Sins of Omission

by L.M.Lewis

Frank tries to keep a snitch out of the land fill, the judge encounters the Epimenides paradox, and Mark deals with the devil on the installment plan.

Disclaimer: These characters are not mine and I make no profit from them.

Rated: Well, times being what they are, it'll probably pass as a PG-13/T

Authors note: This is about the guy Barb called 'Dark Mark' over on the Gulls Way Board. Nothing horribly graphic here, but it's got adult themes.

Thank you, Cheri, for catching so many goofs and, as always, for major ending assistance.

Sins of Omission

By L. M. Lewis

One of the many lessons that one learns in prison is,

that things are what they are, and will be what they will be.
Oscar Wilde

It was pretty quiet on the ride back from Clarkville Prison. The state trooper who was giving them the lift just drove and didn't talk. Mark leaned up against his side of the back seat, looking dog-tired but not sleeping. Hardcastle was a little surprised. They'd been up early yesterday, transporting that bunch of potential future inmates to the prison for their scared straight session, then had spent the rest of the day and night caught up in a prison riot, trying to avoid being killed by either prisoners or guards. Then most of today they'd done a pretty good imitation of being fugitives from a chain gang.

Yeah, well, then why aren't you dozing off? he asked himself.

Too keyed up.

And, now that he gave it some thought, McCormick had been that way even before the riot had broken out. All the joking, the sharp remarks as they escorted their small herd of miscreants through the facility—it hadn't been bravado, more like whistling in the dark. Then had come the most telling comment of all. When Paul Conner had pulled out all the stops and shown the boys his darker side, McCormick had said, with no humor whatsoever, 'He scares me.'

And it turned out Connor was the most reasonable inmate in Clarkville.

Okay, so, nobody likes prison. It's a bad place. Bad memories. So, he doesn't talk about it. That's only natural.

He never talks about it.

Oh, well, maybe an occasional one-liner, a little humorous irony, but that's all. Hardcastle snuck another sideward look at the younger man. Now that all the excitement was over, might be a good time—

There's never going to be a 'good' time. He'd spent eight months in fairly close quarters with the man, and that part of his life was still a closed book, except for the sparse notes from McCormick's prison record, sitting in the file back home.

He's past all that now.

He wasn't past it yesterday.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked, on an impulse, and the question was apparently so unlike him that he got a head turn and a momentary stare from the younger man.

And then, after a beat, McCormick replied, "I was just thinking I don't like the view from the backseat of a squad car very much." A smile followed, but there wasn't much humor in the eyes.

Shoulda figured.

00000

McCormick settled back in, looking straight ahead again. Damn if he can't see inside my head sometimes. It was disturbing as hell. He didn't even want to be in there right now, let alone have company.

The last forty hours or so he'd been busy just trying not to be killed. That had kept his mind pretty damn focused, so he hadn't had time to dwell on other, less immediate concerns.

The guy we found hanging in the basement of the prison. Now there was a flash from the past.

He hadn't really needed anymore of that stuff. It was damn hard work getting it sunk far enough down so that it didn't come bobbing back up to the surface. Especially late at night, waking up in a cold sweat, not sure for a few moments if you're back there.

That hadn't happened in a while. But the truth was, he thought, you're never really not there.

It's always still inside of you.

00000

Two weeks later

Hardcastle wore a thoughtful expression as he hung up the phone. He'd known Frank Harper for a long time, and if the lieutenant called up and asked if he could stop by 'to talk about something', it was a sure bet that the subject would have a three-digit number under the California State Penal Code.

The judge glanced out the window to where McCormick was trimming a hedge with all the enthusiasm he'd come to expect from his reluctant yardman. One hedge could easily take the better part of a morning. Hardcastle frowned. Harper had asked if McCormick would be there. That was unusual. The judge had almost asked him what was up right then and there, though it was obvious that his friend didn't really want to discuss it on the phone.

Hardcastle shook his head. Why be so quick to assume the worst? Besides, if it was about McCormick, it would have to be a fairly old skeleton rattling around in the closet; the kid had kept his nose clean the past eight months.

You trust him, don't you?

Mostly.

As reluctant as he was about hedge trimming, when it came to the important stuff, he'd be there. That crazy stunt with the helicopter in San Rio, walking back into Clarkville after giving the prisoners' demands to the State Police--Hardcastle didn't have much doubt that the kid would back him up on anything, unasked.

But he'd had to learn to look the other way once in a while. McCormick had his own set of rules sometimes. He hadn't quite gotten the hang of the straight and narrow.

But he's getting there.

00000

Just about at the point where he thought he'd reached the human limits of tedium by way of hedge trimming, McCormick heard a car coming up the drive. A moment later, Frank Harper's non-descript police issue sedan came into view--not likely to be a social call, at mid-morning on a weekday in the company car.

McCormick watched Frank pull up, climb out, and then reach back in for something that looked like a file. That was all the encouragement he needed. He laid the clippers down and meandered toward the house. When it came to a choice between hedges and chasing bad guys, it was bad guys by an increasingly wide lead.

Frank waved a greeting, keeping the file tucked securely under his left arm. "Glad you're here, Mark. I wanted to ask you something."

McCormick's eyebrows went up a notch. Even though this was Frank, the only cop he'd ever been on a first-name basis with, the idea of a police officer wanting to ask him questions still made him feel a little edgy. It couldn't be anything too bad, though, from the look Frank was giving him.

"Not my whereabouts last Wednesday night, I hope," Mark quipped lightly. "I was here. It was a John Wayne double feature."

Frank shook his head and smiled. "Nothing like that."

They were at the front door, and Mark stepped past Frank and opened it, shouting "Company's here," in the direction of the den, as he led the other man in.

00000

Hearing the two of them come in together, and McCormick sounding pretty relaxed, did a lot to allay the niggling worry that had been sitting at the back of Hardcastle's mind. He waved Frank toward a chair and watched McCormick follow him in and find a seat as well.

"Whatcha got?" the judge asked, without any preamble.

"John Castanetti," Frank said, just as briefly, and then added, "maybe."

The judge sat forward a little. "Johnny C.? That can't be his file," he gestured to the one tucked under Frank's arm, "Not thick enough. And what made you decide to take on that snake right now?"

Frank shrugged. "Not my idea. Something kinda fell into my lap." He untucked the file and laid it down on the desk, giving it a gentle nudge in the judge's direction. "Guy comes to me yesterday. Ex-con, a few months out," Frank gave a glance in Mark's direction, "San Quentin." Hardcastle couldn't help noticing the younger man's expression was very fixed. Frank tapped the file, "Guy's name is Zimmer, Wesley Zimmer. You know him, Mark? Did five years for burglary."

If he hadn't been looking in the kid's direction at precisely that moment, Hardcastle would have missed it. Then he had it under control, that brief flash of anger in his eyes and . . . something else. Fear? But it was gone as quickly as it had come and McCormick was looking blank and shaking his head. Hardcastle doubted that Frank had seen anything at all. It had been that fast.

"Quentin is a big place, Frank." McCormick said flatly. Hardcastle was beginning to get a whiff of evasion. Here was a statement that should probably only be taken at face value.

Frank, unfortunately, did the extrapolation. "Yeah, that's what I figured," he sighed. "Thought I might get lucky and you could give me a handle on this guy."

"What kind of handle?" McCormick had allowed a little expression back onto his face, but not more than could be accounted for by simple curiosity.

Frank opened the file and tapped the top page. "Zimmer had a cellie named Tosca, hit man, doing a long stretch, former employee of John Castanetti. He says they got to be friends. Zimmer gets out and, 'bout a month later, along comes a job offer."

"From Castanetti?" the judge asked.

"Well, Zimmer says he didn't know for sure at first, that's why it took him a while to come to me. At first the work seems pretty legit. Errands mostly, a company that handles imports, shipping. Stuff like that. Zimmer doesn't ask too many questions; he needs the job."

"Where was his parole officer during all this?" Hardcastle asked dryly.

Frank shrugged. "Zimmer flat out admits he and Witkowski don't get along too well. And he admitted this was strictly cash on the barrel, per diem stuff."

"That's a technical, isn't it?"

"Well, probably," Frank admitted. "It would be for Witkowski; he's a very by-the-book kinda guy. So that's more reason still why Zimmer did an end run around him."

"And now he comes to you because . . .?"

"Because he started to look a little more closely at the papers he was carrying. He thinks maybe this is more than bone china these guys are pushing around."

McCormick frowned. "And he's had a sudden attack of good citizenship, or what?"

Hardcastle looked at him abruptly, partly because the words had been stolen before he could utter them, and partly because they were entirely un-McCormick like.

Frank answered before he could say anything. "I doubt it. But he's worried about his parole. Says he doesn't want this to splash back on him. But he thinks he may already be in too deep to just quit. Thinks they'll get suspicious if he does. He wants me to put him in touch with someone in the Mob Task Force, so they can give him some kind of official dispensation, let him keep doing what he's doing, and if he finds out more, he'll bring it to them. He's also hoping to get paid for his troubles." Frank made a face of resigned disapproval.

