Wild Justice (4 page)

7 Amanda Jaffe executed a flip turn and felt her foot slip on the tiles as she somersaulted off the pool wall. The bad turn made her shimmy as she headed into the final lap of her 800-meter freestyle, and she had to fight the water to get her body right. Amanda was on the edge of exhaustion, but she dug in for a final sprint. When she saw the far wall through the churning water, she gritted her teeth for one last, great effort, lunged forward and collapsed against the side of the pool. A clock hung on the wall in front of her. Amanda pulled her goggles onto her forehead. As soon as she saw her time, she groaned. It was nowhere near the time she had registered five years ago in the finals of the PAC-10 championships. Amanda tugged off her swim cap and shook out her long black hair. She cut an imposing figure, with shoulders that were broad and muscular from years of competitive swimming. When her breathing leveled, Amanda checked the clock again, noting that her recovery time was also a hell of a lot slower than it had been when she was twenty-one. For a brief moment she thought about working out a little longer, but she knew she d had it. She hoisted herself out of the pool and headed for the Jacuzzi, where she would soak until the pain in her tired muscles disappeared. When she was dressed, Amanda went to the reception desk at the Y and stood in line to swap her key for her membership card. She had noticed the woman ahead of her when she was showering. She had the hard, muscled physique of someone who works out with weights and runs long distances, and her looks were as impressive as her body. The woman got her card from the clerk and walked toward an equally striking man in a blue warm-up suit. They made quite a couple. The man looked athletic. He had a dark complexion and blue eyes, and his black hair fell across his forehead in a boyish tangle. Amanda frowned. There was something familiar about the woman s companion, but she couldn t remember where she d seen him before. Then he smiled and she knew. Tony? The man turned. I m Amanda Jaffe. Tony Fiori s face lit up. My God, Amanda, of course! How many years has it been? Eight, nine, Amanda answered. When did you get back to Portland? About a year ago. I m a doctor. I m doing my residency at St. Francis. That s great! What are you up to? I m a lawyer. Not medical malpractice, I hope? Amanda laughed. No, I m with my dad s firm. Hey, I m forgetting my manners. Tony turned to the woman. Amanda Jaffe, Justine Castle. Justine s a friend from the hospital, another overworked and underpaid resident. Amanda and I went to high school together, and her father and mine used to be law partners. Justine had watched quietly while Amanda and Tony spoke. Now she smiled and extended a hand. It was cool to the touch, and her grip was strong. Amanda thought that her smile was forced. Tony looked at his watch. We ve got to get back to St. Francis, he said. It was great seeing you. Maybe we can get together for lunch sometime. That would be terrific. Nice meeting you, Justine. Justine nodded, and she and Tony walked down to the parking lot. Amanda had parked on the street. She smiled as she headed to her car. Tony had always been a hunk, but she could only fantasize about him in high school when she was a geeky freshman and he was a godlike senior. Then the difference in their ages had been huge. It didn t seem so great now. Maybe she would ask him out for coffee. Amanda laughed. If he accepted, her social life would improve 100 percent. The only man her age at the firm was married, and she spent most of her working hours out of the office at the law library, which was not heavily populated by swinging singles. She had bar-hopped a few times with two girlfriends she knew from high school, but she didn t like the forced gaiety. In truth, she found dating painful. Most of the men she d gone out with hadn t held her interest for long. Her only serious affair had been with a fellow law student. It had ended when a Wall Street firm hired him and she accepted a clerkship on the United States Court of Appeals for the Ninth Circuit, which sat in San Francisco. Todd had made their continuing relationship conditional upon Amanda staying in New York and sacrificing the clerkship. Amanda had decided to sacrifice Todd instead and had never regretted the decision. Though she didn t miss Todd, she did miss being with someone. Amanda had fond memories of buying the Sunday New York Times at one A.M. and reading it at breakfast over toasted bagels and hot coffee. She liked morning sex and studying with someone warm and friendly nearby. Amanda wasn t going to give up her identity for any man, but there were times when it was nice having a man around. She wondered if Tony and Justine were more than friends. She wondered if Tony would say yes to a cup of coffee.

