Boxing the Octopus, page 13
Ken shook his head and gripped the door handle as they banked further to the right.
“Interesting little bug,” said the Doctor. “Blooms bright red in a petri dish. Like blood. Considered harmless at the time, or fairly innocuous at any rate, but because it flared red, it would be easy to spot when they sampled water, foodstuffs, and of course, people.”
“How?” Even though the car had slowed again, Ken felt the need to hold onto something and gripped the handle tighter.
“The plan was to intercept people at random, maybe pick them up in the hospitals if they came in for the flu, get extra saliva or blood samples.” The Doctor grinned sardonically. “But as it turns out, the people came to them. Apparently, the red bugger is rough on weakened immune systems, so about a dozen people got sick, and one poor bastard died. Doctors couldn’t figure out how bacteria foreign to that climate got into their bloodstream.”
“How, how, how,” Ken took a breath, tried again. “How can this be a secret?”
“It’s not,” said the Doctor, “just Google it. But people have short memories, and governments have institutional amnesia. Over the next twenty years our government conducted over two hundred biological warfare attacks against its own unsuspecting citizens. They learned a ton. It wasn’t until it became public in the seventies and the newspapers got involved that Congress got involved and decided maybe it wasn’t such a great idea.”
“That’s an understatement.”
The Doctor squinted against the setting sun and shook his head. “Only thing, Ken, it was a great idea.”
The Doctor merged with surprising grace as traffic converged on the Sixth Street off-ramp. Below and to their right was the baseball stadium, a modern marvel built to mimic the classic ballparks from the days when baseball was America’s pastime—before steroids, blood doping, and players’ egos as inflated as their salaries.
“What are you saying?” asked Ken.
The car slowed to a crawl, but Ken felt like he was accelerating out of control. In his mind’s eye, he was going to crash through the windshield at any moment, speeding toward a collision with a reality he was desperate to avoid.
“Your supervisor didn’t brief you,” said the Doctor, “because he asked if I would. Figured I could put things in perspective.” The Doctor took his right hand off the wheel and squeezed Ken’s shoulder. “You’ve got a new assignment, and millions, maybe billions of dollars are at stake. Not to mention lives.”
“How many lives?”
“I’m talking about quality,” said the Doctor. “Not quantity.”
“What does that mean?”
“I told you,” said the Doctor. “Trials have already begun.”
“Here?” Ken took a panicked look through the windshield at his city.
The Doctor smiled like a proud parent.
“Everywhere.”
35
Everywhere you look in Chinatown, someone is looking back at you.
Tourist, resident, or just passing through, everyone sends ripples through a crowded pond. The most densely populated urban area west of Manhattan, Chinatown is a watchful community that looks after its own.
Sally strode openly along Stockton Street, though she could have blended in or disappeared at will, a chameleon by nature and ghost by nurture. The street reminded her of Hong Kong, crowded and bustling, the cloying smell of fish emanating from open stalls.
Squeezed between North Beach and Telegraph Hill, Chinatown was both a part of the city and apart from the city, an enclave of outsiders that welcomed visitors as long as they had the good sense to leave at the end of the day.
A third of the families lived below the poverty line, and less than fifteen percent spoke English fluently. Anyone who strayed too far beyond Grant Avenue and the dragon gates would discover that stores dropped any bilingual signage and only hànzì characters remained.
Sally was both feared and revered in this neighborhood, as much a rumor as a resident. No one turned as she passed. Staring would be disrespectful, pointing was unthinkable, and following her, even out of idle curiosity, could be unwise.
Sally moved past Hop Sing Ginseng Company, her eyes tracking everything she passed. The ground floors on Stockton favored groceries and live seafood, with second-story apartments renting more affordably than the larcenous rates common to San Francisco real estate.
Some of the upper floors were occupied by community organizations such as Six Companies, the Chinese Benevolent Association, and Citizens Alliance. Most were founded to provide new immigrants with financial assistance, legal counsel, small business investment, and advocacy for the Chinese community.
Benevolent societies had been an integral part of the neighborhood since the 1800s, and most worked tirelessly for the community, but Sally knew one that worked against it.
Tong was once the term for any such organization, the Chinese word for “gathering place,” but like the Italian mafia, any group with its arms wrapped around bankers, lawyers, and politicians could squeeze the life out of a community. All it took was money in the wrong hands, a vulnerable immigrant population, and men with souls of tar.
Sally knew that benevolent could turn malevolent simply by mixing up the letters and knocking on the wrong door. Tong gangs were less visible than in years past, but the Triads had their tentacles stretching all the way from Hong Kong into the heart of San Francisco.
Sally and Cape had been working a case in Chinatown when a local councilman who was running for mayor got caught using political connections to help smuggle weapons and drugs into San Francisco. The contraband was hidden in container ships sailing from Hong Kong, and when the Feds seized one of the vessels, they found more than guns and heroin. The containers were also filled with people.
