Читать книгу A Delicate Matter - Don Easton - Страница 7

Jack and Laura sat in an office with Sophie White at the Surrey RCMP detachment and listened as she recounted the circumstances leading to Mack Cockerill’s arrest. “After that, we took him to the hospital where he received a walking cast. Now he’s in an interview room,” Sophie said, gesturing with her thumb behind her. “Hope he can really do a number on the club for you.”

“I wish,” Jack replied, “but even if he wants to spill his guts, it won’t affect the club as a whole that much.”

Sophie looked puzzled. “Why not?”

“They tend to operate in cells independent from one another to prevent someone from ever doing that. Even if he was willing to wear a wire and testify, all I’d expect to get would be some high-level dealers who score from the club, maybe a couple of prospects, and one or two colour-wearing members. For the moment we need to aim our sights lower. If all goes well perhaps down the road we can convince him to stick his neck out further.”

Sophie nodded. “Would you mind if I sat in and listened? I don’t have much experience with guys like him and I’d like to see how you do it.”

“I don’t mind, but let me clue you in about a few things before we see him,” Jack replied. “First of all, these guys are usually extremely loyal. If I push him too hard he may decide to clam up and face the consequences, dire as they would be. I’ll tread slowly at first, then lead him into deeper water, which may or may not be today. If things go the way I want, eventually he’ll realize there’s no turning back.”

“I see,” Sophie said.

“First, though, we’ll shake him up a bit. Is he wearing his colours?”

“Yes. He was wearing a hoodie over the colours, but I seized that as evidence. It matches what the three victims said the suspect was wearing.”

“Perfect.” Jack rose to his feet. “Let’s talk to him. Laura will wait here.”

Sophie looked at Laura. “You’re not coming with us?”

Laura smiled. “Jack discussed a plan with me on the way over. It’ll be more fun for you to watch it unfold than to explain it to you.”

A moment later Cockerill looked up as Jack and Sophie entered the interview room. He eyed Jack suspiciously.

“Get to your feet,” Jack ordered.

Cockerill scowled and slowly got up.

Jack used his cellphone to take a picture of Cockerill, then ordered him to turn around. After taking another picture depicting his colours, he told Cockerill to sit down.

The biker obeyed and Jack pulled a chair up so their faces were only an arm’s length apart.

“Who the fuck are you?” Cockerill asked defiantly. “A narc?”

“My name’s Jack Taggart,” Jack replied evenly. “I’m not a narc.”

Cockerill studied Jack’s face, then muttered, “Fuck.”

“You’ve heard of me,” Jack replied.

Cockerill nodded. “I didn’t recognize you — but now I do. I saw you years ago when you climbed over the wall behind Damien’s place.”

The mere mention of Damien made Jack feel agitated. Damien Zabat, the national president of Satans Wrath, was Jack’s nemesis. The two men had been involved in several confrontations over the years. Despite that, Jack had never been able to put him in jail, even though Damien had ordered dozens of murders and orchestrated a wide variety of criminal activities.

Damien, now almost sixty, was still intimidating. He was a huge bear of a man, as well as highly intelligent and perceptive at reading people. The years had, however, taken their toll. He had recently decided to retire while he still had everyone’s respect. A new national president had been elected to replace him at the end of the month. For Jack, Damien was the one who got away, and it bothered him intensely.

To make matters worse, Jack knew that Damien’s son, Buck, had been a prospect for the past two years. Soon he, too, will be a full-patch member and the cycle will continue. Like father, like son, and it seems all I can do is sit back and watch.

“So what’re you doing here?” Cockerill asked, breaking Jack’s train of thought. “This ain’t got nothin’ to do with you.”

Jack sneered. “I’m here because Constable White isn’t swallowing any of your bullshit about what you’re offering for us to drop the beef — and neither am I.”

“What the fuck? You don’t think some guy shootin’ up an abortion clinic is worth me being pinched for trying to have a piss in a parkade?”

“Cut the crap,” Jack said. “You were caught on video, as well as audio.”

Cockerill frowned. “Okay, okay, you got me on that.” He made a palms-down gesture to drop the subject. “Still, I know this guy, and once he shoots up the clinic, I’ll be able to give him to ya. Bust him quick and he’ll still have the gun to match the bullets.”

