He stopped at a gas station, bought a razor and a pair of scissors, then visited its bathroom.
He shaved off the heavy beard, then carefully trimmed his hair slightly. Eventually, images from the track cameras could make their way back to Team Seven. The National Security Agency’s facial recognition software was superb and had access to law enforcement broadly. The sheriffs would be angry, looking for payback, and would have an All-Points Bulletin out on him in short order.
It wouldn’t help them much across the California border, out of their jurisdiction, where hundreds of miles of desert between the nearest city and Pahrump made chasing gas station robbery suspects awfully low on anyone’s priority list.
And any attempt to bust him for the “assault” would lead to questions, viewing the track video, accusations of police brutality. Parnell had seemed the type to avoid all that.
Bakersfield’s suburbs started in the town of Edison, a highway strip of scrub lots and hardpan dirt, broken-down industrial yards, weigh scales and truck stops. The highway split at a spaghetti junction just past it, the north leg leading him into the city proper, the road diverging into four lanes to accommodate heavier traffic.
The service stations and desert gave way to homes and businesses. Bakersfield stuck with the same theme as the rest of the inland desert towns: low rise buildings, few over three stories, many whitewashed to reflect the heat, close together to encourage shady recesses. It went on for miles, the valley home to more than a half-million residents.
A brown haze hung in the air, which Bob figured was dust from the surrounding hills. He steered the Buick towards downtown.
First order of business is to get a room at the motel, then go see Marcus.
Dawn had said the boy would be expecting Bob as his legal representative, the only way he could gain access to Marcus, with pre-trial detainees barred from having visitors.
It irked him, losing his ‘Robert MacMillan’ ID to the deputies in Pahrump. It had carried him across two states and been solid for nearly three months. And it had cost him a fortune from the forger in Tucson. Now, he had to start from scratch, he knew, with the only paper he’d managed to secure in Las Vegas, a brutally expensive driver’s license in the name ‘Bob Richmond.’
Marcus was supposed to have told his captors that his lawyer ‘Bob Richmond’ would be stopping in before the end of the day. It had taken Dawn twenty minutes to find a lawyer in California named R. Richmond, a real estate specialist based out of Huntington Beach, which was at least a little bit of luck. It would have to suffice, but Bob knew any backchecks would compromise the ID quickly.
He stopped the car at a red light and checked his watch. It was just after five thirty in the evening.
Still technically before the end of the day, I guess.
Now I just need to figure out how to get him out.
At the intersection’s corner, a leathery, weather-beaten man in dirty denim overalls, a string vest and a wilting cowboy hat eyed him with surly deference. The man scratched his scraggly cheek whiskers as he kept his eyes on the Buick, then stooped slightly to spit out a stream of brown tobacco juice.
He was still staring as Bob’s car pulled away.
5
The sergeant behind the booking desk stared at Bob with annoyance then looked past him, over his shoulder, to the clock above the main doors. “Your client has been in holding for a day already,” he said. “What took you so long, counsellor?”
“I had to drive in from Los Angeles,” Bob lied. He glanced sideways at the waiting room, where a half-dozen detainees, mostly cuffed, were waiting on benches to be booked.
“Your driver’s license says Nevada.” The sergeant tossed it back to him across the counter and Bob put it back into his wallet. The officer had a small name tag with “DYCHE” in tiny white lettering.
“Because I used to live there. Apparently, his mother was owed a favor by my partner, so here I am. Do I sound happy about that fact, Sergeant?”
The cop’s face suggested he didn’t want to be there on a Saturday night either, making mild irritation appropriate.
“You do not, counsellor, you do not. I’m sure our fair city has nothing on whatever you had planned this evening, but if I was your client, I’d be annoyed.” He turned around a ledger and pushed it across the raised desk. “Sign in and we’ll get you a room.”
“A room?” Bob said. He cursed himself inwardly. That was probably something obvious to a lawyer. Don’t ask unnecessary questions, idiot. Keep making mistakes like that and the jig is up, Bobby.
“For your interview.” The sergeant frowned. “He’s still in holding, obviously. You don’t do many of these, I take it.”
“I’m licensed to practice criminal law, Sergeant, I… just don’t get much opportunity.” Lace it with self-doubt. Let him know you’re embarrassed to be here, because you’re an asshole lawyer. “I handle real estate contract law, typically, homes in Malibu. This is a little… below my pay grade. You understand.”
Sgt. Dyche sucked on his tongue, a derisive expression on his face. “Uh huh. I don’t reckon your client would want to know that, either. He seemed pretty nervous about being here.”
“I’m sure he’s a sweetheart,” Bob said with dry cynicism.
From behind him, a woman’s voice chimed in. “If that’s the attitude you take, I wouldn’t want you on my team.”
Bob turned. She was tall, with copper hair, broad-shouldered, in a skirt suit, legal briefcase in right hand. She wore a stony expression.
“Mr. Richmond, this is Assistant District Attorney Margaret Swain,” the sergeant said.
“Your client deserves the fullness of your attention, counsellor,” Swain stated icily. “If I’m of the opinion he isn’t being properly represented, I’m bound by my duty as an officer of the court to ensure that is addressed before any proceedings are tainted.”
“Duly noted. And as his counsel, I’m duty bound to point out to you that his arrest is a travesty.”
“A travesty!?” She practically smirked at the notion, Bob thought. “Mr. Richmond…”
“Please… it’s Bob.”
“Mr. Richmond, your client was caught four feet from the body with the smoking gun that—”
“No, he wasn’t,” Bob interrupted. “I know that kid’s family, and I’d bet anything that he was set up.”
She looked weary. “Mr. Richmond, just because you’ve read the odd story about Bakersfield police being corrupt doesn’t mean you get to denigrate the entire department.”
“No, but it’s interesting you bring that history up,” Bob said. “After all… I didn’t. But I do know Marcus’s family, and you’d be more likely to jail a felon if you arrested Santa Claus.”
“If it looks and quacks like a duck…”
