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SEATTLE (Sunday, Dec. 1, 2012, 1 p.m.) — The booking procedures hadn’t changed much. Different jail, same assholes, Mac thought sourly as he submitted to a complete strip search. He dressed in jail garb, no belts, no shoestrings. Everyone was professional, no one commented even though some of them knew him, had been quoted in his stories. No one met his eyes. He was just as glad.
He wanted to scream I didn’t do it! No one would believe him. Everyone in here said they didn’t do it, regardless of whether they did or not.
Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time, was Toby’s advice when they ran the streets together. Of course, neither of them ever expected to do the time. He’d sat in a jail cell at 17, waiting to see if they were going to try him as an adult or treat him as a juvenile, listening to the sounds around him, and promising himself no matter what he’d never be in a jail cell again. No matter what he had to do to prevent it.
But here he was, in a holding cell with three other men. The door clanged shut, and Mac winced, showing expression for the first time since the police had knocked on the door.
“Well, well,” began one of the other men, a white man with hell tattooed on his knuckles.
Mac stared at him, and he stopped in mid-sentence. He took at Mac’s tattoos on his forearms, evaluated the muscles under the baggy prison pants and shirt. Mac continued to stare him down until the dude looked away.
Damn cold eyes, the man told himself. No use fucking with the psychos. He wasn’t going to be in long; those eyes promised much more trouble than he needed.
“I want that bunk,” Mac said, pointing to one where one younger white guy stretched out. He started to protest, looked at Mac, judged accurately his hair-temper and the muscles. When the older man said nothing, the younger man moved. The third man, a black man probably barely 20, looked at Mac with a half-smile.
“So what you charged with, boy?” he asked.
Mac moved in close and fast, grabbed the front of the man’s shirt, jerked it up tight against his neck. The man squawked.
“I don’t call you boy, you don’t call me boy, you hear?” Mac snarled. It was a relief to attack something, anything. The young man saw the desire in Mac’s eyes, and he nodded quickly. Mac let go.
The older man, leaning back on his bunk, said, “So meaning no disrespect, what are they charging you with?”
“Attempted murder,” Mac said flatly. “They think I tried to kill a cop.” There was silence.
Mac stretched out and looked at the bunk above him. He could already feel the claustrophobia closing in on him. Being in a jail cell felt like being buried. No fresh air, the smells of men, vomit, piss, and disinfectant that did nothing to cover the other smells. No daylight. Just bulbs that would stay on 24-seven. No distractions, unless you could pick a fight with someone else, and that was likely to bring down more trouble than a person wanted — either because you misjudged the person you attacked, or from the jailers. Mac didn’t need more trouble. He was in plenty already.
He tried not to think about the Glock. Should have reported it stolen, he berated himself. But no, you got sidetracked, didn’t think that through. The prints disturbed him; they must have had the Glock when they threw him in the Sound, he figured. Shoot at Donnelly, find him, knock him out, press his fingers against the gun, toss him in, and then.... Had they just held onto the Glock as backup? Waiting to see if they needed to go that far? That kind of planning made Mac sweat. What else had they planted? How long ago had the frame started?
His face reflected none of the thoughts coursing through his mind. He stared at the bunk above him and tried not to put too much hope in Janet Andrews. It scared him that his freedom was riding on her. He did not like depending on anyone.
Hard enough to depend upon Shorty or other friends. Risky to count even on family. Janet Andrews? What was he to her? He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and then focused on making his breathing even. There were cameras, someone was watching. He wasn’t going to let them see him sweat.
He wasn’t even sure he had a goddamn job, he thought, keeping his eyes on that bunk above him. If the publisher was shitting bricks over the police questioning him, what was he going to do when he found out he was actually in jail?
So much for going straight and clean living.
Jail. Mac could hear men’s voices from other cells, although he’d effectively silenced his own cell. Shouts, incoherent, drunks still coming off their Saturday night spree. Talk, complaints, denials, swapping stories, bragging about what they’d done, what they would do. Mac closed his eyes. Even though the cells only had a real wall on one side and bars on the others, you really couldn’t see much from cell to cell. The bunks took up most of the space. Mostly you heard the others, smelled them.
