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I smiled at him. He smiled back. Sometimes I dislike Brady, and sometimes I love him. Right now, I loved him. Before someone started to tear up, he gave me the crime scene coordinates and told me to check it out and to call him every hour.
When he had gone, I texted Conklin.
He texted back.
We arrived at Wicker House within ten minutes of each other. After touring the bloodbath, my partner said, “I have a hard time believing cops did this.”
Four of the seven dead men were unarmed, and spent brass littered the floors and stairwell.
Swanson, Vasquez, Conklin, and I were looking over the CSIs’ shoulders when Clapper came over to me and said, “We’ve got more prints than a frame shop. As for the casings, we’ve got all kinds. From the position of the bodies, it looks to me like the shooters had the advantage of surprise. And they used suppressors.”
Then Clapper nicely told us we were in the way.
“As soon as I know anything, I’ll call you,” he said.
CHAPTER 42
IT WAS JUST after 5 a.m. and Donnie Wolfe was parked on a free-parking residential street in the Inner Sunset neighborhood.
He was leaning against the hood of his red 2003 Camaro. There were attached houses on both sides of Twelfth Avenue, short flights of steps up to the front doors, slopes down to the garages, almost an apple-pie-and-baseball feel to it.
He’d been out all night and was talking to his girl on the phone, saying, “I was working late, Tamra. You just pack everything you need for a couple of days and don’t talk to your friends. Do not talk to your mother, or that stupido downstairs. I got a couple of meetings and then I’m coming home to sleep. And then we’re outta here.”
Tamra was pregnant. Twenty weeks. Donnie didn’t tell her his business, and she was cool. But obviously, she didn’t like breezing out of town on the sneak, not knowing where they were going and not telling her mother, neither.
“It’s going to be beautiful, Tam,” he said. “Trust me. Don’t talk. Pack. Chill.”
The gray Ford was coming up on him, slowing and parking right behind his ass. Donnie pulled on his shirttails, making sure they covered the piece he’d stuck in his waistband. Then he got out of his car and walked toward the man he knew as One.
“How you make out? Everything good?” Donnie asked the stocky man wearing big shades and a ball cap pulled down low over his eyes.
/> “That’s close enough,” One said to his inside man at Wicker House. Donnie stopped walking and showed his empty hands.
One asked, “Where’s your buddy?”
“Rascal’s cool,” Donnie said. “He’s staying out of sight.”
One nodded. He said, “Here’s your go bag.” He reached over to the passenger seat, then tossed a black nylon duffel bag though the open window to Donnie.
Donnie caught the bag, stooped to the sidewalk, and unzipped it. There was a pair of Colorado plates at the side of the bag, which was filled with stacks of banded used bills.
The kid riffled through the money. It looked good and like it added up to the agreed-upon hundred thousand, his cut and Rascal’s.
He said to One, “So I guess this is bye-bye.”
“As long as you keep quiet. Don’t make me come looking for you.”
“The big boss—”
“The last I saw of the big boss, he had a mouthful of carpeting.”
“Not Mr. Royce,” said Donnie. “I’m talking about his boss, man. The King. He has an idea who you are. So don’t blame me for that.”
“I know who he is, too,” said One. “And I know where he lives.”
“Not my boss and not my problem,” said Donnie. “I’m good. I’m checking out. I got plans.”
“Your first plan should be to ditch that flashy car,” said One. “Be careful, Donnie.”
