First Commandment Page 4

“One more thing. Senator Evans asked for your contact info and I didn’t know what to do. You know—the secret Sara Ward thing.”

  “What did you do?”

  “News of the Altman shooting interrupted our conversation and he ran off.”

  “Good. Next time you talk with him, tell him we spoke and I said thanks, but I’m not interested. If he pressures you about my contact, give him 408–555–7288. It’s Sara Ward’s number.”

  “And I haven’t forgotten the employee list you requested.”

  “Thanks.”

  He hung up and I related the details to Bubba.

  “You know,” he said. “Like you, I’m still uneasy about ole Lenny. He’s an odd one. I’d like to know more.”

  “I’ll ask Braklin to check him out. Maybe buy Dick lunch to return the favor.”

  Bubba grinned but said nothing.

  “Back on the subject of hate crimes,” I said, “you think there’s something about the Arab guy you met? What’s his name?”

  “Mahmoud Elmahdy. Goes by Max. If he’s looking for revenge against Horowitz for his family’s death fifty years ago, the second shooting sorta takes him out of the picture. It’s hard to imagine anyone going to the extreme of staging a terrorist attack, let alone two of them, to take revenge on a single person.”

  I sighed. “I’m not sure it’s a big step from killing a single child to killing dozens.”

  The thought depressed me. I needed a smoke and a drink. I turned off the TV and went to the fridge for some ice.

  “I forgot to tell you,” Bubba said. “I’m gonna take the weekend off. Need to spend it with my daughter. It’s my monthly turn and I’ve neglected her too much.”

  “The bad guys will still be around on Monday, Bub.”

  I poured three fingers of Wild Turkey and sat down at my desk.

  He turned the TV back on, the lovely Jenna still recapping.

  I muted it again.

  “How is little Rachel?”

  “She’s terrific. In third grade now. Growing like a weed and captivated by the internet. It’s amazing how smart kids are these days.”

  I reflected back on Bubba’s loss of his girl’s custody in a bitter divorce. The courts didn’t think a single dad who was a professional wrestler provided the appropriate environment for a child. I believed that had a lot to do with his subsequent willingness to team up with me five years ago. Unfortunately, he learned that a PI’s job doesn’t fare much better in the eyes of the court.

  “Go be with your kid. Take what time you need. Maybe spend some quality time with the ex.”

  He rolled his eyes and chugged the rest of the green stuff.

  I called Braklin first thing in the morning.

  “Saw you on TV last night, Richard. You weren’t very helpful to that cute reporter batting her eyes at you. What’d you call her? Jenna?”

  “Jesus, Hunt. She wasn’t batting her eyes.”

  He sounded pissed.

  I shouldn’t have called him Richard. I needed to ask a favor and he hated the name. Claimed the only person who ever called him Richard was an old-crone babysitter who baby-talked him when he was old enough not to need a babysitter.

  “My bad. I apologize. Must have been the flashing cruiser lights.”

  I heard him sigh. “What’s on your mind, Jesse?”

  He was one of only four people who knew my middle name. We were even.

  “Wondering if you learned anything new from the Altman shooting.”

  “What I learned is that it’s the same guy as First Commandment. MO is identical.”

  “Not a copycat?”

  “Nah. Too many details that weren’t public. Same clothes. Same weapon. Seemed to know when the kids assembled for something in an open space with multiple exits—auditorium at First Commandment, basketball court at Altman. He takes two minutes, sprays the group with .223s, and vanishes in the chaos before anyone knows what went down. Hell, the principal even heard someone roar away from the school’s parking lot when the shooting stopped.”

  “You get him?”

  “Yeah, another woman. Different excuse, but same dead end.”

  “A diversion?”

  “I’m thinking yes, but nothing to back it up.”

  “Mind if I talk with the two women?”

  He paused. “Uhhh . . . sure. I’ll email you their info.”

  “In the meantime, can you check someone out for me?”

  He didn’t balk at the question. “You got a hit?”

  “No, but he’s an oddball in Senator Evans’ group that doesn’t fit.”

