by Steven Gore
“Whoever shot him was looking for a fight,” a taut, middle-aged man wearing a black ASICS running suit told Gage and Spike.
“How do you figure?” Gage asked.
“I jog here every day. A lot of us run in the street to avoid the dog walkers and the strollers. Some of these asshole drivers go out of their way to force us off the road. I heard some people saying that the shooter had flipped off the runner.” The man scanned the throng, then pointed at a young couple in matching gray sweat suits standing next to a stroller. “There they are. I’ve got to get to the office. If you need anything else, you’ve got my number.”
As Gage and Spike started toward them, a local television reporter blocked their path. She jammed a microphone in Spike’s face, then looked at the camera.
“I’m with Lieutenant Spike Pacheco of the San Francisco Police Department…Lieutenant Pacheco”-she cocked her coiffured blond head toward the crowd behind her-“can you confirm the rumor that Jack Burch was shot because of a love triangle?”
Spike grabbed the top of the microphone and twisted it out of her hand, then glared at the cameraman. “Turn that fucking thing off.” Then toward the reporter, his brown face reddening with rage. “It’s not good enough for you that the guy’s lying in a coma? You’ve got to try to destroy his reputation, too? For what, Jane? For what?”
He looked over at Gage, who shook his head. Let it go. Don’t let her create a story where there isn’t one.
Spike tossed the microphone to the cameraman, then jabbed his forefinger at her face. “You do this kind of shit one more time and nobody at SFPD is ever gonna talk to you. You might as well go back to doing the farm report in Boise.”
Gage grabbed Spike’s arm and led him away. “Take it easy. Get the press officer out here to run interference for you. I don’t want your face showing up on television again, and mine ever. We can’t let the guy see us coming until it’s too late for him to get away.”
Spike glared back over his shoulder. “Asshole. Who the fuck does she think she is?”
His fury faded as they walked along the edge of the crowd toward the young couple. He displayed his badge as they approached.
“Thanks for coming out, Lieutenant,” the woman said. “We were hoping to speak with you.”
Gage pointed back from where they came. “A guy told us he overheard you two say something about the shooter flipping off Jack.”
“That’s not what I said.” The woman’s voice hardened, as if being misquoted was a personal assault. “I said that I saw a driver’s left hand, framed in his window. For all I know, he was scratching his nose. It was dark outside and his car was dark inside. The car was heading east, like us, but Jack was running the other direction. It was only a few minutes ago, when we overheard someone describing the car and its route, that it crossed our minds that the driver might’ve circled the block and went after him.”
Gage looked at Spike, who nodded. That’s what Burch was trying to communicate with his raised hand as he was wheeled into surgery. Graham. Tell Graham. For the first time Gage felt Burch’s dread that those words and that gesture would be his last-and no one would ever understand.
“Male or female?” Gage asked.
“Male. I’m sure about that.”
“Race?”
“White. Maybe Hispanic, but light-skinned.”
Spike obtained their telephone number, then he and Gage headed back into the crowd.
“I’m still thinking the guy was a helluva good shot,” Spike said. “Two trigger pulls and two hits. Side-by-side.”
“At least we know he’s left-handed.” Gage stopped and turned toward Spike. He held up his left hand, forefinger extended and bent. “I think they saw the shooter’s trigger finger.”
Spike grunted as he dropped into the driver’s seat of his car an hour later, then glanced over at Gage. “We’re just going through the motions. The guy who shot Jack is gone. Long gone. And the partial description we’ve got is all we’re ever going to get. And I know you’re thinking the same thing. I saw you checking out the street-lights, figuring how the shadows fell. There’s no way Jack could’ve seen the shooter.”
“We don’t know that yet. He was moving. The shooter was moving.”
“I know what you’re trying to do, Graham, but neither one of us has ever been good at wishful thinking.”
Gage watched Spike’s pupils flit side to side, as if he was torn by an inner conflict that extended beyond the morning’s frustrations. “What’s going on?”
