Tussinland (8 page)

SEVENTEEN

Rincon drove the streets of Modesto, searching for Paul. He had no idea how to find him, but he was making calls and looking everywhere. He’d been by the dude’s house and the piece of shit Honda Mark’d sold the dumbass a couple years back wasn’t there. But, he saw an unmarked MPD car and a patrol car out front. Fagan was out front along with a uniformed cop. He decided not to stop and chat.

Modesto was still kind of small—he’d find the piece of shit.

Rincon had really wanted to get into the heroin business. The idea of becoming the major heroin player in Modesto had great appeal. But now, with his partner dead and the fortune in shit that’d been fronted by the hard dudes from Bakersfield missing, he was really losing his enthusiasm for the endeavor.

Rincon
did
like selling cars. He’d dreamt of becoming a car salesman since he was ten years old. Had visions of his own lot out on wide bustling Crows Landing Road in the mostly Hispanic part of Modesto with its Taquerias and Supermercados, bars and dance clubs. He wanted the kind of lot he’d seen growing up, with the big signs about ‘no credit no problem’ or ‘your pay stub is you credit,’ the kind with the oil stains on the asphalt and the plastic banners flap, flap, flapping in the breeze. Jorge didn’t want to be some slick cat in a suit out on McHenry Road at the brand new Ford or Chevy or Honda dealer, he wanted to have a killer bandito moustache, khaki pants and a cabanero shirt, to sit out in the sun smoking a cigar in a lawn chair with Ranchero music blaring from loudspeakers, and sell cheap ass cars to suckers.

He’d achieved the goal too, early on, right after dropping out of college because a knee injury took away his football scholarship. He had some cash from selling weed he got by the pound from his Bakersfield cousins Arturo and Manual to his fellow students, and he had a nearly new BMW an alumni had bought him the previous summer. He put the Beemer out on the curb on Crows Landing, and put a sign on the windshield with his number and the price. He bought a used Nissan with his cash and put that out too. He sold those and bought some more and within a year he had a dozen wrecks and enough money to lease an empty lot. His old high school football buddy Mark Pisko happened to be looking for a business to invest in and he also loved the idea of a used car lot. They were in business.

But, he had a very bad temper. The kind that got people hurt, crippled, killed. For most of his life, he channeled that anger into football. But that outlet was gone, and his rage had a way of getting him into trouble. It wasn’t his fault people were such assholes. And that murder charge? Sure, he’d killed that bastard, but the dude’d reneged on a big loan and he had to make an example. Had no choice. Good thing he got the witnesses to change their minds. He’d killed other people, but that was the only time he’d been caught. So far. Now, he needed to kill somebody named Paul Dunn. As soon as possible. Also to set an example, and, hopefully, recover the dope the asshole had stolen after killing Pisko and his stupid bitch whore wife.

The heroin was all Mark’s idea. Apparently he’d been an addict for years and Jorge had never suspected. Claimed he picked it up after injuring his back in a motorcycle accident. He became addicted to the Vicodin the doctors handed him like candy. When he got out of rehab and the prescriptions dried up, he did his best to get more by finding doctors he could fool for a while, or he’d buy it on the street. Until one day when one of his suppliers convinced him that heroin was a much more efficient, fun, and cheap method to ingest opiates. Mark quickly went from snorting to shooting it into his muscles to full-on mainlining. Boom—dude was hooked and needed a constant supply to keep from getting sick. Weird thing was, as long as he had his shit to shoot, the guy was fine, acted normal as hell, and, like always, sold a lot of cars. When Pisko was high on heroin he was even better than before, and Jorge found him more pleasant to be around and a better partner.

A year earlier, when things were slow at the lot and when investments into Jorge’s loan sharking and black market gun-selling businesses were stretching things thin financially, Pisko suggested they move some shit, put the cash profit into the business. It was perfect—they’d make money, launder it, and Mark got all the shit he could handle. Pisko knew that Jorge had the connections through his cousins, and he reluctantly agreed to give the plan a shot. Since Pisko hooked up with Tina Dunn and got her off Vicodin and hooked into the shit as well, Pisko was getting especially ambitious.

