Kill Signal, page 10
part #1 of Marko Bell Series
“Talk about what?”
Karen handed him a cup and nodded toward the Polk Street entrance to City Hall.
“Outside?”
Marko checked his watch. “I’ve only got a minute.”
“That’s all it’ll take, promise.”
They walked out the door and past a bride and groom being photographed on the steps, the gold-trimmed dome of City Hall presenting a photogenic backdrop to their newlywed bliss. The thought of Donna Bell struck Karen in that moment, and she wondered where and how she and Marko had gotten married. She noticed Marko didn’t look at the couple as they passed.
Once they were across the street, in United Nations Plaza, Marko turned and stared at her, as if to say, okay, your minute starts now.
“I’m looking into some cold cases. I’m talking really cold. Like 1969, 1970. Some rich folks up on Telegraph Hill. Danny Cannon from the Chronicle mentioned he’s been trying to talk to you about them.”
At the mention of Cannon’s name, Marko made a face like he’d seen a rat.
“What’s any of this got to do with me?”
Karen realized she’d been dreading bringing up the topic of Donna, but now she had to lay her cards on the table.
“Well, he was looking into something that connected to your wife.”
Marko glared at her. “My wife,” he repeated.
“Yes. Look, this could be nothing, but like I said, cold case, looking at strands, you know?”
He took a long pull of coffee. Karen saw him glance up at the newlyweds briefly before looking back at her. “And this strand, as you say, is what, exactly?”
“I’m following up on a tip. Maybe that La Traviata thing wasn’t totally random. Maybe somebody was targeted.”
Marko stared at her for a second. “What are you really doing?”
“I told you, I…”
“Right, a cold case. And you’re following up on a tip from Danny Cannon. Who is all over you in the papers from that Atkins shooting.”
“It seemed like it was worth exploring, that’s all.”
“From here it seems like you’re playing some angle with Cannon. Trying to curry favor with him so he’ll back off, or maybe catch him doing some dirt or something. And you have the nerve to bring my wife into it. On the flimsiest of fucking pretenses.”
“Marko…”
“I don’t even know why you’re bothering. The Police Commission cleared you in that Harrison Street thing. Here’s a piece of advice: Don’t go to war against a newspaper reporter. He’ll find a way to screw you eventually.”
“Marko, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you, honestly. And I’m sincerely sorry for your terrible loss. The fact of the matter is, you’re right. I was pissed at Cannon, and a little desperate, and I got a tip that he may have crossed some ethical lines in this cold case he was looking at. So I started looking into it too. But here’s what I want to tell you: There is something about these old murders. I talked to Vicky Talib in the M.E.’s office and it looks like someone maybe have tried to cover up one of the murders, back in ‘70, and make it look like a suicide.”
Marko tipped the coffee cup to his lips and drained the last of it, tossing the empty cup into a nearby trashcan. “Well, you’re minute’s up, detective. Let me know when I can be of service again.”
“Wait,” she said as he started to leave. She felt her last sliver of a chance slipping away and was desperate to keep his attention. “I thought I saw you come out of the mayor’s office in there. Coincidentally, I found out a strange little fact. These three murders I’m looking into, Mayor Frank was the responding officer to all three of them.”
Marko turned around with a look on his face that was somewhere between mildly curious and annoyed. “So?”
“So, I don’t know. Seems unlikely, is all. And I thought maybe you’d find it interesting in the context of whatever it was you were talking to the mayor about.”
She was flying blind, flinging whatever she could at the wall to see if anything would stick. And not expecting it to.
“You don’t know who I was talking to, or about what,” Marko said. “And to respond to your suggestion, no, I don’t find your little nugget about the mayor interesting or relevant to what I’m working on.”
Karen nodded, admitting defeat.
But she saw the tiniest glimmer of interest in Marko Bell’s eyes.
“Maybe it’s not immediately relevant,” she said, thinking, Please, Marko give me a chance. “But maybe it’s connected, in some way that might not be clear to either one of us working alone.”
