by Brian Drake
Chapter Four
Stiletto landed at SFO, signed for a rental car, and drove north on Highway 101 to San Francisco, guided by the GPS in his phone. The car was a slate gray Chevy Cruze that looked large outside but was cramped inside, the steering wheel blocking a portion of the speedometer. Luckily a secondary digital speedometer made up for that. He had to focus on the traffic in front of him as the roadway curved here and there, never going straight for long, but he kept stealing glances at the bay off to the right. It looked a crisp blue against the equally blue sky. He could have used off-road pullouts to enjoy the sight a little longer, but it was best to stick to business. The Cruze seemed like a good car but it wasn’t his Trans Am, just another modern car that basically drove itself and was primarily designed for driver comfort instead of fun, which made it lifeless and uninteresting. Stiletto wanted his Trans Am back in a big way and let his mind work on how he might accomplish the goal. He exited off the 280 extension, turned right on Brannan, and crossed an intersection to stop at a corner tavern. There was something else on his mind, too, forcing out thoughts of the car. Inside he ordered a Jim Beam on-the-rocks and sat at the bar. He wasn’t the only one there.
He wasn’t ready to see Ali yet.
Scott leaned his elbows on the bar and looked at the amber liquid in his glass. He and Ali had met during a hike organized by some C.I.A. staffers, when Stiletto was new to the Agency, and had forged a quick connection when they realized they worked in the same department. It had been a little awkward when she took over the chief-of-staff role. They’d been worried the higher-ups would disapprove. In the end, nobody had objected to their relationship so they kept it going but remained low-key around headquarters, and they’d enjoyed a couple of years together before everything unraveled. He thought about the last thing she had said to him on their final night together:
“I can’t stand lying awake at night wondering if you’re coming back this time. I can’t do it anymore.”
And with that, she broke off their relationship. Six months later she moved to California to work with her father who, ironically, now lay dead by another man’s hand.
He hadn’t tried to reason with her that night. He could, of course, have transferred to an office assignment, but the fact was, he liked being where the action happened. He wasn’t ready to give it up. Ali wasn’t the woman to make him want to give it up, which had taken some time for him to admit. They may have dated over a lengthy period of time, but they were apart for a lot of that time as Scott raced around the world enjoying the only thing he was good at. The elephant in the room was his fear of failing at a different kind of job. He knew how to be a Company skull-smasher. Those skills didn’t exactly transfer to other occupations.
And, in the end, the break-up was probably inevitable. He wouldn’t have followed her to the West Coast. What the heck would he do there?
But now she needed help. She was one of the forgotten victims he visualized so often, those without a champion, who needed one. Those under the oppression of a great force that needed a greater force to balance the scales.
Scott finished his drink and returned to the rental. He had wanted to think and sort out his thoughts, but instead departed more confused than when he arrived.
Stiletto checked in at the Hyatt off the Embarcadero but left his pistol and harness in the X-ray proof bottom of his suitcase.
He stood at the room’s window overlooking a view of the city. Lots of high-rise buildings. If he looked left, he could see the Bay Bridge span stretching across the bay. It was a bridge. Nothing special about it. Gray, drab, a steel-and-concrete monstrosity. He’d seen a million of them. The Embarcadero below, the major roadway that ran along the waterfront, was very busy, vehicles overflowing the two lanes on either side of a dividing island that doubled as a track for underground trams.
He turned from the window, picked up the phone. He dialed Ali’s number and took a deep breath as the line rang.
“Hello?”
“It’s Scott. I’m in town.”
“Oh my God, Scott, can you come over now?”
“Sure.”
“Where are you staying?”
He told her.
“You’re only a few blocks away. I’ll send a car over.”
How fancy.
He told her he’d be ready and hung up. Putting the phone down, he wasn’t sure how he felt about hearing her voice again. Scott surprised himself by admitting that he really didn’t feel anything at all.
She answered the door, dressed in black, but her eyes flashed when she looked at him. She didn’t fight a smile as she invited Scott inside and gave him a weak hug. Her slim frame felt fragile to him. She’d always felt fragile.
“How was the ride?” she said.
“Okay. Lots of traffic.”
“Always, in this town.”
“Nice place,” he said, glancing around the living room. Everything looked expensive, but nothing looked like anybody really lived there. The counters and floor were spotless, the furniture perfectly aligned. It might as well have been a display home.
But enough of that, he decided. He looked at Ali.
“We were all stunned by your letter. The General sends his condolences.”
“How is the old goat?”
She started across the living room to the kitchen. He followed. She handed him a beer from the fridge and they sat on the balcony. She had a terrific view of the bay and the Bay Bridge. Noise from the span wasn’t too loud. Fog drifted in from the water and with it followed a chill. Stiletto felt the chill up his neck. How much was the fog to blame?
“He’s doing well,” he said, “and currently upset with me for some unpleasantness over my last assignment.”
“Wish you could say more.”
“Enough of that. I didn’t come here to talk about me.”
Her gaze lingered on the bay. A cargo ship sailed under the span of the bridge. Smaller sail boats sliced across the water.
