Proof Positive (2006) (7 page)

Chapter
8.

THE DETECTIVE DIVISION OF THE PORTLAND POLICE BUREAU Central Precinct was a wide-open space that stretched along one side of the thirteenth floor of the Justice Center. Each detective had a cubicle separated from the other working spaces by a chest-high divider. Billie Brewster's cubicle contained a gunmetal gray desk, an ergonomically designed chair she had purchased with her own money to try to save her back, and the desk chair she had been issued, which was now used to hold case files. Hanging on one of the walls was a psychedelic poster of Jimi Hendrix that Billie had owned since middle school and had brought to work to serve as a reminder that there was more to life than abused children and dead bodies.

The only other personal items in the cubicle were photographs of Billie's mother and her brother, Sherman Brewster. Sherman, who was serving serious time in the Oregon State Penitentiary, was a constant source of sorrow to Billie. When she was sixteen, their father had deserted the family, and her mother had been forced to work at two jobs to make ends meet, leaving Billie to raise Sherman. She had tried her best, but she had lost the battle to keep him straight when he joined a gang. Even though no one else blamed her, Billie could not help feeling responsible for Sherman's failures.

The detective had just finished a fifteen-minute call from an Idaho state trooper who was investigating a Boise case with Portland ties when Bernard Cashman called from the crime lab.

Hey, Bernie, what have you got? Brewster asked, leaning back in her chair.

For you, only the best.

Speak.

Our special of the day is a beautiful thumbprint belonging to Arthur Wayne Prochaska.

Brewster sat up straight. Where was it?

On the beer can on the nightstand in Vincent Ballard's motel room.

You' re shitting me?

Would I lie to a fellow Hendrix aficionado?

That is fucking great! Look, I need a report I can attach to a search warrant affidavit. If you can put Ballard's murder on Prochaska you'll have made my year.

You'll have the report ASAP and anything else I come up with as soon as I get it.

Cashman was the best. When Brewster hung up the phone, she was one happy woman. Now all she had to do was persuade a judge to issue a search warrant for Prochaska's home and hope that she could find more evidence connecting the evil son of a bitch to Vincent Ballard's murder.

Art Prochaska and Martin Breach had been violent offenders since they extorted lunch money from the weaker kids in elementary school, but breaking legs for loan sharks had provided their entry into organized crime. The combination of a genius IQ and no conscience had catapulted Breach to the top of his chosen profession, and he had brought Art with him every step of the way. Prochaska was the only person in the world Breach trusted.

Art was now worth several million dollars, most of which was stashed in a Swiss bank account that Martin Breach had set up for him. But, following Martin's example, Prochaska lived modestly in a ranch house in a middle-class Portland suburb. He paid taxes on the reported profits of the bars he managed, and his only ostentatious possession was a cherry-red Cadillac that he parked in his garage so as not to attract the attention of his neighbors. At eight o' clock at night, those neighbors were drawn to their front windows by the flashing bubble lights on the police cars that were parked in Prochaska's driveway and in front of his house.

Billie Brewster led a contingent of uniformed police officers up a slate path to the front door. Zeke Forbus, her heavyset partner, rang the doorbell and slammed a lion' s-head knocker against the door while shouting, Open up, police. When an anxious face peered through a break in the living room curtains, Brewster flashed her badge. Moments later, the door was opened by Prochaska's current girlfriend, Maxine Hinkle, a performer at the Jungle Club, a strip joint that Martin Breach owned.

Billie identified herself and showed Maxine the search warrant.

I don't know if I can let you in without asking Artie, Maxine said.

Miss Hinkle, this warrant gives us the right to enter Mr. Prochaska's house with or without his permission, Billie said politely. You don't want to get in trouble, do you?

No, Maxine answered quickly, alarmed by the possibility.