Juvie jail had not been much different. More hysteria, more sobbing. Lots of bluster. The boys had whispered about what to expect, what to fear. About being someone’s bitch for some bigger guy. About jailers, and work duties.
Mac, at 17, had been nearly full grown. He already had the tattoos on his calves, biceps and forearms. He was known. There were Crips in jail who knew him, knew his cousin. His cellmates had been wary, quiet. He had stayed silent, knowing the silence would be seen as fearsome. He would not look scared. Looking scared would be looking vulnerable. He wasn’t going to let anyone see him flinch.
He and Toby had boosted a car — a beautiful Mercedes coupe. A friend had a buyer in California. It hadn’t been the first car they’d sent on its way south. Just the first time the cops had pulled them over. God damn taillights were out. The officer had scanned them with his flashlight, and rightly suspicious of two young men driving a fancy car, had called it in. A second patrol car joined them. Mac had wanted to run, but Toby made him sit tight.
“You’re a juvenile,” he had said, his voice low. “Don’t add on trouble.”
“You’re not,” Mac had protested. Toby had just celebrated his eighteenth birthday a few months before.
Toby just shook his head. “It ain’t just about me, bro,” he said. “It’s what best for you and me. And it isn’t good for you to be running.”
Even though it had been Mac who had popped the lock and started the car, Toby had been the one to drive it. Seniority had its perks, he had said with a laugh, wanting the joy of driving one of the smoothest machines on the face of the earth. Mac had grinned and let him.
Toby got a five-year prison sentence, served 18 months. Mac had gone through juvie court and charges were dropped, but he remained under court supervision until he was 18. The court had been willing to let him join the Marines — the Marines weren’t taking car thieves — and say good riddance, said the attorney his aunt had hired. Mac withstood it all stoically, knowing and hating that he was getting off lightly while they threw the book at his cousin. Knowing that in part, it had been Toby’s decision not to flee the scene, that made it possible for the attorney to get him off. Knowing that Toby took the fall for it all, so his younger cousin would have a second chance. He owed Toby. It didn’t matter that Toby had gone back into the life, the gangs, the drugs, the dealing. He owed him big time.
“Mackensie Davis,” a jailer said at the cell door. Two uniforms stood with him.
Mac opened his eyes, sat up. “Yeah.”
“Rodriguez wants to talk to you,” one of the officers said.
Mac rolled to his feet, went to the door. The jailer opened it, moved Mac out, locked the door again behind him. An officer put cuffs on him. “This way,” he said and escorted Mac down the hall.
The interrogation room was small. The walls were gray cement block. The table with four chairs were gunmetal gray as well. The whole room looked battered and ill-used.
Rodriguez was standing off to one side talking to another detective when the officer escorted Mac into the room. Rodriguez looked up, gestured him to a chair. Mac sat down, a bit awkwardly because of the cuffs on his wrists. His balance was off; he slowed his moves to compensate. He rested his cuffed wrists on the table.
Rodriguez set a tape recorder in the center of the table. He sat down, turned it on. Identified himself and the other detective on the tape. The second detective pulled out a legal pad.
“This is Sunday, Dec. 2, 2012 at...” he paused, glanced at his watch, “4:30 p.m. The suspect, Mackensie Davis, was read his rights at the arrest.” He looked at the uniformed officer standing next to the door. “Read them to him again, Stan.”
Stan did.
Rodriguez continued speaking into the recorder. “If you want, you can have an attorney called to be present during this questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, the court will appoint one for you. Do you understand this?”
Mac nodded, and then at Rodriguez’s scowl, said “Yes.”
“Do you wish to call an attorney at this time?”
Mac hesitated. “Has Leatherstocking contacted you?” he asked at last.
“Not yet.”
