“What do you want? Tell me what you want!” The judge fisted his silk robe as he shouted his demand, his face twisted with anger and fear. He was used to commanding authority, but no one seemed very impressed.
“I want to know the name of every single person working with you. All of them. You shouldn’t leave anyone out. This gentleman”—Ice indicated Absinthe—“will know if you’re telling the truth. He is going to check your pulse while you tell us.”
“Don’t you touch me,” the judge snapped.
Ice produced a gun and shoved it in the judge’s mouth. “Or I could just blow your fuckin’ brains out right now. It’s all the same to me.”
The judge nodded, and Absinthe took his wrist loosely. Ice removed the gun. “Start talking. Just names. Be clear.”
“Dr. Cyrus Mills. Detective Danny Sullivan, San Francisco PD. Officer Paul Bailey, California Highway Patrol. Dr. Ronny Tiptree, medical examiner. Simon Overfield, Evergreen Mortuary. Donald Monroe, he’s a lawyer. Harbin Conner, he’s an assistant police chief.” The judge coughed, his eyes darting around the room as if looking for a miraculous escape.
Ice shook his head. “You’re doing great, just keep going.”
“Darrin Johnson. Ben Thurston. They go after the women.”
“How many others? Who are they?”
“The widowers. There’s six of them. Originally five. Winston makes six. Cooper Knight, Bob Flannigan, Peter Daniels.”
“That’s the entire ring?”
“Yes, yes. I think they have others helping them in other places. They’re branching out.”
“Nice. Must be lucrative.”
“They want to recruit some women to help them,” the judge offered eagerly, seeing that everyone appeared much more relaxed.
“How’d this start? Who’s the boss?”
“We all are. It just kind of evolved. We got talking over poker. All that money at the charity events we have to go to. The women dripping in diamonds. What a waste.” He looked around the room at the grim faces. “It is, isn’t it? So much money we could all share.”
“Would be nice if all of you lived through tonight, wouldn’t it?” Ice asked. He caught up a pillow, thrust it over the judge’s face and fired three bullets into him.* * *Paul Bailey, an officer with the California Highway Patrol, sauntered out of the diner where he stopped every evening to get his coffee before he resumed his patrol. Driving the choked highways could get both boring and dangerous if he didn’t keep up the fuel. He was on the lookout for bikers—the scum of the earth, as far as he was concerned. He didn’t like that they could ride legally through traffic when everyone else had to sit and wait for the lanes to open. He didn’t like a lot of things about them.
And now, Soleil Brodeur, the woman Winston had targeted, was married to one. Sleeping in his bed. She was beautiful. Sexy. There were photographs of her in every news article and magazine everywhere he went—even the diner. Shit. Winston had that. Could have kept it for a while, and he blew it. Now some biker had it while he was stuck driving the highways and listening to people bitch all the time.
He opened the door to his patrol car, slid in, and froze. There was a file taped to his dashboard. He ripped it down and opened it. Names jumped out at him. Dates. His heart began to pound, and he looked wildly around him.
That’s when he saw that his rifle was gone. He kept it strapped right where he could pull it free if needed. It wasn’t there. Not quite believing it, he looked on the floorboards and then on the seat again. He started to call it in but hesitated. Even after destroying the file, there would be so much paperwork. So many questions. An internal investigation. He couldn’t afford to be looked at too closely.
Cursing, he stepped out of the car and looked around. Above the diner, on the roof, something moved. He squinted, looking for focus. A man seemed to be standing there, just looking at him. And then he saw the other one—the one holding the rifle. Flame seemed to blossom from the barrel, and something knocked him over. The sound reverberated loudly through the night and he found himself on his knees, and then his face hit the dirt, and everything went black.* * *“You know we’ve got to get rid of that son of a bitch,” said Harbin Conner, assistant police chief of the San Francisco Police Department, dealing the cards to the others at the table. “He’s all over the news.” He glared at Donald Monroe, a very high-powered attorney. “And you advised him. Now we’re in a hell of a mess.”
“Winston had already gone to the cops in Vegas to help him look for her and then taken it to the newspapers. We were left hanging. I thought it would get to the judge and he’d quietly handle it and we’d get off scot-free.”