by Tim Maleeny
Cape strode over to the voice-computer and yanked the cable from its socket. On the big screen, Grace leaned forward and shook her head, holding a hand to her ear. Cape walked down the row of computers and pulled cables at every stop, looking over his shoulder as the image of Harry Berman broke into pixels and ragged chunks on the small screen. He saw Grace on-screen, staring, then suddenly she walked off camera. Cape stepped over to Adam, who was still rocking back and forth, oblivious.
Cape set his right foot against Adam’s hip and knocked him off the chair.
Adam landed in a tangle of cable with a loud “ooooff,” helmet askew. It fell off completely as he scrambled backward, away from Cape.
“Hi, Adam. Remember me?”
Cape heard knocking from the office behind him. Adam looked as if he were in shock. He wasn’t going anywhere. Cape ran quickly across the office to open the door for Grace, then jogged back to the hidden room. Adam was still crouched in the corner, his eyes those of a frightened child. Grace gasped as she came into the room. She’d seen the technology before.
Adam wrapped his arms around his knees, tears streaming down his cheeks, right hand still clad in its high-tech glove. He looked at them with an expression of infinite sadness. “I loved my brother,” he said miserably. “I loved him.”
Cape squatted down to be at eye level before saying anything.
“He’s dead, isn’t he, Adam?”
Adam wailed and hid his head between his legs, rolling onto his side. Heavy sobs racked his pudgy frame as his feet kicked the computers, the sounds all the more pitiful in the confined space. Cape sat on the floor next to him and put a hand on his back. Adam’s breathing slowed gradually but his eyes were squeezed shut. He wasn’t going to be coherent anytime soon.
“Oh, my God.”
Angelo stood in the doorway, mouth open. His eyes jumped from one inexplicable thing to the next, trying to piece it all together. Cape gestured at the chair in the center of the room.
“Have a seat, Angelo,” he said. “There are some things you ought to know.”
Chapter Fifty-six
Cape could tell when he wasn’t wanted. Getting shot, lied to, and almost blown up in one week was bad enough. But getting evicted was more than he could handle.
He came straight to his office from the airport and found the letter under his door. It hurt just to pick it up—he was bruised down to the bone from his fight with Ursa, and his side burned where the bullet had grazed his ribs. His neck was still bandaged. From any angle he looked and felt like shit.
He sat down heavily behind his desk and read. The letter was a petition to his landlord, signed by his fellow tenants, demanding that Cape be evicted. While they were sensitive to the demands and risks of his profession and had tolerated a plethora of unsavory visitors over the years, the exploding car was the last straw.
Cape had done some work for his landlord last year pro bono—only a day’s worth of running around, but Cape figured he earned some goodwill. That and the sagging economy might mean the difference between moving to a new office or just paying to have the windows replaced. He crumpled the memo into a ball and threw it into the hallway.
“Littering is against the law,” boomed a familiar voice.
Beau stepped into the doorway and threw the paper back to Cape.
“Big fine, anyway,” he added.
Cape gestured toward the client chair. “You must be one of a plethora of unsavory visitors.”
Beau frowned. “Come again?”
“Never mind—hope you don’t mind the broken-glass decor.”
Beau crunched his way across the floor, glancing at the plastic sheets taped over the windows as they billowed in the breeze. “When you gonna clean up?”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Makes two of us,” said Beau. “Remember the shooter in Frank’s office, guy looked like a hawk?”
Cape nodded. “Anthony, right?”
“He was definitely the shooter,” said Beau.
“Forensics came through?”
Beau sighed. “No, but Frank did,” he said miserably. “Harbor patrol found Anthony bobbing like a buoy near Pier 23, face down in the water. Which was just as well, ’cause the shot to the back of his head took most of his face with it.”
Cape recalled his visit with Frank, the portly charm of the man a thin disguise for the animal inside. “You’ll never pin it on Frank.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” said Beau. “I’ll get the fat bastard another day, on something else.”
Cape nodded absently. “Nothing left but dead ends.”
“Nothing but dead bodies,” replied Beau. “I talked to Corelli, who talked to Interpol. Thought you’d want to know there’s been no sign of the Major.”
Cape shrugged. “I’m not surprised. He slipped into the country easily enough. No doubt he could sneak out without attracting too much attention.”
“Unless he wanted to finish what he started,” said Beau, looking intently at Cape.
“Yeah, I thought of that,” said Cape. “But there’s no profit in killing me now, and I think he’s an opportunist. Besides, what am I supposed to do?”
“Move?”
Cape shook his head. “Not a chance.”
“Change your name to something like Joe or John,” said Beau. “Something anonymous—save you the trouble of spelling your real name.”
“Thanks,” said Cape. “Not interested.”
“Just thought I’d mention it.”
“Where’s your partner on all of this?”
Beau shrugged. “Busy wrapping up the paperwork on that string of bodies you left behind. And Vinnie’s a stickler for details—drives me crazy sometimes.”
“You’re starting to sound like half of an old married couple.”
“Watch it.”
“Ever think about going back to Narcotics?”
