by D. F. Bailey
“The program requires launch keys? Like missile launch codes?”
“There’s two of them and Chekov holds one.”
“And the second?”
“Who knows?” Sochi cast a glance at Eve while they considered the unknowns.
“And in exchange for the GIGcoin software, what do we get?”
He shrugged. “I guess that’s still negotiable.”
“Good.” Finch glanced through the French doors that led to the balcony. In the dusk, he couldn’t distinguish anything outside. Just like GIGcoin. It seemed impossible to determine what it really was, how many puzzle pieces it contained and who held them. “All right, I want you to get back to Chekov tonight. Tell him I want three items in return for the software. One, the name of the second key holder. Two, Chekov’s real identity. Three, an on-the-record interview with both of them.”
“That could tie it all together, couldn’t it?” Eve said.
“Tie what together?” Sochi looked from Eve to Finch, a confused expression on his face.
“Motives for the murder of Raymond Toeplitz and the robbery of Gianna Whitelaw’s condo.” Finch leaned forward, arms propped on the table top. He knew he was closing in on the endgame: the answer to Wally’s what-the-fuck question. “Toeplitz gave the thumb drive to Gianna. Then he drove up to Oregon for a final meeting with Senator Franklin Whitelaw, where he was shot by the local sheriff, Mark Gruman. The senator’s brother then sent his driver, Toby Squire to retrieve the drive from Gianna’s condo — but Eve beat him to it. And for reasons of demented insanity, which is no reason at all, Toby Squire drowned Gianna.”
Sochi let out a gasp of despair. “Look, this is way over my head.”
“But here’s the crazy, improbable thing,” Finch continued. “All of Toeplitz’s estate went to Gianna. And when she died, Eve became her beneficiary and the inheritor of their combined assets. Hence, Eve is the legal owner of the flash drive and everything on it, including the GIGcoin software.”
“Arbat, you’re a pinball wizard.” Sochi smiled at Eve and waited to see if anyone else found this amusing.
“Sochi, when I moved in here, you and everyone else in the building wanted someone different. Someone you thought could make a difference in the real world. That’s what you said.”
“Yeah.” He shrugged. “Okay. I did.”
“So that’s why you have to come with us to Hawaii. We can’t do this without you. We’re going to break this ring of murder and conspiracy wide open and you’ve got to be part of it.”
※ — NINE — ※
FINCH SETTLED INTO an aisle seat in the last row of metal folding chairs in the Media Relations room of the SFPD headquarters in the Hall of Justice. The exterior of the building, a seven-story concrete box with three elongated entry portals, resembled a Nazi-era monolith. The atmosphere in the press room felt even more oppressive. Dingy, windowless, badly lit and just plain media-phobic. Finch assumed the over-riding architectural intention was to flush the reporters out the doors ASAP.
Four cops entered the room and positioned themselves not far from the lectern, a security detail ready for action. Rarely did the police provide any extensive comments about suicides, but the fact that a prominent political family had lost three members in suspicious circumstances in less than a month required special attention.
As he waited for the press conference to begin Will pulled his phone from his pocket and sent a text to Dixie Lindstrom: Ask an intern to compile a profile on GIGcoin. Patents, company registrations, legal titles, corporate officers. Plus all mentions in social media. By noon, if possible. Cheers, W.
A moment later the SFPD media relations officer Shirley Yates marched into the hall with a small retinue of supporters. Beside her stood one of the junior medical examiners, Frank Larson, and Detective Damian Witowsky. Finch began to ponder the idea that Witowsky was being surveilled by IAD. Why would the captain allow one of his detectives under an internal investigation to make a public statement of any kind? Especially about one of the biggest stories in months. Unless they were trying to give Witowsky enough rope to lynch himself. Which meant IAD wasn’t ready to tighten the noose. Not yet. Finch shook his head with a sense of exasperation. Who could fathom the depths of this sort of paranoia?
