Judgment (21 page)

Simon released Macklin's head, letting it drop against his chest. "The choice is yours, Brett. May I call you Brett?"

The last thing Macklin wanted to do was help the asshole. But talking would keep him alive for a few more minutes. The longer he stayed alive, the better his chances for somehow surviving. Besides, if he was going to die, he wanted to die knowing the truth.

"Gimme a sec," Macklin gasped.

"Surely." Simon smiled. Sliran looked disappointed.

Macklin wasn't sure what he knew. His father had been looking into seemingly baseless rumors of gang violence, which were, in turn, spurring more gang violence. Then his father was murdered by a gang. Why had they killed him? Esteban said the mayor ordered it through someone else. That someone was Sliran, who blew Esteban's head off. How did it all fit together? Political enemies of Lucas Breen being killed in the midst of gang warfare. Why?

"The floor is yours, Brett," Simon said, his voice laced with impatience.

"Okay," Macklin swallowed. "You're using gangs to kill anyone who stands in your way or endangers Lucas Breen's shot at Sacramento."

"Good guess," Sliran sneered, lighting a cigarette. "Can I kill him now?"

Simon grinned. "Relax, Sliran, let the man finish. Go on, tell me more."

"My guess is that Sliran here, through gang members like Esteban, purposely stokes gang tensions by concocting events that never occurred. I assume it's to pit the gangs against each other in such a way that your enemies get killed in the midst of it all."

Simon clapped. "Bravo."

"Why? Why not just kill them?"

"Don't be an idiot, Brett. If someone is assassinated, people investigate. If the gangs kill them for us, the victims become just another statistic. No one sees a larger picture."

"I see," Macklin whispered. It was diabolically logical. "So I get it now. Sliran would feed his Estebans on the various gang stories they would go around and feed to their fellow gang members. These Estebans would say a rival gang had committed a serious affront that demanded immediate, violent retribution. Perhaps sometimes the Estebans wouldn't have to lie. Maybe Sliran would get his rocks off kicking in a few heads and make it look like a rival gang did it. My father asked too many questions. He had to be killed.

"Sliran saw Shaw meet with Tomas Cruz and arranged for the kid to have the shit kicked out of him. Invalidate the confession so the gang members didn't end up in jail and accidentally spill something about your operation."

Macklin swallowed, shifting his gaze between Simon and Sliran. As soon as he ran out of things to say, Simon would let Sliran indulge his sadism.

Macklin didn't kid himself. There would be no swift end. Sliran would make him suffer.

"And you, Brett, performed wonderfully as my garbage man. You cleaned up any trail we might have accidentally left," Simon said, impressed with himself.

"With the exception of this mishap, things went smoothly."

"I can't figure out, though, how you got these few gang members, these contacts, to help you." Macklin needed time.

"It was easy." Simon walked up to Macklin. He stood so close Macklin could smell the wintergreen mouthwash on his breath. "They were sent to our missions by probation officers who wanted to take part in a community service. I don't think we disappointed the probation officers."

Macklin took a deep breath. Anything he said now was absolute guesswork.

"You bought the gang members off, appealing to their greed with money, drugs, maybe even guns. I don't suppose many of them lived long enough to enjoy their rewards. After all, the more you used them the more they knew, and replacements were always easy to find."

"You're very good at this. If I had known that before, I wouldn't have let you live so long."

"I don't know, Simon. If I were in your shoes, I probably would have done the same thing. Let the son of a bitch tie up any loose ends that could lead to us and then get rid of him."

"You sound very smug and self-assured for someone in your position, Mr. Macklin."

Macklin glanced up at his cuffed wrists and frowned. "You can't win them all."

"This has been fun, Mr. Macklin."

"There is just one thing I can't figure out," Macklin offered tentatively.

"Imagine that," Sliran growled, "just one thing."

"You and Breen," Macklin said. "A symbiotic relationship. I suppose you have the power, through your ministries, to influence voters and pump money into his campaign. Breen has the power to keep the law from rummaging through your dirty laundry, and his support adds a legitimacy and prestige to your ministry. Together, using God and government, you two can control a lot of people and do a lot of damage. No doubt, you both dream about the presidency. Quite a relationship."

