“Neal, what the hell are you doing out here at this godawful time of the morning?” Marcus bellowed as he opened the door. “Why didn’t you call?”
“Sorry, Mark,” Neal stepped into his friend’s house, “Sorry, sorry, sorry. I did call, but I got transferred to your office answering machine. Mark, I’m desperate. I need to ask you the biggest favor of my life. Name your price.”
“Million bucks,” Marcus was bemused, “Two million because it’s after midnight.”
“How do you spell that last name?” Neal theatrically reached into his jacket pocket for his checkbook.
“Later,” the detective chuckled. He had solved a half dozen cases for Neal’s company in the past, all of them when Security Pacific’s best had reached dead-ends. “This IS about the heist this morning. Excuse me. Yesterday morning.”
“Again, a thousand apologies,” Neal’s desperation haunted him just below his jocular performance, “Yes, it’s the theft. The riemanium’s still missing. I NEED your help. Immediately.”
“And that means?” Mark cocked a mocking eyebrow.
“The next three hours of your life. Perhaps less.” Neal laughed. Pleaded. “For which I’m also willing to pay you handsomely, even if you don’t accept the case. $5,000 for your time.”
“Excuse me, while I step into my office.”
Dimapopulos actually stepped into his entry hall closet, one he had built to his own specifications. It was a walk-in with a reinforced door that locked from the inside. It had a back door into the kitchen, provided dressing mirrors with a line of last-minute clothing, and was wired with an emergency telephone and a terminal to the house’s security computer. It also hid a small, defensive arsenal. He looked himself over once casually outfitted for business, an elderly man with the broad-boned build of an aging football half-back. He had been thinking of retirement lately. But he had been only partly successful in thinning out his cases to the easiest and most lucrative over the last year. Neal’s cases were never easy. However, one last good one could secure that retirement. He excused himself to tiptoe to Gwen’s bedside to whisper: “It’s Neal. 111 be back for breakfast dear.”
Neal eased out of Marcus’s driveway in the solidly middle-class Santa Clara suburb, but turned south on 101. The silver haired president brought the gray haired PI up to date. As they sped along, mega-metro landscapes wrapped past the windows of the Rolls Sport. Caught between late night and early morning, the scenery was heavy on freeway light afterglowed by San Jose city lighting on a dense overcast. Marcus showed no reaction when Neal took an off ramp for a private airport, but flinched a bit when he parked at the jumpjet terminal. The detective hated flying. But while he could white knuckle a jumbo jet flight, as he had military transports, jumpjets were an entirely different matter.
Marcus had so far managed to keep his practice largely confined to the Bay Area, and to the ground, avoiding the terrors of a jump. His palms started to sweat as the two walked across the tarmac toward the small, streamlined VTOL turbojet, all bathed in yellow incandescence. He developed a noticeable tic in the left corner of his mouth when he ducked into the jumpjet’s claustrophobic passenger cabin.
“I remember you don’t like flying,” Neal apologized, “But this really is the fastest way to get across the Bay. The only way to get you some sleep tonight. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” Marcus managed, after clearing his throat twice to avoid dry heaving.
He checked and double checked his webstrap, five times total. He kept his gaze out the window, concentrating on a night iced electric. Hardly breathing. Every muscle tensed when the jets whined up, like some maniac dentist’s drill. Both heart and stomach leapt into his mouth, kept down only by clenched teeth, when the jumpjet slammed him into his seat with sudden acceleration. Fingernails bit into palms, and he struggled not to hyperventilate. The flight from the outskirts of San Jose to a smooth landing in a north Richmond industrial park took ten minutes. It lasted hours for Marcus, even as the rush of urban lighting outside the window panicked him with the feeling he rode a deadly, out-of-control roller coaster. A fetid wind off the bay cooled his wet face when he and Neal stepped down from the jet to walk to a waiting Mercedes.
“There’s a common thread here,” Neal related as he negotiated urban wasteland for a bridge-bound 580 on ramp, “The guy who escaped the Mill Valley burn-down, his description fits the description of Rosanne’s missing boyfriend. I want to hire you to find him. He must have the riemanium.”
