14th Deadly Sin: (Women’s Murder Club 14) (22 page)

He put his hands on his knees and peered down into the opening; he looked down from another side of the hole and saw nothing but the long length of ladder and the dim blue light. He decided to retrace his steps and tell Denise Hubbell of the unbaked muffins that he’d visit again some other time.

But instead, he found himself getting a grip on the ladder, making sure it was steady, placing one foot on the top rung. And after that step proved to be stable, Joe began the descent to the bottom of the ladder.

When both of his feet were on solid concrete, Joe found the source of the light: a couple of open laptops on a roughly made desk. He was moving toward the desk, hoping to find a lamp, when a muscular arm snaked across his chest from behind and a sharp, cold blade stung the tight skin of his throat.

“Who the hell are you?” said the man with the knife.

JOE FROZE.

He considered kicking back at the man’s knees, but since that action could get his throat cut, he held up his hands and said, “Nothing to be concerned about, Clement. You certainly don’t need the knife, man. Your mom asked me to come down and check on you, that’s all. She was worried. Didn’t you hear me calling you?”

Joe had kept his voice steady, but he couldn’t control either his heart’s sudden drumbeat or the sweat beading his upper lip.

The arm around his chest loosened slightly, but the knife tightened. Joe felt it cut into his skin; at the same time, he felt the man’s hand lift the gun from his shoulder holster.

“Nice piece,” said the man’s voice. “Government grade. What are you? FBI?”

“I worked for the Feds,” Joe said. “I’m a civilian now. Retired.”

“So what are you doing here?”

Joe said, “I drive this road sometimes, and when I see your mom in the garden, I talk to her. She gave me some chives one time.” Joe was making it up as he went along, but he sounded convincing to his own ears. At the same time, adrenaline was coursing through his veins like a river over its banks in the rainy season.

He forced himself to slow his breathing and focused on his surroundings.

The room was about twelve by eight feet, the dimensions of a roomy two-person jail cell. There was a metal-framed bunk bed against one of the long sides of the room. On the short side to his right was that desk, made of a couple of ten-inch boards resting on two cinder-block pedestals.

To his left, on the other short wall, were a toilet, a washstand with no mirror, and a four-cubic-foot refrigerator. Joe had no sense of what was behind him on the opposite long wall.

“Have a seat, G-man,” said the ex-con who lived in the hole. He moved the knife away and shoved Joe against the lower berth of the bunk bed, which moved a couple of inches back toward the wall when he struck it.

Joe righted himself and got his first good look at Clement Hubbell. Hubbell was lanky, leaner than when his mug shot had been taken. His hair was close-shaven. He wore a wife-beater and a pair of cotton pants; he was barefoot. His arms were tattooed from fingers to collarbones in prison art: skulls, snakes, naked women, the word
MOM
inside a heart on his right biceps. The heart pulsed when Hubbell flexed his arm.

Joe watched as Hubbell set the knife down within reach on the desk and checked to see if Joe’s gun was loaded. It was. He pointed it at Joe and at the same time lifted the ladder, which was weighted so that it easily rose up to rest parallel to the ceiling. As the ladder rose, the ceiling hatch closed.

Joe’s hammering heart picked up its tempo. He was twenty years older than Hubbell. With the ladder up and the hatch closed, there was no way out.

Hubbell pointed to a pair of handcuffs beside Joe’s feet, and Joe saw that the cuffs were linked to a length of chain that ran under the bed. The other end of the chain was likely looped around the bed leg closest to the wall.

“Cuff yourself,” Hubbell said. “Then we can talk.”

“This is unnecessary,” Joe said. “I have nothing against you, Clem.”

Hubbell pointed the gun at the wall next to where Joe sat and fired it. The sound was loud, and it reverberated for long seconds.

Hubbell said, “Next shot’s for you.”

Joe picked up the cuffs and clasped one, then the other around his wrists. He moved the chain to get a sense of how long it was. About five feet. He could get to the toilet, but it was too short for him to reach Hubbell, who sat facing him in a swivel chair.

“What’s your name?” a relaxed Clement Hubbell asked Joe.

“Joe.”

“Joe what?”

“Hogan.”

“OK, Joe Hogan. Get comfortable. I feel like I’ve been waiting to meet you for a very long time.”