Macklin smiled. "I wonder who owns who."

Simon stiffened. "Well, it seems you've uncovered quite a bit. You get an A-plus for ingenuity. Now we can end this uncomfortable business with a simple question. Who have you shared your knowledge with?"

Macklin's heart started to pound. He was at a dead end. Silence would stall death. And lead to torture. To say he had told no one would lead to a similar end. Anyone he named, just to buy time, would be killed. Silence, now, seemed to be the only avenue.

"That sure put a muzzle on him," Sliran said. "He finally shut the fuck up."

"Loosen his tongue," Simon whispered, meeting Macklin's defiant gaze.

Sliran gave his fury free rein. He beat Macklin like a punching bag, unrelenting in his feverish assault until Macklin slipped into merciful unconsciousness.

"Stop," Simon hissed, angry at himself for letting Sliran lose control—he wanted answers, not a corpse.

Macklin's chin rested against his chest, his breathing erratic and body slack, swaying gently from the force of Sliran's blows.

Simon lifted Macklin's head by the hair and examined his eyes with his free hand. "Sliran, you miserable fuckup. Look what you've done. He's no good to us now."

Sighing, Simon released Macklin and walked slowly over to Sliran, whose face was damp with sweat from the exertion of the beating. Without warning, Simon slapped Sliran across the face and sent the cop reeling into the cartons. Sliran was about to spring on Simon but saw the two lieutenants tensing. Besides, Sliran wasn't sure he could take Simon.

"We'll deal with Macklin later." Simon looked down at Sliran as if he had just caught him jerking off in church. "In the meantime, get rid of Shaw."

Sliran struggled to his feet, uncomfortably aware of Simon's hard gaze. "With pleasure."

The cop took one last look at Macklin and then walked out, followed by Simon and his men. The door closed.

A moment later the pulleys whined and the elevator climbed up the guide rails of the shaft at five hundred feet a minute.

Shaw's eyes burned. They were dirty and sleepy and he had rubbed them too much. He expected his eyeballs to shrivel up and just drop out of his sockets onto the stacks of files.

Soon it would be morning and sunlight would assault his tired eyes. Loud noise would grate on his ears, cutting through the Tylenol wall around his headache and setting it bursting free.

"Shit," he muttered, letting his head drop onto the desk. It had been a hard few hours. He had ridden with Jeffries to the hospital and asked him about his conversation with Macklin.

Something Jeffries told Shaw had bugged him as he drove home from the hospital, poking and prodding him until he made a U-turn and headed back downtown to the station.

Now, just a few hours shy of dawn, Shaw was left with his notes. And his discovery.

Over the last two years a dozen people related somehow to the Elliot Wells campaign had been killed in the midst of gang skirmishes. It was far too big a number to be a coincidence. But it was far too big a mystery for an exhausted, sleepy cop to take on at three a.m.

And he wasn't so sure he wanted to take it on when he was fully awake, either.

"Shit," he said again, picking up the legal pad and scanning the list once more.

It was no wonder the connections had not been made before. An old woman who had contributed money to Wells' campaign was gunned down in Beverly Hills in what seemed like just another case of gang joyriding. An influential lawyer, popular with California politicians and a noted Wells supporter, was killed during a gang fight in a downtown parking lot. A well-known media consultant, brought in by Wells to design a new media campaign, was butchered in a gang massacre at a Chinese restaurant. Alone, the murders had none of the earmarking of a premeditated assassination. Together, they made a sickening tapestry of conspiracy and death.

Someone was manipulating the gangs. But how and why?

The man with the motive was obviously Lucas Breen. Yet, it could be anyone with a grudge against Elliot Wells.

Whatever it
could
be, Shaw knew he could prove nothing. At least not yet.

"Putting in overtime, Shaw?"

Shaw dropped the notepad and looked up. Sliran leaned against the open doorway to the empty squad room.

"What are you doing here, Sliran?"

"I'm covering for Locklear this morning. What's all that shit on your desk?"

Shaw sighed. "Background. I'm just checking up on some hunches of mine."

"Really," sneered Sliran. "I got some hunches, too. I bet you help Macky boy load his gun every night, huh? Maybe he comes home after he blows a few guys away and tells you all the grisly details so you two can jerk off together."

