Silent Joe (25 page)

He walked past me and into the Transportation Authority maintenance yard headquarters. It was Monday morning. It had taken me an hour to from my house in Orange to the TA yard in Irvine—a distance of al fifteen miles. My ankle was stiff from working the Mustang's clutch.

I followed Pritchard, stood behind him while he slipped a timecard an electronic clock, then into a slotted holder on the wall.

"It might be better if we found a quiet place," I said.

"Let me get some coffee."

Pritchard fished out some change and fed it into a machine in the corner. The coffee steamed up in front of his face as he took a sip. He thick, baby-faced, blue-eyed. My age, maybe younger. His fingers were stained black from his work. His OCTA shirt was clean and his boots looked new.

"What's this about? You're a deputy, right?"

"Yes. Maybe we could go outside."

He looked at me hard, then led the way into the maintenance yard. The big OCTA buses were grouped along one side. The white TA Enforcement Impalas that Will detested so much were parked on another. There were shuttle vans the county used for short bus routes; emergency SUV’s; a fleet of sheriff's department cruisers; another fleet of unmarked county sedans; a dozen new Kawasaki 1200s motorcycles.

There were three big, high bays. I watched an electric door roll up. More vehicles in there. The mechanics were already throwing open engine compartments and raising hoods.

"You do it all," I said.

"Yep. All the county stuff—sheriff's, TA, all the buses and emergency vehicles. Anything that rolls. We don't do the fire trucks or the Jeeps the lifeguards use. Separate garage and mechanics for those. Sanitation does its own thing, too."

"How about the supervisors' lease cars?"

"Sure. There's only, what, seven of them?"

"That's right. My dad drove a black BMW. One of the big seven series."

"I remember it. Sorry, what happened and all."

"Thank you."

Del Pritchard sipped his coffee again, looked out toward the OCTA buses. "So, what do you want?"

"I want to know who told you to put the homing transmitter on my father's car. Undercarriage, right side, down between the chassis and the body molding. It has your fingerprints on it."

His face went red. "You need to talk to my supervisor. I just do what they tell me, you know?"

"We can leave him out of this if you tell me who gave the order."

He glanced out to the yard, then back at me. "I don't know anything about a transmitter. Nothing at all. Everything here is by the rules."

"Then take me to your boss."

"Come on. "The maintenance yard supervisor was Frank Beals. Pritchard said they had a problem and Beals excused him, then took me into his office and shut the door. Beals hadn't heard anything about a transmitter. He called the TA maintenance department manager, Soessner, who lumbered into office about thirty seconds later. He didn't know what I was talking about either, said they fix cars, not bug them. He told me to come with him.

Soessner took me to the office of the Transportation Authority technical director, Adamson.

Adamson, a suit-and-tie man, heard me out.

"Is this part of an official investigation?"

"Yes," I said.

"I thought homicide detail would do that."

"I'm working with Birch."

"Rick's a good guy."

I waited.

Adamson made a call on his cell phone. "Carl, we got a deputy he Joe Trona, asking about a transmitter on a supervisor's car. He says transmitter had one of our guys' prints on it. Pritchard."

Adamson listened and nodded, then punched off.

"Rupaski says you're having lunch today at the Grove. He told me tell you he'd clear it all up then."

I got to the Grove a few minutes early. The guard at the first gate took my name and plate numbers, the name of the member I was going to meet, slipped a card under the left windshield wiper, then let me in.

The road wound back into the hills. They were tan by now, would green up until the first rain—probably November, maybe later. The air was warm and still. Through the dense trees I could see purple bougainvilla shivering against the stucco of the hacienda-style buildings. I parked in shade.

An off-duty deputy working the entrance recognized me, made the call inside, then opened the door. I took off my hat and stepped inside to smell of food, the hushed clink of dishes, soft music and low voices.

The maitre d' smiled and crossed my name off a list. "Mr. Rupask booth is this way, Mr. Trona.

"We passed through the main dining room and took the stairs up to lounge. I looked at the burnished redwood floor, the rough-hewn wooden chandeliers hung by chain from the high ceiling, the billiards table where I'd listened in on Will and the Reverend Daniel. I recognized Rupaski's driver—Travis—sitting alone at the bar, chewing something. He nodded at me.

Rupaski's booth was in a far corner. He stood and shook my hand, motioned me to sit. The maitre d' started to draw the privacy curtain but Rupaski stopped him.

"No need for that, Erik. We've got nothing to hide in this booth. For once."

He laughed and Erik laughed. "But bring me a Partagas Churchill and a Glenfiddich in a water glass. “Joe, smokes or drinks?"

"Lemonade, please."

Rupaski was a big man, seventy maybe, with a high forehead, bald on top with long gray hair combed back on the sides. The hair made a little ducktail flip in the back. His eyes were dark brown and set deep in his face. Thick brows. Black suit and a white shirt, no tie. The jacket was too small for his barrel chest and he looked uncomfortable in it. His hands were thick and rough, his fingers blunt. He was a Chicagoan hired away from that city ten years ago. He grew up poor there, was known to be street tough and able to get his way in a backroom deal. A good boss and a crafty bureaucrat.

"Don't sweat the bug in the Beemer," he said. "Will asked me to put one on so I put one on. Simple as that."

"Sir, it doesn't sound that simple to me."

He raised a bushy eyebrow, smiled. His teeth were big and crowded. "I'll tell you exactly what he told me. He said Mary Ann was keeping some strange dates, late at night. Usually she drove her own car. Sometimes she drove his. He wanted to follow her at a discreet distance. 'Discreet distance.' Those were his words. So I had Pritchard do Will's car one morning out in the maintenance yard. And I gave Will a transmitter to put on Mary Ann's. Something with adhesive he could just stick right on."

