Kill Signal, page 18
part #1 of Marko Bell Series
Speech seemed impossible. He couldn’t imagine the process by which he would open his mouth and make sounds come out. It felt full of cotton.
“Don’t speak. Just rest. Here. Sip this straw.”
He felt the water go through his mouth and down his throat like a trickle over a cracked, dry riverbed.
“Let me anticipate your first question,” Karen said. “You’re at the Sea View Motel in Los Angeles. Oddly, there’s no view of the sea. It’s not the Four Seasons, but I wasn’t in a position to be picky. There’s free HBO, though.”
The cobwebs were clearing a little. “What happened?”
He heard the sounds of Karen moving around the room, putting something away, her voice strangely distant.
“We were worried about you. You lost a lot of blood. It was a good thing you managed to get Abby on your cell phone before you passed out. She called me in a panic. She didn’t know where you were.”
Shake tried to shake his head to clear it but a spasm of pain shot from the back of his skull to his jaw. Images came back to him: Abby and the girls, lunch in Santa Monica, driving through Beverly Hills. Driving to see Bordelay, the silencer in the glove compartment.
“Luckily, you had mentioned Beverly Jackson to me,” Karen said, her voice closer now. “You were right. She’ll never win Miss Congeniality. But once I mentioned your name she brightened up a little. Turned on your charm, did you?”
Shake tried to open his mouth. “Karen …”
“I told her you turned your cell phone off and I couldn’t get ahold of you. Then she said something I couldn’t really follow about the department cutting back on cell phone minutes.”
Shake felt as if he was climbing up the sides of a deep well but getting no closer to the top. Visions were swimming, of Abby, of Bordelay.
“Then she gave me Bordelay’s address. I called Abby and told her where you were. When she got there, she said you told her no police. That was when you stopped talking, she said. By the way, your father-in-law deserves a medal. Dr. Santangelo told me he learned how to keep his head in a crisis as a medic in Vietnam. He managed to keep Abby calm when they walked in and saw you and Bordelay laying there.”
He groaned as a sharp pain shot through him. He caught a little glimpse of sunlight, a speck at the top of the well.
“All that blood, Shake. Then he stopped the bleeding and anesthetized you enough for transport. He was willing to go along with my wishes, but at some point the doctor will want to know what this is all about. As will Abby.”
“Abby …”
“I told her to go home and get some sleep. She was with you all night.”
A memory of shards of glass and screams, a thin stream of panic working its way through Shake. “What about …”
“I took care of it,” Karen said, staring straight at him. “Bordelay’s body is still there. But there’s no sign you were ever there. Don’t say anything. I’m not proud of myself. This wasn’t what I envisioned, Shake. My dad was a cop, a good one. He didn’t teach me this. This I learned on my own. I’m glad he didn’t have to see me this way.”
“I’m sorry, Karen.”
“Don’t be sorry. Explain.”
Minutes went by as Karen sat and waited. Shake spoke in a hoarse whisper.
“We knew Phong was moving lots of heroin in Chinatown and North Beach, plus he was shaking down a few shops along Kearny and Grant.”
“We? You and Cuddy?”
Shake nodded. “We rousted Tommy in a routine sweep. He probably could have gotten out clean but he had two strikes and he got scared. Tommy started blabbing and he mentioned Bordelay. I found out Bordelay had worked it so Phong would dump a few thousand bucks into a slush fund every week. The price of doing business. Me and Cuddy jacked Bordelay up and threatened to expose it. That’s when he offered to cut us in.”
“Was Walter in too?”
“Yeah. Maybe others. I don’t know.”
“How much did you get? Goddammit Shake, tell me.”
“A thousand a month.”
Shake saw it in her eyes. A quick flash of contempt made her pupils dilate. She tried to hide it to keep from embarrassing Shake, but he saw it. “Why did Phong shoot up La Traviata?”