8 The weather in Portland was cold and wet, and Bobby Vasquez was tired and cranky. The wiry vice cop had spent the last two weeks trying to gain the confidence of a low-level junkie whose brother was connected in a big way to some very serious offenders. The junkie was sly and suspicious, and Vasquez was beginning to think that he was wasting his time. He was writing a report about their last meeting when the receptionist buzzed him. There s a weird call on line one. Give it to someone else. Vasquez still had on the stained jeans, torn flannel shirt and red-and-black Portland Trailblazers T-shirt that he d been wearing for two straight days. They smelled and he smelled, and he wanted nothing more out of life than a shower, a six-pack and tonight s Blazer telecast. You re the only one in, the receptionist said. Then get a number, Sherri, I m busy. Detective Vasquez, I ve got a strange feeling about this. The person is disguising his or her voice with some kind of electronic equipment. Sherri had just started, and she treated every new case as if it was the next O.J. Vasquez decided that it would be easier to take the call than argue with her, and it would definitely be more fun than writing the report. He picked up the phone. This is Detective Vasquez. Who am I speaking to? Listen to me, I won t repeat myself, the caller said through a device that produced an eerily inhuman monotone. Dr. Vincent Cardoni, a surgeon at St. Francis Medical Center, recently purchased two kilos of cocaine from Martin Breach. Cardoni is hiding the cocaine in a mountain cabin. He is going to sell it to two men from Seattle within the week. Where is this cabin? The caller told Vasquez the location. This is very interesting, Vasquez was saying when the line went dead. He gazed at the receiver, then stared into space. The mystery snitch had said the magic word. Vasquez could care less about some junkie doctor. Martin Breach was another matter. The closest they had come to indicting Breach was two years ago when Mickey Parks, a cop on loan from a southern Oregon police department, infiltrated Breach s organization. Vasquez had been Parks s control, and they had grown close. A week before Breach was going to be arrested, Parks disappeared. Over the next month, the vice and narcotics squad received untraceable packages containing the policeman s body parts. Everyone knew that Breach had killed Parks, knowing that he was a cop, but there was not a shred of evidence connecting Breach to the murder. Breach had cracked jokes during his interrogation while the detectives, including Vasquez, looked on helplessly. Vasquez swiveled his chair and imagined a doctor in handcuffs slumped forward in an interrogation room, his tie undone, his shirt rumpled, sweat beading his forehead. A doctor in those circumstances would be very vulnerable. Draw a few pictures for him of the downside of spending time in the company of deranged bikers, honkie-hating homeboys and slavering queers and the doctor would drink gasoline to avoid prison. It wouldn t take much effort to convince a terrified physician that ratting out Martin Breach was easier than guzzling premium unleaded. Vasquez swiveled again and confronted the first problem he foresaw. To arrest the doctor Vasquez needed evidence. The cocaine would do it, but how was he going to find Cardoni s stash? The courts had ruled that the phone tip of an anonymous informant was not a sufficient basis for securing a search warrant. If the informant would not give his name, he could be a liar with a grudge or a prankster. Information provided by an anonymous informant had to be corroborated before a judge would consider it. Vasquez could not get a warrant to search the cabin unless he could present some proof that the cocaine was inside. That was not going to be easy, but nailing Breach was worth the effort.

