Nightingale went through to the guest bathroom where he’d left his clothes. By the time he’d changed, Chen had a series of photographs on her monitor. “I Googled ‘cliff top mansion Tudor style San Francisco area’ and came up with hundreds of pictures,” she said. “Most aren’t local.” She scrolled down. A lot of the pictures had been thrown up by the word ‘Tudor’ rather than the location, and a lot of the houses were old and clearly in England. She homed in on one and clicked on it to enlarge it. It wasn’t the one that had appeared in the crystal.
Nightingale bent closer as she scrolled down the rows. He pointed at the fifth row.
“Stop, that’s it,” he said. “Click on that one.”
She enlarged the photograph and gasped. “That’s it,” she said. She clicked on to the link connected to the photograph and they went through to a page called Homes Of The Stars. She scrolled down to the photograph they’d seen and Chen read the copy. “The mansion is called The Elms,” she said. “It’s where Jerry King and Suzi Brook live.”
“Who?” asked Nightingale,
“Pretty much the biggest music names on the West coast.”
“I try not to listen to music by people who are still alive,” said Nightingale. “Tell me about them.”
“Seriously?” she said. “You didn’t hear their story? They were in a band producing their own stuff for the internet when one of their videos went viral on YouTube. Inside a month they were on Letterman, their first album went triple-platinum, had a contract for five more, a sold-out national tour. Says here they bought an old mansion overlooking the bay and spent a boatload renovating it. Not that too many people get invites, they’re shy on publicity, I’m told.”
“What are they? Husband-wife? Girlfriend-boyfriend?”
“No one knows for sure,” said Chen. “They’re a bit of an enigma. He’s just turned twenty-one, she’s nineteen.”
“When did all this happen?” asked Nightingale.
“Around two years ago, I think. Fastest thing you ever saw. Way faster than Justin Bieber’s rise to stardom. Funny though, they sell millions, but I never met anyone who actually liked their stuff.”
“So you wouldn’t have any?”
“Well, it happens that I do. My sister bought me a CD for Christmas. Never actually listened to it.”
“Maybe you should give it a try?” said Nightingale.
“It’s pop. I’m not a big fan of pop.”
“Me neither,” he said. “All sounds the same. Maybe just one track.”
“OK.”
She walked over to the bookcase and opened one of the CD boxes.
“Here you go, In Your Face. Just the first track, eh? Long After Dark.”
She pressed PLAY and the room filled with bouncy music. A catchy tune with two young voices apparently shouting at each other. Nightingale was no fan of pop music but despite himself he found his foot tapping in time to the tunes.
The music stopped. Nightingale looked at the display on the CD, it just showed the album length, 58m 18s. They’d listened to it all. He looked at Chen who was shaking herself, as if just waking up.
“Wow. Guess I drifted off there. What do you think?”
“Not sure, I think I drifted off too. So, they happened two years ago, eh? Around the same time as Speckman and Lucille Carr first hit it big?”
“More or less. But how can there be a connection between a football player an actress and two teen musicians?”
“They all got lucky. Except maybe it wasn’t luck.”
“You’re kidding me, right?” she said. “You really cannot be serious. Those guys have all the money they would ever need, what would they want with kidnapping and Satanism?”
“I think maybe it works the other way around,” said Nightingale. “Maybe the Satanism came first. We’ve found four people so far who were nobodies two years ago, then their luck changed and now they’re huge. And they’re all involved in abduction and murder.”
“You say. I’m seeing no evidence of any such thing, just some burning herbs and a picture in a crystal ball. You’re talking about multiple butchery. Ordinary people just don’t do things like that.”
“But they’re not ordinary people anymore,” he said. “They’re the Apostles.”
“So you say.”
“What do you know about Speckman and Carr?”
“I know they’re both good, upstanding citizens. You never hear of them crossing any lines. They’re as rich as hell, sure, and they’re both incredibly successful. But they’re not child-killers.”