  “The gun-control pol?”

  “Yeah, same one. Jacob Horowitz seems to be hanging on his coattails, raising money for him.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “The weirdo’s name is Leonard Guillory.”

  “Well, your instincts were always good. I’ll get back to you.”

  “How about the FBI? Any help there?”

  “Not yet, but this second shooting galvanized their attention big time.”

  “Probably sweet Jenna’s comment about a Jewish hate motive.”

  He chuckled. “Yeah. A new guy, a specialist from the Sacramento office, is coming to camp out with us later this morning.”

  “I’d like to talk with him.”

  “Suit yourself. I’ll send his info when he shows up. Maybe you can loosen him up with some wily feminine charms.”

  There was surely a smart response to his comment, but I couldn’t think of one. “Thanks,” I responded instead. “Let me repay the favors. How about lunch?”

  He didn’t reply for so long that I began to wonder if we’d been disconnected.

  “I’d like that,” he said.

  I brooded over my conversation with Braklin. I had blurted out the suggestion for lunch without thinking. Was I trying to rekindle something I knew was impractical? “Impractical?” I echoed aloud. Why hadn’t I labeled it impossible, or shameless, or just plain stupid?

  I needed to relax. I lit a cigarillo at my desk, thankful that Bubba had left early morning to interview the administrators at First Commandment and Altman Elementary. Braklin was convinced the shooters were the same, but I wasn’t as sure, despite the abundance of evidence.

  I licked my lips, scrutinizing the decanter of Wild Turkey on the sideboard. The wall clock above it said ten a.m. Jesus! Was I turning into an alcoholic as well as a smoking addict? I shook my head and wondered if there was an AA equivalent for smokers, maybe Smokers Anonymous? How would that work? I suppose I’d call a personal sponsor every time I wanted a smoke. They’d give me a lecture on the health benefits of abstinence I already knew and would ignore as soon as I hung up. Perhaps I’d go to their place. They’d reiterate the ten steps of quitting and tell me how good I was doing after going four hours without smoking. I pictured their apartment with bowls of lemon drops on every table.

  The thought titillated me. How were sponsors chosen? Were they volunteers? Men or women? I’d pick a guy if it were my choice. I leaned back in my chair and looked at the ceiling. I’d choose Braklin and we’d have sex to get my mind off smoking. I smiled at the erotic images, then realized that after we’d finished, lying naked on rumpled sheets, sweating and breathing hard was the perfect time for a smoke.

  The ringing telephone on my desk rescued me from thoughts of self-destruction. I sat up straight and reached for the phone, noticing that it wasn’t our normal line. Sara Ward’s button flashed. I flinched. When was the last time that number lit up? Nevertheless, I knew who likely was on the other end.

  “Hello.”

  “Sara Ward?” said the voice I expected.

  “Yes.”

  “This is Blake Evans, Sara.”

  “Senator.” I tried to sound surprised. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “Jacob Horowitz gave me your number. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Are you busy?”

  I was busy, contemplating my bad ha
bits and sexless life, but was certain that wasn’t what he meant. I thought of answering, “Of course, idiot, I’m on the phone,” but yielded.

  “Not at this moment.”

  “I wanted to try again to convince you do some bookkeeping work for us. Part time would be acceptable if you’re otherwise occupied.”

  He handed me the excuse. “Things are pretty hectic.”

  My initial assessment of the senator was that he was a creep. His willingness to hire me without asking about credentials and experience didn’t alter that opinion. Sara Ward was a character that Braklin and I had invented to do police undercover work. She was cast as a woman of questionable integrity looking to make a quick buck. Indeed, someone with enough interest and the proper connections would find that she had a record of petty crimes. Bubba and I had cleaned up Sara’s public reputation with the website of an inexpensive bookkeeper and a blog of a single woman who liked to travel but was cash-strapped. She was called into service only twice, both times when a business owner wanted an insider to gather information on an employee before having them arrested.

