Dead Coin (Mike DaleyRosie Fernandez Legal Thriller Book 15) by Sheldon Siegel

Author:Sheldon Siegel [Siegel, Sheldon]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sheldon M. Siegel, Inc.
Published: 2023-05-02T16:00:00+00:00

31

“YOU AREN’T GOING TO FIND HIM”

Joey came over to the table in the back room of Dunleavy’s where Pete and I were sitting at ten-fifteen on Wednesday night. “More coffee, Mike?”

“No, thanks.”

He filled Pete’s cup without being asked. “Let me know if you need anything else.” Sensing that Pete and I wanted to talk alone, he headed back to the bar.

Dunleavy’s was quiet on a foggy night. SportsCenter was on the flat-screen, the sound off. Nobody was playing pool. The jukebox was off. A couple of regulars were sitting at the bar. Just another night in the sixty-year history of Dunleavy’s.

I picked at my fish and chips. “Did you find anything on Damian Mason?”

Pete took a sip of scalding coffee and scowled. “His landlord said that he disappeared three months ago. No notice. No forwarding address.”

“Did the landlord file a missing person’s report?”

“No. Neither did anybody else.”

“You think somebody tipped him off that the cops were looking for him?”

“Maybe. A couple of my sources at SFPD knew who he was, but they didn’t have enough evidence to arrest him.”

“He just disappeared?”

“At the very least, he’s dropped off the grid. His cell phone went dead. His bank accounts haven’t been accessed since he left. He hasn’t used his credit cards.”

“You can’t live for long without money.”

“He probably had cash squirreled away. Or maybe somebody is protecting him. I just don’t know.” He put down his mug. “I’ll keep looking, Mick, but you need to be prepared to go to trial without him.”

“I figured.”

His mustache twitched as his leathery face transformed into a half-smile. “Look on the bright side. If you want to try to foist blame for Gore’s death over to Mason, he won’t be able to defend himself.”

Swell. “We can’t even place him upstairs in Salesforce Park, Pete.”

“I didn’t say that it was a silver bullet, Mick.”

No, you didn’t, and no, it isn’t.

The back door opened, and the most decorated homicide inspector in SFPD history let himself inside. Roosevelt Johnson hung his overcoat on the rack and joined us. At six-four and a trim two-twenty, my father’s first partner was still imposing at eighty-five.

He greeted us in the familiar baritone that I heard on Sunday nights when Roosevelt and his family used to come over for dinner. “Good to see you,” he said. He arched an eyebrow above his aviator-style glasses. “Just like old times, eh? Same time. Same place. Same food. Your dad would have been pleased that we were still getting together at your uncle’s saloon after all these years.”

“Yes, he would.”

Joey came in from the front room, poured Roosevelt a cup of coffee, and placed an order of fish and chips in front of him. “You good, Roosevelt?”

“Fine, Joe. You?”

“All good. I’ll be up front if you need anything else.” Joey headed to the bar.

Roosevelt reported that he was healthy, but an old knee injury was slowing him down. His wife, Janet, had passed away a couple of years earlier. His youngest granddaughter was expecting his third great-grandchild.

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