Dale Conley series Box Set 2 Read online

  The door at the back of the conference room swung open. Beau Lawton flew in, looking harried. He stepped to the cork board with the photos of the escapees, pointed a finger at the images, then looked at Dale and Yorke, his eyes moving back-and-forth between them, quickly, rapidly.

  “Which guy did you see? Who was Fair with?”

  Yorke answered. “We couldn’t see shit. The guy’s face was blocked. And the video was grainy.”

  Lawton breathed in, slowly exhaled, shoved his hands in his pockets. “You’re certain? We need something substantial, not this silly history research.”

  Dale answered, being sure to restrain his frustration with being called silly. “I only speculated that the guy Fair was with was one of the other escapees. It could be anyone.”

  Delacruz squashed his cigarette in an ashtray and faced Dale’s partner. “That’s one false start and one missed opportunity so far, Yorke. You have a covert history expert on your side now. Are you going to get some results at any point?”

  Yorke started to answer, but had little to say. “Sir… I…”

  Lawton took a step closer to Delacruz, and when he spoke, his tone was more mediating, less forceful than when he’d barged in. “Eliseo, Hanna is still my choice on this. And I trust her. Maybe we could talk outside?”

  Delacruz looked from Lawton to Yorke. His eyes stayed on Yorke for a moment then he stood up, and the two men walked off.

  Yorke watched them leave.

  “I’m up shit creek, Conley.”

  Dale pulled out a chair and sat beside her. He popped a grape in his mouth.

  “I can help. But I gotta do a little more ‘silly history research.’” He tapped the note on the table. “I have to talk to Britta Eaton.”

  He extended his plate toward her. She smiled, gave a small chuckle, and took a piece of pineapple.

  She chewed the fruit and stared forward for a moment, eyes glazed, before she spoke. “It was a year ago.”

  Dale sensed that she was finally going to open up. He knew that Yorke had made a dire mistake sometime in her recent past, but he also knew it was a delicate subject. So he hadn’t pressed her.

  He set his plate down, turned to her attentively.

  “A fugitive assignment. I misinterpreted a lead, went to get the guy. He wasn’t there. As I was trying to find him, he was on the other side of town, holding up a gas station. Things went south. He killed the clerk. And a customer.” She paused. “I really am a screwup.”

  Dale didn’t know what to say. Law enforcement was, in many ways, like any other profession. Mistakes happened. And the story she’d told was about as big of a mistake as one could imagine. But if he were to say it, if he were to tell her, Mistakes happen, he knew it would have little impact. And it would seem trite. So he didn’t say a word.

  Yorke bit her lip. “It’s my fault those two people died.”

  Now Dale had to say something. “No, it—”

  “Shut up, Conley.”

  Dale shut up.

  Yorke took another piece of pineapple from his plate, rolled it between her thumb and forefinger. “And now the only person who believes in me is Beau.”

  She gestured to the hall.

  “Were you two together when the incident happened?” Dale said.

  She shook her head. “We’d been broken up for a while by that point. Would have been nice to have his support. Especially since I’d been such a doting girlfriend during his fiasco with Kimble.”

  Dale grinned and tried to cut the tension a bit. “It’s hard to picture you as a ‘doting girlfriend.’”

  She shrugged. “Well, I was.”

  She leaned out of her seat and reached out to the nearest cork board, the one with the photos of the escapees. She untacked one of the photos, slid it toward Dale, and plopped back into her seat.

  Dale looked at the picture. A mug shot, black-and-white like the others on the board. The man was average-looking, in his thirties. His hair was a bit curly, ears a bit large. Both his nose and his cheeks were roundish. His eyes were desperate and confused.

  “Lee Kimble,” she said. “He was an assistant district attorney.”

  “Beau told me they were friends.”

  She nodded. “They started at the office together as young ADAs, climbed the ranks. Then there was the Red Riding Hood case.”

  “I remember this,” Dale said. “Some sort of pervert murderer.”

