Backfire (13 page)

Near Nicasio, California

Sunday morning

He was glad for the drizzling rain, cold and wet on his neck. It made shoveling dirt over Mickey O’Rourke nice and easy. Finally he stepped back, studied the mound he’d made. Not good, too high, too easy to find. He began pounding the back of the shovel on the wet dirt, flattening it down, scraping some of it away. Once he had the dirt as flat as he wanted it, he dragged branches over to cover it.

“RIP, Mickey,” he said, as he kicked a chunk of sod under a branch.

He stood for a moment, marveling at the near-perfect silence, the only sound the rustle of leaves and the rain dripping off his arm and striking a rock beside his booted foot. He could hear himself breathe. The air was heavy with wet and green, not even a whiff of an exhaust fume. And here he was, only eleven miles from the interstate and its endless stream of cars. Not a bad place to be dead, he thought, like in a faraway forest.

He would miss this place, home for nearly a year and a half now, especially his small apartment in San Rafael, just a block from the Mission San Rafael Arcángel. He’d visited the old church quite often, not to pray but to focus his mind. It was as quiet as a tomb in the dark of night, cool and peaceful, as if the spirits settled there knew their own worth, and kept order.

He considered what to do with the shovel. Not leave it in the trunk of his Jeep; that wouldn’t be smart. He would dump the shovel, but not around these grassy hills, and not in these woods. They were too close to Mickey in his tatty shroud. No, he’d dump it in some thick trees on his way back to San Rafael. Maybe a hiker would find the shovel and think it was good fortune.

He turned his face to the sky, felt the cool drizzle seam down his cheeks. Then he shook himself like a mongrel and trotted the quarter-mile back to his Jeep.

Clayton Street

San Francisco

Late Sunday morning

Boozer Gordon didn’t look so hot. The tiny black stitches on his chin running up his cheek to his ear looked like one-sided beard bristle. The bruises covering his face were now a faded purple, and both his eyes were still black. He was wearing an ancient green fleece bathrobe, and his big feet were in thick black socks. Boozer was very big. Savich had to look up at him.

“Yeah, what do you clowns want? It’s Sunday; you’re supposed to be in church or at least getting out the chips and salsa for the football games.”

Sherlock gave Boozer her patented sunny smile. Savich thought,
We’ll see if your smile is as powerful as the blond ponytail.

“We’re not just any clowns,” Sherlock said, “we’re FBI clowns, and we labor every day to bring criminals to justice—what you see is your taxpayer dollars at work. We have some questions for you about a shooting that happened yesterday.” And she flipped out her creds. After a thorough study, Boozer looked at Savich. “You her bodyguard?”

“That’s right,” Savich said, and handed over his own creds.

“Just what I needed,” Boozer said, and sighed. “Federal cops on a Sunday, doesn’t that make my day. It will only get suckier if the Forty-niners lose.

“Listen, you’re wasting your time. I’m innocent of anything that’s happened in the past two days—look at me, I’ve been in the hospital. I got the crap beat out of me, not in the ring, but in a stupid bar. Four morons whaled on me. Don’t get me wrong, I coulda taken them if I didn’t have beer leaking out my ears.”

“Six sheets to the wind?”

“Yeah.” He smiled down at Sherlock. “Only lucky thing is I never get hangovers.”

Savich thought,
You’re only twenty-three. You just wait.

Boozer stepped back and let Savich and Sherlock walk into a small hallway with a living room off to the right, a long, narrow room that, surprisingly, had a big window that gave a sliver of view of the Golden Gate Bridge.

The room, even more surprisingly, was neat, down to the Sunday
Chronicle
stacked beside a big black La-Z-Boy with a beautifully crocheted dark blue afghan hanging over the arm.

Boozer waved them to a pale green sofa with three colorful throw pillows set just so along the back cushions.

“Nice pillows,” Sherlock said.

“My mom,” Boozer said. “She comes by when I’m not here to water my plants, and she does stuff, like brings pillows and changes the sheets and dries out the towels.”

“The ivy looks good, too,” Savich said. “Sit down, Mr. Gordon. We need your help.”

Boozer’s look was disbelieving. “My help? I told you, I’ve been out of commission for the past two days. I’ve never shot anybody—well, I couldn’t have even tried if this happened in the past two days.” He eased himself down in his big chair and pushed up the footrest. He gently unfolded the afghan and pulled it over his legs and leaned his head back against the headrest.

Sherlock and Savich sat on the sofa, careful not to disturb the artful placement of the throw pillows.

