Boxing the Octopus, page 23
Lou stepped further into the store as Vera felt her back press hard against the counter. She had nowhere to go, unless she turned her back on the apparition in front of her.
Vera calculated her chances of making it to the door or screaming loud enough for anyone to hear, assuming the pier wasn’t deserted at this hour. Her cell phone was in the back room. She gauged the distance to the store phone and the letter opener she kept near the register, but for now they were both out of reach.
Her only option was right in front of her.
Vera gritted her teeth and forced herself to look into Lou’s bloodshot eyes.
“We need to talk,” he said.
60
“I hate talking to you.”
“Since when?” Cape tried to look offended but there was no bullshitting a cop, and he had known Beau too long. “I thought we were friends.”
“Friend’s got nothing to do with it,” said Beau. “We can talk about sports, movies, even relationships—”
“I’d rather not talk about relationships,” replied Cape, a little too quickly.
“Our conversations about work tend to be lopsided.” Beau shrugged. “That’s all I’m saying.”
“But I’m buying you breakfast,” said Cape. “Again.”
“You’re on an expense account.”
“It’s the gesture that counts.”
“Then count this one.” Beau held up his right hand, middle finger extended. “Maybe I’ll pay this time,” he added, “if you tell me what-in-the-fuck is going on.”
Cape caught the eye of a passing waitress as Beau attacked his French toast like a Panzer Division under Rommel.
“I see you gave up your diet,” said Cape.
“I never give up,” said Beau. “I’m using reverse psychology on my body.”
As their waitress ensured they were both fully caffeinated, Cape glanced at the other patrons. Not surprisingly, everyone was more interested in bacon than in anything he might have to say.
The Hidive was never very crowded this time of day, known more as a waterfront bar than a place to grab breakfast. Located in the shadow of the Oakland Bay Bridge and adjacent to the garish yellow of Pier 28, the neon martini glass above the front door conjured an image of a dive bar from the 1940s.
Beau took some bacon and popped it into his mouth. His biceps stretched the fabric of his black T-shirt as he rested his elbows on the table, eyes on Cape.
“Someone almost shot me,” said Cape.
Beau nodded as he swallowed. “I heard.”
“They missed.”
“Obviously.” Beau chuckled, a bass rumble that almost shook the table.
Cape shoveled some eggs into his mouth, blue eyes only faintly amused.
“You sure they were aiming for you?” asked Beau. “You even sure it was a bullet?”
“I’m not sure of anything at this point.”
Beau took another bite. “The guys at the crime scene said the best angle for a shot would be from the roof of the aquarium. You rattle any cages over there?”
“It’s on the list,” said Cape. “I’ve been busy.”
“Me, too.”
“Doing what?” asked Cape. “Tell me something.”
“Nice try.” Beau shook his head. “You haven’t told me anything I don’t already know.”
“Know anything about money laundering?”
“That’s another question,” replied Beau. “You’re doing all the asking and none of the telling.”
“I play to my strengths.”
Beau gave him a cut-the-shit stare. Cape laughed.
“You told me the donut shack was a front for drugs,” said Beau. “Soon after that…BOOM!” He spread his fingers theatrically. “It’s raining donuts.”
“I’m surprised more cops didn’t show up.”
“Hilarious,” said Beau. “I have to wonder—since I’m a cop and don’t believe in coincidences—if you know anything about that little incident?”
Cape shook his head. “If someone thought they were being investigated, seems like a dumbass way to cover your tracks.”
“Drug deals always go bad,” replied Beau. “Maybe somebody has a grudge.”
“Maybe.”
Beau drained his fourth cup of coffee and waved for another round. Cape noticed his own was empty and tried to recall if he’d slept at all last night, then realized that if he couldn’t remember, the answer was no.
“Why’d you ask about money laundering?” said Beau.
Cape told him about the money trail discovered by Sloth and Linda, the skein of currency changing hands across the pier. He handed Beau printouts of the schematics that Sloth had been building.
Cape left out Sally’s visit to the bank and did his best to skip anything that might make Beau uncomfortable, like hacking past the firewall of a global bank.
When he finished, Beau looked like a Sphinx with a hangover.
“Run that last part by me again.”
“Which part?” asked Cape.
“The part where you called these places,” said Beau, “and you gave them your name?”
“Oh, that.”
Beau reached under the table, pulled his gun from its holster, and laid it on the table between their plates. It was a Sig 9-millimeter, a semiautomatic pistol that looked angry just sitting there. The waitress, on her way back to their table, froze when she saw the gun until Beau took the badge off his hip and held it up. She spun on her toes like a ballerina and headed in the opposite direction.
“Take my gun and shoot yourself,” said Beau. “That will really confuse the hell out of whoever is trying to kill you.”
“Put that away,” said Cape. “Or the waitress will never come back.”
“I’ve had too much coffee already,” answered Beau. “Maybe you could go to that place on the pier that does face painting for kids? You could drop your pants and ask them to paint a target on your ass.”
“You did suggest I rattle some cages.”
