Boxing the Octopus, page 2
He wasn’t sure if he’d chosen the wrong profession or was born in the wrong century. Probably both. This wasn’t the first client Cape had fired, and it probably wouldn’t be the last, but it was starting to feel like a pattern. Or a sign.
Cape looked toward the bay, hoping to catch a glimpse of some sailboats. He had a narrow view across the Embarcadero, the sloping boulevard that encircled the city. The view would be worth every penny of his rent, if he paid any. Keeping a landlord’s son out of jail can do wonders for the terms of your lease.
The neighborhood was spotty, too close to tourist traps for most residents and too far from downtown for most businesses, but still beyond his means. One day his landlord would knock on the door and apologetically inform Cape that a new, paying tenant was moving in, and that Cape had to move out.
Until then, Cape spent more time at the window than at his desk.
The only blemish on the face of his view was Pier 39, a cold sore caused by millions of tourists kissing their money goodbye. Like most locals, Cape only went near the pier to visit the hot dog stand. It stood as a lone sentry at the pier entrance, like a Beefeater guard made of actual beef. Today it was flanked by a fire truck and two police cruisers.
A crane loomed in the near distance, its impossibly long arm visible over a crowd forming on the driveway that ran behind the pier. Tourists weren’t standing near the stores or any of the main attractions, so Cape wondered what all the commotion was about.
He thought it strange that so many people were holding umbrellas, even though there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.
4
A false rain fell on the pier as the armored car spun clockwise overhead.
Suspended from the crane, it twirled like a drunken spider as brackish water spilled from the chassis, spraying gawkers on all sides.
Police divers had broken the side windows and jimmied the doors, looking for corpses and cash. They had surfaced empty-handed.
It took over an hour to borrow a crane from a construction site on Columbus Avenue, then position it adjacent to the marina. Divers rigged a cable around the four-ton vehicle, and the crane did what cranes do.
The car was still spitting water in random bursts as the crane lowered it onto the pier in agonizingly slow increments.
“You might wanna move.”
Inspector Beauregard Jones waved at his partner, but Vincent Mango wasn’t quick on his feet. A deluge of seawater, algae, and sea lions’ piss sluiced over the detective’s shoes.
A stream of invective poured from Vincent’s mouth as the water ran along the cracks of the pier, leaving him soggy and stained. A woman standing beyond the yellow police tape covered her daughter’s ears, but the little girl pushed her mother’s hands away and leaned forward with eyes wide, taking mental notes on all the awesome new curse words she could hurl at her brother.
“Those were Ferragamos.” Vincent looked miserably at his feet, which made loud squishing noises as he stepped away from the expanding shadow of the descending car.
“I like how you’re already using the past tense,” said Beau. “For a cop, you spend too much on clothes. It’s never a good idea to dress better than the guys in Internal Affairs.”
“Coming from a man whose idea of looking sharp is high-tops.” Vincent unbuttoned his jacket as he walked over to Beau, his olive skin flushed with annoyance. His shoes made a squish, squish, squishing sound every step of the way.
Beau was a full head taller and almost eighty pounds heavier than his partner. Today he was wearing jeans and a black T-shirt, stretched tight around his ebony arms, which is what he wore every day. Vincent couldn’t fault his sticking with a plainclothes look—buying a bespoke suit for that frame would cost more than either detective made in a month.
“Any prospects?” Beau kept his eyes on the armored car as Vincent casually scanned the crowd.
A pair of uniformed officers kept the circle of onlookers behind the yellow tape, while another cop stood next to the crane operator. A fourth lingered at the perimeter, waiting to assist the detectives in gathering evidence and interviewing any witnesses. But right now, all eyes except Vincent’s were on the car.
The goal was to find someone who stuck around because they actually saw something. Find a real witness in a haystack of rubberneckers taking selfies in front of a crime scene. Facebook not only wrecked the news, it was ruining law enforcement.
Vincent reached ten o’clock on the circle when he spotted his first candidate. A woman in her forties strained against the yellow tape like a sprinter at the finish line, not conscious of the tension in her own body. She had grabbed Vincent earlier, as soon as he arrived on the scene. He had told her to stick around and she had, so she probably wasn’t a gawker. Green dress, auburn hair disheveled, her expression a rictus of anxiety as she watched the truck in its tortured spin, the rear doors flapping open.
Vincent started to answer Beau when something went splat. A blue swim fin landed at his feet, followed by the thunk of a diving mask.
“How about that?” Beau nudged the fin with the toe of his sneaker.
“These aren’t police-issue,” said Vincent. “Our guys have SFPD emblazoned all over their gear so nobody sells it on the side.” The blue plastic triangle had an industrial design aesthetic, grooves curving along the sides, and the mask had a drainage valve on the cracked faceplate.
“Well,” said Beau, “we already know this wasn’t an accident. Let’s check the local dive shops for any recent sales.”
“It’ll be a dead end.”
“Yup,” said Beau. “But we can say that we did it. Never underestimate the importance of filling out forms.”
