Read Without Malice (The Without Series Book 1) Online
Authors: Jo Robertson
Roger Milano met the next day with his attorney in a privacy room at Folsom Prison. John Wright came straight to the point. “Someone assaulted Frankie Jones in the prison parking lot after work night before last.”
“Jesus mother-fuckin’ Christ,”
Roger shouted, clamoring up and knocking his chair over with a loud crash. He saw the security guard glance through the observation window and quickly sat down. Wright raised his hand, signaling that everything was okay.
Roger swiped at his damp forehead, saw the tremor as he clasped his hands together. “How is she? Is she hurt? How bad? Was she – ” The words had tumbled out of his mouth with the force of fear and panic, but now he couldn’t bring himself to say the word. “Was she ... assaulted?”
“No, no,” Wright assured him. “She’s okay. The guy threatened her. She’s shaken up, scared, skinned up a bit, nothing serious. Mad as hell.”
Roger managed a grim smile. “She’s a warrior.”
“She didn’t see her attacker,” Wright continued, “and has no idea who it was, but she’s taken an unspecified leave of absence from Pelican Bay.”
Wright looked inquiringly at Roger. He didn’t know Roger’s relationship to this Frankie Jones, but he’d been watching out for her on Roger’s behalf for the last dozen years or so. He suspected Frankie was Roger’s daughter, but he wasn’t sure. Last names were different, but a legal name change was easy to get. She’d never attended the trial, never visited the inmate until several years after he was incarcerated.
“She told the authorities her aunt was grievously ill.” Wright lifted one corner of his mouth at this bald lie.
Roger and his sister-in-law were not fast friends. An ironic understatement because his dead wife’s sister hated his guts and was completely sure Roger had murdered his wife in a fit of rage.
But Frankie ... the important thing was her safety.
“Why, then?” Roger asked. “If not – not rape – why was she attacked? What did they want? Why threaten Frankie? She’s nobody.”
Even though privilege was supposedly observed in the privacy room, the lawyer lowered his voice until it was barely audible.
“Walt Steiner at Pelican Bay called me, talked quite a while. Frankie’s gone off the grid, but she contacted him, told him she didn’t see her attacker . A murder went down in the prison yard a few days ago, and the inmate who confessed to it had contact with Frankie before he was suddenly paroled and released. Name of Cole Hansen. Now he’s in the wind, too.
“She thinks the attack has something to do with this – this Cole guy?” Roger scratched his head, frowning. “Why does that name sound familiar? Cole Hansen,” he muttered softly.
Wright looked pointedly at Roger’s right knuckles. “He’s
LOD,
too.”
Roger jerked back, astonished. “You think this has something to do with me?”
Wright lifted his hands, palms upward. “You tell me.”
Roger sat up straight, as if an iron bar had replaced his spine. He’d always had such stiff composure, Wright recalled, even during the arrest and all through the trial.
Roger hadn’t wanted Frankie to observe the proceedings, and the aunt hadn’t allowed it, but when she reached the age of consent, no one could stop her from visiting him in prison.
That was the first time he’d met Frankie Jones. Even at that young age, she was impressive – slender and composed with gray eyes calm and stormy at the same.
“What’s going on, Roger? What’re the
Lords
up to?”
Roger folded his arms across his chest, the only concession to relaxation he allowed himself. “I’ve heard bits here and there, how they’re expanding their enterprises.”
“Expanding? What does that mean?”
“Rumor is they want to move into other kinds of activities, all illegal, of course.”
“What’s left that the
Lords
don’t control?” Wright asked.
“Murder for hire, for one,” Roger said. “The professional kind, not gang retaliation.”
“You think the
Lords
hired someone to kill Frankie?”
“No. She’d be dead by now if they’d put a contract on her.” Roger leaned forward across the table separating the two men. “They wanted to scare her. Real bad.”
“They did,” Wright acknowledged.
“So you’ve got to figure out what she’s done that’s spooking the
Lords.”
Roger looked deadly serious. “She’s always been a feisty one. I can see her poking her nose in where it doesn’t belong, not realizing how dangerous these people are.”
“Look, Roger, I represent you, not Frankie. I can talk to her, but privilege doesn’t apply.” Wright shifted uneasily. “I’ve only got a cell number for her. Anyway, she’s taking leave and laying low for a while. But she’s not going to stop whatever she’s involved in.”
Roger thought a bit, staring up at the ceiling and tapping his long fingers on the table. “I think I know where she might be.”
He stood up, his back toward the door with the guard on watch through the window. After he’d whispered the information into Wright’s ear, he added. “I think I can trust you, but I swear to God if anything happens to my little girl, I’ll kill you.”
Wright stared at Roger’s broad back as he left the room. He’d always known Roger Milano was capable of killing someone, but had convinced himself the man was innocent of his wife’s murder.
Whatever his previous thoughts, he now realized for a certainty, that Frankie Jones was Roger’s daughter, and from the narrowed steel gray eyes, he knew if he didn’t protect her, Roger would come looking for him.