“Which’ll be the gun you’ll have given him after you shoot up the clinic.” Jack shook his head in disgust. “I’m done talking to you,” he said abruptly. “I need to make a phone call.”

“But —”

Jack gave a dismissive wave of his hand and placed a call. A female voice, audible over the phone in the small interview room, answered.

“Hey, good lookin’! It’s Jack Taggart. Remember me?”

“Jack! You bet I remember you. Are you still working in the Intelligence unit?”

“Yes.”

“Hang on. I’m doing a story on the six-o’clock news tonight … I’ve got someone here. Give me a sec.”

The look of fear on Cockerill’s face told Jack that he’d heard. Laura sounded like she was talking to someone in the background. “Yep, I’ll follow the lead story.” Then her voice became louder. “Okay, Jack. I’m back.”

“I’m going to send you two photos,” Jack said. “Hang up and call me back. Later I might be able to get you a copy of a video and audio, as well.” He hung up and thumbed his phone.

“You can’t do this!” Cockerill snarled, waving his hand in the air in an unsuccessful bid to gain Jack’s attention. “I’ve got my rights! You can’t do this!”

“Already did,” Jack said, finally glancing up.

“My lawyer’ll sue you!”

Jack smiled. “That should take about seven years to get through the courts. Think you’ll be above ground that long?”

Cockerill stared open-mouthed at him before turning to Sophie for support. His eyes widened when she busied herself examining her fingernails. He looked at Jack again. “You can’t —”

Jack’s phone vibrated and he answered. Cockerill stopped in mid-sentence.

“Hey … Satans Wrath!” Laura exclaimed. “Was it you who put him in the cast?”

“No, he did it himself,” Jack replied, “but wait’ll you hear what he was doing.”

“Don’t do this to me!” Cockerill pleaded.

Jack put his hand over the receiver and looked at Cockerill. “An abortion clinic? Yeah, right.” He turned his attention back to his phone. “This’ll be a really funny story. I’m sure it’ll be picked up by networks and newspapers across the country. Figured I’d let you be the first one to break the —”

“I’ll … I’ll give you something!” Cockerill’s face was awash in fear and panic. “Please … don’t tell her.”

Jack paused as if contemplating the offer, then spoke to Laura. “Hang on a moment while I put you on hold. Someone wants to speak to me.” He looked at Cockerill. “Speak fast — and cut the bullshit.”

“I can give you a grow-op,” Cockerill said rapidly. “About a thousand plants. It’s hidden in the bush. Nobody’d ever find it.”

“You think I’m interested in busting some farmer? It isn’t worth the trouble. Quit wasting my time.”

“You work bikers, right?” Cockerill asked.

“Yeah, a club called the Weenie Waggers. I heard you were president.”

“No, please, listen!” Cockerill wailed. “The ones picking up the weed are with the Gypsy Devils.” He paused, his eyes searching Jack’s face in the vain hope of seeing interest. “The crop is being harvested and the GDs are picking it up next Wednesday or Thursday.” He sounded enthusiastic. “They do it in the wee hours of the morning when nobody’s around. That way they can check for heat, make sure they’re not being followed. What do you think?”

Jack’s face remained without expression.

“I can tell you where it is,” Cockerill hastened to say. “You could watch it and either grab the GDs when they pick up, or if the grower delivers, then follow him and bust ’em when he hands it over.”

“Gypsy Devils,” Jack noted. “Could be something for you to show good faith until you give us something better.”

“Good faith?” Cockerill’s eyes darted nervously between Jack and Sophie. “Come on, busting bikers with dope has gotta be better than catching me with my fly undone.”

“Want me to ask Damien if it’s better?” Jack asked.

Cockerill briefly locked eyes with Jack, then his head dropped. “No,” he whispered.

“Not to mention, busting someone in the bush at night could be a problem.”

“You can only get to it by boat,” Cockerill offered.

“That doesn’t help. Makes it more difficult. Give me some details. How many growers are looking after it and which of the GDs will be involved?”

