14th Deadly Sin Read online

  CHAPTER 79

  IT HADN’T TAKEN Joe long to locate Clement Hubbell, the man who’d been convicted of rape, had done twenty years in Chino, and had been released two weeks before the first of what Joe saw as five linked murders, one a year on the twelfth of May.

  After lunch with Julie and her sitter, and under a sunny sky, Joe drove toward Edgehill Mountain and the home of Denise and Clement Hubbell.

  Edgehill Mountain was an old, remote development with winding roads and small, widely spaced houses that had views of the Pacific and Ocean Beach. His car’s GPS told Joe that he was coming up on his destination, and then he saw it up ahead on his left, a tidy tan house with red doors, standing alone at the side of the road.

  Joe slowed the car to get a look at the picket-fenced vegetable garden beside the house, where an older woman in red checkered pants and a pink cardigan was weeding the beds.

  He checked the number on the mailbox, then pulled his Mercedes into the driveway next to a dinged-up Toyota wagon. He took his Glock out of the glove box and slipped it into his shoulder holster, then pulled on his leather bomber jacket and got out of the car.

  Putting his hands in his jacket pockets, Joe walked over to the gate and peered into the garden. The woman who was working the soil had sweet, doll-like features and white hair; she looked to be in her midseventies. Probably Hubbell’s mother.

  “Mrs. Hubbell?” Joe said.

  The woman looked up, shielding her eyes from the sun. “Oh, hi, Jerry,” she said. “Where’s Clem?”

  “No, ma’am. My name is Joe Molinari. We’ve never met. You’re Clem’s mom?”

  “Yes, I’m Denise, but Clem isn’t home. I thought he was with you.” The woman laughed, got to her feet, and dusted off her knees. “Come on in,” she said. “I’ve got blueberry muffins in the oven and a jar I just cannot open by myself.”

  Joe said, “Sure.” He opened the gate for Denise Hubbell, who chattered away as she led him to the house about planting different types of peppers. Joe weighed whether or not to go into the house before deciding What the hell? Clement Hubbell wasn’t home, and his mother might help him fill in some blanks.

  Joe followed Mrs. Hubbell as she opened the back door, which led directly into the kitchen.

  She said, “Have a seat.”

  Joe sat down at the red Formica table, and Mrs. Hubbell handed him the screw-top jar of sliced peaches, then fussed around the kitchen.

  Joe opened the jar and said, “It’s so beautiful out here, Denise. How’s Clem doing?”

  “Oh, still crazy after all these years.” She laughed. “He spends most of his time in the hole.”

  Denise Hubbell used oven mitts to take the muffin pan out of the oven and put it down heavily on the stovetop. Joe saw immediately that the batter was still unbaked, but she didn’t seem to realize it.

  “Let’s let them cool for a minute, Jerry.”

  “I’m sorry,” Joe said. “What do you mean, ‘the hole’?”

  Denise removed her mitts, fluffed her hair, and said, “That’s what he calls his room. Any space too big or too bright makes him dizzy. To think how the two of you used to run around all the time to all hours. I had to bait Clem with dinner and once he was in, bolt the door.”

  She laughed again. She had a very nice laugh.

  “You think he’d mind if I saw his room?” Joe said. “I’ve got a note for him that I’ll leave on his dresser.”

  “You go ahead,” said Clement Hubbell’s mom. “End of the hall. You know where it is. When you get back, we’ll have coffee and sweets.”

  Joe said, “Good deal,” and walked through the kitchen and into a hallway. He passed the living room on his right, then a pink-floral-papered bedroom to the left. Beyond that was a door centered at the end of the hallway.

  Joe turned the knob expecting to see Clem Hubbell’s “hole,” but rather than a bedroom at the back of the house, there was a flight of stairs heading down. Joe found a light switch and flicked it on. He saw that the wooden stairs led to a basement room, which was another way of saying “the hole.”

  Joe left the hallway door open and started down.

  CHAPTER 80

  WHEN HE REACHED the bottom of the stairs, Joe saw that the basement was a typical subterranean cinder-block room. It had a washer, a dryer, a water heater, a furnace, stacks of boxes, and a pile of lawn furniture. Four small, high windows let in some light.