In Sally’s experience most criminals were thugs and nitwits, but when crime got organized, innocent people always suffered. She blinked away her memories and came to a stop in front of Luen Sing Fish Market. An old woman with hair as white as snow sat on a folding chair out front. She smiled broadly when she saw Sally, lines on her face forming a latticework of joy.
Sally bowed her head and addressed the woman in Cantonese.
“Hello, ayi,” she said. “What’s good today?”
The woman’s eyes flitted to the top floor of a nearby building before she gestured at the open tubs of water to her right. Plastic containers eighteen inches across, each filled with something swimming, squirming, or crawling. Sally took in the rows of lobsters, shrimp, fish, eels, even frogs. Further back was a row of tanks holding a small school of squid, a lone baby octopus, and a pair of sea cucumbers.
Sea cucumbers were giant slugs that looked like slimy versions of the vegetable covered with spikes. They drifted as aimlessly as abandoned dreams. Sally never could figure out where their eyes were located, how they swam, or why anyone thought to eat them in the first place.
The woman tilted her head at the tanks, pointing to the one in the middle. “You like octopus?”
“Sometimes,” said Sally.
“It just came in.” The woman’s eyes darted across the street a second time, then came back to Sally. “Fresh from Hong Kong.”
“I see.”
“You might not like it.”
“You know, they eat them live in Korea,” said Sally. “Sannakji.”
“Barbarians.” The old woman shook her head in disgust.
Sally laughed. “The Chinese are no better, Aunty. What about drunken shrimp, or yin yang fish?”
“I’m a vegetarian.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“There’s only one.” The woman gestured at the tank. “You can see it now, but look closely or it might change color, even disappear. Then you won’t be able to tell if it’s something you really want in your kitchen.”
“I think I’ll come back another time.” Sally squatted and rested a hand on the woman’s knee. “Xièxiè.”
“Wó de róngxìng, little dragon.” The woman placed her right hand on top of Sally’s and squeezed. “It is my honor.”
Sally smiled at the use of her childhood nickname, now a badge of respect.
She stood and turned without another word and walked north, moving through a dense crowd milling in front of a produce stand before she abruptly cut across the road, dodging a honking tourist in a Hyundai. Then she hopped onto the sidewalk in front of a restaurant.
There was a red trellis over a green door, with paper lanterns hung at regular intervals, but Sally moved past the main entrance and stepped through a side door leading to the kitchen.
Moments later she was on the roof of the building opposite her apartment, gazing across the street at the windows and contemplating her next move. The old woman had described the catch of the day very deliberately, and in the process told Sally everything—and everyone—that she had seen.
Sally had a visitor. Someone was inside her apartment waiting for her to walk through the front door.
36
Cape walked through the front door and spotted them right away.
The two inspectors were sitting outside, Beau too tall to miss and Vincent overdressed for a bar that served beers six at a time in metal buckets filled with ice.
Pier 23 was several blocks south of Pier 39, and unlike its more touristy cousin, this short pier was home to an outdoor bar as popular with locals as with out-of-towners. Cape navigated a maze of tables squeezed too close together, dodging a waitress carrying a tray on one arm and two buckets on the other.
“You’re late.” Beau squinted into the sun as Cape took a seat across from him, Vincent on his right. “I told Vinnie you were buying.”
“No comment.” Vincent hid behind sunglasses with flecks of green in the frames that matched his suit.
“So that’s how it is.” Cape fished his own sunglasses from his jacket pocket and gestured at the table. “I see you didn’t wait to order.”
“Done for the day,” replied Beau. “And time off is not to be squandered.”
“Want some?” Vincent pushed a basket of fried calamari across the table.
“Disgusting,” said Beau to his partner.
Cape noticed the basket was half empty, but Beau’s plate was clean. “I thought you liked fried food.”
“Not after the morgue,” said Beau, “where the M.E. was explaining the finer points of postmortem tentacle scarring.”
Cape felt empathy and hunger wrestle for control as he eyed the calamari. “Does seem kind of insensitive.”
“It’s squid,” said Vincent. “Not octopus.”
“Still,” said Beau.
“Think of it as revenge food,” said Vincent. “Humans strike back.”
“That doesn’t even make any sense.” Beau drained his beer and took another from the metal pail. “The octopus in the aquarium didn’t kill the guy.”
“What did?” asked Cape.
“Cerebral hemorrhage.” Vincent plucked a tangle of fried squid from the basket.
“Natural causes?” Cape plucked a bottle from the rapidly melting ice. “Then how did he get in the tank?”
Beau turned to Vincent. “He’s got you there.”
“Maybe he goes for a swim in the tank when nobody’s looking, to cool off after work.” Vincent shrugged. “But the water’s freezing and he has a stroke.”
Cape snorted. “You believe that?”
“Hell, no.” Vincent snatched the last morsel, the center piece, tiny suckers visible beneath the batter. “Just saying it’s possible.”
“Also possible there was a puncture wound behind the ear,” said Beau.
“Possible?”
“Tissue degradation from prolonged exposure to salt water,” said Vincent, adjusting his voice in imitation of the medical examiner. “Causes a degree of ambiguity.”
