Boxing the Octopus, page 21
“I didn’t know it was legal to own an alpaca,” said Sergey. “I could ride one to work.”
Eva snorted. “They don’t sell alpacas, tupitsa, they sell their wool. Hats, scarves, shawls—”
“The niche retailers aren’t the answer.” Anastasia laced her fingers and rested her hands atop her head. “The only place on the pier that gets enough customers is—”
“—the aquarium,” said Eva and Sergey simultaneously.
Anastasia nodded. “They have a gift shop on the ground floor. You don’t even have to visit the exhibits—it’s accessible without a ticket right from the pier. Always crowded but also cluttered, no clear lines of sight.”
“With a counter running the full length of the store,” added Sergey.
“Sounds perfect,” said Eva.
“I take it back,” said Sergey. “Dave, if there is a Dave, won’t call a meeting. He’ll just negotiate directly with the aquarium.”
Anastasia smiled. “That’s what I would do.”
“Maybe we should talk to them, too,” said Sergey.
“Nastya, how well do you know our contact at the aquarium?” asked Eva.
“Well enough not to trust him.”
“Why not?” asked Sergey.
“Because he’s a pirate.”
“I always wanted to be a pirate,” said Eva.
“It’s never too late,” said Sergey. “You’re still young.”
Eva tried to elbow him again, but Anastasia waved her off with an open palm, as if she were about to bless them both. “Sergey,” she said, “you have been inadvertently insightful this evening.”
“I have?”
“Da.” Anastasia nodded and stepped away from the counter. “Eva, I want you to go to the aquarium and talk to this pirate.”
Eva stopped slouching and swallowed her gum. “To represent the family?”
“No.”
Eva frowned. “What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to betray us.”
56
Cape didn’t want to betray his feelings in front of the police, but he was very disappointed the CSI technicians weren’t better looking.
He dealt with cops all the time and knew the harsh realities of police work, but like most Americans, Cape couldn’t avoid the subversive influence of television. He didn’t watch much TV, but after the launch of CSI: New York, CSI: Miami, CSI: Las Vegas, and CSI: Cyber, it was inescapable.
Even if you didn’t watch any television, the ubiquitous posters on buses and taxi tops would brainwash anyone into thinking all CSI departments were staffed by women with perfect figures and men with broad shoulders, cleft chins, and personal stylists.
The whole country was watching models with microscopes, but Cape was watching two middle-aged men with rubber gloves crawl around Vera’s store, looking for clues.
Cape knew one of them fairly well, a paunchy guy named Stuart. His colleague was named Stan, and Cape made it a point to stand in front of Stan at all times, because the back of his head looked like someone sprayed silly string onto his skull while he was sleeping. It was disconcerting.
A detective named Sullivan watched over them. He had gray at both temples, slack in the jowls, and lassitude seeping out of his pores.
“Detective Sullivan, are you leaving soon?” Vera emerged from the front of the store and joined them in the back room. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, it’s just…it’s been two hours, and I have to open in the morning,”
“We’re about done,” said Sullivan. “Photographer’s left already, I got your statements, just waiting on those two.” He jerked a thumb at Stuart, who was standing on a stepladder with a flashlight in his mouth.
“Almost finished here,” Stuart mumbled as Stan crawled along the baseboard at the foot of the ladder, a plastic bag in one hand and tweezers in the other.
Vera nodded her understanding as she stepped over to Cape. She rested a hand on his chest as she looked up at him, but he couldn’t read her expression. Maybe she was thinking that she was glad he didn’t get shot, or maybe she was worried she’d collapse from exhaustion if she didn’t lean on him.
As if in answer, Vera moved past him toward the cot, where she sat down heavily, looking like she might fall asleep sitting up. She raised a water bottle to her lips, realizing too late she’d forgotten to remove the cap. She sighed and laid it on the bed unopened. Behind her, the broken window cast a dim reflection of the room, a jaundiced image of her new reality.
Cape drifted over to Stuart and asked, “Find anything?”
Stuart took the flashlight out of his mouth and glanced down at Cape. “Not much more than a hole in the wall.”
“Bullet flattened on impact?” asked Cape.
“If there was a bullet,” mumbled Stuart.
Still on his hands and knees, Stan shook his head impatiently. “Because if there was, we’d find bullet fragments.”
Sullivan snorted derisively. “Maybe you’re not looking hard enough.”
“Frangible,” muttered Stuart.
Sullivan clearly thought he’d just been insulted. “What did you say?”
“Frangible,” said Stan, groaning slightly as he leaned against the wall and stood up. Stuart bent down and handed him two plastic bags, which seemed to contain a mixture of dust, dirt, and baby powder. “A frangible bullet is specially designed to disintegrate on impact.”
“Did you just make that word up?” asked Sullivan.
“How long you been a detective?” replied Stan.
“It does sound made up,” said Cape.
Stuart gave him a look. “Don’t push it. Civilians aren’t normally allowed to linger at a crime scene.”
“I am the crime scene,” said Cape.
“On that we can agree,” said Stuart.
