by John J. Lamb
“Or I could dye it red and green. It would be festive,” Heather said teasingly.
“It would be suicidal, once your grandma saw it,” I said. “Listen to your mom, honey.”
Heather rolled her eyes, while Colin stood behind her and mouthed the words: “Don’t worry. It’ll be blond.”
We exchanged hugs with the young couple and a few minutes later Ash and I were in the minivan and driving westward on North Point Street. As we approached the intersection with Polk Street, I saw the scaffolding above the old brick buildings that bore the large lightbulb-illuminated letters that read: GHIRARDELLI. I sighed and realized that I had to make one more stop before returning to our hotel.
Over four years had passed since I’d been shot and crippled at Ghirardelli Square. I’d paid more than a few return visits to the tourist attraction in my nightmares, but I’d never come back in person. At the time, I couldn’t. The prospect of reliving the event was too terrifying to even consider. Then we moved to Virginia, which allowed me to pretend that I’d someday go back and confront my fears. It would have been easy to drive on past, but I suspected that if I didn’t go into that square tonight, I never would. I turned onto Polk Street, found a place to park, and shut the engine off.
There was a moment of silence before Ash quietly said, “I was wondering if you were going to come here.”
“Yeah, I’ve dodged it long enough.”
She took my hand. “You want me to come with you?”
“I’d love it, but I think it would be best if you stayed here. It would be too easy for me to lean on you . . . again,” I said, referring to how she’d carried me through those dark days. “I’ll leave the keys in the ignition.”
I got out of the car and limped down the sidewalk toward the shopping complex. It was the same route I’d taken the afternoon I was shot. The square looked deserted and the chocolate shop and ice cream parlor were closed and dark. Somewhere in the distance, I heard what sounded like Gaelic music, but I couldn’t be certain.
Continuing along the brick walkway, I came to the place where one man had died and my life as a cop had ended. The spot where I’d lain was marked with a large flower planter packed with chrysanthemums. The oversized ceramic pot had probably been put there to conceal my bloodstains, which was no doubt a cheaper solution than pulling up the brickwork and replacing it. Another planter marked the spot where the crook had fallen.
I stood there wondering how I should feel, other than foolish for having put this off and chilly from the breeze blowing in from the Golden Gate. Whatever meaning this place had for me was long gone and buried beneath flower-pots. Finally, I picked a mum from the planter and started back to Ash and my new life.
Eighteen
It was a typical Monday morning on the 101 Freeway headed toward San Francisco and a reminder of one of the reasons we’d decamped from the Golden State. The commuter traffic was already pretty much bumper-to-bumper where we got on in Novato, which was twenty-five miles north of the city. Traffic only got more congested the farther south we traveled. Around us, the other drivers were eating, drinking coffee, shaving, applying makeup, talking on phones, working with computers, and reading newspapers. About the only activity I didn’t observe was someone paying complete attention to the fact they were guiding two tons of metal down a crowded roadway.
“I’ll sure be glad to get home,” Ash said with a sigh as the traffic came to a stop again.
“Me, too.” Although I’d lived in San Francisco most of my life, I realized that I no longer considered it home. Suddenly, I couldn’t wait to be back in our house, beside the South Fork of the Shenandoah River.
Ash turned her attention from the sluggish column of brake lights to the teddy bear sitting on her lap. “I think I’m going to give Shannon to Lauren.”
Shannon Shoofly Pie was the only teddy from Ash’s Confection Collection that hadn’t been sold on Saturday. This was a mystery to me, since I considered the bear’s open-mouthed smiling face to be an example of Ash’s best work. Shannon was named after the molasses and brown sugar pie that most people associated with the Pennsylvania Dutch Country, but was also a traditional dessert in the Shenandoah Valley. The teddy bear was dressed in a wedge-shaped costume made from a rich brown fabric that looked exactly like the gooey filling.
“That’s a very sweet gesture,” I said.
“I just felt I had to do something. Lauren looked so sad and empty when we left her house yesterday,” Ash said as she smoothed the fur between Shannon’s eyes.
