Untold Damage (16 page)

“Yes.”

“And not your first time, correct?”

“That's right.”

“Still reporting to your probation officer on schedule, right?”

“Of course.”

“Good to hear it,” he said. “Did Kaslowski and Scarsdale like each other? Hang together?”

Jenks thought for a moment. “Not that I remember,” he said slowly, “but nobody wants to remember their days inside. You know how it is, right?” Thought some more, then said, “No, I don't
think
they hung out much. But then again, I wasn't around them all the time.”

“Of course. Do you think they kept up on the outside?”

“Doubt it. Carl didn't like Tony much, either. On the inside, you do what you need to do to survive. You hang with the people you need to hang with in order to get by. You have to learn to survive in there, any way you can. It's a horrible system we've got going. Overpopulated, underfunded. There's really no
real
way to help the men who are in there. They end up surviving by using each other, exploiting and abusing each other, or … imploding.”

“You didn't implode. Kaslowski didn't. Both of you survived.”

A shrug. “We were strong enough to realize that what we did inside was
only
for survival. Strong enough to know that once we got out, every day we worked to turn our life around was like an absolution, of a sort.” Jenks then stopped for a moment. Remembering. “Hell,” he added with a sigh, “maybe that's just what we just told ourselves to stay sane, I don't know.”

Oberon looked around the room. It was a place struggling people would give their eyeteeth for. “You seem to be doing very well, Mr. Jenks. You're a good example for those men inside to follow.”

“I was lucky. I found Kate.”

“Is there anyone else you can think of that both men knew on the inside and mixed with while they were there?”

After a moment of thinking, Jenks shook his head. “There was a guy they seemed to be around all the time, but I can't remember his name. Black guy. Sorta big. Been awhile now, and I—wait …” He sat there, staring at nothing as he seemed to struggle with remembering. Looked up at Oberon. Smiled. “Dockery,” he said. “That was the guy's name. Dockery.”

Oberon wasn't buying the memory act, and he made a note next to Dockery's name to that effect. “No first name?”

A shrug. “Sorry, that's all I remember. I think he was local, though. I remember Carl once saying something to me about how Dockery couldn't wait to get home to the Fillmore.”

Oberon folded up his notebook. Stuck it in his pocket as he stood. “Don't apologize, Mr. Jenks. You gave me something to go on when I was having the feeling I was chasing a long shot. Thank you for your time.” Put one of his cards on the side table. “If you think of anything else, don't hesitate to call me.”

“Of course,” Jenks said as he led Oberon to the door. “You know, if Inner Iron works out, I'm planning on giving the seminar to young kids who are growing up in problem areas of the city. Hunters Point. The Mission. I think I could really make a difference.”

“Well,” Oberon said as Jenks opened the door for him, “then I'll be rooting for you.”

Twenty-Seven

There was a sharp
knock on the door, making Dockery jump awake. He'd fallen asleep in his chair, the one he'd turned toward the door. He'd sent his girl and kid to visit her family. Didn't want to take any chances with them, even though he knew shit all about what the hell was going down. Better safe than sorry, though. Like back in Folsom. Had to keep your head on a swivel in that place. You just never knew where a shiv might come from if someone declared your number up. There'd been guys who'd never done nothing to no one there, but ended up dead just the same. Then there were the others, like Eric, who'd come out more fucked up than when they went in. Not everyone in prison was a bad guy, even though the papers liked to write it that way.

Another knock at his door. Dockery pulled his gun out from between the chair pillow and arm. It felt like a real gun again, now that he'd gotten that fully loaded clip. Went to the door. Peered through the curtain. Saw an older-looking dude with silver hair standing there. By the cut of the suit, he could tell the fucker was a cop. But then again, what if it was the dude in the car? What if it was some sort of setup? His mind filled with conspiracy theories and hidden traps that only waited for him to step into and get killed. Another knock. Dockery pulled the hammer back on the gun, then reconsidered. Whatever this guy was going to do, he couldn't do it outside, right there on the street …

Oberon stood outside of the frayed Victorian duplex. Checked to make sure he had the correct address. He did. It hadn't taken long to run down Leon Dockery in the computers. Certainly not a model citizen, but society had bred way worse. Still, there was enough violence and repeat offending to make him unhook the catch that kept his sidearm safe in its little nest.

