Eleventh Hour (16 page)

“Yeah, the DA’s really going to be happy about this one. You know what else is great about California, Milt? California’s got the death penalty. Killing a priest and an old woman, now there’s just no excuse for that at all—rotten childhood, too much sugar, chemical imbalance in your brain; none of that will work.

They’ll drop-kick you right into San Quentin’s finest facilities. You can appeal for years, but eventually you’ll exhaust everything our sweet legal system has to offer you, and then you’re toast.”

Savich snapped his fingers in McGuffey’s face. “Dead. Gone. And everybody will be real happy when you’re off the face of the earth. See you at your trial, Milt. I’ll be waving at you from the front row.”

Savich walked out of the room, whistling.

McGuffey rose straight up and yelled, “Wait! Dammit, wait! You can’t just walk off like that!”

Savich just flapped his hand toward McGuffey, not turning around.

“Wait!”

SIXTEEN

Savich smiled at Dane, and very slowly turned, a dark eyebrow raised, obviously impatient.

McGuffey said, nearly falling over his own words he was talking so fast, “He’s a liar, he’d roll on his own mother, I didn’t do nuthing, do you hear me? You can’t believe a word he says. Old Mickey’s a king shit, got no sense of right or wrong, a real moral asshole.”

“Mickey seems just fine to me,” Sherlock said, coming to stand beside Savich, leaning against the door frame. “I spoke to him for a good ten minutes. He seemed real upright, not a lying bone in his body. I think everyone’s going to believe what he has to say, Mr. McGuffey, you know? I believed him.”

“No, no, you gotta listen to me. I didn’t kill no priest. I didn’t kill no old woman or any gay guy. It was Mickey who hired me. I didn’t hire him, I didn’t. I wasn’t going to kill her, just make a big noise, right? I was just supposed to scare her good, make sure she was on the next flight to China. I never murdered nobody! You’ve got to believe me, you’ve got to.” McGuffey was scrambling away from the chair, trying to shove the table out of the way so he could get to Savich. Delion simply clapped his big hand on McGuffey’s forearm and said very quietly, “No, Milt, you just sit right back down here.”

McGuffey yelled at Delion, “Mickey Stuckey’s a damned liar! Don’t believe him. He set the whole thing up.”

Sherlock said, “Mr. Stuckey told me you hired him, just to be his palm guy, to stand there, keeping his eyes on everything and take whatever you passed to him. He claims he didn’t have a clue about what you were going to do. He’s really against shooting a lady.”

Sherlock shut up and stepped back, no reason to lay it on too thick. The guy looked white now, not just pale, actually white.

Milt was on his feet, trying to pull away from Delion, who’d really clamped down on his forearm and wasn’t about to let go. “No! Man, you gotta listen to me. I told you, Mickey’s a liar.”

Savich sighed deeply, crossed his arms over his chest, and said, frowning, “All right, since I’m still here, why don’t you tell me your side of it. But don’t lie about it being Mickey who was the shooter because I saw you pass the gun to him. What you tell me better be right on target because I’ll tell you, Milt, I’m really leaning toward Stuckey’s story and I haven’t even heard him tell it yet.”

“Okay, okay, you gotta listen, okay? I’ll tell you the truth. Here it is.”

“Just a moment, Milt,” Delion said. “I want to tape-record this. You okay with that?”

“Sure, sure, let’s get on with it.”

Delion flipped the record button. He gave his name, the date, and McGuffey’s name, said, “You’re willing to make this confession, no one’s coercing you?”

“Dammit, yes. Let’s go!”

“You don’t want a lawyer present?”

“No, I just want you to hear the truth!”

Delion gave him his Miranda rights, asked him if he understood, to which Milt spewed out more obscenities before he said yes, he understood his rights, to the tape recorder.

“Okay, Milt, tell me what happened.”

McGuffey said, “Look, Stuckey called me a couple days ago, said this guy down in LA wanted me to scare this broad at a priest’s funeral. Stuckey said he’d give me ten grand, but I had to do it in the middle of the service, for God’s sake, in front of hundreds of people, which sounded real stupid to me, but he said that was the way it had to be. I didn’t want to do that, but Stuckey had me by the short hairs, you know? I owe him money, some bad investment decisions, you know? So I had to take the job or he might have broken both my legs. But it was never murder, oh no.

“Stuckey had a gun for me, and a silencer, and said the shooter had to be me, it just had to. When I asked him why, he laughed and said, ‘You look just right, Milt,’ that’s what the guy said. ‘You look just right, maybe even perfect for the role.’ Whatever the fuck that means.”