"Sort of hangs together, I suppose," Hardcastle agreed. "So, why don't you just kick it upstairs and let the task force boys worry about it?"

There was a long moment of silence. Frank seemed to be studying a spot on Hardcastle's desk with unnecessary intensity. "Well," he began tentatively, "I could do that, I suppose. And if he's on the up-and-up, and they don't sit around and talk the whole thing to death before they get their rears in gear, I suppose they might get goods on Castanetti." Then he shook his head and frowned, "Or Zimmer might wind up like that last snitch I sent them—in a barrel on a hazardous waste dump up in San Bernardino County."

"You sent them that guy?"

Frank nodded once. "They say he was playing both ends to the middle, tried to use information he'd gotten from the task force to squeeze his mob connections. That's why he got killed. I dunno." He lifted his head and looked at the judge. "All I know is I'm not sending them anymore informants."

The judge nodded.

"But then I was thinking, maybe if I could set him up with a different parole officer, someone who'd kinda ride herd on him, but let him see if he can't get a little further into the Castanetti organization, now that might work."

Hardcastle was smiling thoughtfully.

"And I know how much you'd like to get that snake."

"More than you?"

"Maybe even more than me," Frank smiled. "And you've got a precedent here," Frank jerked his head in McCormick's direction, "so nobody would look too hard at the whole thing if you made the request. Hell, Witkowski'd probably thank you. His case load is pretty heavy."

Hardcastle's smile broadened. Then he sobered for a moment. "Let me look over the guy's file and . . ." he paused in mid-sentence.

"Discuss it?" Harper finished for him.

The judge shot one glance at McCormick, and saw only a closed face.

". . . get back to you on it." Hardcastle's smile faded completely.

McCormick's face still gave nothing away. He fidgeted once and then got to his feet slowly, saying, "And I've got a hedge to finish."

The judge watched him go, with look of disapproval. Then he heard Frank saying something. "What?" he turned his attention back to the lieutenant.

"I said, 'Sorry'. I didn't mean to ruffle any feathers."

"Oh, him?" Hardcastle harrumphed. "Your guess is as good as mine. He doesn't like having a roommate though, that's for sure."

"Maybe he just wanted to be consulted on the question," Frank suggested.

"Consulted?" Hardcastle looked surprised. "He works for me." He hesitated, and then added, "But if he had anything useful to say, I mean about this Zimmer guy, I'd listen. Otherwise," the judge shook his head, "he's gonna have a guest on his sofa."

00000

Frank had left the file and departed, without much more conversation, a short while after McCormick. The judge took a few moments to peruse it--nothing too surprising within. Zimmer was a two-time loser, burglary, nothing creative. He'd done his time with a minimum of fuss. Hard to see if there was anything special there, good or bad. On paper, at least, he looked a lot like McCormick.

The judge looked out the window again. He'd heard the lawnmower start up, meaning the kid had moved on to another chore without being specifically asked, clearly an avoidance maneuver. Hardcastle riffled through the thin sheaf of papers in the file before him. He hadn't meant to use Frank's offer as a crowbar; it had just seemed like a good idea at the moment. He heard the mower stop, and stay silent. After a few more minutes, he got up, leaving the file on his desk, and strolled outside.

McCormick had wheeled the thing into the garage, and had it tipped on its side with the gas tank already off. He was fiddling with the spark plug wire and didn't look up as Hardcastle approached.

"What's wrong with it?" the older man inquired.

"Running kind of rough," McCormick grumbled, still not looking up. "Maybe damaged the blade lock key, dunno. Gonna have a look."

He pulled the wrench from his back pocket and started torqueing the nut. He leaned a little harder into the wrench and the thing slipped--a muttered curse as it clattered to the ground. Hardcastle glanced up again. The kid was clutching his right hand in his left, running off a string of expletives.

"Let's see," the judge demanded. McCormick wound down with a few more heartfelt words and finally let loose long enough to check the damage--a deep cut across the palm, where his hand had slid into the edge of the blade.

Hardcastle whistled. "That'll need some stitches. Lucky you didn't slice off a finger." He reached into his own pocket for a handkerchief. "Here, put some pressure on it and I'll drive you to the hospital."

"I can drive myself," McCormick muttered. "It's just a cut."

"How you gonna work the shift if you take the Coyote? And I'm not letting you drive the truck. You'll make the interior look like a crime scene." Hardcastle shook his head. "Come on. I'll put the damn mower in the truck and we can drop it off at Ernie's on the way home." He offered the kid a hand under the arm and got him to his feet, Mark still grumbling. "See how this all works out?" the judge added. "You with the bandaged-up hand, and this guy Zimmer to take up the slack."

McCormick said nothing.

00000

Three hours, nine stitches, a tetanus shot, and about twenty-five words later, they were back at the estate. As he pulled up to the drive, Hardcastle said, "As long as you're out of commission for the rest of the day, you might as well come and have a look at the files."

"Zimmer's?" McCormick shot him a sideward glance as he exited the truck. "I thought that wasn't up for discussion," he added, with barely controlled asperity.

Hardcastle shrugged. "If you've got something to say, say it. You told Frank you didn't know the guy. Didn't seem to me like you'd have much opinion one way or the other."

"I didn't say I didn't know him." McCormick stood next to the truck, staring down at his hand.

"Well, that's what it sounded like you were saying," Hardcastle said over his shoulder as he walked up the steps.

McCormick glanced once in the direction of the gatehouse and then followed reluctantly. "I guess I'm not used to people coming to me for character references," he added casually.

Hardcastle shot him another sharp glance as he unlocked the door. "This is Frank we're talking about here. He's a friend. He's asking you for help."

He had the door open. McCormick was still standing on the steps, looking like he was trying to decide something. Finally he spoke, keeping the words slow, the tone even. "Frank's your friend. My opinion's only worth what you say it is. You say I'm okay, so I'm okay."

"So," Hardcastle said dryly, "are you okay?"

The kid blinked once, then he shook his head. "Back when we were chasing J. J. Beal, you said it would be six months before you trusted me." He raised his eyes in a questioning stare. "It's been at least that long. Do you trust me?"

It was Hardcastle's turn to blink, thinking about the morning's conversation in the den. He took a moment, but when he spoke, it came out sharper than he'd intended. "Not when you lie to me."

McCormick took a step back, almost as if he'd absorbed a blow. He nodded once, face set, turned, and walked toward the gatehouse. Hardcastle watched his retreat for a few moments, then closed the door.

He stood there in the hallway, thinking about the exchange. Trust has to be earned.

He walked back into Clarkville for you.

And he's lying to Frank.

But why?

00000

It was approaching dinnertime, with no signs of rapprochement from the gatehouse. Hardcastle had spent the afternoon with the Castanetti file, a couple inches thick and compelling reading. When he had said 'files', this had been the other one he'd wanted to show McCormick.

Castanetti made the old-time capos look like gentle practitioners of their art. For all their toughness within their own organizations, they would avoid direct confrontation with the police and the deaths of innocent bystanders if possible. Castanetti used violence indiscriminately, to create an aura of menace. Small wonder he'd risen to the top; no sane boss wanted to be responsible for his actions.

It was the earliest pages of the file--smudged and faded photocopies from the early sixties--that he had most wanted McCormick to see. Castanetti's first brush with the law: he'd set up an ambush in a deserted warehouse, killing a beat cop named Walpole. Where one blow from the tire iron would have sufficed, Castanetti had continued on until the dead man's face was no longer recognizably human.

Hardcastle had attended the closed-casket wake, just as he'd gone to the man's wedding, two months before. And he'd made a vow to Anna Walpole, that her murdered husband would have some sort of justice.

Two months as a bride and twenty years as a widow--there'd been no justice yet. The thin thread, a single witness, that connected Castanetti with the murder, had disappeared a few days after talking to the police. He only had the witness' statement: Castanetti had picked a victim at random, merely to demonstrate he was capable of killing a cop, hoping to become a made man.

Johnnie C. had been seventeen at the time.

Hardcastle closed the file and got up from his desk wearily. He hadn't had much need to reread the Castanetti saga; he'd followed the man's career diligently. He wasn't sure where the exact body count stood right now, but Walpole alone was all the justification he needed, and if McCormick wanted him to turn down a chance to nail this guy, he'd have to do a lot better than wry looks and stalking off.

If the kid wasn't walking wounded, he would go out there right now and challenge him to a little basketball game. That would clear the air, though the judge thought he might have to eat a few elbows, with the mood McCormick was in. Instead, he carried the file into the kitchen and deposited it on the table, as close to neutral territory as there was on the estate under the circumstances. He wasn't sure McCormick would even come this far.

Then he went out to the truck. With a calculated amount of door slamming and engine noise, he made what was almost certainly an observed departure. He had every intention of staying away long enough for McCormick to have dinner and a good read.

00000

McCormick might've skipped breakfast without much comment; he could not be called a morning person. But he had shown up dutifully and, just as dutifully, contributed to the idle conversation--the weather, his hand, and the state of the transmission on the judge's 'Vette.

