A Delicate Matter. Don Easton
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don’t mind, but let me clue you in about a few things before we see him,” Jack replied. “First of all, these guys are usually extremely loyal. If I push him too hard he may decide to clam up and face the consequences, dire as they would be. I’ll tread slowly at first, then lead him into deeper water, which may or may not be today. If things go the way I want, eventually he’ll realize there’s no turning back.”
“I see,” Sophie said.
“First, though, we’ll shake him up a bit. Is he wearing his colours?”
“Yes. He was wearing a hoodie over the colours, but I seized that as evidence. It matches what the three victims said the suspect was wearing.”
“Perfect.” Jack rose to his feet. “Let’s talk to him. Laura will wait here.”
Sophie looked at Laura. “You’re not coming with us?”
Laura smiled. “Jack discussed a plan with me on the way over. It’ll be more fun for you to watch it unfold than to explain it to you.”
A moment later Cockerill looked up as Jack and Sophie entered the interview room. He eyed Jack suspiciously.
“Get to your feet,” Jack ordered.
Cockerill scowled and slowly got up.
Jack used his cellphone to take a picture of Cockerill, then ordered him to turn around. After taking another picture depicting his colours, he told Cockerill to sit down.
The biker obeyed and Jack pulled a chair up so their faces were only an arm’s length apart.
“Who the fuck are you?” Cockerill asked defiantly. “A narc?”
“My name’s Jack Taggart,” Jack replied evenly. “I’m not a narc.”
Cockerill studied Jack’s face, then muttered, “Fuck.”
“You’ve heard of me,” Jack replied.
Cockerill nodded. “I didn’t recognize you — but now I do. I saw you years ago when you climbed over the wall behind Damien’s place.”
The mere mention of Damien made Jack feel agitated. Damien Zabat, the national president of Satans Wrath, was Jack’s nemesis. The two men had been involved in several confrontations over the years. Despite that, Jack had never been able to put him in jail, even though Damien had ordered dozens of murders and orchestrated a wide variety of criminal activities.
Damien, now almost sixty, was still intimidating. He was a huge bear of a man, as well as highly intelligent and perceptive at reading people. The years had, however, taken their toll. He had recently decided to retire while he still had everyone’s respect. A new national president had been elected to replace him at the end of the month. For Jack, Damien was the one who got away, and it bothered him intensely.
To make matters worse, Jack knew that Damien’s son, Buck, had been a prospect for the past two years. Soon he, too, will be a full-patch member and the cycle will continue. Like father, like son, and it seems all I can do is sit back and watch.
“So what’re you doing here?” Cockerill asked, breaking Jack’s train of thought. “This ain’t got nothin’ to do with you.”
Jack sneered. “I’m here because Constable White isn’t swallowing any of your bullshit about what you’re offering for us to drop the beef — and neither am I.”
“What the fuck? You don’t think some guy shootin’ up an abortion clinic is worth me being pinched for trying to have a piss in a parkade?”
“Cut the crap,” Jack said. “You were caught on video, as well as audio.”
Cockerill frowned. “Okay, okay, you got me on that.” He made a palms-down gesture to drop the subject. “Still, I know this guy, and once he shoots up the clinic, I’ll be able to give him to ya. Bust him quick and he’ll still have the gun to match the bullets.”
“Which’ll be the gun you’ll have given him after you shoot up the clinic.” Jack shook his head in disgust. “I’m done talking to you,” he said abruptly. “I need to make a phone call.”
“But —”
Jack gave a dismissive wave of his hand and placed a call. A female voice, audible over the phone in the small interview room, answered.
“Hey, good lookin’! It’s Jack Taggart. Remember me?”
“Jack! You bet I remember you. Are you still working in the Intelligence unit?”
“Yes.”
“Hang on. I’m doing a story on the six-o’clock news tonight … I’ve got someone here. Give me a sec.”
The look of fear on Cockerill’s face told Jack that he’d heard. Laura sounded like she was talking to someone in the background. “Yep, I’ll follow the lead story.” Then her voice became louder. “Okay, Jack. I’m back.”
“I’m going to send you two photos,” Jack said. “Hang up and call me back. Later I might be able to get you a copy of a video and audio, as well.” He hung up and thumbed his phone.
“You can’t do this!” Cockerill snarled, waving his hand in the air in an unsuccessful bid to gain Jack’s attention. “I’ve got my rights! You can’t do this!”
“Already did,” Jack said, finally glancing up.
“My lawyer’ll sue you!”
Jack smiled. “That should take about seven years to get through the courts. Think you’ll be above ground that long?”
Cockerill stared open-mouthed at him before turning to Sophie for support. His eyes widened when she busied herself examining her fingernails. He looked at Jack again. “You can’t —”
Jack’s phone vibrated and he answered. Cockerill stopped in mid-sentence.
“Hey … Satans Wrath!” Laura exclaimed. “Was it you who put him in the cast?”
“No, he did it himself,” Jack replied, “but wait’ll you hear what he was doing.”
“Don’t do this to me!” Cockerill pleaded.
Jack put his hand over the receiver and looked at Cockerill. “An abortion clinic? Yeah, right.” He turned his attention back to his phone. “This’ll be a really funny story. I’m sure it’ll be picked up by networks and newspapers across the country. Figured I’d let you be the first one to break the —”
“I’ll … I’ll give you something!” Cockerill’s face was awash in fear and panic. “Please … don’t tell her.”
Jack paused as if contemplating the offer, then spoke to Laura. “Hang on a moment while I put you on hold. Someone wants to speak to me.” He looked at Cockerill. “Speak fast — and cut the bullshit.”
“I can give you a grow-op,” Cockerill said rapidly. “About a thousand plants. It’s hidden in the bush. Nobody’d ever find it.”
“You think I’m interested in busting some farmer? It isn’t worth the trouble. Quit wasting my time.”
“You work bikers, right?” Cockerill asked.
“Yeah, a club called the Weenie Waggers. I heard you were president.”
“No, please, listen!” Cockerill wailed. “The ones picking up the weed are with the Gypsy Devils.” He paused, his eyes searching Jack’s face in the vain hope of seeing interest. “The crop is being harvested and the GDs are picking it up next Wednesday or Thursday.” He sounded enthusiastic. “They do it in the wee hours of the morning when nobody’s around. That way they can check for heat, make sure they’re not being followed. What do you think?”
Jack’s face remained without expression.
“I can tell you where it is,” Cockerill