Jorge liked the idea of making a lot of money, but he was nervous about their new business associates. Those guys had a lot of guns and a lot of soldiers and all Jorge had was Pisko. Plus, he didn’t like that the feds might be looking at them now, might find out about the guns and the heroin and that little bit of extortion here and there. Might get a RICO case thrown their way. Not good.

Still, Pisko convinced him (dude could convince anyone of anything, should see some of the prices he’d get suckers to pay for piece of shit vehicles) to give his new plan a try. A major escalation from the original plan. They got several pounds of the shit from Jorge’s Bakersfield connections and were supposed to use it to help them take over the Modesto territory. None of it was paid for yet. When Jorge showed up at Pisko’s late the night before to help cut it, weigh it, and bag it, he found Mark and Tina’s bodies. And no heroin.

Really hard to believe Dunn had done the killings. But it was looking more and more like he did and had the audacity to steal all the shit. So, he not only had to off the guy, he had to get the heroin back as well, or he was dead too. Fuckin’ Pisko.

What he didn’t get was how Dunn just happened to be the brother-in-law of one of his customers—Reverend Fish. He’d lent Fish a lot of money once that he’d taken forever to pay back. In fact, he hadn’t paid back the principal until he started helping him with the gun sales—dude knew a lot of psycho rednecks who wanted assault rifles and powerful handguns and who were willing to pay top dollar.

Could just be a coincidence, but still, it seemed odd to Jorge that Fish was so anxious to help him figure out that it was Dunn that had done the murders and stolen from him.

Fish’d just called him to tell him the latest on Dunn.  About how the police had so much slam dunk circumstantial evidence—the threats, the money he’d make from Tina’s insurance and pension, his lack of alibi, and now, apparently, that he had the murder weapon. Great, but that didn’t explain why Dunn would also steal a big bag of heroin while he was at it—that guy was
not
a player. Last thing Rincon heard the dude was a high school English teacher or some such shit. How would he even know what the stuff was?

Fuck it, he’d kill the guy, get his drugs back, and worry about the details later.

EIGHTEEN

Detective Fagan and Patrolman Plant waited in front of Mavis Love’s house.

After getting the anonymous tip about the murder weapon, Fagan obtained a warrant at record speed. The case was hot. The District Attorney wanted a quick resolution, and he delivered an airtight document to a judge within an hour.

“I really think Dunn isn’t our guy,” Fagan told James Adams, the Assistant DA assigned to the case, after getting the message. “Dumbass citizen like that could never be clever enough to keep quiet and stick to his story the way he did.”

“But, shit,” Adams said. “What do you want? Just like you said, we got motive, opportunity, and, now, if this tip is true, means.”

“Maybe someone is fucking with him. And us. I really don’t like him for this.”

“You think there’s someone out there killing normal citizens sophisticated enough to frame an innocent man? This ain’t TV.”

“I know, I know,” Fagan said. “Maybe they weren’t so normal, maybe we should look into the vics a little bit more, you know? And that guy, Rincon.”

“Let’s see what happens when you go out there, okay? In the meantime, I’ll do some checking on Pisko and his partner. If the weapon
is
under the guy’s bed, it’ll be enough for an arrest and we can go from there.”

Mavis pulled up with Miranda. Fagan and the patrolman got out of their cars.

“Sorry, to disturb you like this, Mrs. Love,” Fagan said. He didn’t hide his pleasure at looking Mavis up and down, lingering on her legs and her cleavage. “But you understand that we have to follow up on every tip?”

“Yes, I do understand, Detective.”

Mavis and Miranda walked up the steps to the porch and stood near the door. The two policemen followed and stopped on the front walkway.

“And who is this with you?” Fagan asked. He motioned toward Miranda, who glared at Plant and Monday.

“That’s Miranda Fish, Detective,” Officer Plant said. “I’ve arrested her a couple of times. Along with her boyfriend Logan Swift. They’re both pain in the ass scumbags.”

“How dare you,” Mavis said to Plant. She looked at Fagan.