“And this Rosanne Casey is your weekend scheduler,” Marcus fumbled for his pocket notebook, still trying to steady his heartbeat with controlled breathing, “I can drop by tomorrow...I mean today, and talk to her.”
“No,” Neal seemed irritated, “I mean, not to bother. I intervened in the local office and fired her, um, yesterday.”
“That was dumb,” Marcus used the nub of his eraser to scratch out the note, “You said yourself that the police don’t suspect her of providing her boyfriend with inside information. Do you?”
“No, the police don’t think she gave this Michael any information deliberately,” Neal admitted, “I guess I don’t either.”
“So, why ¿id you fire her?” the detective continued probing.
“I...I guess I just don’t want to reward stupidity,” Neal averted his eyes to the road. “One way or another, he used her to gain access to company information.”
“Too bad,” Marcus hunched into his sheepskin jacket, “Folks learn the most from their stupid mistakes.”
“I’ve got enough problems,” Neal ignored his friend’s implications, “I don’t need to deal with someone else’s stupid mistakes. Now I’ve got to pin down who INSIDE leaked the riemanium theft to the media.”
Marcus did not buy it, but he did not continue pushing either. They had crossed San Pablo Bay, the lights of San Quentin greeting them reflected as well off the sullen, oily, black water. One of the bridge’s last buttresses flourished a lurid, fluorescent, spray-painted piece of graffiti:
for Black dada Nihilismus. Neal dialed up connections on his cellular. Within minutes, they raced down 101 under police escort, which accompanied them through Mill Valley, and into the luxury suburbs of its foothills. Neal made small talk, inquiring about Gwen and the children, retirement, and mutual friends long-time-not-seen. The sight of over a dozen police cars brought them back to the subject.
“Captain Sampson,” Neal announced, approaching a tall, weary-eyed man, graying at the temples, but still form fitting his CHP uniform, “This is Detective Marcus Dimapopulos. He’s employed by Security Pacific to look into the riemanium theft. Please, help him in any way you can. Mark, I’ll be nosing around myself. When you’re ready, I’ll take you home.”
“I’ve heard of you,” the Captain extended his hand to shake as Neal retreated into the night. Police radios squawked and spat static. “Big case, ten years ago. The Benson kidnapping, Berkeley, ‘97. You do class work. The name’s Brian Sampson.”
Brian conducted Marcus past the road blocks, the yellow police tape, and the semi splashed with fevered red, blue, yellow and white police car lights.
“The mini-van is in the truck,” Sampson gestured absently at it, “The house and the gang had already attracted attention from the neighbors. Five guys going in and out for the past six months, perhaps as many as four of them living here on a somewhat regular basis. The truck in this neighborhood was a red flag. Guy down the block matched the police description of three of the gang and called. Four guys got out of the semi and one, Diamotti, the gang leader, was already here.”
The house was in ruins. Bullet holes, cracked plaster and fragged bricks twisted the entrance stairwell. Neatly stacked evidence, all tagged and categorized, marked off the living room floor beneath the non-existent picture window.
“This is the stuff left in the house. Groceries, newspapers, personal effects, bills, scraps of paper. We’re still going over the place for fingerprints and other clues for the lab
. Reconstructing this robbery is going to take time. If you want to look at anything, there are extra plastic gloves in the kitchen.”
Brian then showed Marcus the back yard. A grizzly scene. The twists ed, burned helicopter wreckage occupied the yard’s center, still whispering smoke and smelling of fuel and fried insulation. Four body bags, each filled, waited in a row next to the crumpled fuselage.