“You can smoke if you want.”
“I didn’t bring any cigars.”
“There’s a tobacco shop a few blocks away you might like.”
“Ali.”
Her voice cracked. “It all happened so fast.”
She held together while explaining the murder, drawing on the strength built up over years of tense moments in General Ike’s office.
“What did you mean about the cops?”
Ali threw up her hands. Her voice became stronger as frustration flooded her face. “Random crime. Somebody will try and make a deal someday and they’ll name the shooter, but they have nothing to go on.
“There should have been a video of the attack. But somebody deactivated the lobby cameras.”
“The shooter wore a mask, you said.”
“Doesn’t matter. Those cameras should have been working. Maybe one might malfunction, but all of them?”
“You think this was a hit.”
“Yes,” Ali said.
“Why?”
“One of my mother’s original partners, Max Fairmont, left to start a software business. We only communicated through Christmas cards. Then, all these years later, out of the blue, Max offers to buy the company for more than it is worth. Three or four times he tried to get me to sell. I kept telling him no. Then Dad gets shot and the day I got out of the hospital, somebody called me. ‘Sell or something worse happens.’ I can’t imagine what, though.”
“Have you told the cops?”
“About a crank call?”
“I suppose they’d say that,” Scott said.
“I don’t know what kind of stuff Fairmont gets mixed up in, but who else? The only thing that doesn’t make sense is why he would resort to murder just to buy a company.”
Stiletto drank and watched the tanker in the bay. The slow-moving vessel had cleared the span. Tug boats chugged their way toward it to guide the tanker into port.
“Can you help, Scotty?”
He shook his head and related his chat with
General Ike prior to his departure.
She sank in her chair. “I knew you were going to say that. I don’t know what I was thinking.” She drank some beer. “Don’t you still have an F.B.I. contact out here?”
“Toby O’Brien, yeah.”
“Well, maybe--”
“We’d have to show he has a reason to get involved,” Scott said. “If it remains a local police matter, his hands will be tied.”
“How do we find that reason?”
“I’ll do whatever I can, but if you’re expecting--”
“No, not at all. I just need somebody to listen. And help a little. Jesus, Scott--” and she finally choked, set down the beer, and started to cry.
Scott went over to her. She stood up and they embraced. Despite the chill from the fog, she felt warm against him. He held her while she sobbed on his shoulder.
Chapter Five
It took two days but Stiletto finally picked up Inspector Clover’s trail. The inspector sat for lunch at an outdoor café near the Ferry Building, the shadow of the domed clock tower on top of the building casting a shadow on the street. Stiletto pulled over an extra chair and showed Clover his hands. Two seagulls flapped overhead.
The inspector, a bowl of steaming chili before him with spoon halfway to his mouth, kept his left hand under the table.
“I’m a friend of Ali Lewis,” Scott said. “Don’t want any trouble, I just have some questions.”
“It’s lunch time.”
“She’s been calling you.”
“I have many cases to deal with, many people calling. I can’t spend all day on the phone.”
“Inspector--”
“Your friend is the victim of a random crime. We have a lot of those in this city.”
“Sounds like all you’ve done is file a report.”
“I’ve done a hell of a lot more than that.” Clover raised his voice but the nearby traffic and pedestrian noise drowned out most of the indignation. He lowered his voice. “You probably wouldn’t understand.”
“What if I told you I think it wasn’t random at all.”
“You watch too many movies.”
“The disabled lobby cameras weren’t a clue?” Stiletto said.
“We found repair guys in the basement pulling an all-nighter to get them fixed. Look, it was a botched robbery attempt, okay?”
“Really.”
“Ms. Lewis’s father managed to tear off the shooter’s pants pocket and we found a list of things he wanted from a specific home. That’s it. End of story.”
“And we’re back to you just filing a report.”
“I know within the next couple of months, we’ll bust somebody on another charge and he’ll give up the shooter to make a deal. Happens all the time.”
“Ali told me you’d said that to her.”
Stiletto kept his eyes on Clover. The inspector put down his spoon and leaned forward.
“Word of warning. I know a military man when I see one.”
“Ex.”
“Still recent. Stay out of trouble or I’ll be locking you up.”
“’cause a previous administration said us military types are a problem, aren’t we?”
“You can be.”
“Especially in this city?”
“What does that mean?”
“I know a leftie cop when I see one.”
Clover clenched his jaw.
“Careful not to wear out your ass from sitting too much,” Stiletto said. He stood and walked away, but glanced back to see Clover’s smoldering eyes followed him. He waved.
Clover watched Stiletto climb into a cab. He scowled at the chili. He didn’t have an appetite anymore. He took out his phone and made a quick call.
“I just had a visitor.”
“We know.”
“What?”
“The woman has called for help. We’re on him. Relax and carry on.”
Clover ended the call and tried to finish his chili but now it was cold.
Stiletto gave the cab driver the address of a restaurant uptown and glanced back periodically as the taxi moved through traffic. He ignored the odd smell in the back of the cab, and the vomit stain on the plastic partition between him and the driver, though he wondered if the stain was the cause of the smell. He decided not to ask. Instead, Stiletto watched a sedan that stayed with them, keeping a discreet distance back, but the driver not changing lanes or turning another direction over the same three block distance as the cab wasn’t a coincidence.
