The Judas Hunter

By William Wallace

Private eye Jack Burial's picture should appear in Funk and Wagnall's next to the entry for "loser:" he drives a clapped-out Chevy station wagon, is being divorced by his lawyer wife and has so few clients as an investigator that his cell phone has been cut off and he's on the verge of eviction. His only real source of income comes from Oakland, California's burgeoning "bond market," tracking down jailbirds who have skipped bail to avoid prosecution.

So when Burial gets hired to track down a businessman suspected of embezzling from his business partners, things seem to be looking up. All he has to do is find the fugitive -- while ducking the Mafia, a trigger-happy outlaw motorcycle gang and a federal prosecutor who wants to throw him in prison for interfering with her case.

Will Burial succeed in finding the Judas he is tracing or will he end up betraying his own threadbare code of ethics? Cross is piled on double cross as the body count climbs in William E. Wallace's crime thriller, The Judas Hunter.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Wallace
• Release date: Apr 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301791699

William Wallace

William E. Wallace is the author of The Judas Hunter, a private detective novel, and Tamer, an upcoming western set in Gold Rush California. He is an veteran investigative reporter who worked 26 years for the San Francisco Chronicle before taking early retirement in 2006 to teach and write fiction full time. As a reporter he specialized in projects about political corruption, organized crime and police misconduct. His investigative reports won awards from the Society of Professional Journalists and the San Francisco Press Club. Wallace has taught journalism at California State University, East Bay in Hayward and at the University of California, Berkeley. He took his bachelor's degree in political science at Cal Berkeley and served as an intelligence analyst while serving in the U.S. Navy during the Vietnam War. He lives with his wife and son in Berkeley, California.

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The Judas Hunter

By William E. Wallace

Dedication

To Margot, who has made all things possible for more than 40 years.

Copyright 2013 William E. Wallace

Published by William E. Wallace at Smashwords

Find other titles by William E.Wallace at Smashwords.com.

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Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Copyright and Legal Information

Chapter One:

Chapter Two:

Chapter Three:

Chapter Four:

Chapter Five:

Chapter Six:

Chapter Seven:

Chapter Eight:

Chapter Nine:

Chapter Ten:

Chapter Eleven:

Chapter Twelve:

Chapter Thirteen:

Chapter Fourteen:

Chapter Fifteen:

Chapter Sixteen:

Chapter Seventeen:

Chapter Eighteen:

Chapter Nineteen:

Chapter Twenty:

Chapter Twenty-one:

Chapter Twenty-two:

Chapter Twenty-three:

Chapter Twenty-four:

Chapter Twenty-five:

Chapter Twenty-six:

Chapter Twenty-seven:

About the Author

Chapter One:

The San Jose black and white raked Jack Burial’s Chevy station wagon with its spotlight as it rolled by on the opposite side of the street. He winced at the hard light. The sky over the buff-colored foothills of the Diablo Range had a peach-colored glow although Burial’s car was was still in shadow. He glanced at his watch with a yawn: it was shortly after 6 a.m.

The cruiser U-turned in the next intersection and stopped just behind him. A young cop got out and approached Burial with his hand resting on the butt of his service revolver. His partner stayed back, using the computer to check Burial's plate against the hot sheet of stolen vehicles.

The young cop was a rookie and green as an avocado. He flashed a polite, professional smile. Could I see some ID, sir? he asked, with just a trace of apology in his voice.

Burial climbed slowly out of the Chevy and fumbled his card case out of his back pocket. He held it open to show his driver's license and private investigator's certificate. The young cop looked at both without touching Burial’s wallet.

First time I've seen one of those, he said. Could you remove the license from the wallet, sir?

Burial complied, and the young cop took it back to the cruiser. Yawning again, Burial leaned against the side of the station wagon, folded his arms across his chest and glanced up at the apartment he had been watching.

The curtains were open on the living room window and a couple dressed in bathrobes stood staring down on the street. After a few moments the man said something to the woman and walked back into the room. She remained at the window, watching.

Burial looked away, blinking hard.

The young cop came back, accompanied by his partner, an older man with a huge, flat nose. Here's your ID, sir, the rookie said, handing Burial back his license. Not even a parking ticket. Would you mind telling us what you’re doing here?

Burial shrugged. I'm a private investigator. I'm doing some . . . surveillance.

Both answers were accurate as far as they went. They just didn’t go far enough to be completely true.

I see, the young officer said, giving his partner an I told you so look. I thought it might be something like that soon as I saw your state license.

Is there some problem, officers? Burial asked. Am I breaking a law?

The older one shook his head. No, not really, he said, giving Burial that dead-eyed law enforcement stare that seemed to add, not that I’ve caught you at – yet. We just had a report there was an unidentified man hanging around this neighborhood, he said. There’ve been a lot of residential burglaries here lately, so the dispatcher sent us over to check it out. You working or just hanging out?

