by J. M. Madden
“I don’t go to those places.”
“But you can’t avoid them. They’re all around.”
“Dad, you have to let go. You have to let me live my life.”
“I just get so nervous thinking about you being alone here, too far away from my protection.”
She kissed him. “That’s sweet, Dad, but I don’t need that protection now. I’m fine. This is about the safest place I could live. Honest. We have a security guard downstairs. No one comes in or up the elevators without key cards, and access to the garage is restricted.”
“I know. But things can be stolen.”
“Why? When there are so many other places much easier to get into? Why would they bother to rob or cause a problem here where the security is so tight?”
“I know. Probably just my active imagination.” They hugged one more time, waiting for Marlene.
“She’s nice, Dad. I like her.”
“I do too, Amy.” He stared down the hallway as Marlene’s compact frame came barreling around the corner and toward them. “She’s good for me,” he whispered, then embraced Marlene and planted a kiss on her forehead.
“Thanks, Amy,” said Marlene, her face blushing from the kiss. “I’ll call you and we’ll set that shopping date.”
“You bet. Midweek is best for me, since I work heaviest on the weekends.”
“Good for me, too. Bye.”
She watched them head to the elevators, closed the tall solid mahogany door to her unit, leaned against it, and sighed. She picked up the remnants of their plates, taking them to the kitchen, and returned to her living room. Hand on her hips, she surveyed the view of the bay. She could see the smooth waters of the inlet from San Francisco to Oakland. The island to the left. The busy Ferry Plaza and Pier was teaming with tourists, even on a weekday.
The San Francisco side of the bay was still bright white, buildings looking like a bunch of folded paper cups of various sizes, anchored by tall dark spires. There was a rhythm, a pulse here. A sort of order to the way life went. She wasn’t yet a part of it fully, but was stepping closer to an experience outside her control. She was partially fearful, but mostly, she was ready to join her next great adventure.
Was this how Zak felt? She wondered if he ever thought about her. On a nice clear day like today, this was something she’d like to share with him some time.
SEVERAL MONTHS later her Saturday was shattered by a stream of bright red lights and piercing sirens as paramedic vans and police cars, even a fire engine, zoomed past her glass Model Home office on the ground floor. Crowds of people began spilling out from buildings nearby, heading towards the Pier. News crews arrived and attempted to get parking.
One lone figure in disheveled green clothes, came running from the crowd that had gathered, and abruptly turned in front of her office. With his hands tucked into his jacket he lost his balance and tripped over her sandwich sign, toppling it. When he picked it up, the man’s hands were bloodied, and left a bloody print on the sign as he righted it. His wild hair was pushed off his high forehead. His light chocolate skin and large brown eyes framed lips that showed a purple cast to them. He stared into the glass at Amy, his eyes full and round. He yanked on the doors, which were securely locked, waiting for her to release the button. Amy knew letting him in would be a horrible mistake.
He shook both handles, attempting to jiggle the glass, yelling something in a dialect she didn’t understand, tugging and pulling on the doors in panic. He shoved against the doors with his shoulder, and although the glass bent slightly, they remained intact and didn’t shatter.
Amy dialed 911, and then decided to call building security. She pushed the red button and heard a small alarm go off somewhere upstairs. The man stormed off to the left, barreling down the street, leaving a bloody print on the glass in front of her.
For several seconds Amy stared at the bloody print, frozen in place. Lights continued to flash outside, noises were escalating. She heard no shots fired and no other signs of violence or struggle. No blasts. But her eyes fixated on the red handprint with one bloody drip trailing down over the smooth clean surface of the door.
Doors behind her opened and she started, whipping around to find one building security guard entering through the rear entrance behind her, calling her name. When he reached the lobby, she noticed he was unarmed.
“I—I’m okay, but there was a guy out there with blood on his hands.” Her voice was shrill. She could barely speak. Amy saw another security guard running toward the doors and stop just short, seeing the blood on the handles.
“I’ll buzz him through,” said the other guard as he pressed the entry button.
Amy pushed with her shoulder, letting in the second guard. “Bring in the sandwich sign,” she called to him. “Don’t touch where he did.”
The guard reached low, bringing the sign inside the lobby, setting it down gently on the granite tile. They let the doors lock into place. A large crowd was gathering in the street over by the plaza.
“What happened?” asked Amy. “Does anyone know?”
One of the guards had been monitoring chatter on his radio. “I guess there’s been a shooting at the Plaza.”
“Listen,” said the second guard, “I’ve got to help Kwon over at the Building One desk. The occupants are bound to start calling and coming home soon. You okay here?”
“Sure. You both can go. I’m safe here. Not going anywhere. I’ll call the police so they can check out the blood. I’ll make sure you get copied. I can let myself up to my floor through the back. I’m closing this place down.”
After they left, Amy turned on her laptop and read about the shooting just being reported in the local news. Someone had shot at a military man and his wife who were taking a stroll down the Pier. His rifle had jammed after the first spray of rounds, which also caught several bystanders in the crowd. The Marine was killed by the shooter, while an accomplice stabbed the wife several times. She’d been taken to the hospital, and was now reported in critical condition.