“Amy, if they were, they would hardly advertise the fact, would they? What about Speckman a few years ago. Where was he then?”
She shrugged. “Everyone knows the story,” she said. “At least all San Franciscans do. Speckman was a second-string running back at SFU, then suddenly he starts making waves, playing out of his skin. He was a wild card pick for the 49ers and has started every game since. Rushed for 1597 yards last season, 27 touchdowns and already on course to beat that this year. From nowhere to multimillionaire in two years.” She saw Nightingale raise his eyebrows and she held up her hands. “Right person, right time,” she said. “It happens.”
“Same as Speckman and Carr? Just lucky?”
“Sometimes people do get lucky, Jack.”
Nightingale nodded at the television on the wall. “You said that was hooked up to the internet? Can you get some of Speckman’s games?”
“Sure. I’ll set it up while you make us coffee.”
Five minutes later they were sitting on the sofas watching Kent Speckman work his magic on the football field.
“Don’t watch him,” said Nightingale. “Watch what’s going on around him.”
Speckman was charging down the field, the ball tucked under his arm.
“I don’t see it.”
“It’s as if they’re letting him through. They’re all just of a fraction of a second too slow.”
Chen laughed. “That’s because he’s fast.”
Nightingale shook his head. “Show me a video from three years ago.”
Chen used her remote to scroll through a menu and another game flashed up onto the screen. She frowned as she watched Speckman make a much less successful run. He was brought down after just a few seconds and the ball slipped from his hands. She flicked through half a dozen short clips and in none of them was he particularly successful. “Okay, but he improved,” she said, exasperated. “He trained hard and he improved.”
“Is one possibility. But again, look at the people around him. Look at how they are reacting to him.”
She watched several more videos of Speckman’s early games, then called up his most recent. She sat back on the sofa frowning as she watched him run. “I hate to say this, but you’re right. Before they would just charge him and take him down. Now they hesitate. Not by much, it’s a fraction of a second, but it’s enough to give him an edge.” She shook her head. “That’s impossible.”
“What is?”
“You know what is. You expect me to believe that Satanism has done this? Black magic?”
“That’s what black magic does. It gives you the edge. And the more Satanic power you have, the bigger your edge.”
CHAPTER 49
Chen took Nightingale to a local diner for brunch. Nightingale had a steak sandwich but barely tasted it. Chen nibbled at a chicken Caesar salad. Chen spent most of the meal asking Nightingale questions, about what had already happened and what he thought would happen next.
She lowered her voice as a waitress walked by. “And they’re going to kill the children on April 30? In four days?”
“It’s a blue moon. As in the expression it happens once in a blue moon. It’s when there are two full moons in a month. But this next blue moon is even more special. It’s on a Walpurgisnacht Wednesday. That’s a big night for witches in Germany. But it also plays a big part in the Satanism of Anton LaVey who founded a Satanic church here in San Francisco. So yes, all the signs are tha
t it’ll happen on April 30. We need to check out that mansion, Amy. And soon.”
“We’d need a search warrant. And I don’t see us getting one.”
“There has to be a way.” He cursed and hit his forehead with the palm of his hand.
“What’s wrong?”
“I sent an email to a guy who might be able to give me some information on the whole San Francisco Satanism thing. I gave him my number but I threw the Sim card away. If he does call..” He cursed again.
“No problem,” said Chen, waving for the check.
Nightingale took out his wallet. “I’ll get it,” he said. “I’m on expenses.”
“Damn right you’ll get it,” she said.
Nightingale paid the bill and Chen took him along to a T-Mobile store where he bought half a dozen pay-as-you-go Sim cards. “That’s a bit of overkill, isn’t it?” she said as they walked out of the shop.
Nightingale lit a cigarette, then offered her one when he saw how she was looking at the pack. He lit it for her and she cupped her hands around the flame of his lighter to shield it from the wind that was blowing down the street. “I’ve got to be careful,” he said. “I don’t know how well connected The Apostles are. For all I know, they could have someone high up in the phone company. Or in the FBI, the DEA, the CIA, any set of initials you can name. You don’t know who you can trust.”
