by Todd Cohen
“Do you know where we can catch a thief?” asked Shaw.
“No sign yet. Come with us,” he replied.
Alex pulled out an army-green sack from the back of his Honda Pilot and swung it over his shoulder. We followed him inside the hostel.
“They should be here any minute,” I said.
“We know that, that’s why we’re here in the hostel,” replied the sergeant.
We waited patiently in the hostel for the fireworks. Amy and I were crouched behind a window in a small room with two bunk beds. Holding hands! One minute went by, then two, then four, and then ten. Still no truck!
The truck had arrived at Fort Mason, but not at the upper old Military Barracks, or hostel, where the Feds were stationed, but at the lower warehouses and pavilions of Fort Mason. Lower Fort Mason consisted of the buildings that I recalled from the SF MoMA warehouse sale. There were three long piers or pavilions that jutted into San Francisco Bay, facing out to Alcatraz. The Herbst Pavilion 2, and then the Festival Pavilion 3 followed the most western Pier 1.
“Sarge, they’re at the lower pavilion. The truck just pulled up,” reported an out-of-breath junior SWAT team member, carrying a half-smoked cigarette. He had run over from the cliffside woods just to the left of the hostel, which overlooked the Lower Barracks. The officer now stood huffing and puffing right in front of the hostel, facing O’Leary.
“Guys, send Shaw and his crew around the front through the main gate. My crew and I will head through the woods down the cliff, and trap them from the other side.” O’Leary was ready for action. But now he had to reconfigure and redeploy his troops.
The first-pier pavilion, part of the Lower Barracks, was the one I remembered the most, since it included the SFMOMA warehouse. It also included the ever-popular and long-standing San Francisco vegetarian restaurant known as “Greens.” I had eaten there once before, nothing but fruits and vegetables, and definitely no steak.
The Lower Barrack buildings were labeled by letters A through E and consisted of long, concrete yellow structures, tilting casement windows, red fire escape-type stairwells front and back, and large storage facilities. Each building had such storage, and at least one of them must have had something to do with the stolen art.
“Guys, you six take the back trail. The other half come with me around the front.”
O’Leary seemed to know what he was doing. Alex grabbed his army-green sack, reached in, and pulled out two shoulder-strap bags—each concealing a weapon. He unzipped a bag, which revealed an Uzi, an Israeli open-block submachine gun, and then zipped the bag back up, handing one bag to Amy and the other one to me—motioning for us to follow behind him.
“Just aim and fire, Dawson. Amy, you may have to do the same.” Shaw just stared into our eyes.
I just nodded and swung the concealed weapon over my shoulders. Amy did the same.
This was not my plan. Amy and I had talked about a plan if we made it all the way to San Francisco in the truck by ourselves. Our plan was to run for cover and let the Feds do everything else. But Alex needed us, and we were not going to stay out of harm’s way. It was all hands on deck! I looked at Amy and whispered, “Without capturing these guys and the painting, my life is over.”
“Mine too,” she whispered back.
We followed Alex and the SWAT team through the lower Fort Mason gate. We quickly ran through the parking lot shielded by Pier 1. When we reached the yellow concrete façade of the building, Alex looked back and put his finger over his lips and glanced at all of us.
From our angle, we could see the very back of the white truck, and then I saw the rear doors swing open. Concealed by the western wall of Pier 1, Amy and I quickly glanced towards Building C. Two men walked out the main entrance and stood below a big green sign with yellow letters that read goody café. They stood motionless on the grey outdoor steps. It was the Vicks brothers, Maxwell and Jared, enjoying some San Francisco brew and a goody, so to speak. Fortunately, they were looking eastward and didn’t see either of us. We peeled back in order to remain hidden.
Maxwell yelled to the driver, “Not here, you idiot. The Herbst Pavilion, over there.” Max pointed eastward to another building that—with large orange, oversized garage doors—looked more like a seaside funhouse than an old army barracks.
“Alex, the Vicks brothers are standing right in front of Goody Café. Everything is going to the Herbst Pavilion,” I whispered as I pointed eastward.
