On the coffee table were two digital recorders. Beside it was a small video camera on a black tripod.
Hood sat on a floral rattan sofa and looked through the window to the warm, hazy sky. He was exhausted by his own betrayals.
One of the scruffy cops turned on the voice recorders and the lawyer fixed the camera on Hood then in a strong clear voice established the place and time and players.
“Deputy Hood, tell us about Wyte,” he said cheerfully.
44
Two days later Hood again let himself into the Valley Center barn. Bradley was due in half an hour. He had agreed to be on time for what Hood promised would be an important meeting.
Hood got the stepladder and slid open the bathroom attic hatch, careful not to tear up the insulation.
When he turned on the light, he saw that the blanket was thrown to the floor and everything was gone. Everything gone but the blanket and the table.
He climbed back down and settled the access cover into place and took the ladder back where it belonged.
Outside in the barnyard he looked out at the massive old oak tree and the pond and the dirt road that separated the property from Betty Little Chief’s.
He sat on a bench in the shade of the barn and tried to figure out what would happen next, knowing he had little say in it now.
Then up the dirt road came Bradley’s green 1970 Cyclone GT, slowly but thunderously, the dust rising behind the fat back tires and the Glasspaks spitting up dirt. It made a deliberate turn at the pond, and Hood heard the snarl of the 351 Cleveland in first.
Behind it was a low-slung Honda Accord, and behind the Honda was a cobalt blue Mitsubishi Lancer, and behind that was an old red-and-white two-tone F-150 agleam within the swirling dust.
The Cyclone rumbled along and came to a stop twenty feet from Hood. Bradley was at the wheel and the back-seats were piled high with luggage and boxes. The other cars idled in a loose line behind the Cyclone, exhaust stirring the road dust. Two of the other drivers were young men, genuinely tough-looking. Hood couldn’t see much of the truck driver.
The driver’s-side window went down, and Bradley looked at Hood from behind dark sunglasses.
“Looks like you’re moving out, Bradley.”
“That’s because I am.”
“You going to just drop everything, or finish up school and sports?”
“More or less.”
“Where you going?”
Bradley shook his head. “Places.”
“Take off those glasses, Bradley.”
Bradley hesitated then pushed his sunglasses up into his long black hair. “I knew you’d been up there. You didn’t put the insulation back right. Sorry I had to spoil your surprise.”
“I thought you might do this. I don’t know what your mother wanted for you, but I’ve thought about it a lot. I decided the right thing was to tell you, show you those things in the attic, let you take it from there.”
“She tried to tell me a couple of times. She never quite got the words out. But really, how hard was it to find that stuff? I had years.”
Hood looked back at the other cars then at Bradley again. These guys looked too young to be outlaws, but he knew they weren’t too young.
“The trouble is, you’ll get shot down and you’ll be dead forever,” he said. “It happened to Joaquin and Suzanne and it’ll happen to you.”
“Do you feel obligated to say that?”
“Only because it’s true.”
“Well, Hood, thanks for the counsel.”
“You can do better, Bradley. The whole world is out there. You can be whatever you want.”
“I’m already what I want.”
Hood didn’t answer. The driver in the Honda gunned his engine, then the Lancer and the pickup truck followed suit. Bradley answered with some throttle of his own, checking his buddies in his sideview mirror.
“It’s a waste of your life and you’ll regret it.”
“I like you, Hood, but you old guys don’t know shit.”
“Are you going track down Kick?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“Don’t try it in my jurisdiction.”
Bradley lowered his sunglasses. Then he reached into the passenger’s seat and brushed aside a leather jacket and lifted the jar containing Joaquin’s head. For a moment he held it up in front of his face. The head shifted slowly and the hair lilted and the surface vibrated with the car engine. Then Bradley put it back on the seat and covered it with the jacket. He looked at Hood and nodded and gunned the engine.
Then the Cyclone trundled around the oak tree, spit some dirt and rocks against the old trunk and lumbered back down the road the way it had come.
Bradley’s gang followed, engines growling, the first two drivers giving Hood their best killah stares as their cars eased past him.
The truck came last and paused, and Hood saw that the driver was a girl, red-haired and beautiful.
She studied Hood for a moment with an expression beyond her years, then the truck accelerated around the oak tree and down the road.
45
Hood sat on the dais in Captain Wyte’s fortress in Long Beach. The room was dark except for scattered indicator lights in red and blue, some blinking and some not. Outside the great cranes of the Port of Long Beach hovered over the containers and the powerful lights made the port look as if it were the most important place in all the night.
He heard the elevator moan. His Glock sat on the table next to one of Wyte’s custom computers, a brushed aluminum masterpiece that shivered with subtle colors even in the near darkness of the room.
Hood heard the elevator come to a stop, then the door slide open. Wyte stepped from the lighted box, a leather briefcase in one hand and a bottle-sized brown paper bag in the other.
He went to the wall and turned on the lights low, then adjusted them lower. He had taken just two steps toward Hood when he realized he was being watched and he tried to not react. Hood placed his hand on his pistol as he spoke.
“I’ve got a weapon in my hand, Captain.”
Wyte stopped and looked up at him.
“This is private property and you are trespassing.”
“You’re a sworn peace officer. Within the Sheriff’s Department you have fewer rights than a convicted rapist.”
“You’ve been talking to IA.”
“I have.”
Wyte nodded to the space around him. “All of this can and will be explained. I look forward to it.”
“Me, too.”
“Suzanne started you down this path, no doubt. Something about a computer in the safe house, right?”
Hood shrugged.
“Charlie, she should never have gone after blood diamonds.”
“You shouldn’t have either. All those lives for forty-five grand? What a fuckin’ waste.”
“You have no idea of the truth.”
“I know a lie when I hear it.”
“Why are you here, Charlie?”
“Just to see the look on your face.”
“Let’s talk.”
“Let’s.”
“Drink?”
“First, say hello to some friends of mine.”
One of the IA pack turned up the lights and the others emerged from their respective corners and shadows. Wyte broke for the elevator, but one of the scruffy undercovers shot him straight in the chest with a Taser. Wyte flew backward with a scream and crashed to the floor. The briefcase went one way and the bottle went the other, exploding when it hit. It looked to Hood as if Wyte had been struck by lightning. The cops disarmed him and cuffed him and dragged him upright and dumped him onto the leather sofa below the dais that Suzanne had described to Hood.
Hood stood and holstered his sidearm, went down the stairs then through a side door.
A short hallway led to another room, a windowless, high-ceilinged warehouse filled with neat rows of industrial shelving nearly twenty feet high. Hood saw the big rolling platform ladders like in a home improvement store. Hundreds of televisions, DVD players, computers and peripherals, telephones, faxes, stereo equipment, cameras, musical instruments, coffeemakers, toys-all new and still in their boxes. Near the big roll-up door in the back he saw the pallets heaped with cases of liquor and wine and beer and soft drinks and candy, wrapped in heavy translucent packing plastic. Pallets of tile and car wheels and cigarettes. Pallets of porno magazines and service china and sprinkler heads and hand tools and ready-to-assemble bicycles and swimming pool chlorine and extra-virgin olive oil. Bins of granite and marble and electrical cable and shiny new copper pipe.