Devour, p.28
Devour, page 28
“Love it when a plan comes together.”
69
Ruse Roulette
Dévorer was humming as it did every night and especially closer to the weekends. Jasmine noticed attendance had slowed a bit earlier in the week—around the time of Michael’s incarceration—but chalked it up to what felt like bad press. She also surmised it was because many of their regulars were leaving town for summer vacation. In a city this large and tough, it took a lot for people to turn away from something they enjoyed only because of some indiscretions, even if it was murder.
Fortunately, the way Roman Barthold spun the press, it appeared as though the case was still under investigation. How he was able to keep the part of Michael being taken to San Quentin a secret Jasmine would never know, but then that was part of her father’s magic.
Hector was handling Jasmine’s responsibilities while she performed the operational aspects of Michael’s job as well as some of the kitchen duties with Kiko. Even Roman helped at the restaurant since he was staying in town for Michael’s case. While Roman had always held a keen interest in his daughter’s happiness, he now had a vested interest in the restaurant’s success based on an investment opportunity.
For now, Jasmine’s primary focus was keeping the balls of business in the air because they all had a lot riding on them. And while Michael’s survival remained top of mind for Jasmine, she worried what their plan could do to him psychologically, especially given his extreme fears. Jasmine thought it best to practice Michael’s method: Bury now—worry later.
Dalton was trying to prepare for his feast of a lifetime; unfortunately, work temporarily got in the way. He was called into the city to meet with his supervisor about a new inmate. His supervisor explained he was not sure what was going on, but that the powers above him had ordered Michael to be taken into custody at San Quentin. To make matters more confusing, his supervisor was directed to move along with business as usual. The update caused Dalton to panic, especially given a weapon with prints had been found and there was no video to confirm otherwise. Either way, Dalton felt confident Michael was screwed and going nowhere.
Only partly satisfied, Dalton returned to work and continued preparations for the grand affair the following night. Since his only “friends” were people with whom he worked, he decided to invite a couple of other people—ones he despised the least.
As soon as he was back in his office and at his desk, fragments of worry picked at the back of his mind like a fingernail with a scab. He spun his chair away from his desk to stare out at the water. Unable to figure out who wanted Michael out of prison, Dalton resorted to his usual solution for worry: food of any sort.
Opening a small fridge in the corner, he removed some dark chocolate treats. Researching the Dark Web taught him how to make Chocolate Covered Cherries—but without the cherries. The gelatinous substitute was the treat inside. Initially, he found the treats hard to look at but eventually took to liking them.
Licking the gooey mix from his fingers, Dalton enjoyed the last morsels. His eyes suddenly fell on the trashcan next to his desk and fear immediately surfaced. Looking inside, Dalton saw it was empty. His eyes darted around the room.
A knock at the door interrupted his analysis. “What is it?” he barked.
Baxter stuck his head in like a shy puppy. “Sir, I took your list to Michael Rogan’s cell as requested. He’s quite pleased with the selection and…”
Distracted, Dalton’s hearing and vision narrowed as Baxter’s voice faded into the distance. He was torn between thinking it was an oncoming migraine or his splintered mind continuing its slow fracture.
“Sir? Warden?” Baxter said loudly, snapping his fingers.
“Stop snapping your fingers at me! I’m not a waiter. I was contemplating something.”
Heading for the door, he pushed Baxter aside. When nearly out of the office, he reeled and confronted Baxter. “I noticed you took out my trash.”
“Yes, Sir. Three times a day, every day. Just as instructed.”
“But…”
“Sir?”
With narrowing eyes, he stared at his assistant, then turned and left. “Never mind.”
Baxter remained in place until Dalton was out of sight, then went to his desk and made a call.
“Don’t give him the respect,” Dalton snorted at Michael, swatting the thought aside like a gnat. “He’s an Executive Assistant,” he said with air-quotes. “Not a professional like you and me.”
Sitting across the table from each other, Dalton and Michael each held a list. Slack remained stoic as a statue outside the door, pretending not to listen.
“Don’t get me wrong. Baxter’s a good puppy. Well trained. Able to fetch. But really? He’s an errand boy. Girl, actually,” he sneered. “If you know what I mean.”
Michael gave a false smile that said, Right? Sensing Dalton’s slow erosion, he was not sure if it was a play, the truth, or his mind getting soft. “So, Warden, I’ve been thinking,” Michael began quietly.
Dalton looked eager. “Yes?”
“I know you want to have control over your environment and have your event here,” he said, scratching his chin before leaning closer. “Security issues and such. But I was thinking,” he leaned back. “Wait, would it be rude of me to ask for a coffee?”
Dalton stared at Michael before barking over his shoulder, “Slack, get me two coffees. Chop chop!”
Slack looked at the back of Dalton’s head with flared nostrils, then turned to leave.
“Perhaps some of that French press…” Michael smiled, “We both love so much?”
“Good idea.” Turning, he yelled, “Slack, make it a French press. Baxter knows how!”
Staring at his yelling boss, Slack glanced up to Michael who gave a grin and a wink. Then as Dalton turned back around to face Michael, Slack nodded a smile before leaving.
