Playing the Game (12 page)

The incident had been pretty well publicised after the event. Although the LAPD backed me fully and there was never any suggestion, by the PD or by the media, of any wrongdoing on my part, I knew deep down that I’d made the wrong decision. One of those ‘bad’ calls.

I remember going home that night to find a reporter from the LA Times, I think it had been Paul Britland-Jones, on my doorstep. Exhausted though I was, I took the time to answer his several questions. I’d always enjoyed a good relationship with the media, and the resulting positive coverage I would receive after this incident was a testament to that.

He asked me if I had anything I’d like to say regarding the death that morning of Andrew Caldwell.

33

            Turns out, James Tetley could be right. Aware we needed to get back to ‘The Game’ soon, to avoid The Chemist getting suspicious, I’d given him ten minutes. During that time he told us that he had served time at San Quentin. Two years into his sentence, he’d been stationed on mail delivery detail. As far as work stations went, this was a pretty good one. The governor and guards of San Quentin, much like any other prison, would assign inmates duties to carry out within the prison. These duties came with certain privileges, which could, and often would be taken away from an inmate if violent or disparaging behaviour was discovered and proven to have been committed. Quite often proving that an inmate had attacked, or in some cases killed, another inmate was entirely different from knowing they had. The prison naturally segregated themselves into groups; The Aryan Brotherhood, with whom Tetley had the trouble, The Italians, The Muslims, The Irish, The Latinos, The Bikers….  Fitting into none of these, Tetley kept himself to himself as much as possible, trying to have no conflict with any group, figuring this was the best way to try and keep himself alive during his sentence. It hadn’t worked out that way of course, as his current situation could attest to; the trouble with the Aryans had ultimately led him back to hospital and given him the urgency to strike the deal. He had seemed quite desperate not to go back. He said that making it out of San Quentin alive once was lucky. Twice would be nearly impossible.

            There had been another segregation of prisoners. One enforced by the governor out of obvious necessity, rather than by the inmates themselves out of any natural ‘common ground’ instincts. The Women.  They were confined to their own wing, adjoining the main three blocks. As San Quentin only housed around fifteen female inmates at any one time, this wing was more secluded and had much less of an authority presence; quite often only one guard.

            As part of his weekly mail delivery rounds, he would go into this wing, just as he would all the others, and it was during these rounds that he had initially made contact with Sarah Caldwell.

            She had been in the last cell on the wing; even more secluded than the rest of the women. Just like every other male inmate, and indeed probably some of the female inmates, it hadn’t taken long for Jimmy to start to crave female attention and company. Three years had been a
hell
of a long time! As far as the female inmates went, Sarah had been by far the most attractive, although given the competition around her, that wasn’t much of an accolade and not that the environment was conducive to anything other than talking in any case. She had long black hair that she would tie back in a ponytail, clear blue eyes and a smile that definitely brightened his day on the rare occasions she flashed it. She had a medium build but not even the prison issued uniform could hide the fact that she had a killer body. Boy, would he love to see that.

            He’d started off by making small talk initially. Just a greeting here, a smile there. Gradually over the course of seven months or so, the exchanges had grown to full-blown conversations and often they would talk for an hour or more, depending on whether or not the guard was being a prick.

            There was one guard, Dave Barnes, who would let them talk as freely as they liked and for as long as they wanted. It helped that Tetley would sometimes bring a smuggled bottle of vodka for the guard, stashed in the mail cart. Quite often, after Tetley and Caldwell had finished talking, a good portion of that bottle would have been consumed by Barnes.

            On one occasion, Barnes shared the bottle with them, and they had spent a very enjoyable hour getting fairly drunk. Barnes had left them to it, and it was during the resulting conversation that Tetley had asked her a question. ‘So if you were to ever get out’, he said, giggling under his intoxication, ‘what would be the first thing you’d do?’

            ‘I’d play a game’, Sarah giggled back. ‘I’d play a great game’.

            ‘What game would that be then?’ he’d enquired. ‘Twister? Monopoly?’