He hoped to get more from Dockery than he'd gotten from Jenks. There was something about Jenks that bothered him. Maybe it was the interchange between the man and his girlfriend. His gut told him it felt forced, like they were performing for him. Maybe it was the man's personality, which he felt also rang false. Or, more likely, maybe he was beginning to be frustrated by the lack of leads. Frustration was bad, he knew, and could lead to poor decisions.

The door opened and a good-sized man stood there. Over six feet, with a heavy build. Knew instantly from the booking photo in Dockery's file that this was the man he'd come to see. Wondered what fight he'd been in recently with that very swollen eye and big walnut on the side of his forehead. Sure looked like he got the worst of it.

“Mr. Dockery?” he said as he pulled out his badge. “My name is Detective Inspector Kane, Homicide.”

“Okay,” came the cold reply. “What can I do for you, Officer?” There was something about the way the man said it that put Oberon's antenna on alert. Dockery was edgy. Nervous.

“May I come in? I'm looking for people who knew Carl Kaslowski and or Anthony Scarsdale. I've received some information that leads me to believe you might have known these gentlemen.”

“Kas is dead?” The shock was genuine, that was for sure. “What's this about, man? I just found out about Tony from his moms. Happen to call her, looking for him.” Dockery stood back to let him in. The place was furnished from what looked like various second-hand stores. There was evidence of a child in the home. Dockery went and sat heavily in a overstuffed chair that faced the front door. Oberon stood in front of the fireplace mantel, his back to it as he pulled out his notebook.

“So you did know both men?” Oberon asked.

Dockery still seemed stunned by the news of Kaslowski's death. “I can't believe Carl is dead, too. How'd he die?”

“He was shot, like Scarsdale.”

“Same gun?”

“Why would you be interested in that, Mr. Dockery?”

A shrug. “I was just wondering, is all. If it was the same guy. That's all, man.”

Oberon studied him for a moment. Seemed an honest answer. “It is, as they say, a definite possibility. What can you tell me about your time with these men?”

“I … I don't know, man. It's just a crazy coincidence, is all, right? That we were inside together, and …” He let his voice trail off then. Shook his head. The shock of Kaslowski's death certainly had the ring of truth to it.

“Just a crazy coincidence?” Oberon replied. “Really? You really think that, Mr. Dockery?”

“Sure,” Dockery shrugged. “What else could it be?”

“So you knew both these men well?”

Dockery shuffled a bit in his chair. Another shrug.

“Why don't you want to tell me about your time inside? I've already read your file. I'm just trying to solve a couple murders here. You know that Kaslowski was a new father? His child had—”

“Heck, man,” Dockery said, his voice getting an edge to it, “you know that guys don't like talking about their time behind bars. You a cop. You know that.”

“Yes, I do know that. But I'm looking at a double homicide. Please don't make me pull my leverage and turn this into something more unpleasant than it needs to be. You know how it goes. I have to visit anyone and everyone who has a history with the victims. We could of course talk downtown, if you prefer.”

Dockery sat there for a minute, seeming to get more and more nervous. Maybe it was the mention of going downtown. Repositioned himself in his chair, the weight of his hand pushing down on the cushion. Oberon caught the faint glint of metal. Knew what it was immediately, though he didn't show it. There was no way he could get his weapon out before Dockery got to his. No way at all. A sense of quiet overcame him. Of calm. Everything slowed down. Ice-floe slow. He could feel every tick of the clock. Feel the very energy that lived in the house itself.

Oberon stared down at his notebook for a moment. Tapped the pen on the page as he angled his upper body to get his hand as near as possible to the holster hanging under his left arm. “Mr. Dockery,” he said quietly, “would you please stand up and away from the chair?”

Dockery's expression was one of surrender. Shoulders sagged. Brought his hands up as he stood. Eyes had gone opaque. Oberon pulled his Glock from its holster and trained it on him. “Step away from the chair and toward me, please,” he said.

“That gun's for my defense, man,” Dockery said as he complied with Oberon's command. “I'm being followed. From what you tell me, it might be something to do with Carl and Tony gettin' killed.”

“Turn around.”

Dockery did as he was told and Oberon pulled out his cuffs. Went to slap one around Dockery's left wrist, intending to pull that arm down without having to holster his weapon. He'd done it that way hundreds of times.

This time it went wrong.

