GOTU - A Robin Marlette Novel (9 page)

Karen drifted closer to sleep. She felt so safe when Robin was home, especially when he snuggled against her back, his genitals nestled in the crevice of her buttocks. She enjoyed the afterglow of their love. Although Karen knew Robin was exhausted, she felt a little annoyed he fell asleep so quickly. They hadn't talked enough; she wanted to talk to her husband about a hundred different things. She knew this would be her last chance for days, maybe weeks, with this new case starting.

Karen wondered why she loved this man so much. He focused on saving the world and didn't spend enough time with her or the kids. She knew he loved them all dearly, but she didn't understand why the dopers received more of his attention than his family. Karen felt herself slipping into sleep and decided to let herself go. She never slept well when Robin's work took him away. She might as well get a good night's sleep while she could.

Miguel sat dark and still in the large leather chair in front of the fireplace. He sipped his fifth glass of whiskey as he watched the fire consume the mesquite with its hypnotic dance. The large mirror in on top of the fireplace revealed the flames lighting his eyes with a crimson flicker and surrounding them with undulating shadows, giving his face a demonic cast. Miguel's breath came slow and deep.

His chest felt like it would split open. Ramon was the only person Miguel loved in his life. Their parents were killed when Miguel was ten and Ramon six. Since that time, Miguel had clawed, fought, bribed, extorted, and murdered to gain control of the world around him and keep the brothers together and away from the authorities. Miguel had even sold himself to older men for sex, because they paid good money—especially when he turned around and blackmailed them for more. It got the brothers out of cardboard shacks on the street and into decent apartments. Miguel cried no tears for Ramon. Whatever tears Miguel possessed dried up by the time he turned fifteen.

His mind fixed on the name Robin Marlette—the man responsible for the loss of millions of dollars and several good men of Miguel's organization. Miguel had previously considered having Marlette killed, but had been dissuaded by Juan and Walton. They insisted such an act would cause a massive crackdown on the organization, including a shutdown of the border. Many people who relied on the open border protected and helped the organization because of Miguel's generosity. If the border shut down, they would turn against him.

Miguel would be dissuaded no longer. He held Robin Marlette responsible for the death of his brother no matter who actually shot Ramon. Of course, they all must die, including Newman and Carlos, but Marlette must be made the example to all the American pigs. They all would learn Miguel Rodriguez-Lara was the most powerful man in the world. He would see this lesson would not be forgotten.

SEVEN

Burke Jameson's feet hit the pavement in a rhythmic beat at four-thirty in the morning—“oh-dark-thirty,” as the saying went. Burke pushed himself through his workout an hour earlier than usual. He knew the minute he walked in the office Robin would ask if the pen registers were up. The machines record the numbers dialed by Walton and the numbers of his received calls. Burke wanted to be able to reply in the affirmative. Robin could get cranky when things didn't move fast enough.

Burke smiled to himself as he thought of his sergeant. In all his time in the Army and DPS, he never knew any leader who could motivate men better than Robin. He remembered when Robin took over the squad. The rumor proved true that a new squad would be formed out of the existing squads in the division. The other sergeants didn't want to give up officers who were producing, so they gave the lowest producers to the new squad. Robin got the burnouts and the misfits, Burke one of them.

His life in shambles and divorced for the second time, Burke had hit a low point in his life. Work simply angered and frustrated him. He thought the department and everybody else fought the war on drugs in a stupid way. All the low-level street dealers were busted while the big guys went untouched. Burke also drank too much. He came to work hung over more often than not, and didn't produce much in terms of cases. The rest of the new squad felt about the same as Burke.

Everyone expected the typical hardass bullshit a lot of new sergeants feel is necessary to show authority. Instead, Robin walked in and calmly introduced himself. He spoke directly without being overbearing. Robin told the men he knew why they had been selected for his new squad. He also told them he didn't give a damn what they did in the past. He only cared about what they did while they worked for him.

Next, Robin told them the squad's targets were the most dangerous narcotics violators in the state. At this news, Emmett Franks and Doug Auriel stood up and started to walk out. Burke also stood up.