            ‘Oh a very different kind of game, James. One where I injected my victim with Clozapone and try and get the police to find her’, she giggled again. ‘But I can’t tell you any more than that’. Bringing her index finger to her lips, she smiled. ‘Shhhh!’ she whispered. ‘Keep that to yourself’, she laughed. ‘I need to have payback!’

            Barnes had returned at that moment, saying that time was up. He had to go back to his block. ‘Just make sure you don’t look drunk’, he warned, ‘and don’t mention my name, or I will fuck you up, you understand?’

            Tetley nodded. ‘No problem, boss’. Then, turning to Caldwell; ‘Bye Sarah’.

            That had been the last time he saw her. When he had come the following week, her cell had been empty. He’d asked Barnes where she had gone, but he’d simply shrugged, saying he had no idea and, more to the point, couldn’t care less. He’d asked a couple more of the guards too but had pretty much the same response. It had been a mystery to him too, up until he’d seen the news report in hospital.

            As much as he’d valued his friendship with Sarah at the time, it wasn’t as much as he valued his freedom now.

            Charlie and I listened intently as Tetley gave us his story. It sounded plausible enough, and I radioed Captain Williams to get a hold of San Quentin records and this guard Dave Barnes to see if we could confirm it.

            True, aside from the identity, Tetley had no more details but if he was correct, this would be a massive break for us. It would certainly give us an edge we didn’t have before. It might just save Stella.

            Telling Tetley that if he was right, we’d do what we could to keep him out of prison, we left the hospital room and stepped out into the corridor. I took that opportunity to fill Charlie in about Andrew Caldwell. Upon hearing the chain of events up on Windsor Hills, he let out a hard breath. ‘Well we have motive for involving you, man, that’s what we have’, he said. ‘And if Tetley is right, that makes sense. Did you ever see Sarah Caldwell after Andrew’s death?’

            ‘I’m not sure’, I replied. ‘I went to his funeral. Felt like I should, like I owed him that. There were only a couple of other people there; couple of his friends I think. I did see a woman standing under a tree, near the burial but just far enough away that she wouldn’t be approached. Maybe that was her’, I shrugged.

            ‘Could be man, yeah’, Charlie agreed. He waited expectantly.

            ‘That’s all I got Charlie boy, there’s nothing else’, I said.

            ‘I was just thinking it might be a good time to open that next envelope’

            Caught up in the revelation that Sarah Caldwell may be The Chemist, I’d almost forgotten about that. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled it out, and began to tear it open.

34

Last week

            Cyprian Hague pulled into the main car park of the Walt Disney Concert Hall on South Grand Avenue. Darkness had set in a couple of hours ago and car park E was deserted. It was the perfect place to meet; it would either be deserted, like now, or full of concert goers and therefore easy to blend in. He remembered seeing a particularly pleasing performance of the Los Angeles Philharmonic Orchestra a few weeks ago at this very venue. He was here for an entirely different purpose tonight.

            It was a shade before ten and he’d been here for about fifteen minutes or so. He knew he’d be early but that was a force of habit with him now. He’d rather be early and drive around the circumference of the building, just checking that there was nothing suspicious, no-one there who maybe shouldn’t be. Especially now, given his increasing paranoia over the last few days.

            He’d met with various members of the Animi here over the last couple of years, maybe only four or five times in total. Each member had their own designated car park to avoid several cars being seen together; raising questions, arousing suspicion. His was car park E. There was a seating area set just off the main entrance which was where any meeting always took place. Leaving his car, he hurried to the rendezvous point, hands in his pockets and pulling his scarf up to his mouth; it was freezing, but this meeting was necessary.

            Arriving at the seating area, he couldn’t see anyone waiting for him. Preferring to stand, shuffling his feet to keep warm, he checked his watch.

            ‘Good evening Cyprian,’ Mr Brando stepped out of the shadows.

            ‘Good evening Conrad’, he reciprocated. ‘Thanks for meeting’.

            ‘I’ve been thinking about our conversation yesterday’, Conrad said. ‘Are you positive that there were no photographs of the writing on the kitchen wall?’