The killer stood restlessly at the kitchen counter in his pricey condominium, knowing blowback was just a knock on the door away. His hands were so shaky that whiskey slopped over the edge of his glass. The splintered ring finger chaffed against the other ones, ironically whole and healthy.
What next, he wondered? How would they come at him this time?
He drained the whiskey clumsily and considered the latest development. His merchandise hadn’t satisfied him. It wasn’t prime, they claimed. Not good enough.
Bullshit!
He thought of his parents again. They had money, beau coups of it, hidden away in various accounts all over the world, squirreled away for a rainy day. Like it wasn’t pouring buckets of crap down on their only son right now. The apartment and its contents had been their parting gift to him before they took off to a comfortable life in sunny Florida.
But that was long ago. They’d done their duty by him, and now they’d cut him off like a diseased and amputated body part, not their own flesh and blood. No, they wouldn’t understand this mess he’d gotten into.
Glancing around the room, taking in the fancy furnishings, the antiques and collectibles, he wondered if he could get another loan on the place. Hock the expensive items – rich people’s junk, in his mind, but his parents had loved them. Some of them might even be priceless, passed down from generation to generation from the Mayflower to him, the degenerate descendant.
Damned bastards, not accepting the first shipment he’d delivered! That’d boiled his blood. After he’d gone through so much trouble, taken so much risk. It hadn’t been easy – he shivered at the reminder of what he’d done – but he’d fulfilled his commitment.
Surely they’d understand that? But they were getting restless and wouldn’t wait much longer. And now this nonsense about inferior merchandise? What the fuck!
Dread was a felled tree trapped on his chest. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.
What they asked of him – demanded of him – was a hazardous proposition, and if he didn’t pull it off, he’d either be in prison for the rest of his life, or dead. Did California still have the death penalty? That was his fate – murdered by the people he owed money to, or executed by the state.
The thug who’d broken into his home a few days ago – his fucking home, for God’s sake – had been very specific about what they’d do to him if he didn’t come through this time. He’d left a vivid and still painful memento.
“You can use some of the items, can’t you?” he’d shouted in desperation. “It can’t all be worthless.”
“Look, you little piss-ant addict,” the man said, sitting in a favorite armchair by the window, slapping one gloved hand with the eighteen-inch metal pipe he held in the other. Was he going to break another finger? Or his thumbs? Surely not. He couldn’t work without his thumbs.
“You gotta know that the Boss wants all or nothing,” the thug continued. “Now, see, Bernardo is a patient man. He’ll take a little down, but you gotta pay for wasting his time, causing all this trouble. Honest, dude, you’ve been a real pain in the ass.”
The intruder smiled in anticipation and the man thought of his ass and what the metal pipe could do to delicate flesh. The thug rose and took a menacing step forward.
“You know, there are dozens of parts of the human body that you can cut off or damage,” he reflected aloud, shaking his head in wonder, “and the damn fuckers still work perfectly.”
He grinned with a kind of salacious glee. “Well, maybe not perfectly, but ... There’s lots a’ stuff I can do to you and leave you able to do the job.” He stared meditatively toward the ceiling as if he were a damn priest giving advice to a mendicant.
Which he was, he supposed – a beggar pleading for his life. Don’t hurt me, he entreated silently.
“A leg, an arm, an ear. Whadda ya wanna give for the down payment?” Acting as though he’d just gotten a bright idea, the man answered his own question. “I know, a fingernail. That’s the easiest thing to hide from your ... uh, coworkers.”
“Please, don’t,” he gasped, despite his determination to remain stoic.
“Put a little bandage on it. No one will know the difference,” the thug continued as though he hadn’t heard. “Hella easier to heal than a broken leg, ya gotta admit.”
All the while the man had continued to slap the metal bar against his palm, the sound a sickening reminder of pain, concussion, broken bones, and damaged muscles – all the so-fragile parts of the human body.
Now his attacker laid the metal bar aside and pulled something from his back pocket.
“This’ll work just fine, I’m thinking. You won’t deliver inferior merchandise again. Right? Yeah, the fingernails are a good lesson.”
He saw now that his torturer held a pair of pliers in his hand.
“What do you prefer – thumb or fingernail?” he asked, advancing with purpose and pleasure.
Several hours later the pain was a dull, numbing throb in spite of the Dilaudid he’d taken.
The two ragged ovals where his thumbnails had been still oozed blood through the bandages.
“I dunno what the kite means,” Cole Hansen mumbled as he rubbed at his chaffed wrists. “It’s just a bunch of scrambled writing to me.”
Cruz had removed Cole’s handcuffs after Frankie made the runaway ex-con swear on his sister’s life that he wouldn’t flee again. Cruz tried very hard not to grimace at her naiveté. Even if he found it kind of cute, she wouldn’t appreciate it.
“Why’d you pick it up then?” Cruz challenged, sitting in one of the oak kitchen chairs that surrounded Frankie’s kitchen table.
“A gut feeling.”