“Because Wayne pushed him to do it. Bordelay convinced him nobody respected him and the only way to get their attention was to go off like that. He probably used his psych-ops training from the military. I think Bordelay was supposed to wax him that same night. But he didn’t. Probably to keep leverage over Flanagan. Phong ruined his plan by implicating Bordelay.”
“That matches Marko’s description of the phone call Solorzano heard Flanagan make.”
Shake nodded. “Then they got Phong to recant and took care of him in prison in case he had a crisis of conscience.”
“But why did Bordelay push him to do it?”
“Because Donna was there. She was the target. Bordelay said so.”
“So Cannon was right”
“But we still don’t know why she was targeted.”
Karen rubbed her hand through her short blond hair, trying to think. Getting back to the basics. “I saw the check stubs in Bordelay’s office. Where is the money coming from? Flanagan is well off, but not rich.”
“I don’t know.”
“We don’t have much time to find out. Marko is out there somewhere. They’re going to try to get him too. Everyone who digs into the case is in danger. It’s been that way from the beginning. Who would ask questions about Nora Stanton and Rebecca Fielding’s death? Nora’s parents were dead. Only the Fieldings. Helen and Baxter, killed six months later. Then Jean Fielding. Her brother and her sister-in-law had been killed and she wanted answers. Suicide by rifleshot. Ballistically improbable, but not enough to set off any alarm bells. These are not amateurs. Then a long time. Then La Traviata. Bordelay, working on Flanagan’s orders. Then Solorzano, who overheard Flanagan. A moonless night on Devil’s Slide. Easy. But Maurice and Rafe knew too. They had to go. Walter wanted to save his own ass, keep his partner from blowing the whole thing wide open. Marko was the perfect fall guy.”
“But where’s Marko?”
“Still alive, I hope. We have to find him. I’m catching a plane tonight. You’re not going anywhere until you get better. I’ll call Abby. Get some rest, Shake.”
Karen turned at the door, remembering something. “Why Cuddy?” she said. “What made him take the money?”
“He’s got a son who’s autistic. The money let him get a special treatment that has helped.”
“And what about you?”
To save my marriage, he started to say. I thought an extra grand a month would fill the long silences between us, make me worthy of her. Until he realized how ashamed he was and shut his mouth.
Shake drifted into a half-waking state as the room slowly darkened. He remembered Karen leaving. Later, the door opened and he saw it was night outside.
Abby was standing in the doorway.
She came to him, the tears welling in her eyes. She bent down and kissed him. “Oh, honey.”
He told her he was sorry. He told her he had done bad things and was trying to make them right. She shushed him and told him to rest. He could explain later. She lay on the bed next to him, stroking his head, whispering that things would be fine.
Shake’s days in the motel took on an agreeable rhythm. In the mornings Abby would come, bringing him meals of scrambled eggs and ham and coffee that she bought at a diner down the street. They would sit and eat together at the table by the window. Little by little Shake explained to her what had happened. Abby listened, not reacting much. He could sense in her a desire to limit his confessions. Part of her wanted to move on without knowing the ugliness her husband had been a part of. But Shake knew that the secrets were what had almost destroyed them, and he felt an uncontrollable urge to tell her everything in the rawest way, in the way that would put him in the worst possible light.
He allowed himself no rationalizations, no softened edges. This is what I did, he wanted to tell her. I cannot be forgiven for it. And I want you to forgive me.
One day, laying on the bed together, Abby took Shake’s clothes off quietly and then disrobed herself, lying still against him under the covers until their old rhythms returned. They held each other tight afterwards and listened to the maids clatter by outside with their carts. They talked about what had gone wrong. Shake told her that he had lived in shame ever since they had gotten married, feeling that she was disappointed in him. She put her finger to his lips and told him that it wasn’t true. It was only when she felt him pulling away that she left.
I’m here now, she said. I’m not leaving. But you have to change, Shake. It can’t stay the same.
It won’t, he told her. I want you and the girls. I want us to be together like before. But better.
