Papa Jack Chapter 38
Richard can't miss the lascivious glint in Vulcan Simmons's eyes as they sweep over Kate. "You grew up hot, a lot like your mother. She wasted it coming after me. Wouldn't have looked so hot bleeding out in an alley the way she did. You would have been about sixteen then, wrestling with some pimply-faced kid in the back of his daddy's wagon, wondering if you were going to give it to him or not."
Heat floods Richard's face. "That's enough!"
Simmons grins at Kate. "He's sweet on you. Makes him brave."
Kate moves in on Simmons, their faces almost touching. "You think you know so much about me, my family. You don't know anything, Simmons. I wasn't wrestling in the back of anyone's wagon because I rode a motorcycle. And my mother never wasted anything. She may not have swept you out of the gutter, but she kept a lot of kids away from your poison. And you know what? You're still clueless – and alone. Your playmates ran out on you. They took all their marbles with them and left you to twist in the wind. No one in the DA's office is going to give you a pass this time. And even if that could happen, you'd still have the feds breathing down your neck."
"Federal penalty for drug trafficking in heroin if no one is hurt, not less than 10 years and not more than life. Fine of not more than $10 million," Ryan interjects. "But people were hurt, Mr. Simmons. People were killed. That bumps your sentence up to life and the fine to at least $50 million, probably more like $75 million. Whatever you have stashed anywhere, not just what was in your pretty pillowcase, the feds will hunt down and seize."
"You'll have nothing and no one, Simmons," Kate picks up. "You'll be rotting behind the highest walls of the worst prison until maybe someone shanks you and puts you out of your misery. You still have a lifeline, but just one. You're not the boss. You never were. You're just a flashier toadie. We want the real man behind the curtain. You tell us everything you know about Bracken and his operation – and about my mother's death – and you might be able to buy some protection."
The boom of Simmons' laughter fills the room. "You go after Bracken; you'll end up just as dead as your mama."
"Detective Beckett has friends, which is more than you do, Simmons," Richard counters. "Your only chance to save your ass – worthless as it is – is to tell her what she wants to know."
"And one thing about cops, Simmons," Ryan adds, "we have long memories. You've been skating for years, but it came to an end last night. Any protection you had is gone. So, if you want to survive, you'll need to earn more."
Simmons' attorney, who up to that moment had been silent, rises from his chair. "I need to consult with my client."
"Yeah," Kate retorts, "you do that."
"I don't suppose you could 'forget' to switch off the speaker to observation," Richard whispers to Kate as they leave Interrogation.
"Even if I could, there's a monitor light in there when it's on," Kate replies. "If his lawyer's worth anything, he'll check. And Simmons probably knows, too. We'll have to let them have their privacy. But the lawyer started looking very uncomfortable when Ryan warned Simmons about seizing all his assets. I believe he's going to try to talk Simmons into a deal."
"You think he's afraid of getting stuck with an unpaid bill?" Richard queries.
"A very large unpaid bill," Kate agrees.
"I need to go downstairs for a couple of minutes. I told Esposito I'd meet him down at the Taco Loco truck," Ryan says. "I heard it has great bean burritos."
"Yeah, you go ahead," Kate says. "I'll radio you if anything happens before you get back."
Richard watches Ryan head toward the elevator. "An Irish cop who likes bean burritos. Throw in his experience in Narcotics, and he has the makings of an interesting character."
"The only thing I'm interested in now is everything Simmons knows about Bracken and my mother's murder," Kate declares.
"Well, if you're right about his lawyer, you should have some of that soon. Want a latte while you wait?" Richard offers.
"No, but I have some M and Ms in my desk. Want to share?"
"I'd be delighted."
"I don't know where Bracken is," Simmons admits after a long session of outlining the organization and functioning of their drug trafficking operation. "But I can tell you that when we talked after he'd poured half a bottle of Walker Blue down his throat, he spouted off about an island."
"This planet has about 600,000 islands," Richard points out.
"What island? Where?" Kate presses.
"He never said," Simmons insists. "Just a lot of sh*t about warm sand and hot women."
"Which excludes the more extreme Northern and Southern latitudes," Richard figures. "But still leaves a hell of a lot of possibilities."
Face resolute, Kate leans across the table. "How about my mother's murder? How did Bracken figure into it? Who killed her?"
"Bracken told me he recruited some men on his trips to Afghanistan – mercenaries killing for the highest bidder. The man bid high. But I don't know which one stuck the knife in your mama," Simmons claims.
"Names!" Kate demands. "I want names."
"Bracken called one of them Dick. He laughed about him. Said he was like him, took his marks' money, making them think it was going to a good cause. But Dick didn't think big enough to really rake it in. That's why he was still doing knife work."
Kate's throat tightens as a chill penetrates her bones. "And the other one?"
"Bracken called him Cedric; joked that he was like Cedric the Entertainer."
"Cedric the Entertainer? Why?" Richard asks. "Did he look like him?"
Kate is almost knocked back by Simmons' explosive guffaw.
"Nothing like. Bracken's Cedric is a tall white dude. But he likes to show off. Gave some of our people demonstrations of how to beat the sh*t out of someone without bruising up your hands or getting your garms dirty. He was also very slick with knives."
"Did Dick and Cedric have last names?" Kate queries.
"Not that I heard. And Cedric might have another first name by now. I got the feeling he didn't like what Bracken called him."
"Then you'll work with a sketch artist to give me some clue what these guys look like." Kate proclaims.
Simmons smirks. "I've seen those sketches. All the white guys look alike."
At her desk, Kate hunches over the police artist's renderings. "Simmons was right, Castle. These sketches would fit thousands of guys."
"But not thousands of guys who were mercenaries in Afghanistan and experts with a knife. Add to that the details that Dick masquerades as a philanthropist, and Cedric likes to show off his martial arts prowess, and you cut down the possibilities a lot. You know I'm big into the fundraising thing right now. I could check on who's making a show of charitable activities. And I have another source I use sometimes who might know about these guys."
"Who, Castle?"
"Someone who really has to remain anonymous, even for you, Beckett. But I can talk to him and start making other inquiries tonight."
"Castle, you'll let me know as soon as you have anything?"
"Beckett, you can count on it."