“But why did you pass it to me, Cole?” Frankie asked quietly. “Surely you knew it would put me in danger. Did you want that?”
“No! God, no!” Cole exclaimed. “I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you, Doc.”
Frankie leaned back in a matching chair. The three of them had cups of strong coffee and slices of pound cake. Cruz would’ve preferred a cold beer, but didn’t want to slow down the interrogation.
The doctor looked much calmer than she should be. After their late lunch she’d gone here – her childhood home, she said – waiting for her friend Walt to call her as he’d promised. That the correctional officer hadn’t contacted her yet wasn’t a good sign in Cruz’s mind.
“You know, Cole,” Frankie continued. “You probably have information that you don’t even realize you have. Something you overheard after the beat-down in the yard? Gossip or chatter among the inmates?”
“Think hard,” Cole added. “Your life might depend on it.” He glanced at Frankie. “The doctor’s life, too.”
Cole picked at a piece of cake with his long, dirty fingernails. Even though he’d been living on the street for less than a week, a faint odor of unwashed body and unbrushed teeth wafted across the table.
He took a long swallow of coffee before answering. “Yeah, I guess the
LOD’s
business ain’t so secret since I dropped out. Might as well tell you what I know.”
“Tell us what illegal activities the
Lords
are engaged in outside the prison system,” Cruz prompted. “Tell us why Dr. Jones was threatened.”
Cole looked sadly at Frankie, and then gazed thoughtfully toward the ceiling. “There’s drugs, of course, street drugs. They do a good business in northern Cal, took the biggest share from the non-white gangs. The Professor runs it all from Pelican Bay.”
“What else?” Cruz asked.
“Well, there’s prostitution, money-lending, guns and ‘jackings – stripped cars and parts – stuff easy to move.”
“You hear about anything unusual – activities other gangs aren’t into?” Cruz asked.
“Something you didn’t tell the authorities when you debriefed?” Frankie encouraged.
Cole squirmed in his chair. “Hmm, I dunno. I mighta – uh, overheard – some talk, uh – about stuff that’s not – uh, usual.”
Frankie and Cruz exchanged a glance, intrigued by Cole’s sudden bout of stuttering. “What?” both said in unison.
Cole downed the rest of his coffee, shoved his plate and cup aside, and folded his hands on the table top. “I dunno if it means anything, but I heard some chatter ‘fore I went into the SHU, right before that dust up in the yard.”
“What kind of chatter?” Cruz asked.
“Jest bullshitting, you know how the guys do.” Cole looked at Frankie.
“What was the BS about, Cole? How was it different from the usual talk?” Frankie asked.
Cole scratched his head, pulled on his ear lobe, and frowned, as if thinking was a complex trigonometry problem he couldn’t quite get his mind around. “Jest, like dealing in illegals, you know?”
“Drugs?” asked Cruz.
“Nah, not the usual stuff. Things I never heard of before. Like – okay, this is stupid – but it was about, like, music – a piano or keyboard, somethin’ like that – music.” He looked hopefully at them with sad, worried eyes. “They talkin’ about pirated DVD’s or CD’s, you think?”
“Music?” Frankie echoed, frustration warming her cheeks. She breathed deeply and tried to calm herself. “Cole, think about this. Do you mean musical instruments?”
She glanced at Cruz, who closed his eyes and rubbed his temples in frustration. She noticed, irrelevantly, and with some disappointment, that he’d shaved off his five-o’clock shadow.
“Get serious, Cole,” Cruz said patiently. “They wouldn’t deal in pirated material – music or movies. There’s not enough profit. Could ‘music’ be a code for something – like weapons? Are they gun trafficking?”
“Sure, they are.” Cole looked surprised that he’d even ask. “Everyone deals in guns. I told you.”
“Do you think it’s something more than guns?” Cruz asked, even as Cole bobbed his head, a vague expression on his face.
Music? What did it mean?
And how was it connected to Frankie?
Patch Wilson finished up the autopsy on Dickey Hinchey around 10 p.m. Howard Casey had gotten off work at five, and the morgue was eerily silent. The body was stitched up and a white sheet drawn up to his neck.
This autopsy had occurred when Patch was in the Bahamas, and was performed by a local physician called in as a substitute coroner. Dr. Mason Foster was a general practitioner, older than God. Patch knew he often rubber-stamped the conclusions of the police department.
Patch shook his head and vowed never to vacation again.
The Rosedale Police Department had ruled death by multiple knife wounds. While this was a fact, in spite of the blows to the head and body, the puzzle of how and why Dickey Hinchey had died was a much more complicated conundrum than that. One that Patch enjoyed trying to solve through forensics.
The first murder, which was actually the second autopsy he’d completed, appeared to be similar to the first autopsied body – that of the seventeen-year-old young woman. But there was a very important difference.
Patch rolled the body into the autopsy drawer and reached for his cell phone. He hesitated, considered the late hour, unsure if any of his findings were significant.
He punched the numbers to Slater’s phone anyway.