The middle of the room, occupied by roughly forty TV, radio, internet and press reporters, ignited with a volley of camera flashes as Yates stepped forward to address them. Finch used his phone to snap a few images. Even at a distance, the phone captured two decent pictures of Witowsky gazing mutely at Officer Yates with a look of gravitas.
Finch recalled that Eve Noon once had her job. Two or three times a month she’d brief the press standing in the exact spot where Shirley Yates now stood. Strange to think of Eve now sleeping in his bed.
“The report from the Chief Medical Examiner came to me less than a day ago,” Yates began. “The conclusion is stated clearly and unequivocally.” She turned to the report and read aloud into the microphone: “In the opinion of The Office of the Chief Medical Examiner of San Francisco, Mr. Justin Whitelaw died almost instantly from injuries sustained when he was struck by a train in the Van Ness station on Monday, June twenty-eight.”
A murmur arose from the media brigade who stood in the aisles with their equipment silently recording Yates as she spoke. She shifted her weight from one foot to the next and her voice adopted a less formal tone. “At this point, however, we can’t conclude that Mr. Whitelaw’s death was a suicide. There are complicating factors. The forensic evidence suggests that just prior to his death he suffered multiple cuts to his neck. If these cuts had a mitigating influence on his judgment, on his ability to think clearly, then those factors have to be considered. As a result, the SFPD is investigating the events leading up to his death. Detective Damian Witowsky is here to speak to that side of this tragedy.”
“So is it suicide, accident or homicide?” someone called from the front rows. “I have witnesses claiming he entered the Van Ness station covered in blood.”
Yates ignored the question and stepped to the left of the lectern and made way for Witowsky to take her place.
“Thank you, Officer Yates. We’ll take questions in a moment.” Witowsky held a fist to his mouth and coughed into the microphone which responded with a searing burst of feedback. “I’m standing in for the captain who asked me to summarize our canvass of the witnesses to this shocking death. In short, our officers interviewed twenty-three bystanders so far. More are being interviewed as we speak. Most of them shared a similar view. Which is that Justin Whitelaw dove over the concourse edge onto the tracks in front of an on-coming train. Five of the statements came from witnesses who were within three feet of him when he fell. Three of them reported that they saw blood stains on his shirt before he fell. All of them said that he ‘looked dazed’ or ‘appeared disoriented.’ However, the ME report shows that his blood-alcohol level was zero-point-zero-two, which suggests he’d ingested some small amount of alcohol earlier in the day, or even late the previous evening. Dr. Carson” — he nodded to the ME officer who stood next to Shirley Yates — “do you want to add anything to that?” Witowsky’s voice lifted hopefully, a tone that sounded like a plea to save him from having to continue on his own.
Dr. Carson moved to lectern. “As you are aware, I can’t disclose the complete findings of the autopsy. However I can confirm everything you’ve heard so far. The cause of death was from the impact of the subway train. The autopsy revealed five shallow cuts to the region around his neck —"
“Cuts from a knife?” someone called out.
“Unknown.” Carson hesitated. “But the cuts were neither deep, nor from a very sharp blade. Certainly they were not lethal. The instrument used to inflict the injuries is for the police to resolve. Beyond that I won’t speculate.” He stepped away from the lectern.
“Thanks, Dr. Carson.” Witowsky frowned. “All right. The captain instructed me to remind you that the Whitelaw family has asked us to respect their
privacy at this time. I’m sure all of us can appreciate their anguish after suffering three unexpected tragedies over such a brief period.” He looked across the room. “So, there you have it. I’ll take a few questions. Just two or three.”
The room erupted in a cacophony of shouted questions. Arms flew into the air, hands waved with urgency. Witowsky shook his head in dismay, seemed to recognize a familiar face and pointed it out. “Frances, is it?”
“No, I’m Gerri Farmer from the LA Times.” Gerri stood, a notebook and pen in hand. Old school. “Detective, so far what have you done to determine if Mr. Whitelaw’s death was an accident, homicide or suicide?”