Cockerill pointed at the phone in Jack’s hand. “You gonna hang up?”

Jack stared blankly at Cockerill, stalling long enough to cause him further stress, then said, “One weed deal won’t cut it. I’ll probably end up with some farmer and a Gypsy Devil, who in my opinion is only a wannabe biker.”

Cockerill swallowed nervously.

Jack leaned forward so that their faces were a hand-width apart. “If I suspect anything you tell me is bullshit, I’ll be calling her back.”

“It won’t be bullshit,” Cockerill promised.

Jack spoke into his phone. “Hi, I’m back.”

“What’s it all about?” Laura asked.

“The biker we were doing surveillance on tried to play hopscotch with some little kids on a sidewalk. He fell off the curb and broke his ankle. Later he was brought in for unpaid tickets and we photographed him.”

“That’s not all that funny,” Laura replied. “My boss wouldn’t be impressed. I thought you were going to give me something juicy.”

“For a tough guy it seemed funny to me,” he said. “Maybe next time.” He hung up.

“I broke it playing fucking hopscotch?” Cockerill looked displeased. He took a deep breath, slowly exhaled, then said, “Okay, as far as I know, there’s only one guy looking after the crop. His name’s Larry. I don’t know his last name. There should be a couple of GDs picking it up.”

“Which ones?” Jack asked. “I need to know everything. It’ll help me come up with a plan to protect you from anyone ever finding out how we knew.”

Cockerill snorted. “Nobody’d suspect me. The blame would be laid on either Larry getting careless or on the GDs because they’re a bunch of stupid fucks anyway. I’m full-patch Satans Wrath. Ain’t nobody gonna point a finger at me over this.”

Over this, no … but what will you tell me in the future? I don’t want anyone to connect the dots, you dumbass. Jack cleared his throat. “Who from the GDs are picking it up?”

“I dunno. Could be one of three guys or maybe all three.”

“You’re talking about their prospects,” Jack replied.

“Yeah,” Cockerill admitted.

“I expect to nail full-patch members at a minimum. The GDs should have I-D-I-O-T-S for their top rocker.” He leaned closer and spoke harshly. “Come on, you can do better than this! I can’t believe you’re trying to stand up for those goofs. I’ve a hard time thinking of them as real bikers.”

Cockerill brooded. “Okay, I’ll give you the full package.” He paused to adjust his pant leg where his jeans had been cut to make room for his cast, then looked at Jack. “Their prospects will be picking up from four different grow-ops next week. Two on Wednesday night and the other two on Thursday. I don’t know where the other three grow-ops are, but I know where it’ll end up.”

“How much?”

“Total of about five hundred keys.” He paused to see Jack’s reaction.

Jack shrugged indifferently. “Keep going.”

“The prospects take the weed to a stash house where they press it into kilo bricks and wrap it. Out of that, two-hundred-and-fifty keys are picked up by a full-patch GD by the name of Neal. He passes it on to his brother, Bob, who’s an independent trucker.”

“They hide it in the trailer with a load of something legit?” Jack asked.

Cockerill shook his head. “We had the sleeper cab in his truck custom built in Mexico. It’s got double walls and roof to hide dope.” He paused. “Neal and Bob … I don’t know their last name.”

“Is Neal a big fat greasy guy with a long braided goatee?”

“Yeah, that’s him.”

“Neal Barlow,” Jack said.

Cockerill nodded. “The other half of the weed is sold off piecemeal to local players.”

“Where’s the stash house the GDs use to press and brick it up?”

“I dunno. That sort of shit is beneath me.”

“Why don’t the prospects deliver it straight to Bob? Neal is full-patch. I would’ve thought, as you put it, that doing that sort of shit is beneath him.”

“Neal lives with Bob in an old farmhouse out in Delta, so any raid on Bob would be on Neal, too.”

“I see.”

“Neal brags that he’s good at spottin’ heat and would never lead the cops to the semi.”

Jack nodded. “I’ll bear it in mind.”