“There wasn’t any problem identifying any of these,” the Captain leaned down to snag open the first bag, “Each has an arm-long record. Rossi Calvino Diamotti, aka Sylvatore, Chicago, twenty years ago. The ringleader. He’s got Mob connections, but he was an independent on this coast. Ran his own operation and tithed to the ‘big boys’ back east, for special services. Next, Tyrone Austin Johnson, also known as ‘Dread.’ He did the transport and hacking. Started his record as an LA Crip. Applied his Army training after the second Gulf War to work for the New York Black Family syndicate. Sidney Thomas Franklin here handled the gang’s munitions; one of those Somali Vets who didn’t get enough of that war. Did mercenary work in Angola, South Africa and Peru. Also wanted in Illinois for ‘questioning’ in the death of his wife and his best friend. Finally, Bill ‘Mako’ Young. Last employer; the Hawaiian Mafia. One of their hit men, responsible for perhaps as many as twenty-two island murders. The advantages of Diamotti’s mob connections.”
“And the fifth suspect?” Marcus asked, poking his notebook with the point of his pencil.
“All we have definitely is a set of fingerprints,” Brian said, “The FBI is cross-checking. But so far, nothing. We’ve got vague descriptions from the neighbors. Apparently, he’s the one who didn’t live here. Diamotti’s phone book has six public telephone listings in the north Marin area, each noted with a day, time and the name Peregrine. From all the other evidence, this fifth suspect was the gang’s procurer.”
“Rosanne Casey’s Michael Baumann?” the detective ventured.
“Neal told you,” Sampson grew more weary by the minute and pulled a folded xerox from his pocket, “We’ve done a police composite sketch based on her description. I’ll get you a better copy. She was as helpful as she could be. She does not appear involved, but I have no doubt he used his relationship with Rosanne to gain access to inside information on the Security Pacific run.”
“You’ve talked to her then?”
“Yesterday afternoon, just before she got off work. Nice girl. 31. X-ray tech/nursing student at UCSF Her Security Pacific job was only part-time.”
“It’s not even that, anymore,” Marcus commented.
“I know. Neal fired her. She seems genuinely distressed about all of this. She says her ‘Mike’ is innocent.”
“Now, for the 64-Dollar-Question...”
There’s no trace of the riemanium. Anywhere.” Brian grimly shook his head. “Not in the van, not in the house, not in the helicopter. Not anywhere. The Piccoli collection is safe and sound at HQ. But just like this Peregrine, the riemanium’s vanished into thin air. Now, our missing suspect could have gotten away any number of ways. But few with that riemanium. Case and all, it weighs over sixty pounds.”
“But you go along with Neal’s theory that if this Peregrine, or Mike, or whoever is found, the riemanium will be also?” the detective asked.
“There’s a number of possibilities actually. They might have dumped the riemanium once it got too hot for them, and no one’s found it yet. Perhaps they stashed it somewhere, intending to return for it. There might’ve been two different gangs involved in this robbery. Or maybe they had a buyer, and its already been delivered and paid for. Then again, maybe Peregrine drove away with the riemanium in a car between the time the neighbor called and we arrived here. We can’t be sure that didn’t happen. Its one of the more plausible scenarios. In any case, the fifth suspect is the only living witness to what happened. Accomplice to the guard’s murder as well. We may not find the riemanium when we track him down. But, well be a step closer.”
“True enough,” Marcus said, “By the way, can I get a copy of your investigation so far? I’m particularly interested in getting hold of Rosanne Casey. Fm sure Neal Emerson would authorize it.”
“Not a problem. Stop by my office on Monday.” Sampson handed the detective his card. “Anything else you’d like to know?”
“Plenty. But for now, 111 just poke around on my own for a while.”
“Be my guest,” Brian waved a hand, “Told you about the gloves. I’ll be around for the rest of the night.”
Marcus contributed to the police investigation by digging up three more clues. He noticed right off the condition of the lawn to one side of the crashed helicopter. Besides excavating the bullets to match the dead men’s guns, he also found a shirt button which did not match any of those worn by the corpses. Second, he called Rossi’s list of six public phone numbers for Peregrine, and surprisingly for two-thirty in the morning, five answered. Not so surprising as all five were in late night cafes or clubs which featured “alternative music” on the nights Peregrine was scheduled in Diamotti’s phone book. Three were in Alabaster, one was in Marinwood, and the other was in Fairfax.