Witowsky’s expression seemed to wilt as he leaned away from the grill of the microphone. “We interviewed four family members and two of Justin’s friends. None reported any signs of depression. Furthermore, he’d been to work that morning. None of his colleagues or staff reported anything to suggest a suicidal mood. However, as you’ve heard, eye witnesses agree that he jumped of his own volition onto the subway tracks. Which suggests suicide.” He shrugged. “Next question. Second row, in the middle.”
“I understand that the kidnapping victim, Fiona Page, was discovered in the same station waiting for the train that struck Justin Whitelaw. Is there anything that links these two cases?”
Witowsky glanced at Shirley Yates and Frank Larson. Both maintained their deadpan expressions. “I can’t disclose that.” He paused and a worried frown creased his face. “Ms. Page is currently undergoing medical assessment and until her doctors green-light us, we can’t interview her. Rest assured, once she’s recovered, we’ll talk to her. Possibly as early as this afternoon.”
A collective sigh deflated the room, a gasp of weariness and the recognition that once again the press corps were being fed a buffet of delay and deception. Finch seized the opportunity to stand. He braced a hand on the chair in front of him and called out. “Cut the crap, Witowsky! The first thing Fiona Page said to the attending medics was that Justin Whitelaw kidnapped and held her in captivity for over a week! Did you bother to interview any of them?”
A new round of outrage burst through the room as the reporters hurled their questions at the police. At the same time two cops with starched faces standing near the doorway shifted into gear. As they approached Finch, one assumed a look of malevolent pleasure. The other seemed to anticipate a fight he knew he would certainly win.
“Ladies, gentlemen … I think that’s it for today.” Witowsky shrugged with relief. As he looked at the back of the room, his eyes lit on Finch. Witowsky smiled when he saw the cops’ hands wrap around Finch’s biceps as they frogged-marched him out the rear door.
“Hands off,” Finch snarled and broke free of their clutches as the three of them strode down the hall toward the side exit. “I’m leaving under my own steam, okay? Let’s try to keep this on a platonic level.”
As they breezed down the corridor toward the steel doors, they took his arms into their hands again. His feet stumbled on the final rush through the door. Then the cops released him with a quick heave-ho and he tripped down the exterior steps and smacked onto the sidewalk with a sharp twist that tore open his pants at both knees.
He stood up and examined the twin wells of blood seeping through the tattered flaps on his khakis. “Bastards!” he yelled, but the heavy door slammed shut and Finch was left to wail his obscenities into the empty air. As he limped along the sidewalk to his car, Finch could almost hear Wally’s voice echoing in his ears: “We are going to take the bastards down!”
During the drive back to the hospital he wondered just how much further down he’d have to go before he could stand upright again. But when he did, he’d chronicle this episode, blow for blow and get Lou Levine to sue the arse off everyone from the chief down to the two drones who’d tossed him onto the street.
※
Before he returned to the hospital, Finch stopped at his condo, washed the blood from his knees, applied a bandaid to each cut and changed his pants. By the time he entered Fiona’s hospital room, his knees had swollen into two round lumps. He convinced himself that his stiff-legged limp would last no more than a day. He imagined soaking in a hot bath with Eve. No doubt that would cure him.
Fiona sat in a chair, a laptop computer perched on her thighs. She closed the lid and smiled. “Good to see you.”
“You too. You look five hundred percent better.” He studied her face. The bloodshot eyes were now clear, the tear-encrusted eyelashes bore a hint of mascara, and her cracked, blistered lips were almost smooth again.
“Getting there.” She tipped her head to one side. “But I still have moments. A lot of them, to be honest.”
“You working?” He sat on the edge of the bed and slipped his courier bag onto the floor.
“Wally came by. For almost an hour.” She pointed to a vase of flowers. “He got me going again.”
“Good. Looks like you’ve had a few other visitors too.” He pointed to seven or eight tubes of various brands of lip balm lying next to the vase.
“Yeah. Five so far. I can’t quite believe it. Looks like you’ve successfully turned me into San Francisco’s Lypsyl Queen.” To prove the point, she drew a stick from her pocket and swept it over her lips in two strokes.
