False Witness (33 page)

Eddie finally recognized the man – Cox. An inmate. An Aryan inmate. He reached for the mike at his throat, but Cox was too close to him. A hand flashed out from behind the inmate’s back, and the handset dropped to the floor, severed from its thick, coiled wire. Eddie could see the edge of a blade in Cox’s hand now. He brought his baton down towards Cox’s wrist, but the inmate was too fast for him. Eddie spared a glance at the guard box. Three other Aryans in prison fatigues had made it through the box and were now inside the secure corridor. Behind them, a squadron of guards worked frantically to open the guard box from the other side. Only Cox was armed, as far as Eddie could see.

From behind him, he heard Hodge growl: “Who are you fightin, officer?”

Suddenly, Eddie felt an icy calm envelop him. His racing heart rate began to slow. He took a deep breath and looked up at the men approaching. Each of them was bald, each had a goatee. But Eddie didn’t see that. He saw four skinny men in dirty work shirts, unshaven, with bloodshot eyes and hair that looked like it had been combed with a rake. They were all taking off their belts.

They were all his father.

C’mere n take yer medicine.

He swung his baton diagonally downward, avoiding Cox’s blade entirely and connecting with the inmate’s knee. Cox screamed as he dropped to one side. With his other hand, he slashed upwards with his homemade shank. Eddie ignored the move and drove the baton end-first through Cox’s teeth and back into his throat. Cox gurgled madly and dropped face-first to the floor. The other two inmates were on either side of Eddie now. One had his left arm in a lock. The other was trying to grab the shank out of Cox’s hand.

Behind him, he heard a dull thump as the man on his left was pulled back. He turned to see Hodge standing over the inmate, metal tray in hand. The ugly man flipped the tray until it was edge-down, then drove it into the fallen man’s throat.

Rufus Hodge and me are a team
, Eddie thought crazily.
I feel so alive.

Below him, the man on his right was still on the floor. Eddie swung his right foot toward him, aiming for his head. At the last second, the inmate intercepted the kick with his left arm. His right pistoned forward into Eddie’s thigh. Eddie felt a sharp wetness. When the inmate pulled his hand back, Eddie saw blood on his leg.
Not the fucking leg again
, he thought stupidly.

He drew his baton as high as he could and brought it down towards the inmate’s skull, but the man rolled to the right and Eddie hit only floor. He was off balance now, lurching forward. In the cell, he could hear the gurgles of the other inmate as Hodge’s cement fists slammed home, over and over again. Eddie had almost regained his balance when he felt a hand grip his forehead and pull him back into a standing position.

Oh God. He’s behind me – he’s behind
–

Eddie tried to pull his head away from the inmate’s grip, but it was no use. He felt the blade enter his flesh at his left ear, then tear across the surface of his throat. A sudden warm wetness covered his neck and chest. Beside him, he heard Hodge yell something, but he couldn’t tell what. It seemed as if someone had turned the volume down in the room suddenly. He felt the strength go out of his knees. As he dropped to the floor, he took one last swing with his baton. Weak as it was, it still connected with the inmate’s testicles. Eddie watched as the silent world turned to slow motion around him. The last thing he saw was Rufus Hodge’s hand grabbing the inmate by the neck and pulling him into his cage. The last Aryan followed into the cell, a homemade shank in his right hand.

After that, Eddie Spanbauer’s eyes closed, and he took his medicine for the last time.

Alex woke to the smell of bacon. It took him a moment to get his bearings. He wasn’t in his squeaky but comfortable bed at the Bluebird Motor Inn. His ribs were sore. His eye hurt. And someone was cooking bacon.

It wasn’t till he opened his eyes that the memories of the previous night burst through the fog in his brain. He groaned with the realization that it hadn’t been a dream. In the morning light he could see more details of the cabin. It was a neat, if somewhat small, double A-frame that smelled vaguely of wood smoke. Stuffed fish of various types and sizes adorned the walls, along with the head of what Alex could only assume was supposed to be the fabled jackalope – a jackrabbit with antlers.

Shitbox was humming softly in the kitchen. Alex sat up gingerly, not sure how his ribs would feel about the idea. He was pleasantly surprised when they only protested a little. He rubbed his good eye and tried a very restrained stretch.