Chapter 85
Something bad was going down, and we were not safe. The paintings were quickly unloaded, and rapidly placed in the Herbst Pavilion storage. We followed Alex around the back of Pier 1, completely out of the assailants’ view. I heard a large sound overhead and saw two low-flying black Apache helicopters hover just over lower Fort Mason.
“I hope they are on our side,” I whispered to Amy.
Alex silently intercepted and said, “They’re SWAT. Stay alert.”
I hoped and prayed that I would not have to use Alex’s latest gift. But the Uzi was a necessity, not a choice. From the waterside edge of the building we could see that the back of the truck was now completely empty. Standing right in front of the landing were Max and Jared. They spotted us!
“It’s Dawson,” Jared said, “Get them!”
Jared pulled a handgun from his pocket and fired two shots.
Luckily, he missed. Amy and I ran around the building between Building B and C, under an overpass between the two structures.
Two additional shots shattered some of the building’s outer concrete, not human flesh.
We could see the rough waters of the bay, with Alcatraz in the distance. Twenty yards from where we stood, there was a large freighter docked on the side that stretched between the two buildings. “Was that for the Pollock or Pollocks?” I thought.
Following Alex, we turned right and quickly ran up the red fire escape-like stairwell into an open door, which led to the second floor of Building C. Alex pointed for us to go one way, while he proceeded in the other direction. Amy and I ran down the stairwell onto a landing. We could hear footsteps getting closer. We came out by a grey second-floor landing that consisted of four doors: three separate bathroom doors and one regular door. I pulled Amy’s hand, and we slipped into the bathroom to the right, hoping that no one saw this move.
“You two cover the entrances, and we will check out the bathrooms, and the stairwell,” said a familiar voice. It was Sidekick.
I heard a few doors open, and then our door slammed opened. We were hidden behind the toilet stall. We had no choice. As the door opened up, I could see through the bottom of our stall door a pair of dirty black shoes approaching the stall, and then I heard heavy breathing. I smashed the stall door outward against the body with all my force and saw Sidekick go down! He had fallen to the floor but was shaking it off. I then kicked him in the jaw in order to silence him.
It worked!
Chapter 86
Amy and I fled out the door, around the corner, to the stairwell. When we got down to the first floor, I saw Max with a gun, staring at the entrance to the bookstore. There was an Italian American Art Show going on across from the bookstore, and we quickly slipped in. The artwork was of an artist from the Bay Area, Alberto Tonnini, something I would definitely have enjoyed if the circumstances were different, but not while we were running for our lives. I looked at the large-scale landscapes, all of the Bay Area, not too dissimilar from our current surroundings minus the army barracks and warehouses. Their calming affect had no impact on our heightened adrenaline levels. It was “fight or flight,” “them or us,” or as Charles Darwin put it “survival of the fittest.”
We slipped around the corner into the deepest end of the art show and leaned back against the wall that abutted a canvas entitled The Marin Foothills. Then I glanced back out of the entrance.
The coast looked clear.
We re-entered the bookstore, which sold a large selection of used San Francisco books.
“Who
knew?” I thought.
Amy and I made our way through the bookshelves, and around the display tables and meandered to the right into Goody Café. A long line of people stood waiting for their orders, and I could smell the fresh zucchini bread coming right out of the oven. I looked towards the door that led out. There was Jared standing with a gun on his side. We quickly jumped in line with the rest of the customers and tried to blend in.
As we got to the counter a young lady asked, “Can I help you?”
“Yes, we’ll take two slices of your zucchini bread and two mocha lattes,” I replied as we covered our faces by looking down—away from any entryway or exit point. Always facing away from the door, trying to mix in . . . Our order eventually came. We each sipped our mocha lattes and gobbled down the zucchinis! This was the calm before the storm.
Chapter 87
Mustache Man was coming out of the bookstore’s entrance into the Goody Café. His gun was evident to the crowded café customers. Once the customers saw the weapon, they panicked. Most of them ran right past Jared, who stood on the other side of the café, manning the entrance.