“But you didn’t pick a target.” Beau took the gun and returned it to his hip. “You called so many places, you’ve got no idea who took the shot.”
Cape made a rueful face. “I was getting impatient.”
“You don’t know if the drug trafficking is connected to money laundering.”
“Drug money always has to get cleaned,” said Cape. “Doesn’t it?”
“Maybe,” said Beau. “But speaking as a sworn officer of the law, you’ve got fuck-all when it comes to evidence that would stand up in court.”
“You just said you don’t believe in coincidences.”
Beau slurped his coffee loudly and stared at Cape over the rim.
“If it’s all connected,” said Cape, “then everybody wins.”
“So why ’jack a truck?” said Beau. “Is that what you’re asking?”
“What can you tell me about the Millennium Tower jumper?”
Beau paused long enough to give the impression he wasn’t going to answer, then said, “That hasn’t hit the papers yet.”
“That’s one advantage of getting shot at,” said Cape. “You get to hang around gossipy cops in the middle of the night.”
“What’s the question?”
“The victim was the son of a judge—Judge William Cranston, right?”
Beau nodded. “Superior Court judge, got re-elected last year.”
“I thought judges got appointed.”
“Not to the Superior Court—have to run for that office like any state politician.”
Cape stared at the mottled surface of their table for a minute, trying to find a pattern. “So he’d have to raise money for his election campaigns like everyone else.”
“Yup, every election cycle,” said Beau. “Why?”
“When you and Vinnie told me about the heavy-hitters behind the pier, you said investors included a state senator and a judge,” said Cape. “He’s the judge on that list.”
Beau drummed his thumb against the table as if sending a distress signal. “Slipped my mind while I was watching the forensics team scrape his son’s brains off the sidewalk.”
“Did the kid leave a note?”
“Most people don’t.”
“So you think it’s a coincidence his dad is connected to the pier.”
“Did I say that?”
“We should call the Feds.”
“This is my backyard,” said Beau testily. “What are you gonna show the Feds—your illegally obtained financial information that leads to nowhere, or the disappearing bullet that might not have been a bullet, or maybe some water-logged donuts—”
“—fine,” said Cape.
“The Feds won’t act on a hunch, and the only crime I’m authorized to investigate is the armored car heist, because, so far…it’s the only crime.”
“You find the drivers?”
“You think I’d be sitting here if I had?” Beau cracked his knuckles. “My guess is they’re either dead or long gone.”
“It’s all connected,” said Cape.
“I’m not saying the pier doesn’t look fishy.”
“You either believe these are totally unrelated events, or—”
“—you’ve stumbled onto the greatest criminal conspiracy in the history of the city,” said Beau.
“I never stumble,” said Cape. “I just flail around.”
“I noticed.”
“This case has too many moving parts.”
“I noticed that too.”
Cape sighed. “I feel like I’m boxing an octopus.”
“Then turn it into a knife fight,” said Beau. “And cut off its arms.”
61
“Cut off its arms,” said the Doctor. “It’ll be a lot easier.”
He leaned into the webcam and imagined his face looking huge and distorted on the other end, but he was trying to make a point, and no one seemed to be listening. On his laptop the display was split into quadrants, each showing a different view of his lab in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.
His humorless assistant, Joy, stared disapprovingly from the upper right corner of his screen.
“This is our last specimen of Hapalochlaena maculosa,” she said. “It would be foolish to kill the creature for one sample when we are so close to finding the right protein sequence, and your supplier in Australia—”
“That’s a blue-ringed octopus,” said the Doctor.
Joy looked perturbed. “That’s what I said. Hapalochlaena mac—”
“I wasn’t finished,” snapped the Doctor. “I’m not there to perform the procedure myself, and that little critter is the fourth most venomous creature on the planet. The neurotoxin in its saliva may be key to the sequencing, but it would be foolish to handle that animal without taking precautions.”
“Killing it seems to be an excessive precaution,” replied Joy, her monotone polite and humorless. Through the speakers on his laptop she sounded more like Siri or Alexa than ever.
“Suit yourself.”
“We could wait until you return to the lab.”
“Absolutely not,” said the Doctor. “We’ve got too much invested, and we’re close to a breakthrough. If today’s test works, we’re going to expand trials beyond San Francisco.”
“But if it doesn’t,” said Joy, “you’ll regret having killed the animal.”
The Doctor pressed his thumbs into his temples until they turned white. He wasn’t as worried about the danger as he was about the procedure getting botched. He couldn’t afford a day trip to the Spratly Islands.
If today’s test looked promising, his associates would expand trials to Seattle, Orlando, San Diego, and eventually Montreal, Paris, and Tokyo by the end of the year. Things had gotten messy in San Francisco, and time wasn’t on his side.
On the screen in front of him, the octopus floated in its tank as if it had all the time in the world. Maybe six inches long, covered with brown and yellow bands, its body mottled with blue rings. Its tentacles seemed luminous against the seawater of the tank.
“I’m sure it will be fine,” said Joy. “We have wire mesh gloves.”