Marko looked up at the sky and laughed, walking in a little circle before facing her again.
“You’re really something, you know that? I gotta give it to you, you don’t give up so easy. Alright, I’ll give you a little nugget in return. I’m looking into the La Traviata murders. Your partner should know all about that.”
And with that, Marko Bell turned and walked away.
Karen stood there, watching the newlyweds, drinking her coffee. She had asked around about Marko and learned that the mayor was something of a mentor to him while he was police chief, so she felt pretty solid that it was the mayor he was talking to, and not some aide.
And Marko would have known that she’d know that.
Which meant that when he mentioned that he was investigating La Traviata, he was all but admitting — subtly, and with plausible deniability, given the sensitivity of the situation — that there was some connection between the mayor and La Traviata.
That connection could be anything. And it didn’t have to be anything nefarious. But there was a connection.
Just as there was something connecting the mayor to the Fielding murders. Again, could be nothing.
But right now, it was something.
Karen pictured a circle in her mind. The circle had the words “Fielding murders” written inside of it.
She pictured another circle, with the words “La Traviata” in it.
She allowed the circles to shift closer to each other, until they were overlapping. A Venn diagram of tragedy.
In the overlapping part, she allowed the face of Frank Flanagan to appear. Seemingly the only connection between the two events.
No.
Not the only one, she reminded herself.
The other possible connection between the two circles was Danny Cannon’s tip that someone had been targeted in the La Traviata massacre. Someone who knew something about what happened in Telegraph Hill in 1969. One of the victims was Donna Bell.
Karen had never seen Donna Bell. Didn’t know what she looked like. But she allowed a hazy image of a young woman to join Frank Flanagan in the overlapping circles.
Karen finished her coffee and tossed it into the trashcan. All in all, it had been a productive talk with Marko Bell, who behind his anger and defensiveness was both sharp and careful, good traits for a homicide detective.
And he had left Karen with one last message about La Traviata.
Your partner should know all about that.
She’d have to ask Shake what Marko meant by that.
Marko got in his Camaro and drove up Van Ness, making a right on Broadway and driving through the tunnel into North Beach. He eased around a tow truck lifting a booted car off of Columbus Avenue and thought of Roland Solorzano’s car being removed from the rocks by a crane.
He thought of the way Walter didn’t want anything to do with the case, preferring the understaffed Half Moon Bay P.D. let it die a quiet death. When Walter bitched on Devil’s Slide, Marko chalked it up to Walter being Walter. Then Roland on the tape, talking about the mayor and Wayne, the mayor and Tommy, the night of La Traviata.
Walter wanted out of it. All those rumors about him and Bordelay coalesced for Marko.
It was all circumstantial, all explainable.
Just like the information Karen Yancey had given him about Frank Flanagan being the responding officer to three murders, decades ago.
All circumstantial, all explainable.
Marko didn’t put much stock in Yancey’s half-assed attempt to connect Donna’s murder to those cold cases. But he let her know he was working on La Traviata all the same. He figured he could use a little help, and she’d impressed him as fearless and smart. Maybe she’d pick up something that would be useful.
All circumstantial, all explainable.
But Marko could feel it.
On the radio, the news was about Cortland Banks. He was way ahead of the Republican nominee in the polls. Pundits saw little reason to think it would be a close race. They were already discussing possible cabinet picks for the Banks administration, a full four months before election day.
Before he realized it, he was making a right and heading up the steep incline of Pacific Street. He saw the familiar four-story apartment building where he and Donna lived. He noticed the landlord had painted recently, changing the exterior from a light beige to a salmon color.
The pointless change, the life going on, angered him. It had been two years since Donna’s death and it was worse now. The empty phrases of well-wishers, the assurances that time would ease the grief, were lies.
He parked in a red zone across the street and leaned his head back, feeling a deep exhaustion. He watched residents and visitors enter and leave the building for close to an hour. He didn’t recognize a soul anymore.