Observers said that one assailant was dropped at the scene by one of the man’s buddies, also a Marine, who was wearing a firearm. The second one got away.
Amy’s stomach clenched as she realized she’d seen the face of one of the killers. She tried to remember everything about the assailant, recalling what he was wearing, what the shape of his face was.
She called San Francisco P.D. and reported what she had seen and agreed to wait until someone came by to take her statement. She shut down the lights, but remained back at her desk, following all the rushing back and forth of crowds, ready to bolt to the back if she saw someone coming toward the door. Several pedestrians walked past the doors, pointing to the blood on the handles. That certainly deterred someone from wanting to come inside the Sales Office.
News reports came in over the two hours she waited. Feeling somewhat like a fish in a glass bowl, she moved her computer and things to the kitchen area and set up at the table there, out of view of the public. Her heart was beating furiously. She knew the doors were secure but would not hold up against a bomb blast, and some on the news were reporting the backpack found had some small explosive devices in it that had remained unused.
Her cell phone rang and she jumped several inches from her chair. She thought about her dad, and cursed herself for not thinking to call him. She knew he’d be frantic with worry. She answered her phone.
“This is Detective Lombardi, San Francisco P.D. Looking for Amy Dobson.”
“This is she.”
“You’re at the MegaOne complex still?”
“Yes.”
“You reported seeing a man you think might be a suspect?”
“I don’t know. His hands were bloody. He tried to come in the building, but I didn’t buzz him through.”
“You got a good look at him, ma’am?”
“Yes. He looked right at me.”
“Okay, we’re gonna send a couple guys over there and a sketch artist. Where can we f
ind you?”
“Could you meet me at my condo? I’m up on the tenth floor. I’m getting the creeps staying down here—”
“Sorry, no. I think we need meet you there. I’ll try not to make you wait longer than need be. Are you injured in any way?”
“No. And I have security I can call if I get nervous.” She gave them the address of the corner Sales Office.
“We got someone over in your other lobby interviewing people. Geez, you were right there, only five blocks away.” He put his hand over the phone and barked out instructions. “Okay, stay in touch with your security team and don’t move. Keep your cell by you and keep it charged. We’ll be over as soon as we can.”
After Amy hung up, she plugged her cell into the wall socket, thanking her lucky stars for the strong WiFi signal throughout the entire building. She next called the security station and left a message she was still in the Sales Office waiting for the police. Then she called her dad.
Her father had just been told about the event in San Francisco.
“I saw him, Dad. I think I saw one of the guys.”
“Hold tight, Amy, I’m coming down.”
“No, don’t. I’m fine. The building is very safe. The police are on their way to interview me. I don’t want you down here. There are so many people all over the place, and I just—”
She finally broke down. Tears started streaming down her cheeks. She realized she’d been jumping at the sound of every siren, every flashing light coming into the lobby area. Her body was on overload.
“That’s it, Amy. I’ll be down in an hour. Don’t go anywhere until I see you.”
It didn’t do any good to ask her dad to not come. She hung up the phone, sat in the dark, waiting. Her neck hurt. Her toes were cramped in the high heels she’d been wearing, so she kicked them off. She got herself a bottled water and gulped it half down before spilling it on herself. Her hands shook. Another loud peal of a rescue vehicle made her jump again.
She went into the small guest bathroom off the hallway and sat on the closed lid of the toilet and put her head in her hands. It felt good to be in the semi-darkness of that tiny room, somewhat muffled by all the noises around her. She finished the water and then stood, examining herself in the mirror. She could see the worry lines form in the middle of her forehead, her eyes were red from crying and her hair was a mess. She looked as old and tired as she felt.
A knock on the glass doors caught her attention. Two men were waiting for her, both plainclothes. She buzzed them through after she saw their badges.
“So you’re Amy Dobson?” the taller one said as the doors clicked into place behind him.
“Yes.”
“I’m Detective Scarpelli, and this is Mears, our sketch artist. Can we ask you a couple of questions?”
“Sure.”
“Our photographer is around here somewhere, but he’s a little busy.”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
“Well, we’re trying to put all that together. Unfortunately, we got one dead and several injured. Beyond what you hear in the news, I can’t really give you anything, sorry.”
“I know.”
“So tell me what you saw?”
“He was a light chocolate brown-skinned man with curly hair, not real long, but curly.”
“Approximately when was this?”
“Right after the sirens and things started zooming by—like within a minute after I heard the first one.”
“About three-ten, then?”
“Something like that. I wasn’t looking at my watch. Maybe the security guards would have a time.”
“Okay, so his hair, you said it was curly?”
“Yes. Black.”
“Like an Afro?”
“No, long and wavy. Maybe four inches long, just coming out all over the place. Like Garfunkle?”
“The singer?”
“Sorry, yeah. My mom always—”
“Hey, I got ‘em in my family too. Hippies.”
“Well, she wasn’t a hippie, she just liked folk music. Anyway. Coming out like that.” She gestured holding her palms all around her head.
