Untold Damage (13 page)

Dockery's amazement was plain on his face. “You will?”

“Yeah, I will. And when you
do
tell her? I'll be there, as will her husband. But”—and here he lowered his voice as he looked intently into Dockery's eyes—“if you're gonna give some her bad news about her son, you better fucking warn me, so I can prepare her. Those
people been through hell, and I don't want them screwed with, okay?”

“That's cool, Mallen. Okay.”

He again looked at the man for a moment. Definitely ex-con material. “It is about Eric, right? Something to do with his time inside?”

“That's right.”

“You know who killed him?”

A shake of Dockery's head was his only answer.

“If that's true, then what about his being killed made you come forward now? You know something about it, don't you? Look, I'm just trying to make sense of it. We were friends. The police want to find the prick who shot him, and so do I. Come on, man, the guy had fallen down a hole, but was climbing back out of it! He had everything to look forward to.”

Dockery's eyes clouded for a moment. Like he was reliving an old, painful experience. “I can't answer you, man. Sorry.”

“Can't? Or won't?” Mallen asked again.

“Look, I'll tell you this, since you're gonna fix it so I can meet the family, okay?” He then fished in his jacket pocket. Pulled out a piece of paper. Scribbled something down on it, then handed it to him. “That's my cell. When you think it's okay with them seeing me, just let me know.”

“Ok,” Mallen said as he pocketed the paper, handed Dockery back his now-empty gun. “So, how about what you were gonna tell me?”

“It has to do with an apology.”

“Apology?” he said, but Dockery was already moving quickly away. Mallen let him go, not thinking he would get any more from the man. He stood there for a moment longer, wondering what Dockery had meant by those last words. Put the paper in his pocket and went back up the street, hoping the Russ household possessed at least two Excedrin.

His knock brought Phoebe to the door. She looked even more tired, if that were humanly possible, and even older than when he'd seen her just last week.

“Yeah, it's true,” he said with a faint smile off her look of disbelief, “it's the new me, Phoebe.”

“My God, Mark! What happened to you?”

“My past caught up with me is all. Looks worse than it is, Phoebe. Only hurts when I blink.”

“Come on in. Come in! Coffee?”

“Sure,” he replied as he followed her down the hall to the kitchen. He glanced at the den door, shut tight. “He in?”

“No,” came the reply, and he looked over at her. Her voice now had a very sad quality to it.

“What is it?” he asked. Sat at the table. Watched her back as she filled two cups with coffee and brought them to the table. He put a couple spoons of sugar in his, along with some cream.

She watched him over the lip of her mug as she took a sip of her coffee. “How long has it been, Mark?” she asked quietly.

He had to think about that. He'd first gone in the drunk tank just about seven days ago now. Almost a week of being clean. That thought stunned him. “Today or tomorrow will make it a week.”

“You believe it will … last?”

He held his mug up in a toast. “Here's to hoping, right?”

“Yes,” she replied then, holding up her own mug, “here's to hoping.”

They sat for a moment in silence, then he said, “Anything from the police on … his killing?”

“No. Nothing.” Anger creeping in now.

“There's still hope,” he assured her. To his surprise, she glared at him, like he'd been the one to kill her son.

“Hope? Really? I don't think the police will ever find the man who killed him.”

“That's not true­—”

“Stop with the empty platitudes, Mark!” she yelled, her voice cutting through the air. “Stop with all the bullshit! Nobody cares! Nobody will do anything!” She caught herself then, looked at him in shock, like she couldn't believe she'd just yelled at a person who'd only come to see how they were doing. Reached out and put her hand on his. “I'm sorry. It's just … “

“I know, Phoebe, I know. Look, it could take some time, but I know the cop that has the case. He's one of the best, most caring Police I've ever known. Trust me when I say that he's working the case to the maximum abilities.”

“Thank you,” she said in a whisper. Got to her feet and went to the large windows that overlooked the backyard. She stood there for a moment, gazing out.

“There needs …
needs
to be justice for him, Mark.” Then sobs racked her body, and he got up and went to her. She buried her face in his shabby coat and cried. He felt like he was holding a small bird, she felt so frail.

“Phoebe,” he said as he guided her back to her seat. “I have to ask again: Besides the personal devil thing, did you notice anything odd in Eric's behavior, in the days leading up to … what happened?”

She reached over and snagged a tissue from the box that lived on the back edge of the table. Thought for a moment. “We saw him a couple days before. And, well, he did seem distracted, but that—” She stopped then.

“What? What is it, Phoebe?”