Burial shrugged. Just getting ready to leave, actually, if that’s okay with you?

The cruiser's radio crackled to life with a call, breaking the quiet of the suburban street. As the older cop used his walkie-talkie to respond, Burial glanced up at the apartment he’d been watching. Several residents had come to their windows, peeking out furtively to see what was going on. The woman upstairs was gone and the curtains were closed.

That’s for us, the older cop told his partner. Hot prowl three blocks south, let’s go.

Sorry, sir, the younger cop said, as they turned away.Burial nodded. No problem. I used to be a cop, myself. Good luck with the break-in.

The officers drove away, flicking on their light bar. Burial sighed and got into the Chevy. The woman from the apartment he had been watching was standing on the sidewalk in front of the building now, still wearing her bathrobe. He started the car and made a U-turn, pulling up in front of her and rolling down the passenger side window.

Hello, Carole, he said quietly. Who called the cops, him or you?

The woman shrugged. What difference does it make?

None, I guess, he said. Just curious. You know me – nosy as hell and all that.

Shivering, she pulled the bathrobe up around her neck. You're sick, you know that? These occasional nighttime visits are juvenile. They’re just harassment. If they’re supposed to make me realize that I’m still in love with you, they aren’t working. In fact, they’re doing just the opposite – they’re reminding me why I left you in the first place, to get away from this kind of childish behavior.

I’m not trying to harass you, he said weakly. I miss you, that’s all.

You’re stalking me, Jack, she said wearily. Don’t you see that? If you don't leave me alone, I'll go to the judge and get a court order; then when the police come, I'll have you jailed for contempt.

He considered that a moment, staring at the steering wheel to avoid her eyes. Yeah, I guess you would, he said finally.

She bent down to lean on the car window frame. The position gave him a glimpse of cleavage as a loose curl swung down over her eye. Under other circumstances it would have turned him on.

The divorce will be final in six weeks. I'm out of it, Jack. It’s over. What you do with the rest of your life is up to you, but if it interferes with mine again, even for a minute, I'm going to court. Do you understand?

He stretched across the seat and gave the back of her hand a gentle pat. Isn’t there anything I can do to make things right between us again?

She pulled her hand away with a sneer and rubbed it as if she was removing germs, You’re a loser, period, end of report. Do you remember King Midas? The man with the original touch of gold? Well, you’re the anti-Midas; everything you touch turns to shit. You could have been chief investigator for the Alameda County DA by now but you decided to do your little Sam Spade thing instead. The only problem is, there isn’t any Maltese Falcon out there for you. You can’t even make a decent living.

Come on, Carole, he said. It takes time to start a new business. You have to develop a reputation, a client list. That doesn’t happen overnight.

She snorted derisively. You’ve had nearly three years of overnights to work on it and you’re nowhere, Jack. You’re still interviewing workers for comp cases or pissing around with half-assed product liability claims. The shysters you work for sell those cases out to the insurance companies for chump change and then stiff you on your fee. You end up suing in small claims court to collect from your own clients, for Christ sake.

That only happened once, he said quietly.

Her laugh had a bitter edge to it. From what I hear, you have three small claims actions going right now. She shook her head and gave him a look of pity. You’re a fucking train wreck. Fortunately, there’s nobody on board the train anymore but you. I decided to get off before you got too far downhill.

She folded her arms across her breasts in a way that reminded him of a mother scolding her child. To answer your question, no: there isn’t a thing on God’s green earth you can do to get us back together, unless you know how to step back in time six years and stop yourself from becoming a total fuckup.

He decided not to respond. The pained look that twisted his face said more than words could, anyway.

You gonna marry that guy when the divorce is final? he asked, nodding toward her apartment window.

Maybe; maybe not, she replied impatiently. It's none of your business in any event. Just leave me alone, will you?

She turned and strode back into the apartment, the wooden soles of her clogs clacking hollowly on the cement steps. Burial looked back up at her living room window.

The man was back, holding the curtain open with one hand and smoking a cigarette.

Burial put the car in gear and started to drive away, then stopped, leaned out and stuck out his hand, middle finger raised. The man jerked the curtain closed.

Burial allowed himself a humorless smile. Carole was right, he thought to himself. He was being juvenile. But if he was going to be childish, he might as well go all the way.

Chapter Two:

Burial had read someplace that when it was first built, the flatiron building that held his office was a showcase. It’s granite façade, bronze parapets, vaulted lobby and marble staircases reflected the prosperity of Oakland in the early 1920s and 30s, back when the city’s auto factories earned it the nickname Detroit of the West.

But Oakland’s promise had faded as its blue collar union jobs fled overseas and rival gangs split it into warring drug territories. The flatiron building's glory had faded, too: its marble interior was chipped and varnished yellow with age and the smoke of a million cigarettes; its carpeting had worn so thin you could read an eviction notice through it.