When the judge had returned home the night before--after a leisurely drive, a hot dog down in Marina del Ray, and a visit to Frank--he'd noticed some almost imperceptible rearrangement of the Castanetti file, enough to make him believe it had been looked at. That was enough, as far as Hardcastle was concerned. As much as the kid professed to dislike the paperwork aspects of criminal justice, the judge hadn't yet had to show him anything twice.

That, combined with this morning's return to nearly normal relations, convinced Hardcastle that he'd made his point. McCormick was scrounging under the sink for a pair of rubber gloves, when the judge mentioned in passing that Frank was bringing Zimmer over about ten.

The kid narrowly missed clocking himself on the underside of the cabinet as he straightened up. The look he darted over his shoulder was a mirror of the one Hardcastle had seen in the den the day before. No, not quite. The anger's there, yeah, but the rest was pure loathing. There didn't seem to be any room left for fear at all.

It looked as if it took a little longer this time--tamping all that back down, getting it under control--but McCormick finally managed. He got to his feet slowly, gloves in his good hand, and asked, "So, he'll be staying here?"

The judge nodded, "The gatehouse, I figured. He can use the sofa. It's just temporary. It's either that or put him in one of the guest rooms here."

"Uh-uh," McCormick shook his head. "The gatehouse."

Hardcastle grunted, "Huh, you think I can't handle an ex-con?"

"I think you take stupid chances," McCormick's voice had gone very flat. "You let someone you don't know into your home."

"I read his file." Hardcastle shrugged, "and I'm a pretty good judge of character."

"Hah," McCormick's laugh was short and explosive, "J. J. Beal."

"You."

"Me?" McCormick shook his head. "A two-day trial two years ago, a couple of talks with Dalem, and a handful of papers--you thought you knew me?"

"I was right, wasn't I?" Hardcastle smiled.

"You were lucky." There was a moment of silence and then, with a tone of resignation, "Put him in the gatehouse."

00000

Frank pulled up a few minutes after ten. McCormick was poking around under the hood of the 'Vette. He'd been there since breakfast, close at hand but not available for further conversation. Hardcastle came out to the porch and watched Wesley Zimmer step out of the passenger side.

He was about McCormick's height, with five years and twenty pounds on him—that, and a harder edge to his face, but otherwise entirely non-descript. The judge wondered a little at his own expectations; he had no idea what McCormick's concern was based on, maybe it was just general principle, but somehow Hardcastle had picked up the notion that he might have to deal with the devil incarnate to bring down Castanetti.

He was still prepared to turn down Frank's offer if this interview didn't feel right, but, studying his latest prospect, all he saw was a guy who looked down on his luck. It was right about then that McCormick stepped out from the shadows in the garage, wiping his hand on a rag, that closed expression back on his face.

Frank gave him a friendly nod and said, "Hi, Mark."

Zimmer looked over, eyes drawn to the movement. His face showed a moment of startlement, which settled rapidly into wariness, but neither he nor McCormick said anything.

So, it wasn't just general principle, then. Hardcastle frowned, motioned Frank and his informant into the house and held the door for a moment longer, as McCormick sauntered up behind.

Frank made the introductions, once they were all in the den. Hardcastle watched the two younger men closely. This time round they both got it right. Polite detachment, no signs of recognition. At least this new guy seemed pretty quick on the uptake, Hardcastle thought, or maybe the thing in the front yard had only been a moment's surprise at finding someone else here who he distantly recognized as a fellow ex-con. No, I'd bet the farm it was more than that.

Hardcastle got Frank and Zimmer seated in front of the desk. McCormick had hesitated for a second or two, near the doorway, then drifted to a seat further to the side, out of the way.

The interview revealed no surprises. Zimmer answered to his own record with no creative explanations. Two convictions for burglary.

"How many in between?" Hardcastle asked.

"Enough to get by," Zimmer conceded. "I'm trying to go straight, now."

"Yeah, the third punch on your ticket is gonna cost you," Hardcastle remarked. Then he looked down at the open file again. "Drugs? Alcohol?"

"A beer or two, now and then," Zimmer replied, appearing uninsulted. "Drugs aren't my vice."

Hardcastle read nothing particular in Zimmer's face. He asked the man a couple of quick questions about his new 'job'--what he knew, and what he suspected. Zimmer was cautious, didn't make any flamboyant promises, didn't claim to have much of an inside track.

He closed the file and gave the man one last hard look, "Okay, the rule's gonna be, something comes up, anything, you run it by Frank, or me." Hardcastle listened to his own tone, and realized this whole conversation was one he'd never felt the need to have with McCormick. He wondered if the kid had noticed, too "You know the main difference between me and Witkowski is that I'll let you have a little more rope; you can still hang yourself with it."

For the first time, a flicker of emotion passed across Zimmer's face, and there was the beginning of a sharp sideward glance in McCormick's direction, aborted with some apparent force. Then the man's eyes came back to Hardcastle and he was under control again.

"I understand," he said flatly.

Hardcastle watched all this pass in under a second, then looked at McCormick himself--nothing to read there, either.

"Okay, go get your things. McCormick'll show you where to put them." He got to his feet in dismissal. "After you get settled, come back here and we'll work out some strategy."

Frank led Zimmer back outside to get his bag from the car. The judge reached out and tapped Mark's shoulder as he started to follow. The younger man held back, hands in pockets, studying the floor determinedly.

"Well?" the judge asked. "It's not too late."

Mark looked up at the door for a moment, not at the judge. He shook his head and muttered, "That's a matter of opinion," and he followed the other men out.

00000

Frank had departed. Hardcastle sat, pondering all the possibilities. Zimmer returned alone, about a half-hour later. The judge had seen him coming up the front steps and had gone to the door before he'd knocked.

When the man turned his head, the dark swollen bruise on his left cheek was readily apparent. Hardcastle's eyebrows went up in question.

"Tripped," Zimmer replied tersely, "on the stoop, carrying my bag."

Wonderful, now I've got two of them lying to me. But somehow this lie was less disturbing than the ones from Mark. He bit down on a sharp comment, looking out past Zimmer toward the gatehouse.

"He said he had some hedge trimming to do," Zimmer added and, despite the injury, he had the beginning of an unpleasant smile.

Hardcastle pointed him back to the den. The ex-con took the same seat he'd occupied before, this time sitting less rigidly. The judge resisted an impulse to ask him if he knew McCormick. That would be tantamount to admitting Mark had lied to him. When he thought about it, he realized, with a swift, sharp pain, that he hadn't even wanted to reveal that to Frank.

Hardcastle sat at his desk, and cut to the chase. "So, what do you know so far?"

Zimmer cocked his head. "Not that much. There's a guy named Arcillo; he tells me where to go and what to do. Delivering papers, mostly, but it pays too well to be legal, so I know there's more there than what I'm reading. Then last time it was a package. I didn't open it--didn't think I could reseal it. Not sure what it was, but about the right heft for a gun--'bout Uzi-sized."

"Where'd you take that?"

"A road-house, out in the valley. Place called 'The Evergreen'." Zimmer looked up sharply. "But, hey, I'll be straight with you. I'm not doing this for free. I knew Tosca. He killed people for a living. If I'm gonna cross guys like that, I expect to get paid."

Hardcastle nodded, trying to keep the disgust off his face. "Get the goods on Castanetti and we'll negotiate something." As much as he disliked the idea of paid snitches, he accepted them as a necessary evil.

"And in the meantime, I'm supposed to do hedges, too?" Zimmer barely controlled a sneer.

"Nope," Hardcastle grinned. "You'll mow the lawn."

Zimmer didn't reply directly. After a moment he said, "Arcillo wants me to meet him at a warehouse in Long Beach tomorrow morning, 8:30."

"No car?"

"They provide one. It's different every time."

"McCormick'll get you there, then," Hardcastle said.

00000

He'd heard Mark coming in the back door only a few minutes after Zimmer departed through the front. Hardcastle got up, and strolled into the kitchen. The younger man was standing near the sink, taking off a pair of work gloves. The judge took note of the new bandage on his hand.

"Hope you didn't rip your stitches open," he said.

"Just two." McCormick flexed his hand experimentally. "And it was worth it."

"What happened?"

"We had a discussion," Mark said, "about a metaphor."

Hardcastle frowned. "You guys take your semantics pretty seriously down at the Big House."

"Yup," McCormick replied laconically, taking a glass from the cupboard and turning toward the sink.

The judge studied the younger man dubiously. "Well, when you get to similes, could you maybe put on a pair of boxing gloves?"

"Won't have to," Mark filled the glass and took a drink. "I think we understand each other pretty good now."

Hardcastle sighed. "Okay, then you can drive Zimmer down to Long Beach tomorrow morning for a meet with his contact."

McCormick seemed to be turning this one over for a moment. Then, much to Hardcastle's surprise, he simply nodded, offering no objection.

00000

The rest of the day passed fairly uneventfully. Hardcastle took care of some paperwork. Neither of the other men had shown up for lunch. Early in the afternoon, McCormick had stuck his head in the den and announced that he was taking Zimmer along to pick up the lawnmower from Ernie.