“Morning,” Shitbox said quietly as he entered the living room area. He placed a plate of bacon and scrambled eggs on the coffee table in front of Alex. “Want coffee?”

“God, yes,” he said. In the light of day, Shitbox didn’t seem quite as enormous as he did in the shadows, but he was still a huge man. He brought Alex a large ceramic mug of coffee. He sipped greedily. It wasn’t quite up to Irma’s standards, but it wasn’t bad.

“I’m letting Miz Dawson sleep,” Shitbox whispered, sitting in the armchair again. “She went through a lot last night.”

We all did,
Alex thought.
And we’re probably going to go through a lot more today.
He tucked into the breakfast; it was delicious. He wolfed it in only a few bites, and washed it down with coffee, drinking it so fast he could feel a mild scald in his throat.

“Jason called,” said Shitbox. “He’s on his way with a couple other people.”

Alex frowned. “Who?”

“A couple of people you know. Sam and Tess? From the paper you work for?”

“Sam Walsh and Tess Gallagher?” Alex was stunned. “What the hell do they have to do with all this?”

“Jason said they found out something about Mr. Hodge’s case. They think he’s innocent, too.”

Innocent? Alex had no use for Walsh personally, but he had covered Hodge’s trial, and knew as much about it as anyone.
But that’s not really true, is it? He doesn’t know the reason for Gregory Larocque’s hasty verdict, does he?

“When will they be here?” Alex asked.

Shitbox glanced at the clock on the wall, a fine piece of timekeeping that revolved around a bottle of Carling’s Black Label. “Probably an hour or so.”

“Shitbox, how did you know I was here in Lost Lake?”

“Jason told me.”

“How did he know?”

Shitbox’s eyes lit up. “Jason is the smartest guy I ever met. He knows a lot of stuff, or he can find it out if he don’t know.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “I think he’s a better boss than Mr. Hodge was, but if you tell anybody, I’ll say I didn’t say it.”

“What else did Crowe tell you?”

“He said not to call any of the other Roses, and to just ignore them if they call me.”

“Did he say why?”

“No. But I trust him a lot more than any of the other guys. Even Digger. He’s my friend, but I think he’s a little crazy.”

Alex pinched the bridge of his nose. He never thought he’d be in a position where he couldn’t wait to meet Jason Crowe.

“You still tired?” Shitbox asked.

“Yeah. You mind if I lie down again for a while?”

“No prob, Bob. I’ll just make up a plate for Miz Dawson and then clean up.”

Alex found himself strangely touched by the gesture. How could a man like this be part of an organization like the Wild Roses? Then he remembered Shitbox’s performance on the frat boys the night before and shuddered. It wasn’t enough to keep him awake, though, and he quickly sank back into the blackness of sleep.

Sam looked at Crowe, eyes wide. “You’re shitting me,” he said. “Eleven million dollars in cash?”

“Give or take.”

“So that’s why Tom’s killer needed him to fake his log book. They needed time to get it all loaded on a truck and out the front gate.”

Tess leaned forward in the back seat. “You can’t be serious,” she said. “That’s ridiculous. Don’t tell me you operate as an all-cash business.”

Crowe sighed. “Not exactly,” he said. “But Rufus Hodge is kind of – let’s say set in his ways.”

“Is that some kind of euphemism for stupid?” Sam asked. He knew it was a mistake even when it was halfway out of his mouth.

Crowe glared at him. “Rufus Hodge is a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them. He was taking a calculated risk that was forced on him by circumstance.”

“What do you mean?” Tess asked, once again trying to rescue the situation from Sam’s dangerous mouth. “What circumstance?”

“Off the record,” said Crowe. “Right?”

“Of course.”

“The Roses’ operation is cash-heavy, for obvious reasons, and it’s mostly in twenties, because that’s what the ATMs spit out, and they don’t draw suspicion like hundreds or thousands.”

“But you must launder it somehow.”

“We do, through cash transfers to the Cayman Islands. Literally boatloads of smuggled money. The funds are then invested in legitimate businesses. There are other ways to do it, but Hodge doesn’t trust computers, and he definitely doesn’t trust other people.”

“I’ve read about laundering,” said Sam. “Cash boats are actually the safest bet, as long as you can get your boats in and out, and as long as they don’t get inspected.”