Shaw stood up and stretched. "Jesus, Sliran, aren't you a little old to be playing school-yard bully? I'm not going to take a swing at you, so save it. I'm too tired to give a damn what crazy crap is thriving in that narrow mind of yours." He set his legal pad on top of the stack, picked it up, and headed towards the door.

Sliran didn't move.

"C'mon, Sliran, you gonna block my way all night, trip me, or what? I want to go home and go to bed, okay? You can get me at recess tomorrow."

Sliran stepped aside. "Fuck off, Shaw. You and Macklin are on borrowed time."

Shaw walked past him into the hallway. "Scary line, Sliran. On that note, I bid you good night."

Sliran watched Shaw disappear down the hall, lit a cigarette, and then went over to Shaw's desk and began looking through the drawers. He'd catch up with Shaw later, and then kill him.

# # # # # #

Brett Macklin hung from the pipe, his consciousness whirling in a dizzying netherworld of nausea and gnawing pain.

Get rid . . . with pleasure.

Shaw.

The words sailed in and out of the confusion and ache, slowing his journey through it and bringing his thoughts with each repetition.

Get rid of Shaw.

With pleasure.

Things were slowing, the words becoming clearer, the pain becoming more acute. His stomach suddenly heaved, vomit spilling out of his mouth and nose in deep wrenching gags and splattering on the basement floor.

His stomach empty, his body sagged and he felt chilled, shivering, his sides aching from bearing his weight and the stress of his violent regurgitations. Nostrils swelled with vomit.

What a great day
this
has been,
Macklin thought, breaking into painful laughter, vomit dripping out of his nose.

The laughter was just what he needed to force back the helplessness and summon whatever energy and resolve he had left.

The laughter ebbing, he regarded the handcuffs and pipe anew, scrutinizing them for any exploitable weakness. His eyes narrowed on the valve several feet down the length of the pipe. The valve. He felt a surge of hope. The valve meant he was not bound to one continuous length of pipe but to two smaller pipes connected by the valve. If he could free the section of pipe he was attached to from the valve, he could escape.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, Macklin began to swing his body, the arcs becoming larger and less agonizing with each pass. When the momentum was at its peak, Macklin strained the muscles of his lower back and brought his legs up and wrapped them around the pipe. He stayed like that for a moment, eyes closed, catching his breath and fighting back the waves of pain that swept his body.

Relax, it's just pain.

Opening his eyes, he saw the pipe directly over his face. With a deep breath, he slid along the pipe, drawing his body along with his legs. The valve grew closer. A clock ticked loudly in his head. Each second brought Shaw closer to death—if he wasn't dead already. Or Sliran could return and exact his excruciating brand of revenge.

Macklin stopped as his feet slid against the valve. Gripping the pipe tightly with his hands, he dropped one leg and stretched it under the valve to the other side of the pipe. He repeated the move with the other leg. He pulled himself along the pipe again until the valve was just over his midsection.

Okay, Mack, now the fun starts.
He reached up for the valve with his cheek pressed against the pipe, and grabbed hold of it. Straining against the valve wheel, he tried to twist the entire valve structure down towards him.

It didn't move.

Shit!

Macklin summoned his strength again, pulling down the valve wheel. There was a creak and the subtlest of movements. A flake of rust fell into Macklin's right eye, stinging it.

Blinking, he pulled again. Another creak. A tear rolled out of Macklin's eye, taking the rust with it.
Maybe,
he thought,
things aren't as bleak as they seem.

Pulling again, he turned the valve a bit more. That's when things started looking bleak to Macklin again. First he heard the hiss, and then he smelled it.

Gas.

He was handcuffed to a gas line. Macklin felt sweat break out between his shoulder blades. The more he loosened the pipe from the valve, the more gas would escape. Macklin quickened his efforts, damning fate, holding his breath to avoid taking in the noxious fumes. The valve structure turned slowly, the valve wheel pulled down now nearly over his midsection.

Turning his head away from the pipe, Macklin took another breath. Macklin could already feel the sour-tasting gas working against him, the queasiness riding over him. He reached over the pipe, grasped the valve wheel, and tried to finish his first counterclockwise turn of the valve structure.