  “Right. Kid-killer. Little girls. Oldest was thirteen. Youngest, five. Liked to taunt the cops. Wore a bright red sweatshirt. The DA’s office was heavily involved—lots of suspects, lots of warrants. Then the cops got a tip. About Kimble. Found the sweatshirts in his apartment. And panties.”

  “Jesus…”

  “The DA at the time prosecuted, of course, since it was high-profile and involved someone from his office. So at least Beau didn’t have to prosecute his friend. But he was still really torn up about it.” She popped the piece of pineapple into her mouth and spoke with her mouth full. “And I was there for him. At least I didn’t screw that up.”

  Dale leaned closer. “Hey, Yorke.”

  She turned, swallowed her bite of pineapple.

  “You’re no screwup.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Felix ducked behind the billiards table just as another shot rang out from the man’s gun, smashing into the table’s slate with a crack.

  “You knocked over my goddamn pool table!” the saloonkeeper screamed, loud enough to be heard over the blaring alarm, as he moved toward Felix. “Do you know how much that cost?”

  He was a large, ponderous man in a bizarre, leotard-shaped, white shirt. His arms were exposed, as was the top of his chest, and all of this skin was covered in thick, black hair and sweat. His face was red with anger, eyebrows wrenched together, teeth grinding.

  The alarm bellowed incessantly. Horribly loud, making Felix’s ears ring.

  As Felix stole a glance over the top edge of the upturned table, he saw the strange handgun again. When the man had fired the first three shots upon him, missing, Felix had seen that the gun was squarish in shape with a shaft of metal on the top that slid back with each shot, ejecting cartridges. There was no cylinder evident on the gun.

  And the strangest part of it all was that before the man began to fire, Felix could have sworn he had first seen the gun as a regular revolver, its round cylinder visible on either side. Once the man fired the first shots—fast, quicker than Felix had ever seen anyone shoot—it was as though the gun changed in his hand.

  Nothing seems right, does it?

  Felix quickly glanced to the side. He’d heard a voice. It was the same voice that had yelled at him in the bank.

  Another shot roared, its sound blasting over the droning of the alarm. Felix covered his ears. Then footsteps. The saloonkeeper was moving toward him.

  There was another billiards table in front of Felix, and he darted for it. Just as he scrambled behind the leg, he glanced back and saw the saloonkeeper taking aim with the square gun.

  On instinct, Felix rolled.

  Three more shots.

  Bang, bang, bang.

  They struck the floorboards beside Felix, the final shot landing only inches from him. Splinters sprayed his hand, stung his skin.

  Felix had been counting. The man had fired seven times thus far. The revolver held seven shots. And had no cylinder. How very odd.

  Felix glanced back. The saloonkeeper was panting. He looked at his gun. The sliding, rectangular section on top was stuck back, exposing a couple inches of round barrel out of the front.

  “Shit!” the man said and threw the gun to the floor with a heavy thud.

  It must have jammed.

  The man darted to the bar at the front of the room. His large stomach jostled, and the floorboards squeaked beneath his girth.

  This gave Felix a chance. He clenched the sack tightly in his hand and bolted for the door. As he ran, he heard the voice again.

  This isn’t right.

>   There was no mistaking it now. The voice had come from his own head. Felix’s earlier estimation had been correct. His mind had been compromised by the stress of his mission. Once again, he feared he was slipping into mania.

  The door was in front of him. His escape. He clenched the sack of money tighter. He would have to abandon his plan of leaving his next message to Ruef. For now. He would come back at a later time.

  Just as he was nearly to the door, his path was intercepted. The saloonkeeper darted in front of him. In his hands was the item he had retrieved from the bar—a large, rounded piece of wood. He came toward Felix rapidly, a dark glint in his eyes.

  Felix backed away. There were small, round poker tables in the front area of the saloon, and Felix positioned himself such that one of those tables was between the two of them.