“Meaning—”
“Meaning it might be a hole,” said Beau.
“Or he might’ve cut himself shaving,” said Vincent.
“You shave behind your ear?” asked Cape.
“Only before I go on a date.”
“You can ignore him,” Beau said to Cape. “Vinnie and I got dragged through this shit for over an hour.”
“Never heard so many bullshit words,” said Vincent.
“The M.E. is just covering his ass,” said Beau, turning to Cape, “And Vinnie’s just busting your balls.”
“So it’s inconclusive.”
Vincent set his bottle down. “When the mafia was at full strength, say twenty years ago, North Beach had a sudden epidemic of guys turning up dead in their cars—”
“—dead in their bathtubs,” said Beau.
“Dead at the dinner table—”
“—slumped over their linguine,” added Beau.
“That’s a stereotype,” snapped Vincent.
“I meant rotelli,” said Beau, smiling. “Or maybe fusilli, I get those two mixed up.”
“Ti metto un remo in culo e ti sventolo per l’aria.”
“Vinnie, that sounded nasty—”
“I think he said something about the oar from a boat,” Cape offered. “And your ass.”
Vincent smiled at Cape approvingly. “Not bad.”
“I dated an Italian girl once,” said Cape. “Her father didn’t like me.”
“He probably liked you just fine,” said Beau. “But not as much as he loved his daughter.”
“On that we can agree,” said Vincent. “Point being, all these bodies were piling up. And every one of the victims died from a cerebral hemorrhage.”
“Only they didn’t?” Cape set his empty bottle on the table.
Beau took the bottle and thrust it into the metal pail upside down, using it to stir the slushy contents around. “Ice pick murders.”
“Ouch.”
“Small entrance wound, skin begins to heal as the blood coagulates.” Vincent ran a hand through his hair. “Became a favorite technique for thugs on a budget. And if you get the angle right and penetrate the skull above the hairline, not easy to detect.”
“Unless you’re looking for it,” said Cape.
Beau stopped stirring and wiped his hands on a paper napkin. “Cops finally nabbed a wiseguy with an ice pick in his possession and connected the dots. Ever since, medical examiners are supposed to flag any hemorrhages that occur under suspicious circumstances.”
“And this one is definitely fishy,” said Vincent.
“Was that an aquarium joke?” asked Cape.
“Only if you thought it was funny.”
“What’s funny is a dead security guard,” said Cape, “the same week as an armored car heist.”
“And you haven’t even heard the best part.” Beau jutted his chin toward Vincent. “Tell him about the keys.”
Vincent lowered his sunglasses along the bridge of his nose. Cape obliged by pushing his own sunglasses onto his head so they could make eye contact. Vincent was making it clear this is off the record, without actually saying it out loud and insulting Cape.
“Security guard’s name was Marty.” Vincent pushed his sunglasses back into place. “And Marty still had stuff in his pockets. Including his keys.”
“Only they weren’t his keys,” said Beau.
Cape arched an eyebrow but didn’t say anything.
“His keys were still in his locker,” said Vincent. “These were keys to someone else’s apartment.”
Beau watched Cape as he worked the problem.
“Lou,” said Cape. “The second driver, the guy you said returned to his apartment that night—”
“Unless it wasn’t Lou.” Beau popped the cap off another bottle and handed it to Cape, who was still thinking out loud.
“Marty goes to the apartment to make it look like Lou’s still on the scene, to get you two chasing your tails, which could mean—”
“—that Lou’s dead,” said Vincent.
“Unless he’s not,” said Beau.
Cape nodded. “Because Marty is.”
“Very,” said Vincent. “And somebody killed him.”
“If you kill a security guard,” asked Cape, “why put his body in the most visible spot on the pier?”
Beau shrugged. “Send a message.”
“That’s the only explanation, isn’t it?”
“There’s more,” said Vincent. “Remember the armored car got flipped by a forklift that was rammed by a UPS truck?”
Beau drummed his fingers. “Eyewitness accounts suggest Marty might have been the forklift driver.”
Cape looked beyond the pier at the water, gulls darting in the distance.
“Who does Marty work for?”
“The pier,” said Beau.
“The aquarium,” said Vincent.
“Which?” asked Cape.
“That’s why we’re buying you drinks,” replied Beau.
“You told me I was buying.”
Beau nodded. “I lied.”
“First, you set me up with an unsolvable case, now you want me to do…what?”
“The nonprofit that runs the aquarium has a board of directors,” said Vincent. “Some big shots on the board also hold a stake in the company that owns the pier. Other board members have their hands in some of the stores and restaurants.”
Cape started to see where this was going and felt himself getting seasick. “So, for all practical purposes, if you work on the pier, you work for these people.” His gaze shifted from the bay back to the table, but the sight of calamari crumbs made him feel worse. “And who are these people?”
“Important people,” said Vincent.
“Kind of people who don’t like being asked questions,” said Beau. “Without probable cause.”