9 The gravel in the nearly empty parking lot of the Rebel Tavern crunched under the tires of Bobby Vasquez s dull green Camaro. Two Harleys and a dust-coated pickup truck were parked on either side of the entrance. Vasquez checked the rear and found Art Prochaska s cherry red Cadillac parked under the barren limbs of the lot s only tree. At night, the Rebel Tavern looked like a scene from a postapocalyptic sci-fi flick. Bearded, unwashed bodies clad in leather and decorated with terrifying tattoos stood four deep at the bar, eardrum-busting music made speech impossible and blood flowed at the slightest excuse. But at three on a Friday afternoon the cruel sun spotlighted the tavern s fading paint job and the jukebox was turned low enough for the hung-over to bear. Vasquez entered the tavern and waited while his eyes adjusted to the dark. His investigation was not going well. Vincent Cardoni was under investigation by the Board of Medical Examiners, and his behavior at St. Francis Medical Center was becoming increasingly erratic and violent; there were even rumors about cocaine use. But none of this information provided probable cause to search Cardoni s mountain cabin for two kilos of cocaine. Vasquez was desperate, so he had set up this meeting with Art Prochaska, who had been busted by the DEA recently. Vasquez would have to help Prochaska with his federal beef if he wanted information, a prospect he found as appealing as a prostate examination, but it was starting to look as though Breach s enforcer might be his only hope. Prochaska was nursing a scotch at the bar. While Vasquez bought a bottle of beer, Prochaska went to the men s room. Vasquez followed a moment later. As soon as the door closed, Prochaska locked it and slammed Vasquez face forward into the wall. Vasquez could not stand the feel of Prochaska s hands on him, but he expected the frisk and stifled his impulse to smash his beer bottle into the gangster s face. When the pat-down was finished, Prochaska stepped back and told Vasquez to turn around. The vice cop was standing close enough to smell the garlic on Prochaska s breath. Long time, Art. If I never saw you, it wouldn t be too long, Vasquez, Prochaska answered in a voice that sounded like a car driving over crushed gravel. Vasquez took a sip of his beer and leaned back against the bathroom wall. I hear you re under indictment for possession with intent to distribute. I want to help you with the feds. Prochaska laughed. You born again? Don t be so cynical. I ve been known to help bigger turds than you when it worked to my advantage. Why don t you quit wasting my time and tell me what you want? I need some information about Dr. Vincent Cardoni, a surgeon at St. Francis. Don t know him. Look, Art, you know I m not wired. This is between us. I m just trying to corroborate some information I received. How can I help you if I don t know this guy? By telling me if Martin Breach sold him two kilos of cocaine. Prochaska moved very quickly for a man his size. Before Vasquez could react, Prochaska pinned him to the wall and pressed his forearm against Vasquez s windpipe. The beer bottle crashed to the floor. Prochaska tilted Vasquez s chin up, so he was forced to stare into the hit man s eyes. I should crush your throat and kick you to death for even suggesting that I rat out my best friend. Vasquez tried to struggle, but Prochaska had a hundred pounds on him. Panic made him twitch as he consumed the last of his air, but Prochaska confined him like a straitjacket. Just as Vasquez became light-headed, Prochaska eased off and stepped back. Vasquez sagged against the wall and gulped in the urine-scented air. Prochaska smiled wickedly. That s how easy it is, he said. Then he was gone.

10 An hour later Bobby Vasquez turned onto the two-lane highway that led into the mountains near Cedar City. The highway gained altitude quickly. Low-hanging clouds shrouded the tops of high green foothills, and the air was heavy with the threat of snow. On the north side of the highway, through a break in the towering evergreens, the cold, clear water of a runoff rushed downhill over large gray stones polished smooth by the constant torrent. On the south side, the highway ran beside a river that boiled with white water in some spots and crept along with lazy indifference in others. While Mickey Parks had been undercover, Vasquez was the only person Parks could talk to without fear of giving himself away. He d confided his fears and hopes to Vasquez as if Bobby were a priest in a confessional, and Vasquez had grown to like and admire the na, dedicated cop. Parks s death hit Vasquez hard. Prochaska s refusal to corroborate his tip did not dissuade Vasquez from going after his killers. It only made him more determined to bring down Breach. A narrow dirt driveway led from the highway to the cabin. The weak light from the setting sun was cut off by thick rows of towering evergreens and the driveway was covered with dark shadows. At the end of a quarter mile the