He really did look just right, Dane thought. A good physical resemblance. Damn, nothing was ever easy.

“You really expect me to buy this?” Savich said, lounging back in the uncomfortable chair, looking bored.

Milt sat forward, clasping his hands in front of him, like he was ready to pray. “Look, Inspector, like I told you, I had to have the money. I had to pay off Stuckey or I was in really deep shit. Then there’s my disability and that jerk of a landlord is nearly ready to throw me out. Hey, I was just three days away from sitting on Union Square, leaning against the Saint Francis Hotel, begging for money. I had to take the job. A man’s gotta survive, you know? A man’s gotta pay off his bad investment decisions.”

Delion had sat back in his chair, his arms folded over his chest, a sneer on his face. “You want us to believe that this guy specifically told Stuckey it had to be you because you just looked right? You were perfect for the role?”

“I swear it. Hey, Stuckey told me the LA guy’s name was DeFrosh—weird name—you’d never forget that stupid name.

“Stuckey said the guy faxed him a photo of the lady I was to give scare to, you know, shoot her just a little bit but not kill her, I wouldn’t ever do that. Yeah, the guy told Stuckey that the broad was homeless, but hey, she sure didn’t look homeless in the church, but what do I know? How would the guy in LA know about that? Stuckey didn’t tell me nuthing else, I swear it.”

Dane looked down at Nick, who was as white as the bra he’d watched her pick out in their marathon shopping spree. It was just this morning. Amazing.

Savich said, “What did you do with the photo he faxed of the lady?”

“Stuckey has it, just showed it to me, then took it right back.”

“What did it look like?”

“She was coming out of this police station with that guy who’s standing beside her out there, you know, that dead priest’s brother. It didn’t look like no police station I’ve ever seen in San Francisco. Yeah, Stuckey’s got it. She’s a looker, I wasn’t about to forget her. Like I said, she sure didn’t look homeless in the church so for a while there I wasn’t sure it was really her.”

The bastard took the photo in LA. Dane couldn’t believe it.

“So you recognized the priest’s brother?”

“Oh yeah, heard people talking about how he and Father Michael Joseph looked identical and it really shook some people up. Everybody was real quiet, you know? Everyone was focused on that guy and what he was saying. Lots of them were crying just listening to him. Then she had the nerve to move—no reason that I could see, she just lowered her head right when I pulled the trigger. Jesus, I could have killed her, but thank the good Lord that it went just like it was supposed to. Yeah, the bullet just grazed her.”

“Tell us more about this guy from LA.”

“I don’t deal with people I don’t know, at least usually, and neither does Mickey Stuckey. He said he knew the guy, knew he was good for the money. Hey, he gave me five thousand up front. He told me his name was DeFrosh—I already told you that. Really weird, man.”

Milton McGuffey put his head down on his folded arms and began to cry again. Everyone heard him say over his sobs, “I don’t want to go to jail, but now I’ll have to do time just because I put a little crease in the broad’s forehead.” He raised his head. “I want Stuckey to go down. I never should have agreed to do it in the church.”

Delion said, “You didn’t realize there would be cops there?”

“Stuckey told me there’d probably be a couple there, but if I got my timing right, I’d get away, no problem. Damned bastard, that Stuckey. I really want him to go down, he set the whole thing up.”

Savich said as he himself smiled down at McGuffey, “Yes, he’ll go down, all right, Milt, just as soon as we catch him.”

McGuffey’s jaw literally dropped open. He stared at Savich for a very long time.

He said, “Shit, man.”

Then he yelled at the top of his lungs, “I want a lawyer!”

Delion looked over at Savich, who was speaking to Lieutenant Purcell. They heard her say she’d already put out an APB on Mickey Stuckey, aka Bomber Turkel, the most creative of all his aliases. Delion said,

“That guy is something else, Dane. He’s your boss?”

“Yeah, I’ve been in his unit for about five months now.”

“Smooth as butter,” Delion said. “I was thinking about letting you have a go at Milton, but he knew you, knew you weren’t a cop, so that wouldn’t have worked. And there was Savich, looking ready, even smiling a little, and I knew he had something up his sleeve. He did good, didn’t he?”

“Oh, yes.”

“His wife, her name is really Sherlock?”

Dane nodded, smiled. “Yes, they’re quite a team.”

