Twist

By Bill Long

Twist is a police-procedural thriller about three criminal factions dealing with narcotic investigation, ultimately brought together by character Shawna Quinn, a twenty-three year-old rookie taken from the Sacramento Sheriff's Training Academy. It happens in 1985, when Quinn is assigned to work undercover in a local high school. Things get complicated by Quinn's love relationship with a narcotic detective, then even more complex when she stumbles upon a major drug operation directed in part by a local attorney, who happens to be the father of a popular high-school student who has become infatuated with her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Indigo Sea Press
• Release date: Mar 2, 2015

Bill Long

Bill Long is a 1978 graduate of Lehigh University with a Bachelor’s Degree in Business and Economics. Following graduation, Bill went on to spend his entire career in book manufacturing with The Maple Press Company. He worked there for over 40 years prior to his retirement in May of 2019. The last 30 of those years were spent as Vice-President of Sales and Marketing. His involvement in the book manufacturing industry gave the author an understanding of the many challenges associated the book publishing process.Writing a book was an endeavor that Bill would never have pursued had his co-author not suggested the idea shortly after his retirement. While he had been noted for the quality of his writing throughout his professional career, Bill’s second career as an author came naturally and has turned out to be a labor of love. His initial venture as an author has allowed him to explore his lifetime passion for sports and traditional personal and family values.Bill resides in York, PA with his wife Kathy. They enjoy spending time as much time as possible with the families of their three children which includes five grandchildren. He also keeps up his athletic career with frequent visits to racquet venues and hiking in spots throughout the world.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

A TIME TO LIVE AND A TIME TO DIE

It looked like rain. Dark clouds filled the sky and the air was still. When he arrived in Elk Grove he drove into the residential area past the house where he and Marge had lived for twenty years. Things hadn’t changed much. The house had been painted recently in the same colors, white with yellow trim. The oak trees had grown some, but that was about it. He and Marge had been happy there. Of course, they had always been happy. It didn’t matter where they lived. The surgery, the radiation, all the cancer treatments had prolonged her life only for a short while. It took just two months for her to die after being diagnosed with breast cancer. He drove to the Safeway, bought two bundles of roses and then drove to the nearby cemetery.

He put the first bundle of flowers in a metal cup on his son’s grave next to Marge’s. Engraved on the headstone were the words: Ronald Alan Celli – Our Beloved Ronnie – Born January 15, 1962 – Died February 10, 1978. What it didn’t say was his son had died while loaded on methamphetamine. Late one night he had ran out onto the freeway and was run over by a truck. At the time Celli had no idea his son was using any kind of drugs, let alone meth, perhaps the most dangerous drug on the planet. He convinced himself that it must have been the first or second time his son had taken meth, or speed, as it was commonly called. Otherwise, how could he have not known, him a cop, a narcotic detective at that? In the past, the mental pain he felt when coming here was overwhelming. Now his sadness usually lasted only a couple of minutes. For the most part, he had cried himself out long ago.

CHAPTER ONE

February, 1985

Waiting was the worst part. Most of them were at their desks in the narcotic briefing room. Joan was busy filing her fingernails while Celli, Nick, Smiling Jack and Dave watched Rick clean his Browning nine millimeter semi-automatic pistol. It was no secret that Al Celli didn’t like semi-automatics. He looked at Rick and shook his head.

Rick looked up. What? It’s a good gun.

I just hope it doesn’t jam when you need it.

You old-timers and your wheel guns.

It used to be we weren’t allowed to carry a semi. There was a reason for that.

Rick raised his eyebrows. They hadn’t been invented yet?

Everyone grinned. Sergeant Al Celli and Detective Nick Botticelli were in their fifties, and unlike the rest of the group, they had an official look, slender, clean shaven, gray hair recently cut, wore slacks and sports coats. They were both of Italian ancestry with the primary difference in their appearance being Nick had a lot of wrinkles on his face and Celli didn’t. Other than a couple of creases across his forehead and crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, Celli’s face was olive smooth.

Celli’s grin faded. Like I said, I hope it doesn’t let you down.

Rick slapped a loaded magazine in the grip, jacked a live one in the chamber and then put the gun away in the shoulder holster beneath his denim jacket. I’m not worried about it, boss. It worked just fine today at the range. I’ve fired hundreds of rounds out of it over the past two or three years. It’s jammed once.

