Beating the Babushka (8 page)

“The cops do, and it’s the only place to start.”

They reached the lobby, where Grace would make her way to the adjoining tower, and Cape would exit to his car.

“I want you to keep investigating,” said Grace.

“Don’t worry,” said Cape. “I’m committed to solving this.”

“I know you are.”

Grace hugged him, then turned and walked away, leaving Cape with the lingering scent of lavender and a lot more questions than answers. As he stepped onto the street, he reflected on what he’d just promised, wondering if maybe he didn’t have a commitment problem of his own.

Chapter Seventeen

Cape picked up the tail two blocks from the apartment building.

In a town with no parking, where the favored car was small and trendy—a Mini, BMW coupe, or anything made by VW—the black Lexus sedan with the tinted windows stood out like an ink stain. Considering how it was being driven, Cape was embarrassed he didn’t notice the tail sooner. He watched in his side-view mirror as the sedan swerved past a VW bug, getting a blast from the VW’s horn. Cape almost laughed out loud when the sedan honked back. Maybe this guy had never followed anyone before.

Cape drove up the Broadway hill to a point where the incline blocked a view of oncoming traffic, then took a sharp right onto Sansome and hit the gas. He heard the squeal of tires and someone on the sidewalk shouting “Asshole!” then the sedan appeared again in his rearview mirror about one block back. Cape eased off the gas and cruised down Sansome until it connected with the Embarcadero, the wide street running along the water, then turned onto Bay Street, heading west. Bay was two lanes in each direction, so he picked up the pace, passing three cars on the right as he cleared the first light. The sedan closed the distance to maybe half a block, clearly worried about getting cut off at the next light, but so close Cape started to doubt whether someone was really tailing him. Maybe a drunk tourist just wanted to get close enough to ask directions.

Or maybe the driver of the sedan didn’t give a shit if Cape saw him. That seemed more likely, and Cape didn’t like the implication. He decided to play out the tourist angle and followed Bay up a hill to Larkin, where he took a right and scraped the car’s undercarriage as the street dropped sharply down toward the water. Only in San Francisco—a street so steep you felt a wave of vertigo just driving. See how the tourists liked that.

At the bottom of the street was every postcard you’ve ever seen of San Francisco crammed into one square mile. Ghirardelli Square, a sprawling panoply of restaurants, art galleries, and water—a genuine tourist attraction complete with its own cable car station, historic three-masted ship, and a small white-sand beach curving around an inlet in the bay. If there were confused tourists in the sedan, they’d be jamming on the brakes and pulling out their Instamatics any minute now.

As the sun bounced off the water, Cape was temporarily blinded. He hit the brakes, blinked rapidly, then double-parked at the bottom of the street. “This will have to do,” he muttered, taking one last look in the rearview mirror. He jumped out of the car and stepped across the sidewalk onto a field of grass that fronted the beach.

The field sloped sharply before leveling off onto a brick retaining wall which divided the grass from the sand and water below. Just before the retaining wall was a small stand of scrub pine, trunks bent from the constant ocean breeze, branches from different trees twisted together. From the perspective of the street, the cluster of pines was the only thing blocking an otherwise unbroken view of the beach.

Hiding behind a tree wasn’t the most dignified move, but Cape didn’t have any better ideas. He racked his memory for examples of other detectives debasing themselves but came up empty. Travis McGee never hid behind a tree. Sam Spade didn’t lurk behind bushes. Nero Wolfe never even left his apartment…

The train of thought continued as Cape peered between two twisted trunks. The black sedan perched precariously halfway down the hill. From that vantage point, there was no way to tell whether Cape had jumped the retaining wall for the beach or had gone right toward the cable car. Their next move would tell him everything—they either had to leave the confines of the sedan or pick him another time. It was either his imagination, a tail job, or something more serious.

The driver’s door opened and a man about six feet tall emerged wearing black jeans, a black leather jacket, and driving gloves. Overdressed for the weather. He absently pushed the door shut and started walking toward the grass, scanning right and left with all the subtlety of a flying cow. As he walked, he unbuttoned his jacket with his right hand.

Marik reached under his jacket and scowled as he walked unhurriedly across the street. This fucking climate was miserable. This morning he was freezing his ass off, the city covered in fog, and now it was sunny, this leather coat an oven. But the gun wouldn’t fit under his shirt, so he was fucked. He’d be sweating like a pig with menopause by the time he reached the sand.

Cape stepped behind the largest of the trees.
If that guy’s a tourist, I’m a desperate housewife.
He figured maybe three minutes before the guy reached the retaining wall, more if he took a detour toward the cable car and came up empty. Cape turned toward the ocean and tested his theory, squinting against the sudden glare off the water. The dance of the sun off the ocean was impossible to ignore, and when it hit the right angle, it hit hard. Anyone walking down the hill would be blinking away spots the whole way.