The sketch artist began to draw. “Shape of the face?”
“Long. Thin nose, tapered. Big round brown or blackish brown eyes. His lips looked kind of purple? I know it doesn’t make sense, so maybe it was the light?” she squinted.
Behind them there was tapping on the glass.
She saw a photographer taking pictures of the handles and the lobby through the glass. Another had roped off a triangle with yellow tape, keeping people away from the door.
“You wanna let him in?”
Amy buzzed the photographer and two other officers inside. They began taking pictures of the sandwich sign. Someone outside was investigating the outside glass door.
The sketch artist drew up a shape, hair, eyes. “Like this?” he said as he held up his tablet.
“Yes. Except deep, like dark colored marks under his eyes, like this,” she showed them where her under eyes were puffy and red. “Darker brown, a little purple.”
“Would you say he looked African, like East African, or African-American?”
“He didn’t look African-American. He looked like he was from Somalia or Ethiopia. And he was thin. Very skinny. Like he wasn’t from here, you know?”
After a few more questions and getting the names of the security guards, the two detectives left. Before the crime scene guys left, they took pictures of the entire space, including the hallway to the upper floor elevators outside the back door.
“We’ll probably have someone posted here overnight. You have another one of these?” he said as he lifted the sign.
“Yes.”
“Okay, good. Someone will be over to clean up and take down the tape. You going to be open tomorrow?”
“I—I wasn’t sure I should.”
“Up to you. Anything suspicious, you let me know, okay?”
“Sure.”
“You got their cards too?” he said thumbing over his shoulder, indicating the two detectives who had questioned her.
“Yes.”
“You call if you find anything, anything at all, okay? No matter how small.”
“You—you think I should open this office tomorrow? I mean, was this a terrorist attack or what?”
“That’s the thing. We don’t know. All this is under investigation. More than likely it was a couple of lone wolves, just doing their thing.”
Amy wasn’t sure she was hearing this correctly. Doing their thing? Someone had been murdered. How could the world just go on its way? She must have been staring with her mouth open because the officer touched her on the shoulder, smiling.
“Look, the crime scene isn’t here, so you’re probably safe. You weren’t the target, so why would anyone want to come back here? They were looking for big targets, crowds, in all likelihood.”
“Except that he knows I saw him.”
“He probably won’t even remember where he ran. He was probably scared out of his mind. I mean, you think this building would be a target? With all this security?”
She recalled the conversation she’d had with her dad about it. Easier targets. Now those arguments seemed hollow.
“If it makes you feel any better, some of the shops in the Plaza are going to be open. Yes, it was a murder. But that doesn’t stop life from going on. People have jobs, go to work, you know.”
As the door buzzed shut behind him and he slipped under the tape outside, carting the sandwich sign wrapped in a large plastic tarp, she wondered why she hadn’t heard from the building owner and developer. Or from security. No one at the complex seemed to be concerned about what had just happened to her.
She was glad her father was on his way.
NINE
Zak and Carter were shooting darts at the Scupper. Several of the other guys joined in. They’d just gotten their orders to report to SEAL Team 3 and were given four days leave, but most of their group decided to s
tay around the San Diego area and get more familiar with the surroundings. Zak knew some of the guys from Team 3 hung out there regularly.
Fredo and Coop sauntered into the bar. They were most distinguishable by the fact that Coop looked nearly twice the size of Fredo. But the two were the best of friends, as they had been over the past nearly seven years together on the teams.
“Ohhh, lookie dis. We got us some tadpoles here, Coop,” Fredo said shuffling over to their table. Zak had his arm extended back, ready to throw his dart, but hesitated. Fredo shook his head. “You get too distracted, my little tadpole. Never take your eye off the target.”
Sure as shit, when Zak returned to focusing on the dartboard, his aim was off and the brass marker hit the wall, way off the target.
“Thought you qualified expert, Jell-O” Fredo grinned. He had a gold tooth for one of his canines.
Zak lowered his shoulders and frowned at Carter, who shrugged back in return. Several others of their group snickered.
“You like Jell-O shots?” Coop asked.
“No, sir. I don’t drink.”
“Smart man,” returned Cooper as he looked down on the other newbies. “Fredo, they’re making them younger and younger, and they’re short now too.”
“Another Smurf crew for sure. Thas okay. Good things come in smaller packages, right there my tadpoles?” Fredo was glad-handing all of them, slapping backs and acknowledging each one of the new guys. Coop followed as Zak hit his second and third dart, the third one right in the center.
“Look at that! A barn dart!” Coop barked. “Thought you was gonna dust them all.”
“Focus. And yes, I qualified Expert,” said Zak softly.
“So how’d you get the tag then, Jell-O Man?”
Zak tried to shrug it off.
“Oh come on, white boy. Tell the man,” Carter shouted. “You guys gonna love this.”
“I can hardly wait.” Fredo came over to Zak and sniffed. “You smell like Chrome, man, that teen after shave. You don’t smell like Jell-O. So what gives?”