Once is usually all it takes to give you an opinion adjustment, especially if it happens when you’re not at the range.

Rick took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Boss, pretty soon you’ll be the only person in the entire department still carrying a revolver. Well, excluding Jack and Dave. Even Nick carries a semi. Revolvers are obsolete, boss.

What’s your point?

Your gun holds five rounds. Mine holds ten.

It’s the first two that count.

Joan rolled her eyes at the ceiling. The telephone on Rick’s desk rang. He grabbed the receiver and, after a few seconds, nodded and said, Uh-huh, I’ll pick you up in two hours. Then he hung up the phone and looked at Celli.

Celli rubbed his forehead. Two more hours?

Weasel says they won’t talk to him yet. He figures they’re cutting and getting set up.

Two more hours, Nick said. It’s always wait. And wait. And wait. One of these days my wife is going to leave me. I wouldn’t blame her, either.

Quit you’re bitching, at least you still have a wife, Dave said. Even though he’d left Texas fifteen years ago, he still had a touch of Texas accent. Suddenly he farted.

Joan gave Dave a look of disgust. Was that really necessary?

Actually, it was, Dave said, but I thought it was just gonna quietly slip out.

The back door to the briefing room suddenly swung open. In walked two uniformed deputies, Ed Staub and Roland Dark, spit-and-polish types. They took a position against the side wall near the front of the room and took long looks at Rick Mason, Dave Russell and Smiling Jack Thompson, all of whom appeared to be tougher and dirtier than the foulest of denim-dressed motorcycle-riding dopers, thirtyish, long greasy hair, dark mustaches and beards and facial scars. Rick didn’t look quite as bad as Dave and Jack. He didn’t have any scars on his face and he kept his beard groomed, short and trim, and his hair seemed to be somewhat clean. Joan Laurel, who also was dressed in denims, did not at first glance seem to belong; her clothing was new-looking, and her dark hair was long and shiny, had a just-washed-and-brushed look. She got up from her chair, stepped around to the front of her desk and hopped on top of it, squeezing out a ripping fart. She said nothing but looked around the room, pretending someone else must have done it. She settled on Dave, gave him a glaring shift-the-blame stare.

Don’t be looking at me, Dave said.

But everyone did look at Dave and figured he must be guilty. After a few seconds of silence, disgust crept into the faces of the deputies in uniform. Then there was laughter, subdued and slow at first, then loud and louder. The uniforms laughed the longest and the hardest.

Finally, when the noise faded, Celli said, Okay, listen up. Gerri will be on Main tonight and Paige will be monitoring Special Ops. Also, tomorrow we’ve got a new undercover coming in. Her name is Shawna Quinn. I haven’t met her yet. Art tells me she could pass for fifteen. So if you happen to see her here in the briefing room tomorrow before I come in, she’s not some kid who wandered in off the street. She’s actually twenty-three years old. She has red hair, but she’ll be wearing a brown wig, just for tomorrow. As you all know, we’ve been considering putting someone in at Mc Kenna High School. Well, this is it. I don’t have to tell you that when it’s all over, there will be a shit-load of publicity. Tomorrow we got the buy-bust, the case Art and Joan have been working on. We’re going to let Quinn sit in on that one, see how she handles a little stress. Tonight and tomorrow night are going to be heavy. Right now I want you all to focus on this search warrant tonight. Put everything else aside. I mean it. Tonight could be very nasty.

The back door opened again and in stepped Barbara Crowder. Other than Quinn, she was the most recent deputy assigned to narcotics. A veteran from the Patrol Division, she had a reputation for being aggressive and fearless. She had short brown hair and soft lips and probably would look sensational in her blue jeans were it not for what appeared to be some recent spread in her ass.

Celli stepped up to the blackboard at the front of the room. Taped to the board was a colored-pencil top-view sketch of a house and a yard. Now that we’re all here, let’s go over the game plan.

Max and Art aren’t here yet, Jack said.

They’re at the jail interviewing. They’re going to try and join us later.

Sorry I’m late, boss, Barbara said, ladies room.

Ladies room, Jack said, why would you want to stop there?

Screw you, Jack.

