Blood Flag: A Paul Madriani Novel (2 page)

I nod. “Go on.”

“That box was no end of troubles. Inside, in addition to the key, there was a piece of paper folded up with a name on it, and a picture. It looked like it might have been a copy of an ID. It was military but not US. I don’t think, anyway. The words printed on it weren’t in English. I asked Dad what it was. He said he didn’t know. But I think he did. Just the way he looked. He knew something. All the trouble started after that.”

“What trouble?” says Harry.

“Phone calls late at night. A man’s voice asking for Dad. Whenever I asked for his name on the phone he told me, ‘I’m a friend of your father’s. He’ll know who I am.’ Wouldn’t give me his name. Dad would take the phone and send me out of the room while they talked. When the phone calls ended, Dad looked worried, you know what I mean? He was sick, getting sicker each day. Now whoever was on the phone was making it worse. Adding a ton of stress. Over what, I don’t know. But it had to do with the key and that piece of paper. Of that I’m sure. Dad didn’t need the aggravation and I certainly didn’t. After the third call I stopped putting them through. I told the guy on the phone that my father was out and I hung up. Dad got scared. Told me I shouldn’t have done it. He told me to put the box with the key and the paper in my safe-deposit box at the bank. He wanted it out of the house.”

“Why?” says Harry.

“I don’t know. But that was before the burglary,” she says.

“When was this?” I ask.

“About five months ago. One afternoon I took Dad to the VA. We came home and the house had been turned upside down. Everything dropped out of drawers all over the floor. Dishes broken. The place was a mess. Upholstery and mattresses were all cut up, slashed and ripped. You know what I mean?”

“Like somebody was looking for something,” says Harry.

“Exactly.”

“Where’s the box now?” I ask.

“Still in the safe-deposit vault at my bank.”

“You have the key?” says Harry.

“At home hidden away, in a safe place. They didn’t find it.”

“Did you report the burglary to the police?” I ask.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Dad didn’t want to.”

“Did he say why?” I ask.

“No. Instead we called in some friends. They helped us clean up. Dad told them it was probably kids. But he and I both knew that it wasn’t. Two weeks later Dad was admitted to the VA and he never came out.”

“And he never told you who was on the phone?” says Harry.

“No.”

“Do you know who sent the box to your father?” I ask her.

“No. But I think there was a return address on the wrapper.”

“You saved it?”

“Dad folded it up and put it in the box under the key and the ID. I saw it in the box when I took it to the bank, but I didn’t think anything of it.”

“And you think whoever burglarized your house and called your father might have killed him?” I look at her.

“I don’t know. All I know is he was scared.”

Before Harry or I can say anything more, there’s a rap on the door. It opens and Brenda, my secretary, sticks her head in. “Sorry to interrupt but there’re two detectives here to see you. They say they have an arrest warrant for Ms. Brauer.”

TWO

H
e was parked at the curb looking through the open window on the driver’s side. The tiny rented Kia Rio was about a hundred and fifty yards down Winona Avenue from the small single-story house, the center of all the commotion across the street. It was a ranch-style bungalow like most of the others, gray stucco siding with a composition roof. There was a small single-car garage tacked on to the front of the house. Two fair-sized palm trees poked out of the planter bed that bordered the six-foot strip of front lawn that ran to the concrete sidewalk out in front.

A cop was busy tying off yellow plastic tape to one of the palm trees. He snaked the tape three times back and forth between a fence near the adjoining property and the tree, forming a barrier to keep the growing band of nosy neighbors at bay.

“Damn it!” He looked at the computer printout lying on the passenger seat next to him hoping that maybe it was the wrong house. It showed the street view from Google Earth. There was no question it was the same house, correct address, palm trees and all. Two police cars were parked on the street in front. There was a white official van of some kind backed into the driveway. The question was, what to do now?

