First Offense (27 page)

The man in handcuffs sneered. “Fuck you, asshole.”

“You wish,” Whittaker retorted, turning and shaking his ample ass at him. “Wait till you get to the joint, buddy. They’ll be plenty to fuck you there. They’ll just love your pretty little tight ass.” Whittaker looked over and pursed his lips, making kissing sounds at his prisoner.

Reed shook his head and smiled. Old Phil hadn’t lost his touch. “How did you peg him for Santa Barbara?”

“You know, did some legwork, made some calls, asked a few favors from some friends. I didn’t want to mention anything until I had him in custody. Thought I’d surprise you. Seems they had a pretty clean campus up there, no problems with anything heavier than a little pot. Then along comes Jones over here, and suddenly they got a big drug problem on campus.”

“How did you know it was Wilkinson?” Reed asked, keeping his voice low so the prisoner couldn’t hear.

“Snitch,” Whittaker tossed out and then started coughing. “Paid him out of my own pocket. Reed.”

Reed was already walking back toward Wilkinson. The boy was over six feet tall, well-built and fairly clean-cut when stacked up against Sawyer and his long hair. He must be the outside man. Reed thought, the dispenser in their drug operation. Therefore he had to look the part—like a college man. His hair was a honey color and his eyes were hazel. Wearing a blue button-down shirt and a pressed pair of slacks, he looked good enough to walk right into a courtroom. “Did you test him? Is he loaded?”

“Yeah, I tested him. The guy filled two cups, but he’s not on anything. Go figure.”

Reed opened his desk drawer and removed his tape recorder, preparing to take his suspect to an interview room and grill him about Jimmy Sawyer. This was the type of opportunity he loved. Brett was in deep trouble, looking at a felony possession for sale. And he wouldn’t fare as well in court as his cohort Sawyer. Reed knew he had a prior arrest for selling narcotics. The clean-cut preppie standing there in handcuffs was staring at a prison sentence. Reed popped his knuckles and smiled. The setup was perfect.

“Okay, Brett,” he said, “you and I have to get to know each other, have a nice long talk.” Grabbing the man from behind by the handcuffs, Reed started pushing him across the floor.

“Thank you, Phil,” Whittaker said, his legs tossed up on his desk, a wad of tissue clutched in his hand. “I appreciate your hard work there, Phil. Especially when you’re sick, Phil.”

Reed looked over and smiled at the detective. “You did good, buddy. Thanks.”

“‘Bout time,” Whittaker said. “Now I can fucking die, huh? Do I have your permission?”

Reed beamed, overjoyed with Wilkinson’s arrest. His right shoulder started twitching and he was grinning like a Cheshire cat. “Well, there’s still Sawyer and Chen, Phil. I gave the radio room the right vehicles this time, so picking up Chen should be a piece of cake for a guy as slick as you. We need all the players. Kind of know what I mean?”

Whittaker pushed himself to his feet and grabbed his jacket. “I hate you. Reed,” he said, heading for the door. “I mean it, and I don’t just consider you an inconsiderate prick, if that’s what you’re thinking. I really hate you. Got it? Hate you. Hate you.”

As Whittaker shuffled back down the hall, still mumbling under his breath like a lunatic, Wilkinson spat, “I hate you too, asshole.”

“Oh, really?” Reed said, seeing red. With a cruel shove he twisted the boy’s hands toward his body, causing him to cry out in pain.

“Shit, you’re hurting me.”

“One false move,” the detective snarled, “and I’ll teach you the real meaning of pain. Bad things have been happening, Brett baby, and someone’s gonna pay.”

Ann crossed the courtyard to the jail, her mind so abstracted by the shock of Hank’s call that she couldn’t think straight.

She just couldn’t imagine it. Claudette was right. If Hank was alive, he’d call back, manage to get to her some way. And even though the voice had sounded exactly like Hank, something about it just wasn’t right. Ann couldn’t put her finger on it. She was too shook up now, but eventually that something would come to her.

Like a robot she tossed her badge into the bin and waited for the jailer to buzz her through the security doors. “You wanted a face-to-face, right?” he asked as they walked through a maze of corridors.

Ann heard her own footsteps on the floor, heard the men talking in the cells, but the noises seemed remote. All she could hear was her husband’s voice. Had she already forgotten the sound of the man on the phone? Was she bringing forth Hank’s real voice now when she thought of the call?