It was nearly nine o’clock in the morning by the time we arrived on Lauren’s street. Her Outback wasn’t in her driveway, which made me wonder if she’d forgotten about Ash’s visit. However, as I pulled up to the curb, Lauren came out of the house smiling. She gave us a happy wave.
I leaned over to kiss Ash good-bye. “I want you to have a great time.”
“And I want you to be careful.” She touched the tip of my nose.
“Aren’t I always? Wait, don’t answer that.”
“I won’t. I’ll see you around four.”
Ash got out of the van and I watched as she gave the teddy bear to Lauren, who raised a hand to her mouth and looked as if she were about to cry. The women were exchanging hugs as I drove from the cul-de-sac. It took me twenty minutes to travel the six miles to the Hall of Justice and park. Gregg and Aafedt were waiting for me in the lobby.
“We were beginning to think we were going to have to go without you,” said Gregg.
“I had to drop Ash off at Lauren’s and then must have been stopped by every school crossing guard between here and the Sunset District,” I replied. “When are we due at Lycaon?”
“In a half hour, so let’s go.”
Lycaon was down in Sunnyvale, forty-five miles south of the city, which meant that I was in for a high-speed ride down the freeway. We had to go through the police department’s Southern District headquarters to get to the parking lot and I felt bad that I couldn’t stop to chat with all the old acquaintances I encountered. I realized that the best I could do was smile, wave, and promise we’d talk when I returned. At least, that was my intention. However, I threw on the brakes when I suddenly saw a teddy bear I recognized. It was Bearny Fife, my furry interpretation of the bug-eyed deputy played by Don Knotts in the old TV program The Andy Griffith Show, and the bear stood on a shelf in an office cubicle belonging to an old friend: police records supervisor Jackie Craig. I was surprised and mystified, since I hadn’t seen Jackie since leaving the department and she certainly hadn’t been at the bear show in Sonoma.
Peeking into her cubicle, I saw Jackie focused on her computer. In a faux gruff voice, I said, “Hey, the city isn’t paying you to waste time playing computer solitaire.”
Jackie looked up and gave a joyful squeal as she jumped up from the desk to give me a hug. “Oh, my God, it’s good to see you, Brad!”
“Likewise. I’m also pleased to see you have one of my bears.”
“You made that?” Jackie looked shocked. “I noticed the tag read LYONS, TIGERS AND BEARS, but I didn’t realize it was you.”
“Strange as it sounds, my wife and I are teddy bear artists. Actually, my wife is an artist. I’m still learning. See the detail around the eyes and lips? That’s called needle-sculpting and Ash taught me how to do it,” I replied. “But what I don’t understand is, how did you get him? I didn’t see you at the show Saturday.”
“My daughter thought it would make me laugh, so she bought it for me.” Jackie picked up Bearny to admire it. “I was worried about you after the shooting. You were . . .”
“Having a colossal self-pity party.”
“But this wonderfully silly bear tells me that you’ve got your old sense of humor back.”
“Brad, we gotta go,” said Gregg.
“I’m sorry, Jackie, but we’ve got to fly.”
“Okay, but when you get back, I want you to autograph his tag.”
“I promise.” I gave her hand a quick s
queeze.
Once we resumed our journey toward the parking lot, I asked, “So, do we have any new information on the case or Kyle?”
“Nothing on Kyle. He’s gone to ground,” Gregg said.
“And Rhiannon doesn’t know it yet, but she’s not having a good day,” Aafedt said cheerfully. “The lab has positively identified her fingerprints on the motel room door.”
“She had knowns on file?” I asked.
“She was arrested for Deuce back in oh-three.” Aafedt used the California cop slang term for the offense of Driving Under the Influence.
“But I’ll bet the lab hasn’t had any luck linking her to the latents they found inside the room.”
“Not yet.”
“So, we have the prints and the popper. Anything on the revolver?”