As he reached up for Dockery's wrist, the man—who outweighed him by a good forty pounds—spun around, elbow coming around in an arc that caught him right on his cheekbone. He cursed as he dropped the cuffs and started to fall backward, off balance. Dockery seemed possessed, moving with the speed of a tiger. Maybe he was supercharged with fear at going back into the system. Dockery chopped him on the right forearm and the gun dropped from his nerveless hand. He was then smashed in the face with a huge fist that sent him flying backward into the mantel. His skull crashed into the carved hardwood, sending off a blast of sharp pain and fireworks. Fell hard to the floor, barely able to make out Dockery as the man pulled the gun from his chair. He then kicked Oberon's pistol under the couch, grabbed up a coat, and bolted out of the apartment through the front door.

Oberon got to his feet. Ripped his cell out of his pocket and called in what had just happened. Alerted dispatch to his situation as he dug under the couch to retrieve his weapon, cursing at the wasted precious seconds. Ran out the front door and down to the street. Dockery was nowhere in sight. Figuring the man would run to the nearer end of the block, Oberon bolted to his car and leapt inside, gunning the engine. Tore off in a howl of burning rubber down the street. Brought the car to a screeching halt in the intersection. Her glanced up and down both streets, but the man was nowhere to be seen.

Dockery was gone.

Twenty-Eight

The first thing Mallen
did when he got back to his place was call Gato. The man picked up on the third ring. “
Si
?”
Gato said.

“It's Mallen,” he said. “How's it going, G?”

“
Vato
!” came the reply, relief more than evident in his new friend's voice. Could hear traffic noises in the background. His friend was on the road. “Where the fuck you been, man? I've been trying to call you, but it said your number is no longer working. What happened?”

“Remember those two guys I told you about?” He then gave Gato a breakdown on his trip into the bay, and then what happened at the hospital. He left Chris and Anna out of it for now.

As he expected, Gato was pissed. He let loose with a string of swearing in Spanish, then said, “That's it, Mallen. Just say the fucking word and I'll get them found.”

Mallen thought about that offer. Longer than he'd expected he would. He needed Jas and Griffin off his back. And how much could Oberon really help him? He needed to tell Oberon about it, sure, but what sort of priority could he actually expect the cop to make it, in the great scheme of things that must be Oberon's world?

“Look,” he finally said as he paced the floor of his studio, “I'm giving you the word, but just to
find
them, okay?”

“Well, what good will that do? Finding them won't stop
pendejos
like that. You have to put them down and out. You know that, right?”

“I do. But for now, I just want to know where they're holed up, what their movements are. And this has to be done very quietly, G, okay? They might believe I'm dead, and I want them to keep on thinking that.”

“Okay,” came the reply. He could tell his friend was disappointed. “You want me to come and get you? You still have that gun? You need another one to keep it company?”

Mallen laughed softly. “What are you, man, a gunsmith? Well, yeah … if you're offering, you know? I'll take better care this time, I promise.”

“When do you want to meet up?”

“I gotta find some food, first, so I'll call after that, if that works.”

“That's cool,” Gato said. They said goodbye, and Mallen put his phone back in his coat pocket. He stood there for a moment, in the center of his dilapidated studio, wondering about how life worked sometimes, putting a person like Gato in his world.

He didn't go far for food. After scrounging around his pad for some money, he'd come up with just enough for an Indian buffet joint around the corner. It wasn't great, but at least he could eat a lot for a set price and he wouldn't get ptomaine poisoning. Well, mostly sure he wouldn't. A part of him just didn't want to be seen on the streets too long, if at all possible. Had to chalk that up to his brush with death, in the guise of Jas and Griffin. As he ate at the table farthest from the window, way back in a dark corner, he went over in his mind everything that had happened since Eric's death and his own seeming rebirth. Dockery's appearance, right after Eric's death, meant that he
had
to know something. But what could it be? Could it have something to do with Eric's falling down the rabbit hole of drugs in the first place? He wished again that he'd been a better friend to Eric. He should've listened more or … something. Anything.

He pushed away the plate in front of him, like he was pushing away his own guilty feelings over Eric. Left the best tip he could, and walked to the door.

The street felt quiet. Almost subdued. It was late in the afternoon, but not yet the rush hour. As he walked quickly down the street back to his building, he kept on alert for any black Escalades or any other street demons that might look like they were taking an interest in him.