These days the building was home to businesses that served the lower end of the city's food chain: a handful of collection agencies, a Russian doctor that Burial suspected of working phony insurance claims, a couple of low-income legal clinics that survived on government handouts, and a platoon of defense attorneys who spent most of their time hanging around the courthouse, hustling overflow clients from the county’s overworked public defender.

It was also home to Jack Burial Investigations, LLC.

The building’s antique birdcage elevator was out of order so Burial used the stairs to climb up to his two-room professional suite on the sixth floor. When he stopped in the men’s room to wash up, the haggard face that peered back at him from the mirror sagged from lack of sleep and needed a shave. He thought it fitted perfectly with his shabby surroundings.

Burial let some light into his dusty office. Heavy cloud cover was pushing in from the Pacific, choking out the early morning sun and turning San Francisco Bay the color of slate. He put the cheap house blend in the Mr. Coffee in the corner and filled it with water from the cooler before sitting down to check his answering machine.

There had been three callers: The first had hung up without saying anything; the second was Georgie Mitchell, an Oakland bail bondsman, asking Burial to call about a bail jump assignment; the last was Carole's attorney in Los Gatos, asking for an appointment to discuss the financial terms of the divorce.

He sighed. There was no sense in calling the lawyer back unless Carole was planning to offer Burial alimony: his soon-to-be ex-wife had used her connections in the DA’s office to wangle a spot in a South Bay civil law practice; she owned the building her apartment was in and the brand-new Mercedes-Benz Cabriolet parked in its garage. If she asked for a community property division, Burial would come out ahead: his only assets were a broken-down Chevy station wagon, a couple of handguns, a closet full of used clothes and a second-hand black and white TV with a burned-out picture tube.

He thought about what she had said that morning. Maybe she was right: if he had stayed with the DA’s office he could have made chief investigator in a year or two and ending up running the DA’s staff of ex-cops and wannabes. Hell, he could have decided to stay in the Army’s Criminal Investigation Division. He would probably be a senior warrant officer by now and only a few years away from retirement.

Unfortunately, it was too late for a Mulligan. He’d opened his own shop, for better or worse; so far it had been worse.

Sipping coffee, he sat back and studied his desk calendar. He had finished his last assignment three weeks ago, collecting witness statements for a lawyer working up a personal injury suit. He had spent too much time since then moping about his pending divorce. His bills were stacking up and some were already past due. It was better to be working than sitting around the office staring out the window and thinking about Carole.

He dropped the cup in his wastebasket and slid out from behind his desk. During one of the city’s seemingly unending series of financial crises several years before, one of Burial’s friends in the DA’s office had suggested Oakland’s crime rate was so high it could retire its civic debt overnight by selling bail bonds instead of municipal bonds.

Burial decided it was a good time to check out the city's most lucrative bond market.

Chapter Three:

The run-down storefront that housed Georgie Mitchell's surety service boasted a green neon sign that said, In Jail? Get Bail, above a set of scales. It was a convenient location for the business: just a block away the Oakland Hall of Justice anchored a law enforcement complex that included the Wylie Manuel Courthouse, where most of the city’s criminal courts were located, and the North County Jail, the only regular address many of Mitchell's clients had. Burial parked in front and went inside.

Mitchell, a compact black man with a stingy-brim hat perched on the back of his bald head, was sitting on his desk, working his words around the stub of a cigar as he dickered with a client on the phone. Burial poured himself a tarry cup of industrial strength java from an electric drip machine on a back work table before making his way back to the bondsman.

Yeah, that’s the best I can do, Mitchell muttered into the phone’s mouthpiece as he nodded for Burial to take a seat. If you don’t like the terms, go shopping, Victor. You know you aren’t going to get a better deal anywhere else.

He grinned at his caller’s response. I knew you’d come around, man. No problem. See you later today. Just remember to bring the cash, Victor. We ain’t running no damn soup kitchen here.

Hanging up, he gave Burial a smile that showed off his gold tooth as he shook the investigator’s hand. That was Vic Morrison, one of the biggest chop shop operators on the West Coast, he said. Five of his boys got pinched and he’s trying to get ‘em loose for the three-day weekend that’s coming up. Bastard got more money than fucking B of A, but he’s trying to jawbone me down on my rate.

Burial smiled. Nobody he knew ever got a discount from Georgie Mitchell.

So, Georgie, what have you got for me? he asked.

Mitchell shuffled papers on his desk. Where you been, son? I left that message for you yesterday morning, he said as he located the ones he wanted.

Burial swallowed coffee. I had some personal business to take care of.

What happened to your cell phone? It was out of service when I tried it.

