the instant it took for the bullet to travel down the barrel and rip through the brain was the most painful feeling anyone could ever experience.

Not only that, but the last minutes his dad spent convincing himself to do it must have been agonizing. Mike imagined him loading the single bullet into the cartridge and sliding the cartridge into the handle and then pulling back on the slide before he placed the cold barrel into his mouth and
pulled the trigger. Those last moments had to be as close to hell as anyone could imagine.

What did his father think about? Was he sad? Did he have second thoughts? Did he cry? Did he pray? Did he stop to consider how his actions would affect those he left behind? Did he have a special bullet he used? Mike imagined it was a silver bullet with a hollow tip to make sure the job was done correctly. That’s how he would do it if he ever got the courage.

There wasn’t a day that went by that Mike didn’t regret not saying something to his dad. He played the conversation over in his head trying to figure out what he could have said and he kept coming back to the same thing; he wished he had told him that he loved him too. How could he have been so callous? Every time he thought about it he wanted to punch something.

“Fuck this,” he said as he got up from his desk. “I need a drink.”

chapter
15

C
LASSIC ROCK COULD
be faintly heard over the ruckus crowd as Mike and Big Pete jogged across the dimly lit street to avoid a patrol car as is it sped past the maroon awning of The Precinct Bar and Grill. The Precinct was a hole-in-the-wall cop bar that occupied the bottom floor of a wood frame building with apartments on the second floor. It was walking distance from the police department. It stood at the foot of the massive pillars that supported the Nimitz Freeway, which had collapsed during the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake. It was a mix of vacant buildings and industrial buildings that were being converted into live-work condominiums in an attempt to lure the middle class back to the Jack London area.

On the other side of the freeway was Broadway, which in its prime was home to a bustling commerce of the largest retail businesses in California including Sears, Macy’s and Emporium. These once grand buildings were now shells and were only partially occupied by anyone willing to pay rent.

Oakland struggled with the great industrial heritage of its past and what she wanted to become. Crime, murder and poverty were inextricably linked to Oakland’s status as San Francisco’s step-sister. It was great geographically, but they couldn’t get businesses or middle class families to move there because of the crime and violence, which wouldn’t leave unless the money from businesses and the middle class forced them out.

The Precinct was where all of the cops and detectives traded stories and didn’t worry about anyone judging them. It was like a fraternity and homicide detectives were the elite.

As Mike and Big Pete crossed the threshold, someone called out Mike’s name. Mike made eye contact with the Assistant State’s Attorney who was
dressed in a suit and a loosened tie. He held up a bottle of Budweiser and motioned for Mike to join him with a group of well groomed men. Mike shook his head and held a finger up. He needed a strong drink first.

The room was boxed with cheap wood paneling that was decorated with painted shields from the different police departments in the state of California. There were hundreds of them.

Mike and Big Pete made their way over to the corner of the bar and silently waited for George to acknowledge them. Mike was leaning on the bar with a scowl on his face when he saw the Assistant State Attorney approaching them.

“What the fuck? You too cool to talk to a bunch of suits?” he asked as he offered Mike his hand. “I just want to thank you. Let me buy you guys a beer.”

George, a stocky man with thinning white hair parted to the side came down to take their orders. “Hey guys. What’ll it be?”

“George, let me buy these guys a beer,” the suit proclaimed as he placed his hands on their shoulders. “It’s the least I can do for Oakland’s finest.”

George looked at Mike and Big Pete with a grin through his wire-framed glasses.

“Budweiser and a Jack neat please,” Mike said.

“Just a Bud Light, please, George,” Big Pete replied.

George hurried away.

“Seriously guys, I really do appreciate your professionalism. It makes my job a lot easier.”

“We gather the evidence and hand it off to you to wrap with a bow,” Mike replied.

George placed their drinks in front of them.

“I got this,” the suit said as he threw some bills on the bar. The men each grabbed a beer and touched the necks together with a clink. “To avenging those that can not avenge themselves.”

Mike and Big Pete took swigs from their drinks and there was a moment of awkward silence. Mike was hoping he would get the message. It wasn’t that he didn’t like him, he just wasn’t in the mood to talk with anyone.

“I better get back to my party. You guys let me know if there is ever anything I can do for you.”

“Thanks for the drink,” Mike said as he shook his hand.

“Thanks man,” Big Pete said and offered his hand.

The Assistant States Attorney disappeared into the crowd as Mike and Big Pete sat down at the bar.

“I get the feeling you don’t like Mr. Assistant State’s Attorney,” Mike said.

“Was I that obvious?” Big Pete replied. “You telling me you do like him?”

“He’s good at what he does, he’s a straight shooter and he’s necessary,” Mike told him. “Not only that, but I went to his house for a cocktail party and those mother-fuckers know how to party.”

Big Pete frowned at him.

“I kid you not. By the end of the night people were skinny dipping and fucking in the pool house. Mr. Assistant States Attorney was walking around in his boxers and a bathrobe wearing Elton John sunglasses with a scotch in one hand and a cigar in the other. He looked like Hunter S. Thompson. Funniest shit I’ve ever seen.”