THE DOOR TO Leonard Parisi’s office was closed when Yuki arrived for the meeting. She checked the time, confirming that she was six minutes late. She explained to Parisi’s assistant that she’d been stopped at the security desk downstairs, but before Darlene could speak, Parisi opened his door.

“I thought I heard your voice,” he said. “We’re waiting.”

Parisi’s office took up a big corner section of the second floor. It was huge for offices in the Hall, but whatever it gained in size, it lost in its proximity to the sounds of the heavy traffic on Bryant Street.

Chief of Detectives Warren Jacobi was at the round oak conference table with his back to the windows. Parisi, Yuki’s former boss and mentor, took the seat closest to his desk, and Yuki sat between the two men, not far from the door.

Darlene passed bottled water around, and Parisi asked her to hold his calls, then said to Yuki, “You’re on first.”

Yuki took a pull from her water bottle. After five years of being Parisi’s protégée, she felt that the table had turned one hundred and eighty degrees.

This was her meeting. And she hoped she could pull it off.

“I’ve got a meeting with the mayor in fifteen minutes,” Jacobi said.

Yuki said, “I’ll get right to the point. I met with two new witnesses yesterday. They are reluctantly willing to cooperate if they get protection.

“If they tell what they know, we’ll have a strong lead on the identities of the parties who killed the dope dealers on Turk and Dodge. We’ll also know who killed Aaron-Rey Kordell.”

Parisi said, “This is what subpoenas are for, Counselor. Let’s hear their testimonies.”

“Only with protection, Len. Both witnesses are in fear for their lives, with good reason. I’m going to tell you what each of these men said, and if we can reach an agreement, I’ll set up meetings. I think you’ll want to settle the Kordell case out of court.”

“Doubtful,” Parisi said. “But go ahead and convince me.”

“Will do,” Yuki said. “My first witness will admit under oath that he killed Aaron-Rey Kordell.”

“Where are you going with this?” Parisi asked. “We don’t contest that Kordell was murdered in jail. Why would we protect his murderer? We should charge him.”

Yuki said, “This man was hired to—and I quote—‘Put Kordell down quick,’ in exchange for being moved to a different penal facility.”

“Who promised him that?” Parisi asked.

Yuki said, “A police officer did that, Len.”

“Why?” Jacobi asked. “Why would a cop want Kordell dead?”

“That brings me to witness number two,” said Yuki.

Neither man at the table spoke. She had their undivided attention.

She said, “The cop who commissioned the hit on Kordell is one of the three who killed the drug dealers.”

Parisi said, “You’re saying that a cop who participated in the murder of the dope dealers had Kordell put down to cover his tracks?”

“That’s right,” said Yuki. “Witness number two was in the crack house on Turk and Dodge and can corroborate that. He saw the shooting. With protection, he’ll testify that Aaron-Rey Kordell didn’t do it, and he may be able to identify one or more of the men who did.”

JUDGE QUIRK CLOSED the door to his chambers. He picked the Bible up from his desk and went to the seating area where several people were assembled: Yuki Castellano, Leonard Parisi, Warren Jacobi, and a jittery young man in jeans and a hoodie who sat in a side chair, jouncing his feet.

The judge settled into a wing chair beside the witness and said, “Please tell us your name, young man.”

“Arturo Mendez.”

“Place your hand on this Bible, Mr. Mendez. Now, I need you to swear before me and everyone here that you will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God.”

“I do. I swear.”

Judge Quirk said to him, “The nice lady sitting behind you, that’s Ms. Pearson, and she’s going to record what we all say. Ms. Castellano is going to ask you questions, and then Mr. Parisi, the district attorney, may have some questions.

“Mr. Parisi is the one who authorized an order of protection for you. The gray-haired man sitting next to Mr. Parisi is Chief of Police Jacobi. His interest is also in getting to the truth, Mr. Mendez. But only the truth. Not what you think. Not what you were told. Not what you think we want to hear. Just what you saw and heard. Any questions so far?”

“No, sir. I used to watch
Law & Order.
”

“Fine,” said the judge. “But that’s a TV show, and this is real. If you lie, that’s perjury, and that means jail time. Understand?”

“Yes, Your Honor. I get it.”

“Ms. Castellano, your witness.”