Spike took in a long breath and exhaled. “Since I took your spot in homicide, I’ve been doing the same thing every day-gunshots, autopsies, and chingasas on dope. Most of my life doing the same damn thing.”
“But you’re the best-”
“Bullshit. There’s no best in police work, just degrees of failure. And I’ve had twenty-nine-point-nine-nine-nine years of it.”
Spike fell silent for a moment, then he sighed and looked at Gage. “You got out when you’d seen all there was to see around here. Your world is London, Hong Kong, Moscow. Me, I spent the whole time trapped in a few square miles, a place that looks like a crushed potato. And it’s like I’ve just been watching the same damn movie over and over and over, and the ending never gets any better.”
Gage crossed his arms over his chest, then settled a little in his seat. “You know why I really left? More than anything?”
“I thought you wanted to go to grad school, read some philosophy books, ponder the deep thoughts.”
“There were things I wanted to think through, and Cal was a good place to do it, but that wasn’t the real reason. I just never fit in. Most people in the department were there to prove something, get over something, or hide from something behind the badge.”
“What about me?”
“You were the exception. You were trying to save the world. Every day coming into the squad room, big smile on your face.”
“And you?”
“I didn’t have your optimism.”
“Well, I didn’t save much of it.”
Gage glanced toward four uniformed cops standing together by a patrol car, sipping coffee, ignoring the milling crowd. “More than your share, and more than any cop I ever knew.”
Spike’s eyes went vacant, then he nodded. “Now I get it.”
“Get what?”
“What you said just before you resigned. You said it was like we were all in different departments together.” Spike smiled to himself, then rotated his thumb toward Gage. “You know what we used to call you behind your back?”
“I never had a nickname.”
“You just didn’t know it because nobody had the guts to say it to your face. We called you Buddha. Like when you got your detective’s badge, the other guys beaming like the teacher gave them a gold star, you looking like somebody handed you a glass of water.”
Gage shrugged.
“But that wasn’t the truth.” Spike looked out at the intersection where Burch was shot down. “No cop ever felt the tragedy in a homicide scene more than you. You just didn’t show it. While the rest of us hid behind callousness and gallows humor-or even just the mechanics of how the thing happened-you’d immerse yourself in it, imagining what happened as if you’d been the guy lying inside the chalk marks.”
Spike fell silent, then shook his head. “I don’t know how you did it. If I’d tried to do it your way all these years, I’d have blown my brains out by now.”
CHAPTER 13
T hat wasn’t so bad, was it, Scoob?” Zink asked as he walked Matson toward the elevator from the Magistrate’s Court on the sixteenth floor of the Federal Building. U.S. Marshals guarded the door while Matson uttered the single word that ratified his transformation from citizen into convict. The only witnesses were Peterson, Zink, Hackett, the magistrate, the clerk, and the stenographer. As far as the rest of the world was concerned, the hearing never happened.
For Matson, it really was bad. So bad Matson felt himself splitti
ng in two. Or maybe three or four. He remembered looking around the courtroom, his eyes flinching at the light, his stomach turning. At the same time, he felt a nauseating hollowness, as if his mind was a shriveled nut inside a shell bouncing down a hillside.
Walking away, rerunning the scene in his mind, it hit him. It was just a goddamn play. Everybody knew their parts, played them like they’d read the same lines a thousand times before. There was Peterson. Huge, dominating. Zink. A rodent waiting to gather up the scraps. The magistrate. Just a judge’s helper. A guy who wasn’t smart enough or didn’t kiss enough political ass to get appointed district court judge. The magistrate would do what Peterson told him to do. And Matson would do what Hackett told him to do.
Hackett. How much money did I pay that shyster? Matson asked himself as Zink led him down the hallway. Whose side was he really on? What did he tell me?
“When the magistrate asks whether you were threatened into entering the plea, answer no, got it?”
“But they were gonna throw away the fucking key if I didn’t.”
“So what? If you say yes, there’s no deal.”