headlights settled on a modern home of rough cedar with high picture windows and a wide deck along the north and west sides. A stone chimney was part of the east side of the house and rose above the peaked shake roof. Vasquez wondered how much Cardoni s cabin cost. Even before his divorce, the best Vasquez had been able to afford had been a house half its size. Vasquez parked the car so that it was pointing back toward the road. He pulled on latex gloves and walked toward the cabin. Crime was almost nonexistent in this mountain community and the house did not have an alarm. Once he stepped inside he would be committing a felony, but Vasquez had to know if Cardoni really had two kilos hidden in this house. If he found the stash, he would leave and figure out a way to get a warrant. He could even tail Cardoni and try to catch him selling. The main thing was to find out if he was on a wild-goose chase. Vasquez turned his collar up against the chill and worked his way around the house, trying the exterior doors before resorting to forced entry. He got lucky when he turned the knob of a small door in the rear of the garage and it opened. Vasquez turned on the garage lights and searched. The garage had an unused feel to it. No tools hung from the walls; Vasquez saw no gardening equipment or junk lying about. He also found no cocaine, but he did find a key for the house hanging on a hook. A moment later Vasquez was standing in a downstairs hall at the foot of a flight of stairs. At the top of the stairs was a living room with a wall of glass that provided a panoramic view of the forest. Something moved on the periphery of his vision, and Vasquez went for his gun, stopping when he realized that he d seen a deer bounding into the woods. Vasquez exhaled and turned on the lights. He had no fear of being discovered. Cardoni s nearest neighbors were half a mile away. The living room was sparsely furnished; the furniture was cheap and looked out of place in such an expensive home. It occurred to Vasquez that there was no dust or dirt anywhere, as if the living room had been cleaned recently. There were plastic plates and cups in the cupboards, a few mismatched utensils in the drawers. A pottery mug half filled with cold coffee sat on the drain board next to the sink. Vasquez also noted a coffeepot still holding a small amount of coffee. He touched the pot. It was cold. The master bedroom had the same unlived-in feel. Vasquez saw an empty bookcase, a wooden straight-back chair and a cheap mattress that rested on the floor. There were no sheets on the mattress, but there were several dried brown spots that looked like blood. Vasquez searched the closets and the connecting bathroom. Then he moved on to the other rooms on the main floor. The more Vasquez searched, the more uneasy he felt. He had never seen such a tidily desolate home. Aside from the coffee cup and the coffeepot, there were no signs of life anywhere. When Vasquez finished with the main floor he headed downstairs to the basement. There were four rooms, one of which was padlocked. Vasquez searched the other rooms. All were empty and devoid of dust or dirt. Vasquez returned to the padlocked door. He had a set of lock picks with him and was soon inside a long and narrow room with walls and floor of unpainted gray concrete. A faint unpleasant odor permeated the air. Vasquez looked around. A sink was in one corner and a refrigerator in another. Between them, in the center of the room, was an operating table. Hanging from the padded tabletop were leather straps that could be used to secure a person s arms, legs and head. A metal tray that would hold surgical implements during an operation was completely empty. The detective studied the floor around the operating table more closely and spotted several bloodstains. Vasquez knelt to get a better look at the blood and caught sight of something under the table. It was a scalpel. Vasquez picked it up gingerly and examined it closely. Flecks of dried blood covered the blade and the handle. He laid it carefully on the tray, then turned his attention to the refrigerator. Vasquez grasped the handle. The door caught briefly, then popped free. The detective blinked hard, then released the handle as if his fingers had been burned. The refrigerator door slammed shut, and Vasquez fought the urge to bolt from the room. He took a deep breath and opened the door again. On the top shelf were two glass jars with screw-on tops labeled viaspan. The jars were full of a clear liquid with a faint yellow tinge. Vasquez spotted a plastic bag filled with a white powder on the bottom shelf. Not two kilos worth. Nowhere near that amount. Days later the state crime lab would report that the powder was indeed cocaine. By that time, Vasquez would have trouble remembering that cocaine was even involved in the case against Dr. Vincent Cardoni. What Bobby Vasquez would remember for the rest of his life were the dead eyes that stared at him from the two severed heads that sat on the middle shelf.