Badge of Honor Page 18
At last Choker grabbed a chair, pulled it around and straddled it, keeping the back of the chair between himself and them.
"Cops didn't believe anything I told them then. You sayin' you do now?"
Kit nodded, and went on with what they'd planned to say. "We think it happened just like you said, that your car was stolen and you had nothing to do with shooting El Tigre."
"I didn't," Choker said vehemently. "Thought about it, offin' that pendejo. But I didn't."
Miguel hoped Kit wouldn't ask for a translation. It didn't have any real equivalent, but bastard was the nicest of the possibilities. But perhaps she already knew that. Her expression was contemplative, and he wondered if she was thinking, as he was, that Choker was very adamant about something that had happened so long ago and that hadn't landed him here. And it wasn't like gang members were averse to claiming their kills. They usually did so loudly and proudly.
"Would you tell us again what happened that night?" Kit asked, her voice quiet and encouraging. Miguel wouldn't have thought it would work with a hard-core guy like Choker, but he answered her.
"Told you all back then, nobody believed me. You all think I did it. Cops are always ready to hang anything they can on a Downtown Boy. That's all they're good for, that and shaking down homies. So why should I talk to you?"
"Because we'll listen," she said.
Choker seemed as startled by that as he had been by the statement that they believed him. Miguel grimaced inwardly, wondering how many of these gangsters had started out as normal, trusting kids. He felt frustrated at what made them turn to gangs as their only salvation.
"Why should I care? You couldn't prove nothin' on me, anyway."
"Wouldn't you like to have the cops have to publicly admit they were wrong, that they couldn't prove it because you were innocent?"
Something flashed in Choker's eyes, some flicker of response, and Miguel silently congratulated Kit for her acuity. But after a long moment, Choker shook his head.
"Downtowners don't help cops with nothing."
"Even when one of your own is accused and you can clear him?" Kit asked.
"Couldn't prove nothin' against me," he repeated. "That's good enough."
"No, they couldn't prove it, but you know every cop in Marina Heights thinks you did it. And they hassled you because of it, right?"
That clearly struck a chord. "Yeah. But they didn't need no excuse. Shake us down for no reason all the time, just 'cuz they got the juice to do it."
"What if we had to tell them to back off because you didn't do it? That'd make you a pretty big man, having all those cops have to leave you alone when you get out. Ought to be worth something, talking up on the street."
She was exaggerating, but if it worked, Miguel was all for it.
"And it's not like you're selling out one of your homies," Miguel put in. "Just the opposite. We think we can prove no Downtown Boy was involved."
They waited while the tattooed young man seemed to be weighing his options. At last, arriving at his personal bottom line, he asked, "What's in it for me?"
Kit glanced at Miguel, tacitly turning it over as agreed. "You're up for parole soon, aren't you?" he asked. "Yeah," Choker said cautiously, eyeing Miguel with much more wariness than he had Kit, although, to Miguel's relief he had stopped ogling her.
"I could talk to the parole board. A good word from your hometown chief of police about how you cooperated couldn't hurt any."
Choker's eyes widened. "The chief? You?" Miguel nodded. "I heard some homies offed the head heat a while back," he said, clearly suspicious.
"I was there," Miguel said. Then, remembering what store most gang members put on survival, with surviving knife and gunshot wounds at the top of the list, he added, "Took a couple of those rounds myself."
Choker's eyes widened. "You got shot, too?"
"Guess the city council figured if I was tough enough to survive that, I was tough enough to be chief."
Choker considered this, then shook his head. "Nah, no white council like that would make you police chief."
Silently, Miguel reached into his pocket and took out his leather ID folder. He flipped it open and held it out so Choker could see the badge and his ID card. Choker's eyes went wide again, and he glanced at Kit.
"He's really the chief? Like, boss of all those cops?"
"He is."
Choker leaned back in his chair as if he needed support to absorb this. When he looked at Miguel, there was a tinge of respect in his gaze.
"You'll put in a good word for me when I come up in a couple months?"
Miguel nodded. "You help us with this, I'll help you with that. No promises, though. If you don't watch yourself, whatever I say won't make any difference. But I'll talk to them."
"I been cool," Choker said, and the flaring of hope in those choirboy eyes was something to see. Miguel would be glad if he wasn't so sure the guy would end up back here sooner rather than later.
"Then you've got a chance."
There was another hesitation, then Choker let out a long breath. "What do you wanna know?"
"Tell us everything that happened that night," Kit said. "Even if it doesn't seem to have anything to do with your car being stolen."
He shrugged. "Me and my homies, we were watching Monday night football, you know, with the rowdy friends song? We were all at Little Ricky's place, just kicking. He's got the best TV, you know?"
They did know. This had all been in Cruz's follow-up report. Choker had insisted that's where he'd been, and so had a crowd of witnesses. Biased witnesses, yes, but witnesses nevertheless. It was why they'd had to drop him as a suspect. It would have been impossible to break his alibi. Homies didn't give each other up.