He reached into the backseat, grabbed a backpack, and pulled out what looked like a short telescope. He popped the lens cover off the spotting scope, eased the rubber cover from the eyepiece, and steadied the tube of the scope on top of the exterior side-view mirror on the car. Then he adjusted the zoom and focused in.

The scope was capable of showing .30-caliber bullet holes, about a third of an inch across, on a target a thousand yards away. From where he was parked he could read the names of the officers from the nameplates on the front of their uniform shirts. The lettering looked like a highway billboard. He adjusted the magnification down to reduce the shake on the scope and focused in on the white van parked in the driveway. Blue letters on the side read:
SAN DIEGO POLICE CRIME SCENE INVESTIGATION
.

“What the hell is going on?” He talked to himself. This wasn’t unusual. Lately he’d been scratching his head about a number of things. He wondered if the police were looking for the same thing he was. Unless the old man left something in writing or talked to someone before he died, which was not likely, there was no way for the police to know.

He settled in as he watched the front of the house. He sat there for nearly two hours as they carried cardboard boxes and a number of plastic bags out of the house. He could only guess at the contents. The bags were sealed and the transfer boxes were covered. He assumed that maybe there were papers in most of the boxes, but there was no way to know, not a clue as to what the cops were looking for. At one point they came out with a desktop computer tower and some other electronics too big for a box. One of them carried a house phone with one of those base stations that probably recorded messages.

He was relieved that he had never attempted to contact the old man by e-mail. Nor had he left any voicemail messages on his phone. The only connection between them were two brief telephone conversations for which there were a dozen plausible explanations. That is, if anyone ever came asking questions. Unless the old man had recorded their conversations or taken notes, which was highly unlikely, no one could possibly know what they talked about. He knew the man would never tell his daughter. He would have had well-founded and serious concerns for her safety.

Rumors were now floating, information leaked into some dark crevices in certain correctional halls where twisted cretins lurked in the shadows. Word was that the thing actually existed. It had survived, and with the right information it might be found. Some of these people were crazy. All of them were dangerous, many of them ethnic fanatics, nutcases who would kill in a heartbeat if they thought they had the slightest chance to lay hands on it. Then there were others, people who might pay vast sums if only to lock it away behind glass in the confines of a private collection. Something to share over evening cocktails in the intimate gathering of other affluent friends. It was, after all, one of a kind, an original, like a Monet, only more lurid. A vivid and well-recorded piece of history. As to its ultimate monetary value? Who could say? It depended on the bidders, how many, who they were, the depth of their pockets, and perhaps most important, the intensity of the dark impulses that drove them to have it. The trick for any seller was to get it and to stay alive long enough to deal with the right people.

At the moment what was gnawing at him was the possibility that the police might stumble over the key and take it by mistake. If they found it they might assume that the box it opened could contain evidence they were searching for. They would take the key and worry about finding the bank and the box it belonged to later.

It would have been nice if the police had waited one more day. By then he would have been in and out of the house, had what he wanted, and been gone. There was more than a fair chance that once inside he could locate the key. Unlike the others, the stumblebums who couldn’t wait and who trashed the place and terrified the old man, he knew exactly what he was looking for. He would recognize the toolmaker’s stamp the instant he saw it. That is, if the key was still there.

He watched the house as police kept coming and going. He thought about getting out of the car and wandering up to mingle with the neighbors to see if any of them knew what was going on, why the cops were there, what they were looking for, and when they might be done. He quickly dismissed the idea. He noticed two of the uniforms were working the small crowd with pens and notepads. They were talking to people, taking names, and jotting down notes. Why? He didn’t know and he didn’t want to find out. Better to remain anonymous, keep his distance, wait, and hope for opportunity.

It didn’t take long to present itself. Just before three in the afternoon the cops wrapped up. The last bag of stuff came out of the house and one of the uniformed officers started cutting and pulling the yellow tape from around the tree and off the fence. One of the squad cars pulled a U-turn and headed out the other way. A few minutes later it was followed by the van.