"Good," the judge replied, "you can put him to work then." He was thinking, for a guy who'd showed every sign of disliking his new roommate, McCormick was spending an awful lot of time with him now.

After their return, Hardcastle had heard the steady sound of the mower's motor. He looked out the window, pleased to see it was Zimmer doing as he'd been told, though he looked like a man entirely out of his element. No sign of McCormick.

He stepped out the front door and saw the garage open again, with Mark back in place by the Corvette. The judge had figured out, a few months back, that while the kid might have nominally been raised Catholic, he did not go to church to think the Deep Thoughts. All that talk at breakfast about transmissions had just been an excuse to spend some quality time under the hood.

All right, give him some space. He'll work out whatever it is.

As dinner approached, the judge had more or less reconciled himself to rustling up some leftovers and eating by himself. He was surprised to hear noises from the kitchen, and find McCormick in there, doing things to some pork chops.

Hardcastle glanced into the dining room and noticed two places set. "Zimmer not joining us?" Hardcastle commented, neutrally.

"Don't think so," Mark replied, keeping his eyes on what he was doing.

There was a pause.

"Any particular reason?" the judge asked.

"Well," McCormick finally looked up at him, his face just as neutral as the judge's, "I guess some people aren't all that comfortable sitting down to dinner with their parole officer."

"Was it something I said?" Hardcastle half-smiled. "I thought I was getting along pretty good with him."

The set of Mark's face got grimmer. "Listen," he said, "you do not turn your back on . . ." there was a beat, a moment's hesitation, and then, "a guy like that," he finished hastily. Hardcastle had almost heard him start to say Zimmer's name instead, a much more direct indictment, one that would have demanded elaboration. "He's an ex-con."

"You're an ex-con," Hardcastle pushed a little, hoping for a better explanation.

McCormick's look was one of utter exasperation. He finally shook his head. "So you keep reminding me." He had both hands firmly planted on the counter, leaning forward a little, giving the judge a very hard stare. "Okay, so don't trust me either," he shook his head in apparent frustration, "except about this."

"All Cretans are liars?" the judge quipped.

"Most Cretans are liars . . . almost all of them are." Mark rubbed the bridge of his nose, "God, you of all people ought to realize that."

"You don't think people can change? That they can be reformed?"

"Not in San Quentin," McCormick shot back acidly. "Hell, no. The most you can hope for there is some pretty serious aversion therapy."

"Yeah," Hardcastle shrugged, "that's part of it."

McCormick looked at him in silent disbelief. He started to speak, then caught himself. The disbelief was slowly retreating, replaced by weary resignation. "You have no idea," he muttered. This was followed by a silence that hung in the room like a weight.

"Okay," the judge finally said, quietly, "so tell me."

The silence stretched out. For a moment, Hardcastle almost thought he had him. But then the kid stepped back. The door swung shut.

"This Castanetti guy," McCormick began again slowly, as if the last few minutes had not occurred, "you want him pretty bad, huh? Is it because of what he did to that cop?"

"Henry Walpole. Hank," the judge amended quietly. "Yeah, partly."

"Okay, well, we'll get him." He left the rest of it unspoken, just what would happen after that was done.

Hardcastle gave him a very steady look, meant to be a reassurance. "This thing with Zimmer is temporary."

McCormick nodded. "Everything is." He picked up the pan and slid it into the oven, fiddling with the timer for a moment. "I set it for thirty, might need five minutes more." Then he stepped out the back door and walked away.

00000

No one had shown up for breakfast the next morning, but the judge had heard the Coyote pulling out early enough to beat the morning rush on the 405. He hadn't gotten all that much sleep and the wait had stretched out through the afternoon. At one point he'd called Frank, to see if Zimmer had checked in at that end instead. No word.

As for McCormick, the judge had decided it was probably just as well that he'd stayed away.

Still, when he heard them return at five forty-five, he was on his feet and at the window before the car was parked. He watched Zimmer emerge from his side, then stand a few feet from the car. McCormick was still in his seat. Zimmer didn't look like he'd collected any more bruises, but the man was agitated, taking a few steps in the direction of the porch, then turning around and facing the Coyote again.

McCormick had finally pulled himself up, out of his seat, and swung his legs out of the car, doing in reluctant stages what was usually a fluid motion. Hardcastle thought for a moment that round two was coming up, but once McCormick was on his feet, Zimmer took a couple steps backward toward the house and, finally, turned and walked up the steps, scowling.

Hardcastle heaved a sigh, and went to intercept them at the door. There Zimmer's muttering was audible and, seeing the judge, he launched into a more vocal complaint, "I'll tell Harper who hashed it up. Who the hell asked him to horn in on this? It's my game."

"No one's hashed it," Mark trudged up onto the porch, brushing past Zimmer carelessly and, as he walked by Hardcastle into the hallway, said, "I just suggested to Arcillo that he maybe could use a driver with a little more professional experience. My other references were just as good as Wes's here." He hooked his thumb in the man's direction, his smile thin. Zimmer looked like he wanted to swing.

Hardcastle frowned. "So, what happened?"

"I'm in," McCormick said flatly.

"And him?" the judge nodded toward Zimmer, still standing in the doorway, fuming.

McCormick shrugged. "He didn't get a pink slip. Arcillo made it sound like there'd still be some work for him." He turned back toward the other man. "You said you thought you were too far in; now you're not. I don't think they'd even notice if you didn't show up anymore."

Hardcastle started to step between them as Zimmer moved forward. McCormick hadn't shifted an inch. He just stood there, hands loosely at his sides, but when the judge glanced over his shoulder, the younger man's expression was cold, implacable. Zimmer was looking at it, too. His forward charge halted in mid-step. He backed off again, muttering,

"I'll talk to Harper," he said one more time, withdrawing onto the porch. McCormick just shook his head and turned away.

"Go on back to the gatehouse and wait there," Hardcastle said to Zimmer impatiently, as he shut the door.

McCormick had already walked off, toward the kitchen, not the den. Taking his stance on neutral ground.

The judge followed him, and found him pulling the plate of leftover chops from the fridge and spearing two off onto another dish with a certain degree of viciousness.

"Undercover work makes me hungry," the younger man said matter-of-factly. "You want some of these?"

Hardcastle said nothing for a moment, just stood there with one hand on the counter and the other massaging his forehead. "What," he finally said, "did you think you were doing today?"

"Getting Castanetti," McCormick replied, without missing a beat. "And I'm underbidding your current contractor, too, I'll bet." He shoved the plate onto the table, grabbed a fork and knife from the drawer and sat down.

"Those are kinda cold," Hardcastle pointed out.

"That's the way I like 'em," McCormick said, stabbing the first one and sawing into it.

Hardcastle sighed. "I don't suppose it occurred to you, while you were setting this up, that the man you have undercut now hates your guts, and also knows who you are, and may very well rat you out to Arcillo."

"You want Castanetti?"

"Yeah, but---"

"I want Zimmer."

"Why?"

McCormick lifted the piece of meat he'd sawed off, gazed at it for a moment and put the fork back down again. He swallowed once, now looking down at the plate. Hardcastle thought he wasn't going to answer. The judge was preparing an ultimatum. Then the younger man lifted his head again, looking distant.

"He killed someone."

Hardcastle hoped his sigh of relief was not apparent. Some of his theories over the past day or two had been running in other directions. Murder was at least a common topic of conversation at this table.

"Who?"

The kid gave him a look of mild surprise. Probably because the first question hadn't been, 'Are you sure?'

"A guy, in Quentin," McCormick seemed to be drawn out despite himself.

"There's nothing in his record--" the judge began, knowing he was using up most of the goodwill he'd acquired for taking McCormick's first statement at face value.

"I know. He didn't hit somebody with a tire iron; it wasn't like that. But the guy is still dead."

"Any evidence? Was there an investigation?"

"An investigation? You were at Clarkville, Judge. Come on."

"That was a corrupt warden--"

"That was business as usual," McCormick sat back, pushing his plate away, crossing his arms. "Anyway, this wasn't that simple."

"Murder never is," the judge agreed.

"It wasn't exactly a murder. Not the way you'd see it." McCormick propped his forehead in the palm of one hand. "But, my God, he killed him," he said with quiet intensity.

Hardcastle was beginning to get an inkling. He pulled out the chair across from the younger man and sat down. "Okay, so a guy died, Zimmer is responsible, but there's no evidence." This simple restatement of McCormick's position, without a demand for more details, seemed to defuse things. The kid looked up again. Hardcastle plunged ahead. "So you feel like he got off . . . on a technicality."

"Yeah," McCormick nodded, "that's it."

"And now you'd like to get him for another crime, something new."

"Yeah. If he does rat me out to Arcillo, and Arcillo goes to Castanetti, and they try to take me out, then it's conspiracy to commit murder, right?"

"Probably," the judge conceded. "Unless they succeed," he added dryly. "Then it becomes accessory to murder, or maybe murder one. Depends on the DA."

