with a pencil—“a Tess Chaykin?” He gestured over to the gate post from which he had only just removed the number and gave her an apologetic wince. “No number visible.”
The woman gave her pearls a small, anxious tug. Clearly, the thought of anyone on her street being in contravention of town laws was somewhat troubling.
Perrini had to suppress his smirk.
“We’ve already written to Miss Chaykin regarding this matter, but so far we haven’t heard back. Now, we don’t like to fine people unless we absolutely have to. Maybe Miss Chaykin is away for the summer and there’s no one to check her mail?”
The woman nodded. “She’s out of town. But her boyfriend’s here,” she added, with a pointed little grimace of disapproval to go with
Guerra had told Perrini that Sean Reilly was in San Diego, so no surprise there.
“Is there any way you could reach her?” said Perrini, in such a way as not to suggest the slightest note of aggression. “I can hold off on the fine, but I can’t do it forever.”
“Well, I’m not sure I can,” she said, apologetically. “She’s in Arizona with her daughter. They’re out at her aunt’s place. Can’t it wait till she gets back? I think she’s only there for a couple of weeks.”
And with that Perrini had got exactly what he’d come for, so he decided to ease off and leave the Town of Mamaroneck’s laws where he’d found them. He held up the pencil, then wrote a meaningless scribble on the top sheet of the clipboard. “I think I can hold off till then. I’ll make a note to come around again in a couple of weeks. Thank you so much for your time.”
The woman smiled at him and retreated into her house.
Perrini went back to his car and called Guerra’s secure line from his own cell phone. He knew Guerra wouldn’t answer unless the Mexican fixer’s firewall could identify exactly who was calling and authorize the call.
Guerra picked up immediately.
“Did you find her?”
Guerra’s military-like bluntness always grated on Perrini, though he knew that the man had at one point been a full colonel in the Mexican army, before he had retired under something of a cloud.
“She’s not here. She’s in Arizona, at her aunt’s place.”
Guerra paused for a second, then he said, “I need confirmation that she’s there. Call me when you have it.” Then the line went dead.
Perrini had to admire Guerra’s brutal efficiency, if nothing else.
He pulled out of the side street and headed back to the city. As he turned onto the thruway, he called Lina Dawetta, a clerk at the Ninth Precinct with whom he had his own brutally effective relationship. She did whatever he asked her to, in order for him not to report her cocaine habit to her boss—a habit he had done everything to encourage and now fed.
He knew she wouldn’t cross him. The last person to do that had been dragged out of the East River with half a face. And that backstabbing scumbag had been a cop.
“I need something,” he told her, before telling her what it was and agreeing on a time and place to meet.
33
By midday, we were firing on all cylinders.
The three of us were still at the police station in La Mesa, finishing up our interviews with the prospects. Villaverde had as many bodies as he could muster out at the bureau’s office working on tracking down Pennebaker. Munro was doing the same with his people in LA. ATF was also in on the act, which was where I was putting my money, but the breakthrough I was waiting for was playing hard to get.
The prospects didn’t have much to say. In more mundane circumstances, that wouldn’t have surprised me. Biker clubs prized loyalty and commitment more than anything. In outlaw gangs, it was like a blood oath. Patch holders did not discuss club business with anyone outside the club, ever. So, normally, I would have put the prospects’ lack of chattiness down to them seeing it as an opportunity to showcase their worthiness to the club they were trying to join, but in this case, there was no club. Not anymore. Everyone in its mother chapter had been wiped out. So I didn’t see why the prospects would still want to protect their sponsors, given that they were all dead. Which told me that what they were telling us was the truth. Walker and his crew knew how to keep things quiet.
None of the local missing persons reports coming in threw up anyone whose profile matched the previous kidnap victims—scientists, chemists, pharmacologists. We were spreading the net up to San Francisco and beyond, across the whole state, but so far, nothing.
We did get one lead, though. Nothing major, but it was something.
It was from the squad car of the deputy who’d gone to pick up Soulpatch/Scrape from the grotto.
These days, more and more squad cars were being equipped with in-car video cameras. It made sense on a whole bunch of levels. Drunk drivers overwhelmingly pleaded no contest when told they were being filmed, resulting in less paperwork and court time. Municipal bean counters loved them—the cameras, not the drunk drivers—since they helped cut down on the tens of millions of dollars paid out in lawsuits on unsubstantiated claims that couldn’t be effectively thrown out without the video records. They were also a great boon in proving probable cause for vehicle searches and seizures, resulting in more confiscated drug money. And cops loved the fact that hardheads were far more reluctant to throw punches at them or even turn belligerent while on camera.
Unfortunately, the cameras didn’t stop the thugs who came after Scrape.
They did, however, allow us a glimpse into what had happened, despite the fact that the shooters had thought of pulling out the rewritable DVD from the overhead-mounted console inside the car. What they didn’t know was that the video system in Fugate’s patrol car also included an integrated hard drive that not only backed up anything that was on the DVD, it also added ten minutes of pre- and post-event footage to it.
It was all there for us, downloaded, cued up, and ready for viewing in high-res color.
We started with the footage from the front-facing camera. It was brief, but intense. The deputy’s car is heading toward the gate of the warehouse. No one else is around. Then a big black SUV, a Chevy Tahoe, turns into the complex and just charges at the squad car. We barely get a glimpse of it as the deputy curses and swerves to avoid it, and the camera angle swings away—then the picture rocks wildly and spins around as the SUV rams the deputy’s car and sends it sliding into a ditch.
Fugate curses again, but from that point on, the footage from the front view camera is useless. Nothing is going on in front of the stalled car. But that’s when the backseat camera comes into play.
The footage from it was far more disturbing.
It starts with Scrape, sliding across the seat, his hand pressed against his shoulder, muttering “Easy” and wincing with pain as he settles back. He doesn’t look great. Then the car drives off and he’s bouncing around back there—then his face goes wild with alarm, the SUV plows into them, and he’s thrown around like a puppet before he pitches forward and slams straight into the impact-resistant glass partition as the car hits the ditch and comes to a standstill.
And that’s when the footage got real bad.
With Scrape looking on, his face tight with terror, a gunshot rips through our ears and a splatter of blood hits the partition as, off camera, the deputy is shot through the head at point-blank range. Then Scrape starts to scream as he frantically squeezes as far away from the door as he can while a figure—unclear at this point—reaches in to drag him out. We hear the scuffle and the banging of Scrape’s boots against the partition and we see the dark figure’s gloved hands latching onto the yelling and screaming biker before yanking him out of the car by his legs. Then the image stays fixated on the ghostly backseat while in the background, faint but audible, some car doors slam shut and the Tahoe screeches off.
After a moment of stunned silence, I said, “Let’s see that again. The part where the shooter goes for Scrape.”