He decided he would make an official request to Cuddy to grant him a leave of absence and then set him up with a new partner. It was the only way Marko could put it all behind him.
Marko drove into Chinatown and parked in a loading zone outside the Buddha Bar. He walked through the doors and stopped to let his eyes adjust to the dark. It was quiet except for the muffled clatter of two regulars playing bar dice and a Hawaiian tune playing softly on the jukebox. At the end of the bar, a big gold Buddha, wrapped in Christmas lights, sat enshrined in a grotto with candles and small pictures of Hindu gods at his feet.
Marko saw Walter sitting at the bar. He crossed the scuffed linoleum floor and sat down on the stool next to him.
For a long time there had been an uneasy truce between Walter and Marko. But Marko couldn’t hold back his true feelings anymore. He felt a rage boiling inside him, ready to explode. And it was directed at Walter.
Chapter 16
“Shit,” Walter said, startled. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”
Marko noticed Walter’s eyes were glassy. He was drinking a double bourbon, likely not his first of the night. Marko made eye contact with the bartender and pointed to the Anchor Steam tap. He turned to Walter as she pulled the beer. “Anything?”
“Not a thing. Janice Solorzano didn’t appreciate me asking if her beloved late hubby was a drug fiend. It didn’t help that one of their sons was there. He’s a linebacker for the San Jose State football team. Goes about six-four, two-forty. He wasn’t thrilled either.”
“What about the limo company?”
“I found three people who knew him. His ex-boss and two drivers. They all said the same thing. Roland kept to himself, wasn’t close to anybody, wasn’t particularly friendly or interesting. Kind of a zero. Maybe his wife had him killed. To end her misery.”
The bartender placed the pint of beer in front of Marko and he took a long draw. The two guys playing dice called it a day and shuffled out. Walter drained his bourbon and motioned to the bartender for another. “How was the mayor?”
“He denied Roland’s story, which I expected. He also confirmed, without me asking about it, that Roland was pissed about losing out on his chance for a taxi medallion. Not only that, he said he was planning to replace Roland, which Roland might have heard about through the grapevine.” He watched the Christmas lights twinkle off the Buddha’s belly. “Goddamn if it doesn’t make sense.”
“So where does that leave us? Roland lying about Flanagan?”
Marko felt the case burrowing inside him. It had happened to him before. The evidence pointing to something that he knew in his heart wasn’t true. That’s what he felt now.
“I feel like we’re two steps behind it,” Marko said.
“Whatever it is, it’ll come clear, partner. Right now it is what it is.”
“Which is what?” Marko turned and was glaring at him.
Walter looked up, a little surprised at Marko’s tone. “Which is Roland trying to get back at his boss and score some quick cash. He gets a few drinks in him and drives off Devil’s Slide. No evidence anyone forced him off. Except for some half-assed eyewitness a mile away.”
“Roland was killed,” Marko said, turning on his stool to face him. Their faces were inches apart. “You goddamn know it.”
Walter smirked and looked Marko up and down.
“Christ, get a grip on yourself. Sometimes things just are what they are, Marko. Sometimes you have to let things go.”
“You got a point you’re trying to make with that?”
Walter rapped his knuckles on the bar, drunk and agitated. “My point is maybe you shouldn’t be on this case anymore, Marko. From where I’m sitting it looks like your grief about Donna is ruining your judgement. You’re seeing things that aren’t there. All it took was Roland mentioning La Traviata and you bought a one-way ticket to conspiracy land.”
“Fuck you, Walter. Don’t say her name.”
“Oh, Saint Donna?”
Marko got up from his stool, balled up his fists and stood close to Walter. He’d been wound tight for two days. Thinking about Donna. Thinking about Bordelay and the Walter rumors. He longed to smash Walter’s face in.
“Fuck you, Walter.”
Walter turned to him and Marko saw malevolence in his eyes, whatever mask of friendship he’d maintained for the last two years falling away now.