“The job bother you guys?” Robin asked.

“It sure as hell does!” Burke shot back. “This department is too fucked up to tell a squad to do something like that. There isn't anybody in the narcotics division who knows how to do that job, let alone some over-educated desk jockey like you.” Franks and Auriel stopped dead in their tracks. They decided to stay for the show they knew Burke would give.

“You're right about the department not doing it right in past, Burke, but this squad is proof they want to do it right, and I know how to get the job done,” Robin said calmly. “What I need are a few guys who are willing, with the energy to get trained and the guts to do the job and stay sober enough to do it.”

Robin stared directly at Burke, who glared back at him. Burke walked slowly from his chair, his face flushed with anger and his fists clenched.

“While you sat on your fucking ass in law school, I killed Viet Cong in a stinking fucking jungle. I did three goddamned tours for God and fucking country. So don't be telling me about fucking guts!”

“I have a great deal of respect for your service in Vietnam, Burke, but Vietnam is history. What counts is now.”

Robin looked around at the men in the squad room. “This is a volunteer squad. The captain realizes it is a dangerous assignment. I'm not one to fuck around or dish out bullshit. You guys are on the shit list. It's either this squad or back to the Highway Patrol writing tickets. If you'll give me a chance, I'll show you it can work, but it's your choice.”

“What happens if you don't make it work?” asked Emmett.

“Well in that case, I buy all of you a steak dinner with all the whiskey you can drink the night before
I
go back to the patrol.”

Robin never had to buy that steak dinner.

Two hours later, Burke sat in front of the typewriter at his desk, pounding out an affidavit for pen registers on Carl Walton's home and business phones. At eight o'clock sharp he sat in the waiting room of Judge Cecil Roman, the presiding judge of the Superior Court. Judge Roman stepped off the elevator and noticed Burke waiting for him.

The judge walked up to and shook Burke's hand with a firm grip. Standing about three inches shorter than Burke, Judge Roman wore a neatly tailored navy blue suit, his closely cut hair dusted with gray. He constantly smiled with his eyes and projected a thoroughly professional demeanor.

“Morning, Burke. Robin must be cracking the whip again,” the judge said.

“He never stops, Judge. He just treats us like slaves.” Burke swallowed the last word and looked helplessly at the black judge.

Judge Roman shook his head and laughed. “Well, your squad is the happiest bunch of slaves I ever saw.”

Burke relaxed. He thought about how, before he met Robin, he hated all lawyers; before he met Judge Roman, he hated all judges. He loved Robin like the brother he never had, and thought Judge Roman should be the President of the United States.

Burke handed the judge the affidavit. As Judge Roman read through the pages of the affidavit, his face became a grim visage. When he finished, he laid the affidavit down and looked out his office window.

“Burke, do you know how hard it is for a poor black boy from South Phoenix to get to be presiding judge of the Superior Court?”

“Is it anything like being a poor Indian boy from Neah Bay in Washington State, sir?”

The judge smiled at Burke. “It's probably the same for any poor boy. You know, I wouldn't sign this order unless I had complete trust and faith in the officer presenting it. You're going after one of the most prominent attorneys in the state, if not the nation. I know you guys are the best cops around, so I'm going to sign it. If you're wrong, we'll all be looking for work.” With that, the judge signed the order for the pen registers.

Burke took the order from the judge. “Judge, you know Robin. We'll get these guys. All you'll have to worry about is being Chief Justice of the U.S. Supreme Court!”

Judge Roman laughed. “Get out of here before I change my mind.”

Burke drove to the U.S. West security office and dropped the order off with Norm Walls, the Chief of Security. Walls gave Burke the location of the switch boxes where Burke had to do the tie-ins to the DPS pen register lines and the line codes for Walton's lines. Burke told Walls he would be out doing the field work that day, so Walls could cover any inquiries.

