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I said, “When I interviewed Robertson, he vouched for Calhoun, said he was a good kid who’d had no dirty dealings of any kind. I didn’t pick up that he was covering for his partner—or himself. Maybe I got that wrong.” I went on, “Robertson and Calhoun reported to Ted Swanson.”
Jacobi said, “I called Swanson. He’s going through Robertson’s house now, looking for something that could explain this. He and Vasquez are talking to the neighbors.”
Conklin brought up Donnie Wolfe, the inside man at Wicker House who had informed the holdup team when the drugs and money would be in the house.
Conklin said, “Wolfe told us the robbers were cops, that the head dude’s tag was One, and that he was the boss of a six-man Windbreaker crew.”
Brady wrote One + 5 on the top of his pad.
Jacobi said, “A witness to the crack house shootings saw a tattoo on the neck of one of the Windbreaker cops. It sounds a lot like Bill Brand’s tattoo.”
I’d seen that tattoo. WB. Like a Western cow brand.
Conklin said, “We were working with these guys. Every day. So it comes down to this: Brand, Calhoun, and Robertson are Windbreaker cops, and there may be a couple more we don’t know about. Whitney’s on the radar, too, by association with Brand.”
Brady said, “It’s a working theory. Brand is on suspension pending investigation. Jacobi and I are meeting with him in an hour. Boxer, you and Conklin talk to Whitney. Lean on him, hard. Whoever talks first gets a deal. The other guy gets the jackpot.”
Back at my desk, I called Whitney’s cell and left a message, the first of three. Conklin said, “Maybe this has to be done in person. I’ll be right back.”
And ten minutes later he was.
“Whitney isn’t in and hasn’t called in,” Conklin said. “But I’m gonna say he already got the message.”
We headed over to Brady’s see-through office. He looked up and said, “Brand didn’t show.”
Conklin said, “Likewise, Whitney hasn’t punched in. Hasn’t returned our calls.”
It was a good bet that Whitney and Brand had split. And without them, we might never find out who had killed Calhoun, who had ripped off Wicker House and killed seven people and a snitch called Rascal Valdeen. We might never know who had killed the dope slingers in the crack house, another half dozen pushers, or the innocent owners of a couple of check-cashing stores. And there was the matter of that mercado shooting. Maya Perez had died along with her unborn child.
I felt like we were on the verge of everything or nothing. And suddenly, my refried brain kicked up the obvious candidate for the job of “One.”
I’d thought of him before, but his all-American good looks and kind manner had thrown me off my guard. Currently, he wasn’t on our radar at all.
I sat down across from Brady so I didn’t have to speak from the open doorway. “What about Swanson?”
“What are you saying? You think he’s in on this?”
“Swanson’s a distinguished cop. He was sold to us as a superstar. Calhoun and Robertson reported to him. How could he not be involved?”
“Trust your gut,” said Brady.
CHAPTER 93
MY GUT SAID we shouldn’t go Rambo on Swanson.
Conklin agreed. “You talk to him. I’ll work on locating Whitney.”
The Swanson family lived in the Parkmerced apartment development, twenty minutes from the city center in a 150-acre private village with both high-rise flats and town-homes. It was twilight as I drove down the lush, tree-lined streets, passing charming small parks and playgrounds.
It was easy to think that nothing bad could happen here.
Swanson lived in a two-tone burnt-orange-and-dark-brown stucco-faced building that looked to be a three-family unit. I’d just braked at the curb when he came out of his front door and down the walk to meet me at the car.
“Sorry to drop in unannounced,” I told him. “But we have to talk.”
Swanson said, “Come in, Boxer. Glad to see you, actually.”
Ted Swanson was disarmingly likable. His whole clean-cut, easygoing manner made my theory of him as the boss of a dirty-cop crew seem ridiculous.