“A frangible bullet is a nasty piece of work,” added Stan. “Hits like a brick but doesn’t pass through like a full metal jacket, so it doesn’t hit the person standing behind the victim—”
“—which is pretty considerate, if you think about it,” added Stuart.
“But it’s untraceable,” said Stan. “Which makes our job a lot harder.”
“What’s it made of?” asked Sullivan.
Stuart shook one of the baggies. “Powdered metal usually. Zinc, tin, or tungsten, after it’s cold-bonded or swaged.”
“Now that word you definitely made up,” said Sullivan.
“Squeezed into a die-cast form,” said Stan impatiently. “Shaped, liked dough in a cookie mold. The army even started experimenting with plant material.”
“Biodegradable bullets?” asked Cape.
“That’s the idea.” Stuart nodded. “Some government greenie decided all those bullets fired by the military were getting into the soil and polluting the earth.”
“What about all the dead bodies?” asked Sullivan.
“Biodegradable,” said Cape. “Remember?”
“So they’re making small batches of bullets out of fibrous plants?”
“Like kale,” added Stan.
“Kale?” Sullivan looked impressed. “About time someone found a use for that stuff, it’s fucking inedible. And you know what’s even wor—”
A thunk followed by a rolling sound interrupted them.
All four men turned to find Vera on the cot, asleep. The water bottle had fallen off the bed and was slowly heading toward them. Cape picked it up and set it gently on the desk. Without a word, he moved to the front of the store and waited while the police silently packed up their gear.
Once they were ready, Cape followed them through the front door before closing it behind him. He turned to Stuart and Stan.
“Thanks, fellas.”
“Lucky you’re not dead,” replied Stuart.
“Assuming there was a bullet,” said Stan. “And it wasn’t some kid throwing a rock.”
Cape snorted. “That kid would have one hell of an arm. He’d be pitching for the Giants.”
“That window saved your ass,” said Stan. “Even glass can mess with the trajectory of a—”
“—frangible,” said Cape.
Stuart patted Cape on the shoulder. “You’re better than most,” he said. “I’d tell you to stay out of trouble, but then you’d be unemployed.”
The CSI techs headed for the stairs, Stan giving a half-hearted wave over his shoulder without looking back. “Sullivan, we’ll let you know when the tests are back, which won’t be tomorrow, so don’t nag.”
Cape turned to Sullivan and asked, “You going to have a uniform outside?”
“I’ll ask one of them to keep an eye on the store for a bit.” Sullivan jutted his chin over the railing toward the smoldering ruin of the donut shack. The smell of caramelized sugar lingered in the predawn air. Most of the emergency vehicles had left, only a medium-sized fire truck remaining with its lights off. Two uniformed cops milled about, one of them smoking.
“Thanks,” said Cape. “I doubt she’s in any danger.”
“Agreed.” Sullivan smiled. “If I only had one shot, I’d definitely be aiming for you.”
“You’re almost as funny as Beau,” said Cape. “When you see him, tell him my feelings were hurt that he didn’t come down himself.”
“Beau usually works homicides. This was only attempted homicide. Besides, he and Vinnie are busy tonight.”
“What went down?”
“Not what, but who?” Sullivan pursed his lips and made a whistling sound like a bomb falling in a Wile E. Coyote cartoon. “Someone took a header off Millennium Tower.”
“Who?”
“Jesse Cranston.”
“I recognize the name.” Cape frowned. “But can’t place it.”
“You read the society pages?”
“I tend to stick with Peanuts and Family Circus.”
“Jesse was an up-and-comer on the political scene, offspring of a San Francisco power couple. Mom was Judith Cranston, passed away a couple of years ago, but in her day ran the San Francisco Opera. Big on the charity circuit.”
Cape felt a knot tying itself around his gut.
“Maybe you’ve heard of the father,” said Sullivan. “William Cranston.”
“That name I know.” Cape visualized the list he’d given to Sally. If memory served, Cranston’s name was near the top. “He’s in politics too?”
“You could say that,” said Sullivan. “He’s a judge.”
57
“I’m not one to judge,” said the Doctor, “but you sound like a bunch of spineless cephalopods.”
The man at the far end of the table worked his jaw with the fervor of someone worried about swallowing a cherry pit. He was hungover, having celebrated his sixtieth birthday the night before, but was feeling queasy for another reason. He was chairman of the board, but when the Doctor showed up, he wasn’t in charge of anything.
He scanned the table for support, but the five other board members refused to make eye contact, having developed a sudden and intense interest in their own hands, their empty notepads, or their shoes.
The boardroom was simultaneously conservative and opulent. Wood on the floors, walls, and ceiling. The table was a mahogany ellipse only slightly larger than the orbit of Saturn. On the left sat one woman and two men about his age, with two younger women on his right.
The board had taken years to assemble and included George and Elaine, two African-Americans. Check. One Asian woman, Doris, check. Three Caucasians, counting Pat, Kerry, and himself, and he’d made an additional contribution to inclusion with an artificial limb. The left leg below the thigh, due to a drunken motorcycle accident when he was a teenager. So the disability box got checked, and if you looked closely, you’d notice the raised Adam’s apple on Kerry, the raven-haired woman who used to be a man. Transgender gets a check mark. Next year he planned on swapping out Elaine for a gay Latino he’d met at a networking event, but even now it was a perfectly inclusive board of directors, demonstrably diverse and therefore beyond reproach.
