Steven Gore - Power Blind

“No idea. I made a deal with him. In exchange for copies of what was in Meyer’s wallet he got to listen to part of my tape of Hawkins’s confession. I didn’t ask him anything about Charlie, not even about the shooting. I’m still not sure I know enough to ask him anything in a way that’ll get an answer that would make a difference.”

The courtroom door swung open next to them. The DA stepped out. “The judge needs a five-minute break,” she said, “then you’re on.”

Spike nodded and she walked back inside.

“How about taking a long shot with a little of the county’s money?” Gage asked.

“For what?”

“Another toxicology analysis. The only way Porzolkiewski could have killed Karopian is by remote control.”

“And you figure he might’ve done the same thing with Charlie?”

“And doing the tests here is a lot cleaner than getting the local cops in a tizzy out on Bethel Island.”

G age’s cell phone rang the next morning as he was sitting at the conference table in his office puzzling over a printout of Charlie Palmer’s Pegasus spreadsheet.

“The medical examiner just sent me the results. He feels like an idiot.”

Spike wasn’t laughing.

“What was it?”

“It’s called sodium monofluoroacetate. Nobody would’ve thought to do a tox screen for poison in a case like Charlie’s. It’s banned in the States, but it’s used in Canada to kill wolves. They put it in a collar around a cow’s neck and when the wolf attacks he gets a mouthful. Let me read what the ME e-mailed me: white powder, no taste, no odor, attacks the cardiovascular and central nervous systems simultaneously. A tenth of a gram is all it takes to kill a human being.”

“So you could put it in someone’s coffee-”

“And the victim would think it was Splenda.”

“What does it look like in action?”

“Seizures, convulsions, and cardiac arrest.”

“Sounds horrendous.”

“And there goes Porzolkiewski’s alibi if it shows up in Karopian’s blood, too,” Spike said. “It can take as long as twenty hours to show itself.”

Gage rested an elbow on the conference table, then ran his hand down the back of his head.

“It’s hard to imagine John Porzolkiewski as a cold-blooded murderer,” Gage said. “A manslaughter, heat of passion, enraged enough to shoot Charlie down in the street-that I can see. Sneaking into Charlie’s house, lacing his juice or sticking a needle in him-I don’t see him doing it. Or to Karopian either.”

“We’ll find out. I just called the Contra Costa County Sheriff’s Department. Bethel Island is their jurisdiction. Usually they just find the bodies of dead meth dealers out there, and never find the killers. They’re drooling over this one. They’ll have the tox results by this time tomorrow.”

Gage felt himself losing control of the investigation. In another forty-eight hours, the links-proven or not-among Porzolkiewski, Charlie, Karopian, and Meyer’s former law firm would be front-page news. Reporters would be pawing through the search warrant affidavit and the police reports, the “what ifs” becoming “and thens.” Unless…

“I’m worried about publicity,” Gage said.

“You’re not the only one.”

Gage’s mind wound its way through a forest of dangers, then he had a thought about how to skirt around them all:

“I’ve got an idea of how to conceal what we’re doing. Use me as a confidential informant and get an order sealing the search warrant affidavit for my safety.”

Spike laughed. “Won’t that be a little embarrassing when it comes out? People thinking you turned wimp.”

“I’ll take the risk.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line.

“I’ve got a better plan,” Spike finally said. “I’ll just say there’s an ongoing investigation that would be compromised. A little bullshit about CIs, pending search warrants, and means and methods. Judges like that kind of crap. It makes them feel important. And I’ll get the DA to lean on the judge for a gag order if it looks like the case might break open. Judges like that, too, since it makes them the center of the media coverage. Nobody gets to talk except them.”

John Porzolkiewski wasn’t paying attention when the chubby Hispanic in the outdated brown sports coat walked into his Tenderloin store. His eyes darted back and forth between the two homeless men huddled by the beer display cooler on the opposite wall and the three high school girls giggling at the latest issue of Penis Envy at the front of the porn-lite magazine rack.

He still wasn’t paying attention when the Hispanic man stopped in front of the counter behind which he was standing, when he pulled a single piece of paper out of a leather folder, and when two uniformed officers stationed themselves by the front door.

The words, “I’m Lieutenant Pacheco of SFPD. I have a warrant to search your store,” finally broke through the auto-pilot haze of decades running a skid-row market.

Porzolkiewski reached out to accept the paper from Spike’s hand. He spotted the words “Search Warrant” in bold letters on the top, then shook his head and looked up.

“Busting my place apart because of some health code violation? What do you expect to find, plague?”

Porzolkiewski’s eyes locked on a spot past Spike’s left shoulder, then he threw his arm forward, jabbing his finger at the homeless men.

“Put that back and get out of here.”

Spike glanced over and spotted the top of a silver and black King Cobra forty-ouncer protruding from a grimy army-jacketed armpit. The two patrol officers grabbed the homeless men, patted them down, removed four cans of malt liquor from their coat pockets, and pushed them out the door. Spike pointed at the girls, then toward the entrance. They slipped the magazine onto the rack, and slinked past him and out to the street.

Porzolkiewski was staring down at the search warrant when Spike turned back, his hands shaking and his eyebrows furrowed on what seemed to Spike to be a permanently sad face.

“I need you to keep your hands in view and come around the counter,” Spike told him.

Porzolkiewski backed up a half step, then glanced under the countertop.

Spike pulled his coat back and rested his hand on the butt of his semiautomatic.

“It’s not that,” Porzolkiewski said. He bent down, reaching under the counter.

Spike yanked out his gun. A double-handed grip aimed it at Porzolkiewski’s forehead.

“Don’t do it.”

Porzolkiewski looked up at the barrel just inches away, then toward Spike’s face.

“What are you doing? It’s not like I killed someone.”

“It’s exactly like you killed someone.” Spike jerked the gun up an inch. “Back away.”

Porzolkiewski straightened and stepped back. Spike skirted the counter, spun Porzolkiewski around, and pushed him up against the condom and hard liquor shelves. He reholstered his gun and snapped on handcuffs. He then gripped the chain linking the two cuffs with one hand, grabbed the back of Porzolkiewski’s shirt collar with the other, and guided him around the counter toward the door. A uniformed officer waiting on the sidewalk took Porzolkiewski by the arms, leaned him over the hood of a patrol car, and patted him down.

Spike pointed at one of the patrol officers waiting in the store to execute the search warrant and said, “Check for a gun under the counter.”

The officer crouched down, grunting as he moved items around on the two shelves.

A woman entered wearing a white disposable hazmat suit and pushing a cart bearing a portable chemical vapor detector. Black rubber boots encased her feet and neoprene gloves protected her hands. She breathed through a respirator attached to the plastic face shield of her hood.