Read Without Malice (The Without Series Book 1) Online
Authors: Jo Robertson
Feet propped on the coffee table in front of him, a whiskey shot glass in his right hand, he tried to remember how he’d gotten himself in so deep. If he’d known it would come to this when he started, he’d have – have what? Not started? He didn’t think so.
Didn’t every man gamble a little here and there? Golf rounds, football pools.
Give it up completely? Maybe. He sipped at the whiskey and stared at the muted television screen. That wouldn’t help the dilemma he was in now, though.
The Moktu Indian Gaming Casino, he decided. That’s where the real trouble had begun.
It was fun and games at first, playing the dollar machines, swilling booze, getting a little high. Then he’d moved up to the five-dollar slots. Roulette and poker next.
He’d worked his way into the private poker games in a flash. The buy-in was a thousand bucks. He remembered thinking vaguely what a big chunk of change that was for a man in his profession, but he’d gotten this primo condominium from his parents. He’d shrugged off caution and taken out a large mortgage on the property.
The condo paid off, he figured he could handle a second mortgage.
Later, he cashed out his 401K.
Most of the time he’d won big at gambling, and the temptation sucked him in like an industrial vacuum. The casino opened a line of credit for him, long before he’d needed to use it. A temptation he couldn’t resist. Five thousand, then twenty, then a hundred grand. By the time his head had cleared, he owed Moktu Casino nearly two-hundred fifty thousand dollars.
Even then he hadn’t panicked. Not until the reality of owing over a quarter million G’s to a bunch of Indians, probably backed by mobsters, hit him like a ton of bricks.
Holy fuck!
Another mortgage on the condo, now almost under water, 401K depleted, his finances a ruin. No way he could afford to live in this neighborhood on his salary. He was in debt to the casino so deep he didn’t know how to get out, and he knew it would only get worse. The only solution was to run, a sure way to get killed.
So what had he done instead?
He’d laid low, making piddly-ass payments once in a while, just enough to keep the bone-breakers away from the door. All the time knowing a huge day of reckoning was just around the corner.
Like a little kid, he pretended that if he ignored them long enough, his problems or debts would go away. They hadn’t, of course. The long arm of retribution had finally reached out.
They came to him brutally – three of them, although the ugly giant would’ve been threat enough – and the knowledge of his vulnerability washed over him like a summer monsoon – without warning and very lethal. A drenching flood of dread that could only end in him dead and lying at the bottom of the ocean.
Not to worry, though, they had a proposition for him.
“A mutually beneficial proposition,” the ham-fisted brute with the broken nose and squinty eyes explained happily. The thug was a walking cliché, but it fit him like a glove, a brass-knuckles-encased glove.
After the debt-ridden man had sworn off gambling forever, explained he’d never enter the doors of Moktu again – cajoled, begged, almost cried – the giant continued calmly, “You want to make this right.”
You
need
to make this right, the brute had emphasized, unnerstand? He jabbed a thick finger in the air.
“My Boss is the debtor, you’re the debtee.” He leaned close and grinned as if he’d said something clever.
The man was pretty sure those weren’t the right words, but he had no intention of arguing with a six-foot-six gargantuan with a nasty face and even nastier breath. Plus, the giant had explained, the debtee was in a unique position to give them what they wanted in lieu of the cash owed.
Maybe take a year or two, but it could be done. An acceptable arrangement for both sides. Wasn’t he lucky the Boss was so accommodating?
Just to be sure the gambler understood their plans for him and the repercussions if he reneged on the deal, the thug had calmly explained what would happen to his body if he didn’t cooperate. Every bloody slice and specific blow to his weak flesh and puny muscles. It ain’t pretty, the thug declared with a wry smile but ... He lifted both muscled shoulders and let the threat hang ominously.
Fucking animals!
Fingers or thumbs, they’d said – you’ll get a choice what to lose when the time comes – if you screw us over.
But first ... a little something so you don’t forget.
The man swirled the whiskey around in his glass, calm now that the slick, smooth liquor and the oxys had taken off the edge of fear and pain. Briefly contemplated how costly disappearing would be – just getting the hell out of Dodge.
But where to? With the 401K wiped out and the condo mortgaged to the hilt, did it really matter what the cost was? He didn’t have any of it.
However, the situation wasn’t intolerable. He was perfectly capable of doing what Moktu Casino – the mobsters – asked of him. He had the knowledge, the skill, and certainly the guts for it.
He scratched his jaw, thinking about the how and the who and the where of such a project. It was risky, but doable.
Placing the whiskey glass on the end table, he held up his left hand, palm inward and wiggled the splint on his broken ring finger, their reminder of his debt.