“Now, Plant,” Fagan said. “Show some respect.”

“This is my granddaughter,” Mavis said. “And yes, her name is Miranda Fish.”

Mavis stared at Plant.

“Logan Swift is your boyfriend?” Fagan looked genuinely shocked.

Miranda looked at Mavis.

“Yes, that’s right,” Mavis said. “That boy is nothing like his monster brother. He’s a good boy, and Miranda, yes, she’s made some mistakes but she’s paying for them, isn’t that right dear?”

“That’s right,” Miranda said. “Besides, I’m just here to support my grandma.”

“Okay,” Fagan said, “whatever. Let’s get this done.”

Fagan started to walk up the steps.

“Would it be okay if I went in first?” Mavis said. “Just for a minute or two?”

She smiled at Fagan and walked up close to him. Fagan blushed.

“No,” he said. “I can’t do that.” He handed Mavis a single piece of paper. “Here’s the warrant. It gives us access strictly to the bedroom of Paul Dunn, along with his 1997 Honda Accord. Please open the door and let us in.”

Mavis walked up even closer, and lightly touched Fagan’s chest with the nails of her right finger. She stretched out of her high heels to get as close to his left ear as possible, and she whispered so that the other cop couldn’t hear:

“Does that mean that anything that might be on the coffee table in the living room is … uh … off limits? And not part of your search, Detective Fagan?”

Fagan took her right hand in his left and caressed her fingers. He looked down at her, and said, just as quietly, “Maybe some time I could conduct a thorough search of
your
bedroom?”

Mavis squeezed Fagan’s hand and looked him in his eyes for a moment.

“So,” she said, “do we have an understanding?”

Fagan let go of Mavis and walked to the door.

“Let’s see how thing go here, Ms. Love. Now, please open the door.”

NINETEEN

Bethany Fish was stressed out. She had a lot of business to take care of and every time she thought she was on top of it, someone messed up her plans.

She and Pete made a fortune during the real estate boom of the early and mid-2000s. Dozens of subdivisions had popped up all over Modesto to serve the insatiable hunger of Modestans and San Francisco Bay Area and Silicon Valley commuters. Long-time residents were getting huge offers for their older houses and cashing in and upgrading. For half the price of a one-room condo in a bad Oakland neighborhood, it was possible for a family to buy a sparkling 2600 square-foot home with islands in the kitchens, lovely master bedrooms with a sunken tub in the bathroom, and a big back yard for the kids. The only catch for the transplants: one or both of the home-buying couple had to be willing to commute back to their Bay Area or Silicon Valley jobs up to three hours each way every day to pay for such luxury. One could afford their wonderful new lifestyle, but never have time to enjoy it—accept, of course, for weekends, which were inevitably dominated by soccer games and little league and dance practice and recitals and band practice and girl scouts and cub scouts and backyard barbeques with other stressed-out-pissed-off parents with no spare time.

Pete and Bethany Fish had sold nearly 400 of those houses and bought one for themselves, along with two very expensive cars. They were rolling in cash and they spent it faster than they earned it on furniture and boats and clothes and vacations and dinners out every night and on and on. When the real estate bubble burst in 2008, they were broke, in debt, and scrambling for money to get back their opulent lifestyle.

Most of their clients had foreclosed, abandoned their homes, and moved back to Richmond or San Bruno or South San Francisco. Pete and Bethany were out of money and hadn’t made a house or a car payment in nearly six months. Their credit had maxed out. If they didn’t pay the bank nearly five thousand dollars in a week, they’d be forced out of their home as well. If it wasn’t for a quick, high-interest loan and some good trades buying and selling guns, they would’ve been homeless and starving months before. Plus, there was the Reverend Philip Michael Polk, the famous evangelist and far-right radio show host who had been helping them out with starting their church.

She sat in her house, in the living room that she’d decorated painstakingly. This room, along with the rest of the home, was a thing of true beauty to Bethany, a monument to the hard work and Christian values of her and her husband. She reached out and ran her fingers along the thick black leather of the couch.