His key was in the lobby door and turning when he heard heavy footsteps rushing up behind him. He spun around to charge at whoever was attacking him.

“Mallen! It's me,” Dockery said as he backed off a step, empty hands up at chest level. “Chill, man. It's me. Dockery. Remember?” It was easy to see the man was strung out with frayed nerves. Wound as tight as a guitar string.

“How'd you get my address?” he asked, scanning up and down the street, every sense on high alert as he looked for any sign that might indicate Dockery wasn't acting alone.

Dockery put his hands down. “Did some asking. Was told you sometimes hang at the Cornerstone. The 'tender there, Bill, gave me a general 411 on you. Told me what kind of guy you are. I told him I needed to see you, and bad. He didn't say shit, wouldn't give an address. So, I been cruising this goddamned place for hours, man, askin' after you. Finally got this line on your pad.”

“What do you want to talk about that's so urgent? Is it about Eric?”

Dockery nodded, glancing up and down the street nervously.

“What's going on?” Mallen said. “You act like you're being followed or something.”

“I am,” came the reply. “Some fuckin' car keeps showing up, tailing me.”

“You sure?”

Dockery looked at him. “Hell man, I know what being followed feels like. Don't you?”

“I did, but that muscle got a little rubbery. Workin' on building it back up. Why would somebody be following you? You're staying out of trouble, yeah?”

“Tryin', man. Hell, don't most people got reasons for being followed?”

“Good point. So, it's about Eric?”

The man's face showed nerves gone frayed. “I don't know that for sure, but I think so. We done that kid wrong, man. Wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“Me and Carl. Tony, too. There was—” He flinched as a loud truck rolling by backfired. “We gotta do the rest inside,” he said. “Not here, okay?”

Mallen nodded. Opened the lobby door …

That was when the shots rang out. Ugly shouts, slicing the air. Dockery's stomach exploded red and he folded to the ground. There was the roar of a car engine. Mallen banked on the fact that Dockery would have his gun, and he was right. Found it in the coat pocket. Ripped it out, bolting to the curb as the air filled with the peel of burning rubber. A dark sedan tore down the street. Maybe a Japanese make. He grabbed his left wrist to stabilize his aim. Fired twice. Heard one bullet hit glass, but then the car was gone, disappearing around the corner.

He cursed then. He should've been more intent on a plate number than doing damage. Ran back to Dockery, who was now surrounded by a few people from the street.

He bent down to check for a pulse. Nothing. Dockery was dead.

The street was now a cop-car convention. Seemed like everyone had been sent. There'd been some uncomfortable moments when Homicide found that Dockery's gun had been recently fired, but he held nothing back. Told them exactly what happened. Gave them his background in law enforcement. Some of them had known it. Known him. Seemed they fell into two camps: one was glad to see he was obviously staying clean, the other still despised him for ever falling.

“Why'd you leave the force?” one detective asked him. A small, short Police. Carried a tight, angry expression. Probably pissed at being born short.

“Accidental self-inflicted wound,” was his only reply. Hated he couldn't give an ID on the car. It had all happened too fast.

Detective Short Man's Disease looked at him a long moment. Shook his head, then looked down at the yellow tarp covering Dockery's corpse. “Why do you think they were after him?”

“Wouldn't know. I barely knew him. Met him for the first time a couple days ago.”

The cop leveled his gaze at him. “You positive there
was
a car?”

“Come on,” he replied, “all you have to do is check ballistics. What'd you think? That I talked with Dockery, excused myself to the other side of the fucking street and then shot him, running back just in time for everyone to see me standing over his body?”

“You could've shot him from the street and then tossed your gun down that storm drain right there.” A shrug. “You could've then come over and shot off Dockery's gun, and that's all she wrote. All we have is your word you actually spoke with the guy.”

“And why would I do all that in the first place?”

Another shrug. “Vendetta? Maybe you owed him? For ripping you off for some drugs, or money, or whatever else gets you people worked up enough to take a human life.”

He was about to reply when a vehicle pulled up. Oberon got out. As he came closer, Mallen was surprised to see that he sported a large bandage over his left cheek, and that the other side of his face was swollen dark blue and black. He didn't look happy, either.

With a noticeable limp, Oberon went over to where Dockery's body still lay. Pulled the tarp back. Studied the body. Replaced the tarp. Came over, shaking his head.

