“Didn’t think it would.”
“Well at least we’re making headway.”
He laughed. “Like Holmes and Watson.”
“Something like that.”
He pushed the half-empty second beer to the side. “I didn’t think you’d know the name. Just a guy who was involved and did some time for it.”
“Okay.”
“Got out a year and a half ago,” Lasko said.
I nodded.
Lasko smiled. “And I’ve got his address.”
“Current?”
“Far as I can tell,” he said. “And since I can’t sleep for shit when the sun’s up, I thought we could take a drive over to Sunset Cliffs where he lives.”
TWENTY THREE
We drove our own cars and I followed him out of downtown, past the airport and along the harbor into Point Loma. The streets became narrower and more crowded as we drove across the strip of land that lies between the harbor and the Pacific. We crested the hill in the middle of the point just south of Point Loma College and stayed up on the hill, coming into Sunset Cliffs.
It was a weird area, an eclectic mix of well to-do’s who could afford the amazing ocean views and beach bums who refused to vacate the areas. Chains and corporate entities were not welcome, as evidenced by all of the local, independent shops and restaurants on the streets. Bikes were the most prevalent mode of transportation, navigating much easier than cars on the tight streets.
I followed Lasko into a neighborhood of small ranch homes and big trees about two blocks west of the actual cliffs and pulled in behind him at the curb.
“Address is another block over,” Lasko said when I got out. “But figured we’d park here and make the walk.”
The unspoken sentiment is that we had no idea what we might be walking into. “Yep.”
We walked along the cracked, uneven sidewalks. The houses reflected the independence of the community – no two were alike, all painted different colors, with old, mismatched outdoor furniture on the porches. The yards weren’t neatly manicured and junipers hadn’t been tended to. It wasn’t rundown, but it certainly wasn’t what you’d see in the newer suburban communities. The houses retained their own unique character, like the rest of Sunset Cliffs.
“That’s it,” Lasko said.
He nodded toward a house on the corner, light blue with a screened-in front porch. A massive tree leaned toward the home and an old orange VW bug was parked in the driveway. The screen door to the porch was just slightly off, not quite shutting all the way.
“How do you wanna play it?” Lasko asked.
“Straight,” I said. “He’s an ex-con, probably still on probation. We aren’t here to threaten him. Let’s just see what he says.”
“Okay.”
I opened the crooked screen door and knocked on the interior door off the porch, which was empty save for a poor attempt to cover the floor in AstroTurf. I heard feet on the other side of the door and it opened. A guy around thirty with short dark hair and a day’s worth of stubble answered, clad in jeans and a red golf shirt. He eyed us for a moment.
“Help you?” he asked.
“I’m hoping,” I said. “Are you Ben Dailey?”
He looked over my shoulder at Lasko, then back at me. “Yeah. Who are you?”
“My name’s Joe Tyler,” I said. “This is Paul Lasko. Do you have a minute to talk with us?”
He stared at us both for a few seconds. “You guys are cops.” He didn’t say it with disdain or disgust. He was just stating what he thought he recognized.
“He is,” I said. “I’m not. I used to be, though. We aren’t here to hassle you. Promise.”
“What are you here for then?” he asked, squinting at us.
“We’re looking into an old case,” I said. “Involved my daughter. Just some questions about what went down. Just background info, more than anything else. I promise we won’t take up much of your time.”
He glanced at the watch on his wrist. “I’ve got a job interview in an hour.”
“We’ll be gone in half that time,” I said.
His mouth twisted as he thought. “You put in a good word with my P.O. if I help you out?”
I nodded. “Absolutely.”
He opened the door wider and stepped to the side so we could pass.
We were immediately in a small living room with wood floors. There was a slipcovered sofa against the back wall, a rectangular wooden coffee table on a bamboo mat and two sitting chairs that were also slipcovered. Off to our left was a small eating area with a square table and a couple more chairs. The furniture wasn’t new, but all of it gave me the sense that someone cared for it, took care of it.
Dailey gestured at the chairs and he sat on the edge of the sofa. He was attentive but not anxious, not your typical ex-con sitting with a couple of cops.
“Been out a couple years?” I asked, more to break the ice than anything else.
He nodded. “Twenty two months, actually.”
I looked around the room. “Nice place.”
“My sister’s,” he said. “Actually, her husband’s. They rent it to me. Long as I’m straight, it’s mine.”
“Nice.”
He nodded again. “Better than a halfway or some crap apartment. They’ve been good to me. I appreciate it.”
He spoke directly to both of us, making eye contact. There was no fidgeting, no ducking our looks, no posturing. Again, he was ruining the ex-con stereotype.
“What kind of job interview?” Lasko asked.
“Construction,” he said. “My brother-in-law again. I’ve had a hard time finding anything permanent. Not surprising, given that I have a record. So I’ve had to scramble for stuff. This is for a full-time, regular gig. Drywall for a sub that’s tied in with a couple of big homebuilders. Brother-in-law’s an architect and set it up.” He paused. “Once he decided I wouldn’t embarrass him.”
“And you won’t?” Lasko asked.
Dailey looked him right in the eye and shook his head. “No. I won’t. I’m done with everything from before. You probably hear that a lot. But I mean it. I’m out and done and not going back.”
He was right. Cops did hear that a lot. But there was something in the way he said it that made me believe Ben Dailey.
“So, if you don’t mind,” Dailey said, looking from Lasko to me. “If you could ask your questions…I don’t want to be late.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “The bust you went in for. Drug deal is our understanding?”
Dailey nodded and folded his hands together. “Yep. Heroin. Guys down south were bringing it up for us to distribute.”
“Guys down south?” I asked.
“Cartel. Tijuana.”
“And who was us?” I asked.
“19th Street Kings,” he answered. “We ran out of I.B.” He chuckled. “Such a stupid name. I don’t even think they’re around anymore. At least not in an organized way.”
I looked at Lasko. He shrugged.
“We were low level,” Dailey explained. “Thought we were way more badass than we were.”
“How long were you in?” I asked.
“Too long. Got jumped in as a stupid kid. I was the number two when the bust went down.”
“You guys sold drugs? What else were you into?”
He hesitated. “Look, man. It was awhile ago and I don’t want the past screwing me up now, alright? If you’re trying…”
“Swear to you I’m not,” I said. “And either is he. It’ll make sense in a minute.”
He rubbed at his chin and his mouth set into a firm line. He took a deep breath. “Yeah, mostly drugs. We did guns, too. But that was it. Nobody really knew what they were doing, you know? Most guys, they just wanted to sit around, drink beer and get high. Only a few of us were trying to make money.”
I nodded. “Okay. How’d you hook up with the cartel?”
“Another guy in the gang,” he said. “He had a cousin who had a cousin. Something like that. I don’t remember exactly. But they came to us. Think they’d tried to work with some other sets and it didn’t work out.” He frowned. “We’d done some low level dealing and I had a rep for being straight up. I guess they liked that.”
I nodded again. “Sure. So the night of the bust… what happened exactly?”