Around noon Abby would go back home, leaving behind a sandwich and salad for lunch. In the late afternoon she’d bring a homemade dinner, usually her mother’s pasta or a chicken dish, with good French bread and vegetables and lemonade. Carlo and Violetta were upset but they let her come to him every morning and evening and didn’t ask questions. He would have to do right by them, Shake knew, because they were part of Abby and loved her and the girls as much as he did. He felt ashamed that he had dragged them into his horror. One day he would sit down with them and explain things to them, as best he could, and beg for their forgiveness too.
After three days the agonizing pain in his side and the bleeding had subsided enough to allow him to travel. He’d go back to San Francisco and finish the case. Then he was done.
The Starbucks employee sighed and rolled his eyes at his co-worker.
“Oh God, is it my turn?”
“I kicked out the last three homeless people.”
“Alright,” the employee said in a tone of disgusted exasperation.
He turned to face today’s interloper.
“Sir, you really have to leave if you’re not buying anything. And you’re not allowed to charge your phone here.”
The man, in his early thirties, with a stubbly beard and layer of rags on him, looked at his screen. He was down to 1% battery level.
“Gimme a minute,” he mumbled.
“Sir, I’m sorry, you can’t…”
“I said gimme a minute,” he said, keeping his voice low and his head down.
“Sir, I’m going to ask you one more time to leave the premises. If you refuse, I’m going to call the police.”
The man ignored him. The battery level was still at 1%. He needed a little more time to make the call and get the information he needed.
“Very well, sir, I’m calling the police right now.”
The man heard the employee walk back behind the counter. In this part of Oakland, the nicer part, the homeless man figured, police response time would be about five minutes for a call about a vagrant in a Starbucks. Not highest priority. But they’d want to keep the well-to-do citizens of Oakland comfortable while they were drinking their macchiatos and cappuccinos.
That was fine. Five minutes was all Marko Bell needed to get the phone battery up to 2%. That would be enough to scurry back under the freeway and call the person who had left him a message on his office phone.
Deegan had to give the Eagle the bad news.
“Sir, the two inspectors, Wingfield and Yancey, seem to be making progress. Our man in homicide says Wingfield is still in Los Angeles. We believe he killed Bordelay, possibly with Yancey’s help.”
“And what about the third policeman?”
“Marko Bell is missing, sir. Bordelay apparently was unable to find him, and our contacts in the police department failed as well.”
They were so close now. Deegan sensed that this was the final threat. If they could survive this, their goal would be reached. And then, everything would change back to the way it always should have been.
The Eagle nodded slowly. “I don’t have to tell you how important this is.”
“No, sir.”
The Eagle leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “Find them.”
It was nearly midnight by the time Karen Yancey pulled off of palm-tree lined Dolores Street and made a right on 24th Street. As she drove with her windows down, all around her she heard the sounds of glasses clinking, laughter, happy conversations tumbling out of the bars and restaurants.
She couldn’t enjoy it. A block from her building she saw a police cruiser parked in front of Maggie Malone’s bar, empty. Might be a perfectly good reason for it, Karen thought.
Funny how the sight of a cruiser used to make her feel safe and protected, and now it filled her with dread. Now she felt threats all around her. Her own neighborhood had become a funhouse mirror, everything warped and crazy.
She drove past her apartment and kept driving.
Her telephone dinged. It was a text message from Dr. Prasad, Donna’s graduate advisor at USF. He had finally returned from traveling in India and was available to meet in the morning.
Shake Wingfield drove past his home. He’d flown back up from Los Angeles, leaving Abby behind at the airport with promises that he’d return in a few days. First he had to extricate himself from the life of lies he had built. He couldn’t do that without seeing this case to a resolution, once and for all.
Abby wanted to come with him but he insisted she stay behind with the girls. Just another day or two, he told Abby. You and the girls stay here and wait for me.