“No shit? That is classic.”

After a few rounds of Bud’s with a Jack back, the warm, comforting rush of alcohol put Mike’s mind at ease. “Let’s shoot some stick,” he said as he grabbed his beer and Jack Daniels and strutted towards the pool table in the adjacent room.

No one was in the room as Mike set his drinks down on the high top table in the corner. Big Pete sauntered in and set his pint glass of Stoli and soda on the table in the opposite corner.

“What are we playing for?” Mike asked as he put the quarters in the slots and released the balls with a rolling crash.

“Bragging rights,” Big Pete replied as he placed the rack on the table and started arranging the balls.

Mike grabbed a stick from the rack on the wall and walked over to the opposite end of the table. “Fuck bragging rights,” he said as he chalked the tip of the pool cue. “I already own those. Tonight we play for our lives.”

“Some times I really do think you have a death wish Mikey.”

Mike stretched out over the table and cracked the cue ball into the rack of balls. “There’s a difference between a death wish and not being afraid to die. I didn’t want to die when I fought in Iraq and Afghanistan, but I wasn’t afraid to die for my convictions. I don’t want to die now because I want to
catch this murdering son of a bitch, but I would give my life to protect the life of another innocent girl and keep her from having to go through the shear agony that girl experienced during the last minutes of her life.”

“Yeah but you can’t do it all on your own Mikey.”

“That wouldn’t stop me from jumping on a grenade to save my brothers life or taking a bullet if I could save your life. It’s instinct, just like when I played football. I was never afraid to sacrifice my body for the good of the team.”

“Drinking the way you do isn’t a sacrifice. It’s slow suicide,” Big Pete told him as he rattled a shot in and out of the corner pocket. “Fuck me!”

Mike stopped and looked at Big Pete. “Is that what we’re talking about here? Don’t judge me. You have no idea the hell that goes on in my head when I close my eyes at night. I can’t get the images out of my head. You try living with that.”

“Come on Mike. You were drinking like this before all that happened.”

“You try living under my dad’s expectations. Ever since I can remember, my best just wasn’t good enough.”

“Excuses Mikey. All of them are excuses. You’ve got a fucking excuse for everything.”

“Plus, life is boring unless I’m drinking,” Mike said followed by a deep burp. “There is no excitement or challenge in the mundane activities of a normal life. Every day is the same. When I’m drinking, everything seems better. It’s my reward for putting up with another day of bullshit.” The soft crack of the impact of the balls was followed by one of Mike’s balls slowly rolling to the side pocket and safely falling in. “Why do you think I joined the Navy and homicide?”

“That’s just it Mikey. When will it end?”

Mike paused and pondered the question. “I wish I knew. I keep waiting for something...I don’t know what, but something to satisfy me. I have this urge for something; I just don’t know what it is.”

“It’s not in the bottle.”

“Some times it is.”

“There’s always therapy.”

“Fuck that. Therapy is for pussies. Now shut the fuck up and take a shot.”

Big Pete let out a sigh. “Alright Mikey. But it’s your shot.”

Mike tossed his cue onto the table scattering the remaining balls. “Look, I appreciate what you’re doing, but I need to work through this my way, alright? I’ll figure it out eventually, but you need to give me space. I swear to fucking God, sometimes I feel like I can’t breathe.”

Lacy strolled into the room with her long legs and shimmering blonde hair. “Hey Big Pete, hey Mike,” she said with fluttering eyelashes that masked her green eyes. “Can I get you boys something?”

Mike turned and walked over to his bottle of Bud and Jack Daniels as Big Pete and Lacy chatted like old friends who hadn’t seen each other in years. Mike picked up his glass and took a long swallow and chased it with a swig of Bud as he leaned on the table like a cowpoke. He watched her flirting with Big Pete and became irritated.

Lacy touched Big Pete’s arm and sauntered over to Mike with tempting eyes. She was so damn fine it made his heart hurt, but he knew they were nothing but trouble together.

“Hey darling, what can I get you?” she asked.

Mike took a swig of his beer and the only thing he could think about was getting her into bed. “Nothing I haven’t already had,” he kidded her. This is what always happened when he was around her; he would tell himself that he was going to resist her, but he didn’t have the willpower. The more he tried to stay away, the more he wanted her. He couldn’t help himself and God damn it, that made him angry.

“Is that right? Anything you’d like to try again?”

“I was hoping you would ask. Watching you shake your thing, all I can think about is…a Budweiser and a Jack back.”

Lacy slapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll regret that later tough guy,” she replied as she walked away.

“Make it neat please,” Mike shouted to her as he watched her tight ass and pony tail sway in alternate directions.

“I don’t understand why you two don’t get together,” Big Pete said confused.

“Getting together isn’t the problem. It’s what happens when we’re together that is the problem.”

“I don’t see how anyone could have a problem with her.”

“All we do is fuck and party.”

“And you have a problem with that?”

Mike chuckled. “We’re too much alike. I need someone who I can settle down with. Someone that all I can think about is making passionate love to. All I think about with Lacy is good, hard core sex.”

“I will never understand you Mikey. You are an enigma.”