Cut the shit, Celli said. Anybody here not know the layout? The uniforms raised their hands. Okay, Celli continued, this is one of those little flat-top houses not far off Howe Avenue, built about thirty or forty years ago. Most of the lots are small, but this one sits on about a third of an acre. The neighborhood still for the most part is pretty decent, except this one stands out because it has a ten-foot wire storm fence all the way around it, with gates at the front and back. The back gate always has a padlock on it. The front gate has a padlock, too, but it also has an electric lock with an intercom right above it. When they’re open for business, they take the padlock off and use the intercom and electric lock, which is controlled from inside the house. There’s an alley behind the house. We all meet up behind Sears on Arden, leave our plain and undercover cars, then split up and pile in two prowl cars. We put one in the back of the house and one in front. As soon we get over the fence, Ed and Roland activate their overhead lights so that there can be no doubt that the law has arrived. As always, timing and speed is crucial. We have to get inside before they can flush the dope.

Don’t we have some buys in there? Barbara asked.

Can’t use them, well, other than for establishing the reliability of our snitch so we could get the search warrant. We can’t take a chance on burning the snitch because the last one we burnt happened to be the half-brother of our current snitch. They cut off his head and hands and threw his body in the river. We lost the case in court because our star witness couldn’t be found.

Barbara shrugged. Well, can we get SWAT to help with the fence?

I just told you we’ve got to get the dope. No dope, no case. We have to have the element of surprise. The SWAT team will want to surround the place and blow it up. Celli paused and grinned. Which, now that I think about it, isn’t a bad idea. Anyway, SWAT has special weapons training tonight and this is something we shouldn’t put off any longer. We need to get inside when we know the dope is there.

Ed Staub raised his hand. Who are we trying to arrest?

It’s a Gypsy Moth biker pad. We hope to get Mickey Bauer and Frank Brown and maybe Bart Simon. You won’t see any motorcycles sitting around. They’ll have those hidden somewhere else. There might be a car or two parked outside on the street and there might be some junkies inside when we hit the place. Just be ready for anything. Any other questions?

How about the water? Dave asked.

Not on this one, Celli said. According to the county, the valve to the house should be about three feet inside the fence next to the driveway. Problem is the lot is flat and you know these assholes will have guns. I wouldn’t want to be standing there in the dark with a long rod-key in my hand looking for the shut-off valve when the shooting starts.

Is there another valve down the street? Barbara asked.

That’s all been thought out, Nick said. We do about fifty of these a year.

Well, excuse me, Barbara said, her tone rising. I’m still new at this.

After a few seconds of silence, Celli said, Let me make one thing clear, no one should ever be hesitant to ask a question. It all has to do with the element of surprise, Barbara. There is a master valve farther down the street, but we’d have to call in the water company to shut it down. If we do that, it cuts off water to about a hundred and fifty homes. The main thing is can we get the water company to respond in a timely manner? Timing is everything. And we don’t know much about the people working for the water company. When you mess around telling too many people what you’re doing, first thing you know you got the local television news out there with lights and cameras. If we screw up, as we sometimes do, we got everybody coming at us with why didn’t you do this or why didn’t you do that. Experience has taught us that speed and surprise is the best way to do this, but making it a surprise isn’t easy. All we can do is what we think at the time is the best way to approach the problem. But your question is not taken lightly. My point to everybody here is that if you don’t ask questions we can get bogged down in a pattern, and next time a question like the one Barbara asked might be applicable and no one will ask it. Anyway, we’re not going to shut off the water this time. Any other questions?

No one said anything. Celli looked at his wristwatch. Okay, we’ve got about an hour, maybe two. You might want to grab a bite somewhere. You know how these things can drag out. Joan, you and Dave and Jack take the Lincoln and set up on the house. Rick will take care of the snitch. The rest of us will meet up behind Sears, say about eight o’clock.

Barbara raised her hand. Sorry, boss, just one more thing. What does the snitch have to do with this, I mean, at this point?

Nick looked up at the ceiling and rubbed his chin, but he said nothing.

We have to make sure they’re holding, Rick said. We send the snitch in to make another buy shortly before we hit the place.

Won’t that give him away, I mean, they’ll know who he is, right?

Not necessarily, Celli said. We let a bunch of other buys go down after our snitch leaves. It doesn’t guarantee anything but it’s the best we can do.

Barbara shrugged and glanced at Nick. Sorry, but it’s all still a little confusing to me.

Celli looked around the room. As I said, the warrant is endorsed for night service. I’d rather not serve it at night. It’s going to be foggy, too. But if the dope is there, we’re going in. No dope, no case.