Stiletto carried no weapons, but if Ali was right and Max Fairmont was attempting a different kind of hostile takeover, he couldn’t very well refuse the lead, along with a chance to strike back and show Fairmont he had a new obstacle.
The cab stopped for a light. The meter read $20. Stiletto tossed $40 onto the front seat and bolted from the vehicle, running up the sidewalk to an alley.
He flattened against the right wall and waited. The cement was cracked, with debris strewn about. He’d need to watch his step if the hand-to-hand went too long. A shadow grew on the sidewalk. The man who entered the alley wore street clothes and a light jacket. He had his hand on a holstered pistol. Young, wiry, and not fast enough.
Stiletto snatched off the sunglasses, the man wincing at the sudden surge of light. Stiletto grabbed his gun arm and twisted. He flung the opponent against the opposite wall. The man struck back with a swing that connected with Scott’s jaw. Stiletto ignored the flash of pain. The man charged but Stiletto met him with a one-two solar plexus strike. As the man sucked air, Scott grabbed an arm and flipped the man over his back, slamming him to the pavement. That was it. Good night, Irene.
Scott quickly searched the man’s pockets. Ignored the gun. Found a cell phone. No car keys. Scott ran back to the street. Dude had left his car in the middle lane. Other cars stacked up behind it, angry drivers jerking their cars around the unoccupied vehicle. Stiletto endured honks and four letter words as he hopped behind the wheel and drove away.
At the next light, he dialed the last number called on the assailant’s phone.
“Where is he now?” a voice on the other end said.
“Knocked out in an alley,” Stiletto said. “But I think you mean me. I’m in your guy’s car. Y’all are going to have to do better than that. This is a man’s game and you’re fielding children.”
“Just you wait, Mr. Hero.”
The line clicked and Stiletto put down the phone. He laughed. He’d been called worse.
“What do you mean they attacked you?”
“Just one.”
“Still,” she said.
Ali had chosen a restaurant with outdoor seating that Stiletto did not like. He did not want to be so exposed right now. He looked around as they ate. Plenty of people, not only in the seating area but on the sidewalk. They provided some natural cover, but Scott still didn’t like it. He didn’t like the hard chair he was sitting in, either. It made his rear end hurt.
Ali had ordered a chicken salad while he munched on fish-and-chips.
He told her more of what happened after the fight.
“Was that smart?”
“It proves your theory. Your father’s murder was no random crime.”
“So now what?”
Another man approached the table. Dark suit, no sunglasses. Heavily built, mostly muscle. No child, Stiletto noticed. When the man spoke, Scott recognized his voice from the cell phone exchange.
“Ms. Lewis.”
“What do you want, McCormick?”
Stiletto rose from his chair, the metal legs scraping on the concrete, as the man called McCormick reached into his coat.
“Relax, Mr. Hero,” the other man said. He handed Ali an envelope.
“What do I do with this?” she said.
“Open it.”
Ali instead tore it in half and set the pieces on the table.
“Tell Max to go to hell. If you think for one second--”
“Fine, then.” McCormick started to leave.
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“Hey,” Scott said.
McCormick turned.
“See you soon.”
“We’ll have fun, I’m sure.”
McCormick moved away.
Stiletto sat again and resumed eating.
Ali picked at her salad.
“You okay?”
She kept her eyes down.
“Hey.”
She looked up at him.
“We’re going to find out what’s behind this and stop it, I promise.”
She didn’t respond right away. Her eyes scanned his face. Finally, she said: “I believe you.”
McCormick didn’t hail a cab but walked instead, thinking. He still had an hour or two before Fairmont finished a meeting with his development staff. He couldn’t report until that ended.
He picked up a Motortrend and a bottle of Evian at a corner store, and walked up the block to Union Square. He found a bench where he sat to read and think, especially about the new problem. Pigeons waddled over but lost interest when they realized he had no food for them.
Their research on Ali Lewis didn’t point to anybody with a cowboy complex. Whoever Mr. Hero was, he came at first call. What was the connection between them? Old boyfriend? Certainly nobody recent and why would an old flame come to her aid? He wasn’t just anybody. He was certainly not afraid to fight.
Clover had mentioned he was military. Ali had never served in the military so he ruled out a connection there.
Who was Mr. Hero?
McCormick decided the heck with it and focused on reading. Fairmont wasn’t finished with his plan. That meant Mr. Hero would be around for a good long while.
Max Fairmont, at the head of the conference table, stood as the last of the software staff concluded their updates. Somebody coughed.
“Thanks, everybody,” he said. “I’m very pleased with the progress. Pleased enough to say I want a full demonstration of the system ready for the SalesForce show in two weeks.”
He hadn’t taken off his black suit jacket, which matched his thin tie. The grin started to fade a bit. It was tougher and tougher to keep up the façade lately. His company wasn’t what it used to be. Once one of the leading tech celebrities in the Bay Area, he was now also-ran material.