  There was no bed or sofa or anything that suggested a living space. But under the staircase was a narrow door with a gleaming brass doorknob that suggested use and might be the entrance to Clement Hubbell’s “hole.”

  Joe considered again what he was doing and was sure he was not breaking any laws. He’d been invited into the house, had gotten permission to go to Hubbell’s room. He turned the knob and the door opened, letting him into another hallway, this one totally devoid of light.

  He left the door open behind him, and after letting his eyes acclimate, he noticed that the floor of this hallway was made of poured concrete and that it was on a fifteen-degree downward angle. Calculating the turns he’d made, he was heading under the vegetable garden, but about twenty feet down.

  He cupped his hands and called out “Hellooooo.” Not hearing an answer or any sound, he kept one hand on the cinder-block wall and walked down the incline until it terminated in an empty twelve-by-twelve room that was dimly lit by a pale-blue light.

  Centered in the floor of that room was a hatch door flipped back into the open position. There was an attic-type folding ladder attached to the hatch frame by a spring-loaded hinge, and the ladder extended straight down into a pale pool of bluish light.

  Joe called “Hellooooo” again, and as before, there was no answer. He had too much curiosity to walk away, but climbing down that ladder was a big commitment to the unknown.

  He would need both his hands on the ladder, meaning his gun would be holstered and he would be backing down virtually blind into whatever lay below. Although Hubbell wasn’t home, Joe still had a queasy feeling that this hole could be a bear trap.

  He put his hands on his knees and peered down into the opening; he looked down from another side of the hole and saw nothing but the long length of ladder and the dim blue light. He decided to retrace his steps and tell Denise Hubbell of the unbaked muffins that he’d visit again some other time.

  But instead, he found himself getting a grip on the ladder, making sure it was steady, placing one foot on the top rung. And after that step proved to be stable, Joe began the descent to the bottom of the ladder.

  When both of his feet were on solid concrete, Joe found the source of the light: a couple of open laptops on a roughly made desk. He was moving toward the desk, hoping to find a lamp, when a muscular arm snaked across his chest from behind and a sharp, cold blade stung the tight skin of his throat.

  “Who the hell are you?” said the man with the knife.

  CHAPTER 81

  JOE FROZE.

  He considered kicking back at the man’s knees, but since that action could get his throat cut, he held up his hands and said, “Nothing to be concerned about, Clement. You certainly don’t need the knife, man. Your mom asked me to come down and check on you, that’s all. She was worried. Didn’t you hear me calling you?”

  Joe had kept his voice steady, but he couldn’t control either his heart’s sudden drumbeat or the sweat beading his upper lip.

  The arm around his chest loosened slightly, but the knife tightened. Joe felt it cut into his skin; at the same time, he felt the man’s hand lift the gun from his shoulder holster.

  “Nice piece,” said the man’s voice. “Government grade. What are you? FBI?”

  “I worked for the Feds,” Joe said. “I’m a civilian now. Retired.”

  “So what are you doing here?”

  Joe said, “I drive this road sometimes, and when I see your mom in the garden, I talk to her. She gave me some chives one time.” Joe was making it up as he went along, but he sounded con
vincing to his own ears. At the same time, adrenaline was coursing through his veins like a river over its banks in the rainy season.

  He forced himself to slow his breathing and focused on his surroundings.

  The room was about twelve by eight feet, the dimensions of a roomy two-person jail cell. There was a metal-framed bunk bed against one of the long sides of the room. On the short side to his right was that desk, made of a couple of ten-inch boards resting on two cinder-block pedestals.

  To his left, on the other short wall, were a toilet, a washstand with no mirror, and a four-cubic-foot refrigerator. Joe had no sense of what was behind him on the opposite long wall.

  “Have a seat, G-man,” said the ex-con who lived in the hole. He moved the knife away and shoved Joe against the lower berth of the bunk bed, which moved a couple of inches back toward the wall when he struck it.