“Nah,” said Beau. “Sometimes—not really. Figure with Homicide I’m dealin’ with a better class of people.”
“You mean dead people?”
“Exactly,” said Beau. “It’s the scumbags that are still walkin’ and talkin’ that get you down.”
“Never thought of it that way,” said Cape.
Both men turned as footsteps echoed down the hall, paused, then resumed. A moment later a young man stood in the doorway. He was about six feet tall with long dark hair and brooding eyes. He looked from Beau to Cape with an impassive stare.
“You are Cape Weathers?”
Cape nodded. There was something about the young man that wasn’t right. Beau clearly registered the same thing; he shifted in his chair to make the gun on his hip obvious. The young man seemed unfazed.
“Your phone is going to ring,” he said.
Before Cape could respond, the young man turned and walked back down the hallway. The echo of his last footstep had died just as the phone started to ring. Both Cape and Beau started, looking at the phone as if it were about to explode. Cape grabbed it on the third ring.
An indistinct voice whispered across the line.
“You have a delivery…from a friend.”
Cape stared at the dead phone before returning it to its cradle. Beau started to say something but Cape held up his hand, stood, walked to the door, and peered around the jamb into the hallway. A large cardboard box sat on the floor, precisely at the point where the young man might have left it when they heard his footsteps pause.
Cape gingerly placed a hand on each side of the box and tested its weight. He guessed around ten pounds. When he was positive there were no wires attached to the bottom, he carried the box into the office and placed it gently on the desk.
Beau eyed the box suspiciously. “If that’s another bomb, our friendship is officially over.” The box was sixteen inches on a side, a simple cube of brown cardboard wrapped with twine.
Cape smiled as he studied the address label.
“Relax,” he said. “It’s from a friend.” He pulled at the twine
to release the cardboard flaps on top. Nothing exploded. He and Beau leaned forward together, almost bumping heads as they peered inside.
A blue plastic bag filled the cardboard box, twisted closed at the top and held fast by heavy string. Looking across the box at Beau, Cape pulled the string deliberately.
“Boom,” he said.
Beau scowled.
The stench hit hard, knocking them back onto their seats. Cape’s eyes started to water and Beau coughed as he brought his hand to his nose. Both men looked at each other with a somber expression before standing and risking another glance inside.
“It was addressed to you,” said Beau evenly. “You deal with it.”
“Is that a dare?”
“Call it what you want,” replied Beau, “but I ain’t puttin’ my hand in there.”
Cape held his breath as he reached inside. He wrapped his fingers around what felt like cold spaghetti and slowly raised his arm, fighting the urge to gag. He stared unblinking in anticipation of what he was about to see only an arm’s length away.
Major Yuri Sokoll stared back at him, his eyes lifeless orbs sunken into their sockets. His jaw was slack, the teeth crooked and yellow, and a dried trail of blood ran from one nostril. His neck was ragged; gangrenous pus oozed slowly along its edge before dripping into the box.
In the center of his forehead was a hole barely wider than a pencil, just above and between his eyes. It looked deep red inside but black around the edges. There was no exit wound or gaping hole in the back of the skull, suggesting a small caliber gun had been used, maybe a .22.
The Major’s head was surprisingly heavy.
Cape dropped it into the box and sat down, wiping his hand on his thigh. “Beau, I’d like you to meet the Major—the murder suspect you and Vinnie have been looking for.”
Beau looked like he was considering putting Cape’s head in a box of its own.
“A friend sent you that?”
Cape looked again at the address label, hand-written in perfect block letters. Next to his name was a small pen-and-ink drawing of a chess piece—a white knight. In the upper left corner where the return address would normally be printed, there was a similar sketch of a black king.
The memory of a shark’s grin flashed before his eyes, and Cape shook his head and smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “A friend I didn’t know I had.”
“You and your friends,” Beau said in a tired voice, knowing he was on the list. “I gotta call Vinnie—he’s gonna love this.”
Chapter Fifty-seven
“Harry’s been dead two years.”
Cape walked slowly beside Grace as she delivered the news. The Golden Gate Bridge dominated the view ahead as they walked along the beach at Crissy Field. Kids were flying kites and yelling, dogs barking. One stalwart family waded into the surf, turned blue, and ran for their towels. With every step the scene of Tom’s murder loomed closer, but Grace seemed oddly at peace. Somehow knowing the truth brought calm, if not comfort.
The fog had faded like a bad hangover, revealing the sun but leaving behind an ocean breeze just cold enough to remind you to stay out of the shadows. That was something Cape had already taken to heart. He squinted against the wind and shook his head in disbelief.
“Two years.”
Grace nodded. “His disappearance coincides with the start of Yuri Sokoll’s investments with Empire. I guess Adam needed Harry out of the way before he could take the Major’s money.”
“That’s when Harry supposedly developed sociophobia, right?”
Grace nodded, eyes unfocused as she stared out to sea. “Hard to believe we all fell for that one.”
“Isn’t the movie business run by powerful eccentrics?” asked Cape gently. “I think you told me that once.”
Grace forced a smile. “I also told you Harry had become strange, even by Hollywood standards.”