            ‘Absolutely’, Cyprian replied, ‘I thought the same. I had my source double check and believe me; if there was writing on the wall, there would have been a photograph of it, and it would have been with the rest. My source would definitely have had that photograph. It wasn’t there’.

            ‘Your source’, Conway enquired, ‘Reliable? One hundred percent?’

            ‘He’s never let me down before Conrad, and he’s also an old friend. He’s got no reason to lie to me. I can’t understand why the photograph wouldn’t be there’.

            ‘Well as far as I can see, there are two reasons’, Conrad mused. ‘Either your source is wrong; there is a photograph showing The Chemist’s message to us, or there never was a message, and McCrane and Burr have somehow manufactured one, and for some reason want us running scared’.

            Hague nodded in agreement. ‘Well that’s what I thought as well Conrad, and knowing my source like I do, I can only conclude it’s the latter’.

            ‘But why?’ Conrad questioned. ‘Why would they need to do that? It doesn’t make any sense.’

            ‘I’ve been thinking about that too’, Hague said, ‘And that one has got me. I’ve got no idea why they would do that’.

            ‘So what are we saying? That there is no Chemist?’ Conrad wanted to know.

            ‘Well there must be a Chemist’, Hague reasoned. ‘The news is full of that shit. I’m just not sure how much of what Burr and McCrane told us is true’.

            ‘So you think that we’re safe then?’ Conrad continued. ‘That The Chemist isn’t going to take revenge on the Animi?’ He seemed relieved. ‘Because I don’t mind telling you, I’ve been looking over my shoulder the last couple of days’.

            ‘Well if Burr and McCrane were lying about the photo then maybe there never was a message from The Chemist to us. If The Chemist isn’t planning on taking revenge on us then that only leaves one possibility’.

            ‘And what’s that’, Conrad said somewhat nervously; it looked as if he already knew.

            ‘That McCrane and Burr have an ulterior motive for wanting us afraid.

            ‘Well what could that possibly be’, Conrad exploded. ‘And why not tell the rest of us?’ he asked, although his affair with Burr’s wife was beginning to sound alarm bells in his mind. He wasn’t about to disclose that to Hague though. If Burr knew about the affair, then he had a very good reason to plot some sort of revenge. Maybe he’d found out and enlisted McCrane’s help?

            ‘Again, I’ve been thinking about that too’, Hague advised. ‘I can only think that they have a reason for keeping us in the dark and that can’t be good’.

            Shaking his head, trying desperately to put together all the pieces of the puzzle, something suddenly clicked with Conrad Conway. He turned again to Cyprian Hague.

            ‘Not knowing what we suspect we now know; suppose we still thought there was a message from The Chemist and suppose one of us was to meet with, shall we say, an untimely accident. After the meeting we just had, what would be your first reaction?’

            Hague pondered this question momentarily. ‘That The Chemist had carried out the threat. Or at least started to’.

            ‘Exactly’, Conrad enthused, sure he was on the right track. ‘Everyone would assume that, no questions asked’.

            So what your suggesting is that Burr and McCrane are about to take one of us out, for some reason?’ Hague was almost incredulous. Still, he had to admit, it seemed the only plausible explanation.

            ‘Right again’, confirmed Conrad. ‘Question is, who, and why?’ Again, he declined to make Hague fully aware of the facts. Perhaps in hindsight the affair hadn’t been such a good idea. No amount of fun was worth paying for with your life!

            ‘I’ve got no fucking idea. Listen, do we bring the others into this?’

            ‘Let’s not just yet’, Conrad paused. ‘Listen I have an idea, let me put out a couple of feelers, see what I can come up with. Stay in touch though, you think of anything, let me know!’

            Both Conrad Conway and Cyprian Hague left the Walt Disney Concert Hall even more worried than when they arrived.

            Hague would drive straight home, checking his wing mirrors every couple of seconds as he drove nervously through the night. Conway wasn’t heading home just yet. It was half past ten, and very shortly he had to meet one blackmailing son-of-a-bitch that liked to call himself ‘The Bully’.