  Joe righted himself and got his first good look at Clement Hubbell. Hubbell was lanky, leaner than when his mug shot had been taken. His hair was close-shaven. He wore a wife-beater and a pair of cotton pants; he was barefoot. His arms were tattooed from fingers to collarbones in prison art: skulls, snakes, naked women, the word MOM inside a heart on his right biceps. The heart pulsed when Hubbell flexed his arm.

  Joe watched as Hubbell set the knife down within reach on the desk and checked to see if Joe’s gun was loaded. It was. He pointed it at Joe and at the same time lifted the ladder, which was weighted so that it easily rose up to rest parallel to the ceiling. As the ladder rose, the ceiling hatch closed.

  Joe’s hammering heart picked up its tempo. He was twenty years older than Hubbell. With the ladder up and the hatch closed, there was no way out.

  Hubbell pointed to a pair of handcuffs beside Joe’s feet, and Joe saw that the cuffs were linked to a length of chain that ran under the bed. The other end of the chain was likely looped around the bed leg closest to the wall.

  “Cuff yourself,” Hubbell said. “Then we can talk.”

  “This is unnecessary,” Joe said. “I have nothing against you, Clem.”

  Hubbell pointed the gun at the wall next to where Joe sat and fired it. The sound was loud, and it reverberated for long seconds.

  Hubbell said, “Next shot’s for you.”

  Joe picked up the cuffs and clasped one, then the other around his wrists. He moved the chain to get a sense of how long it was. About five feet. He could get to the toilet, but it was too short for him to reach Hubbell, who sat facing him in a swivel chair.

  “What’s your name?” a relaxed Clement Hubbell asked Joe.

  “Joe.”

  “Joe what?”

  “Hogan.”

  “OK, Joe Hogan. Get comfortable. I feel like I’ve been waiting to meet you for a very long time.”

  CHAPTER 82

  THE DOOR TO Leonard Parisi’s office was closed when Yuki arrived for the meeting. She checked the time, confirming that she was six minutes late. She explained to Parisi’s assistant that she’d been stopped at the security desk downstairs, but before Darlene could speak, Parisi opened his door.

  “I thought I heard your voice,” he said. “We’re waiting.”

  Parisi’s office took up a big corner section of the second floor. It was huge for offices in the Hall, but whatever it gained in size, it lost in its proximity to the sounds of the heavy traffic on Bryant Street.

  Chief of Detectives Warren Jacobi was at the round oak conference table with his back to the windows. Parisi, Yuki’s former boss and mentor, took the seat closest to his desk, and Yuki sat between the two men, not far from the door.

  Darlene passed bottled water around, and Parisi asked her to hold his calls, then said to Yuki, “You’re on first.”

  Yuki took a pull from her water bottle. After five years of being Parisi’s protégée, she felt that the table had turned one hundred and eighty degrees.

  This was her meeting. And she hoped she could pull it off.

  “I’ve got a meeting with the mayor in fifteen minutes,” Jacobi said.

  Yuki said, “I’ll get right to the point. I met with two new witnesses yesterday. They are reluctantly willing to cooperate if they get protection.

  “If they tell what they know, we’ll have a strong lead on the identities of the parties who killed the dope dealers on Turk and Dodge. We’ll also know who killed Aaron-Rey Kordell.”

  Parisi said, “This is what subpoenas are for, Counselor. Let’s hear their testimonies.”

  “Only with protection, Len. Both witnesses are in fear for their lives, with good reason. I’m going to tell you what each of these men said, and if we can reach an agreement, I’ll set up meetings. I think you’ll want to settle the Kordell case out of court.”

  “Doubtful,” Parisi said. “But go ahead and convince me.”

  “Will do,” Yuki said. “My first witness will admit under oath that he killed Aaron-Rey Kordell.”

  “Where are you going with this?” Parisi asked. “We don’t contest that Kordell was murdered in jail. Why would we protect his murderer? We should charge him.”

  Yuki said, “This man was hired to—and I quote—‘Put Kordell down quick,’ in exchange for being moved to a different penal facility.”

  “Who promised him that?” Parisi asked.

  Yuki said, “A police officer did that, Len.”