“Exactly,” said Crowe. “About eighteen months ago, the Roses’ regular courier got boarded by Customs on his way out of Vancouver. He’s still out of commission.”

“Surely you had a backup?” Tess asked.

Crowe looked in the mirror at her. “You’re pretty smart. Yeah, we had a backup, but as soon as he got wind of what happened to the first guy, he hightailed it for Mexico and we haven’t seen him since.”

“So you’re left with money coming in and no way to get it out again.”

“Bingo. That’s why I chose Highland. No security cameras, just guards. We pay them extra to look in on the cargo once an hour after five o’clock, but until then, nobody bothers you and nobody looks at you.”

“And the crates that were marked ‘pipe fittings’ were actually full of twenties.”

“We’d keep the cash in the basement of a house we owned in Bowness, until we had enough for a transfer. Then we’d box it up and hire a no-questions-asked moving company to take it over to Highlands.”

Sam rubbed his chin. The road unfolded behind them, looking exactly the same as it had for an hour: pine forest on either side, walls of mountains hemming them in. He wished he had a coffee. Even a cup of the
Chronicle
’s sludge would do. “Obviously, you were nervous leaving that much cash around.”

“Yeah,” said Crowe. “I was working day and night on tracking down a new shipper, but Hodge vetoed all of the ones I found. Said he didn’t trust them.”

“So whoever was there the night Tom Ferbey was killed wasn’t just trying to frame Hodge,” said Tess. “They were stealing the cash. But there was no way you could come out and say that. And they
knew
it.”

“Give the lady a cigar.”

“It’s actually pretty brilliant,” said Sam. “They make off with untraceable money, and make it seem like the only possible explanation was that the Roses were destroying evidence. And Tom Ferbey’s murder, conveniently witnessed by a trusted reporter, was the ultimate distraction.”

“But I still don’t understand why they went after Palliser,” said Tess. “What did his death serve?”

“I think I can answer that one,” said Sam. “I got to know Palliser during the trial. He was single-minded, for sure, but he was also tough, and smart. I mean, he suspected there would be reprisals from the Roses, so he advised Kathy Ferbey to get out of town until things settled down. I’m guessing he was the one who told Dunn and Leslie Singer to skedaddle, too. I guarantee, if he were still alive, he would have figured this out by now himself. I mean,
we
did, and we’re not even cops.”

“It might not be that complicated,” said Crowe. “It’s possible whoever did it just doesn’t like cops.”

“Yeah?” said Sam. “Sound like anyone you know? Some colleagues, maybe? Just putting it out there.”

Crowe snarled into the distance. They drove in silence again as the road began to wind its way south toward the secondary feeder that would take them to Lost Lake. Crowe had the coordinates on the GPS; it was telling them a right turn was imminent in about fifteen minutes.

“All right,” said Tess. “We’ve answered a lot of questions, but there’s still the big one: who was behind all this?”

“I don’t know yet,” said Crowe. But Sam thought something in his face said maybe he knew a little more than he was letting on. “But I hope whoever it is doesn’t get to Alex Dunn before us.”

Alex jerked awake to the sound of a pig snorting. He looked around, not quite as disoriented this time, and saw Shitbox slouched in the armchair. The big man’s head was tilted forward on his chest and his fingers were laced across his expansive belly. He was wearing the same huge leather vest and dingy white tee-shirt he’d worn the night before.

Another snort, and Alex realized it wasn’t a pig, it was Shitbox. The guy seemed to have an apnea problem. But Alex wasn’t about to wake him after everything the guy had done for him. He lifted himself off the couch – his ribs were moving a little more easily already – and looked at his watch. Almost nine-thirty. He’d let Angie sleep long enough. It was time to face the music and tell her The True Story, before Crowe got here with Walsh and Tess. He hoped to God that she would be able to trust him again after hearing how he’d been lying to her for weeks. Hell, he’d settle for her just being able to look at him after what he’d put her through last night, and would put her through again today.

He padded to the bedroom door and knocked lightly.

“Come in,” Angie called.

He opened the door, drawing a fresh breeze into the room through the open window. Angie sat on the coverlet with her knees under her chin, gazing out the window at the hillside behind the cabin. She looked tired, and her hair was tangled with sleep.

Alex crossed to the bed and sat down beside her. He looked down at his hands.

“How are you?” he asked. It was all he could think of to say.