Burke went back to DPS headquarters and got the “telephone man” van, painted exactly like a U.S. West telephone repair van, only it bore the company logo of Central Communications Services, one of several undercover companies operated by DPS. Burke put on a hard hat similar to ones worn by U.S. West repair men and clipped on an I.D. card identifying him as an employee of Central Communications Services.

He began with the junction box servicing Walton's home. He picked this one first because he knew Walton was probably already at his office. Burke made sure by doing a drive-by first. Previous surveillance of Walton showed he always parked his car by his front door on the circular driveway. As Burke went by, he confirmed the absence of Walton's Mercedes.

He located the switch box a block away at an intersection not too busy with vehicle or foot traffic. Burke parked the van, set out some orange cones, and got to work. It took about twenty minutes for him to complete the hook-up, leaving a red law enforcement tag on the new switch. The tag told regular repairmen not to touch the line without first checking with Norm Walls.

After completing the house, Burke drove to Walton's office building in downtown Phoenix. He parked in front of the building, set out his cones, and strode through the front door with an air of confidence. He went to the building superintendent's office and told him he came to install a service. The superintendent asked him who purchased the service, but Burke just gave him a line number. When asked what kind of service, he replied that he couldn't release confidential information to protect the privacy of the customer. The superintendent bought the explanation and told Burke where to find the box.

This complicated box took Burke a good hour to hook up. He had to sort out all the lines in the high-rise to find Walton's private office line. A dedicated fax line also complicated the installation. When Burke finished, he checked out with the superintendent and headed back to the office.

Robin sat in his office when Burke walked into the DPS North Central Narcotics District Headquarters.

“Hi, Rob,” Burke greeted his sergeant.

“Pens up?” Robin's replied.

“Am I not your faithful Indian companion?”

This made Robin laugh. “Yeah, you are, Burke. I will allow you one cup, make that two cups of coffee, before I give you a bunch of more shit to do.”

“That's okay, I drink real slow.”

Robin watched as Burke got a cup of coffee and then sat down at his desk to write a tech report on the installation of the pen registers. He remembered how other narcotics sergeants told him he would fail because all of his men were lazy assholes. They didn't say that anymore, because his men weren't lazy and wanted to do a good job—they just needed leadership.

Mark and Doug were writing the rough draft for the affidavit for the wiretap. Rick and Emmett relieved Rocky and Marv at the Casablanca. Robin worked out wire room and surveillance schedules with the other supervisors of the different agencies. The squad hummed and Robin felt content.

EIGHT

Juan Trinidad waited impatiently on the phone. Finally, on the other end the female voice said, “Department of Public Safety, Narcotics Division.”

“Agent Molina, please.”

“Just a moment.” A few seconds later, another voice came on the phone.

“Agent Molina.”

“It is Juan.”

The voice on the other end turned into a hoarse whisper. “Are you crazy! I told you never to call me here! Jesus”

“Shut up, you idiot!” Trinidad shot back. “You belong to me and you will talk to me whenever and wherever I tell you.”

Molina remained silent.

“Now, you find out who killed Ramon. Find out what happened to the money and to Newman and Carlos.”

“Marlette is no idiot, Juan. Nobody is talking here. He has a lid on everything.”

“You find out!” Trinidad barked. “And you will find out everything you can about Marlette's family.”

“What the fuck do you mean, 'Marlette's family?”

“Listen to me, Jose.” Juan made his voice cold and threatening. “Do not be stupid. Miguel is very, very angry. Either Marlette will pay the consequences or you will.”

“Okay, okay.” Molina's voice trembled.

“I will call tomorrow.”

“All right.” Molina choked out the word.

Juan felt contempt for Molina. He thought he was weak. Molina loved to take the money for information, but he was afraid to take the risks to get information from the Guardians. Before Marlette came, the organization could maneuver around the police and get their product in without much interference. Molina's information ensured that success. When Marlette started the new squad, things changed. Molina worked on the street narcotics squad and was not cleared for the information worked by the Guardians. This forced Molina to snoop around and ask questions, which he didn't like to do. Sometimes Juan thought Molina feared Marlette as much as he feared Miguel and himself.