Gregg pushed open the door that led out into the parking lot. “The gun is still in the fuming tank. They won’t test fire it until they’ve checked it for latents. Oh, and that last god-awful pun was a new low, even for you.”
“Why? Did it make you lose your Twain of thought?”
“No, but working with you makes me wonder if I’m losing my mind.” Gregg pointed across the lot. “My car is over there.”
“Where’s Patrick the Polar Bear?”
“I hand-delivered him to the cyber unit this morning. The geek squad couldn’t wait to get their hands on him.”
As we got to the car, Aafedt opened the back door and said, “I’ll sit back here. There’s more room in the front seat, so it’s probably better for your leg.”
“Thanks, Danny. I appreciate both the gesture and knowing I’ll be able to get out of the car when we arrive.”
A couple of minutes later we were flying down the Bayshore Freeway toward Sunnyvale. Fortunately, there wasn’t nearly as much traffic on the southbound side of the freeway as on the north and Gregg soon had the car up to seventy-five miles an hour, which meant we were running with the flow of traffic.
I asked, “Hey, were you able to get a copy of the original crime report that Lycaon filed with Santa Clara SO?”
Gregg replied, “No, and we didn’t even get a chance to talk to the detectives assigned to the case.”
Aafedt leaned forward and added, “Yeah, they told us that the detectives were in a meeting and couldn’t be disturbed under any circumstances.”
Gregg nodded. “So, we asked them to fax us the report. They said they’d do it right away, but that was almost two hours ago. Hopefully, it’ll have arrived by the time we get back.”
I said, “Who’s your point of contact at Lycaon?”
Gregg answered, “The security director. Some guy named Victor Newton. He thinks we’re coming down to talk about how the murder might be connected with their grand theft case against Vandenbosch.”
“And you’ll spring the subject of the Dodge Avenger on him later.”
“Once we’re all buddies.”
“What did he sound like?”
“A pompous ass. The first thing he told me was that he used to be a captain with some PD down in So Cal and then he ran this brotherhood of the badge crap at me.”
“Coming from a guy who works for a company that sells a cop killer computer game? I can’t wait to meet Newt.”
We continued down the peninsula and once we got to Sunnyvale, Gregg took the North Mathilda Avenue off-ramp and turned left. A couple of minutes later, we were driving along a road that ran parallel to the east perimeter of Moffett Field Naval Air Station. We passed a golf course on our left and then, ahead and on our right I saw the headquarters of Lycaon Software and Entertainment.
The complex was big, and its stark gray cement walls, dark tinted windows, and tall chain-link security fences topped with loops of evil-looking razor wire possessed all the charm of a medium security penitentiary. There was an armed guard at the gated entrance and he wasn’t satisfied with merely looking at Gregg and Aafedt’s badges. He insisted on copying down the information from their police IDs and my driver’s license before letting us proceed into the facility.
Gregg drove through the parking lot slowly while we looked for the Avenger, but came up dry. Finally, we parked and we went inside. The lobby was as quiet as a crypt and about as cheery. Obviously, the business of making computer games wasn’t nearly as much fun as playing them. The gloomy receptionist had already received instructions to usher us into an empty conference room. We sat down at a large table and waited.
Finally, Victor Newton breezed into the room. Gregg made the introductions and Newton gave a regal wave to show that he didn’t object to me being present for the interview. I disliked the guy immediately. He was the very model of a modern police captain: slick, condescending, and so particular about his clothing, hair, and features that you could take it to the bank that he’d never been in a knock-down, drag-’em-out brawl with a criminal. I had no doubts that he’d fled the streets as quickly as possible, seeking safety and career advancement in an office assignment. Then, he’d moved on to a cushy and well-paying job with a company of filthmongers.
Newton sat down across from us and said in a hearty voice, “So, how can I help you, boys?”
Gregg said, “First, I’d like to get an idea of your duties. I understand that you’re the director of security, but what exactly does that entail?”