“It’s time you knew the truth.”
“Say it.”
“Your sainted wife wasn’t what you thought she was. I’ve been doing a little digging about Maurice’s call-girl business. I didn’t know for sure, but I been talking to some guys in Vice, and now I know. Maurice isn’t doing it anymore. He wised up, realized his consulting business was gonna take off and he didn’t need the side hustle. But he had a roster a couple years ago. A small, choice roster. College girls. Nice pieces of ass, willing to go on a date with an older rich guy. I remember you and Donna going to Hawaii a couple times. Mexico another time. You stayed in real nice places, is what I heard. I’ll bet she said she had some inheritance money, right?”
Marko brought his right arm up and smashed his fist into Walter’s face with the force of a sledgehammer. He felt the crunch of Walter’s facial bones and saw his cheek and nose swell instantly into a purple monstrosity as Walter flew off the stool and hit the ground.
Walter got up unsteadily, blood covering his engorged face. “I’m going to Cuddy and telling him you’ve lost it. Playtime is over.”
Marko looked at the bartender, who was covering her mouth. He turned and left. Outside he squinted in the bright Chinatown street. He felt a roaring in his ears, the rage pumping out of him now.
He jumped into his car and started the engine.
Chapter 17
“Do you need anything else, darling?”
Maurice Weathersby took a sip of his Bombay Sapphire martini, settled his massive head back on the sofa and allowed the gin to warm his insides. He felt Luis’ nimble hands work deep into the large muscles of his upper back and shoulders as Mozart played over the high-end speaker system.
“No, Luis. That’s fine for now.”
Luis leaned over the back of the sofa and wrapped his arms around Maurice’s big shoulders, giving him a playful bite on the ear. Maurice shivered and smiled, watching him leave the living room.
He turned and looked at the limitlessly mysterious view through his front window. Alcatraz. The Golden Gate Bridge. The peaks of the Marin headlands.
The fog-shrouded icons had given him untold hours of pleasure. They sparkled and inspired on those preposterously crisp, clear San Francisco days, when Maurice was stirred to an operatic appreciation of the subtle interplay among the blues and reds and greens and browns, the vast shadings. But it was when the weather was drearier, when the magical fog gathered, that it transcended mere beauty and became, for Maurice, soul-altering. San Francisco. His adopted city on a hill.
Maurice watched now as low pink streaks faded behind the bridge and night descended, the lights of the Marina district down below taking effect and the bay farther out going dark, the lighthouse on Alcatraz silently casting a white splash across the water every few seconds. Thin, fast-moving wisps scurried by the window, an incongruous sight, like clouds too low.
Luis had opened the sliding glass door onto the deck, and a slight ocean breeze carrying microscopic droplets of water wafted into the living room, the barest hint of the sea touching Maurice’s nostrils.
A foghorn moaned and he settled in with his martini.
This business with the police had distressed him. He’d told the detectives the truth, and yet he couldn’t help feeling that he was in danger, that forces he was unaware of were somehow conspiring to trap him. In the political world, especially in San Francisco, it was always a possibility. It was all very disturbing. He couldn’t locate the focus of the threat.
Maurice had always operated under the philosophy that knowledge was power. He knew the peccadilloes of every significant public figure in San Francisco, and he had used the secrets skillfully over the years to build a thriving business.
But some secrets were too dangerous. Some secrets were better not to know.
When Roland Solorzano told him the story of the mayor and his late-night phone call in the back of his Town Car, Maurice had two reactions: One, he wasn’t sure Roland was telling the truth. And two, Maurice wished Roland had not told him.
It scared him, because he knew that if it was true, it was the kind of secret that ended careers. Lives, even. His knowledge made him vulnerable.
Maurice looked back through the French doors into the television room, thinking Luis might be lounging on the couch watching one of his Spanish soap operas. Maurice had finished his martini and wanted Luis to fix him another, to help him unwind and think. But where was Luis?