She picked up her cell phone. Man, she loved that thing. A brand new iPhone 4S that Bethany stood in line for twelve hours to get. Luckily they’d managed to keep up their phone bill and the upgrade to the new phone was only 99 dollars they managed to scrap together—mostly because of a last-minute loan from Reverend Polk. It was covered in a pink faux metal case that had fake brass knuckles along the side. She loved the way it felt in her hand, and it was a rare moment when she wasn’t holding or using it. She wasn’t interested in social media and she didn’t use it to take photos—her cell was for calling, emailing, or texting someone to do with business, her family, or the church.

She dialed it now.

“Yes, Carla Daniels, please … it’s Bethany Fish … yes, I’ll hold … Yes, yes, I know I… yes, I am well aware of that … believe me … I promise you, we will have your money by Monday. Not only the five K, but much more as well. I know, I understand. Yes, it’s our last chance, I understand. No, no worries, if we don’t have it then we will walk out the door, the house is yours, okay? Yes? I know. I really appreciate your patience.”

As soon as she ended the call, her phone rang. She looked at the number and scowled.

“What! I can
not
believe your nerve, Randa. What? When? No … no … no! That won’t work for us … that doesn’t work for us. Because … we have a … okay okay, we’ll be there. You better have it cause your Dad has a buyer who is getting very impatient. Okay. Fine… I said fine.”

She clicked off. Leaned back on the sofa. Sighed. Leaned forward again. Dialed.

“Brad, yeah, it’s Beth … yeah … great ….great. Please tell me you got a look at my mom’s papers. Great. And who’s the main beneficiary and trustee? No. No. No. Huh? What? Oh, come on, no. Really? That piece of … poo. Not Paul, there is no way he deserves that. Darn it. And what if he wasn’t around, you know? … You know, what if he was dead? Then me? You sure? Thanks God for that at least. Can’t you scan it? Some of it? No? Email it? Really? Darn, darn …
darn
. I understand. God bless you … Oh … okay. Darn!”

Bethany clicked off the call. She put the phone on the coffee table. She bowed her head.

“Lord. I understand you know what is best. Please give me faith, please give me the faith and the trust to know that you will help us to further your plan for the world. Please show us the way. I am open to your messages. In Jesus Christ’s name A—”

Ring. Bethany looked at the number and answered right away.

“Sweatheart. I talked to Brad, you know the parishioner who’s a paralegal at Jackson & Stephens? He says that it’s set up for Paul to be named as the trustee of Mom’s estate. The money goes all over, though a lot of it will be Paul’s. He couldn’t read it all to me over the phone, too afraid of getting caught … no, he was looking at it on their network … Cause it’s confi
dential
, sweetie, and he doesn’t work in that department so if they know he was snooping around, checked the records or something … It’s all in these complicated trusts for Miranda, and Paul and me and some stuff that Clyde Pike and Scott Love are involved in, some homosexual nonsense or something …. calm down … calm down … there … okay … of course. But there is no way to get any of it quickly … no, no, no, he couldn’t say… looks like
millions
though, way more than we’d even suspected… yeah, right? I know …. No, no, I asked and he just couldn’t … he was doing us a big favor just telling us this… anyway, the Trustee of course, has total power over all the money, and can get this big salary just for being in charge. I know, I know, it’s so dumb. I knew that since they aren’t Christians they’d … right, right, yes, of course God is on our side, I know that. Darn it. So … no, no, no. Right, if he’s… gone, it’s me. Oh, what? Oh, Randa is next in line after me, can you imagine? Okay, okay. Wait, there’s more. No, stop, listen. We have to meet Logan and Randa to get the stuff tonight. At eleven. I know, I know. It’s ridiculous. No, I don’t see any way out of it. Behind the church, in the lot by the stupid Hole In the Wall. I have no
idea
why there. No, not a clue. I can’t talk to her anymore, you know that. You sure Jorge will …. I know, but can we count on that? Okay, have faith bla bla bla right. Just talk to Reverend Polk, let him know it’ll be just a few more hours, okay? All right… all right. Love you too. Bye.”