The dwindling bunch of neighbors that remained began to break up. They drifted back toward their homes and the dull existence of normal life. Only the one squad car remained, two of the uniformed cops left behind to close up.

He zoomed in with the spotting scope on the area around the open front door. He was wondering how they had gained access to the house, whether the daughter had let them in, though he hadn’t seen any sign of her. Or had the cops taken the door down, broken the lock, or called in a locksmith? The answer came almost immediately. An older woman was standing near the front stoop with the two cops. She had a small dog in her arms. She leaned over, pushed the door, and kind of pitched the animal into the house as one of the cops quickly closed the door behind it. As it shut the push-button lock swung out of the indoor shadows and into bright sunlight. The woman leaned over, studied it for a second, and then began to press the four-digit code into the keypad. He watched through the scope as her finger moved over the buttons, then pushed the lock button. She waited a second, then checked the latch. It was locked. The neighbor woman must have let them in to save the door from being destroyed by the cops.

He grabbed a pen from his pocket and made a quick note on the palm of his hand. He looked at the time: 3:28. By six thirty it would be dark. He could move the car farther back and watch to see if the police set up a patrol. If so, he wouldn’t go near the place. He could watch to see if anybody came and went, neighbors looking out their windows or checking on the house, and whether the daughter came home. He wondered where she was.

He started the engine and pulled away from the curb, drove quickly past the parked patrol car, and headed down the street to look for a better location to watch the area. He was approaching the intersection with Forty-Ninth Street, about eight houses down, when he saw them. A rusted-out Chevy Chevelle, a muscle car from the seventies. Two white guys with shaved heads were sitting in the front seat. The driver looked at him, direct eye contact as he drove by. The driver showed tracks of gang tattoos all over his face, ink like a Maori warrior running down his neck disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. He didn’t have to take a second look at the swastikas, the numbers 14 and 88, to realize that others were scoping out the house and to know who they were. Police patrols in the area might not be a bad idea.

THREE

E
mma looks at me with large oval eyes. The warrant for her arrest and the two detectives waiting in our reception area test the limits even for the queen of worries. Her face has now collapsed into a mask of angst. In too much shock even to cry, she looks at Harry, then back to me. “What do I do?”

“Nothing,” I tell her. “Relax. Let us handle it. Don’t say anything.” I look toward the door and Brenda. “Tell them to wait, she’ll be out in a minute. Tell them she is conferring with counsel and that we will surrender her momentarily.” Brenda closes the door. “Have you talked to any other lawyers?” I ask Emma.

She shakes her head. “I wasn’t . . . I didn’t think I needed one; at least I wasn’t sure. Do I have to go to jail?”

“It appears so,” says Harry. “Lemme go check, see what they got.” He’s out of the chair and headed for the door, then slips out and quickly closes it behind him.

“The important thing is to keep calm and don’t say a word. They will book you, process you into the jail, take a couple of pictures, do your fingerprints.”

Now she starts to cry, a river of tears. Sofia grabs the box of Kleenex and hands it to her. She’s put her phone away and for the first time even Sofia looks worried.

“We’ll handle it,” I tell Emma. “See if we can get bail. If so, you’ll only be there a short time. If they put you in a cell with anyone else, be friendly, polite, but quiet. Whatever you do, don’t talk to them about your case. If they ask why you’re there, tell them you don’t know what’s going on, your lawyers are handling everything. And don’t talk to the cops. If they ask you anything beyond the spelling of your name, your date of birth, and home address, you tell them to talk to your lawyers. Got it?”

She looks at me with a frantic expression and nods.

“I’ve never been in jail. I’ve never been in any kind of trouble before. Last traffic ticket I got was so long ago I can’t remember.”

“Getting arrested is not a crime,” I tell her.

The door opens quickly and Harry slips back in and closes it. He hustles to the empty client chair with a fistful of paper. “Looks like one count, voluntary manslaughter.” He glances up at me, a puzzled look on his face. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“No murder count?” I say.

He looks through the papers, checks one more time, and then shakes his head.