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“So it seems I have two choices,” the mayor said. “Under the Hate Crimes Legislation, Article Four, I can call in the FBI, who, I believe, keep a close watch on these groups…”
“They have no fucking idea how to run a homicide investigation,” Mercer protested.
“Or… I can let the lieutenant do her job. Tell the Feds we got it all handled ourselves,” the mayor said.
I met his eyes. “I went to the academy with Art Davidson. You think you want to catch his killer any more than I do?”
“Then catch him,” the mayor said and rose. “Just so we know what’s at stake,” he added.
I was nodding glumly when Lorraine burst through my door. “Sorry to interrupt, Lieutenant, but it’s urgent. Jacobi called in from Vallejo. He said make the place up nice and neat for an important guest. They found the biker from the Blue Parrot.
“They found Red.”
Chapter 37
ABOUT AN HOUR LATER, Jacobi and Cappy entered the squad room. They were pushing a large redheaded biker type, his hands cuffed behind his back.
“Look who decided to drop in.” Jacobi smirked.
Red jerked his arms defiantly out of Cappy’s grip as the policeman shoved him into Interrogation Room 1, where he tripped over a wooden chair and crashed to the floor.
“Sorry, big fella.” Cappy shrugged. “Thought I warned you about that first step.”
“Richard Earl Evans,” Jacobi announced. “AKA Red, Boomer, Duke. Don’t feel insulted if he doesn’t stand up and shake hands.”
“This is what you thought I meant by no contact?” I said, looking cross but inside delighted that they had brought him in.
“The guy’s got a CCI sheet so long it begins with ‘Call me Ishmael.’ ” Jacobi grinned. “Theft, aggravated mischief, attempted murder, two weapons charges.”
“Behold,” exclaimed Cappy, producing a dime bag of marijuana, a five-inch hunter’s blade, and a palm-sized Beretta .22-caliber pistol out of a Nordstrom’s shopping bag.
“He know why he’s here?” I asked.
“Nah,” Cappy grunted. “We busted him on the gun charge. Let him cool his jets in the backseat.”
The three of us crowded into the small interrogation room facing Richard Earl Evans. The creep leered up at us with a smug grin, sleeves of tattoos covering both arms. He wore a black T-shirt with block letters on the back: “If You Can Read This… the Bitch Must’ve Fallen Off!”
I nodded, and Cappy freed him from the cuffs. “You know why you’re here, Mr. Evans?”
“I know you guys are in deep shit if you think I’m talking to you.” Evans sniffed a mixture of mucus and blood. “You got no teeth in Vallejo.”
I raised the bag of dope. “Santa seems to have brought you a lot of naughty toys. Two felonies… still on parole for a weapons charge. Time at Folsom, Quentin. My sense is you must like it there, ’cause next time up, you qualify for the thirty-year lease.”
“One thing I do know”—Evans rolled his eyes—“is you didn’t drag me all this way for some two-bit weapons rap. The sign on the door says Homicide.”
“No, big fella, you’re right,” Cappy injected. “Tossing your sorry ass in jail on a gun charge is only a hobby for us. But depending on how you answer a few questions, that weapons rap could determine where you spend the next thirty years.”
“Pupshit,” the biker grunted, leveling his cold, hard eyes in his face. “That’s all you assholes got on me.”
Cappy shrugged, then brought the flat end of an unopened soda can down hard on the biker’s hand.
Evans yelped in pain.
“Damn, I thought you said you were thirsty,” Cappy said contritely.
Red leered at Cappy, no doubt imagining running over the cop’s face with his bike.
“But you’re right, Mr. Evans,” I said. “We didn’t ask you down here to go over your current possessions, though it wouldn’t take much to hand your sorry ass right over to the Vallejo police. But today could work out lucky for you. Cappy, ask Mr. Evans if he’d like another drink.”