It almost played. I knew Mary Ann liked to drive the sleek new lease car. A couple of times, out on our night business, we'd use Mary Ann's Jeep because she wanted the sedan. And she'd told me she liked to drive sometimes, late, going nowhere fast. But Will had never said anything about her going out. If he was worried, why didn't he tell me? And never seen a radio receiver in Will's possession—not in the car, not in briefcase, nowhere. Most of all, Will and Rupaski were enemies. ^Why trust an enemy with something like that? Why not have your son, driver, bodyguard and gopher do the job?

"I understand now," I said.

"Good. Hey, smokes and spirits."

A waiter in a tuxedo set down a big glass ashtray with a cutter, wooden matches and a thick cigar in it. Then a simple water glass with golden liquid in the bottom fourth. And my lemonade.

"The special today is poached Chilean sea bass in a cilantro sauce, served with endive salad and garlic-mushroom couscous."

"Steak, mashed potatoes and a salad with Thousand Island for me,'' said Rupaski. "That would be a T-bone, rare. Get the same for Joe, here. He's a growing boy."

"May I cut and light your cigar, sir?"

"Yeah."

"Slot cut or straight, sir?"

"Goddamned straight cut, Kenny. We go through this every time."

"Yes, sir. Of course."

When Kenny was done cutting the cigar, Rupaski stuck it in his mouth and aimed it up while the waiter torched it with a surprisingly powerful butane lighter. The smoke came out thick and powerful, rising in a lazy; cloud toward the ceiling. Kenny bowed and turned away. Rupaski held the cigar.

"Some guys say they draw better without the band." His voice was thick, like there was a blanket over him. "I say that's bullshit."

He inhaled again, blew another cloud. "Best thing about a private club is you can do what you want. Here in California, Joe, we've got teenagers carrying guns to school, but you can't smoke a cigar in a bar. Something's wrong when individual rights get smaller and the crimes get bigger."

We watched an elegantly dressed young woman descend the staircase from the third-level conference rooms. Alone, walking briskly, a small purse in one hand, which she held slightly out, for balance, as she came down the steps. Red hair past her shoulders, green satiny dress. I heard her shoes on the wood.

"Yes, sir, individual rights. You met Will and Dana Millbrae for lunch here the day before he died. Can you tell me what you talked about?"

He took his gaze off the woman and put it on me. He chuckled. He sipped his Scotch and took another puff of his cigar. "You're direct. I like that. Sure, we talked about the county buying the toll roads and building the new airport. Will was against both of them, as I'm sure you know. We were just trying to make him see the light."

"What light was that, sir?"

"Just logic and good common sense. You see, the toll roads can turn a profit if the TA can run them. A big profit, over the years. It's a sound investment for the county, if you take the long view. But your father didn't want to see that. He wanted the private consortium to keep taking a shellacking on the things. I'll tell you something—private roads won't work in the West. Too much land to cover. The sooner the county can get control of them, the better. I think Will knew that. But it pissed him off to spend public money to bail out private enterprise. Same thing with the new airport. We'll need one someday, and that day is coming. We were trying to get Will to come over, throw his vote and his influence behind us. It's a free election in November, but we needed Will to get his first district going our way."

Rupaski coughed, looked at the cigar, set it in the ashtray. "I'm sorry, Joe. I'm goddamned sorry about what happened. Will and I agreed on nothing. But I loved him. He was a good man and a good enemy and I respected him. How's Mary Ann holding up?"

"Holding up well, sir, considering."

He nodded. "Where was she going, so late at night, not telling her own husband?"

"She liked to drive."

Rupaski shook his head and grunted. Then he took another drink, swirled the liquid, set down the glass. "I didn't invite you here to talk about politics. Or your family. I invited you here to offer you a job."

"I've got one, sir."

"Hear me out. Double your salary, which will bring you in at about sixty-five a year to start. Mostly nights, so your days can be free to finish up college, sleep late, bang some women, whatever you want. You give up your Sheriff's badge and get a Transportation Authority shield. That puts you with me and I'm a good man to work for. It gets you a new county drive-home car—those big Impalas with the V-8s, side spotlights and short-wave radios. Gets you a concealed carry permit for your weapon gives you power within TA jurisdiction, which is big and getting bigger--- the Transit Department, the Highway and Roads Administration, the Airport Authority. Lots to do. It puts you in line for some fantastic benefits, better than sheriff's by far."

"What would I do?"

"You'd be doing for me what you did for Will. Joe, I worry. People are crazy these days. Look what happened to Will. A man of his quality and his standing. You took out two of those bastards before they got him. I want somebody who can do that. I want somebody just a little scary. Son, that's you."

I looked at him but said nothing. Everyone wants someone scary, do what they are afraid of, go to the dark places, get their hands dirty. Will trained me to do that. I understood it while he was making me and I understand it now.

"My scariness didn't save Will's life, sir."

He stopped his glass in front of his mouth. "You don't blame yours for that, do you?"

"I just look at the facts as they are."

"You're valuable, Joe. Everybody wishes they had someone like you. You've got manners and brains and guts. You've got style—like what you did with those guys shadowing Chrissa Sands. I really liked that. You some celebrity. You got a face that everybody knows. You've got the respect of people for handling your problems in a good way, for going with your life when some people would just stay home in the dark all day. You learned a lot from Will, and he was great. I know you know things. But let me show you what I know. Joe, with your years as a deputy, an few more with the TA, you can go anywhere you want in the county. You'd have depth and contacts and an inside view of how things work. I can see you as a supervisor someday. Or head of the TA, if you liked it. Or even the State Assembly or the House. You've got star quality, Joe. I can use you and I can help you."