Everyone got up to leave. Celli held up a small metal flashlight. Don’t forget to grab one of these. There’s a whole box of them in my office. Remember, you’re probably going to have to climb a fence. That big one you keep in your car isn’t going to cut it. And remember to use plain English on the Special Ops channel, no police code, no specific names and no specific locations.

CHAPTER TWO

Mark Wyman, the confidential informant, also known as the weasel, lived in a two-story apartment building on P Street in downtown Sacramento. Rick parked his black undercover Chevy Camaro in the parking lot and went up the outside stairs to Mark’s apartment on the second floor. He had to knock several times before the door opened. Mark stepped back. Rick went inside and glanced around.

There’s nobody here but me, Mark said.

Can’t be too careful.

I’m telling you they’ve never figured out Robert was my half-brother.

You never know.

Mark cleared his throat. Have a seat. I’ve got to piss and comb my hair.

Mark headed for the bathroom while Rick flopped down on the sofa. What a dump, he thought. The dirt streaks across the thirteen-inch screen of the black-and-white television set matched the general interior of the apartment, filthy and old with broken-down furniture. Clothing and shoes and shit in general were piled everywhere. The movie Man with the Golden Arm, a story about a heroin addict, was playing on the TV. There was no sound. In a few minutes Mark returned. Rick got up, turned off the TV, and then they both stepped into the kitchen area and sat down at a small kitchen table. Mark cleared off some dirty plates and various magazines and papers while Rick grabbed the telephone from the kitchen counter-top and placed it on the table. It had a long cord and was a newer push-button type that Rick had bought with county undercover funds. He reached into a shirt pocket and took out a small tape recorder, turned it on and recorded the date, time, place and circumstances, and then he placed it on the table next to the phone. Go ahead and dial and put it on speaker, he said.

Mark punched in a number on the phone and pressed the speaker button. There was a ring and then someone picked up the receiver but didn’t say anything.

Mickey? Mark asked.

Yeah.

"I gotta come over now, man. I’m hurtin’.

Yeah, yeah, it’s fifty bucks.

Fifty bucks. Shit, Mickey, what the fuck.

This is good shit, ain’t no Mexican-brown.

Mexican-brown will do.

This is China-white. Besides, I ain’t got no brown right now.

Come on, Mickey, I’m sick. I don’t have that much.

Well, then fuckin’ get it.

I got thirty. You know I’m good for the difference.

There was a pause and then a short chuckle. Oh, yeah, I can depend on you to pay up next time, right? It’s fifty bucks, you want it or not?

Okay, okay, might take me an hour or so to get some extra dough, Mark said and then he punched the off button on the phone.

That was good, Rick said. Mark stood up and put his hands on the wall. Rick put the tape recorder back inside his shirt pocket, then stood up and gave Mark the routine pat-down for drugs and money, making sure he had neither. Then, as Mark turned around, Rick handed him five twenty-dollar bills with serial numbers he had recorder earlier in his notebook.

The weasel was a gift that kept on giving, Rick thought. Seventeen felony arrests the unit had done behind this loser, a skinny twenty-one year old with squinty eyes, pointy nose and a pock-marked face. And maybe the bikers really didn’t know Robert Rydell had been Mark’s half-brother. After all, Mark and Robert had different last names and they looked nothing alike. They never knew their fathers. Their mother had been a heroin-addicted whore who was finally put out of her misery with a hot-shot. She was probably murdered by her pimp, but that had never been proved. Robert had more or less raised Mark, taught him how to burglarize homes, steal cars, con people and sell drugs. Yes sir, a snitch determined to get even for his half-brother’s murder was pure gold. The biggest task was keeping him alive.

CHAPTER THREE

Art Robinson and Max Martinez exited the Main Jail downtown. They wore wrinkled dark pants and sport coats. Art was a tall, slender African-American in his forties. He had an afro haircut and clean face with a crooked nose. Max was a Mexican-American of medium size in his thirties. He had a clean face, too. He might look youthful if not for his shiny hair combed straight back all the way down to his thick neck. In short, instead of looking like detectives, they looked like hoodlums just released from jail. They got into a standard-issue detective car, a gray four-door Ford with black tires, a car that most any kid over the age of seven could spot for what it was. Art drove. He pulled out of the alley onto the street. I can’t believe we wasted the time to come down here, he said.