What’s all this about the truth? It’s all about lying at the right time, just like business. These people are hypocrites.
Matson noticed that he was now in the elevator, descending, just him and Zink. Hackett had abandoned him at the courtroom door.
Matson knew it was his voice that answered, “Guilty,” but his mind, cowering in an internal crevice, hadn’t pushed the word out. Hackett simply trained him to say, “Guilty, Your Honor,” and he did.
How did I get into this mess? Matson asked himself as he and Zink got off the elevator on the thirteenth floor. I shouldn’t have listened to Hackett. He’s a punk. Fucking snitch lawyer. I could’ve beat this case. What’ve they really got? Nothing. That’s what Granger said.
Zink stuck a security badge on Matson’s suit jacket, then walked him through the armored entrance into the FBI office. A few steps inside, Matson saw a wooden door, a sign taped to it bearing the single word “SatTek.”
“This is where we’ll be working,” Zink said, directing Matson inside.
Matson took a step across the threshold. Instantly all of his parts snapped together.
To his left was a poster board covered with photos. His. Burch’s. Granger’s. Fitzhugh’s. They know about Fitzhugh. Next to that a world map. Red-headed pins impaling San Francisco, Guangzhou, Ho Chi Minh City, London, Guernsey. They know about Guernsey. To his right were flowcharts taped to the wall. Money. Accounts. Companies. Straight ahead were file boxes. SEC. SatTek. The China company. The Vietnam company. Cobalt Partners. Damn, they know about Cobalt, too.
Matson felt an itchiness, like there was a gun barrel pointed at that edgy little spot between his eyes. He finally understood Hackett’s phrase, “a slam-dunk case.”
He dropped into a blue cloth-covered chair, hands clammy, as if watching the dentist’s drill approaching before the Novocain kicked in.
Zink sat down behind the desk, then withdrew a white legal pad from a drawer.
Matson studied Zink’s face, sickened by his willful failure to suppress his self-satisfaction, his pride of ownership.
Matson couldn’t say Granger hadn’t warned him. “If you cooperate, they’ll own you. You’ll think you’re gonna get over on ’em, but you won’t. Nobody does.”
And Matson had promised him, “I’m not makin’ no deal. No way. Fuck ’em. I’m not sayin’ shit.”
But that was before Hackett told Matson how much time he could do and before he decided that there was no fucking way he was going to do it-not if he was going to have a life after SatTek.
Hackett had also told him something else, maybe the most important thing. As long as he kept setting up other targets, the prosecutor would stop aiming at him, and that would give him time to feather his nest for a soft landing. And Matson knew that unless he did a little more feathering, he’d crash real hard.
“Let’s start with Fitzhugh,” Zink said, his pen poised. “How much did he know?”
“I flew to London and checked into the Park Lane Hilton by Hyde Park. At 6 P. M., I went down to the lobby bar to meet him. He looked up soon as I hit the door and caught my eye. I’m jet-lagged as hell, so I order some coffee before I sit down. I don’t want to miss a word of what he has to say.
“Helluva name. Morely Alden Fitzhugh IV. But it fit with him being an accountant. Thin, pale face. Conservative black suit. The only thing that didn’t match the profile were his Bono-type eyeglasses and a gold Patek Philippe chronograph. I later saw a watch just like it at Tiffany’s. It cost about thirty grand.
“We talked a little bit, and once he felt comfortable with me, he went into his spiel.
“‘Mr. Granger told me that SatTek is on the verge of greatness, and that you’re the right man at the right time.’ Then he leaned over the table and lowered his voice. ‘I know you trust Mr. Granger and Mr. Granger trusts me. And you know the offshore world is about trust. We’re not gangsters and there aren’t any courts with real substance that can deal with even minor disputes. So it’s up to the parties to work together, fairly. Everything aboveboard.’
“That shook me up a little. There was no reason to bring up gangsters. We were just doing business. But I wasn’t there to argue, so I let it go.