“Swell.”
“Stewart will be very careful.”
The Doctor almost asked who-the-hell-is-Stewart until he glanced at the lower left of his screen and saw a tall, pale technician moving from the main lab toward the examination counter. The resolution on the laptop wasn’t the best, but the Doctor thought he detected a ribbon of sweat on Stewart’s upper lip.
The Doctor clucked his tongue. “He looks like a man with acrophobia stepping onto a tightrope.”
“He is very qualified,” insisted Joy.
“Tell that to the octopus.”
The last quadrant featured a view of the entire lab from a camera mounted on the wall across from Joy. Sliding his thumb and forefinger over the track pad, the Doctor adjusted his view to zoom into where the action was about to take place. By scanning the four squares he could track every moment of the operation.
“Showtime,” said the Doctor.
Another technician entered the lab. He approached the tank with a grabber stick, the type of grip-activated mechanical arm sold in drugstores around the world to reach things on impossibly high shelves. This one had been modified—instead of a plastic claw on the end, a net held by a wire ring opens or closes with every squeeze of the handle. Tied to the fabric of the net was a tiny crab, a common bait for octopus traps. The rig was inspired by the clay jars and cages used by fishermen from Europe to Asia.
The technician was compact, with a physique somewhere between a rugby player and an end table. He held the stick with the calm assuredness of a conductor, assuming that conductor was an epileptic under attack by bees.
“Who’s that guy?” asked the Doctor.
Joy stepped into frame and looked directly at the camera. “That’s Chris. He is very competent.”
The Doctor started to say something but caught himself. It was hard enough finding a cure for incurable diseases, but finding talent willing to work under duress at a top-secret laboratory while committing every known human rights violation in the process, well, that was beyond him.
“Tell him I say hi,” mumbled the Doctor. “Stewart, too. Thanks, guys.”
Joy’s enormous face looked approvingly from the screen. The Doctor made a mental note to do a better job remembering people’s names. He had forgotten that tidbit from his professional coaching. Just a tiny bit of acknowledgement, and you could get people to do almost anything.
“Remember, Joy,” said the Doctor, “the venom is stored inside the salivary glands, behind the beak, so you have to spread the arms wide before you use the syringe.”
Joy nodded. “Chris will use the stick to remove Hapalochlaena maculosa—”
“—stop showing off,” said the Doctor. “Just say octopus.”
“Chris will remove the specimen from the tank,” continued Joy. “And Stewart will hold it down and separate the tentacles while I use the syringe to extract the venom.”
Chris climbed onto a step stool next to the counter and moved the stick over the opening of the tank. It knocked against the sides with a hollow clunk the Doctor could hear clearly through the laptop speakers. As the net slid into the tank, the octopus moved effortlessly to the side, its arms undulating. The little crab kicked and clacked its claws in agitation, two of its legs held tight with monofilament.
“Now leave it there,” the Doctor commanded. “Our little kraken is curious by nature, just give it a moment.”
The stick continued to wobble back and forth until Chris hooked the end onto the side of the tank, letting go of the handle. This left the net suspended about halfway down the tank, almost level with the octopus.
It was impossible to tell where the octopus was looking, but its arms waved methodically, each containing olfactory nerve endings. It was like having nine noses. It drifted idly, sizing up the situation, then extended two arms into the net and pulled itself inside. Once clear of the edge, it opened like a flower, bringing the beak forward to begin its feeding.
Chris lurched at the stick, almost knocking it from its perch, but his hand grasped the handle before the octopus finished the crab. The net closed as the octopus pulsated, the bands around its head shifting in color from dark brown to pale beige.
“No time like the present,” said the Doctor.
“Understood,” said Joy. “Stewart, get into position.”
Stewart stepped to the opposite side of the counter from Chris and gave a final pull on his mesh gloves.
“That species can survive out of the water for almost an hour,” said the Doctor. “So take your time and do not fuck this up.”
Joy pursed her lips but didn’t respond to his motivational speech. She stepped away from the camera as Chris slowly lifted the net from the tank. As it broke the surface of the water, the octopus swelled and contracted like a beating heart. The rings on its skin turned iridescent, as if each tentacle had a dozen blue eyes glaring angrily at their captor.
“Oh, he’s pissed,” said the Doctor.
When the net was level with the counter, Chris glanced nervously at Stewart to make sure he was paying attention. Joy stepped into frame, syringe at the ready, stainless steel glove on her left hand.
Chris squeezed the handle and released the net. The octopus hit the metal counter and bounced like a ball, its arms springing outward on impact. Stewart lunged forward, grabbing the head with his right hand and pinning it to the table. The Doctor heard a chorus of three gasps as if a bomb had been defused.
“So far, so good,” he said. “Now flip him upside down.”
Stewart rotated his wrist and inverted the octopus, unfurling half the tentacles with his left hand while shifting his right from the head to the other four arms. With its arms spread, the octopus looked less threatening but more obscene, an alien caught with its pants down and legs open. The twin rows of suckers on each arm pulsated suggestively.