Sherlock said, “You were in San Francisco General Hospital until noon Friday, isn’t that right, Mr. Gordon?”

His head came up and his eyes popped open. “Listen, I didn’t hurt anybody at the hospital, I was too out of it even to get pissed off at anyone, and, well, everybody was nice to me.”

Sherlock said, “That’s good to know. I’m nice, too. Now, Mr. Gordon, we need you to think back. You’re lying in your room on Friday, you’re by yourself. You’ve got some nice pain meds working, and you’re feeling pretty good, right?”

“Yes, but it didn’t last all that long, maybe four hours; then I hurt again.”

Savich said, “This is very important, Mr. Gordon. While you were lying in your hospital bed did any hospital technicians come in to draw your blood?”

That roused Boozer. “Oh, man, did that torturer accuse me of having bad blood? Did the hospital send you over because I’ve got that avian virus?”

“No, your blood is splendid,” Sherlock said. “No viruses. We need you to tell us about the torturer.”

Boozer looked from one to the other. “Why should I? You’re cops, like those other yahoos who hauled my butt to lockup for no good reason. My manager had to bail me out, and he was yelling at me, too, and there I was, hurting since I was the one that got knocked crazy, not those four other bozos who ganged up on me. At least the cops sent me to the hospital. Why should I tell you anything?”

Savich said, “We think the person who drew your blood has tried to murder Judge Dredd twice.”

Boozer blinked raccoon eyes at them. “Judge Dredd? You’re kidding me, right? I mean, they used to have a poster of Judge Dredd at the martial arts school since he used to work out there. You’re telling me the dude who took my blood is the one who tried to shoot him in the elevator yesterday?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “Judge Dredd is okay, for the moment, but we want to find the shooter before he tries again. You called the man who drew your blood a torturer. Tell us about it.”

The front door opened, and a very beautiful woman strolled in. She was wearing a black pantsuit and low-heeled shoes, and she was as blond, porcelain-skinned and fine-boned as a storybook princess. She was carrying a bag of groceries under her left arm with what looked like a pair of folded boxers sticking out of the huge tote in her right hand.

“What is going on here, Paul? Who are these people? You’re not one of those missionary groups, are you? If you are, you’re out of luck. Paul’s a devout Catholic.”

“Oh, hi, Mom. These here guys aren’t Christians, they’re FBI agents, and they need my help to find the guy who’s trying to kill Judge Dredd.”

Now it was her turn to stare. “Goodness me,” she said finally, and accepted their hands to shake and their introductions and creds.

Boozer said, “Oh, yeah, this is my Mom, Cynthia Howell. She doesn’t have my name because she divorced my pa for being a mean drunk and married Daniel, my stepdad. He gave me that black Ford One-fifty last Christmas. You saw it in the driveway, didn’t you?”

Savich said, “A fine machine.”

“Well, that about sums it up,” Mrs. Howell said. “My Paul can help you? Really?”

“Mom, it turns out I saw the guy who shot Judge Dredd in the hospital. He drew my blood.”

“I see. Paul, you tell these agents everything you know about this man while I get you another pain pill. Oh, I brought over two homemade pizzas, with lots of pepperoni, the way you like it. I know you’re hungry, but let me warm them in the oven for about ten minutes.” And she walked out of the living room and into the kitchen.

His mother made him pizza? Pepperoni? Sherlock felt her mouth water.

Mrs. Howell came right back with a glass of water with three ice cubes and a slice of lemon wedged on the side of the glass. Boozer took the pill, drank the water, and gave a sweet smile to his mother. She gently cupped his face. “It doesn’t look as bad this morning. I’ll get your pizza in the oven now, sweetie. Don’t wait for me. You can tell me everything later.”

Sherlock said, “The tech who came to draw your blood?”

Boozer leaned his head back and looked at the ceiling. “He was a little guy.”

Savich said, “Being as how you’re on the tall side, what do you mean, exactly, by little?”

“I don’t know, shorter than you, lots less than six feet. Kind of scrawny, not all that much to him, you know what I mean?”

You’re a behemoth. Even Dillon looks scrawny to you.
Sherlock said, “Tell us about his face. What did he look like?”

“I can’t tell you much about his face because he was wearing one of those surgical masks, you know, like he needed protection from me, like I was contagious or something. That’s why I thought when you showed up the hospital had found something was bad.”

Savich said, “No, Mr. Gordon, there’s nothing wrong with your blood. How about his hair? What color?”

“He had a green scrub hat on his head.”

