Beating the Babushka (21 page)

“While some get a percentage of the net—that’s how much money the movie makes—if it’s profitable.”

Cape thought for a moment before saying anything. “So if the movie loses money but still does well at the box office, then people like Harry and Adam still clean up?”

“Yup,” said Grace.

“But the studio loses money,” said Cape. “And they own the studio.”

“That’s the insidious part.” Grace smiled. “It becomes a write-off for the studio, but Harry and Adam are listed as Executive Producers on the film—that’s how they get their individual percentages. So they get rich even if their company loses money.”

“So that’s what an Executive Producer does,” muttered Cape. “I always wondered about all those names at the beginning of a film. When you first told me you were a producer, I just assumed…”

“That I didn’t do a damn thing?” asked Grace lightly. “That’s a running joke in the movie business—if you don’t know what someone does on a film, just call them a producer.”

“There certainly seem to be a lot of them.”

Grace laughed. “The average movie has almost twelve different people with producer in their title—Executive Producers, Associate Producers, Assistant Producers, even Co-Associate Producers.”

“What do they all do?”

“Honestly?” replied Grace. “Even I’m not sure sometimes. Some invested in the film, some contributed to the original story concept. And a few, like me, are real production people.”

“Doing important things,” said Cape, a teasing note to his voice.

“Don’t patronize me,” said Grace. “The only difference between George Lucas and Ed Wood was a good producer.”

Cape held up his hands. “Just kidding, but they all get to be in the credits, don’t they?”

“So?”

“The audience has to sit through an endless list of names before the film can start.”

“Pretty boring, I’ll admit,” said Grace. “But giving people production credits keeps the price down. Some folks just want to be associated with films, maybe become famous, or impress their friends. So they’ll take a smaller percentage, or maybe sell their idea to a studio for less money, simply because their name shows up on the big screen.”

“I’d take the money and leave the fame for someone else.”

“Smart guy,” said Grace, squeezing his arm. “Just be glad you don’t work in the movie business. You’d never survive with that lack of ego.”

Cape leaned back in his chair and stretched. His head hurt. He was perfecting the art of learning a lot about nothing important. Maybe after a few hours of sifting, his brain could glean something useful from the information overload of the past two days, but he wasn’t counting on it. “Thanks for the lesson in film accounting,” he said, sighing. “The bottom line is that the movie might lose money, right?”

Grace nodded. “Unless I can curb costs during this final week of shooting, we’ll go over budget.”

“A lot of money?”

“Almost twenty million,” said Grace sheepishly.

“That’s a lot of money,” replied Cape.

Grace shrugged. “Yeah, even for the movie business.”

Cape forced a smile, not wanting to appear as frustrated as he felt.

“Did this help you at all?” asked Grace hopefully.

“I got a chance to eat,” replied Cape. “And that always helps.”

“What are you going to do next?”

“Move out of the city before you finish that tidal wave,” said Cape. “Unless you’ll reconsider and destroy L.A. instead?”

“Sorry,” said Grace. “We have to destroy San Francisco.”

“Why?”

“It’s in the script.”

Cape shrugged.

“That’s as good a reason as any,” he said.

Chapter Forty-eight

Sally sat alone in the dark and dreamt she was flying.

She was ten years old again, her teacher Xan leading her through the Mai Po marshes, a nature reserve consisting of shrimp ponds in the northwest corner of Hong Kong. It was a haven for migratory birds; when the shrimp ponds were drained each harvesting season, the birds feasted on tiny fish trapped in the mudflats. This time of year the ponds were full, but there were still plenty of birds for archery practice.

Rong was with them, but Sally ignored him. One of the younger instructors, he had become abusive with some of the other girls in Sally’s class, hitting them when Master Xan wasn’t looking. It angered Sally; she thought Xan missed nothing. The girls said nothing to him, and Rong was careful to never be out of shouting range of the older instructors. He knew what some of the girls would do if given the chance. It was a dangerous game, but Sally knew Rong couldn’t help himself. She could always spot a sadist, even in a crowd of killers.

