CHAPTER SIXTEEN

 

As it turned out, they had definitely ruined Haniford's lunch. Probably his dinner too.

Jack understood where the LT was coming from. He’d heard it before. Just not as loudly. In fact, the entire department had probably heard Haniford’s rant. It still rang in Jack’s ears over and above the roar of his Harley Fatboy as it screamed south across the city on the 280. At least he'd sent Ray back to his office before Haniford laid into him.

It was the same old crap, except this time there was no dancing around the subject—shit or get off the pot.

Haniford told him in no uncertain terms it was time to stop riding the fence. He was all for Jack getting back on the job. He'd even promised his same rank and a bump in salary, and a reinstatement of his partnership with Ray.

But if Jack chose the other side of the fence, it meant it was time for him to stop calling in favors because, after four years, they'd dried up.

He got it, loud and clear. He just didn't like hearing his LT—no, Haniford . . . the man was no longer his LT—talk to him like that. He wasn’t wrong though. Neither was Ray the day he’d found Jack at the house.

Jack knew in his heart he'd never return to the department. Not after this long. He hadn't found Leah, nor had he found those responsible for killing Zoë and Trax.

Given he'd been ready to call it a day last week, did it mean he was giving up his search? Was that really why he'd pulled out his Beretta, or had he just wanted a break from the constant anguish he felt raging through his body for the last fifteen hundred and nineteen days? Not that he was counting.

His eyebrows pinched together until his eyes hurt; gritting his teeth made his jaw ache. Damn Haniford!

He gunned the motor and wove between cars. The speedometer edged toward a hundred miles per hour, but he didn't care. He made sure to stay as clear from other vehicles as possible in case he decided to do something stupid—he didn't want anyone else involved in his fallout.

Cold air whistled through the helmet visor and whispered across his hot cheeks. His skin burned because he was pissed off six ways from Sunday.

Haniford had been right.

Ray had been right.

He just hated knowing the two people he trusted most in the world were forcing him to acknowledge a truth he'd been denying for so long, and it made his blood boil.

Now he had to admit it—he was on his own.

What did that mean? Where did he go from here? Did he go back to his house with his Beretta and try again? Or, as Haniford and Ray had suggested many times—see a professional?

Before he could answer his own question, the exit for John Daly Boulevard came up. He slowed the Harley and signaled to cross to the far-right lane then exited the 280. Traffic forced him to slow as he merged right. He knew following this road would eventually take him to the Great Highway, the north-south route paralleling the Pacific Ocean. The same road just two streets over from his house—but that wasn’t his destination.

As he approached the intersection where John Daly Boulevard met Skyline Boulevard, he merged right to join Skyline, and at Lake Merced, he merged left and turned onto Great Highway. He increased speed again and wove around slower traffic.

When he crossed Balboa Street, Great Highway became Point Lobos Avenue, and as he rounded Sutro Heights, he turned right on 46th Avenue. At the top of the block, he backed in beside Logan Armstrong’s driveway, flipped down the kickstand with his heel, and cut the motor. The inside of his visor instantly steamed and blurred his vision. He was still huffing angrily, but he needed to calm down before he approached the house.

As he removed his helmet and gloves and hung them from the handlebars, the crisp sea breeze snapped Jack to attention.

He swung his leg over the saddle then casually walked toward Geary. The officers Ray had put on the house three days ago had been pulled from the job after twenty-four hours when Armstrong failed to return, but it didn't mean he hadn't come back. If the guy wasn't home now, Jack would sit on the place until he returned, however long it took.

At the corner of the house, Jack stopped at a tall juniper tree and watched a young man walk through the front yard toward a waiting car at the curbside. Food delivery by the looks of the insulated bag he carried. Jack doubted the old lady would have called for takeout.

He didn't have a plan in place other than he wanted to talk with Armstrong and he wasn't taking no for an answer. He certainly wasn't in the mood for chasing the little shit into Fort Miley again either.

Before heading to the front door, he went to the garage. Being tall had its benefits, as he was able to stand on his toes to look through the high glass windows across the top of the counterweight door. The space was dark but not so dark he couldn't make out Rybak's Trans Am. It didn’t appear it had been moved; it was still covered, backed into the garage.

To ensure Armstrong wasn't going anywhere, Jack found a wedge-shaped piece of wood in the overgrown junipers and shoved it under the door. It should give Jack enough time to catch up with Armstrong if he decided to rabbit again.

At the front door, he knocked, rang the bell, then knocked again for good measure.

"Hold your horses, goddammit!" A male voice shouted from inside the house. "Did you forget part of my order?" When the door swung open, Armstrong stared at Jack for a long moment, gaping. The man looked like he was debating staying where he was or making a run for it. He chose the latter.

Jack wasn't a cop and didn't have to adhere to cop rules. While he hadn't been invited inside, the moment Armstrong turned on his heel, Jack shadowed him through the house. Armstrong moved surprisingly quickly through familiar territory. When he heard a door slam and lock, he figured his prey had gone into the garage and locked the door behind him.

He turned the knob; the door wouldn't budge. The locking mechanism was on the inside, so Jack assumed Armstrong had used a slide bolt or something similar. He rammed his shoulder into the wood once and the lock gave way.

Armstrong shoved at the garage door, trying to heave it up, but the wedge firmly held. Jack stopped just inside the space. There was nowhere for the guy to go.

"Why are you running, Logan?" Jack asked in an even tone. "I hate running."

Daylight shining through the garage door windows cast a pale light across Armstrong's face. His over-long, greasy hair had come out of its tie on the run through the house, and now strings of it hung over his face, but there was no denying the wide eyes staring at Jack. The guy was scared.

