3rd Degree Page 18

  Claire had arrived. She was kneeling over the covered bodies, but the parts were burned almost beyond recognition.

  “I’m looking for a white male,” I told her, “about fifty.”

  “Best I can tell, there seem to be four of them,” she said. “The black male who was shot in the driveway. Three others inside. Two of them female, Lindsay.”

  Joe Molinari came over to me. He’d been giving Washington an update on what had just happened. “You okay?” he asked.

  “It’s not over,” I said, nodding at the tagged mounds.

  “Danko?” He shrugged. “The medical people will have to tell us that. In any case, his network is gone, his cell. The device, too. What can he do now?”

  Amid the wreckage, I spotted something—a barrette. There was something almost funny about it. I reached down and picked it up.

  “Voice of the people be heard,” I said to Molinari, holding out the barrette.

  There was a peace symbol on it.

  Chapter 99

  Charles Danko was wandering the streets of San Francisco aimlessly and thinking about what had just happened in Berkeley, where his friends had died for the cause, died as martyrs just like William had a long time ago.

  I could kill a lot of people right now. Right here.

  He knew he could go on a rampage and they wouldn’t catch him for several hours, maybe longer if he got his head screwed on straight, if he thought this through—if he was a careful killer.

  You’re dead, slick young business creep in your expensive-looking black-on-black ensemble.

  You’re dead, too, blond fashionista.

  You. And you. You! You! You four frolicking asshole buddies!

  God, it would be so easy to let his rage out now.

  The police, the FBI, they were pathetic at their job of “protecting” the people.

  They had everything wrong, didn’t they?

  They didn’t understand that this could be about justice and revenge. The two concepts were perfectly compatible; they could go hand in hand. He was following in his brother William’s footsteps, honoring his fallen brother’s inspired dream, and at the same time he was avenging William. Two causes were better than one. Twice the motivation; twice the anger.

  The faces he was passing, the expensive clothes, the absurd shops, were all starting to blur before his eyes—all of them were guilty. The whole country was.

  They didn’t get it, though. Not yet.

  The war was right here in their streets of gold—the war was here to stay.

  No one could stop it anymore.

  There would always be more soldiers.

  After all, that’s what he was, just a soldier.

  He stopped at a pay phone and made two calls.

  The first, to another soldier.

  The second, to his mentor, the person who had thought of everything, including how to use him.

  Charles Danko had made his decision: tomorrow was a go for terror.

  Nothing had changed.

  Chapter 100

  The next day, the G-8 meetings were scheduled to begin as originally planned. The hard-liners, the tough guys in Washington, wanted it that way. So be it.

  The proceedings were set for that night, with a reception in the Rodin Gallery at the Palace of the Legion of Honor overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge.

  It would be hosted by Eldridge Neal, one of the most admired African Americans in the country, the current vice president. Every available uniform was assigned to security detail at the venues and along the routes. Every ID would be triple-checked, every trash can and air vent sniffed by explosive-detecting dogs.

  But Danko was still out there.

  And Carl Danko was still the only link to his son I had.

  I drove back to Sacramento while the rest of the department prepared for the G-8 festivities. Carl Danko seemed surprised to see me again. “Thought you’d be accepting some kind of Medal of Honor today. The killing of young kids seems to be a habit with you people. So, why are you here?”

  “Your son,” I told him.

  “My son is dead.”

  But Danko sighed and let me in. I followed him back to his den. A fire was burning there. He knelt down and stoked the flames, then sat down in an easy chair. “Like I told you before, the time to talk about William was

  thirty years ago.” “Not Billy,” I said. “Charles.” Danko seemed to hesitate. “I told the federal boys —” “We know,” I interrupted him mid-sentence. “We know

  his record, Mr. Danko. We know he isn’t dead.”

  The old man snarled, “You people won’t stop, will you? First William, now Charlie. Go take your medals, Lieutenant. You caught your killers. What makes you think you can come in here and tell me Charlie is alive?”

  “George Bengosian,” I answered.

  “Who?”

  “George Bengosian. The second victim. He knew Billy back at Berkeley. More than knew him, Mr. Danko. He was the one who turned your son in.” Danko shifted in his easy chair. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “And Frank Seymour? He was killed in the Rincon Center blast the other day. Seymour was the lead agent on the Hope Street raid that killed your son. Charles is out there. He’s killing innocent people, Mr. Danko. I think he’s gone mad. I think you do, too.”

  The old man took a deep breath. He stared into the fire, then got up and went over to a desk. He took out a pack of letters from a bottom drawer. Tossed them in front of me on the coffee table.

  “I didn’t lie. My son has been dead to me. I’ve seen him once, five minutes on a Seattle street corner, in the past thirty years. Few years ago, these began to arrive. Once a year, around my birthday.”

  Jesus, I’d been right all along. Charles Danko was alive…

  I took the letters and began to sort through them.

  The old man shrugged. “Guess he’s teaching college or something.”