  The saloonkeeper charged at him, pulling the rounded shaft of wood behind his head, poised to swing it violently. Felix recognized the item now. It was a baseball bat, like those used by the San Francisco Seals. Like so many elements of San Francisco, the team has been affected by the earthquake. Their home—Recreation Park—had been destroyed. They were finishing their season in Oakland.

  The saloonkeeper looked Felix square in the eye. The man’s face was seething rage, and Felix could not say that he blamed him. After all, Felix was holding a sack full of the man’s money that he had nicked from the office space in the back, and one of the man’s billiards tables was now destroyed.

  “I’ll be famous,” the man said. “The guy who caught Jonathan Fair. They’ll give me a key to the city.”

  Jonathan Fair. The name sounded familiar to Felix, but he did not know why. He also could not comprehend why the man had so quickly assigned this false identity to him.

  The man swung the bat, and Felix jumped back, feeling the breeze as the heavy end flew past his chest. The saloonkeeper tried to come around the table at him. Felix kept moving, keeping the table between them.

  “Alfonsi told us,” the saloonkeeper shouted over the alarm. “Told us all that you might be coming.”

  Another strange name bandied so casually by man. Alfonsi. Felix had never known any Italians, let alone one by the name of Alfonsi.

  He was of half a mind to ask the saloonkeeper about the name, but then the man struck again. He pulled the bat behind his head and swung it down in a big arch. Felix jumped back, and the bat struck the table with a loud crash.

  When the man pulled the bat back again, this pause gave Felix the time he needed. He lifted one leg in the air and smashed his foot down on the edge of the table. This sent the opposite side of the table flying up, and it caught the saloonkeeper under the jaw. A sickening crack and a spurt of blood, and then the man collapsed.

  Felix felt something. His hands were shaking. He cautiously glanced around the table. The saloonkeeper lay in a mess on the floor. Chest moving. Unconscious but still alive.

  Felix could leave his message to Ruef after all. He went to the bar, retrieved his paint can and brush, and wrote his message.

  One last glance at the saloonkeeper then he left.

  Outside, the horseless carriage was waiting on him. It was a relief to have escaped the terrible alarm, but now the ringing in his ears sounded nearly as loud. The morning air was still a bit cool, and the city was beginning to come alive. People, horses, carriages. Felix opened the carriage door, entered, and without hesitation Jones quickly propelled the machine forward with surprising velocity.

  “Well?” Jones said.

  “It is done,” Felix said and raised the sack. “But I must say, Jones, that I am questioning your judgment on this. A man nearly killed me, and I cannot be certain that this was even one of Ruef’s corrupt establishments.”

  “There are going to be some close calls. We have to be prepared for it. And this place is definitely a front operation for Alfonsi… err, Ruef.”

  Felix turned in his seat. “There! There is that name again. Alfonsi. The saloonkeeper said it as well. Who is Alfonsi?”

  “No one. Just … no one important.”

  Felix evaluated the gentleman beside him. Something about his response did not sit well with him. Felix’s mission was the most important moment of his life, the crown jewel of his achievements, his legacy that would have a lasting, positive impact on humanity. And Jones had said that he could help. But as Felix looked at him now, he realized how little he knew about the man.

  He was even difficult to see. Not only did Jones rarely look him in the eye—which Felix found quite perplexing—but it was as though Felix simply could not register what the man looked like. His face was so plain that it was like an empty notepad onto which Felix’s mind refused to scribble in the details.

  Mania. It had to be. Felix was losing hold of his own constitution.

  “What is your name, Mr. Jones?”

  Jones looked over at him for a moment before turning his attention back to the street before them. “Come again?”

  “‘Come again,’” Felix repeated. “You see? What does that turn of phrase mean? So many odd things you say and do. Expressions that make no sense. A mysterious identity. I want to know your name, Mr. Jones. Your full name.”

  “Fine. It’s Tom. Tom Jones.” He snickered as he said it. “But my name’s not important. What’s important is that I’m here to help you, and together we’ll expose Abe Ruef’s cover-up.”