“Remember, little dragon,” Xan said. “You must become the arrow.” His voice was deep and resonant, almost affectionate. Sally walked a step behind and to his left, but still the scar was visible. When he turned to make eye contact it jumped across his face like a jagged bolt of lightning, from below his chin and across his eyes, straight up to his hairline. The black stubble of his scalp did nothing to hide its progress. The other girls told Sally a rival Triad leader had sent men to kill Xan many years ago. The scar was all that was left of them.

“Become the arrow,” said Sally without conviction. Xan stopped their muddy march with an upraised hand.

“Am I wasting your time, little dragon?” Xan towered above her, lightning dancing as he spoke.

Sally bowed. “No, Master. It just—”

“—sounded like a load of Zen nonsense?”

Sally’s eyes grew wide but she remained silent. She heard Rong off to the side, kicking at something in the long grass. Probably a small animal. Xan’s eyes hardened, bringing her back to full attention.

“It is the same as striking a board,” he said. “When you punch, what do you see?”

“The board breaking apart,” said Sally without hesitation. “Before I hit it.”

Xan nodded. “It is the same with the bow. See where you want the arrow to go in your mind, then fly with it.”

Sally furrowed her brow, a look she perfected by age ten. “Fly with it?”

“Guide it,” said Xan. “Make it follow your will to the target.”

Sally bowed as Xan waved curtly at Rong, who jogged ahead to a small cluster of trees at the edge of the marsh. It was barely sunrise, a light fog drifting over the marsh. Not another soul in sight.

“When Rong hits the branches,” said Xan, “the birds will take flight.”

Sally nodded but didn’t say anything. She held her arms loosely at her sides, the bow in her left hand, a quiver of hunting arrows across her back. She closed her eyes and waited for the cry of the birds.

A hundred screams shattered the still morning. Sally’s hands flew, an arrow leaving the bow before the birds had cleared the trees. She fired a single arrow, turned to Xan, and bowed, a smile barely visible on her face. It was almost a full minute before the birds stopped squawking, but a scream continued to pierce the morning fog.

Xan looked across the marsh and saw Rong doubled over beneath the trees, clutching his right hand in his left, blood pouring across his forearm. That was the hand he used to hit the girls, but it would be a long while before the tendons healed, if they did at all. The tip of the hunting arrow was razor-sharp and very wide, designed to tear through flesh and take some with it. Rong’s cries echoed off the muddy ponds.

Xan turned to Sally, impassive. “What have you done?”

Sally held Xan’s gaze and nodded, once. “I became the arrow, Master Xan.”

Xan bowed, a smile flashing across his face.

“Well done, little dragon.”

***

Sally blinked and returned to the present. There wasn’t much she missed about her childhood, but there was much she remembered.

She ran through the attack in Brighton Beach again. Cape was alive, and so was the Pole. But she had missed the man cloaked in shadows. She wasn’t going to miss again.

She took a deep breath and stood, turning to face the target at the far end of her loft. The bow lay at her feet, a hundred hand-carved arrows feathered and ready to fly. She took one and notched it onto the string.

Time to fly.

Chapter Forty-nine

“Are we there yet?”

After spending the morning sitting on his ass in an edit studio, Cape found the run to the bridge invigorating. It was the run back that was killing him.

“It’s your office we came from,” replied Beau, his breathing audible but not labored. “We’re just running back and forth, so don’t tell me you’re lost.”

They ran past Ghirardelli Square, with the island of Alcatraz just offshore, coming up on their left. The morning fog had burned off, giving the city a rare burst of undiluted sunshine with no wind. Cruising past Fisherman’s Wharf, they made it to Pier 39, where they broke their stride and started walking, hands on their hips. The building where Cape’s office was located stood across the street, broad windows flashing in the sun, beckoning them home to rest.

“Did I tell you how much I hate running?” asked Cape.

“Yeah, every step of the way for the last mile,” replied Beau, “when you weren’t wheezing.”

“How far was that?”