With a metallic groan of exhaustion, the cable went slack and the car hit pavement. As it settled on its tires, the rear doors swung back and forth, as if shaking their heads. Vincent and Beau looked inside, but there was nothing to see but seaweed.
As they suspected, the car was empty.
Vincent got out his notebook and walked toward the woman in green. She clearly had something to say, and he was ready to listen.
5
Cape listened to the staccato rhythms of Vincent’s voice and wondered if the police inspector ever took a breath.
By the time Cape had answered his phone, Vincent was already talking, skipping past hello and jumping right to the matter at hand.
“You in your office?” Vincent’s voice cut through the background buzz of the police station.
“Inspector Mango.” Cape tore his eyes away from his computer. “How’d you know I’d recognize your voice?”
“You’re a trained detective, isn’t that what it says on your business cards?”
“I was never trained,” replied Cape. “My cards used to say experienced investigator, back when I wasn’t that experienced and wanted to reassure potential clients. Then they said discreet investigations, but now they just say investigations.”
“You’re not discreet anymore?”
“People don’t want discretion,” replied Cape. “Half the time I get paid to embarrass someone.”
Vincent grunted. “You didn’t answer my question. Where are you?”
“You called my office.”
“Some people forward their office phones to their cell phones.”
“Didn’t know you could do that.”
“Jesus. Maybe you should try old-fashioned investigations. You could buy a fedora.”
“Slow day at the precinct?”
“You happen to look out your window this morning?”
“Didn’t have to, it’s gone viral.” Cape let his eyes drift back to his computer screen and the image of an armored car hoisted above the pier. “You were in the neighborhood and didn’t come visit?”
“Me and Beau,” said Vincent. “We were busy.”
“But you’re calling me now,” said Cape.
“I’m helping you,” said Vincent. “Your name dropped, and I wanted to give you a heads-up.”
“Who dropped it?”
“Me.”
Cape waited.
“We interviewed people on the scene,” explained Vincent. “And a woman approached me—you might say she was distraught.”
“And?”
“She’s connected to a person of interest.”
“How interesting is this person?”
“He’s one of the drivers of the armored car.”
Cape opened a new window on his computer. “Some rumors are circulating online.”
“The bit about the diving gear is bona fide,” said Vincent. “Found a fin, a strap used to secure a diving tank, and a broken mask.” Cape heard Vinnie rustle some papers. “Woman’s name is Vera—Vera Young—says her boyfriend is innocent. Driver’s name is Hank Ryan. He and his partner are both missing.”
“Missing?” Cape squinted against the glare from the windows, tried to visualize an armored car driving on the pier. “Doesn’t look good for the boyfriend.”
“She doesn’t want to hear it.”
“What do you think?”
“I think she knows I’m paid to hunt her man down,” said Vincent. “She’s not stupid—knew we’d get to her eventually and wants to steer us away from her guy. She’s not bullshitting, if that’s what you’re asking. Definitely believes he’s innocent.”
“You think she’s in denial.”
“Aren’t we all?” asked Vincent.
“If SFPD is on the case, I’m just an appendix.”
“She wants a third party.” Vincent’s breath drifted across the phone line. “I gave her your name.”
“Thanks,” Cape replied without enthusiasm. “So, I’m a hand to hold.”
“Nothing personal.”
“Maybe my business cards should say the placebo detective.”
“Catchy.”
“You learn anything, you’ll let me know?”
“Not necessarily.”
Cape exhaled loudly. “Anything else?”
“It’s not her fault the boyfriend’s a fuckup.”
“Never is.”
Vincent said goodbye and Cape set the receiver down slowly, as if it had grown heavier during the call. He restarted the video on his laptop and watched the car spin hypnotically over the pier.
A sudden feeling of vertigo came over him, as if his world were about to be turned upside down.
6
Sally hung upside down and wondered if she was about to witness a rape.
She grasped the rope in both hands, body inverted, legs spread to balance her weight and make it easier to swing upright at a moment’s notice. It was looking as if that moment had finally arrived.
The guy was in his late twenties. The woman looked younger. Sally guessed his height around six-two, the girl a head shorter. He probably outweighed her by fifty pounds.
Sally had followed them from the club, having sequestered herself on the rooftop across the street. Two women had been raped in as many weeks, but it hadn’t hit the papers yet. In a tourist-conscious city like San Francisco, it typically took three serial assaults before newspaper editors risked annoying their drinking buddies in City Hall.
To the casual reader of The Chronicle, this was a picturesque city of cable cars, rolling fog, and the cloying smell of sourdough bread. You didn’t notice the underlying stench unless you opened your eyes and read the police blotter.
Sally watched the man cajole the girl into the alley. She laughed nervously and stumbled, but he caught her by the arm and said something Sally couldn’t catch. The woman was clearly drunk, her dress so short that Sally’s own ass was getting cold looking at her.
Sally recalled the last time she’d worn a dress like that and closed her eyes, waiting for the memory to pass through her. She tasted bile and swallowed, grateful for the bitterness.
Things got ugly even faster than Sally expected.