“Fitzhugh paused for a few moments, then he adopted a sort of effeminate pose and said, ‘Mr. Granger has, as I understand it, assumed the role of, shall we say, adviser. What’s it called at the Vatican? Consigliere.’ Then he punches the air with his forefinger, like in punctuation. ‘That’s it, consigliere.’
“I’m not the pope, and I told him that.
“‘But every enterprise needs a principal. That’s you. My function is solely as a fiduciary, someone to advise you on financial matters and to whom you may issue instructions in complete confidence that they will be faithfully executed.’
“There was only one problem with that: Granger told me that I was supposed to be following his orders; not him following mine.”
Matson watched Zink finish writing down the last sentence on his legal pad, then said he needed to use the bathroom.
Zink escorted him down the hallway and pointed to the men’s room door. Matson entered and stepped into a stall, but just stood there. He didn’t need to pee, he needed to think. Something else had happened in the Park Lane Hilton lounge that evening, and Zink had no right to pry into it.
As the waitress approached with his coffee, he had noticed a woman sitting alone at the bar behind her, twenty-five feet across the room. The contrasts among her black chemise dress, pale skin, Asiatic eyes, and Slavic cheekbones had unnerved him. She seemed foreign in a more profound way than any woman he’d ever seen.
His eyes followed hers as they swept along the row of bottled whiskeys doubled by the bar mirror behind them. Their eyes met in reflection. He looked away, but was drawn back. And as he gazed into the dark pupils looking back, he felt a depth and solidity in himself that he hadn’t experienced before, and realized that somehow, in a way he didn’t yet understand, the world that Granger had invited him into was making him into a new man.
“Did you meet anyone else in London?” Zink asked Matson as they walked from the bathroom into the FBI’s kitchen to fetch coffee.
Matson hesitated for a moment, then answered, “No. Not really. Granger told me to keep a low profile. Just slip in and slip out. So that’s what I did.”
Matson leaned back against the counter, hands crimped over the edge.
“There’s a whole world out there I didn’t know even existed,” Matson said. “All these people doing international business. It’s hard to explain. Everybody’s in their own heads.”
Zink filled a cup and handed it to Matson.
“People meet. All they have in common is the deal, whatever the deal is. Always on the move, like they’re never really anyplace. They just take the deal from one airport to another, one hotel to another.”
&nb
sp; Zink smiled to himself as he walked Matson back to the SatTek room. Matson wasn’t an idiot. He had avoided answering the question. Zink knew he’d answer it eventually, once he realized that the government wouldn’t let him keep any secrets. Matson would be dotting i’s and crossing t’s until he developed carpal tunnel of the brain. He just didn’t know it yet.
Zink knew how to work informants, and decided that it was too soon to push Matson. He made an excuse to go back to his own office to give Matson time to adjust to the idea that eventually he’d have to give it all up.
He left Matson sitting, arms folded, staring up at the ceiling.
Matson had returned to the hotel after dining with Fitzhugh. He had glanced into the lounge on his way toward the elevator and spotted the woman still sitting at the bar. He stopped in the doorway. A man stood to the left of her, his hand gripping her elbow. She jerked her arm away and rotated her stool away from him.
Matson found himself walking toward them. He heard the man say in a slurred American accent, “Just one drink, honey. Come on, just one drink.”
Before the woman could answer, Matson stepped up next to him and said, “Let it go.”
The man turned toward him. Red-faced. Fists clenched. “Mind your own business.”
Matson held up his hands. “Take it easy.” He made a show of scanning the others drinking in the lounge. “Whose side do you think these folks will take?”
The scraping of chair legs on tile broke the silence. The man glanced back over his shoulder at two men who were now standing and glaring at him. He swayed as he turned back toward Matson, then shrugged and walked away.
She turned toward him. “Thank you.” She spoke in what Matson took to be a Russian accent.
“He just had too much to drink,” Matson said, then noticed that her hands were shaking. “Would you like me to sit with you?”
“Very much.”
Matson climbed onto the bar stool next to her. “Can I get you something?”