Amy and I were now out in the open. The short, flat shape of our over-the-shoulder harnessed weapon was easy to conceal. I had the meaty part of the “package” strapped across my back like a backpack. Amy’s was on her front side. The case was not long and flat like a shotgun or rifle, and it was not short and squat like a pistol either. It was shaped more like a musical instrument, such as a trombone or French horn, than a semiautomatic submachine gun. And the both of us looked more like members of an orchestra, perhaps the SF Philharmonic, than members of a SWAT team.
Mustache Man ran towards the both of us as we tried to head back out towards the bookstore. To no avail. He grabbed Amy by her shoulder-strapped package and threw his left hand around her neck in a tight headlock. As she screamed from pain, I could see her struggling to breathe! I was out of sight, back out in the hall just behind the rear entryway to the café. I slipped off my shoulder-harness package, unzipped the Uzi, and proceeded back inside.
“Let her go!” I screamed, pointing the Israeli submachine gun towards Mustache Man’s head.
“Drop it, Dawson,” said Jared, the younger of the two Vicks brothers, who seemed to appear out of nowhere with a pistol now pointing directly against my cerebral cortex. I did not know what to do. I knew if I lost the weapon, we would be finished. But if I kept it up towards Mustache Man, I would probably be totally finished. My grey and white matter would be splattered all over the place. No matter what happened! I decided to hold my position.
“Dawson, you’re making a big mistake!”
A crash came through the front door. As Jared and Mustache man turned their attention away from the both of us, I closed my eyes and pressed the button on the Uzi.
The loud rapid fire took down Mustache Man.
A similar barrage came from the front towards Jared, followed by the sight of another Uzi charging through the front door. Glass shattered from a pastry-display case. A framed poster of Golden Gate Park crashed down, and its glass shattered.
“The SFPD,” I guessed to myself, “or the Feds.” I expected a storm of troopers would follow, but there was no such storm.
Chapter 88
A tall, olive-skinned man walked slowly through the door. The man was wearing all black, including a black leather jacket with matching work boots, and he was wielding an Uzi submachine gun. His black hair was slicked back, held by an elastic band in an all too familiar ponytail. When I looked closer at the face, it was even more familiar than the back of my hand.
It was Dr. Alexiev Shaw.
“Drop your weapon,” Shaw said, pointing the Uzi directly at Jared.
“No, Shaw. You drop yours!” Jared hardened his stance. But he was no dope, he knew his Luger was no match for Shaw’s Uzi. He tossed the pistol towards Shaw. And Shaw put the Uzi down and started to walk towards the younger member of the Vicks clan.
I gave a sigh of relief. I held Amy in my arms and felt like this mess was over.
“Not so fast,” said a similar-appearing but slightly older Vicks member. Maxwell had now entered the café. He too was holding a Luger pointed directly at Shaw.
Instantly, Jared grabbed the Uzi away from Shaw. Max came even closer, with the Luger pointed right at Shaw’s heart! Shaw grabbed Jared’s left arm and twisted under and then back till he held Jared in front of his body, his arm in a painful hammerlock hold.
“Your brother is my shield. Go ahead and shoot!” Max threw down the gun and, pulling out a knife, came at Shaw with a downward thrust. Shaw cracked Jared’s arm, and split the bone right out of its socket and threw him down to the ground.
In a split second, Shaw missed the knife’s blow, then grabbed Maxwell’s arm with both wrists and kneed his wrists with one big blow, freeing up the knife. Jared managed to stand up with only one functional arm, his right. He picked up the Luger and pointed it back at Shaw. Max was again in front, and Jared was now at his side.
Two quick thrusts forward into Max’s chest, and one on the side of his neck, followed by a roundabout and a sidekick to Jared’s chest and head, and both Vicks were reeling in pain, just like those goons in Harlem.
“MD, are you okay?” asked Shaw.
“Shaw, feeling better now,” I joked. But this was not over. The elder Vicks brother got up again, and so did his junior sibling, who was pointing a pistol right at Alex. Alex had his back turned and didn’t see what was coming. I grabbed my Uzi and did what I had to do. I pulled the trigger.