Short Man Detective looked about as happy at seeing Oberon as a guy seeing a sore on his prick. “Kane,” he said.

“Horton,” Oberon said with faint nod. The air changed. Mallen could tell. There were two dogs here now that didn't like each other, not one fucking bit.

“What are you doing here, Inspector?” Horton asked. “I caught this one.”

“I know,” Oberon replied, “but the body you have here is a man who I was questioning not two hours ago, and who resisted arrest and took off.”

“You know him?” Mallen said. “How do you know him?”

Oberon's sigh was legion. “Please do not tell me you know this man, Mark?”

“I don't. I mean, not really. Only slightly. Met a couple days ago.”

“Hey,” Horton interrupted, “you guys mind if I do the interview? I'm considered pretty good at it.”

Oberon's only answer was to take a step back. “Sorry. Of course.”

Mallen then had to tell the story one more time, probably because Horton was pissed and just wanted to make Oberon wait like a little bitch at the curb. When he was done telling it all over, Horton folded up his notebook and stalked off without a word, throwing one final glance at Oberon. Dockery's body had been removed by this time. Mallen noticed a couple other detectives still questioning the locals. He walked over to Oberon, who was waiting near the chalk outline of Dockery's body.

“I can't believe Dockery got the better of you,” he kidded as he came up, but his friend didn't seem to be amused. “Sorry,” he added quietly.

“I must be getting too old for this job,” Oberon replied. “Maybe I should pull the pin. Retire to my garden. Long after the significant other I never had.”

“What would the city do without its staunchest defender? You gonna be its best gardener?”

“Please quit with the obvious attempts at flattery. I am not buying.”

“Okay,” he laughed. “What were you doing with Dockery, any-
way?”

“I'll ask the questions.” Here Oberon looked at him again, like a scientist studying a disease he can't quite figure. “You know what I've realized?”

“What?”

“You always popping up in my cases lately. It's not a trend I wish to continue.”

“Trust me: not continuing in that trend would make my fucking day. You want a drink?”

“Yes.”

They walked down the street to the nearest bar. One simply named Overflow
.
He tried to ignore the stares from his neighbors as they left. The place was dark, thank God. The decor was along the lines of an old sea grotto. Blue and green lights. Fake coral all over the ceilings and walls. Fake seaweed crawling up all over everything. Mallen liked it, though his loyalty was with Bill and the Cornerstone.

They went to the stick. An older, hefty Chinese lady took their order. When it came time to pay, Mallen had to look over at Oberon. The cop just sighed. Mumbled something about the weight of the world as he fished out some dollars from his wallet. After both of them were situated and the waitress had left, Oberon then pulled out his notebook. Consulted it. “So,” he began, “how again did the man I was arresting earlier today come to be shot on your doorstep?”

“Why were you after him?”

“One would think you were a bit wiser than to repeat your past mistakes so flagrantly,” Oberon chided.

“And you'd be right,” he replied. Thought for a moment. What to tell Oberon? Took a sip of his drink. “Okay, this is how I know Dockery. I got curious about Eric's shooting. Especially with my name and addy in his pocket. Why wouldn't I be, right? So I think,
I want to look into this.
Dockery shows up outside the Russ house. I just happen to be there, too, wanting to talk to Eric's parents. Happenstance, I think they call it? Dockery won't tell me why he's there. Only that he ‘owes Eric's mother an apology.' We tangle about it, but then he splits. I leave it.” He took a sip from his glass. Shook his head. “I shouldn't have. Then he pops up on my doorstep, scared and freaked out. Says he's being followed. Tells me that him, and a guy named Carl and one named Tony, did Eric wrong. Real wrong. Was about to tell me why, I think, but then he got dead.”

Oberon shook his head. Stared down at the drink in his hand, lost in thought. After a long moment, Mallen asked, “So, what did you have on Dockery?”

“Me? He was clean, for all intents and purposes. I just wanted to know if he knew a couple dead men I have on the books. A Carl Kaslowski, and one Anthony ‘Tony' Scarsdale. Got put out when I talked to him. He struck me as an extremely paranoid and scared individual. This individual happened to possess a gun under a chair pillow when I visited. He had the record, so I figured to take him in and press him a bit on his known acquaintances before I booked him for the gun.”