“I oversee a variety of functions,” Newton said in a modest voice that oozed with self-importance. “There’s plant security, combating industrial espionage, background investigations into new hires, risk management, and advising the board of directors on security issues.”
“What about preventing and investigating employee in-house theft?”
“Well, of course . . . we do that, too.”
“Which brings us to the reason why we’ve come down here. As I told you over the phone, Mr. Newton, we’re investigating a robbery and murder that happened on Saturday night and we’re pretty certain those events are a direct outgrowth of the charges you filed against Kyle Vandenbosch.”
“We’d like to learn more about the crimes you believe he committed,” Aafedt added.
“Well, actually that’s a closed issue now.” Newton gave us a tight-lipped smile.
Gregg sat back in his chair. “Really? As of this morning there was a million-dollar warrant for Vandenbosch’s arrest.”
“That’s been resolved. We . . . uh . . . contacted the sheriff’s department this morning and advised them that we no longer wish prosecution against Mr. Vandenbosch.”
I shot Gregg a glance that said: And now we know why the sheriff’s detectives weren’t available to take your call. At the same time, I was trying to figure out what might have provoked Lycaon to withdraw its criminal complaint. Maybe management was worried that a real homicide wasn’t the best publicity for a software company that produces games glorifying mass murder.
Gregg asked, “Why did you that?”
“That information is confidential.” Newton studied his nails.
“Fine, but there’s nothing to prevent you from telling us about the circumstances that caused you to file the crime report in the first place.”
“I’m sorry, but that’s quite impossible. We don’t discuss personnel issues with anyone.”
“That’s good, because I’m not interested in personnel issues. Grand theft isn’t a personnel issue. What did Kyle steal from Lycaon?”
“Unfortunately, we’ve deemed that it is a personnel issue.” Newton’s tone was almost haughty.
“Yeah, but murder isn’t and I’d just like a little information from you.”
“I really wish I could help,” Newton said and started to rise from his chair. “So, if we’re finished . . .”
“As a matter of fact, we aren’t.” Gregg opened his briefcase and removed a manila folder. He pulled some papers from the folder and slid them across the table. “I’d suggest you sit down, Mr. Newton, and take a good long look at this document before trying to give us the bum’s rush.”
Newton slowly lowered himse
lf back into the chair. Squinting at the paperwork, he said, “It’s an affidavit for a search warrant.”
Gregg nodded encouragingly. “Good, you got that on the first guess. Now check out the address of the place we’re going to ask for permission to search.”
The security director’s face began to go pale. “You can’t . . . The entire plant? No judge will issue this.”
“Actually, I think a judge will, especially if we track down the one whose time was wasted issuing Kyle’s arrest warrant,” Gregg said merrily. “But I’m certain that whoever reviews this affidavit will see that I’ve drawn a clear chain of events that began here on Wednesday afternoon and culminated with a man being executed on Saturday night in San Francisco.”
“And after we get the warrant, we’ll come back here and shut this place down until we find the information you’re hiding,” said Aafedt.
“So, what’ll it be?” asked Gregg.
“I need to talk to my supervisor first.”
“Nope. You’ll leave and never come back. You either agree to talk now, or we’re going to the Santa Clara County Courthouse to find a judge.”
Newton swallowed nervously. “You don’t understand. I could lose my job if I answer your questions.”
“Better the unemployment line than the chow hall line at Folsom,” I said.
“What are you talking about?”
“You’re willfully withholding and concealing information about a murderer. That makes you an accessory-after-the-fact, which means you could potentially receive the same punishment as the killer,” Gregg explained.
“But I’m just following my supervisor’s instructions.”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t put too much hope in the Nuremberg I-was-only-following-orders defense,” I said the last part in a bad German accent. “You know why?”
Newton looked down at the tabletop and didn’t answer.
I continued, “You’re the throw-down. When this all unravels, your bosses are going to disavow any knowledge of your activities. They’ll perjure themselves, paint you as a loose cannon, and let you go to state prison to save their own miserable hides. You work with them. Tell me I’m wrong.”