Not to mention political diversity. Two Democrats, two Republicans, a registered Green Party member, and even a Libertarian, but every single one a capitalist at heart.
To criticize the company was an attack on all of them, and in these politically correct times, no one would dare.
Unassailable in every way, until this lunatic started calling them all jellyfish.
“We’re just being cautious,” the chairman said reasonably. “You have to admit—”
“I admit that I thought you, Steve, of all people…” The Doctor shook his head disconsolately. “I thought you had the backbone to see this through.”
Doris looked up from the table. “We are still committed—”
“Time doesn’t wait for committees, Doris,” said the Doctor impatiently. “And neither do I.”
“I said committed,” objected Doris.
“Tomato, tom-ah-toe,” said the Doctor. “I look around this table and see a bunch of bureaucrats. I’d call that a committee.” He smiled wickedly and added, “Or a consortium.” He looked pointedly around the room. “That’s a much better word, don’t you think?”
George shifted uncomfortably in his chair and cleared his throat. “Doctor, in this forum, in this room, the board cannot condone or acknowledge any collusion omitted from our annual report. Hopewell Pharmaceutical Company is a publicly traded enterprise, as you know.”
“I love it when you guys call it an enterprise,” said the Doctor. “As if a giant drug company is a fucking starship on a five-year mission. You’re on a mission to get your ass reamed by Wall Street if you don’t launch a new drug in the next fiscal year.”
Kerry’s cheeks squeezed together like a pair of angry lemons. “Which is why we turned to you.”
“Exactly,” said the Doctor.
“We just want to slow down the trials,” said Elaine. “The seizures—”
“Statistically insignificant.” The Doctor waved a dismissive hand. “And not connected to us at all. The users—the test subjects—are three steps removed from any path that leads back here. San Francisco has more than enough junkies to muddy the waters.”
“But what if there is an investigation?” asked Kerry.
“What if there’s a lawsuit?” asked Doris.
“A class-action lawsuit,” added George.
“We own a judge,” said the Doctor curtly. “We own the judge—any case brought against us will go to the State Superior Court and land on his bench.”
George furrowed his brow. “But the donut shack exploded.”
Steve nodded emphatically. “It blew up.”
“The pier was on fire,” added Elaine histrionically. “It was all over the news.”
Pat exhaled loudly. “Praise God it wasn’t the banana stand.”
“Are you serious?” asked the Doctor incredulously.
Pat shrugged. “I love me some fried bananas.”
Doris and George nodded their agreement.
“I’m not talking about the goddamn bananas!” said the Doctor. “Or the donuts.” He rolled his neck until a loud crack brought his eyes back to the table. “You nimrods are worried about the donut shack? Say the police stumble across some caramelized contraband, you seriously think any reporters—even Woodward and Bernstein—could connect a pissant dealer to one of the biggest pharma companies in the Bay Area?”
“It’s not just the press,” said Steve, in his best chairman-of-the-board baritone.
The Doctor’s eyes glinted like winter sun on a broken windshield. “Go on.”
“We got a phone call.”
“So that’s it.” The Doctor nodded to himself and stood up. Moving to a whiteboard mounted on the wall, he pulled a Sharpie from his jacket pocket, ignoring the erasable markers in a tray mounted beneath the board. “I know about the phone calls.”
“Calls?” Steve was aghast. “Plural, as in more than one call? What other calls?”
“Your partners on the pier,” said the Doctor mildly. “They got calls, too.”
“This call mentioned money laundering,” said Kerry testily.
“Yup, that’s the one,” said the Doctor. “We’ll handle it.”
“How?” asked Pat.
“You don’t really want me to answer that,” said the Doctor. “Do you?”
“People could go to jail,” insisted Pat.
“I don’t care if half the consortium gets locked up for money laundering, as long as the drug tests stay on schedule. That’s why this thing is a double-blind.” The Doctor spun the marker across the back of his knuckles like a magician performing sleight of hand. “The Russians import our magic ingredients—”
“—unregulated pharmaceuticals,” muttered Doris.
“You want to be a global company, then ignore the local laws,” snapped the Doctor. “Manufacturing and R&D are handled in China, and our angel investors from Hong Kong make sure all the profits are squeaky clean by running everything through their Chinese laundry.”
“That’s our point,” said George, eyebrows on full alert. “A reporter called about money laundering, and you’re not concerned?”
“It probably wasn’t a reporter.”
“Who then?” asked Pat and George simultaneously.
“We have a theory.”
“‘We have a theory’?” Steve seemed to swell in his chair. “You keep saying we, but who’s we in this scenario?” He waved furiously around the table. “I thought we were the only we that matters.”
The Doctor turned to the whiteboard and took the cap off his pen. “I think it’s time we discussed roles and responsibilities.” With the care of a surgeon making an incision, he drew a perfectly straight line from the top of the board downward at a sixty-degree angle.
“Is that a permanent marker?” asked Kerry.