The phone company cut me off, Burial said ruefully. I’ve been a little short, skipped paying a couple months. I’m a month behind on my office rent, too. I’m so damn broke that if I had two nickels, I’d be trying to get ‘em to make babies.

Mitchell handed the papers he’d found to the investigator with a smile. This ought to put some cash in your pocket, maybe enough to cover that rent, get you back on the grid. It’s a straight-up bail jump. Cat’s name is Stephen Baldwin. He skipped on an armed robbery bond.

Burial shuffled through the bail certificate, a photocopy of a surety form with a local address for the beneficiary, the pre-trial probation report and a copy of the complaint filed by the DA. Stapled to the complaint was an affidavit detailing the original arrest.

I don't suppose this apartment number in Oakland is any good, Burial said, looking up from the papers.

If I coulda reached this asshole at home, why would I be talking to you? Mitchell asked. His damn phone number been disconnected. Landlord told me the cat split a couple of days after he bailed. No forwarding address, neither. The landlord was pissed; seems our boy was a month shy on his rent, too.

The booking sheet from the original arrest showed prior misdemeanor battery convictions, plus one for aggravated assault. This liquor store holdup will be his second strike if the DA wants to charge it that way, Burial said. He’d probably go away for at least fifteen years. That’s a pretty big incentive to blow town. Any likelihood he’s still hanging around the Bay Area?

Mitchell shook his head solemnly. I don't think so, he said. This is where he’s most likely to get popped again. I think this guy done gone already.

This says your man is an outlaw biker, Georgie, Burial said. Why’d you front money for a court-certified dirtball in the first place?

Mitchell shrugged. Come on, Jack. You know that ‘most everybody I bond got a pedigree. Some got misdemeanors, some got felonies. I front the money and hope they make their court date. When they don’t, I call you.

Burial rolled his eyes.

I gotta go with what I got, man, Mitchell said defensively. I don’t get to choose my clientele out the fucking Social Register.

I suspect the money carried the day for you, Georgie, Burial said dryly. The surety says your man skated on a bond for 125 grand. At 10 percent, that means he had to front $12,500 – that would be nearly all profit if he hadn’t skipped. It's the kind of deal that even a cheap shit like you would be willing to risk.

Mitchell grinned, showing his gold tooth again. Hey, man, it’s a shaky business. That 12-5 looked pretty good to me. Almost as good as making up the back end to the court looks bad. Besides, the lawyer said Baldwin would make his date at Wiley. How was I supposed to know the guy would rabbit?

Burial chuckled. You must be getting soft, Georgie. That's why you let the guy post a ten percent cash bond with no property as surety. That's why your write-up here doesn't have the names or addresses of any next-of-kin.

Mitchell looked chastened. It seemed like a good idea at the time. You gonna take the damn skip or you gonna hang around here the rest the afternoon givin’ me shit about it?

Burial folded the papers and tucked them inside his coat. I’m on it, boss — standard day rates and expenses. Of course, since I'm working for one of the cheapest bondsmen in the Bay Area, I’ll try to keep the expenses to the minimum.

Mitchell shook his hand. I knew I could depend on you man, he said.

Chapter Four:

Burial returned to his office and called a contact at the Department of Motor Vehicles for driving record information on Baldwin. He learned that during the last eighteen months Baldwin had received three speeders and a broken tail-light citation in a little Sierra Nevada community called Azimuth City. The dates on the tickets showed that two of the tickets were issued in a six-week period and the rest four months later.

Burial mulled over the citations. He decided that Baldwin had either picked up the movers during an extended stay in the area or he had some relative up there he visited regularly. This Azimuth angle is worth exploring further, he thought.

He needed some help, though. He dialed a custom cycle shop in East Oakland and a kid with a heavy Spanish accent told him the owner, Marv Skelner, would be with him in a minute.

A few moments later, Marv came on the line.

Hey, Jack! I thought you must’ve died and gone wherever it is cheap P.I.’s go when they stop breathing, Skelner said. Where you been, man?

Here and there, Burial answered. How you doing, Marvin?

Can't complain, Skelner rasped. That doesn't stop me from doing it, though.

Skelner had spent 17 years working patrol out of the California Highway Patrol’s Oakland District office before he skidded out on an oil spill in the hills one morning, went through a wooden retaining rail and down a 30-foot embankment. It had taken two pounds of stainless steel pins and rivets and about $300,000 worth of Kaiser surgery to put his legs and hip back together. Afterward, Skelner joked that he was the real Six Million Dollar Man, only about $5.7 million short.

After rehab, Skelner took a disability retirement and opened a general purpose motorcycle repair shop amid the Mexican restaurants, bodegas and used furniture stores in Oakland's Fruitvale District. He built racing cycles and custom choppers, and used his law enforcement connections to land motorcycle repair contracts with three Bay Area police departments.