  “The work is not for me,” Evans said, “but for my wife. She runs my old firm and needs some bookkeeping help.”

  I remembered the accusations of Evans’ political opponents about the senator’s old business—The Evans Agency, a premier executive search company. They complained that rich Silicon Valley executives were beholden to Evans for their jobs, and used their positions to donate enough corporate money to his campaign for him to run for president. After his senatorial election, he turned The Evans Agency over to his wife, a former fashion model. Last I heard, the business had not prospered.

  “I’m sorry, Senator. I’m overwhelmed and can’t remember my last vacation.”

  “I’ll double whatever Horowitz is paying you.”

  “Are you suggesting I abandon Jacob?”

  “No. Of course not. It’s an incentive to add my wife’s business to your already busy workload.”

  “I’m afraid not, but thanks for the offer.”

  “Well, think about it, please. In case you have a break.”

  “I will.”

  I put the phone down and startled at Aaron Horowitz standing in my office doorway. Why hadn’t I heard him come in? Had he been listening to my conversation with Evans?

  “Is it true?” he said. “What the news is reporting—that the shootings are anti-Sematic?”

  “There’s not a shred of proof that I’m aware of, Aaron.” I motioned him to sit down. “It’s press speculation and hyperbole.”

  He slumped into the chair and laid a thick envelope on my desk. His head drooped as he inspected me out of the top of his eyes. He pointed to the envelope.

  “I stopped by Jacob’s on my way to see you. He asked me to give you that. Said you needed it.”

  I opened the flap. It appeared to be a handwritten ledger of Jacob’s past and present employees. I set it aside.

  “Aaron, I . . . I apologize. I’ve been negligent about keeping you updated.”

  He hesitated and spoke slowly, seeming to select his words. “You’ve talked with Jacob. You were going to talk with the police. Anything else? Any progress at all?”

  They were proper questions. Unfortunately, I wasn’t proud of the proper answers.

  “Nothing substantive, I’m afraid. I can verify that the police are fully engaged and the FBI has sent a full-time agent who I plan to talk with. Bubba is scouting both schools this morning.”

  “No suspects?”

  “None.”

  “If you find Jenny’s killer, you will notify me before the police—correct?”

  “That’s our agreement.”

  “Good. Then I won’t take any more of your time.”

  He looked different from four days ago—frail and haggard. Was his poor health taking a toll?

  I felt I had to encourage him.

  “This has our full attention, Aaron. You are our only client right now.”

  “Excellent.”

  He leaned forward and pushed himself out of the chair, then shuffled out without another word.

  I watched him leave, pondering our conversation, still staring at the office door after it closed. A wave of despair washed over me. We were no closer to finding his granddaughter’s killer than at our first meeting. What could we do different? How could we speed things up? Could we work smarter? Should I ask Bubba to forgo the visit with his daughter this weekend? We needed a break in the case.

  The phone rang again.

  “Hello.”

  “Had lunch yet?” Braklin asked.

  “Uhhh, no.”

  “Our FBI liaison showed up. Wanna meet him?”

  “Sure.”

  “Henry’s Hi-Life in forty-five?”

  “See ya there.”

  Excitement and confusion crowded my thoughts. Did the FBI have something? Why did Braklin suggest I meet them for lunch? I could have gone to his office. Was he trying to get off the hook for our agreed-upon lunch, afraid to meet me alone?

  Two blocks from Henry’s, I slowed to watch a small demonstration in the Guadalupe River Park. The picket signs were familiar and the guy with the bullhorn standing in the rusty pickup was the same—Leonard Guillory. I knew he was innocent of the school shootings, but I couldn’t purge my feelings that he was, somehow, a very nasty guy.

  I pulled the Jag over, parked, and walked toward them. Lenny’s bullhorn spewed the same uninspiring spiel about gun control to probably the same uninspired people. He saw me. When I reached the back of the crowd, he pointed to me.

  “Even Sara Ward wants to know more about stopping gun violence.”

  I didn’t remember giving him my last name, let alone voicing an opinion on his gun-control opinions.