And Cruz had noted in his thorough analysis that the stories were consistent in content and different enough in the telling that he tended to believe them. They didn't sound like a rehearsed cover-up. That was another reason they were here—both trusted Cruz and his instincts implicitly.
And now Choker told them essentially the same story again. He'd driven to his fellow Downtowner's house to watch the game and down a few cervezas—none of that sissy light beer, but the real stuff. They'd partied after the game and seen or heard no one, although Choker admitted they'd been making a lot of noise and couldn't have heard much of anything from outside. When he'd gone out, his car, his precious, lowered and finely painted car, was gone.
"But you got it back," Miguel said.
He nodded. "Those fancy beach cops found it." He snorted loudly. "Didn't want a home boy's car in their pretty town, so I got it back in a hurry."
Miguel had to smother a smile and saw Kit's mouth tighten slightly, as if she was having to do the same. That mouth, those soft, warm lips that had felt so…
He yanked himself off that dangerous path. "Anything missing from the car?"
Choker made a face, his grimace moving the two inked tears. "All my stuff was there, except—"
He broke off, eyeing them warily. "We read the report," Kit told him dryly. "We know they booked a weapon and a gram of cocaine."
And they hadn't been able to pin those on Choker, either. He claimed they weren't his, that both must have been planted by whoever stole his car. The gun was clean of prints, and the paper bindle of coke hadn't yielded any, either, so Choker had walked on that, as well. But now he had nearly incriminated himself with his own words. And was about to clam up entirely, Miguel could sense it.
"Probably something silly like a road map or something, right?" Miguel suggested.
Slowly, Choker nodded. "Yeah, that was it. My map of Beverly Hills."
The kid had a sense of humor, he'd have to give him that, Miguel thought. They asked him a few more questions but got nothing more than Cruz had at the time. And he was wary after that stumble. Maybe this had been a wasted trip. He hadn't told them anything they hadn't already known.
Well, not wasted, he amended silently as Kit probed. He'd had a morning with her away from
Trinity West. And he realized he'd have gone a lot farther for less for that. That realization spawned another, the realization of just how far gone he was.
It was impossible, he told himself for what had to be the hundredth time. For so many reasons, both professional and personal. And even if they could work out the problems that would arise out of him being her boss at Trinity West, that still left the biggest problem of all, the simple fact that he knew he could never, ever survive what he'd gone through with Anna again. She'd had so much more courage than he. She'd faced her impending death with grace and dignity, while he had wanted nothing more than to run and hide from it, crying like a child to make it go away.
He heard Kit's voice without really hearing what she was saying. He looked at her. Even here the intensity showed in her concentration on Choker. He saw the determined set of her jaw, the softness of her lips, the silken cap of pale hair that bared her delicate nape.
He thought of something happening to her, some accident or illness, and felt the same nausea inside him he'd felt when Anna had been diagnosed. A chill swept him, and he felt sweat break out on his skin.
Abruptly, almost involuntarily, he stood up. Kit didn't seem startled by his sudden motion, so he guessed she must have been about finished with her questions anyway. He wondered what he'd missed while lost in that painful reverie. He tried to focus, but something was hovering on the edges of his mind, something he couldn't pin down but sensed was a revelation he wasn't going to like.
"Who's got your car now?" Kit asked Choker.
Choker scowled. "Sold it to my cousin Leonardo. He always wanted it, you know? He got it cheap, too. Said it wasn't worth as much anymore with those bum marks on the leather. Really pissed me off."
Kit started to nod, then stopped, looking at the young man with renewed intensity. "The report mentioned those marks. You mean they weren't there before?"
"Hell, no, I told 'em that. I take care of my wheels. Nobody drops ash on my seat covers, you know?"
She made him assert again that the burn marks hadn't been there before. Then, at last, she stood up. Miguel was grateful. He wanted out of here, although as long as she was within sight, he had a feeling this foggy sensation wasn't going to leave. He felt like some part of him had arrived at a momentous conclusion, but his brain hadn't gotten the message yet.
They didn't speak as they cleared security and headed toward his car. It was a clear, sunny day, and a lot hotter inland than it was on the coast. The heat felt good beating down on his back, drying that odd film of sweat that had come over him inside. He'd probably be sweating normally by the time they reached the car, but he could handle that. What he couldn't handle was that sick kind of sweat that came with nausea, that reaction to the thought of Kit suffering or dying. Of going through it all over again.
And in that instant, his brain finally got the message. Shock nearly took him down. Fortunately they were at the car, and he was able to lean on it and stay upright.
"Got another piece," Kit was saying.
He heard as if through a fog and had to fight his way back to the moment. "What?"
"We've got another piece," she repeated. "A little one, but it fits."
"I…" He shook his head sharply, trying to shove aside what had just bit him. It didn't want to shove.
Kit gave him a curious glance. "Are you all right?" she asked for the second time today.
No, he said silently, I'm not. God, I'm not.
"Is it your stomach again?"
Mutely, he shook his head, barely able to manage that.
"It's hot," she said. "Maybe we should get in and turn on the air before we start back."
Her voice was full of concern, and it only made the knot in his churning stomach tighten more.
