by Tim Maleeny
Because there’s a pattern.
Cape looked at Sloth, who was still blinking at the screen. The corner of his mouth spasmed slightly, the closest he ever came to laughing. Sloth loved patterns as much as Cape loved pancakes.
The screen changed again, rows and rows of colored squares multiplying, folding, and scrolling across the screen. Cape felt himself getting dizzy and had to look away. He turned to Linda.
“In English, please.”
“Sloth ran the program for every city councilman, senator and local assembly member we had records for, then looked for patterns. We focused the search on bills or referendums involving big money—taxpayer money—construction projects like renovating the Bay Bridge. Tax breaks for local businesses. Pension plans for city employees.”
“And?”
“We found at least eight, maybe ten other politicians moving in sequence with Senator Dobbins. Sometimes with him, sometimes voting against, but always following a distinct pattern. Which got us thinking—”
Cape looked back at the screen. “If you bribe one politician, you only get one vote.”
Linda nodded. “And after a while, someone’s going to notice the politician in your pocket, because he always votes for your pet projects.”
“But if you bribe a dozen politicians, you can play them off against each other from one vote to the next. Al Capone used to do the same thing with juries—he’d intimidate as many jurors as he could, just to get the swing vote.”
“So your Senator could seem tough on crime with one vote, then soften on the next one, but as long as another congressman flip-flopped at the same time, the end result would be the same.” Linda spread her hands and moved her fingers up and down in a parody of a puppeteer. “Now we need to determine who benefits the most from these votes—find out where the money went.”
Cape nodded. “Beau thinks all roads lead back to Frank Alessi.” He squinted at the dates running along the bottom of the screen. “But I’d love to know some of the legitimate businesses that benefited from these votes. When the tax increase went through for the Bay Bridge, which construction company was awarded the job? For the tax breaks to local business, get me a list of companies. Can you do that?”
“Way ahead of you,” said Linda. “But we’re not there yet.”
“OK.” Cape gestured at the sheet of paper he’d brought. “Maybe that’ll help.”
“One more thing.” Linda gave him a mischievous smile. “We figured you’d want to field test our theory.”
Cape felt his pulse quicken. “These other politicians are local?”
“But not all current,” said Linda. “Some of this data is historical. But there’s one local assemblyman—still in office—whose voting patterns move in perfect sync with Dobbins.”
“Got a name?”
“And an address.”
A house number and street appeared on the screens in huge glowing letters.
“It’s in Pacific Heights,” said Linda.
Cape took a deep breath. He still had no clue where he was headed, but at least he had an address.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Rebecca sat on the bed as she opened the shoebox.
She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and willed them open again. Tears sprang spontaneously from her eyes before she touched the first picture.
Danny when he was fifteen, football helmet under his arm. Danny again, maybe twenty-one, a concert t-shirt and hair longer than a summer day.
Rebecca gasped.
She and Danny together. She remembered that shirt, her Mom had turned it into a pillow when she got older. She couldn’t have been more than six, big cheeks pressed against her older brother’s chest.
She held the pictures at arms length, let her tears fall onto the bedspread.
The whole family. Mom, Danny, Rebecca and Dad, bathing suits in the backyard, a sprinkler and a slip-‘n-slide in the background.
Who had taken the picture?
A single tear landed right on the photograph, obscuring the smile of the little girl she barely recognized as herself. How old had she been—ten, eleven?
There she was again—aged three, sitting in her father’s lap, a book open in front of them, her eyes glued to the book, his locked on her.
Rebecca tried to control her breathing, gave up and sobbed until she was dried out. It took a long time. She walked to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water, stepped into the living room and sat down on the couch.
She had lived by herself almost her whole life but had never felt so alone. Every hour she spent at her Father’s house she wanted to flee. Run away to the desert, a friend’s apartment, anywhere but here.
But she could control that feeling—she had before and she would now.
She couldn’t confront her past in the desert. Her friends couldn’t help her. This was something she had to do by herself.
This room felt more like an office than a living room, the walnut desk dominating the wall facing the bay window. Rebecca stood and walked over to the desk, sat in the red leather chair. Ran her hands over the blotter. Took pens from the coffee mug, put them back. After several minutes of touching, lifting, holding, and procrastinating, she started opening the drawers.
Forty-five minute later she had a stack of bills, old checkbooks, and receipts on one side of the desk. A small pile in the center that included a pocketknife, gold ball, rubber bands, and coins from other countries. She would go through the bills later, maybe after she found the strength to look at the rest of the photographs. She pushed the chair back and leaned forward to open the last drawer, the lower right file drawer.
It was locked.
She scanned the pile of stuff on the desk. Scooting off the chair, she ducked under the desk to check the bottom of the main drawer, but no key was taped there. She thought about going back to the bedroom and checking the end table, but first she pulled on the drawer again. It was a simple latch, turned vertically to slide into the bottom of the drawer directly above it.
Rebecca selected a thin letter opener from the coffee mug and jammed it between the drawers. It stuck when she tried to push it down, so she got on her hands and knees again and slid it straight between the drawers. Holding it steady with her right hand, she brought her left across her body and knocked the letter opener sideways.