Yuki sat across from Arturo Mendez. She said, “Arturo, when did I meet you?”

“Yesterday.”

“And how did I come to meet you?”

“You got my name from Aaron-Rey’s mom. She has my number ’cause I was friends with A-Rey.”

“That’s right,” said Yuki. “And did I meet you on the corner of Turk and Dodge within view of the three-story house where the drug dealers were killed?”

“That’s right.”

“And do you know who shot the drug dealers inside that drug house?”

“Yes, ma’am. Because I was there and I watched it happen,” said Arturo Mendez.

“Were you under any drug influence when you witnessed the shooting?” Yuki asked.

“Nah. I never got a chance to score.”

“Are you straight now?”

“Yes, ma’am. I ain’t no junkie, anyway. I can pee in a cup if you want.”

“Not now, Arturo. Can you please tell us the events that took place in the crack house when the dealers were killed?”

Arturo Mendez told the story exactly as he had told it to Yuki the day before. He’d been in the house when three men wearing SFPD Windbreakers came in and ordered the dope dealers to “grab the wall.”

Mendez was hiding, but he watched those men frisk the dealers and take their money and guns and drugs. Then they turned the dealers back around. That was when he heard one of the “cops” make a comment: “Put yourself in my shoes.”

Arturo Mendez told the people in the judge’s office that that was the man who shot all three of the drug dealers, after which “the whole crew of guys wearing the Windbreakers left by the stairs.”

Mendez said further that he waited until they were gone, then was making to leave when Aaron-Rey Kordell came up the stairs, excited because he’d found a gun in the stairwell.

Mendez said A-Rey hadn’t seen the shootings and that he, Mendez, had told A-Rey to run.

Yuki said, “Can you describe the shooters?”

“Yes, sorta. They was wearing masks.”

“What kind of masks?”

“Rubberlike, the kind that almost look like real faces, and like I said, they wore the blue SFPD Windbreakers and caps, you know. And cop shoes.”

“Anything else you think we should know, Mr. Mendez?”

“One of those men, he had a tattoo on his neck, right about here.” Mendez indicated a spot under his left ear, just above the collar line. Yuki saw Parisi’s eyes widen.

“Could you identify that tattoo?” Yuki asked.

Tears spontaneously sprang from Mendez’s eyes.

He said, “You gotta move me to another state, no lie. When I was coming into the building just now, I think I see that cop with a tattoo on his neck. He mighta seen me, too.”

WHEN JOE WASN’T telling himself he was an asshole, he tried to figure out how he was going to get out of this crypt alive. He sat in the lower bunk of the double-decker bed, his cuffed hands hanging loosely between his knees, the chain trailing under the bed. Off to his left, and way out of range, Clement Hubbell tapped the keys on his laptop.

Hubbell said, “There’s a whole lot of Joe Hogans in San Fran. Some’s retired. One of them has a deli and one is in auto parts. Here’s one who works in an insurance company. He’s closest to your age. Several Joe Hogans are dead. Which one are you?”

“Clem. May I call you Clem?”

“That’s my name,” said Hubbell. He closed out the search engine and scooted his wheeled chair so that he was opposite Joe. A stale smell of sweat and garlic came off him.

“Clem,” Joe said. “What’s going on here?”

On the wall behind Hubbell was a map of San Francisco. Five points had been starred on the map with a marking pen. Were these the locations of the five dead women, including the latest, Tina Strichler?

“What’s going on? This is what I call my life. Imagine how surprised I was to find you coming into my cell,” Hubbell said. “This is the first time that’s ever happened, and you know what? It’s kind of an invasion of privacy.”

“Open the cuffs and I’ll get out of here. I’ll pretend I never met you,” Joe said.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Hubbell said. “I haven’t had a chance to get to know you. And you know, I’d really like to.”

Hubbell opened and closed his Buck knife as he swiveled in his chair. The hunting knife had a bone handle and a six-inch blade. From where Joe sat, the blade looked as sharp as a razor.

Joe said, “You said you felt like you were waiting for me. What did you mean?”

“I like solitary. But every now and then, a man likes to have someone to talk to.”

As Hubbell bent his head to his knife, Joe saw the tattoo on the top of his head, just visible under a quarter-inch carpet of hair. It was a vulture with its bill open, talons outstretched.