  “Why?” Jacobi asked. “Why would a cop want Kordell dead?”

  “That brings me to witness number two,” said Yuki.

  Neither man at the table spoke. She had their undivided attention.

  She said, “The cop who commissioned the hit on Kordell is one of the three who killed the drug dealers.”

  Parisi said, “You’re saying that a cop who participated in the murder of the dope dealers had Kordell put down to cover his tracks?”

  “That’s right,” said Yuki. “Witness number two was in the crack house on Turk and Dodge and can corroborate that. He saw the shooting. With protection, he’ll testify that Aaron-Rey Kordell didn’t do it, and he may be able to identify one or more of the men who did.”

  CHAPTER 83

  JUDGE QUIRK CLOSED the door to his chambers. He picked the Bible up from his desk and went to the seating area where several people were assembled: Yuki Castellano, Leonard Parisi, Warren Jacobi, and a jittery young man in jeans and a hoodie who sat in a side chair, jouncing his feet.

  The judge settled into a wing chair beside the witness and said, “Please tell us your name, young man.”

  “Arturo Mendez.”

  “Place your hand on this Bible, Mr. Mendez. Now, I need you to swear before me and everyone here that you will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God.”

  “I do. I swear.”

  Judge Quirk said to him, “The nice lady sitting behind you, that’s Ms. Pearson, and she’s going to record what we all say. Ms. Castellano is going to ask you questions, and then Mr. Parisi, the district attorney, may have some questions.

  “Mr. Parisi is the one who authorized an order of protection for you. The gray-haired man sitting next to Mr. Parisi is Chief of Police Jacobi. His interest is also in getting to the truth, Mr. Mendez. But only the truth. Not what you think. Not what you were told. Not what you think we want to hear. Just what you saw and heard. Any questions so far?”

  “No, sir. I used to watch Law & Order.”

  “Fine,” said the judge. “But that’s a TV show, and this is real. If you lie, that’s perjury, and that means jail time. Understand?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. I get it.”

  “Ms. Castellano, your witness.”

  Yuki sat across from Arturo Mendez. She said, “Arturo, when did I meet you?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “And how did I come to meet you?”

  “You got my name from Aaron-Rey’s mom. She has my number ’cause I was friends with A-Rey.”

  “That’s right,” said Yuki. “And did I meet you on the corner of Turk and Dodge within view of the three-story hou
se where the drug dealers were killed?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And do you know who shot the drug dealers inside that drug house?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Because I was there and I watched it happen,” said Arturo Mendez.

  “Were you under any drug influence when you witnessed the shooting?” Yuki asked.

  “Nah. I never got a chance to score.”

  “Are you straight now?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I ain’t no junkie, anyway. I can pee in a cup if you want.”

  “Not now, Arturo. Can you please tell us the events that took place in the crack house when the dealers were killed?”

  Arturo Mendez told the story exactly as he had told it to Yuki the day before. He’d been in the house when three men wearing SFPD Windbreakers came in and ordered the dope dealers to “grab the wall.”

  Mendez was hiding, but he watched those men frisk the dealers and take their money and guns and drugs. Then they turned the dealers back around. That was when he heard one of the “cops” make a comment: “Put yourself in my shoes.”

  Arturo Mendez told the people in the judge’s office that that was the man who shot all three of the drug dealers, after which “the whole crew of guys wearing the Windbreakers left by the stairs.”

  Mendez said further that he waited until they were gone, then was making to leave when Aaron-Rey Kordell came up the stairs, excited because he’d found a gun in the stairwell.

  Mendez said A-Rey hadn’t seen the shootings and that he, Mendez, had told A-Rey to run.

  Yuki said, “Can you describe the shooters?”

  “Yes, sorta. They was wearing masks.”

  “What kind of masks?”

  “Rubberlike, the kind that almost look like real faces, and like I said, they wore the blue SFPD Windbreakers and caps, you know. And cop shoes.”

  “Anything else you think we should know, Mr. Mendez?”

  “One of those men, he had a tattoo on his neck, right about here.” Mendez indicated a spot under his left ear, just above the collar line. Yuki saw Parisi’s eyes widen.