  Felix continued to assess the man beside him. He did not believe that his name was Tom. Not after he snickered.

  And Felix was starting to wonder if Jones really intended to help with the mission.

  Chapter Fourteen

  El Vacío strode through San Francisco International Airport, clutching the handles of his single piece of luggage. In his other hand was his walking cane. It tapped on the flooring.

  He needed to exit as quickly as possible, but he was keeping a casual pace. Nothing to draw attention. His career and his life depended upon anonymity, and airports were one of the least conducive locations. All the people. And the security. Including cameras. He wore sunglasses to shade his eyes and a turtleneck to hide the scar on his neck.

  Chances were, though, he’d already been seen. Not by a retired cop getting his minimum wage to frivol away life’s golden years for the sake of boredom-killing but rather by a spotter from one of the two families who ran this city: the Alfonsis and the Fairs.

  El Vacío had seen the man, watching him from a coffee shop, trying to be nonchalant as he ate a bagel and looked at a magazine.

  El Vacío knew that the Jonathan Fair job was going to be a challenge with the worldwide attention it had drawn. He hadn’t been on the ground for five minutes yet—and the fun was already beginning.

  A few minutes later, and El Vacío was on the road. A rental car. A Cordoba. By the time he was on 101, he had already spotted two cars trailing him. A Ford and a Fiat. His presence was already known in the city—both of them would have called in from the airport. El Vacío would need to make a statement. But, which one to kill?

  Decisions, decisions.

  Sadly enough, though, he knew the choice wasn’t going to be his. The winner would be the one who chose to take the bait he would provide. There was no chance that both of them would. They wouldn’t cross each other. It would be a test of wills.

  El Vacío exited the highway, entering a small community within South San Francisco. A couple freeway gas stations. Some businesses, three- and four-story buildings.

  He looked to the rearview. The Ford came down the exit ramp. A few cars back, the Fiat followed.

  El Vacío cruised along for a moment—then he gunned it. He would give them the impression that they were on the hunt.

  Another check of the rearview. The Ford was following. The Fiat slowed and turned off, diplomatically yielding.

  The Irish, then.

  The stoplight ahead turned yellow, and the car in front of El Vacío began to brake. He jabbed the Cordoba’s horn and flew around the car and through the light. There was the bla
ring of other car horns behind him. The Ford had run the red light. And it was coming right after him.

  El Vacío smashed the accelerator. He saw an opening ahead, an alley. He pulled hard to the left and into the alley.

  It terminated at the back side of another building. But there was another alley to his right, a small slice of daylight between two brick buildings. He pulled the steering wheel again. The tires squealed, and the rear bumper clipped the wall with a crunch that sent out a burst of sparks.

  He threw the gear selector into reverse, kept his foot on the brake, and watched the rearview mirror. Waited.

  The Ford slowly crept by, noticing him just as it passed his side alley.

  Too late.

  El Vacío smashed the gas pedal, and the Cordoba roared backward, smashing into the Ford. He braced for the impact, tightening his whole body, stiffening his neck against whiplash.

  When the force had finished shivering through his body, the Ford lay parallel to the driver side of his car. The Cordoba spanned the alley, blocking it off.

  One quick breath to clear his thoughts. He looked at his walking cane, sitting on the passenger seat. He considered it for half a second, then decided against it. He wasn’t going to need that weapon. Not with these buffoons. He’d improvise. He took the keys from the ignition and stepped out of the car.

  He walked to the rear of the car. The already banged-up bumper was now completely smashed. The rear quarter panels were damaged as well.

  Good thing he bought that extra coverage.

  There was noise from the other car. Both the driver and passenger side doors opened. The driver hopped out, face red with anger, but clearly trying to restrain himself—he knew who he was facing. The man in the passenger side was slower to get out. He grimaced in pain and clutched his right shoulder. Both of them were large, hulking. Stupid looking. Wearing suits that were dated and tacky.