"Not gonna happen," McCormick shook his head. "I've got back-up, right?"

"Me?" Hardcastle studied the younger man for a moment.

McCormick shrugged his assent. "And Frank."

"You think that's gonna be enough, huh?"

"Has been up till now."

Hardcastle considered this, then his eyebrows went up a notch, "And what about him? You being over in the gatehouse with him, I mean?"

"Oh, that? That's not a problem." McCormick's smile was entirely mirthless. "He's afraid of me."

00000

Frank pulled up to a scene of relative quiet--Mark out front in the early evening light, wearing a pair of heavy work gloves and a grim expression, doing some slow, desultory hedge clipping, no one else in sight. Harper hadn't quite known what to expect, after receiving Zimmer's angry phone call and then placing one to Milt that had been obscure as hell. All he knew for sure was that things weren't going so hot.

Mark had put down the clippers and was walking toward the car as the lieutenant got out.

"Frank?" McCormick's greeting was more of a question, but the younger man didn't seem surprised to see him. "Zimmer called, huh?"

"Yeah," Harper replied. "Called, cussed you out. Said you'd double-crossed him. Got yourself hired by Arcillo. What the hell is going on, Mark?"

McCormick glanced over his shoulder toward the house. "He's in there. Hardcastle's talking to him." Frank started to move in the direction of the porch. Mark caught his arm. "Wait, I want to talk to you first."

Mark steered him back in the direction of the grounds, and fell into step beside him until they'd gone only a short distance, but were out of sight of the main house.

"Okay, Mark, spill," Harper said impatiently.

"Well," the younger man fidgeted a little, "I wanted to tell you, the other day, when you were asking if I knew Zimmer from Quentin well, I--"

"Knew him, yeah, so--?"

The kid was looking at him in astonishment.

"Jeez, Mark, maybe I haven't known you all that long, but even I can tell the difference between 'no' and 'no'," Harper explained with some asperity. "And then Zimmer gives you the thousand yard stare when you stepped out of the garage yesterday, not to mention you were a little light in the wise-cracks department both days." Frank shook his head in exasperation. "I'm not that dense. I'm supposed to be a detective."

"Ah . . ." McCormick was looking at him with a satisfying amount of nervous embarrassment. "Why didn't you call me on it?"

"Because . . . I was asking your opinion, not interrogating you." Frank pinched the bridge of his nose and gave his head one last shake. "Anyway, sometimes what you don't say is almost as interesting as what you do." Frank looked up at him wearily. "So, how bad is this guy I dumped on Milt?"

"Bad . . . enough," Mark had gotten that vague look.

"Is he dangerous?" Frank asked, cutting to the most practical aspect of bad.

"No," Mark made a face, "not out here, I guess."

"You talk to Milt about it yet?"

"Some."

Harper studied the other man. The lieutenant had made some phone calls today, trying to connect the dots, but the guys up at Quentin couldn't give him anything more than what was in Zimmer's file. Now McCormick was stonewalling him, too. This was moving a little closer to an interrogation. Mark seemed to sense the change in direction that the conversation was taking, even before the lieutenant could speak.

"Frank, I talked to him, really. Ask him. And he's talking to Zimmer." Now there was some fire behind the words. "We just need a little more time."

"And a little more rope?" Frank asked.

The kid looked at him hard for a moment and then said, "Yeah, maybe that, too."

00000

Frank left Mark standing at the edge of the drive. His sharp double-rap in the door got an almost immediate response--Milt, looking irritated, worried, and just plain tired.

"Talking to McCormick?" he asked as he ushered the lieutenant into the den.

"A little. You talked to Zimmer?" the lieutenant took a seat by the desk.

"Yeah, settled him down some. Sent him back to the gatehouse again." Hardcastle sat down wearily at his desk. "He's watching his well-laid plans for some easy money go right up in smoke and he's not happy. I'd let him cool down a little more if I were you."

"How unhappy is he?" Frank asked grimly. "Are you and the kid trying to set my snitch up?"

"Come on, Frank, he'll have to do that to himself." Hardcastle protested. "And I can't tell you which way he's leaning right now. He hates McCormick enough to do it, but I'm not sure he's got the guts. It would be a calculated risk for him, too, going to Castanetti."

"Yeah, there's plenty of room left in that landfill," Frank added grimly. "We're going to have to cover Mark. He'll need a wire."

"Maybe, but Zimmer sure as hell can't know about that," Hardcastle said with feeling.

Frank was looking past Hardcastle toward the window. "You think they're okay, staying out there together?" Nothing could be seen in the gathering twilight, just the reflection of the inside lights.

"Yeah," Hardcastle frowned, "I think . . . Mark thinks so, anyway." He looked up at Frank sharply. "You find anything else out from San Quentin?"

The lieutenant chuckled. "What makes you think I called up there?"

"Come on, Frank. You're a cop . . . and you were here yesterday. You saw what I saw."

"Yeah, well, nothing. Just what's on the record."

"I think you should be looking for a death--maybe 'accidental', or maybe a suicide."

"Or something that looked like one?" Frank asked dryly. "Milt, like the kid said, San Quentin's a big place."

"I know, but this was something that happened while they were both there, and to someone they both would have known. That should make it easier." Hardcastle sat forward in his chair. "Just get me a list of possibles and I'll narrow it down for you real quick," he added with intensity. "I've just about had it with this . . . this--"

"Being lied to?" Frank offered, helpfully.

"Yeah," Hardcastle replied grimly.

00000

When Frank came out of the house Mark was still there, his hands in his pockets, staring at his feet, standing over by the unmarked police sedan. He glanced up as Harper closed the door behind him. He looked relieved. Probably because I'm alone.

He stood up a little straighter as Frank approached.

"What'd he say?" Mark asked; his eyes were wary.

"You talked to him, didn't you?" Frank said pointedly. Then he added, "He wants me to get the details from San Quentin. You ought to just go on back in there and tell him the whole story. All of it. Get it over with."

"Oh, yeah," Mark replied sullenly, looking down at his feet again. "You know, Frank, after all of . . . everything, he still doesn't trust me."

"Well, then," Frank said, "you're even. You don't trust him, either."

"Well, why the hell should I? He's the one who put me in that goddamn place."

The bitterness took Frank by surprise. "We're all the way back there, huh?" he said after a moment. "You guys really have lost ground."

"No, well . . . maybe." Mark looked up; the wariness had been replaced by fear. "He's gonna keep pushing and pushing. He's gonna have to know every single thing."

"Yeah, that's Milt," Frank managed a smile, trying to lighten things up a little. "But, you know--"

"Dammit," Mark cut him off sharply. "He should just leave it alone." And then, without another word, he turned and walked away.

Frank watched him go off toward the gatehouse, the wrong direction entirely.

00000

A few minutes after ten, the judge heard someone at the back door. He was sitting in the den, TV off, popcorn untouched. He wasn't sure why he'd made it—ritual, he supposed. Almost before the door was closed, he could tell it was McCormick. A moment later, he appeared in the doorway of the den, still not having uttered a greeting.

"Popcorn?" Hardcastle offered, holding out the bowl.

McCormick hesitated a moment longer, then slunk down the steps and toward the chair next to the judge's.

"Arcillo called," McCormick announced, "'bout a half-hour ago. He's got a job for me tomorrow."

"And Zimmer?"

"Just me."

Hardcastle nodded. "Where's Zimmer now?"

"He went out, maybe ten minutes after the call. I don't think he's coming back."

The judge reached for the phone.

"Let it ride," McCormick said. "What's Frank gonna do now, put out an APB? Haul him in? What charges?" The younger man shook his head. "No, we need him to go to Arcillo."

"He's on foot, at least until he gets to a phone. We might be able to tail him."

"Judge, you can't tail somebody who's walking down the PCH. It won't work."

"We aren't set up. You'll need a wire."

"That's the first thing they'll look for, once Zimmer talks to them. They find a wire and I'm dead."

"So, what the hell is your plan?" the judge asked with some irritation.

"You and Frank, your truck, not his car. Dress like you belong in the warehouse district; that won't be too much of a stretch for you guys." McCormick's attempt at a little humor fell flat. He sighed. "Keep your distance. I don't think anything will happen there."

"How the hell do you know they won't just kill you the minute you show up?"

McCormick shrugged. "Yeah, Castanetti is a head-case, but he's a businessman. It's gonna be Zimmer's word against mine. He's not a long-term employee, and I'm the better driver."

"He might just kill you both and have done with it."

"Well," McCormick looked a little pensive, "there's that. But I still don't think he'll have it done right there in the warehouse in the middle of the morning." He frowned. "Anyway, it'll be over. Tomorrow. The wheels are already in motion."

"You have a goddamn death wish," Hardcastle muttered.

"No, I don't," McCormick insisted grimly. "I'd like everything to go back to being just the way it was before . . . all this." He shook his head. "But there's lots of things worse than being dead."

"Name one," Hardcastle challenged him.