“About ten miles,” said Beau, blinking as sweat poured down his broad forehead.

“Ten miles?” said Cape, incredulous. “Whose idea was it to run ten miles?”

“Yours,” said Beau. “You’re the one suggested we go running—I said sure. You’re the one said let’s run to the bridge and back—I said whatever.”

“I didn’t realize it was ten miles,” remarked Cape, looking back the way they had come.

“Should buy a map,” suggested Beau. “If you was a cop, like me, you’d know what you were gettin’ yourself into. Those of us in proper law enforcement jobs are expected to know the city we’re protecting. Me—I know the city like the back of my hand.”

“That’s the problem,” said Cape. “Your hands are bigger than mine.”

“Ain’t just my hands,” replied Beau, chuckling.

“Was that some kind of racial remark?” asked Cape indignantly.

“Naw,” said Beau, laughing. “I’ve seen you in the locker room.”

“I’m flattered you looked,” said Cape. “But I’m not interested.”

“Just sizin’ up the competition,” replied Beau. “Sally ever mention me?”

Cape looked at his friend and shook his head sadly. “She said that if she were interested in any man in the city, then it would be you.”

“For real?”

Cape hesitated. “I’m paraphrasing,” he said. “Those are my words, not hers.”

“You mean you’re exaggerating,” said Beau, his eyes narrowing.

“Actually, I should have said lying,” replied Cape. “I was lying.”

Beau shook his head. “Guess she’ll never come to her senses.”

“I’ll tell her you said that.”

“Don’t tell her that,” said Beau quickly.

“I won’t use those exact words,” said Cape reassuringly.

“You’ll paraphrase, is that it?”

“Sure.”

Beau shook his head, frowning. “Forget I said anything.”

The light changed and they crossed the street. The three parking meters in front of the building were taken, an old convertible sandwiched between two SUVs. Cape idly ran his hand over the hood of the convertible as they walked to the front door.

The best thing about the dot-com boom, as far as Cape was concerned, was all the money Internet companies spent on their offices. That was one of many reasons most of them went bankrupt, believing their share price was money in the bank. And though they had long since abandoned their investors and vacated this building, they left behind a locker room and a full kitchen. Cape and the other tenants kept the kitchen stocked with items in the communal refrigerator, usually marked. Beau pulled open the refrigerator and took out a large carton of orange juice, unopened.

“This yours?”

“Yeah,” said Cape. “Glasses are behind you.”

“Won’t need a glass,” replied Beau, cracking open the container and tilting his head back, draining it in one continuous gulp.

Cape reached past him and grabbed the last carton on the shelf, holding it protectively. “I’m going upstairs till I cool off,” he said. “You need a shower?”

Beau shook his head. “Too tired,” he said. “Let’s go to your office and compare notes.”

They went upstairs and Beau sat in one of the client chairs across from Cape, his feet on the desk.

“No sign of your Russian friends since you left town,” he said. “It’s been quiet.”

“If we were in a movie,” said Cape, “I’d say it’s been too quiet.”

Beau scowled. “This ain’t no movie.”

“I know,” said Cape. “I just wanted to say it.”

“Whatever,” said Beau, giving him a look. “You talk to Corelli?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“He talked to a contact at the FBI, and they confirmed that Major Yuri Sokoll is somewhere in the U.S.”

Beau snorted. “Like that was something we didn’t already know?”

“They think he came in from the Czech Republic,” said Cape. “Got a clean passport and made a connection through the embassy. The feds call it slipping through the net.”

“Always worries me when they have a name for it,” said Beau. “What else you learn?”

“Not much,” said Cape. “Before coming here, they think he was in Chechnya, selling arms to the rebels.”

“I thought he was Russian.”

“Apparently the month before, he was in Moscow,” replied Cape, “selling arms to the Russians.”

“Nice guy, helping both sides kill each other.”

“And probably getting rich doing it.”

“Well, he’s got a talent for keeping a low profile, ’cept when he’s trying to kill you. We checked the typical scumbag haunts and came up empty.”