What he didn’t tell them was that they weren’t safe in San Francisco. He needed to face this threat alone.
He reached down and felt the wetness coming through his shirt. The bandages he had wrapped tightly around his torso hadn’t fully stopped the bleeding. Every movement, even turning the steering wheel, was painful. But he couldn’t think about that now.
He saw unfamiliar cars parked near his home. A white panel van. A late model sedan. He couldn’t tell if anyone was sitting in them.
He didn’t stick around to find out. He kept driving.
Chapter 29
At 6 a.m. Karen woke up in her dingy room at the Cable Car Motel in San Francisco. She made a mini pot of coffee and ate an energy bar, then showered and dressed. At seven she couldn’t stand being in the room any longer and decided to head toward USF. She was there 90 minutes early for her meeting with Dr. Prasad and sat in her car, parked outside the big church on the hilltop, until it was time.
At just before nine o’clock, she was in a small cluttered office at the University of San Francisco. She scanned the desk and saw pictures of the dark-complected man and his pretty, old-fashioned wife and two handsome young sons wearing modern workout gear. Next to the pictures was a brass plaque that read: Ramesh Prasad, Professor of Child Psychology, University of San Francisco.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” Karen said.
“Not at all,” Dr. Prasad said in formal, lightly accented English. “What can I do for you, Inspector Yancey?”
“I was hoping you could talk to me about one of your former students. Donna Bell.”
Prasad frowned and shook his head. “Her death saddened me greatly. Donna was one of those students that you remember. Very bright, very hardworking. It was such a shock when I heard she died in that terrible shooting in North Beach. She was one of my graduate students about two years ago, just before she died. The reporter from the Chronicle spoke to me about her a few weeks ago.”
“He was asking about whether Donna had any connection to some murders that occurred on Telegraph Hill in 1969?”
“That’s right. And at the time I thought the answer was no.”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“You see, he asked about some terrible massacre that sounded like something out of the Manson family. It didn’t ring any bells for me. And it seemed so unlikely that I must confess I really didn’t place much weight on it. Besides, I was a bit distracted by my impending vacation to Hyderabad. With two small children, it’s quite a production to go on such a long trip. But when I returned from vacation and got your messages, I decided that this was quite odd, for a reporter and a police detective to both be asking about a possible connection between one of my students and a decades-old murder. So I decided to revisit the question and dig up some old files. I feel a little bad that I didn’t exert the same level of effort for the newspaper reporter.”
“What did the files show, Dr. Prasad?”
“Donna’s senior thesis was to be on the subject of child paranormia, particularly sleepwalking, and particularly injuries resulting from sleepwalking. She found out about Rebecca Fielding during her research. And she dug quite deeply into the case, visiting the public library and looking up old newspaper articles and so forth. I believe she also attempted to track down police reports from the time, but she seemed to be having trouble obtaining them, bureaucracy being what it is. It’s all here in the notes I took of our meetings. I agreed with her that it was odd that Rebecca Fielding died as a result of sleepwalking. It’s true that every year a handful of small children die from falls related to sleepwalking. Still, we both thought it was unusual. So she became quite focused about getting as much information as she could, to see whether this was an outlier case of some sort that could provide insights into child paranormia.”
“Do you have a copy of her thesis? Any drafts or research notes?”
“As I recall, all of it was stolen from her. She was quite distraught about it. A mugging, apparently. Everything was in her backpack, including her laptop computer where she stored her files.”
Yancey left USF and called Shake. She told him about her conversation with Dr. Prasad.
“Now we’ve got the why, or at least part of it. But we still don’t have the who.”
Senator Cortland Banks was enjoying a glass of thirty-year old port in the dining room of the Ritz Carlton. His tablemates, Jim Deegan and Danny Cannon, watched him poke his long nose over the rim of the glass and close his eyes momentarily while he inhaled the rich, oaky aroma. They felt compelled to wait until he opened his eyes and finished sniffing.