“I take it that means yes,” the jailer said, unlocking a door to a small interview room. As soon as Ann stepped inside, he went to get Randy Delvecchio.

Ann had her head down on the table when Delvecchio stepped into the room. “Are you sick?” he said softly.

“No, no,” Ann said, straightening up in her chair. “What did you want to see me about?” Suddenly she remembered the trial. Glen had thought they would have a verdict by now.

Randy Delvecchio shuffled over and took a seat. “I called you ‘cause I thought you’d help me.”

Right, Ann said to herself. She couldn’t help herself, much less a vicious criminal like Delvecchio. What she wanted to do was nail him to the wall and watch him bleed. “How can I help you? I’m only a probation officer. Randy.”

Reaching into the pocket of his jumpsuit, he pulled out an envelope and placed it on the table. “This proves I didn’t hurt those women.”

Ann fingered the envelope dubiously, wanting to toss it back in his face. She’d come anticipating a confession, not another proclamation of innocence. “What is this?”

Delvecchio rubbed his palms on his jumpsuit nervously and then placed them on the table. “They sent it to my mother, see. I told them when they arrested me that I was working the day that one woman was raped, but they didn’t believe me. This here is the proof.”

Proof, Ann thought, wondering what the hell he was talking about. What kind of proof could he possibly have to support his innocence? She eyed the contents of the envelope. The first paper she pulled out was a statement of earnings, listing his federal and state income taxes. The name of the company on the 1099 form was Video Vendors. Ann set that paper aside and examined the other papers. In a big sloppy scrawl, Randy’s mother had written to the company four months ago asking them to verify his hours. The address listed on the letter was a post office box. The next paper was an employee time sheet showing the hours Delvecchio had worked for the company during the past year. “This wasn’t a full-time job,” Ann said. “It says here you only worked eighty-three hours all year.”

Delvecchio said earnestly, “See, the people at the unemployment office send me out on jobs. If I don’t go, I don’t get my unemployment benefits. This company I found myself, and they gave me some hours.”

“That’s all well and good. Randy,” Ann said, folding up the papers to give back to him, “but I don’t think it proves your innocence. There were three crimes here. Are you saying you were working at the time of all three crimes?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head, his dark eyes flashing, “I’m saying I was working the day that Estelle woman was hurt. The other days I don’t know where I was, but I know where I was that day, and that there is the proof.”

“I’ll check it out,” Ann said, standing and ringing for the buzzer, wishing she’d never wasted her time by coming over here.

“Aren’t you gonna take the papers?” Delvecchio said, picking them up and extending them to her, a pathetic look on his face. “Please help me. I don’t want to go to prison. The other inmates say they’re gonna charge me with murder now that the lady died. I didn’t do these things. Can’t someone help me?”

Ann fell back against the door and regarded him warily. The chances of Delvecchio’s being innocent were a million to one. The public thought innocent people were convicted all the time, but it just wasn’t true. It was hard enough to get a guilty person convicted, let alone an innocent one.

His eyes were so big and pleading, so full of need, that Ann suddenly felt compassion for him, as a mother would. She reached out and accepted the envelope from his hands before she even fully realized she had done so. “I’ll see what I can do.”

When Brett Wilkinson was situated in an interview room. Reed started the tape recorder whirring. “My attorney is on the way,” Brett said, nodding at the recorder.

“Oh, really?” Reed said calmly. He should have known Wilkinson would have legal representation right from the starting gate. That meant anything even vaguely resembling a confession would have to be obtained in the next few minutes. “Well, you and I can talk or we can wait for your attorney. That’s up to you, Brett,”

The young man’s eyes flashed with fear and indecision. He looked around the room, but he didn’t speak.

Reed sensed the boy’s fear and adjusted tactics accordingly. With a strong suspect, his method was to befriend him and catch him off guard. But when the suspect was afraid, he went the opposite direction, feeding into their fear. “You’re facing a prison term here,” he said sharply. “Your attorney isn’t the one who’ll be riding that bus to the joint.”

Brett’s face was ashen. “But if I talk, I’ll go to jail for sure.”

“Jail?” Reed said, laughing. “You’re worried about jail? Wait until you get to the big house.” He cut his eyes to the boy. “You know, you might just make it in the joint. You’re willing to put out, aren’t you, become some hairy con’s lady?”

