“And if someone had a near inexhaustible supply of nitromethane, one that was easily covered up in the accounting?”
“From what I hear? A lot of people would pay a whole lot of money for it. Millions. A good source for criminal organizations could be a nightmare for us.” Glebe paused. Then he tactfully added, “This isn’t something you should perhaps be sharing with local law enforcement, is it, Bob?”
“Oh… I’ll get to that,” Bob said. “Promise.”
“Uh huh. This one falls heavily under the ‘don’t want to know’ heading, doesn’t it?” Glebe said.
“It was good talking with you again, Sergeant.”
“Uh huh. Don’t be a stranger, Bob.”
Bob ended the call. He needed to get in touch with Sharmila, tell her and David he had their motive.
They met at the diner they’d used for introductions on his first night in town. Sharmila was sitting in a booth, stirring a glass of ice water with a straw, a distant expression on her face.
She noticed him approaching. “Give me some good news, Bob. The clock is ticking.”
“It’s shrewd,” Bob said as he sat down. “But it’s not meth. The cheese factory is producing meth ingredients instead.”
Sharmila squinted, puzzled. “But… wouldn’t that be less profitable—”
“Nope. The more common precursor chemicals are what tip law enforcement officials off to meth production in the first place. They’re only manufactured in America under strict licensing and regulation, so they’re usually smuggled in from Mexico or central America, which is risky and expensive.”
“So… instead of making the drug, they’re making it easier for others?”
“My police source says every gang in the western US would kill for a steady, untraceable supply of methylamine. And it can be produced from Nitro Funny Car fuel. When I was in Nevada, one of the locals mentioned Jenkins fueling up at the local track… but they don’t run at that track. Same deal is going on in Bakersfield. My guess is they’re siphoning off product, labelling it as used in test and practice runs, then trucking it to the cheese factory.”
“So they’re creating a confined living environment for thousands of poor people next to Merry’s existing turf with new trailer parks,” she suggested, “then making it possible to massively ramp up both their own meth production and sell this precursor to others.”
“It’s millions and millions of dollars,” Bob said. “That’s motive enough.”
“Okay. And my father?”
“I… still don’t know who pulled the trigger. But we can prove it wasn’t Marcus, thanks to David, and I’m getting closer. Once we have that…”
“Once we have that, we have everything,” she said.
“Not quite. Parker Baird’s still insulated.”
“Why?”
“Jenkins Racing owns the numbered company that owns the cheese shop,” Bob said. “But they’re leasing it to a third player, which I suspect is owned by Merry. That gives Baird deniability; he can claim ignorance, as he’s just the landlord. And unless we can get Thomas or another flunky to admit they pulled the trigger, we have nothing directly tying him to your father.”
“But—”
“The professor was murdered by a rogue cop, he’ll argue. That’s evidence of nothing, really. David thinks Fowler was working for Michelsen alone.”
“Okay.” She scowled and crossed her arms.
“You’re disappointed. I mean… Obviously…” Bob stammered.
“It’s okay. Like you said, you’re getting closer. But we have a bit of a problem.” Sharmila relayed the assistant district attorney’s demand. “You’ve got two days before she pulls the plug on David. And that’s under one condition.”
“I can work with that. I’ll have to. Wait… what condition?”
“You have to meet with a cop.”
44
Staff Sergeant Gayle Dyche gazed across the atrium towards the waiting room. A patrolman was sitting on one of the waiting area chairs, next to a very pregnant sex worker. They were comparing photos of their kids.
Dyche smiled gently. For all the heat they took, there were a lot of compassionate cops in Bakersfield, he figured. They just didn’t get much press.
His desk phone rang. The call display number registered as ‘unknown.’
He picked up the line. “Bakersfield PD. Staff Sergeant Dyche.” He’d said it so many times it tripped without pause off his tongue. “With whom am I speaking?” It was veteran practice to ask for an ID on an unidentified caller. They were calling for a reason, and if they wanted his help, they’d usually acquiesce.
“I’m told you were expecting a call from me.”
Bob Richmond. He’d wrestled with how to handle it. He’d known Margaret Swain’s father, a respected officer in his own right and former military man, and he’d often praised her zealous pursuit of the city’s criminal element.
“I’m giving you leeway, Mr. Richmond. I promised Ms. Swain I wouldn’t try to trace the call or set you up to be scooped. She, in turn, says you have a lot of answers.”
“And she says you’re a straight shooter.”
“Disappoint me and I’m inclined to believe you’ll learn just how straight,” Dyche said. “What are you offering?” He checked the booking area and nearby detectives’ bullpen for anyone listening in.
“The motive for Hap Singh’s death. The names of the men responsible, and a confession from one of them, a cop.”