“So maybe deep down, you knew,” said Cape.
“Building a virtual Harry would cost a fortune.”
“That might explain why your special effects budget was blown.”
Grace nodded. “You knew, didn’t you?”
Cape shrugged. “I didn’t know what to expect when I went into Adam’s office,” he said, “but there were stupid discrepancies that bothered me.”
“Such as?”
“Harry knew who I was from the moment I stepped into his office,” said Cape. “I was supposed to be dead, and he was a little too cool about it all, even for a guy hiding behind a screen. I had just been with Adam, so I started to wonder how close the brothers really were. Like maybe they were talking.”
“What else?”
“Everyone, including Adam, told me how important awards and critical acclaim were to Harry, but all the statues and plaques were in Adam’s office, beautifully displayed. Harry’s office was barren—Adam had hoarded all the trophies for himself.”
“I’m an idiot,” said Grace.
“You were too close to the situation,” replied Cape. “You were there to talk to them about movie production, I was there to notice things.”
Grace nodded absently as she wondered what else she’d taken for granted. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
“Adam was supposedly the brother interested in money,” said Cape, “but Harry bragged about arranging the sale. Not the artistic visionary everyone had described.”
“I never believed Harry would sell the company.”
“The language Adam and Harry used to describe each other was similar,” said Cape. “They both reflexively used the phrase ‘I love my brother,’ almost like a mantra.”
Grace recalled the image of Adam Berman crying on the floor. “Maybe Adam really did love Harry.”
“I think he did.”
“Yet he killed him,” said Grace sadly.
Cape shook his head. “I don’t think so—my bet’s the Major killed Harry after he discovered Adam was turning the studio into a money-laundering operation.” He turned to look at Grace. “I think the same thing happened to your friend Tom.”
“You don’t think Tom was involved at all?” Grace asked hopefully.
Cape shook his head. “I think Tom noticed the same discrepancies in the budget you did, and he started asking questions. The Major was getting cocky—he even put himself in the movie. I’ll bet the accounting was getting sloppy, too.”
Grace stopped walking and stared at the magnificent bridge, a mute witness to so many lives. So many deaths. After a long moment Grace sighed, as if releasing a great weight.
They stood silently for several minutes, watching sunlight skip across the crests of waves. When Grace turned to face him, Cape noticed the years around her eyes had disappeared, the lines erased by silver light coming off the water.
“What do you think will happen to Adam?” she asked.
“That’s a tough one,” said Cape as they resumed their walk. “After his brother was killed he obviously snapped, taking on both personalities inside that bald head of his. He couldn’t let go of his greedy self, but he also adopted the benevolent persona of his older brother.”
“You really believe that?”
“I don’t think Adam was ever the most stable individual on the planet.”
“That’s an understatement,” agreed Grace.
“Then it doesn’t matter what I think,” said Cape. “What matters is what a judge will believe.”
Grace nodded but didn’t say anything.
“How about you?” asked Cape.
Grace smiled self-consciously. “I’ve got a film to produce.”
“So you’re going to finish the movie?”
“Yes, I am,” replied Grace. “There were other investors besides the Major, and the studio stands to lose more if we scrap the production than if we release the film. With any luck, box office receipts will make up for the budget overages.”
“Whose decision was that?”
Grace smiled again. “Angelo.”
“He’s your new boss?” Cape laughed.
“With Harry and Adam out of the picture, he’s in charge,” said Grace. “We had a long talk yesterday—he asked me to finish the film. I never thought I’d say this, but I have a feeling he’s a different person without Adam kicking him in the balls on a daily basis.”
“That would certainly affect my outlook.”
“I’ll finish the film, and then I’ll tell you what I really think of him.”
“And after that?”
Grace looked at Cape with a bittersweet expression, her smile warm but her eyes a little sad. “I think I’m going to take some time off after this job,” she said. “I want to remember why I wanted to make movies in the first place—I want to have that feeling again.”
“Maybe you should try going to the movies instead of making them.”
Grace stopped walking. “Are you asking me out?”
“Of course not,” said Cape a little too quickly. “I never date my clients.”
“I thought you were through with this case,” replied Grace.
“I haven’t sent you my bill,” replied Cape. “Besides, I don’t even know what movies are playing.”
“I’ll check the paper,” said Grace, “just in case you change your mind.”
Cape cocked an eyebrow. “I thought you were slow to commit.”
“Maybe it’s time I tried something different.”
Cape shrugged and looked toward the bridge, wondering if he should change the subject. “Where are you headed now?”
“To the baseball stadium,” said Grace. “The one on the Embarcadero where the Giants play—we’re going to destroy it tomorrow afternoon.”
“You’re destroying the baseball stadium?” said Cape. “That’s great news.”
“You don’t like baseball?”
“Nothing against the team, but the games have been screwing up traffic ever since they built that thing—I liked it better when they played at Candlestick.”
“I’m afraid it’s only temporary,” said Grace. “Special effects.”
“That’s okay,” said Cape. “I’m not sure I’m ready for anything permanent right now.”