“It’s good to be boss,” Dalton smirked.
“I see that. So, here’s what I was thinking. Given you are a man of taste…you’ve been planning this for what feels like a long time. And given my unfortunate situation, I’m pretty much at your disposal. So, with all the time in the world, I think we should have this event,” he looked around, “At your home.”
As Dalton frowned, Michael smiled.
“Think about it. I’m sure you have all the finest tools—which I must have in order to perform at my peak. You have all your yummy delicacies there—in what I have to imagine is a state of the art kitchen…” he hesitated, watching Dalton’s head practically expand. “And you’ll have just the right music along with the perfect space for cocktails.”
“Yes, I do. Pretty amazing, actually,” he squinted with an expression that was part suspicion, part exhilaration. “Okay, keep going.”
Within minutes, Slack arrived with the coffee, eyeballed Michael and placed the drinks on the table.
Dalton looked up, “Can I help you?”
“No, Sir. But thank you, Sir!” Slack snapped a salute, spun, and returned to his post.
Shaking his head, Dalton grumbled, “If he had any sense, he’d take it out and play with it. Fucking Neanderthal.” He sipped his coffee, thinking Slack had left.
But Slack had not left. He heard the comment and exchanged a brief glance with Michael before leaving his post.
“That’s an interesting idea, Michael. And while unconventional, it would make for an elegant evening.” He chewed on that for several minutes, looking around as though people were listening. “Highly irregular, but it would complete the affair.”
“Just think about it. It’s your event. I’m just the cook.” Leaning back, he sipped his coffee. “And Sir?”
Dalton’s eyebrows bounced up.
Michael chuckled, “It’s not like I’m going anywhere, right?”
70
Deadly Concoction
Dalton went home for lunch and made sure his fortress was fortified for the big evening. On the off chance the natives grew restless, he wanted to have traps, a hidden arsenal, and whatever other backup was required. Double checking his food supplies, he was pleased with his hard work, the late hours, endless trips, and in-depth research required in order to make all the pieces come together—like the perfect pie.
Dalton was not fooling himself. He knew he had a problem. He also knew everyone had a purpose. Some good, some bad. Some brought light. Others, darkness. It was just part of the whole twisted scheme called humankind. And what he brought, albeit twisted, was a sense of renewal—a cleansing, for lack of a better term.
Dalton had seen enough counselors in his time, both as a young child when his parents did not know what to do with him, and later as a young man when superiors could not understand his erratic and hostile behavior. He always knew, however, that he devoured others to feel complete.
The pain in his head started again. It seemed to have picked up both frequency and intensity. His skull felt like it was in a machine press. The pressure between his eyes was accented with what sounded and felt like a deep, rhythmic hum in the back of his skull. It was annoying and relentless. Shaking his head repeatedly sometimes helped. Right now, it did not. He took two more Vicodin and two Ativan.
“Or was that Percocet and Ativan. Or Klonopin with Xanax,” he said aloud.
His new “soup” of drugs replaced a decades-old dependence on Darvocet—what he liked calling, “Freddie’s Little Helper.” And he always tossed a coin between bourbon, vodka, and brandy as a way to wash the soup down. Whatever combo he was crafting this week, Dalton knew his ability to think clearly, focus intensely, and make sense of things had shifted considerably.
“Onward and downward,” he mumbled.
Covering the entire house, Dalton made sure all of his guests’ needs would be met—even those who may need to sleep over due to being overserved.
“Sleep at your own risk,” he chuckled aloud.
One of the last steps was making sure his abattoir was in tip-top order and rigged for destruction in the case of emergency—as in compromised. In that situation, the self-contained building would burn to the ground—looking like a faulty propane gas tank was the culprit. The incredible heat would burn so quickly the fire department would not arrive in time to save the structure, one of the reasons he had built it such a distance from his own home.
He had received an education in explosives from an inmate who was doing time for building a rig that murdered a church full of innocent worshippers. The delinquent lived on the warden’s Death Row until he died. Dalton took that knowledge, along with tools from an explosives company who serviced construction sites in Las Vegas, and built the slaughterhouse himself.
Satisfied all was ready, Dalton made a last trip for some party favors he hoped his guests would appreciate.
Back at the prison, Michael had been given a reprieve, by being able to venture outside the thick walls of San Quentin for a party. Several lives would be counting on him, and his decisions—good, bad, or indifferent—were going to be powerful and potentially deadly.
“The prick is going down, hombre,” Slack growled, leaning against the open door frame—a rarity for a criminal inside this ward.
“I certainly hope so,” Michael said flatly. He wiped the top of the dress shoes Slack had grabbed from lockup as a bonus for Michael from the warden.
“And hey,” he said, turning to Slack, “If nothing else? I promise it’ll be the best meal you’ve ever had.”
“Wouldn’t take much,” he snorted.
Michael chuckled, “Understood, Bro.”
Seeing Michael was ready, Slack waved for him to follow. “C’mon, let’s get this party started.”
Out in the lobby, Slack shackled Michael’s wrists and ankles with chains. “Not for nothing, but I need this job,” Slack said, “So, I plays by the rules.”