"Being in prison," Mark shot back, and then, more quietly, "sometimes." He got up slowly, and left the judge still fumbling for a reply. When he got to the doorway he turned and said, "I need to be there by nine o'clock, same place as today." Then he glanced over his shoulder at the front door and turned back again. "And for God's sake will you lock up after me? You left the back door open again."

00000

"Benjamin Fincher," Frank said, when Hardcastle called him a short while later.

"Suicide, hung himself off a stairwell railing. Used strips from a sheet. Decent enough drop, very quick. September, '82."

"How'd you get it so fast?"

"That's the nice thing about a prison; it's a twenty-four hour a day operation." Frank replied, not answering the unspoken, 'Why the hurry?'. "Wanna guess who his cellie was?"

"Bet I've got a fifty-fifty chance on this," Hardcastle commented grimly. "McCormick, I'd say."

"Got it in one," the lieutenant replied.

"Definitely a suicide?"

"That's what the investigation concluded."

"Two questions, a wink and a nod, and push through the paperwork," the judge muttered.

"What?"

"Ahh, something the kid said a couple weeks back. I didn't know he was speaking from personal experience." Hardcastle cleared his throat. "How come I didn't know about this?"

"Dunno; if they're dead they can't be known associates, I guess. Anyway, Fincher only lasted about two weeks after he was transferred from transitional to south block. Maybe nobody had a chance to update the files before he was already gone."

"Yeah, probably," Hardcastle exhaled wearily.

"I was gonna phone you with this in the morning. So, what made you call me first?" Frank prodded.

"Well, I think your snitch is setting himself up. He hiked out of here tonight, not long after Arcillo called with a job for McCormick. I guess if he can't get a payoff from us, he's gonna try to get one from Castanetti."

"Damn fast."

"Yeah, I'm thinking the money's just the gravy for him now; it's McCormick he's after."

"He's gotta know once he hauled out of there, we'd be onto him."

"And Mark doesn't give two hoots what happens either, as long as Zimmer goes down. Frank, in case you haven't noticed, neither one of these guys is thinking too clearly right now and, I dunno, whatever's going on, it's like they just picked it up from where they left off a year ago." Hardcastle looked out the window toward the gatehouse, although there was nothing to be seen. "We've got some surveillance to do in the morning. McCormick has a meet with Arcillo at nine."

"Not much time to set up a wire."

"No, Mark's right, if Zimmer's gotten to them first, they'll be suspicious as hell. It'll be the first thing they'll look for."

Harper's frustrated sigh was clearly audible over the line. "Might be all this will just scare them off."

"Not Castanetti," the judge replied. "Hell, you know the business end is just an excuse for him; he likes killing people."

"You could still call Mark off; shut it down."

"I doubt it," Hardcastle replied, "short of putting him under arrest."

"That can be arranged," Frank said dryly.

"Don't tempt me." Hardcastle leaned forward, rubbing his forehead. "Just be here by seven."

00000

Frank arrived at six forty-five the next morning, found the Coyote and the truck parked side-by-side in the drive, saw no lights in the den window, and made his way round to the back of the house. His assumptions were rewarded as he heard the tail end of a lecture, delivered at stentorian volume, about the finer points of law on entrapment and coercion.

Harper knocked once and then let himself in the unlocked back door. The judge looked up from where he was sitting and waved him into the kitchen. The recipient of the words of advice barely nodded, but took a break from pushing his mostly untouched breakfast around on the plate.

The judge glanced up at the clock on the wall. "Almost time, huh?"

"I'm a couple minutes early," Frank shrugged. "I brought a wire, last chance." He set down the hard-sided case he was carrying.

McCormick was already getting up from the table, plate in hand, scraping it into the garbage and moving over to the sink. "Bad idea, Frank. We're just gonna have to wing it."

The judge was rubbing his nose. "When we get down to the 710, you let us take the lead. I want some time to get in position before you pull up, okay?"

McCormick answered, "Yes," wearily, as if this was a continuation of an earlier conversation.

Harper thought it looked like neither man had gotten much sleep, not that he'd had any himself. Things were stretched a little thin. Hardcastle was on his feet now, too. He reached out and snagged the kid's arm as he walked past. "Listen, if we don't get him today, we'll get him . . . eventually."

Mark pulled away a little, but finally made eye contact. "'Eventually'? You've been waiting twenty years, Judge."

Hardcastle frowned, "No, I mean Zimmer."

"Oh." Then McCormick nodded once, and eased out of the judge's grip. "Okay . . . thanks."

"Dammit," Hardcastle added impatiently. "Be careful."

Another nod and he was out the door.

"Come on," the judge said to Frank, as he grabbed his jacket, shook his head, and followed.

They were in the truck, following the Coyote in a left-turn onto the PCH, when Frank finally asked, "What did he say about Fincher?"

Hardcastle didn't shift his gaze at all. "Didn't ask him about it yet." The answer was a mutter. Then he added, almost defensively, "A distraction—he didn't need that." There was a long pause before he went on. "I'll talk to him about it later, when this is all over." And the judge sounded like a man who wasn't entirely sure he'd have the chance.

00000

McCormick drove with one eye on the rearview mirror, not that there was much concern of losing the judge in the relentless build-up of rush hour traffic on the 405. Maybe it was the need to know that there was someone backing him up.

'Be careful'? Mostly the judge's admonitions came crusted in gruff remarks. It would be inconvenient if he got himself killed or incapacitated, nothing more. To hear even a few words of plain, unvarnished worry was disturbing as hell. He didn't need that right now. It was easier to deal when there weren't any consequences short of maybe winding up dead.

It would have been easier a year ago.

00000

Hardcastle had parked the truck about a hundred yards north of the warehouse loading dock, inconspicuous among some other vehicles, yet still providing an unobstructed view of that side of the building. They hadn't been in place more than ten minutes when the Coyote arrived, McCormick looking straight ahead, not sparing them a glance.

He pulled in near the otherwise empty loading dock, and wasn't even out of the car before a door opened and a dark–haired man in a business suit motioned him forward.

"That's Arcillo," Frank said.

The man had a few inaudible words with Mark, then opened the vehicle-sized door by the dock. The Coyote crept forward and was swallowed up in the shadows of the interior.

Hardcastle frowned. "Five minutes," he said.

"That's not very long," Frank replied reasonably, though they both knew it was long enough if Castanetti was in the wrong mood.

"Well," the judge hadn't taken his eyes off the now-closed door, "that's what I'm giving him." Then he glanced down at his watch. "How good you think the security is in that building?"

"It's Castanetti's; he does business there--what do you think?"

"I think he wouldn't let new hires within five miles of his real base of operations. Maybe it's just a warehouse."

"I think it's time to call in the back up," Frank insisted quietly.

"Not until I get in there."

"Milt, I don't think we have much probable cause."

"The hell I do—Arcillo's got a record, doesn't he?"

"Long as your arm."

Hardcastle nodded. "See, I just observed one known felon consorting with another, and I'm the parole officer of record for one of them. That looks pretty straight up to me."

"So, you're going in there to arrest Mark?"

"Works for me," the judge smiled toothily.

00000

McCormick edged the Coyote into the cavernous gloom of the warehouse, trying to adjust his eyes from the morning brightness. Shapes in the shadows—Arcillo's he knew, near at hand--further away was a desk, a very poor effort to establish a receiving office in a space otherwise occupied by shipping crates stacked on pallets.

He slid up and climbed out of the car, feeling oddly calm. It was like a race, all nervous energy before, figuring the possibilities, and then--when the flag finally dropped --all reflexes.

Arcillo gestured him forward without any more talk. It was hard, in the relative darkness, to see what emotions he was wearing. All he'd said outside was something vague about the car needing to be modified. Hell, maybe Zimmer took off, lost his nerve.

The shadows at the far end of the warehouse resolved themselves into two, one leaning casually with one hip on the desk, a man in a suit that McCormick recognized from the photos in the files. He held a gun casually, not particularly pointing it, but the effect was the same as if he had been. The other was Zimmer, who stood tensely a few feet from Castanetti, looking like a man who had made a big mistake.

Scared shitless. McCormick smiled tightly and slipped into the role without missing a beat. "Hi, Wes, what's up?" he addressed the ex-con, but his eyes had moved to Castanetti, all innocent inquiry, with a proper increment of respect for the gun.

Castanetti was looking him up and down. "Thought you might be able to tell us, Mr. McCormick. Zimmer here has been saying some interesting things about you."

Puzzlement. A touch of consternation. An honest question, "Like what, Wes?"

Zimmer didn't answer him directly, instead turning to Castanetti, hands held a little out at his sides, "He's gonna try and con you, Mr. C. I'm tellin' you."

McCormick frowned gently. "Wes, I told ya I didn't mean to shaft you out of a job." He looked back at Castanetti and shrugged just slightly, "Wes was pretty pissed at me yesterday, sliding in here like that and taking his spot." Then he shook his head at Zimmer. "We coulda talked about this." He let his look go cold. "What've you been telling these guys about me, Wes?"

Zimmer looked back and forth between the two men, finally settling on Castanetti again. "He's a snitch. He is. He works for this judge named Hardcastle."