“You shut up,” Brett yelled, beads of perspiration popping out on his forehead. “They’d have to kill me. I won’t fuck a guy. I’m not a faggot.”

This rich boy was going to crack, Reed thought, smiling. “You will, Brett. You’ve got that look, you know. I’ve seen it dozens of times. You could even take a shine to it. Hey, don’t knock something you haven’t tried.” This time he threw back his head and emitted an even louder burst of laughter.

Brett was fidgeting in his seat, trying to free his hands from the handcuffs. “Let me out of these things. I’m claustrophobic, man.”

“What?” Reed said, still laughing. “You don’t like confinement? How you going to survive in the joint if you’re claustrophobic?”

Sweat was streaming down the boy’s face now, his chest and armpits starting to show stains. Somehow he’d managed to get his hands up over the back of the chair and then ended up with the handcuffs on the other side, stretching the muscles in his arms to the limit. “Help me, please,” he cried.

Reed stood and walked behind him, watching as the boy tried to crane his neck around to see him. With one fluid motion Reed kicked the chair legs, and the chair tumbled over backward, crashing onto Wilkinson’s hands. “I’m so sorry, Brett,” Reed said. “That was an accident. Here, let me help you.” Bending down, he yanked Brett up by his shirt, the chair with him.

“I’ll talk,” Brett said, crying. “Please, just take the handcuffs off.”

Reed sprang to life, unlocking the handcuffs and shoving them in his back pocket. Brett rubbed his wrists, a wave of relief passing over his face.

“Okay, let’s talk about Jimmy Sawyer,” Reed said, quickly taking his seat.

Brett wiped his sweaty face with his shirttail. “What about him?”

Reed was in no mood for games. “He’s a bad actor, a real bad actor. We have no idea what all he’s involved in. I bet you don’t either…not all of it, anyway.” Reed paused, forcing himself to slow down. If he seemed too eager, Brett would clam up. “See, I just don’t want you paying for his crimes, and that’s exactly what’s going to happen here. Sawyer’s going to spill his guts to save his own neck, then he’s going to walk and you’re down for the fall.”

“What’re you talking about?”

Reed gritted his teeth and popped his knuckles. “First one to cut a deal, Brett. That’s how it goes down.”

The boy sensed an advantage. “Are you offering me a deal?”

“No,” Reed said. “I’m not offering you anything. Only the district attorney can negotiate a plea agreement. But who do you think puts the pressure on them to do a thing like that?”

“You,” Brett said, studying the detective’s face.

Reed smiled warmly. Now was the time to win him over. “You’re a smart boy, Brett, even if you don’t know how to pick your friends. Now, we know you were running a drug operation from that house. From the price of the cars you guys were driving, it was a pretty big one.”

Brett shrugged this off, his confidence returning.

“What cars? I wasn’t even driving a car today. Ask that asshole who arrested me.”

Reed leaned back in his chair, irritated. If Brett had been arrested in his BMW with a stash of narcotics, the car could have been legally seized as the profit of drug trafficking. These boys knew too much about the system for kids not long out of high school. When they made a play for girls, they drove their flashy cars, but when they dealt drugs, they knew enough to maintain a low profile.

“I got you on the car, Brett,” Reed said, looking him straight in the eye. “Those cars were purchased in one day, and all three were bought with cash. Not many honest people walking around with over a hundred grand in their pocket, all green. So let’s not fence about that. That’s something we know for sure, Brett. In fact, I’m not even going to ask you a lot of questions about that lab. All I want to know is the name of the chemist. Is it Peter Chen?”

Brett hesitated, knowing he was at the crossroads. Once he rolled over on his own, there would be no turning back. But his friends weren’t sitting here with this hard-nosed detective hammering away at them. If they were in his shoes, he thought, they’d give him up in a second. “Yes,” he said, his voice low. “It was Peter.”

Reed moved the tape recorder closer. “Say it again, Brett.”

“It was Peter,” he said, his voice louder.

“Okay,” Reed said, “that’s a start. Keep going.”

“It’s just all so messed up. I don’t know where to start.” The tough veneer had vanished. He looked as if he was about to cry. “There are awful people out there….Things got so fucked up. My parents are going to die. My father has a heart condition.”

“Okay,” Reed said, unable to tell if Brett’s emotion was real or simply staged for his behalf. “Where did you move the lab?”