“So this works out better for you, don’t it?” Cockerill said. “All you gotta do is watch Bob’s semi and wait for Neal to arrive. That’ll probably be about four o’clock Friday morning once it’s all packaged up. Then you’ll get to arrest him and Bob, along with scoopin’ up two-hundred-and-fifty keys. Not only that, if you watch their prospects and find out where the stash house is, you’d get the rest.” Cockerill leaned back in his chair and smiled, wiping the palms of his hands together like he was washing them. “That oughtta make us even.”

Jack ignored Cockerill’s last comment. “Regarding the two-fifty keys in the semi … sounds like it’s going to one customer.”

Cockerill nodded.

“Doesn’t anyone from your club swing by to confirm the dope is there or at least crack a brick open to check the quality?” His question caused Cockerill to tense. The idea of ratting on one of your own not to your liking?

“Ah … not much anymore,” Cockerill replied. “It used to be that we’d have one of our prospects drop by to inspect it, but we trust the GDs now. Even if that did happen, Neal might not be around. He’s the only full-patch who touches the stuff — so that’s who you really want. You’d be better off to bust Neal and Bob when they’re loadin’.”

No, who I really want are full-patch Satans Wrath members. He saw Cockerill waiting for a response. “You’re right. Neal and Bob it is.”

Cockerill looked relieved.

Why do I have the feeling that you’re holding something back from me?

Cockerill grinned and cast a sideways glance at Sophie.

“What’s so funny?” Jack asked.

Cockerill chuckled. “Ah, it’s nothin’. We joke by saying, hey, Neal and Bob, are those your names or is that what you do?” He gave a wry smile. “Guess they’ll be kneelin’ and bobbin’ in jail after this.”

Jack faked a smile. “Good one.” He saw Cockerill relax further. “How is it that you know where the grow-op is?” he asked casually. “You’re not some flunky prospect. It seems odd that you’d be involved at that low of a level.”

“Fuck, what’s the deal on how I know where it is?” Cockerill said in annoyance. “What’s important is that I know.”

What’re you hiding? Jack’s face hardened. “Because I’m not going to call people out to say we’re going after a ton of weed only to find out that it’s a ton of bullshit! If I’m suspicious about something, I ask questions. Right now I’m suspicious. Generally you’d use one of your flunky prospects to deal with Neal on something risky like going to a grow-op. It’d also be an opportunity for you to throw it in Neal’s face that the two of you aren’t equals. An oppor-tunity I know your club would use.”

Cockerill looked edgy, then made an obvious effort to look nonchalant. “Yeah, what you said is right, but it’s no big deal. One of our prospects once told me that Neal wanted to take me out to do a little salmon fishin’ and drink some beer. I took him up on the offer and the four of us went out. That’s when I met Larry, ’cause it was his boat we used. Larry ain’t all that bright and pointed out where his grow-op was when we trolled past.”

Telling me that shouldn’t have freaked you out — so what is it? “Okay, that makes sense,” Jack said. “Can you point out the location on a map?”

“Yeah, it’s on an island. Get me a map and I’ll show you.”

Jack looked at Sophie and raised an eyebrow.

“Be right back.” She returned a moment later and unfolded a map. Cockerill pointed to a remote region on an island near the coastline.

“West side of Bowen Island,” Jack noted.

“Satisfied?” Cockerill asked. “You’ll let me go now?”

“A couple more questions,” Jack replied. “What does Larry’s boat look like?”

“It’s an aluminum job with a red canvas cover over the wheelhouse, but it’s small enough that you could pull it up on shore. It won’t be hard to spot because the bow is painted like it’s on fire. Same kinda thing you see on hotrods. He keeps it at the Hidden Bay Marina. If it’s not there, then he’s probably at the grow-op, which is about an hour away. Maybe a little less — we were fishin’ and not going all that fast.”

Jack eyed Cockerill curiously. “Which of your prospects was with you on the boat?”

Cockerill’s eyebrows pinched as if he was trying hard to recall. “I can’t remember. It was a coupla months ago.”

“You remember Larry’s name but can’t remember one of your own guys?” Jack said sarcastically. “There were four of you drinking beer and crowded into a small boat. Why are you lying?”

Cockerill locked eyes with Jack but didn’t respond.

Jack knew why. He leaned back in his chair, folded his arms across his chest, and smiled.