“I don’t think he’s your typical scumbag.”

“No shit,” said Beau. “That’s why we called the feds.”

Cape sat up straighter. “FBI?”

“Me and Vinnie called everybody,” replied Beau. “FBI, the INS, Customs, Port Authority, the ATF, and the Department of Homeland Security. Hell, I think we even called the DMV, but they put us on hold.”

“You learn anything?”

Beau shook his head. “They all wanted to know if this guy was a terrorist.”

“He’s got me pretty terrified,” said Cape.

“Not good enough,” said Beau. “We said he’s an arms dealer, drug dealer, murderer, plus he’s in the country illegally.”

“And what did the feds say to that?”

“They’d call us back in six to nine months when they have more manpower.”

“Six to nine months?” said Cape. “I’ll be dead by then.”

Beau nodded. “Your tax dollars at work.”

Cape sat back in his chair. “Guess I should’ve dropped the case when I had a chance.”

Beau didn’t say anything. They sat like that, listening to their own breathing and the tourists across the street, until Cape changed the subject.

“Were you able to check the lab reports?”

Beau’s eyes shifted automatically to the cop stare he’d perfected over the years. “When you called this morning,” he said slowly, “I considered telling you to go fuck yourself. I give you information, you gotta tell me something in return, friends or not. Last time you didn’t have shit.”

“That’s ’cause I didn’t know shit,” replied Cape.

“And now you do?”

“You tell me.”

Beau scowled. “You’re an asshole,” he said in a tired voice. “I checked the lab reports on the heroin we found in Otto’s deli—the stuff in the sausages.”

“And?”

“It’s the same as the stuff we found in the producer’s apartment.”

“The same grade?” asked Cape. “Same quality?”

“I mean exactly the same,” said Beau. “The levels of codeine and morphine match, along with everything else.”

Cape nodded silently to himself.

“Your turn,” said Beau, giving him the stare again.

Cape sighed. “I thought the movie production was a cover for the drugs.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Now I think the drugs were a cover for the movie production.”

“Is that a riddle?” said Beau testily. “Or one of them haikus?”

Cape shook his head. “I think they stole the smack from Otto, and killed him in the process.”

“Your Russian friends or your movie friends?”

“My guess is the Russians stole the heroin to plant in the dead guy’s apartment.”

“Why?”

“To waste your time,” replied Cape. “Throw us off the trail, so they could finish their real business. What have you and Vinnie been doing?”

“Sorting out a drug war,” said Beau.

“What if there isn’t a drug war?”

Beau didn’t blink.

Cape leaned forward. “You assumed that Tom, the producer, was involved with drugs, right?”

“Seemed likely.”

“Yeah,” agreed Cape. “People get killed over drug deals all the time, and the idea of using a movie production as a front for distribution isn’t half bad.”

Beau dropped his feet to the floor.

“But it ain’t half good, either,” he said, nodding. “No permanent network, no way to move more than a few kilos of junk at a time.”

Cape nodded. “Different players on every shoot.”

“Hard to know who to trust.”

“And I doubt Freddie Wang or Frank Alessi would sell a few kilos at a time to some producer they don’t know,” added Cape.

“You talked to them both, right?”

Cape nodded. “Frank first, then Freddie.”

“We talked to both of them,” said Beau. “Me and Vinnie were in an official capacity, so you might have had more luck. Frank’s got so many connections, we can barely get the time of day from the fat fuck.”

“I pushed some buttons with both of them, especially Frank,” said Cape. “I find Freddie Wang harder to read.”

“He’s inscrutable,” said Beau. “Chinese are like that.”

“Bet that’s what they say about you,” replied Cape.

“Nah, they think we all look alike.”

“You’re bigger than most,” said Cape. “I think you’re right about the killings at the zoo and the bakery—they both reacted when I brought them up.”

“You see a guy at Frank’s, looked like a hawk?”

Cape nodded. “Yeah, he’s a pro. Had a gun on me the whole time I was there; his hand didn’t shake once.”