Cruz waited another day before driving to Rosedale and talking to Angie Hunt at
Jesus Saves
about his recently-paroled client. Predictably, Cole Hansen hadn’t reached out to Angie, and no one had seen him hanging around the Washington Street area. It was early, though. He had almost a week before his parole could be violated.
Angie didn’t look well. Her flesh was a dusty gray color, like a burlap bag filled with potatoes and clinging with the dirt from harvest. Cruz knew she worried about her “boys,” as she called them. She was one of those people who’d been through hell, come out the other side, and wanted to pass what she’d learned to others.
Cruz tapped on the office door and slung his long frame into a wooden chair in front of her desk. “What’s up, Angie?” Misunderstanding her depression, he tried to assure her. “You don’t need to worry about the backpack. The police won’t hassle you about it. Sergei, now that might be another matter.”
“He didn’t mean anything by taking it. He was just worried about his friend.”
Cruz held up a hand. “I know. He won’t get into any serious trouble. No one figures a person like Sergei was involved in Dickey’s murder.”
“It’s definitely murder?”
“I’m sorry. Dickey was probably in the wrong place at the wrong time.” He glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone was standing outside the office door, and lowered his voice. “What do you think, Angie? Did Dickey have any enemies? Someone have a grudge against him?”
“Nah, nothing like that. He was just a harmless old bum.” Her eyes misted at the memory.
“Did he owe any money? Steal someone’s stash?”
Fire danced in her expression, giving her face the life it lacked. “No, I told you. Dickey wasn’t like that. Everybody liked him. He got along with all types. Real low profile, you know?” She stared sharply at him. “At least you’d know if you kept up with your clients.”
Cruz flushed at the accusation, but lowered his voice further and rested his elbows on his knees. He was close enough to smell the faint tang of body odor covered by the scent of Angie’s cheap cologne. “What about the police? Did any particular officer hassle Dickey?”
Angie hesitated, worrying her bottom lip with a thumb and forefinger. “Well, you know, don’t none of the cops like these fellas, and the feeling’s mutual, but ... ” Her voice trailed off as her brow furrowed and she searched her memory.
“But what, Angie?” Cruz tried to keep the eagerness out of his voice. No matter what Angie said about a grudge against the homeless by a police officer, he couldn’t let his mind travel that road.
Jesus,
they were all on the same side, weren’t they?
“Some of the cops – detectives, too – had a hard-on for my boys. Winston and Braun, Rawley, Flood – shit, even that sweet-faced gal cop, name of Summers – they was always rousting Dickey from the park.” She reached idly for her pack of cigarettes lying on the desk, remembered where she was, and pushed them away.
“Confiscating his cigarettes, hassling him ‘bout leaving trash lyin’ ‘round,” she continued, irritated without her nicotine rush.
She shook her head. “But they did that with all the street people. They really hate the homeless. It’s kinda scary, but, nah, they cops. Bluster and talk trash to us, but what somebody did to Dickey? That’s just plain sick.”
Cruz stood, wondering if he should’ve kept his mouth shut. It was a crazy notion anyway, and he didn’t want any rumors running around the street. “Let’s keep this between ourselves, okay, Angie? Dickey’s death was likely just a random snatch and grab gone wrong.”
“Yeah,” she replied with no conviction in her voice. “Yeah,” she repeated, “but what’d Dickey have worth snatching anyhow?”
In the afternoon Cruz visited Cole Hansen’s parents. The address was on file from several years ago and still current. The father was a stronger and more fit replica of his son, the mother red-eyed and weepy.
“We’ll have nothing to do with him,” the father exclaimed. “He’s been nothing but trouble from the day he was born. Rubbage and good riddance!”
They slammed the door in his face.
The older sister, his next stop, lived in an upscale condominium in Rocklin, and was more compassionate, teary-eyed and soft spoken. “Poor Cole, he never had a chance in this world.”
“Would he have reached out to you for help?” Cruz asked.
She sighed heavily. “I thought so, but I didn’t even know he’d been released from prison.”
“He hasn’t called or written?”
“Cole doesn’t write. He’s ashamed of his poor education, and no, he didn’t phone me.” She touched Cruz tentatively on the arm as he stood to leave. “Is he all right, do you think?”
Cruz wouldn’t tell her that if her brother didn’t report in soon, he could be right back in prison. Although the discharge records hadn’t been clear, Cruz had read between the lines and figured Cole had debriefed in prison. That’s why he’d gotten the unusually early release. If Cole was a snitch, he was in serious trouble, whether on the street or back inside.