"Who are you? What do you want?" Armstrong asked, panting hard.

"I just want to talk to you." Jack remained cool, hoping the guy would relax a little.

"Who are you?" he asked again, his voice raised.

"If you calm down and let me explain, you can get back to your food delivery." Jack edged toward the open toolbox at the back of the Trans Am. It was covered in dust and junk; Armstrong certainly hadn't been working on the car. He removed a long, flat-edge screwdriver and moved along the passenger side of the car toward the garage door.

"What are you doing with that?" Armstrong back-walked around the front of the car to the driver's side in an obvious move to get away from Jack and move toward the house door so he could run again, but the old toolbox blocked his path.

"Look, Logan, I'm going to open the door to let in some light. Then we can talk." He shoved the screwdriver under the door and popped out the wedge he'd jammed in moments before. As he lifted the door on its creaking hinges, he said, "Please don't run. I'm not in the mood to chase you and just might shoot you instead." The last bit of information was enough to get Armstrong's head bobbing, agreeing he wouldn't run again. He didn't know Jack didn't have his weapon. As the door settled into the ceiling space, Armstrong tried bolting anyway. Jack had been prepared and body-slammed the guy into the hood of the car. "Come on, Logan! Talk means no running. You promised."

"How do you know my name? Did Li send you?"

So, he was involved with the Jade Dragons. "No, man. I'm here on my own. My name is Jack Slaughter. I'm a private investigator. I want to talk about your friend, Tristan Rybak, who—"

"Tris? What about him?" The tone of Armstrong's voice instantly changed, and he stopped fighting to get free.

"If I let you up, are you going to stay put this time?" Armstrong quickly nodded. Jack lifted himself up then grabbed the man by the front of his T-shirt and hauled him to his feet. He was rail thin and weighed almost nothing. "Come on. Let's go inside. You can eat while we talk." Jack didn't want to risk neighbors hearing what he had to say either.

At the kitchen table, Jack tossed Armstrong into a chair then grabbed a bowl and fork out of the drying rack beside the sink and sat them in front of Armstrong.

"Dude, you mind? Cokes are in the fridge. Help yourself." Armstrong indicated behind Jack with the fork before stabbing it into the pile of noodles he’d poured into the bowl.

Jack pulled two cans from the fridge—the second for him. He had a feeling he'd be here a while and would need the sugar and caffeine hit. He sat across from Armstrong and pulled out his phone, then hit record before setting it on the table.

"Tell me about your buddies, Rybak and Warren."

Between mouthfuls, Armstrong said, "I don't know anyone by those names."

"Funny. You were just sprawled across the hood of Rybak's Trans Am. Man, you should go to jail just for what you did to that car." Armstrong didn't raise his head when he looked up with a raised eyebrow. "Let's start again. Tell me about your friends, and how you came into possession of Rybak's ride."

"I don't know what you're looking for. Give me an idea."

The little shit wasn't going to volunteer anything. "Tell you what. I'll tell you what I know, and you fill in the blanks. Easier?" Armstrong nodded. "You three were friends at SFSU. You met while playing Head Shop Heist. For shits and giggles, you started playing out the game in real life by actually robbing head shops around the city. Am I right so far?" Armstrong gave him a noncommittal shrug while shoving more food into his mouth. "Something went wrong. You hit the wrong shop. After that, it gets sketchy. Your friends drop off the radar, and your once straight-A record tanks. You barely graduated, but even though you should be off starting your life with a career in chemistry—" Armstrong's head shot up. "Yeah, I know you."

"Fuck you."

"You're a brazen little fuck, I'll give you that, but it's all I'm giving you. Other than a chance to fill in the blanks like you agreed."

"Whatever, man."

"Tell me what happened to your friends," Jack urged.

Armstrong pushed his now-empty bowl to the side of the table and took a long swig of Coke before letting out a Chinese-scented belch that nearly turned Jack's stomach.

"Do that again and there’ll be a chemistry project all over your grandmother's kitchen. Now tell me about your friends. What happened to them after that last hit?"

Armstrong threw himself back in his chair and crossed his arms. "What do you want me to say? Yeah, you're right. We started hitting the head shops. The game was fun, but it was more exciting doing it for real. What a rush, man." He grinned and chuckled.

"Until you hit the last shop. Dragon's Lair over in Chinatown."

His eyes widened. "How'd you know that?"

Jack grinned this time. "Because I know things. Don't test me."

"Yeah, it was the last shop. It went south. Fast."

"Your friends disappeared that night, didn't they?" Armstrong nodded. "Tell me what happened."

"Man, if I tell you, Li will kill me."

"If you don't tell me what I want to know, I might kill you," Jack warned.

"You a cop?"

"You have a short attention span. I told you I'm a private investigator, and I'm looking into the death of your friend, Rybak."

Armstrong sat forward in his chair and squared a surprised look in Jack's direction. "Tristan's dead? Can't be."

"When was the last time you saw him?"

"I don't know exactly. After New Year anyway. What happened to him?" There was genuine interest in Armstrong's voice.

"He killed himself. His body was found in mid-February."

"Wha—why? I mean, where . . . how?"

"How? He shot himself. Where? In my fucking house!" Jack spat. "I'm here so you can tell me why."

"Why would he kill himself in your house? Did you know Tris?"

Jack shook his head. "Nope. Never heard of him until I got home and found his brains splattered across my dining room wall." Armstrong flinched. "You want to tell me what happened that night . . . and how you ended up with his car?"

Armstrong took a long breath and leaned back again. "Yeah, I'll talk."