“I trust you,” she said, then blew smoke up at the graying sky. “God knows why.”
He grinned. “The feeling’s mutual,” he said. “Look, I know I keep asking you to do things for me, but I’m going to need a car and I’d prefer not to get another rental.”
“So I save your life, let you sleep on my sofa, cook you breakfast, risk my life getting your stuff from your hotel…is there anything else?”
“That’s about it,” said Nightingale.
“And now you want me to give you my car?”
“Lend me your car. I’ll give it back.”
“You’ve got a cheek, Jack, I’ll give you that.”
“So is that a yes?”
“It’s a maybe. Today’s Saturday. I can drive you tomorrow. We’ll talk about Monday on Monday.” She held up the cigarette. “I can’t believe you’ve got me smoking again.”
“At least you don’t have to buy them.”
“Yes. there’s always that,” she said, her voice loaded with sarcasm.
CHAPTER 50
As soon as they got back to Chen’s apartment, Nightingale slotted one of the Sim cards into his phone. Chen let him use her computer to send another email to Basil Dukas, including his new phone number. He had just hit the button to send the email when the intercom buzzed. “That was fast,” said Chen. She went over to the intercom unit and picked up the handset. She listened and then turned to Nightingale. “Are you expecting a dragon?”
Nightingale looked at his watch. With no traffic it was a six-hour drive from Los Angeles to San Francisco, so Dragan had made good time. “The fire-breathing kind, no. But a guy called Dragan, yeah. Can you let him in? He’s delivering the tracking stuff.”
Chen buzzed the man in and a couple of minutes later there was a quiet knock on the door. Chen opened it and took an involuntarily step backwards when she saw the size of the man standing there. Dragan was a fraction under seven feet tall and almost as wide as the door itself. He smiled showing slab-like teeth, acknowledging the effect he’d had on her. He was wearing a black leather coat that Nightingale reckoned had probably cost the lives of at least three cows, blue jeans and boots that were so large that they must have been custom-made. His head was almost a perfect sphere, his hair shaved to reveal two thick scars over his left ear. There were a dozen or so small scars on his right cheek, all irregular as if he’d been hit by shrapnel years earlier. He was holding an aluminum briefcase that looked positively tiny compared with his bulk. “I’m here for Jack,” he said. His voice was like gravel being poured from a metal bucket, Eastern European but softened by his time in America. Chen recovered her composure and opened the door. Dragan stepped through the threshold, ducking down slightly so as not to bang his head on the door frame. He nodded at Nightingale. “You Jack?”
“Sure am,” said Nightingale. He stood up and offered his hand. Dragan’s hand enveloped his own, like an adult grasping a child, and the slight squeeze he gave was enough for Nightingale’s fingers to go numb. “Bloody hell, Dragan, you’re a big one, aren’t you?”
“You should see my brothers,” said Dragan. “I was the runt of the litter. Now my dad, he was a big man.”
“Dragan, can I offer you a drink?” said Amy
“Do you have tea?”
“Sure, I have tea.”
“Green tea?”
“My favorite sort.”
“Then I’d love one.”
She waved him to the free sofa as she headed over to make the tea. Dragan put his briefcase on the coffee table and sat down. The sofa seemed to groan in pain as he settled his vast bulk. Nightingale sat down opposite him. Dragan looked around. “Nice place,” he said, approvingly.
“It’s Amy’s.”
“She’s nice, too.”
“She’s lovely,” agreed Nightingale.
“Girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Pity.”
Nightingale looked over at Chen who was standing waiting for the kettle to boil, far enough not to be overhearing them. “Yeah, maybe.”