It looked like Cole had figured that out, too, and was on the run. “I’m sure he’ll get in touch with you soon,” he soothed as he left.
Useless to tell her the truth, much kinder to give her hope.
On his way back to Placer Hills and the parole office, Cruz got a call from Sheriff Slater. He put the cell on speaker phone. “What’s up, Slater?”
The Sheriff’s voice sounded worn and disgusted. “Another one. We got another fucking body.”
“Jesus Christ.
Where? Not Ryder Park again?”
“No, just outside the county line at Battery Hill Park.”
“On Auburn Drive?”
“Yeah, just barely out of Bigler County. Not my jurisdiction, but I have a friend in Sac County. Hell, Chago, from what Clarence said, it sounds like it might be the same perp.”
Cruz didn’t hesitate. “I’ll meet you at the station in thirty.”
The air was chilly, with a hint of frost to come, when Cruz accompanied Slater to the crime scene site. Battery Hill Park was an old, tattered location next to a cemetery and a middle school.
Wondering briefly how that odd combination had happened, Cruz realized the park had been an afterthought, established long after the cemetery’s residents had turned to bone and bits of cloth. What short-sighted city council had then authorized a middle school right next to a graveyard?
The notion gave the crime scene an eerie, ghostly aura, but Cruz shook himself clear of such foolish thoughts as he met up with Slater. Sacramento PD had already cordoned off the area, and Slater hailed a man dressed in a rumpled suit and wearing, of all things, a worn fedora. A cigarette dangled between the fingers of his right hand.
“Clarence, Santiago Cruz. Clarence West is my very old friend from homicide division of SPD.”
“Not so very old,” growled West with a voice like a gravel truck dumping its load. He coughed harshly for a moment and held up his hand to ward off anticipated questions. After he recovered his breath, he said, “Soon as I got the call, I thought of your recent DB, Slater.”
The Sheriff shook his head. The park murder in Rosedale had gotten lots of press.
West stepped gingerly over the crime scene tape and motioned Cruz and Slater to follow. “CSU’s already finished here and our coroner will release the body in a few.” He nodded toward a heavy-set man in a white lab coat under a heavy parka.
Clarence West hunkered down over a body bag partially unzipped and tugged at the fastening, pulling it down to the woman’s knees. “No ID on her, no plastic bag or backpack to carry her stash. Zilch. She looks homeless, but no one around here could identify her.”
“A woman?” Slater said, registering surprise.
“That’s one difference between our victim and this one.” Cruz noted the ragged clothing, the torn sneakers wrapped with bands of cloth around the sole, the dirt-crusted fingernails. “But, yeah, she was a street person.”
The wounds looked remarkably like those found on Dickey Hinchey’s body, except the face wasn’t disfigured. Below the neck, however, the torso was a wild slash of mayhem – blood and gore extended from the stomach area, and intestines wriggled out from the body cavity like a nest of snakes.
Clarence stared up at Slater. “You think this could be the same doer as your vic?”
“Maybe. Both homeless. Both bodies savaged. Still ... ”
“Don’t see something like this very often,” Clarence muttered.
Slater lifted both shoulders, pursed his lips in thought, and glanced at Cruz.
“Well, we’ll see,” Clarence answered, rising creakily from thick haunches. “The medical examiner will provide more, I expect. Just wanted to give you a heads up in case the homicides are tied together.”
The two men shook hands. “Keep me informed,” Slater said as he and Cruz stepped back from the body.
“Ditto,” Clarence echoed, his attention already wandering.
The ride back to Placer Hills was long and silent, Slater and Cruz pondering the possibility of coincidence – or something much worse.
Based on the prison doctor’s concern, Cruz had to spend further time tracking down Cole Hansen. Since the parolee hadn’t gone to any logical or safe place, Cruz now worried that the guy was on the run.
Normally, he wouldn’t even think of the man until at least two weeks after he’d first reported in. Then he’d drop in on the ex-con and administer an unscheduled pee test. He’d either congratulate him or violate him. Sounded simple, but really wasn’t. Cruz had come to understand that nothing was ever that black and white in the world of corrections and rehabilitation.
Angie had said Cole hadn’t even stopped by
Jesus Saves
as Cruz had advised. Investigating last known addresses, phone numbers, and associates, he’d found nothing. A complete bust. No one had seen or heard from Cole Hansen since his release from prison.
And, now, to top it all off, when he tried the number on the prison doctor’s business card, it went straight to voice mail. He attempted to contact her in Crescent City, but prison authorities told him she was on an unspecified leave of absence.
What the hell?
A lot of coincidences were starting to pile up, and Cruz didn’t like that.