“Make it fast. The press is on full swarm, and they probably already know a body was found in Box Canyon.” Harrellson opened the door. “Oh, and hey, I owe you for this.”
“You sure as hell do.” Harrellson turned to go and wiggled his fingers over his shoulder. “Ta-ta, my rose petals.” He walked out.
Next stop, Lieutenant Graden Hales. Logan’s death hit him hard too. It took him several seconds to recover enough to ask, “Suicide? But I thought Logan was the mastermind.”
“Our shrinkers were always skeptical about that,” I said. “Anyway, mastermind or not, the second shooter’s still out there.”
“And we have no clue who he is.” Graden raked his fingers through his hair and sighed. “What we do know is that he’s getting ready to make up for his failure at the Cinemark.”
Unfortunately true. Bailey and I told Graden our plans.
“With the press buzzing around like crazy, the chief will have to announce Logan’s death in a couple of hours anyway,” Bailey said. “And if you frame it right, he can make it sound like asking the letter mailer to come forward is based on a new lead we’ve developed.”
Graden nodded. “Good idea. I don’t know if it’ll work, but it won’t hurt to try.”
With Graden’s backing, we could count on the chief’s approval. I’d have to tell my office what was going on pretty soon, and I wouldn’t mind having Vanderhorn ask the letter mailer to come forward. The more the merrier. But I didn’t want to give him the chance to steal the chief’s thunder. I waited until it was just fifteen minutes before the press conference to call Eric.
When I finished recapping, Eric gave a low whistle. “All that in just the past two days? That’s insane. But Rachel, Vanderhorn’s going to want you to come in and give him the full report in person. You really can’t avoid it anymore.”
“Yeah, I know. But I’ve got to stick around until the chief does his press conference-”
“Wait, what? The chief’s doing a presser? Get over here now-”
“Oh, wow, Eric, it’s about to start. Gotta go! Call you later.”
I knew I was going to catch hell for this. But there’d be plenty of time for Vanderhorn to have his media moment after the chief made his bid to the letter mailer.
The reporters barely had an hour’s lead time, but even so, the place was packed to capacity a full ten minutes early. I wondered how many speeding tickets got handed out that day. Bailey and I decided to watch on a monitor in Graden’s office. Graden had been drafted to stand next to the chief as backup, and he was all spiffed up in his dress uniform. He always looked hot, but in that uniform, with all those medals…well, words fail me. I got a rare chance to enjoy the view without his knowing and I took full advantage of it.
The chief kept it short and sweet. Vanderhorn could take a few lessons. Not that he ever would. The statement took only five minutes, but the questions came in hot and heavy for half an hour.
Logan’s death was the bombshell of the day. The top of the story was Logan’s suicide, but the question “What was in those letters?” ran a close second. When the chief refused to elaborate, the press quickly moved on to “Who’s been mailing them?” We couldn’t have hoped for better coverage.
“We can wait for a few hours to see if Evan surfaces,” I said. “But I hate-”
“Waiting,” Bailey said.
“The waste of time. It bugs me that no one’s heard from him. Besides, it’s the only thread we’ve got to pull, so let’s work it-”
“I’m on board.” She paused. “But first, I’ve got one other move. It won’t take long.”
There was no such thing as too many moves in my book. “Hit me, I’m all ears.”
63
“Unless the shooter found another connection, he’s going to need more guns,” Bailey said. “And we know he called Jax on his cell phone last time-”
“And we’ve got Jax’s cell phone,” I said. Bailey nodded. “Did you book it into evidence yet?”
“Not yet. I was thinking we might want to get a search warrant for it and try to find the call from our shooter.”
I looked at my watch. It was almost five o’clock, but if we hurried, we could just make it to the jail where Jax was being held. And I had a feeling the jail deputies would stretch visiting hours for us on this case.
“Maybe,” I said. “But it’d be faster to get Jax to give consent and help us narrow down the list of calls.”
“He won’t even say hola unless we give him a deal.”
Which neither of us wanted to do, but time was running out. Now that Logan’s death was public knowledge, the second shooter might start to feel the pressure. And if he was getting nervous that we were about to catch up with him, he’d want to stage his final coup. “What would you rather do? Deal, or be too late to stop another shooting?”
“Fine,” Bailey said. “Let’s go see our cartel thief.”
“My, my. So judgmental. You’ve got Jax’s phone?”
“In my glove box.”
It was a smooth move to keep the phone handy. Since we weren’t worried about lifting prints or DNA, it was a good idea to hang on to that phone-just in case our shooter tried to reconnect with Jax to get more weapons. We left the station and headed for the Men’s Central Jail on Bauchet Street. It’s the largest county jail in the world. And the epitome of institutional dreariness and misery. As we entered the squat concrete building, the familiar odor of disinfectant mixed with sweat, urine, and despair made my empty stomach seesaw.
Bailey and I checked our guns, passed through the metal detector, and asked for an attorney room. Unlike the usual setup, with a row of seats and a glass partition with phones, the attorney room is a windowed cube with a table and chairs. It affords sound privacy, but the air barely circulates and the glass walls are always filthy. It makes me feel like a hamster in a cage.
After ten minutes, a room opened up and the deputy escorted us inside. Not long after that, Jax, his wrists chained to his waist and his feet connected by more chain, was escorted in. We’d pulled his rap sheet the night we busted him and found only two arrests, both for possession of cocaine, but no convictions. It was a miraculously clean sheet, all things considered. His lips stretched into a wide grin when he saw us, and it wasn’t because he’d been lonely. Clean sheet or no, Jax was savvy enough to understand that when cops come to visit, it probably means a deal is in the offing.
I got right to the point. “Just so you know the lay of the land, Jax, you’re facing charges for possession and sale of illegal weapons. If you decide to help us out, we can make some of those charges disappear, but not all of them.”
Jax tried to fold his arms across his chest, but the chains wouldn’t stretch that far and his hands fell back to his lap. He leaned back in his chair and looked at us through half-closed eyes, trying to recover some cool. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
“I want probation.”
They always do. “Won’t happen, Jax. The guns you sold were just used in two shootings. Lots of people died-”
Jax gave me a hard look. “I don’t believe you.”
“You know better than that,” Bailey said. “We can’t make this shit up. Either the bullets match the guns or they don’t.” Jax set his jaw. “So you didn’t hear about it?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t hear about nothin’. I don’ live in the States.”
“Okay, well there’s no way you’re getting a straight walk,” Bailey said. “To tell you the truth, we’re going to have a hell of a time getting anyone to agree to any kind of deal for you.”
Jax looked from me to Bailey, then blew out a long breath. “Well, I ain’t talking for free.” He rolled his head from side to side, sending out a ripple of impressively loud cracks. “Got arthritis in my neck. Doc says cortisone shots might help me.” He looked from me to Bailey. “I want a prescription. Some physical therapy maybe. And you got to dump some of the charges.”