Mark saw Castanetti's eyes flicker once; the balance shifted slightly. Zimmer leaned forward a little too eagerly. Castanetti gestured once with the gun and he fell back a step, licking his lip nervously. "What about the car? Ask him about that. What's an out of work ex-con doing with something like that?"

Castanetti forwarded the question with a silent look.

"A gift, from a lady." McCormick smiled. "For services rendered."

Castanetti looked over at the Coyote. "She must have been very grateful."

"It's registered in my name," McCormick said flatly. "I got the pink slip in my wallet. My driver's license is there, too. I do yard work for this ex-judge Wes is talking about. It's the only work I could get, until yesterday. He knew that when he looked me up a couple days ago, before he brought me to you." Mark looked over his shoulder at Arcillo. Then he shot a glance at Zimmer again. "Now all of a sudden it's a big deal, Wes? How come?"

"All this can be checked out," Castanetti said coolly.

McCormick shrugged with easy insouciance. "Go ahead. There's only one snitch here."

Zimmer paled, the shine of sweat on him. Castanetti gave him a look of cold disgust. "Well, I've already made up my mind about one of you." The gun had become more level, now, the aim more intentional.

McCormick became vaguely aware of noises from outside the building--a jackhammer. He rode the reflexes. Breathe. Look. Smile. He did this to himself. It's a suicide.

Castanetti didn't fire. He was fishing in his other pocket, still holding the gun in his right hand. He brought out another, smaller weapon--a snub .38--and held it out to McCormick without taking his eyes off Zimmer.

"You'll have to do it in one shot," Castanetti said dryly. "You can mange that at this range, can't you?" Then, to Zimmer, "Move and I'll put one in each of your kneecaps, and I'll make him wait twenty minutes before he finishes you off, understand?"

Don't say you didn't figure this was one of the possibilities. McCormick reached out and took the gun. Hefting it in his palm and studying it, like a man would a tool he wasn't entirely familiar with. But it's only coercion if you don't want to do something.

Zimmer was sweating in earnest, now, and his knees were shaking visibly. McCormick had no doubt that he'd finally move, when it came to the last moment, either that or simply pass out. He raised the gun, holding his stance as casually as Castanetti had.

"Wes," he said softly, "you made a big mistake." And he pulled the trigger.

All at the same moment, the noise of the jackhammer increased dramatically, and a stab of light penetrated the relative dimness of the cavernous room. Zimmer dropped to his knees, shaking and sobbing, though all Mark could hear above the jackhammer were the shouted instructions of the half-dozen police who'd charged in through the now-open garage door.

With the instincts honed from half a lifetime of dealing with the authorities, Mark laid the .38 down, using exaggerated caution. He could see only the backlit outlines of the entering police, not faces, but one figure separated itself from the rest and looked to be Frank. They'd already reached Arcillo and he had his hands up, was being frisked.

McCormick spared a glance to his right, where Castanetti still stood. He was briefly frozen, holding a gun, a look of rigid anger on his face. Mark was between him and the approaching officers. The gun hand was in motion then, Castanetti snarling.

It was that sound that made McCormick aware that the jackhammer had stopped: Castanetti's snarl, Zimmer's jerking sobs, the officer's boots on the concrete, all echoed in the ringing silence. And, just as suddenly again, there was a shout from the shadowy gloom.

"Put it down." It was Hardcastle, stepping out of a narrow aisle behind Castanetti, his .44 drawn and aimed. He pulls to the left, McCormick thought, with the randomness that comes from being just a little too detached from the reflexes, and he's been back there for a while. It was the second thought that hit him like a gut-punch. He was surprised that he hadn't physically moved; the sensation was that strong.

Castanetti's snarl had taken on a frozen rigor, and it was a full moment before he bowed to the inevitable. Then things speeded up again, as the officers surged forward. Arcillo was already in handcuffs, being led out.

Mark kept his hands loose and his stance non-threatening, as two officers moved forward to frisk him. Frank stepped in and shagged them off with a quick shake of the head as he stooped to pick up the snub .38. He released the cylinder and flipped it out to the side with a practiced movement, glancing down at the empty chambers, then flipped it closed.

Frank glanced over his shoulder at Zimmer, still collapsed on his knees, though now no longer sobbing. The lieutenant turned back to Mark. "How'd you know it was empty?"

McCormick didn't answer.

00000

Things got sorted out, with the gradual arrival of even more personnel, all the way from the essential, to the bored and curious. McCormick felt shunted to the side, insulated. He gradually became aware that Frank was running some sort of invisible interference while he waited for Hardcastle to finish talking to the newly arrived representative from the Mob Task Force.

Removed from the bustle, standing apart, McCormick finally asked, "He was carrying the wire, huh?"

Frank nodded, eyes still straight ahead.

"How long was he in here?" Mark's head was down, studying the ground. He only darted a quick glance at Frank.

"Long enough," was the lieutenant's terse reply. Then Frank turned his head slowly. Looking at the younger man, he spoke low but earnestly, "I don't know. You can't prove someone pulled the trigger on an unloaded gun, but I think he was close enough to see. Zimmer sure as hell thought you had."

"Good," McCormick replied grimly.

"Not good," Frank insisted. "If we prosecute Zimmer--"

"What makes you think I'd want to send him back to prison?" McCormick interjected harshly.

00000

Eventually the Long Beach authorities allowed them to leave. McCormick's questioning had been kept to a basic recital of the facts. He had only permitted himself one lie, and that really more of an omission. The judge had stood by, listening without interruption, registering no visible response.

McCormick had been grateful for the need to drive home separately, though he knew it was just an avoidance of the inevitable. Back at the estate, Frank refused an invitation to stay, claiming, without much exaggeration, that he would be doing paperwork on this one until sometime next week.

Once he departed, the silence became deafening, rapidly reinforced by Mark's retreat to the kitchen, under the pretext of making dinner. Pretext became fact as he realized he'd ignored breakfast and missed lunch. At the same time he found himself hauling out the ingredients for meatloaf--Sarah's recipe--and wondering if the main attraction was that it would delay sitting down to dinner by at least an hour and a quarter.

He considered the oddness of it all, that he was mixing in breadcrumbs now, after having shot a man this morning. You can't 'shoot' a man with an empty gun.

You got off on a technicality.

It was coercion.

But you sure as hell acted willing.

The pan was in the oven and the timer set. He wiped his hands and slipped into the hallway, listening quietly. Nothing. He'd had every intention of walking toward the door but, instead, went to the doorway of the den. Damn reflexes.

The judge was at his desk, and looked up, with no sign of surprise.

"Meatloaf," McCormick announced casually, "ready in about an hour or so. You want rice, or potatoes?"

Hardcastle gave him a quizzical look, then pointed at a chair and said, "I wanna have a talk."

McCormick sat. He was thinking about a guy from Quentin, a long-termer who'd had a death sentence commuted, who'd actually made it as far as the gas chamber on two memorable mornings, and had said it was the most ordinary thing imaginable, right up till the moment the crystals drop.

He gradually became aware that he was being stared at, that he'd missed something. "Benjamin Fincher," the judge repeated.

McCormick frowned. He would have preferred to start with today and work his way back, though he supposed the only way to explain what happened was to start from the beginning. But that was before Finch.

"You know, Judge," he started slowly, "I was very lucky when I went to San Quentin." He watched Hardcastle's eyebrows go up; this was not the opening he'd been expecting, for sure.

"Yeah, see, I got assigned to a cell with a guy named Buddy Denton. He was an old old-timer. He'd been there thirty-five years. Started out on death row. He was a burglar, safecracker. Didn't even carry a gun. Nicest guy you could ever meet. Took his sister's twenty-year-old kid along on a job back in 1947. Kid was real eager, was supposed to be the lookout. He had a gun. Buddy didn't know about that. A guard came along; the kid shot him.

"So, Buddy got the death penalty. Had two execution dates, two delays. Lived on death row for almost eight years, finally got commuted. He'd been in Quentin since before I was born. He was old school, a convict. People gave him space. He wasn't mean, but he could handle himself.

He saw the judge nod. Old school was something McCormick figured he understood.

"And here I come, an absolute total fish. I thought I had done time, short stuff in Florida, juvie way back when . . . but I was a fish." McCormick smiled despite himself. "Maybe Denton was bored, maybe he needed a project. I was it. He schooled me, taught me how to work the corners. Kept me out of trouble a few times, probably more times than I realized."

It was the judge's turn to smile.

"And then he got paroled, which was a big surprise to everybody. He thought he'd never see the outside again. I remember he started asking me questions. That was a switch. The last time he'd been out on the street there were still Studebakers, for Chrissake.

"So, anyway, Buddy got out when I still had six months left, and the next day they transferred Benny Fincher in from transitional." Mark frowned. "Now, what made anyone in the California correction system think that Finch deserved to take up valuable space in the south block of San Quentin is a mystery to me. Benny made me look like a hardened criminal. Sheesh, I could at least act scary." McCormick shook his head.

