What could it hurt? You've got tubbies and I've got scotch.
She sat on the floor beside him and stroked his back while he watched. She wouldn't let him see the next show, which sent him into a tantrum-Tim's new reaction to being denied even the smallest desire. Merci figured it was a phase.
Tim bawled it out and she let him, then took him into his room and read him three of his favorite stories. He fell asleep on her lap in the rocking chair and she carried him to his bed.
She showered and put on a light robe, then came back to Tim's room and sat in the corner in the dark. The remnants of the ice cubes clinked rhythmically in the glass as she rocked. The sweet aroma of the orange blossoms wavered in on the warm breeze. She closed her eyes and said the same prayer she said every night, to a God she believed in but wasn't sure she trusted.
Watch over him. Watch over him. Watch over him.
In the living room she turned down the volume on the police band radio, already set to the Sheriff's frequency, down low. Listening to it was a holdover from her old days on patrol, the days when every crime seemed to require her attention, on duty or off.
She sat forward on the living room sofa, some of Archie Wildcraft's court testimony spread across the coffee table, the lampshade tilted out to throw light over her shoulder. The windows were still open and the white tip of a cat tail twitched from a shadow on the seat of Clark's old recliner.
Then she started with the criminal felony cases, going back a year.
The People versus Vomastic Washington, multiple homicide, responding deputies Archibald Wildcraft and Damon Reese. Archie testified that he'd found the defendant hiding in a bathroom cabinet a the crime scene. Conviction to Ryan Dawes, two life sentences to be served consecutively, appeal filed and pending.
The People versus Stephanie Mai, attempted murder of Marilyn Mai, her identical twin sister, wiretap testimony from Deputy 2 Archibald Wildcraft. Apparently, Archie had been assigned to an undercover sting at the sisters' favorite Garden Grove disco. He'd gotten some incriminating statements from her. Conviction to Lisa Musick twelve years, appeal filed and pending.
The People versus Felix Mendez, possession of illegal narcotics conspiracy to distribute narcotics, possession of illegal automatic weapons, attempted murder of a police officer. All of this grew from a domestic disturbance call, responding officers Archibald Wildcraft and Damon Reese again. Reese was about to take a bullet from Mendez's hidden derringer when Archie shot him through the hand, kicked away the gun and cuffed the defendant. When the prosecutor asked if Archie considered himself a hero for saving his partner's life, Archie said he was just a deputy doing his job. Conviction to Ryan Dawes life in prison without parole for Mendez: strike three.
Merci scanned back through the Mendez transcript and saw what she thought she'd see: Mendez was heavily implicated in La Erne- the Mexican Mafia-though he steadfastly denied knowing anything about the organization. Dawes presented testimony that Mendez was a ranking member of La Erne, having earned his way up by dealing narcotics and handling enforcement, intimidation and murder contracts Mendez's attorney aired a symphony of objections, the judge sustained half and overruled the others, allowing Mendez to deny it all.
Merci knew that La Eme had climbed into power in just the last two decades, as the Hispanic prison population had grown. In the California prisons, they ruled. They were exceptionally violent, well organized and thorough. They were loyal to each other, and all but silent to the law. And although their power base lay hidden in the cells of the huge penal system, their reach went far beyond the walls and razor wire.
Sure, thought Merci, La Erne could hit Archie Wildcraft if they wanted him hit. And sure, Felix Mendez would not have been too happy about having his left hand blown apart in his own home while his wife watched, by a handsome young deputy with dimples. But why Gwen?
Merci flipped back through to read about the disturbance call. An anonymous neighbor had phoned it in, and the deputies had walked into the middle of a cocaine-addled dispute between the couple. Sure enough, when Michelle Mendez had spit in his face and bitten him, Archie Wildcraft had shoved her into a wall and cuffed her. Made her nose bleed. And that was when Mendez produced the pistol from under his bathrobe.
Merci flagged the transcript with a red paper clip.
She leafed through The People versus Goudee, a rape case, but rapists were cowards. And The People versus Viznaska, a car thief, but Viznaska was twenty years old, apparently not mobbed up, had no violent priors. And Rhonert, a burglar; Nelson, a boiler-room phone fraud scammer; Vasquez, a fugitive female shot-caller whom Archie and Reese had easily matched to a briefing mug while she walked three pitbulls down Fourth Street, about five blocks from headquarters, in broad daylight.
Another hour and she'd finished off the felony criminal cases in which Wildcraft had testified in the last two years. She fingered through the arrest forms-mostly drunk-in-publics, drunken drivers, disturbing the peace, fights. The same shit that's coming over the radio right now, she thought. Meat and potatoes, everyday stuff.
One drunken driving stop almost two years ago was of a man named Trent Gentry, who happened to work for the Newport Beach office of Ritter-Dunne-Davis Financial. She pulled and flagged this with a red paper clip too, strictly on the coincidence of Priscilla Brock's beloved Charles working for the same global company. Small world, she thought.
Small World, Big Opportunity
— wasn't that the RDD slogan you got sick of on TV? At any rate, Archie had done the right thing and busted the drunk.
She sighed and sat back and looked out at a bright moon checkered by the window screen. So many creeps, she thought. But how man of these are capable of this? One? Maybe two?
She clicked off the radio, checked Tim, made another drink, s; outside on the back patio. She looked out at the dark groves and marveled at how they just ended a hundred yards in three of four directions, at the ten-foot salmon-colored wall of a housing development. Merci loved the wall for all the people it kept in.
She had not chosen the farmhouse for aesthetics, and in fact she didn't care for orange juice, but she'd grown to like the still sweetness of the tree and semi-feral cats that moved silently through the grove, like thoughts. Her father had been offered the place by an acquaintance who owned it, and the rent was cheap. That was long before Clark had entertained any notions of moving in. The old farmhouse came with the warning that it could and would be sold to the first bidder with the right price, but that had yet to happen. Merci wondered how many millions her five acres were worth. What, six or eight grand for every orange?
Zamorra called at eleven-fourteen.
'You weren't listening to the police band.'
'What.'
'Irvine cops found a black STS, license QM742JN abandoned the end of Sand Canyon. You know, out there by the strawberry fields-past the new hospital.'
'Jones said OM.'
'Os and
Qs not the first time.'
'I want to see that car.'
'Gilliam and Ike Sumich are on their way.'
'I'm on mine. Thanks, Paul.' She poked a cat out of the way, tossed the drink and nuked a cup of instant coffee, dressed quickly, told Clark the score. She kissed Tim. She remembered the CSI who was doing such good, thorough work the Wildcraft scene, Don Leitzel. So she called him and told him get on it double time. He said, 'I'm there,' and hung up. Twenty minutes later Merci came to the end of Sand Canyon Road, braking her Impala well outside the ring of white light cast by three big tripod floods. The floods were being run by a big generator that half deafened her as she got out of her car. It was so loud she could barely hear herself think, but the light was bright and true, and Zamorra came from light to darkness to greet her.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The STS was parked off the road, on a wide beach of dirt and loose gravel that separated the asphalt from the strawberry field. When Merci stepped out of her car she could smell the fruit. The roaring generator had been set up maybe twenty yards from the front end of the Caddy. One light tripod was positioned a solid ten yards away