“Could you see his hair at all?”

“I remember thinking the cap was too big for him. It covered his whole head, came down over his ears. If he didn’t have that big needle in his hand, I would have said something, like why didn’t the hospital give him caps that fit him, but I kept quiet.”

Sherlock said, “How tall is your mom, Boozer?”

They heard a lovely voice call from the kitchen, “I’m five-foot-nine, Agent Sherlock. Paul is tall, too; he takes after me.”

Sherlock smiled at Boozer. “Picture the guy in your mind, he’s standing by your bed. Is he taller than your mom?”

Boozer thought about this. “Nah, he’s about the same as my mom, maybe a little bit shorter.”

“Is there anything you can tell us about him that stood out when you met him? You called him a torturer. So he wasn’t very good?”

“That’s for sure. He would have really hurt me if I hadn’t been a little looped from all the drugs. He had a real hard time getting the needle in a vein, had to go to my other arm. I don’t know how many times he stuck me. I was wishing I could knock his block off, even with the drugs.”

“But he finally got the needle in a vein,” Savich said. “Do you remember how many blood vials he filled?”

Boozer shuddered, scrunched up his face like a kid. “I didn’t want to look, but after a while I did. Three of those vacuum vials with the purple stoppers. I asked him what all that blood was for, and he said something like, ‘I guess they want to make sure your insides didn’t get as wrecked as your face.’

“I remember that because I thought it sounded kind of nasty what he said; then he left, didn’t say anything else to me. I guess he was the only one at the hospital who wasn’t nice to me.”

Savich studied Boozer’s face for a moment. He could see the pain meds were starting to work. Boozer was sitting more easily in the big chair, his muscles loose, his hands smoothing out the afghan. He said, “Go ahead and close your eyes, Mr. Gordon. Relax. Imagine you’re watching him draw your blood. Is there anything unusual about him?”

“I heard him cursing under his breath when he couldn’t find a vein.”

“Anything else?”

“Well, he stopped in the door when he was leaving and turned around.”

“Look at him, Boozer. Was he old?”

“Hard to say, over fifty, I’d say, somewhere in there.”

Sherlock wanted him to compare his age to his mother’s, but she wasn’t stupid. She heard Mrs. Howell coming into the living room carrying a huge tray with a pepperoni pizza so hot you could feel the cheese dripping off your chin.

“I have another pizza in the oven, so there’s plenty for all of us. Agents?”

Boozer had his slice of pizza in his hand when he said, “I remember now, the guy was wearing this butt-ugly ring on his finger, and another ring with a big diamond on his pinkie finger. I saw them when he pulled out those surgical gloves to put on his hands.”

The same diamond pinkie ring Mrs. Moe described
the man wearing when he rented the Zodiac in Sausalito.

Sherlock chewed a bite, then asked him, “How big was the butt-ugly ring?”

Boozer studied her face for a moment. “You have a piece of cheese on your chin, Agent Sherlock.”

She laughed, swiped her napkin over her face. “Thank you. The pizza is delicious, Mrs. Howell. Now, the ring, Mr. Gordon?”

“It looked like a religious ring, you know. It looked real old and solid, with some dull jewels sticking up in the middle.”

“Why do you say religious?”

Boozer shrugged. “I don’t know, just a feeling, I guess, when I saw it. I was flying sort of high and it popped out of my mouth—‘You an ex-priest?’ He asked me why I thought that, and I pointed to his ring.

“He said, ‘Nah, it’s just a ring I won off this old guy in a poker game.’ Nothing more, that was it. I didn’t really care because I was worried about that needle in his hand and I wanted it over with.”

Twenty minutes later, the pizza settling happily in their stomachs, Mrs. Howell showed them to the door. Sherlock simply couldn’t help asking her, “May I ask you how old you are? You look like Boozer’s sister instead of his mother.”

Mrs. Howell laughed. “If I told you it might get back to my husband. It’s the strangest thing, but it embarrasses him that I look so much younger than he does. The joys of cosmetic surgery, but don’t tell Daniel. He thinks I’m perfect, and I don’t want him to think otherwise. Isn’t my Paul an amazing young man?”

As they walked away from Boozer’s apartment, Savich stopped by their rental car, pulled Sherlock against him, and kissed her. “Yep, pepperoni.”

“I got to eat all yours, too. Poor Mrs. Howell, she was mortified that she hadn’t brought a vegetarian pizza, just in case. Do you think our shooter really won that butt-ugly religious ring in a poker game?”