It's too late, too late, too late…
The words roiled in his mind like a mantra gone haywire. He'd been so on his guard for years, never letting himself care, let alone anything else, and now…
Numbly, he opened the driver's door and flipped the lock on the passenger side. He should have, would have walked around to open it for her, but he wasn't sure he could move. And when he collapsed as much as sat in the driver's seat, he knew he'd made the right choice. He would never have made it.
"That's better," she said a few minutes later when the car had cooled to a comfortable temperature.
Desperately, trying to focus, he tried again. "What fits?"
"The burn marks," she said. When he didn't respond she added, "On Choker's upholstery."
"Oh."
He supposed he must have sounded blank, because she gave him another curious look and elaborated. "If they weren't there before the car was stolen but were there after, it's a good bet the thief left them there."
That made sense, he told himself, pleased that things seemed to be settling. "Yes," he agreed.
She seemed to be waiting for more from him. When it didn't come, she asked quietly, "Have you ever seen Lieutenant Robards's car?"
It hit him then. "Cigar burns," he said.
She nodded. "All over the front seat."
The police-trained part of his mind took over. He nodded slowly. "It's not hard evidence," he warned, although every instinct he had was saying it meant just what they thought it meant.
"No," she agreed, "but it's another pointer showing we're on the right track."
They were. He sensed it just as she did. He was as sure of it as she was. They were in complete agreement, total accord on this case.
It was elsewhere they were out of synch. Completely. Totally. The realization that had struck him like a blow had made that undeniably clear. It had finally gotten through to his stubborn brain that his reaction to the thought of Kit hurt or sick or dying had its basis in a fact he'd refused to recognize until it became impossible not to.
What he'd felt then was as fierce as what he'd felt when Anna had been ill. And there was only one thing that could evoke that kind of response. The very thing he'd sworn never to fall victim to again in his life. The very thing he'd fought for so long. The very thing he'd declared off limits, kept so carefully at a safe distance.
Love.
The very thing he'd warned himself against when he began having these unexpected thoughts about Kit. He'd warned himself repeatedly that it was impossible, that it was unwanted and unsought.
But he realized it had all been for nothing, that on some buried level his heart had ignored the warnings and forged ahead. His heart, the part of him that should have known all the dangers, had left him with only one piece of bitter knowledge.
It's too late, too late, too late…
* * *
Chapter 15
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Kit stole a discreet glance at Miguel, admitting to herself she was concerned.
No, be honest, you're downright worried, she told herself. He'd been acting very odd since before they left the visiting room. She thought it was the prison—it certainly wasn't her favorite place to be, either—and had kept an eye on him as they'd gone through security.
Then she thought maybe he was ill. He looked rather pale. Perhaps there was more to his buying that milk shake yesterday than he admitted to. Perhaps he really was having stomach problems. Lord knew his job was enough to give anyone an ulcer.
The thought of him hurting made her hurt inside. It was far too easy for her to call up the memory of him looking haggard and strained and pale in a hospital bed. Odd, but the memory upset her now as much as the reality had then. She felt that same clenching pain, that same urge to shout at the unfairness of it. She frowned. She'd thought herself past that. She'd remembered before without this fierce feeling, so why was it kicking up now, when he was alive and safe?
She glanced at him. The traffic was fairly heavy on this Saturday afternoon, and he was focused on the road. And he seemed all right. Maybe it had been the surroundings. He insisted he was all right, and once they got to his car and he had the blast of the air-conditioner in his face, he seemed to recover.
She didn't want to ask him again if he was all right. Clearly he wasn't, and equally clearly he didn't want to talk about it. So she tried to concentrate on the case, tried to take the fragments they had and put them together into some kind of pattern, unable to rid herself of the idea that there was something there, if only she could see it.
She dug out her notebook and flipped through the pages, her notes on Carmela Rivas and her surviving son, Martin, Robards's behavior, extreme even from him, the encounter with Mako, the interview with the happily retired Welton, all the tiny bits and pieces, and now the interview with Choker.
I know he did it, she thought fiercely. And if I can't prove it, it's going to really make me crazy.
"What it will do is eat you alive."
Miguel's quiet observation was her first hint that she had spoken. "I didn't mean to say that out loud. Sorry for disturbing you."
He gave a low halfhearted chuckle that had an undertone she couldn't put a name to. "You don't know the half of it," he muttered.
She had no idea what that was supposed to mean, and something about his expression made it difficult to ask. So she said nothing, just stared out the window. After a moment he spoke again, his tone normal.
"You can't let it do that to you. We knew going in we probably wouldn't be able to take him down as hard as we'd like."
"I know." She rubbed her forehead, feeling a tightness she hadn't noticed until now. "It's just hard to accept that he could go on with his life while Carmela Rivas weeps at her son's grave."
"They're out there, Kit, the people like that. And you'll never change them. You might shut them up by making speaking of or acting on their hate a crime. You might make them keep it to themselves, but they'll find others like them, the way flies find a corpse. And they'll believe what they believe and tell themselves they're right."