“I know you guys are in deep shit if you think I'm talking to you.” Evans sniffed a mixture of mucus and blood. “You got no teeth in Vallejo.”
I raised the bag of dope. “Santa seems to have brought you a lot of naughty toys. Two felonies... still on parole for a weapons charge. Time at Folsom, Quentin. My sense is you must like it there, ' next time up, you qualify for the thirty-year lease.”
“One thing I do know,” - Evans rolled his eyes - “is you didn't drag me all this way for some two-bit weapons rap. The sign on the door says Homicide.”
“No, big fella, you're right,” Cappy injected. “Tossing your sorry ass in jail on a gun charge is only a hobby for us. But depending on how you answer a few questions, that weapons rap could determine where you spend the next thirty years.”
“Pupshit,” the biker grunted, leveling his cold, hard eyes in his face. "That's all you assholes got on me.
Cappy shrugged, then brought the flat end of an unopened soda can down hard on the biker's hand.
Evans yelped in pain.
“Damn, I thought you said you were thirsty,” Cappy said contritely.
Red leered at Cappy, no doubt imagining running over the cop's face with his bike.
“But you're right, Mr. Evans,” I said. “We didn't ask you down here to go over your current possessions, though it wouldn't take much to hand your sorry ass right over to the Vallejo police. But today could work out lucky for you. Cappy, ask Mr. Evans if he'd like another drink.”
Cappy feinted, and Evans jerked his hand off the table.
Then the big cop opened the can and placed it in front of him, grinning widely. “This all right, or would you prefer a glass?”
“See,” I assured him, “we can be nice. Truth is, we don't give a shit about you. All you have to do is answer a few questions and you'll be headed home, compliments of the SFPD. You never have to see us again. Or we can lock your three-time-loser ass on the tenth floor for a few days until we remember we got you here and notify the Vallejo police. And, when it comes to a third felony offense, we'll see about just how much teeth we really have.”
Evans ran his hand across the bridge of his nose, dabbing at the blood. “Maybe I will take a swig of that soda, if you're still offering.” “Congratulations, son,” Jacobi said. “That's the first thing you've done that makes sense since we set eyes on you.”
Womans Murder Club 2 - Second Chance
Chapter 38
I LAID OUT A BLACK-AND-WHITE surveillance photo of the Templars in front of Red's startled face. “First thing we need to know is where can we find your buddies?”
Evans looked up grinning. “So that's what this is all about?”
“C'mon, sharp-as-nails,” pressed Jacobi,“ the lieutenant asked a question.”
One by one, I spread on the table three more photos showing various members.
Evans shook his head. “Never ran with those guys.”
The last photo I put down was a surveillance shot of him.
Cappy reached out, all two hundred fifty pounds of him, and raised the biker by the shirt, lifting him out of his seat.
“Listen, codshit, you're only lucky we're not concerned here with what you sorry bunch of losers got off doing. So act smart and you'll be outta here, and we can go on to what we do give a shit about.”
Evans shrugged. “Maybe I did run a bit with them. But no more. Club's disbanded. Too much heat. I ain't seen these guys around here in months. They split. You wanna find them, start with Five South.”
I looked at the two inspectors. As much as I doubted whether Evans would actually turn over on his buddies, I believed him.
“One more question,” I said. “A big one.” I laid down the photo of the biker with the chimera jacket. “What does this mean to you?”
Evans sniffed. “The dude's got bogus taste in attire?”
Cappy leaned forward.
Evans recoiled. “It's a symbol, man. Means he's in the movement. A patriot.” “A patriot?” I asked him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“An advocate of the white race, the self-determination of a free and orderly society.” He smiled at Cappy “Present company excluded, of course. Course, none of this shit necessarily reflects my personal views.”
“Did this guy head off to the Sun belt, too?” Jacobi asked.
“Him? Why? What do you think he's done?”
“There he goes” - Cappy stood over him - “answering questions with questions again.”
“Look.” Evans swallowed. “The brother only hung with us a short while. I don't even know his real name. Mac. Mcmillan, Mcarthur? What'd he do?”
I figured there was no reason not to tell him what we thought. “What's the word about what happened in La Salle Heights?”
Red finally flinched. His pupils widened. All of a sudden, it was falling into place. “You think my old dudes lit up that church? This guy... Mac?”
“You know how we could talk to him?” I said.
Evans grinned. “That's a tough order. Even for you.” “Try us,” I said. “We're resourceful.”
“I'm sure you are, but this fucker's dead. Back in June. He and a partner blew themselves up, in Oregon. Sonofabitch must've read somewhere you could turn cowshit into a bomb.”
Womans Murder Club 2 - Second Chance
Chapter 39
IN THE SMALL BLACKTOP PARKING LOT adjacent to the La Salle Heights Church, Cindy Thomas climbed out of her Mazda. Her stomach growled, telling her that it didn't quite know what she was doing here.
She took a breath and opened the large oak door into the main chapel. Just yesterday it had been filled with the choir's resonating sound. Now it was eerily quiet, the pews empty. She walked through the chapel and into a connecting building.
A carpeted hallway led to a row of offices. A black woman, glancing up from a copy machine, asked, “Can I help you? What do you want?”
“I'm here to see Reverend Winslow.”
“He's not seeing visitors now” the woman said.
Winslow's voice rang out from one of the offices.
“It's all right” Carol."
Cindy was led to his office. It was small, crowded with books. He was wearing a black T-shirt and khakis, and didn't look like any minister she'd ever known.
“we managed to get you back after all,” he said. Then finally, he smiled.
He had her take a seat on a small couch and he sat in a well-worn red leather chair. A pair of glasses was resting on a book nearby, and she instinctively sneaked a peek. A Heart-breaking Work of Staggering Genius. Not what she would have expected.
“You mending?” she asked.
“Trying to. I read your story today It was terrible about that policeman. It's true? Tasha's murder might be tied up with two others?”
“The police think so,” Cindy answered. “The M.E. believes she was deliberately shot.”
Winslow grimaced and then shook his head. “I don't understand. Tasha was just a little girl. What possible connection could there be?”
“It wasn't so much Tasha” - Cindy held eye contact with Aaron Winslow - "as what she represented. All the victims apparently have a link to San Francisco cops.
Winslow's eyes narrowed. “So tell me, what brings you back so soon? Your soul aching? Why are you here?”
Cindy lowered her eyes. “The service yesterday It was moving. I felt chills. It's been a long time for me. Actually, I think my soul has been aching. I just haven't bothered to notice.”
Winslow's look softened. She'd told him a small truth, and it had touched him. “Well, good. I'm glad to hear you were moved.”
Cindy smiled. Incredibly, he made her feel at ease. He seemed centered, genuine, and she'd heard nothing but good things about him. She wanted to do a story on him, and she knew it would be a good one, maybe a great story.