“I didn't think about it much at the time. He was spending the night here. Wouldn't sleep in his old room, but slept on the couch. I woke up to use the bathroom. It was just past two. I noticed the lights on downstairs. I found him completely dressed, not sleeping, just peering out the windows. I think he was muttering something to himself, but I couldn't be sure.”

That did not seem like Eric at all. That seemed like a scared or paranoid man. “Did you hear what he was muttering?”

Phoebe shook her head. “I wish I had. All I caught was, ‘not ever again.
'
”

Not ever again.
He thought about Dockery. About what he'd said. “Hey,” he said, “when I was coming up the street, I saw a man pacing back and forth across the street, right in line with this place. It felt … weird, so I checked it out, and—”

“It's just like Hal told me,” she said with genuine warmth. “You
are
still a cop, way down deep inside.”

“Sometimes,” he conceded. “Phoebe. This man? He said he had to talk to you. Said it had to do with an apology. His name is Dockery. That's all I got. That name ring a bell?”

She thought for a moment, and then shook her head. “No,” she said slowly, “that name isn't familiar.”

“You sure you never heard Eric mention that name? At all?”

“I'm sorry, Mark, but no. I'm sure I never heard Eric say that name to me.”

Well, it'd been a long shot. Maybe Jenna knew that name. He'd have to ask. “He told me that he has to see you. He also said he'd been with Eric, in prison. Told me it was to do with an apology. Would you be up for that? I'll be here, and I'm sure Hal will be, too. It might help the police in figuring out what happened.”

She looked up at him then. Very clearly, she said, “Yes. I'd like to meet him.”

He squeezed her hand in reassurance. Got to his feet. “Thanks, Phoebe,” he said. Gave her his cell number. “If you need anything, just let me know.”

As he was leaving the room, she called out to him. He turned. “I'm happy to see you like this, Mark,” she said, a small smile briefly crossing her lips. Like a peek of sun behind clouds.

Twenty-Two

Dockery limped along the
street, ribs aching, face sore.
For a wiry, strung-out white fucker
, he thought,
that guy packed a brick of a punch.
Made his way to the place he shared with his girlfriend. As he went, his chest tightened when he realized he'd probably said too much. But damn it, he needed to see Mrs. Russ. It wouldn't make it okay; hell, nothing could. Maybe it could at least put the mother's mind to rest a bit.

He turned the corner onto his street, and the feeling started again between his shoulder blades. The same feeling he'd gotten that hipped him to Mallen following him. Glanced over his shoulder. All he could see was a dark two-door sedan driving along in the street. Slow. Looking like the owner was hunting for parking.

Or, maybe hunting for something else.

Swore under his breath. Remembered then that Mallen had emptied his gun.
Fucker, you owe me a clip!

Went to a nearby stoop. Made to tie his shoe. Heard the car pass along the street and keep going. Maybe it was nothing, but his years in the joint wouldn't let him believe that. Something was up.

Oberon sat at his breakfast table, coffee near one hand, notebook in front of him. He always pored and pored over his notes, like an archaeologist poring over the Rosetta Stone. His habit of drawing connecting arrows and thought balloons over words left his notes looking like some dyslexic scientific notation that only he could decipher. The phone rang and he picked up the extension.

“Kane speaking,” he said.

“Inspector Kane? Saul Lowen, Folsom. Got your message. Sorry it took me so long to get back to you.”

“That's understandable. Large establishment you gentlemen run up there.”

There was a pause on the other end, like Lowen couldn't figure out if Oberon was making a joke or not. “Yeah, well,” Lowen finally said, “it can get busy. Now, what was it you were exactly looking for? Something about two inmates?”

“Ex-inmates. Both were paroled, and now both are dead.”

“Shame.” He could tell Lowen thought it was anything but.

“I know that both men, Carl Kaslowski and Anthony Scarsdale, were there at the same time. What I need to know is if both men mixed together. Did they know each other?”

There was another pause on the phone. He could swear Lowen put his hand over the receiver for a moment. Mumbled something to somebody. Came back on the line. “You know how many guys we got here? Over thirty-four hundred, on a good day. I don't know if—”

“I understand the difficulty; however, I was hoping that if you could look in their files, maybe there would be a mention of it. They were both the same security risk, so they would probably be housed in the same dorms. I do realize what I am asking, especially with how busy you must be. I'm dealing with two homicides here, and I believe they could be connected.”

There was another pause. This time he was sure he heard Lowen whisper something to someone. Then some laughter. “Okay, I hear ya,” Lowen said. “I'll have to find the files. I'll get back to you.”