We should have heard her out, Max said.

Art shook his head. Right from the start she was shucking us.

How do you know that?

I don’t know it.

Then why not talk to her?

I don’t know. Fuck. She murdered a fourteen year-old girl, man. Cut her throat and left her not dead yet in an alley. Do you really think she should be able to trade something for that? You have to draw the line somewhere.

Then why did we come down here in the first place?

I don’t know that, either, Art said. When she first opened her mouth I wasn’t sure if I wanted to puke or just start slamming her head against the table. Suddenly I just couldn’t bear the thought of even talking to that piece of shit.

Yeah, well, we start drawing lines and pretty soon our ability to arrest dopers becomes limited. Besides, the DA cuts the deals.

We make the recommendations. I don’t give a shit what she knows. She’s going on trial and I hope she gets the death penalty.

Nature of the beast, Art. Don’t take it personal.

I don’t know how you can keep doing this without taking it personal, day after day.

It’s what we do. It’s who we are.

Yeah, well, maybe it’s time for me to get out of narcotics. My hands are starting to feel scummy all the time, dealing with these people every day and sometimes all night.

Don’t let it get to you. You’ve been a cop too long for that.

Let me ask you something, Max. Do you still feel like a cop?

Sure I do. You don’t?

I’m starting to have my doubts. Working dope is like nothing I’ve ever done before.

It’s different for everybody, I guess.

Remember when you worked in patrol? You were the good guy, right? And the bad guy was the bad guy.

Sure. I still feel the same way.

It’s getting harder for me, Max. I mean, look at us. Most of the time we have to dress worse than the dirt bags. We look like shit. And this is a step up from the way we usually dress, all because we have to interview somebody at the jail. We don’t even hang with other deputies anymore.

Sure we do.

Other narcs, Art said.

Bro, don’t let it get to you.

It’s getting hard for me to keep feeling good about my job. The jailers who don’t know us looking as us suspiciously, like maybe we’re a couple of fish. Every time we’re at the jail I keep having this thought in the back of my mind that some of those new jailers are going to snatch us and throw us in the drunk tank.

That’s funny, Max said. I keep thinking they’re thinking we’re a couple of lawyers who had to throw on some rumpled clothes and come to the jail to interview clients.

Art grinned briefly. That’s even worse. You know where I’d be if I was still working an eight-hour dayshift at the airport? I would’ve just finished watching my boy play basketball and we’d be on our way to get an orange drink. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve watched him play basketball or soccer or little league or anything else?"

No, but I know how long it’s been since you’ve been anywhere that doesn’t serve adult beverages.

That’s another thing, Art said. I never used to drink like I do now.

Quit then, Art. I don’t know what to say. How about these young people they’re hiring nowadays? You’re more likely to see them at a coffee shop than a bar.

Give them time. They haven’t seen anything yet. Not like we have. And they haven’t worked dope yet. If they’re lucky they never will.

You’ve been working too hard lately, Art. That’s all it is.

Maybe so, Art said and then he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. You’re a good friend, Max. Thanks for listening to my shit.

Mona on your case again?

Art took another deep breath. She never lets up. I’ve said my piece. Let’s just let it go.

Okay, sure, Max said.

Art threaded this way through the downtown traffic. Through the February-cool after-dark splotchy fog, he finally got onto the elevated freeway headed toward the east area of the unincorporated area of Sacramento County, which didn’t look much different than the city area. Much of the entire county was fast becoming one giant area of asphalt and concrete. Sometimes, if you didn’t pay attention to the road signs, it was hard to tell where the city limits ended, unless you happened to be in the Delta area where there were hundreds of miles of navigable rivers and sloughs and canals.

You haven’t met Shawna Quinn? Art asked, knowing the answer but eager not to let the conversation drift back to Mona.

No, Max said, knowing that Art knew he hadn’t met Quinn yet and sensing that maybe he had crossed the line by asking about Mona, Art’s wife, who constantly was on his case to quit police work.

I’ve got an extra package on her I’ll give you later.

What’s she like?

Art smiled. That’s a good question. Even after putting her file together and interviewing her, I’m still not real sure. She’s not what she seems to be, I can tell you that. She’s real good about changing her looks. I mean completely changing it. Celli’s going to love her.

"You’ve got something else planned too,