“Then no, I do not wish to call my attorney at this time,” Mac said slowly. It was Sunday. Waiting for a court-appointed attorney would just lengthen it. Better to trust Janet to come through. He ground his teeth a bit, then forced himself to relax.
“You have been arrested on a warrant issued by the court based on information from the district attorney’s office for the attempted murder of Detective Donnelly,” Rodriguez said, avoiding Mac’s eyes.
Mac’s eyes narrowed. “What information was that?”
Rodriguez ignored the question. “Let’s start by walking through your movements last Wednesday night.”
“Got off work at 2 p.m. went to the gym. Worked out for two hours. Went home, listened to some music. Lindy came home, we had dinner. At about 8 p.m. I went to Johnnie's to play some pool.”
“And then?”
Mac sighed and shrugged. “'Bout 10 p.m. some dude came into the bar looking for me. A cock and bull story about his runaway daughter and that Donnelly had suggested me as someone who could help. Didn’t make sense. Johnnie was sweating it because the dude looked like he had money, and the bar crowd was taking notice. So I took him outside.”
“This isn’t part of the story you told Friday,” Rodriguez observed.
Mac shrugged. “When I walked out the door someone hit me with a blackjack. I came to as they were throwing me into the Sound. Worked my way south, got out. Called a buddy — Shorty — to come and get me. Lost my keys, wallet, everything in the Sound.” He thought about that, gave a half shrug. “Or they rolled me while I was out. Whichever.”
“So, you did not lock your keys in your car as you told us.”
Mac raised one eyebrow. “I said I was locked out of my car. That was true. I didn’t figure the rest was any of your business and it made no sense.”
Rodriguez showed no emotion. “So this guy — Shorty — took you home.”
“Yeah. When we got there, we found Lindy tied up to a dining chair all beat up.” Mac’s jaw tightened. He swallowed to loosen it enough to talk. “Took her to the hospital. By the time she was okay, it was time for me to go to work. Janet had me work the Donnelly story for the day.”
Rodriguez tipped his chair back on two legs and looked at him. “We don’t like it when people change their stories. Makes us suspicious.”
Mac didn’t flinch. He said nothing.
“Any witnesses to this?”
Mac thought. “Johnnie, Shorty. And the grocery owner, you know that elderly Chinese man runs an all-night quick stop on Bell Street? He might remember that I came in all wet. Wouldn’t let me use his phone. Had to call Shorty collect from a pay phone.”
Rodriguez glanced at the other detective who wrote it down.
“You and Donnelly didn’t get along.”
Mac shrugged. “He’s an as... a jerk,” he said. “But no big deal, you know? He’d harass me when he saw me, but I didn’t deal with him much.”
“When did you hear he was building a profile of you? Did someone he talked to tell you?”
Mac frowned, puzzled and shook his head. “Didn’t know until you told me, Nick. If he was talking to people, he was pretty good. My guess is he hadn’t talked to my family or close friends or I would have heard.”
Rodriguez let his chair come down with a thud. “But you were pissed at him when those dudes used his name to set you up.”
“Sure,” Mac admitted. “But that was like, 10 or 11 p.m. The timing doesn’t make sense. Whoever hit Donnelly was pissed off at 8 p.m. Wasn’t me.” Mac half laughed. “And I wouldn’t have shot at him for it. I was toying with something more along the lines of beating some information out of him. Hard to get information out a guy when he’s dead.”
Rodriguez grunted.
“So explain how your Glock got to the crime scene.”
Mac shook his head. “The thugs hit Lindy sometime around 8 p.m. Theoretically, they could have stolen the gun then. Timing would be tight.” He thought about it, shook his head again. “Truth is, I don’t know when the last time was that I looked in that box. It could have been stolen earlier.”
“With your prints on it.”
That was the piece that bothered Mac the most. But he wasn’t about to admit that he knew the gun was clean when it had been in the box. “It is my gun,” he said. “Stands to reason it might have had my prints on it.”
“No one else’s. No smudges.”