Even though he now felt like it would be useless, he asked the question anyway.
Have to at least try, right, Mr. Investigator?
“Do you know how long it might be?”

“Soon. We had a sexual assault on a nurse in the infirmary this morning. I'm a bit jacked up. I'll have it for you soon, like I said.”

“Thank you,” Oberon said, adding, “it always fills me with warmth when two branches of law enforcement can work together so sympathetically.”

“Yeah, okay,” Lowen replied, the sarcasm sailing right over his head, and hung up.

Oberon sat there for a moment. Stared out the window at his garden. It was looking a bit shaggy. Badly needed a weeding. A feeling began to grow inside him, stark and hard. Lowen wasn't going to do a goddamned thing to help him. Oh, he might eventually call back, but it would be with a “Sorry, couldn't find a thing.” The man wouldn't even bother looking. He sighed. Would have to tackle it another way.

Got up and went to get dressed. He would run a check on both men, see if any of their known acquaintances were on the outside. Maybe one of those people would be able to tell him a thing or two. It would take longer, but if it were the only option, then so be it.

Gato had been sleeping in the backseat of the Falcon when Mallen had returned. His friend had bolted awake, a habit most probably picked up in jail. Gato then got out and went to the trunk, where he pulled out a plastic gallon water container. Bent over, and poured it over his head. Shook off the excess.
That water must've been cold
, Mallen thought as he watched Gato get back behind the wheel of the Falcon.

“You really need some sleep, Gato,” Mallen said as he got in and the man started up the car. Gato did a U turn, pointing the hood south, back toward Geary. When they hit Geary, he made a left, back toward the Loin.

It was a few blocks later when Gato finally spoke. “How they doin',
vato
?”

“About like you'd expect.” He realized he'd forgotten to ask when Hal would be back. He'd really wanted to see what Hal's take would be on how Eric was acting in the time leading up to his murder. A guy would tell his father things he'd never, ever tell his mother.

He glanced out the window at the local markets, donut shops, and restaurants. The world certainly wasn't more beautiful now that he was off the junk, but it did feel more real. He had to give it that, at least.

“Where you want me to take you now?” Gato said.

“Can you take me back to the Cornerstone?” At Gato's look, he put up his hand to stop him.

“Don't worry, man,” he said to Gato. “I'm good. I got Dreamo looking into who sold that junk to Eric. That guy might know something.” Left unsaid was the feeling that it might be that maybe no one sold that junk to Eric. That it was a plant. You have to work
every
angle of a case, and that was a fact. The other reason for going back there was to give Bill his cell number. He had to start thinking this way, if the future was going to hold moments like this, where a call might mean a new lead, or a dead end.

The future.
He couldn't really remember the last time he'd thought of that particular time frame. He sat back then. Tried to relax as Gato guided the Falcon through the tunnel that ran under Masonic.
Well
, he told himself,
maybe the future will be all right, after all.

The Cornerstone was fairly busy. It was now just after quitting time, so some of the regulars who actually had jobs were in residence. He nodded at Bill as he walked in, took a stool at the far end as usual.

Bill shouted at him, “Usual?”

“A double!” It arrived in short order.

“Dreamo's been asking after you,” Bill said under his breath.

That put him back on his heels. “He say that while you were in there pissing, or did he actually come out?”

Bill laughed. “Came the fuck out. He actually was out most of the fucking day. First time I can remember that happening since his mother died.”

“Thanks,” Mallen said as he took a sip of his drink and slid off the stool. Something was up. Did Dreamo have news?

There was a guy at the urinal. Tall, judging from his back. Big, but not Griffin big. Mallen killed time by washing his hands. Once the guy left, he went to the stall. It was closed up tight. He knocked the secret knock.

And that was when he saw the blood, trailing out from under the stall door. It crept its way toward the rusty drain.

He pushed on the door. Heard Dreamo's foot go up against it. To keep it closed. His mind flipped over then; that was crazy.

“Leave me alone, man …” said the familiar voice. But it sounded different now. Thicker. The foot slid slowly down the door, tired. The door swung back a little, and Mallen pushed on it the rest of the way. Dreamo sat there, nose bleeding, right eye puffing up swollen, red and ugly. Mallen noticed a couple tiny white objects on the floor—Dreamo's teeth.

“What the fuck happened, dude?” No one, nobody would ever fuck with Dreamo. He was somehow inviolate. If you beat on Dreamo, it was like beating on a priest, as far as the street was concerned. “How long you been here? Didn't B see you come in this way, man? You should've asked for help!”