"And I was no Buddy Denton. I was just holding my own by then, trying to get through that last six months." Mark's face had gone a lot more sober. "And down the tier from us was Wesley Zimmer, doing five for burglary; doesn't sound too bad on paper, huh? But he was calling the shots for a few guys--big, stupid ones. Nothing too ambitious, middle-level bullying. I mostly stayed out of their way without looking like I was trying to.

"Maybe Buddy leaving created a power vacuum, I dunno, but that week Wes and his crew were all edgy, getting in everybody's face. And in walks Benny, skinny, kinda on the small side, looking scared.

Mark frowned again. "I tried to steer him." He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I wasn't Buddy." There was a long pause. The silence had gotten almost brittle, before he spoke again.

"So . . . I find him on his bunk, about a week later. He'd been turned out by Zimmer and his crew." Mark looked somewhere other than at the judge for a moment, then realized he was facing a blank expression. "Punked," he added in explanation. Still blank. McCormick shook his head in disgust. "Hell, they've got twenty different words for it, all so they can avoid saying 'raped'. Even Benny wouldn't say it out loud. We spent the whole damn night not using that word; me telling him he was going to have to do something about it, him too scared.

"Truth was, I was scared. If they got away with it, they'd go on doing it. There were three of them, taking orders from Zimmer. I was starting to think maybe Denton had gotten in Zimmer's way a few times, I dunno.

"But the next morning, Finch had kinda settled down, real quiet, but acting like nothing had happened. A couple more days went by. It was Friday. I was working a detail. Laundry. Then I had this class afterwards. And when they brought me back, there were two guards, throwing the last of Benny's stuff into a plastic garbage bag. That was how I found out he'd gone and hung himself off a railing.

"They sent somebody around to ask me a couple questions. It didn't take very long. They didn't want to know why . . . just as long as I had an alibi. So I told them where I'd been, and I that I didn't know what'd been wrong and, hell, I 'd only known the guy for a couple of weeks. He was just another fish." McCormick was studying his hands loosely clasped in his lap. "How the hell was I supposed to take care of him? I was no Buddy." Finally he looked up. "I just wanted to get through that last six months."

Hardcastle nodded.

"And the next day I came back from detail, and there was Teddy Hollins." Mark shook his head again, this time it looked like bemused resignation. "And Teddy, well, he was not exactly a fish. He was more like an accident waiting to happen. And here's Zimmer giving him that look." Suddenly, he fixed the judge with a hard questioning stare. "Hell. How many times was I supposed to let it happen?

No answer there, nothing but encouraging silence.

"I went to Zimmer, told him if he or his guys laid a hand on Teddy, I'd make sure the authorities knew what had happened to Benny. And Zimmer just smiled and said if I did that, he'd just give me the bad jacket . . . after all, I'd been the guy's cellmate.

"And that's where we left it, for a while." McCormick looked down at his hand again, rubbing the scabbed-over part where the stitches had ripped out. "I don't think the devil shows up one day with a quill pen and a contract," he said slowly. "No . . . it's more like he gets your soul on the installment plan. First you look the other way, then you keep your mouth shut, and pretty soon you've got an arrangement.

"Months went by like that. Me keeping one eye on Teddy, and one on Zimmer. Zimmer circling around like some kinda shark. And Teddy damn near oblivious, talking about pizza washes and all that crazy stuff." McCormick let out a heavy breath.

"Then one day I got a letter; it was from Buddy Denton's wife. I'd never met her, but she said Buddy had talked about me and she wanted me to know he'd passed. Had a heart attack. He'd only been out for five months." Mark watched his right hand tighten into a fist—frustration, even now.

"It was all so damn unfair. Benny . . . and then Buddy. I was so angry. And guys like Zimmer--it wasn't enough to just be in prison, they had to turn it into an even deeper circle of hell. Maybe I lost it. Less than a week to go on my own sentence, if I could've held it together for just one more lousy week.

"I watched Zimmer pretty close that morning, waited 'till I had him in a blind, without his crew." McCormick rubbed his face once, then clutched the back of his neck firmly. "I hadn't said anything, but I think maybe a couple of the other guys chalked for me. We had a lotta time back there. I beat the crap out of him."

The judge's face was very neutral. Not raising any questions, just letting him talk it out.

"But that's all I did."

Hardcastle finally spoke. "You were trying to protect Teddy."

"Like hell I was," McCormick replied vehemently. "I wasn't thinking of Teddy, hell, I wasn't even thinking about Benny. I was just angry about everything, and Zimmer was . . . handy. If anything, beating on him made it more likely that he would take it out on Teddy once I was gone. I'd stopped thinking about consequences. I wanted blood."

"Everyone has a breaking point," the judge said quietly.

McCormick lifted an eyebrow. "Do you?"

Hardcastle thought for a moment. "I met Joe Cadillac in the park that time, and all he'd done was insult Nancy."

"Oh," McCormick paused momentarily, "I forgot about that."

"Yeah, you've been kind of single-minded the last couple days. So, maybe you didn't use the best judgment dealing with this guy back in Quentin. Might have done it differently. I dunno; you didn't have a whole lot of options that time around . . .but this time--"

"Believe me, Judge, I wasn't planning on slugging him. I was as surprised as he was. But there he was, back at me with that damned smirk of his; telling me too bad I left when I did, and then he mentioned Teddy--"

Hardcastle frowned. "You think he got to him? Did Teddy ever say anything? That would be prosecutable."

"I don't know." McCormick looked at him wearily. "Were you listening to me before? Do you think Teddy would have told me? Do you think he'd tell me now, if I asked him?"

Hardcastle looked thoughtful, then shrugged, frowning again. "But--"

"But if he did do Teddy," McCormick interjected harshly, "it's partly my fault."

"So, you slugged Zimmer because you felt guilty about beating him up the first time? Because he might've taken it out on Teddy?"

McCormick opened his mouth, paused for a moment, and thought it through. "No," he replied quietly, "I didn't swing on him then. I stepped back. I was very cool. I didn't even answer him."

"And then?"

"Then he was back at me, still smirking." McCormick spoke quietly, looking back down at his hand. "I guess he must've figured I'd turned over a new leaf or something, that he could just keep hammering away and I wouldn't do anything. And then he said," Mark paused, as though he was trying to remember the exact words. He fidgeted once. "He said he was glad to see I'd finally found somebody to catch for."

The same damn blank look.

"You know, 'catchers'? . . . 'Pitchers and catchers'?" McCormick put a little emphasis on the two words. He fought down an exasperated sigh. "You know this would be a whole lot easier if I didn't have to explain everything to you."

Hardcastle's blank stare slowly gave way to bemused understanding. "Ohh . . ." and then, an entirely unexpected laugh. "That's why you slugged him?"

Mark sat back in his chair, looking a little miffed. "Well, yeah."

The judge shook his head, and then the smile collapsed into an entirely more sober expression. "Today, this morning . . . the gun. That wasn't because--?"

Mark paled. "Oh, God, no."

"It was coercion," Hardcastle's hopeful insistence was more than a question. "And you knew the gun wasn't loaded."

"Ah . . . Judge. Come on, now. How could I tell that?" McCormick was smiling sadly. "I'm not even sure I hoped it was unloaded." He was watching Hardcastle's face carefully now. "If I'd gotten Zimmer sent back to prison; he was just going to be someone else's nightmare." McCormick paused, searching for some understanding. "I think I was hoping that Castanetti would kill him."

"It was coercion," the judge repeated firmly.

"Okay," he replied evenly. "It was." In the absence of understanding, Mark thought he might have to settle for blind denial

He sat for a few moments, trying to convince himself that the judge was right, trying to think of something else to say.

"Rice," he finally added.

Hardcastle's eyebrows went up a little.

"It's too late to make potatoes. You're stuck with rice." He rose from his chair, coaxing things back to normal.

The judge sat a there for a moment, just looking at him. He shook his head once. "Rice," he repeated. "I'll settle for that." Then he looked a little stubborn, not quite willing to be led. He was still thinking.

Mark moved toward the doorway, almost there.

"Would you tell me if--"

"No," McCormick came down firmly in the middle of the question. "I wouldn't." And he continued on, out the door.

00000

That was . . . a getaway.

Hardcastle stayed at his desk a moment longer before the itch of unfinished business pulled him up to follow. He found McCormick standing at the kitchen counter, staring at a bag of rice with deep preoccupation.

"Nope," the judge said firmly. The kid twitched, and looked over at him with a start. "It's potatoes with meatloaf."

"Takes too long," McCormick reiterated.

"The meatloaf will keep." He opened the pantry cabinet and reached down for the bag. "I'll peel."

McCormick hesitated a moment and then put the pot away and got out a larger one. "I supposed you want 'em mashed?"

"Definitely."

"No lumps?" There was just a hint of a smile. "And gravy, too, huh?"

"We'll do it right." Hardcastle reached into a drawer for a paring knife and sat down at the table.

"This'll take another forty-five minutes, you know." McCormick was filling the pot at the sink.

Hardcastle shrugged, picked up a potato, and said, "We've got time."