“You know,” Delion said, “I’ve been in court with Sherlock’s dad. Now there’s a tough, high-powered dude. Defense lawyers hate his guts. They bitch about having the rotten luck to end up with the only law-and-order judge in San Francisco. Cops love him, needless to say.”

“Yes,” Dane said. “Too bad that Milton McGuffey isn’t a bit more stupid. The DA’ll have trouble proving attempted murder. We need Stuckey. At least Milt verified—and it’s probably the only thing he said that was true—that the guy who hired him lives in LA and his name’s DeFrosh. Damn, Milton isn’t the killer, Delion.”

“Yeah, I know, but we’re getting there, Dane. I’m going to call Flynn, tell him what happened. He’s gonna love it that the creep who set this all up told Milton his name was DeFrosh.”

Dane said, “Maybe he thinks we’re slow—DeFrosh even rhymes with DeLoach. What is he trying to prove? Is it his goal to get up close and personal with us? Or maybe he just wants us to believe that Weldon DeLoach is the killer?” Dane stopped when he saw Nick leaning against a wall, actually against a gray file cabinet since there was no wall showing. “Hey, you okay, Nick?”

She said as she lightly touched her fingertips to the bandage on her forehead, “In this case, it really does look worse than it really is. I’m okay, just resting a bit.”

Delion said, “I don’t know, Nick. I think you look kind of cute. In a pathetic sort of way. If you want a safe house now, I’ll bet the lieutenant will spring for it.”

Dane said, “No, I’m keeping her with me. Are you in, Delion? We’re all going to LA tomorrow.”

“I’m ahead of you, boyo,” Delion said. “I already called Franken. He said there was still no sign of Weldon. He’s got everybody looking for him, but he doesn’t hold much hope of finding him. Since the police are looking, too, maybe someone will see him. Franken’s going to meet us at the studio at ten o’

clock tomorrow morning. He’s got some video of Weldon DeLoach.”

“We’ll finally see what the man looks like,” Nick said.

“Yep,” Delion said. “And there’s lots of stuff to go over with Flynn. He’s got a small army of people working on the personnel lists, interviews, checking alibis, possible motives. We’ve got a lot to tell him as well.”

He looked over at Savich and Sherlock and rolled his eyes. “More Feds. It always starts with a single Fed—sort of like reconnaissance—then you look up and the Feds are converging, multiplying like rabbits until soon they’re everywhere and they’ve taken over. Hey, FBI Director Mueller will be out here before long. He comes from here, you know. Hey, you guys coming with us to LA?”

“Count us in,” Sherlock said, coming to stand by Nick.

Savich said, “What’s this about the gun that killed Dane’s brother being like the two possible guns in the Zodiac killer case? What was that—some thirty years ago?”

“Ain’t that a kick?” Delion said. “It’s got our ballistics guy, Zopp, nearly drooling he’s so excited, telling one blonde joke after another.” At Sherlock’s raised eyebrow, he grinned. “Yeah, Zopp says blonde jokes help his synapses fire. But you know, it has to be a coincidence, has to be.”

“Hmmm,” Sherlock said. “Yeah, it’s a coincidence, but it’s a strange one.”

Delion said, “Hey, Sherlock, you as tough as your daddy?”

“He likes to think so,” Sherlock said, and smiled real big. There were three other inspectors standing close by, grinning like loons at her.

“Local cops really like her,” Savich said, and just shook his head, and Delion thought,
Boy, that guy’s
proud of her.

Savich said, “So you don’t mind if we tag along to LA with you, Delion?”

“More the merrier,” Delion said. “Hey, Lieutenant, any word on Stuckey yet?”

“Not yet, but we’ll get him.” Lieutenant Linda Purcell looked around at all the assembled homicide inspectors and said, “Everyone saw how Savich worked the guy around? How he got Stuckey’s name out of him?”

There were boos and hisses from the cops. A couple of inspectors threw some peanuts.

Before Dane left, Delion motioned him aside to tell him that Nick’s fingerprints weren’t on file.

“Hey, at least we know she’s not a criminal.”

“I already came to that conclusion for myself,” Dane said.

SEVENTEEN

LOS ANGELES

Jon Franken, assistant director of
The Consultant,
said, “We couldn’t find any photos, but as I told you on the phone, Inspector Delion, we did find something every bit as good.” He flipped a switch on the video feed and pointed. “That’s Weldon—second guy on the left, the one just standing off to the side, arms crossed over his chest, watching everyone be idiots. He watches a whole lot, just stands back in the shadows, claims it gives him ideas. Whatever, he does have brilliant ideas.”