The woman stopped laughing as she realized there wasn’t an exit, just a dead-end alley and a rusting dumpster. A she turned around in confusion, the man punched her in the face.
She went down hard, banging her head on the pavement. He landed on top, knocking the wind out of her, and got one hand around the back of her neck. His other hand yanked her skirt up. The woman’s eyes rolled back in terror, but she was too shocked to cry out, her mouth already slick with blood.
Sally spun backwards and released, a spider leaping from its web. She landed silently next to the dumpster, a few paces behind the man.
The woman’s eyes almost crossed as she tried to focus on Sally, but her pupils were dilated by panic and booze.
She must think she’s hallucinating.
Sally was dressed entirely in black, face smeared with lampblack, long hair an ebony rope braided tightly. Even the shadows couldn’t tell if she was real.
The man was unbuckling his belt when he noticed a change in expression on the woman’s face, or maybe he sensed movement. As he twisted his head to look over his shoulder, Sally shattered his nose with the heel of her hand.
Cartilage collapsed into his nasal cavity, crumpling like rice paper. To Sally’s ears, it was the sound of a thousand broken promises from her childhood.
The man squealed and fell backwards, clutching his face and tripping over the woman’s legs. Blood flowed between his fingers, and his eyes were streaming tears.
Nothing like a broken nose to knock an asshole right on his ass.
Sally could have easily extended her arm during the strike, driving cartilage and bone fragments into the brain, but tonight she wanted to make a point. She wanted someone to spread the word.
As the man struggled to stand, Sally punched him in the right kidney, a short jab from her waist that lifted him off the ground. His knees buckled but Sally pivoted and caught him on the left side before he collapsed.
Symmetry in violence was important. She wanted him to piss blood in the morning.
A scarlet reminder of what a yellow bastard you are.
The woman could barely stand, but Sally got her upright and held her by the shoulders until both eyes came back into focus. Sally knew the woman needed a hug, but Sally didn’t have one to give.
“Go back to the club and call the police.” Sally softened her voice. “Send them here…and tell them everything.”
The woman nodded, arms wrapped around herself to stop the shaking as she left the alley behind. Sally crouched next to the prostrate predator, who was still conscious and moaning. Sally grabbed him by the hair and whispered in his ear like a lover.
“Every girl you’ll ever meet might be just like me.”
Then she slammed his head against the pavement, knocking him out cold.
Sally vaulted onto the dumpster and leapt straight up, grabbing the knotted end of her rope and swinging once, twice, and a third time before hooking a leg over the edge of the roof. She clambered onto her feet and coiled the rope around her arm before slinging it across her back.
Fog flowed across the roof and eddied around her feet. She watched it ooze sluggishly down the walls, spreading faster as it reached the warmer ground below. A cold blanket of comfort for anyone wandering the streets.
Sally decided she was done for the night. Cape had called to say there was a new investigation, which meant she might be working daylight hours for a change.
She disappeared into the fog, heading home, where memories from her childhood waited anxiously for her return.
7
Cape waited anxiously for the call and answered on the first ring.
“Mister Weathers?”
“Vera Young?” Cape heard a slight intake of breath, a moment’s indecision. “Vincent…Inspector Mango said you might…”
“Of course.” Her voice was strong but strained. “Would you be willing to come to the pier? I’m not sure I can do this over the phone.”
“It’s a pretty big pier,” said Cape. “Where will I find you?”
“I run a store on the second level,” she replied. “Walk past the Hard Rock and take the first staircase. At the top, look to the right and you’ll see a children’s clothing store. That’s me.”
The walk should have taken less than five minutes, but Cape strolled along the Embarcadero toward the marina where the armored car took a dive. Police had installed a plastic barricade where the wooden railing used to be, and most of the slips were empty. The boats were probably cruising the bay or temporarily docked elsewhere, while their owners made plans to sue the armored car company, the city, and anyone else they could.
No clues were hiding in plain sight.
As Cape moved closer to the pier, his feet got heavier with every step. Investigations like this always ended in tears, but his conscience said there wasn’t a good reason to turn it down. Someone had to deliver bad news. If he didn’t want to be that guy, then he had no business being in this business.
This wasn’t the first time Cape thought about walking away, but now the notion seemed to be swimming just below the surface, a shark of discontent waiting for its next meal.
At the head of the pier, tourists and retail junkies were emerging from cabs, stepping off trolleys, or migrating on foot from Fisherman’s Wharf. Cape merged with the crowd as it swept past the hot dog stand, topped by a three-dimensional placard of its famous wiener. A phallic signpost marking an invisible barrier that most locals never deigned to cross.
Straight ahead was a small stage where local acts performed, only a handful of stragglers pausing to watch. Cape sometimes heard echoes of the entertainers in his office. Any given night there might be a lone singer with a boom box, a soloist with a saxophone, a high school chorus, or a juggling act. Today it was an Elvis impersonator who clearly studied method acting, forty pounds overweight and high as a kite. The sequined prophet drew a sweaty hand across his forehead and launched into a herniated rendition of “A Little Less Conversation.”