“I had a friend who had a Chinese girlfriend. He said the sex was great but half an hour later he wanted another one.” Dragan’s laughter boomed around the apartment. Nightingale looked over at Chen, hoping that she hadn’t heard the joke.
“Jack, do you want tea or coffee?” she said, so he figured he was in the clear.
“I’ll try the tea,” he said. He turned back to Dragan. Dragan smiled. “Did you drive?”
Dragan shook his head. “Flew most of the way,” he said. “Mr. Wainwright fixed up a plane for us?”
“Us?”
“I came with a few friends,” he said.
“The more the merrier, I guess,” said Nightingale. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“How much do you weigh?”
Dragan laughed. “I don’t know. Most scales don’t go up high enough.”
Dragan was big, but he was clearly fit, too. It was all muscle. Nightingale couldn’t help but wonder what it would take to kill a man like Dragan. A head shot maybe. Or a bullet to the heart. Anything else he’d probably be able to shrug off.
Chen came over with a brown earthenware teapot with a bamboo handle and three matching mugs on a tray. She put it down next to the briefcase and then sat down next to Nightingale before pouting tea into the mugs. Dragan sipped his and nodded appreciatively. “Nice,” he said. He put down the mug and flicked the two locks on the briefcase. He swung it open and took out a small metal box, not much bigger than a pack of Nightingale’s favorite cigarettes. “This will stick to any metal,” said Dragan. ‘The chassis is best but under a wheel arch will do just fine. The battery is good for four to five days usually, any longer than that and you need to think about connecting it to the car’s electrical system. The tracker only switches on when the car is moving.”
“I don’t think hard-wiring will be possible, but four days should be long enough,” said Nightingale.
Dragan took an iPad from the case and placed it on the coffee table. He tapped the screen and they were looking at a Google map of San Francisco. “You can see all the activated units on this screen,” he said. “I’ll show you.” He picked up the tracking unit and pressed a small black button on the side. A few seconds later a small red dot flashed on the iPad screen.
Chen picked up the iPad and nodded. “That’s us,” she said. “That is a nice piece of equipment. And totally illegal without a warrant.”
“It’s untraceable,” he said. “No serial number, no manufacturer’s marks. No comeback.” He reached into the briefcase again and took out two iP
hones. “The same app is on these phones if you want to carry them in your pocket,” he said.
“Brilliant,” said Nightingale. “They’re just what we want.”
Chen nodded, impressed by the equipment but clearly still worried about the legal implications of what they were proposing to do.
Dragan took another three of the tracker units and put them on the table before closing the briefcase. “There’s four units, I can get you as many as you want.”
“Four is more than enough,” said Nightingale.
“Mr. Wainwright wants us to keep an eye on you,” said Dragan, leaning back on the sofa. The creaking sounds from the back legs made it sound as if the sofa was in pain.
“I don’t need a babysitter,” said Nightingale, switching off the tracking unit. The red light vanished almost immediately.
“We’ll be discreet. You won’t even know we’re there.”
“Who is this Wainwright?” asked Chen.
“He’s a guy I work for from time to time,” said Nightingale.
“He’s your boss?”
“Sort of,” said Nightingale. He looked at Dragan and gestured at Chen. “Amy here is a cop,” he said. “With a gun.”
“All cops have guns,” said Dragan. He pulled back his coat to reveal a handgun in a shoulder holster. “I’ve got one, too.”
Chen jumped to her feet but Dragan held up his hands to reassure her. “I have a CCW permit,” he said. “I’m legal.”
“I’d like to see that,” said Chen.
“No problem,’ said Dragan. He reached slowly into his jacket pocket and pulled out a black plastic wallet. He gave it to her and she opened it.
“CCW?” asked Nightingale.
“Carrying a concealed weapon,” said Chen, reading the information on Dragan’s permit. “California’s gun laws are quite restrictive, we don’t hand these things out like candies. But Mr. Dragan’s seems in order.”
She gave it back to Dragan and he smiled. “Friends in high places,” he said as he put it away.
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