Blood spattered everywhere! Down went both brothers. And this time for good.”
Seconds later Sergeant O’Leary and the rest of the SWAT team came busting through the door into the bloodied café.
“What the hell happened here?” asked the sarge.
“You missed it, sir. Amy and I were held hostage by the Vicks brothers. Dr. Shaw saved us but almost died in trying to do so. I pulled the trigger, sir. There was no alternative. I had to kill the brothers to save Shaw.”
“I don’t know how to thank you enough, MD! It was always my turn to save your ass. But today, you returned the favor.” I looked at Shaw and he looked back at me and we both started to cry. Amy just held me tighter, and then I let go. There was something I had to do.
“Sarge, I know this is a crime scene, but I have to check the bodies very quickly.” I wasn’t looking for permission. I was looking for the facts in the case.
I went over to inspect both of their bodies. First, I looked at Max and pulled off his shirt. Nothing out of the usual, a few old scars, one that looked like an incision from a cholecystectomy and another from what could have been an umbilical hernia repair. There was nothing other of interest. And the soles of his black shoes read, “Johnston & Murphy.”
I now turned my attention to what remained of Jared, who was face down, and ripped off his shirt. A bulge was evident from below his left collarbone; a three-inch horizontal scar approximately one inch below that bone. It was a piece of metal, an implant that had saved thousands and thousands of lives. But it would do no good for Mr. Jared Vicks now. It was a defibrillator in the shape and configuration of the Medtronic Protecta, as indicated on the MedicAlert bracelet I’d found at the Weisbergs’ waterfront compound. I looked at his shoes. They were Cole Haans, with a pattern identical to those at the Weisbergs’ place. I pulled off the shoes and read the label: Cole Haan Men’s Air Grant Penny Loafer, size 13. I pulled the newspaper out of my back pocket and placed it against his right shoe. “An exact match,” I said as I showed the matching evidence to both Amy and Shaw!
“I bet he had a Cypher stent,” I said to Amy.
Looking at his hands, I found what appeared to be wire burn marks from the fight that must have ensued before Mrs. Weisberg bit the bucket. The burns were from the painting’s metal wire used initially to hang the Pollock but later to strangle Mrs. Weisberg. They were present on the front and back of both of his hands and were now in the healing phas
e. The scars were linear and scabbed over. They were there as a reminder.
“It’s all there, Amy—the hand marks from the murder, the implantable defibrillator from the MedicAlert bracelet, and the shoe imprints—a complete match!” I said.
I threw my weapon down and went to comfort Amy. She was both shivering and crying and crumbled into my arms.
“Its over!” I said.
Chapter 89
Amy and I walked out of the Goody Café and saw Alex smiling at us in the parking lot.
“They are all dead,” Alex said. “Jared and Maxwell Vicks, and his accomplices!”
“What about Sidekick, his accomplice upstairs?” I asked.
“He is the only one that made it,” Alex said. “He is handcuffed in the back of that SFPD car.”
“And what about Harry? You know, the gentleman that I told you about, that claimed to be the master art forger? The guy we were following from Chico to San Francisco? Where the hell was he during this mess!” He had to be somewhere. He was in the white truck and had to be nearby. I knew he hadn’t gone far.
“Choppers found a bald-headed guy in a pontoon boat, motoring his way towards Alcatraz. He was a short, heavyset guy with a heavy New York accent. Wouldn’t give us his name. But he’s now in custody down at our San Francisco Police Headquarters. They will want you to ID him, MD.”
That was the least I could do, I thought. And how about the paintings?
“The Feds are inspecting the crates as we speak,” Alex caught me up. “The freighter was from an Asian cartel dealing in stolen art. The FBI was onto a worldwide high-end art-trafficking network. If we had been a few hours late, that boat would have been on its way back to China. The boat and its crew have been seized by the Feds, and their immediate team is in custody. The Feds agree that there must have been what you call a “Mr. Big,” but they have no idea who or where he is. It’s always the little guys who get caught and the Big guys continue to stay afloat.”