“If the final number is in or around Alabaster, that’s a logical place to start looking for this Peregrine,” Marcus smiled at Brian over a paper cup of coffee.
And finally, the detective tracked Peregrine’s flight from the house.
“He climbed, actually jumped the first fence there,” Marcus pointed out the section to the Captain, “You can’t see it clearly on the safe house side, but you can see where he landed in this yard.”
The owner of the transgressed yard held his Dobermans at bay and looked bewildered.
“He hit the second fence here. He probably used the canyon on the other side to escape the area. Now, if we could have those broken off fence boards there, on the other side.
Brian snapped his fingers, and a CHP officer jumped.
There,” Marcus held the board pieces up with pride, “Fabric, thread, blood, probably some skin cells.”
“You’ve certainly earned your pay tonight, which I assume is better than mine,” Sampson whistled, depositing the fence ends into an evidence zip-lock, “No indication that he was carrying anything as heavy as a case of riemanium.”
“None,” Marcus rubbed his tired eyes, “And every indication that this Peregrine had a falling out with the rest of the gang. Literally had to run for his life. ‘Course, your boys would have gotten all of this. Eventually.”
“Eventually,” the Captain conceded, “Now, what’s up?”
“I’m going home,” Marcus grinned with satisfaction, “It’ll be dawn in another couple of hours. I need my sleep, but 111 pick up that report Monday morning.”
“Stop in for a talk, while you’re at it,” Brian said.
Neal sprawled, fast asleep, across the front seat of his car.
“I’ll take the case,” Marcus said as the corporate president drove away from the rich, gutted house. “Minimum, if I find Peregrine, it’ll cost you $250,000; $50,000 up front. They find him tomorrow, that’s all you lose. $100,000 if you want me off the case for any reason, and $150,000 if somewhere along the way the police get him, helped by my work. Ill be consulting closely with Captain Sampson. Ill tell you at $150,000 if there’s going to be an overrun. Also I’ll need a powerful portable computer and communications setup. I’ll submit a formal contract Monday. Deal?”
“Agreed,” Neal yawned.
“And Neal, no more one-in-the-morning visits. I’ll get an answering service and a beeper, but I decide what’s an emergency. You know my business hours. One more thing. We drive back to my house. No jump-jet.”
They recrossed the Richmond-San Rafael bridge, and it started to rain.
EIGHT
Excerpted from
“Nations and People of Earth,”
The Amok World Almanac
and Book of Weird Facts
2010
(Electrostraca #: A/GR-010-367-582-2376)
The
Celebes/Sulawesi Outlaw Zone is a collection of islands in Indonesia, east of Borneo; a sub-archipelago of about 73,000 square miles now populated by perhaps two million hardened international criminals. Until 1999 Celebes/Sulawesi was an integral part of Indonesia, inhabited by some ten million Malays, Indians, Chinese and indigenous peoples engaged principally in agriculture, fishing and forestry. Islam and Hinduism became forces with the rise of religious fundamentalism worldwide in the 1990’s, and when the 1998 Third World economic collapse hit Indonesia, cutting earnings from exports in half, Moslem and Hindu separatists launched well organized insurrections across Celebes/Sulawesi by the fall. An aged, senile President-For-Life Suharto and his corrupt, nepotistic regime resorted to a counterinsurgency campaign some of the critics of which have called East Timor Cubed. This strategy of indiscriminate mass genocide and rapid population relocations left the Celebes virtually depopulated by the end of 1999. Then the old general surprised the international community by creating the Sulawesi Development Corporation and offering up the sub-archipelago as the world’s largest prison colony.
What is more surprising is that the United States, United Kingdom, United Europe, and the remnants of the Commonwealth of Independent States, among many other nations large and small, quickly signed contracts with the Development Corporation. Incorrigible criminals were given a choice; life in prison without parole, perhaps the death penalty if it applied, or the slim chance of survival after being randomly parachuted into the Celebes. The entire island collection, in turn, was surrounded by state-of-the-art security; submarines, floating and aerial monitoring devices, as well as manned boat and air patrols armed to the teeth.
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