“Name’s Anthony,” said Beau. “We picked him up when he left Frank’s place, got a tip he might’ve been the shooter at the zoo.”

“He’s definitely fired that gun before, judging from the way he holds it.”

“He wasn’t packing when he left Frank’s,” said Beau. “And a pro would’ve trashed the gun from the zoo anyway, gotten a new one.” He shrugged, disgusted. “But what I think doesn’t matter, ’cause he’s back on the street again.”

“How?”

“Vinnie and I kept him in the box for two hours,” said Beau. “Got him talking, but not about the case—where’d you grow up, how long you been in the city, you want some more coffee—Anthony likes to hear himself talk, got a surprisingly big vocabulary. Then we take a break and crank the heat—that interrogation room is a fucking sauna, you get three guys in there with the thermostat up. Guy starts to sweat, shift around in his seat. We start asking tougher questions…” Beau frowned, reluctant to finish. “Then we get interrupted.”

“By who—his lawyer?”

Beau smiled cynically. “Frank Alessi’s lawyer, who happens to be Anthony’s lawyer, who also happens to be the lawyer for a certain city councilman, whose campaign was heavily financed by donations from one of Frank’s companies. Councilman calls the mayor, who calls the police chief, who calls our captain, who wants to know why the guy’s lawyer hasn’t been called.”

“What did you say?”

“Told the captain the phone was broken,” said Beau. “And it was, as soon as I pulled it out of the wall. Then we told him the thermostat in the interrogation room is all fucked up, he might want maintenance to take a look at it.”

“But Anthony walked,” said Cape in disbelief.

“Made bail,” said Beau, nodding. “Which was a big number.”

“He might’ve shot the guy at the zoo,” said Cape, “but I don’t think he killed Otto.”

“Me neither.” Beau sounded almost sad.

“Nobody wins if there’s a war,” said Cape. “You told me the system was working. Frank and Freddie Wang might hate each other, but they’re both businessmen at heart, so why fuck up the business?”

“No reason,” agreed Beau.

“That’s why I think the Russians killed Otto,” said Cape. “To steal just enough heroin to plant at the apartment. It wouldn’t take long for a guy like the Major to figure out where the drug trade took place in this town.”

“So we chase our own asses all week while you talk to the movie people ’bout drugs—instead of lookin’ into their real business.”

“Right.”

“So what is their real business?”

“I’m not sure,” admitted Cape, “but it has something to do with money—lots of money.”

“Whose money?”

“The finances on the film are all fucked up,” replied Cape. “They’re way over budget, and Grace can’t account for any of the overages.”

Beau put his hands behind his head and stretched. “So maybe the dead guy was embezzling—or stealing money for somebody else—or someone was leaning on him.”

Cape nodded. “Corelli said the Russian mob loves extortion rackets, so it’s a definite possibility. The dead guy had a daughter—he’d make an easy mark.”

Beau blew out his cheeks. “As good an angle as any,” said Beau, “but if it’s got nothin’ to do with the drugs or the other murders, then it’s got nothin’ to do with me.”

“What about the producer?”

Beau shook his head. “Officially still a suicide.”

“Thanks for your support.”

Beau shrugged. “Talk to the captain,” he said. “Or find some evidence.”

“The drugs aren’t evidence?”

“Of a murder,” said Beau. “That’s the way it works in homicide, we investigate murders. Guy left a note.”

Cape scoffed. “You can’t call that a note—it said I’m sorry.”

“So am I,” said Beau. “I think this whole thing stinks, you want the truth. But getting caught dealing drugs ain’t the worst reason to jump off a bridge, either.”

“But the Russians—”

“Are ghosts,” said Beau emphatically. “Here and gone, no connection to anything except that target painted on your back.”

“Swell.”

Beau smiled sympathetically. “As a friend, I think you’re onto something.”

Cape nodded. “But as a cop…”

“The whole things is circumstantial, hearsay, rumor—”

“And innuendo?”

“That, too,” said Beau. “Nice theory, but show me the facts. I’m a civil servant, brother.”