And we don't want you to get in trouble for resisting a lawful court order, Brewster continued in a reasonable tone. So I'll tell you what. Why don't you call Mr. Prochaska and tell him we' re here and what we' re doing. I'll even speak to him if that will make you feel better. But I'm going to do that from inside this house, because the judge says I can. So, please step aside.

Maxine did as she was told, and Billie assigned an officer to watch her. Then she gave the other officers their assignments while Forbus looked around. The house was neat and decorated in good taste, like something out of House & Garden.

Not the kind of place I expected a goon like Prochaska would be living in, he told Billie.

Maybe he's trying to get in touch with his feminine side, she cracked.

Forbus snorted. Let's see if we can find anything that'll tie this scumbag to the Ballard murder. I'll take the ground floor.

Billie suspected that Forbus had volunteered to search the ground floor so he wouldn't have to climb the stairs. With the weight he already carried, and his atrocious eating habits, Billie figured her partner had less than a fifty-fifty chance of making it to retirement without having a major coronary.

The bedroom was messier than the rest of the house, but the furniture, the rug, and the drapes looked as if they had been selected by an interior decorator. Billie went through Prochaska's dresser and nightstands without finding anything unusual, but she hit pay dirt when she pulled over a chair and searched the top shelf in the bedroom's walk-in closet. At first, all she could see were an extra blanket and pillow. When she moved them aside, she saw something else: a shiny 9-mm Glock and a box of 9-mm Remington ammunition. As they came into view, Billie's lips curled into a triumphant smile.

Chapter
9.

FRANK JAFFE WAS A BIG MAN WITH A RUDDY COMPLEXION AND gray-streaked curly black hair. He looked more like a heavyweight boxer who'd had his share of tough fights than one of America's top criminal-defense attorneys. Tonight, he felt like Sisyphus, the ancient king of Corinth who was condemned by the gods to roll a heavy boulder up a steep hill in Hades only to have it roll down again each time he reached the top. Frank's hell was a courtroom in Medford, a small city near the California border, where he had spent the past week trying a grueling meth case. Just when it seemed that he'd snatched victory from the jaws of defeat, George Featherstone, the prosecutor, gave an emotional closing argument in which he revealed that the defendant had been convicted for sexually abusing a minor.

Prior to trial, the judge had forbidden Featherstone to breathe a word of the conviction on the grounds that the jury would not be able to give Frank's client a fair trial if they learned he was a child molester. As soon as the words were out of Featherstone's mouth, Frank had gritted his teeth and moved for a mistrial. The judge had no choice but to grant Frank's motion. Now Frank was condemned to return to Medford in two months to try the case all over again. This had put him in a terrible mood during the five-hour trip back to Portland, and he was still in a bad mood at nine that night when a car pulled into his driveway.

Frank lived by himself in the Victorian home in the West Hills where he'd raised his daughter and law partner, Amanda. By the time he got back from Medford, he barely had the energy to fix a dinner of scrambled eggs and toast before retiring to his den to watch television in the hope that it would take his mind off the drug case. When the car door slammed, he was in his shirtsleeves and stocking feet, nursing a glass of bourbon and watching the current governor of California battle aliens. Frank swore softly and set his glass on the coffee table. He swore even more forcefully when he looked through the window and recognized the burly man who was walking up the driveway.

Evening, Charlie, Frank said, opening the door before his visitor had a chance to knock.

Evening, Mr. Jaffe, answered Charlie LaRosa. Sorry to disturb you.

Charlie LaRosa performed a variety of tasks for Martin Breach, most of which were prohibited by the penal code. Frank had beaten two assault charges for LaRosa.

What is it this time? Frank asked wearily.

Hey, no, I'm doing fine, staying out of trouble. This is for Marty. He sent me to get you.

Tell Martin I'll see him in the morning. I just drove up from Medford and I'm wasted.

Charlie's nervous look meant that Breach had ordered him to bring Frank back with him.

It's Artie, Mr. Jaffe. He's in jail. It's serious. Marty said to say as serious as your daughter's problem was.