Mac shrugged.
“How long you been dealing drugs at the Examiner?” Rodriguez shot at him suddenly.
“Dealing drugs at the Examiner?” Mac shook his head. “No way. That what Donnelly says?”
“Donnelly is still in a coma.”
“Is that in his file on me?”
“The district attorney’s office got a tip that said Donnelly was pursuing a lead to that effect.”
Mac frowned. “Wouldn’t you have known what he was working on?”
Rodriguez shrugged the question off without replying. “Do you deny that you are dealing drugs.”
“I’m clean.”
“Prove it.”
Mac shook his head. “Can’t. You know that. Besides, I don’t have to. You’d have to prove I'm dirty.” Mac shrugged. “And you won’t be able to do that. I’m not dealing.”
“Toby Little. Who is he to you?”
Mac sat back a bit warily. “Cousin. Lindy’s son.”
“Vallejo says he’s a dealer.”
Mac looked at Rodriguez steadily. Finally, Rodriguez said, “Well?”
“Was there a question you asked me?”
“Your cousin a dealer?”
“You have to ask him. If Vallejo thinks he is, they haven’t busted him for it.”
Rodriguez sighed with disgust. “You’d best cooperate. You’re in deep here. We’re going to bust your ass.”
Mac said nothing. Rodriguez gestured to the uniformed cop to take him out.
Mac stood up carefully, started for the door. He turned back to ask, “You say the district attorney’s office got a tip?”
“Yeah.” Rodriguez didn’t look up as he disconnected the tape recorder.
“Not you?”
Rodriguez looked at him with narrowed, suspicious eyes. “You know something about this you aren’t telling?”
Mac looked at him steadily. “Who’s the other file on, Nick? If Donnelly pissed me off, who else is pissed?”
“Take him out of here.” Rodriguez waved him off. When Mac glanced back, however, Rodriguez was standing in the door of the interrogation room watching him. He had a scowl on his face like something was bugging him.
“They’re going to take you before the judge first thing in the morning, arraign you. Put you in the general population,” the officer volunteered in a low voice.
“Quick.”
“Yeah. You piss someone off big time?”
Mac snorted. “Maybe so.”
His cellmates shut up when the jailer put him back into the cell. Mac ignored them. He rubbed his wrists where the cuffs had been. Then he dropped on to his bunk to think.
His thoughts weren’t good. Whoever was orchestrating this was determined to get him in the general population fast. Things happened to people there. The holding cells were watched. The assholes in this cell were typical lowlifes, petty shit, property crimes mostly, he’d guess. The long-term prison cells, however, although they were watched, there were blind spots, corners where the cameras didn’t reach. The full spectrum of criminals was housed there; Mac had no illusions about what could happen in those cellblocks.
If someone wants me dead bad enough, it would happen, Mac thought, lying on his back, his arms folded under his head. Is Parker that connected? Enough to pull off a prison murder? It happened.
Shit, how did I get in this mess anyway? he wondered. Damn meeting this morning bothered him the most. He’d tried to fit in, to play by the rules there. Suspended. Shit. Shit. Shit.
Damn preppy little Kevin fit in. No one was busting his ass. Whitman might say he was going to fire the prick, but Mac would bet Kevin would still be there.
Did he really have friends there? Not like Shorty, of course, or even Danny or Troy. He occasionally went out after work with some of the sports writers. Had even gotten to sit in the press box at a couple of Mariner games.
Janet Andrews. He’d worked for her mostly, although there were a couple of assistant news editors who rotated through the various shifts. He found them for the most part easy enough to work with. Beat assignment reporters like him had lots of autonomy. He kept his editors informed as to what he was working on. They told him stuff to do sometimes. Especially the cops beat, the routines were driven by what happened in the city. He often worked the early morning shift, catching up on the things that went down the night before. Editors seemed pleased with his work. Suggested he learn to spell, occasionally. His performance reviews had been good; he’d gotten all the various merit pay increases following each review.