The latch gave way and the drawer popped open.
Rebecca didn’t know what she was expecting. After all, she didn’t really know her father. Maybe a bottle of scotch. Perhaps a gun. Thousands of dollars in unmarked bills. But she found none of those things.
What she did find was something that she never would have predicted, not in a million years.
Sitting at the bottom of the drawer was a padded envelope, and written in the unmistakable scrawl of her father’s handwriting—writing she remembered from her childhood—was a single name in red ink.
Rebecca.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Cape knew from the Pacific Heights address that Assemblyman Henry Kelley was living well. It was only when he reached the house that he realized how well.
The two-story home occupied half the block, a rust-colored stone exterior with plenty of windows under a Spanish tiled roof. The property sat at the crest of the street, and from where he parked in the circular driveway, Cape could see a backyard sloping away down the hill. The back of the house must have an unobstructed view of the Bay.
In this town, in this neighborhood, ten million would be the starting bid. Cape tried to remember how much he paid in taxes as he walked across the gravel drive to the front door.
A young Mexican woman in a white blouse and gray skirt answered the door.
“Sí, Señor Weathers—Mister Kelley is expecting you.” She turned on her heel and walked across the marble foyer down a short hallway to a large living room.
The first impression was of light—the window facing the door was almost eight feet wide. As Cape surmised, it afforded a view over Marina green onto the
endless expanse of the Bay, the Golden Gate Bridge just visible on the left.
The backyard was modest but green with new grass. Three boys, all under ten, were laughing and chasing a small terrier that gripped a ball tightly between its teeth.
The room itself was quite dark, leather and oak. A long couch sat to Cape’s right, a duck-hunting decoy on the nearest end table. Facing the couch was a fireplace. Above the mantle a matching pair of shotguns were mounted next to a stuffed pheasant. Presumably the taxidermist intended for the bird to be frozen in flight, but its oblong body and the stunned look in its glass eye reminded Cape of an angry football tired of being thrown.
“Magnificent creatures, wouldn’t you agree?” Kelley had come through a side door.
“I understand they’re quite tasty.” Cape took Kelley’s extended hand and shook.
Kelley chuckled—a deep, melodic sound that made you feel warm all over. Cape smiled and reclaimed his hand, which took some effort. He had the impression the handshake would have lasted until the next election if he hadn’t allowed the assemblyman to win the man-grip contest.
Kelley was a handsome man, past middle age but striking. His gray-blue eyes were set wide, his white hair groomed into thick, rolling waves. Cape had the sudden urge to ask for his autograph. This guy was a natural.
“Thanks for agreeing to see me on such short notice, Mister Kelley.”
“Are you a registered voter?” Kelley had a slight accent, not quite Southern but close. It was a style of speech he noticed in politicians before, whether they were from the south, north, west, or even Brooklyn. Rounded vowels and dropped consonants, just down-home enough for a man of the people yet too vague to be associated with any specific region. Part of the modern political landscape—ambiguity in speech to match a lifestyle of misdirection.
“Yes, I’m registered.”
“Well then, you can call me Hank.” Kelley gestured to a leather chair in front of the sofa. “Your message said you had news about my colleague, Senator Dobbins. I’m afraid I haven’t spoken to him in some time.”
“He’s dead.”
“My God.” The pupils in Kelley’s eyes contracted, then relaxed. “You get right down to it, don’t you?”
“Sorry. I don’t have a lot of time.”
“What happened?”
“I honestly don’t know, but he was found on a golf course in Mexico. I expect…my guess is it’ll hit the news sometime in the next few days, if not sooner.”
“That’s horrible.” Kelley looked out the window, tracking his sons as they chased the dog.
“You two were close?”
Kelley refocused on Cape. “We were on the same team—politically.”
“But you didn’t always vote the same.”
“No…no, we didn’t.” Kelley paused. “Even colleagues don’t always see eye-to-eye on every issue.”
“When’s the last time you talked to him?”
“I don’t know.” Kelley glanced toward the mantle. “Maybe a week before he retired. We talked about—”
Cape cut him off. “Frank Alessi?”
Kelley blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You think Frank had the Senator’s son Danny killed?”
Kelley’s mouth opened and closed like a carp but no sound came out.
“Or do you think Danny just got caught up in the whole mess?”
Kelley’s eyes darted around the room. Cape stared at him and waited.
“I don’t know…” He looked out the window. “I have a family.”
Cape nodded. “You took a chance seeing me, I guess that’s why. You’ve been scared shitless since Dobbins disappeared and couldn’t resist a chance to find out what happened to the poor bastard.”
“You don’t…I can’t just—”
Cape held up a hand. “You didn’t seem surprised when I mentioned Dobbins’ son was dead, too. You didn’t ask how Dobbins died. Whether Frank meant it as a warning or not, I figure you and everybody else on the payroll connected the dots when Dobbins disappeared.”
“I have a family.” Kelley’s voice was barely a whisper.
“How many on the payroll? Besides you and Dobbins.”