“And deservedly so.” He tugged a box of twelve sticks from his courier bag and passed it to her. He’d tied an inch-wide ribbon around the package and knotted it with a clumsy bow.
She glanced at them and loosened the bow. “Honeyberry, too.”
“Yeah. For the queen.”
They shared a laugh as she set the package on a side table.
“So Wally got you back to work already.”
She slipped her computer onto the side table. “Yes. And I thought a lot about what you said. About the test.”
“Mmm.”
“I figured there’s only one way forward. And that’s straight through it.” Her hand formed the shape of a blade and her arm pierced the air.
“Smart.”
“Wally told me to write a feature. The complete story, five thousand words, guts, gore, and all. He said it would be a way to own what happened. And when you own it, you can destroy it.”
Finch smiled. A typical Wally Gimbel quip. “He said something similar to me about the shooting up in Oregon.” He brushed a finger over the missing tip to his earlobe. “In a way, it’s true. You get to do a psychic purge.”
“I know I need to. Besides,” she hesitated as she drew another long breath, “the cops are going to interview me this afternoon. Writing about it might prepare me.”
Finch looked away and then shifted to face her directly. He felt an obligation to tell her about the press conference. He described the SFPD’s focus on Justin Whitelaw’s dive onto the tracks, the evasive non-answers to direct questions from the press. The dispute about how to classify the case: homicide, suicide or accident. “Most important, they haven’t formally linked Justin Whitelaw to you. I mean … to the fact that he kidnapped you.”
“What?” A look of astonishment swept over her face.
“When I brought it up, they threw me out. Literally.”
Her eyes wavered from side to side and she brushed a finger over her right eyelash. For a moment, Finch thought she might be having a relapse. Instead, she set her jaw and leaned forward.
“What else?”
“It’s a dog’s breakfast, Fiona. A mess. The ME report shows he’d ingested a trace amount of alcohol. Some witnesses saw bloodstains on his shirt. Others claim he was disoriented before he went over the edge. His family and work colleagues said he wasn’t depressed, so he had no predisposition for suicide.”
“No predisposition?” She glanced away as if the word was an impostor, a mask to cover the horror she’d experienced in the past week. “You’re bloody right it’s a mess.”
Fucking right. She owned it. Completely.
“Will, there’s something that happened on the subway platform, something I’m still not sure of
.” She shook her head. “I was at the far end of the station and he was in the middle. Maybe thirty feet away when he went over.”
He waited for her to continue.
“But if nobody else saw this, I mean if none of the witnesses said anything, then I’m going to sound crazy if I tell it to the cops.”
“What?”
“When he saw me. When he recognized me … he had this look of, I don’t know, it sounds crazy. This look of epiphany.”
“Epiphany?”
She blinked. “As if he realized what he’d done. He saw me standing next to the security guard and he realized it was over. His face lit up with this glow of recognition. Then he jumped.”
Finch considered this, tried to imagine what someone might look like the moment before diving in front of a train. He shook his head with a sense of confusion. “There’s also the question of the blood on Justin’s shirt. Before he died.”
“Yeah.” She sank backwards into the chair. He sensed the ordeal had absorbed some vital part of her. “Okay, look…. There’s one more thing.”
Her head tipped up and down as if her body had to convince her soul to confess a hidden crime. “I stabbed him.” She paused to study his face. She hesitated and then continued. “I stabbed Justin in his neck. Five or six times. With a bed spring that I’d sharpened into a point.”
Two or three tears dotted each of her eyes and she wiped them away.
“Fiona … you had to.”
“It was the only way I could escape.” She sniffed and then set her teeth again.
“You had to do it. It was him or you and you were in the right.” He reached over and took her hand. “Don’t you see? It was the moral thing to do. And just like Wally said, you should write that, too. The guts and gore.”
“That, too?”
“Exactly. And tell the same thing to the cops when they interview you. Tell them everything about Justin, okay? Consider it another part of the test.”