Marik raised his arm to block the glare from the water.
Fuck me, this would never happen in Russia. At least in Moscow you could count on the weather. Freezing cold in winter, maybe rain in spring, always gray with smog. Reliable, not this fairy-tale place with its cable cars and chocolate factory. No wonder America has so many homosexuals.
Marik squinted and cursed under his breath, thinking he should have taken the money for the rifle and gone home.

Cape peered around the trunk, catching another glimpse of the man striding across the grass. He made no effort to conceal himself, resigned to the fact that he was walking across an open field. Tourists moved around in small packs, chatting and sometimes stopping to take pictures, but the nearest batch of sightseers was twenty yards away. The man in the black coat was only fifteen feet away now, approaching from the right. Cape moved to the left, matching the man’s progress, trying to keep the trees between himself and the stalker in the black coat.

When Marik reached the retaining wall, the ocean glare hit like an anvil, the white-sand beach multiplying the intensity. He involuntarily jerked his head sideways and raised his right arm across his eyes. It was the moment Cape was waiting for. He waited a heartbeat before circling the trees to stand directly behind Marik.

Marik was silhouetted against the white sand, his back to Cape, arm raised as he stood on the wall and scanned the beach. He had passed within a few yards of the trees but obviously thought Cape had sought refuge with the people on the beach, out of sight beneath the wall. Had he been asked, Marik would have agreed that hiding behind trees was undignified for a detective.

Cape let a full minute pass before closing the gap between the two men.

“Quite a view,” he said.

Marik had good reflexes. He instinctively reached for his gun as he spun around, just in time for Cape to punch him squarely on the nose. Cape felt the cartilage give way as Marik tumbled backward over the retaining wall. Cape jumped the wall and landed on the sand.

Marik landed on his back and used the momentum of the fall to roll into a crouch. Cape kicked him in the face, catching Marik’s chin with his right heel. When Marik hit the sand again, Cape sat on his chest, pinning Marik’s arms with his knees. Before he lost any leverage, Cape started digging under Marik’s coat for the gun he knew was there.

Someone was yelling about calling the police, and in his peripheral vision Cape saw people running. He ignored them. Marik bucked and spit, blood streaming from his broken nose. He glared balefully at Cape as he struggled.

Cape felt the handle of the gun—it had slipped sideways and was partially trapped under Marik. Cape punched him hard in the stomach, Marik twisted sideways, and the gun came free in Cape’s hand. Marik unleashed a torrent of curses and spit blood as far as Cape’s chin.

Cape couldn’t understand a word. He was pretty sure he was getting threatened in Russian—he wasn’t positive about the Russian, but the threats were clear. He could read the subtitles in Marik’s eyes.

The gun was a small automatic from a manufacturer unfamiliar to Cape. But the trigger was where it was supposed to be, and there didn’t seem to be any external safety, and that was good enough for him. He dragged Marik to his feet and spun him around. Cape saw people running across the grass, some pointing in their direction. Their struggle had brought them to the edge of the water, and Cape could hear waves gently lapping the sand behind him, an oddly peaceful sound under the circumstances. Marik narrowed his eyes as Cape forced the pistol under his chin.

“I think you dropped this,” said Cape evenly. “Maybe if you tell me who you work for, I won’t give you an emergency tracheotomy.”

Blood rimmed Marik’s mouth like a goatee. He spat out every word.

“Ya nechevo ne znayu.”

Cape decided to see if Marik spoke any English. The cops would arrive any minute. Very deliberately he pulled the hammer back on the automatic until it locked, watching Marik’s eyes go wide with the click.

“I’m not a cop,” Cape said slowly. “That means I don’t play by cop rules. Understand?”

Marik’s face twisted in rage and he coughed violently, the gun sliding sideways under his chin, its barrel slick with his blood. Cape tried to pull Marik closer but lost his grip as his left side burned with a sudden cramp, as though someone dragged a soldering iron across his rib cage. Cape struggled to stay on his feet as Marik jerked to the left, but a spray of blood spattered his face, blinding him. As he dropped to his knees, Cape heard a cracking sound in the distance, the sound of wet kindling starting to catch fire. He tried to keep the gun extended as he wiped his eyes frantically with his left hand, but when his vision cleared, he saw the wet sand between his feet and knew it was his own blood.

Chapter Eighteen

Angelo was sick of being everybody’s bitch.