Kelley didn’t answer. His eyes had drifted out of focus.
Cape looked out the window. The oldest boy had retrieved the ball and was running around in circles, his two brothers tripping over each other and giggling as they chased him, the dog yapping at their heels.
Cape didn’t care about Kelley, but there were lines he wasn’t prepared to cross. The men he was chasing were harder than he was—they wouldn’t hesitate to go after Kelley’s family. That thought might help him sleep at night, but Cape suddenly realized that was why he could never beat them. No matter how far he pushed, it wouldn’t be far enough. They’d push him off a cliff, along with anyone who got in their way.
He was out of his league and over his head.
Cape took one of his cards from his pocket and laid it on the end table. “If you ever need help, call that number.”
Kelley looked at the card like it was a poisonous spider, then shifted his gaze back to the window.
Cape stood to leave. He took one last look at the stuffed pheasant, its glass eye reflecting its amazement that Cape was still alive and it was mounted on the wall instead of him.
Chapter Forty
“That’s quite a view you’ve got, Bernie.”
Priest paced languidly in front of the window that ran the length of the office. It was almost midnight. Very little traffic on The Embarcadero, barely a whisper through the glass.
Bernie sat at his desk watching his visitor warily, saying nothing. He noticed the moon was huge tonight, a malevolent eye looking over the Bay Bridge.
Priest stood close enough for his nose to touch the glass. “How high up are we?”
“Twenty-fifth floor.”
Priest smiled. “But only twenty-four floors.”
“What?”
“There isn’t a thirteenth floor, Bernie. Look in the elevator, it skips from twelve to fourteen.”
“You sure?”
“It’s an old tradition in tall buildings—people are superstitious.”
“I never noticed.”
“Attention to detail. Wouldn’t you say that’s important in your line of work?”
“What are you implying?” Bernie swiveled in his chair.
“I think we might have made a mistake.” Priest spoke without rancor but Bernie tasted bile.
“We?”
“All right.” Priest turned from the window and leaned back, his open palms against the glass. “I might have made a mistake, Bernie. How’s that?”
“Better.” Bernie rested his hands on his gut as he tilted his chair back. “But it doesn’t solve my problem.”
“Our problem.”
“OK, our problem. The cops are trying to get a warrant.”
“You said they would.”
“True.” Bernie patted his belly. “The cops I can handle, I guess. That’s what you pay me for, right?”
Priest ran a tongue across his teeth. “Among other things.”
“But now a private investigator is trying to schedule an appointment.”
“So?” Priest glanced out the window, tracking a passing car no bigger than a matchbox. “Just refuse to see him—you’re a busy man.”
“Genius. Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Watch your tone, Bernie.”
“Blow me, your holiness. The PI is a fucking problem.”
“You know him?”
Bernie shook his head. “I hire PI’s all the time—every lawyer does—they do all the shit I’m not supposed to do, unless I want to get kicked off the bar. I guarantee this dick will be picking through my garbage before the week is out, maybe even following me.”
“So?”
“So!” Bernie almost came out of the chair. “Taking pictures, invading my privacy.”
“You have something to hide?” Priest stepped acro
ss the carpeted floor and sat on the desk, his legs brushing against Bernie’s.
Bernie rolled his eyes. “Save the Dracula routine for somebody missing his gonads. You know damn well what I have to hide.”
Priest nodded. “Perhaps I’m not being clear. That’s why I came to see you in person, Bernie, to…” He pursed his lips, clearly not liking the taste of the words that were about to come out. “To…to apologize for any inconvenience I might have caused you by dispatching poor Joey in your building. It seemed—”
“—like a good idea at the time?”
“Precisely. Tying up loose ends after the Senator’s unfortunate demise.”
Bernie exhaled slowly. “You said you had some questions—what do you want to know?”
“Are we exposed?”
“No.”
“You’re positive.”
“Absolutely. I’ve been doing this a long time. I cover my tracks.”
“Our tracks.”
“Yeah, them too.” Bernie spun his chair slightly, to force a few inches of separation from his guest. “Every trail the Feds could follow is a dead-end. They can have all the suspicions they want—they have for years—but they won’t find any facts.”
“Very good.” Priest nodded. “I was worried my rash decision had made us vulnerable somehow.”
Bernie looked him up and down. “Mind if I ask you a personal question?”
Priest raised his eyebrows and waited.
“You always wear that getup?”
Priest smiled ruefully.
“My father worked in the local rectory. He would do various chores, repairs, errands—that sort of thing. He was a hard worker and…” Priest paused, a faraway look in his eyes. “And a drunkard.”
Bernie slid his chair back another foot.
“At night, he would take my brother and me to the basement. Mother had left years ago—run away—but always the basement, never anywhere else in the house. My brother was older, so he went first. Father would push him to his knees as he undid his belt.”
Bernie felt sweat break out across his upper lip. Dumb question, he thought. Remember not to ask about the wardrobe next time.
“Father said we had to know sin in order to defeat it.” Priest slid off the desk and kneeled in front of Bernie. “Watching my brother was almost worse, knowing my turn was next.”