I get along with people, well enough, he thought. But I don’t belong, and they know it.
He wondered if he would ever belong anywhere. The gangs, the Marines — he’d felt like he had a spot there. College? He snorted. Bunch of stupid little white kids whining because daddy didn’t give them enough money. But they always had plenty of money to buy dope.
He’d come to like the Examiner, he admitted to himself. He liked reporting even better than he had thought he would in college. Reporters were such an odd lot anyway, how could he not find a place to be?
“Hey Davis. You got a visitor. The detective says you can see her.” The jailer opened the cell.
Mac stood up. Her? Must be Janet, he thought. He held out his wrists; restraints again. The jailer walked him down to a visitor’s room.
He entered it, stopped in surprise. It wasn’t Janet after all sitting on the other side of the glass divider. He sat down in the chair across from her.
“Jules,” he said blankly. “What the hell are you doing here? Not that I’m not glad to see you.”
Jules took a long shaky inhale. “I’m so sorry, Mac,” she said in a soft whisper. He leaned forward to hear her. “I knew it was coming down. Was in the courtroom when they swore out the warrant, of all things. But I couldn’t tell you. I’m sorry.”
“Wouldn’t expect you to,” Mac said. “God, Jules, what do you think I am? I wouldn’t ask you to risk your job, and probably a felony conviction.”
“But you could have run, gone to Toby, gotten clear,” she whispered. She looked around the room. They’d be listening, she was sure.
“Ancient history, babe,” he said gently. “I’m too old for that kind of crap now.”
“You’re not mad?”
He shook his head. She took a deep breath and gave him a relieved smile.
She swallowed. “I talked to some friends. They say the tip to the D.A. came from an FBI agent. That’s why they’re taking it so seriously. “
“Name?” he said urgently.
She shook her head. He leaned back disappointed. “I also heard more about the file Donnelly was collecting — you know the second file?”
He nodded.
“Well, it was a mess, not like yours. Yours was organized, had a list of exhibits inside the folder. Like he was summing it up?” At Mac’s encouraging nod, she went on, “But the second file, it looks like he was just starting it.”
“How’d you hear all this, J?”
Jules smiled. “A young cop.”
“Go on.”
“Well, my friend says, you can tell the chronology of when Donnelly found the stuff about you. And he says there’s speculation about the two files, because it looks like something made Donnelly start looking at Parker, based on something he found in your file. Does that make any sense?”
“Yeah.” Mac shrugged. “Probably something around 2005.”
Jules frowned. “Maybe,” she said slowly. “But the time Donnelly was focusing on with P... with the second file, was 2007.”
“07?” Mac sat back in the chair. “I was back in Afghanistan.”
“I don’t know Mac, that’s what the scuttlebutt says. That help any?”
Mac nodded slowly. “Everything helps.” He smiled at her, saw her try to smile back. “You coming here means a lot.”
Jules smiled then, touched the glass and then she was gone.
Mac sat quietly, thinking about 2007, until a jailer took him back to his cell. Not 2005. Well, how about that.
Dinner was served in the cells. Mac tasted it, shoved it away. The older man asked for it, Mac nodded. After the jailers came back for the trays, Mac dropped to the floor, slowly did 250 sit ups followed by 250 pushups. The floor was gross, but he couldn’t stand the adrenaline pumping through his system with nowhere to go.
2007? he thought again as he laid back down on his bunk. Shit, the four of them weren’t even together then.
He wished there was somewhere to pace. He did his best thinking when he was moving. 2007.
He almost sat up straight as it hit. It wasn’t what he was doing in 2007 that was the key; it was what had Donnelly found Parker doing? Mac filed that away. He wouldn’t find the answer in here. He needed out.
Jailers marched a prisoner down the aisle. He was a young druggie coming down hard, Mac guessed. He was sobbing and laughing at the same time. The guards put him in the cell next to his. The hysterical laughing, sobbing sounds were punctuated by retching. Mac closed his eyes. It was going to be a long, long night.