Amanda had crossed some very powerful men while representing Jon Dupre, a pimp and accused murderer. They had put out a hit on her, and Frank had gone to Martin Breach for help. He'd come through for the Jaffes. Now Breach was calling in a favor, and Frank couldn't refuse. His shoulders sagged, and he resigned himself to a long evening.

The Jungle Club was a square pink-and-green concrete box that sat in the middle of a parking lot on a corner of a busy intersection on Columbia Boulevard. A neon sign featuring a naked woman and flashing letters that spelled GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS left no doubt as to what awaited patrons inside. There were a few open spots in the front lot, but Charlie ignored them and parked in a reserved space in the rear of the building. The music from the club was so loud that Frank could feel vibrations in his body when he got out of the car. As soon as the back door opened, he was hit by a wave of sound that almost knocked him over. Martin Breach had the office of the Jungle Club swept for bugs every day, but he was paranoid about surveillance and liked his dancers to disrobe to the loudest music possible, on the theory that it would make the life of any DEA, FBI, or PPB eavesdroppers more difficult.

Frank took a few steps down a narrow hallway and waited while Charlie chatted with the massive bodyguard stationed outside the door to Martin Breach's office. The bodyguard knocked, then opened the door, and Charlie LaRosa ducked inside.

Go on in, Mr. Jaffe, Charlie said a moment later.

Martin Breach, Portland's most violent citizen, was almost six feet tall, but his stubby legs and chunky upper body made him seem shorter. Thinning sandy hair, drab brown eyes, and a pale complexion gave him the look of a failed used-car salesman. His ghastly taste in clothes added to the mistaken impression of ineptitude the last impression some of his victims ever formed. Tonight he was attired in plaid golf slacks, an aloha shirt, and a Madras sports jacket that had gone out of fashion decades ago.

Martin's tiny office was as unimpressive as its owner. The rickety furniture was secondhand. An out-of-date calendar from a motor-oil company and pictures of strippers decorated the walls. If the IRS was going to run a net worth on Martin, it would have to start someplace other than the Jungle Club.

Breach closed the skin magazine he was reading and gave Frank a genuine smile of welcome before waving at a chair on the other side of his desk.

Take a load off, Frank, Breach said, speaking so low that Frank barely heard him above the AC/DC track blasting through the paper-thin walls. Frank collapsed in the chair. It swayed under his weight.

How's my favorite mouthpiece?

I'm wiped, Marty. I just drove up from Medford after trying a case for a week.

Sorry, Martin said, sounding sincere. I wouldn't have asked you to come over if it wasn't serious.

Charlie told me that Art is in trouble, Frank said, getting right to the point in the hope that he could wrap up the conversation as soon as possible.

They busted him for murder and ex-con in possession of a firearm this afternoon. He tried to call you.

I must have been on the road. Where is he?

The Justice Center.

What do you know about the charges?

Not much. The cops searched his house a few days ago and found a gun.

Did they have a warrant?

Yeah. It sounds like everything was done nice and legal.

We'll see.

Martin smiled. That's why I want you representing Artie. You' re thinking of ways to beat the rap already.

Breach reached behind his desk and swung a battered brown leather briefcase onto the blotter. He swiveled it so it was facing Frank and opened the lid, revealing stacks of soiled, wrinkled cash. The bills on top were hundreds. It was illegal for Frank to accept a fee that was the fruit of an illegal activity, like drug dealing. He started to say something, but Martin held up a hand.

Don't worry. This dough is as innocent as a newborn babe. You don't think I'd let you get in trouble, do you? Put it in the bank and let them call the feds. You'll be just fine.

Frank held his tongue. He was certain that the money was clean because it had been laundered, but he was also certain that the government would never be able to prove it. Besides, he owed Martin big. Amanda was the most important person in his life, and she would be dead if Martin hadn't protected her. Art Prochaska was Martin's closest friend and he was in trouble. Frank was going to give him the best defense possible.