He walked down the hallway shaking his head. The whole problem with the movie business was that no one person was ever in charge, but everyone thought they should be in charge. Adam-fucking-Berman wants to make a blockbuster movie, prove to everyone in Hollywood he’s as good as they are. Grace—that holier-than-thou bitch—she thinks she’s in charge of the movie, that she’s got everyone over a barrel. And they both think Angelo should solve their fucking problems. And who takes the risks? Who feels the heat?

Take a wild guess.

It won’t be that way forever. Patience will win out over arrogance. Let them think I’m their monkey-boy for now, but one day I’ll be in charge.

As he neared the giant doorway, Angelo brought himself back to reality. Forced a mild expression on his face before pushing the button.

“Hello, Angelo,” said the voice from the intercom.

Angelo took a deep breath as he entered the office.

“Another hard day?” asked Harry Berman from his plasma screen on the wall. Today he was broadcasting from a hotel room—it looked like a business hotel you’d find in any city, nondescript, the blinds pulled shut.

“A challenging day,” said Angelo.

“If I understand the situation, things have become complicated,” said Harry mildly. “Drugs?”

“There will be more negative publicity.”

Harry laughed, his teeth a brilliant white. “There’s no such thing as negative publicity. That’s something my brother has never understood. People don’t go see movies they haven’t read about in the tabloids.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Angelo. “But the investigation—”

“Should proceed,” said Harry solemnly. “We owe it to our investors. Our employees. And ourselves—to set things right.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Harry.”

“Yes, Harry.”

“The detective Grace hired—is he still on the case?”

Angelo hesitated. “I…I’m not sure.”

“Fly him out here,” said Harry decisively. “Show him around. I’d like to meet him, be of any help I can.”

“But Mr. Berman said…that is, the other Mr. Berman…Adam said—”

Harry frowned, a downward arc across the screen, slicing the room in half. The speakers vibrated when he spoke.

“Angelo!”

“Sir?”

“Do you remember our last conversation? About remembering who you work for?”

Angelo nodded at the screen.

“I’ll invite him out, sir,” he said. “But I honestly don’t know if he can make it.”

Chapter Nineteen

Cape let gravity knock him down and roll him into the surf.

The water was freezing. The salt bit into his side like acid, but Cape plowed through the shallows until he felt the bottom drop out. Bending at the waist, he kicked as hard as he could and dove. Somewhere along the way he lost the gun.

He broke the surface seconds later, gasping for air, then dove again before he could get his bearings. Cape spent a lot of time in the water but knew he didn’t have the strength to cover any distance. He guessed his first dive took him barely ten feet away from the beach. When the pounding in his ears became unbearable, he surfaced again and tried to take a deep breath but gasped when he saw two eyes staring back at him.

A seal floated six feet away, smiling pleasantly at his aquatic visitor. Seals and sea lions were always swimming near this beach—it was one of the tourist attractions of the park—but it was still unnerving to have company.

“Are they gone?” Cape asked the seal hopefully.

The seal blinked once and disappeared, its tail breaking the water as it dove.

Cape saw he was only twenty yards from where he’d been standing. Some driftwood and a pile of black seaweed clung to the sand, but no sign of his assailant. Maybe a dozen people stood atop the retaining wall, pointing in his direction and shouting. Cape thought he heard sirens but wasn’t sure. He felt lightheaded and was beginning to see spots. Time to get out of the water.

He raised his arm to start his stroke and almost screamed. A hot wave ran under his left arm and he felt a tearing along his ribs like Velcro. He forced himself ahead with his right arm, and by the fourth stroke he found a rhythm and closed his eyes, willing himself to remain conscious. His arms were lead weights. He thought of the seal and how effortlessly it had moved through the waves.

Where there’s seals, there’s soon to be sharks. Cape remembered the advice of an old surfing instructor and redoubled his efforts. While it was bad enough getting shot, being eaten on the same day would be more than he could handle. With the music from
Jaws
playing against the pounding of blood in his ears, Cape felt sand between his fingers and let himself sink, crawling the last ten feet to the beach. Coughing and spitting, he tried to stand, but vertigo dropped him back on his hands and knees next to the pile of seaweed he’d seen from the water.

Cape glanced down and swallowed hard, fighting the urge to retch. The pile of seaweed was Marik. Cape recognized him from his clothes, but his face was gone. The front and right side of the head torn away, jagged edges of his skull peeking out from the collar of his leather jacket.

Cape rolled onto his back and shut his eyes. The sound of approaching sirens mixed with the chatter of the tourists to create a white noise that filled his ears like the roar of a conch shell. The waves tugged at his legs, begging him to return to their embrace as Cape felt his body slip away.

Before he passed out, Cape saw an image of the seal swim across the backs of his eyelids, and he silently asked the sharks to leave them both alone. But he knew they wouldn’t.

Everyone knows that sharks have a taste for blood.