  The entire crowd turned to stare at me. Mostly young faces. Mostly women. A few expressionless unshaven men in unkempt clothing. Maybe there was food for the homeless after the rally.

  He continued, “But will she do anything about it? Will she vote for Blake Evans to register California guns?”

  I couldn’t resist the urge to pretend I was a shill, and expose him as a manipulative quack. I raised my fist and shouted, “Yes.”

  Ponytail Lenny smiled at me as the tiny crowd took up the chant, “Yes . . . Yes . . .”

  I left the clot of sycophants and walked down the street to Henry’s Hi-Life.

  Henry’s was the classic sports pub—long and narrow with a zillion TVs on the walls and bottles of booze filling any empty space. With the San Jose Sharks arena a few blocks away, it was the go-to place for hockey fans. Before and after the games, you couldn’t find a place to stand.

  I spotted Braklin and his guest—what a hunk!

  “Braklin,” I said with my louder-than-normal angry voice before I reached their table. “Remember the guy I asked you to check out, Leonard Guillory?”

  “Yeah?”

  “He’s down the street spraying gun-control philosophy to the illiterate.”

  “Sorry, Hunt. Will get you his sheet ASAP.”

  The FBI guy smiled.

  I sighed, sat down, and snatched a close-up of the FBI guy.

  “Hunt, this is Frank O’Farrell from the FBI’s Sacramento office.”

  We shook. Strong grip, red hair, blue eyes, perfect teeth. Good pecs and guns cut through the standard-issue FBI blue suit. I’d swoon if I was a teenager. I didn’t want to stare so I got right to the point.

  “What you bringing to the party, Frank?”

  He was soft spoken with a professional manner. “Right now, weapon forensics. We know that the bullets in both shootings are from the same source. Handmade, but fired from different guns.”

  “Same group,” Braklin added, “but different shooters.”

  “A gang? I asked. “A syndicate?”

  “Perhaps,” O’Farrell replied. “Also, the spent brass is loaded with fingerprints, but it’ll take a while to sort them out.”

  “Anything else?”

 
; “We’re checking the anti-Semitic motive. The shootings are local for now so we’re monitoring the nearby neo-Nazis, skinheads, hate groups, even suspected ISIS cells.”

  “You ever heard of the Frumentarii?”

  Braklin frowned at me. “What’s that?”

  “Historically,” O’Farrell said, “they were a collection of farmer spies for the Roman emperor.” He turned to me. “Why do you ask?”

  “Our friend Leonard Guillory has their tat on his forearm.”

  “The name pops up now and then,” O’Farrell added. “Nothing serious. They’re a wannabe terrorist organization without direction or leadership.” He weighed my comment. “I’ll add them to our list.”

  I felt better. This was progress—small, but in the right direction.

  “Can I tell my client? He’s desperate for news.”

  “Can he keep quiet?”

  “He’s good. No reason to go public. It’s personal with him.”

  Braklin’s cell buzzed. He read the text.

  “I gotta go,” he said. “You two get acquainted.”

  We watched him hurry out the door and then turned toward each other with similar sheepish grins. We were abandoned without a guide, and I was not good at blazing a trail of small talk.

  “O’Farrell, huh,” I said. “Irish?”

  “Yeah. It means ‘man of valor.’”

  I grinned. “Do you tell all the women that?”

  “At every opportunity.”

  “Does it work?”

  “Never.” He chuckled. “Detective Braklin tells me you and he used to be partners.”

  “We were.”

  “What happened?”

  “I got restless following the rules.”

  “I know what you mean. Good thing you’re not in the FBI.”

  “Yeah, but one of those jackets with FBI in giant letters on the back would be cool.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” He winked.

  “And a ball cap to go with it?”

  “That’s a given.”

  Fifteen minutes and I liked this guy—hot, of course, but also gracious and professional. Nevertheless, I was somewhat uncomfortable at getting more personal. One of those extended conversational lapses where cordial humans struggle for the next witty remark gave me the opportunity I needed.