Michael stared straight ahead. “All good.”
As Baxter came down the hall, Michael grinned. “You look like you’re going to a prom.”
Baxter spun on one toe mid stride and smiled. “Damn right, bitches. Once it was official, I starved myself for a week. But now it’s time to get my drink on!”
Slack shook his head. “The only gay guy I know who likes working in a prison. And around a bunch of dudes who have no interest in fucking him.”
Slack’s sidekick for the evening was another guard of acclaim, Officer Phil Stein, aka Ding Dong, thanks to Dalton. Officer Stein was nearly as big as Slack, but not nearly as smart. It did not matter, however, because his nasty looks and powerful hands could intimidate and drop any man alive.
As everyone was making their way to the prison van, Stein pulled up the rear with two more dinner guests, Alpha and Zeus, a Doberman Pinscher and a Rottweiler, respectively. Both were larger than average and trained to kill on command. Even with mouth guards, Michael could see teeth as they punctuated their presence with low and ominous growls.
Looking from Stein to Slack, Michael said, “Charming.”
71
Waiting Game
Jasmine and her father stood at their restaurant bar, sipping cocktails. She was more nervous than Roman who displayed a charming and relaxed smile while checking his watch.
“I’m unusually anxious, Dad.”
He patted her hand. “Everything is going to be fine. Trust me.”
As she gave him a look, he frowned. “Do you trust me?”
“Yes.”
Roman had not attained what he had by making poorly calculated decisions. He rarely misjudged people and always surrounded himself with those infinitely better at their jobs than he. And if, or when, it came to bending rules—even the slightest bit—he was not afraid to leverage his own advantage, especially when the gain far outweighed the loss.
“Good,” he said. “Hang on to that feeling. Take a deep breath, enjoy your drink, and we’ll end the day with a successful balance sheet. Bad guys will come to justice and we’ll sleep under the blanket of freedom,” he smiled.
“Well,” she stared, “That was not only thought-provoking, but fucking impressive.”
With a chuckle, they clinked glasses.
Several blocks away, Proctor and McKenzie sat at their desks while coworkers hustled around them. Both men were waiting to leave when the second shift got settled.
“You know this’ll go down as one of, if not the fastest convictions we’ve ever had,” Proctor said, trimming a broken fingernail with a pocket knife.
McKenzie looked up from his notepad and turned down the squawk of his radio. “Yeah, that’s what happens when—how’s that quote about luck go—when opportunity meets preparation.”
Looking up, Proctor deadpanned, “Look at you, Johnny Thesaurus.”
McKenzie shook his head, returned to his notes and mumbled, “Idiot.”
“What’s that, brainiac?”
“It’s not a thesaurus. It’s a reference.”
They stared at one another.
McKenzie added, “Passage? Excerpt? Quote?”
“Yeah, I got it,” he said, tossing a chin toward the door. “Let’s get the hell outta here. Grab a bite before the show?”
“Why not.”
Sitting at the counter of M&G Burgers in Larkspur, a neighboring community to their destination, Proctor slurped a shake while McKenzie was lost in his crinkle cuts.
“So, didja have any idea Michael’s girlfriend was that ballsy?” Proctor asked between sips.
“Didn’t really think about it.”
“Riiiight,” Proctor sneered.
“Tell you the truth? Most of what I’ve been thinking about is…” McKenzie wiped his mouth, pushed aside the empty tray, then turned toward his partner. “Why the brother? What could he possibly have, or had, that Dalton wanted?” McKenzie said, watching a kid outside the restaurant performing tricky maneuvers on his skateboard.
Proctor suppressed a belch. “I’m with ya.”
“Why frame Michael? What’s a cook have that Dalton wants? Money? He’s got enough money. The girl? Dalton’s charming enough to manage that, I guess. What’s enough to kill someone? Makes no fucking sense.”
Proctor picked his teeth with a used toothpick.
McKenzie accented his stare with a deep frown. “Proctor, were you raised on a farm?”
“No. Phoenix.”
McKenzie shook his head, checked his watch, and returned to watching the kid skate.
On one pass, the kid looked like he was going to flip his board and jumped instead. On the return, he looked like he was setting up to jump when he actually flipped the board. McKenzie was not much into skateboarding, but he certainly respected the kid’s talent, especially for making it look so easy.
After another minute, he sat up and punched Proctor on the arm, nearly knocking the drink from his hand. “What if we’ve been looking at this wrong. Instead of why did Dalton kill Scott to make it look like Michael did it…”
“Yeah?”
“What if Dalton was running a scam that looked like one thing but was something completely different? I mean, why do we think this is his first time?”
Now he had Proctor’s undivided attention.
“Right?”
Processing it all, Proctor nodded, “Right,” as a small nod became larger and more dramatic. “Yeah, how do we know Scott isn’t one of many. And maybe—”
“The prison gig is his day job.”
72
Party Time
Driving up Dalton’s long secluded driveway, the car hushed as each man observed the manicured grounds, sizable home, and enormous four-car garage. For whatever reason, Michael found the vast distance between the garage and the house odd.