For an answer, he only got the famous, broken cackle. “Nobody will help another, especially if that other is a dealer, Mal. You know that,” Dreamo said as he attempted to push his sagging Mohawk out of his eyes. This was very recent, and—

The man at the urinal …

Mallen charged out of the restroom and into the main room of the bar. The man wasn't there. Bill watched as he raced out of the bar and into the street. He looked up and down the street, but there was nobody who resembled the back of the person he'd seen. Hell, he hadn't even been paying attention. Damn it!
There's another old muscle that needs to be strengthened again
, he told himself as he went back into the bar and asked Bill for the first-aid kit. He knew enough to know that Dreamo wouldn't want paramedics and cops.

“You see the guy that came out of there, right after I went in, B?” he asked.

Bill shook his head as he handed over the first-aid kit he kept under the bar alongside a Louisville Slugger. “Sorry, Mal.”

“It's okay, man. Just a long shot.”

“Bad?” Bill asked with a look over at the men's room. Under any other circumstances, it would've been crazy. Absurd.

“Not sure. I don't think so. I'll let you know.” He went down the hall and entered the men's room. Dreamo was actually up at the sink. Washing the blood off his face. He rinsed his mouth, the water running a soft red.

“I can take you to emergency, man,” he said. “No one has to know it's you.”

Dreamo looked over his thin shoulder at Mallen. Spied the first-aid kit. “Naw man. It's good. Not the first I've taken, right? Didn't you beat me once? For shorting you?”

“You wish, asshole,” Mallen said. He heard a scraping sound on the door. Smiled. That would be Bill, putting the “Out of Order” sign up. Amazing where our guardian angels came from. He went and sat Dreamo back in his stall. Went to work on the cuts. It was his first time that he could remember ever seeing the man up close, and not through a drugged haze. He was older than he'd originally thought. Thinner, too. There were the tattoos he'd come to know, but had never really studied them. Mystic symbols, astrological signs. Had the tarot card for The Magician on his right forearm. He'd never realized that before. Lots of track scars.
How much longer did Dreamo have?
he wondered.

“Ouch, man,” Dreamo said with some heat as he cleaned the cut above the man's right eye. “That shit hurts, Mallen.”

“Yeah, it does. Who did it, Dreamo?

A pause. “Didn't recognize him.”

“Didn't? Or didn't want to?”

Dreamo glanced at him again. Shook his head. “Didn't.”

“Okay. You ask around about Eric at all?”

“Yeah. Came up with shit, man. No one sold him that dope, or that's what's being said. Sorry I couldn't do more.”

“You did more than you think, maybe.” He put a bandage over the cut above Dreamo's eye. Dug out some aspirin. Held them out to Dreamo, but got only a laugh in return. Mallen had to laugh, too. “Sorry, bro. Don't know what I was thinking.” Took a rag that was in the kit and soaked it in warm water. Came back and held it out to Dreamo, who looked at it for a second, then at Mallen.

“Why are you doing all this, man? You're not in my world anymore. I don't get it.”

“Take the fucking rag and finish cleaning your face, Dream.” As Dreamo did this, Mallen said as he glanced around the room. “You're still a human being. Having been in your world? I can understand you a lot better than I would've had I stayed a cop, you know? And,” he added as he put the first-aid kit back in order, “even though you sell horse, you were always straight with me. Never ripped me off. I appreciated that. Every time.” Paused for a moment. “The guy that beat on you? What
can
you tell me?”

Dreamo sighed. Reached for his rig, from a secret place behind the toilet tank. “You tell
no one
this is here, okay?” Dreamo said. “Bill would take the hit on it, and I don't want that, man. Dig?”

“I get you,” he replied as Dreamo began to cook a shot. His eyes were riveted on the needle. Had it only been like a week? Man … that would feel so good, and then he could—

Dreamo stopped then. Looked at his rig, then at Mallen. Put it away, under the toilet tank. Breathed deeply. “You asked about the guy who beat on me?”

It took a moment to come back to the here and now. “Yeah … yes. I did.”

“I didn't see him. He turned off the fucking lights, then busted into the stall and just beat on me. I asked what the fuck, you know? But he never said a word. Strong asshole, that's for sure.”

“How many people had you asked about Eric?”

A shrug. “As many as I could handle. Five, maybe seven. Asked some street demons. The word is out there about an ex-cop who fell that
wasn't
you, you know? Nobody is copping to selling some dope to an ex-cop who ended up dead. Why would they?”

Right
, he thought,
why the fuck would they
? “And this was what, yesterday? Day before?”