  I inspected the envelopes; no return addresses. But the last four had originated up north. Portland, Oregon. One, as recently as January 7, four months ago.

  Portland.

  A thought flashed through my head. It couldn’t be a coincidence. Stephen Hardaway had gone to college in Portland. Reed. I looked back at the old man. “You say he’s teaching? Teaching where?”

  He shook his head. “Don’t know.”

  But I knew. Suddenly I knew with a clarity that was inescapable.

  Danko was at Reed, wasn’t he? All this time, he was up there teaching college.

  That was how he and Stephen Hardaway met.

  Chapter 101

  I was patched through to Molinari at the Palace of the Legion of Honor. The vice president’s reception was less than two hours away. The G-8 had begun.

  “I think I know where Danko is,” I barked into the handheld phone. “He’s at Reed College. In Portland. He’s a teacher there. Joe, Reed is where Stephen Hardaway went to school. It fits.”

  Molinari told me he would send an FBI team out to the college while I headed back to the city. I had the lights flashing and the siren on the whole way. South of Vallejo, I couldn’t wait any longer. I got the general number for Reed.

  I identified myself to an operator and was patched through to the dean of academic studies, a Michael Picotte. FBI agents from the Portland office were arriving as he got on the line.

  “We desperately need to locate one of your professors. This is an emergency,” I told the dean. “I don’t have a name or description. His real name is Charles Danko. He’d be approximately fifty years old.”

  “D-Danko?” Picotte stammered. “There’s no one by the name of Danko connected with the college. We have several professors in their fifties, including myself.”

  I was growing more exasperated and impatient. “Do you have a fax?” I asked. “A fax number I can have?”

  I radioed in to the office and got Lorraine on the line. I told her to locate the FBI wanted poster of Charles Danko from the seventies. The resemblance might still b
e there. Dean Picotte put me on hold as the fax came through.

  I was approaching the Bay Bridge; San Francisco International was only about twenty minutes away. I could fly up to Portland myself, I was thinking. Maybe I should get on a plane and go to Reed right now.

  “All right, I have it,” the dean said, coming back on the line. “This is a wanted poster…”

  “Look at it closely,” I said. “Please … Do you recognize the face?”

  “My God … ,” the dean seemed to choke.

  “Who is he? I need a name!” I yelled into the phone. I sensed that Picotte was hesitating. He might be giving up a colleague, even a friend.

  I pulled off the bridge into San Francisco and onto Harrison Street. “Dean Picotte, please …I need a name! Lives are at stake here.”

  “Stanzer,” the dean finally said. “It looks like Jeffrey Stanzer. I’m almost certain.”

  I pulled out a pen and hastily scribbled the name down. Jeffrey Stanzer. Stanzer was Danko!

  Danko was August Spies. And he was still on the loose.

  “Where do we find him?” I said. “There are FBI agents at the college now. We need an address for Stanzer right now.”

  Picotte hesitated again. “Professor Stanzer’s a respected member of our faculty.”

  I pulled to a halt on the side of the street. “You have to give us a specific location where we can find Jeffrey Stanzer. This is a homicide investigation! Stanzer is a murderer. He’s going to kill again.”

  The dean exhaled. “You said you were calling from San Francisco?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a pause. “He’s down there with you.… Jeffrey Stanzer is presenting at the G-8 meeting. I think it’s scheduled for tonight.”

  My God, Danko was going to kill everybody there.

  Chapter 102

  Charles Danko stood amid the bright lights outside the Palace of the Legion of Honor, and his body jittered with nerves and anticipation. This was his night. He was going to be famous, and so would his brother, William.

  Anyone who thought they knew him would have been surprised he was speaking in San Francisco tonight. Jeffrey Stanzer had spent years in a secluded academic life, carefully avoiding the public eye. Hiding from the police.

  But tonight he was going to do something far bolder than deliver some boring speech. All the theories and analyses didn’t mean anything now. Tonight, he would rewrite history.

  Every cop in San Francisco was looking for him, August Spies. And the laugh was, they were letting him in—right through the front door!

  A chill cut through him. He clutched his briefcase tightly against his rumpled tuxedo. Inside was his speech, an analysis of the effect of invested foreign capital on the labor markets of the Third World. His life’s work, some might say. But what did anyone really know about him? Not a thing. Not even his name.

  Up ahead, security agents dressed in tuxedos and gowns were poking through the pockets and purses of economists and ambassadors’ wives, the kind of self-important, self-involved functionaries who flocked to this sort of thing.

  I could kill all of them, he was thinking. And why not? They came to carve up the world, to put their economic thumbprint on those who could not compete, or even fight back. Bloodsuckers, he thought. Ugly, despicable human beings. Everyone here deserves to die. Just like Lightower and Bengosian.

  The line made its way past a cast of Rodin’s The Thinker. Another flutter of nerves rippled through his limbs. Finally, Danko presented his special VIP invitation to an attractive woman dressed in a black evening dress. Probably FBI. No doubt a Glock was strapped underneath her gown. Chicks with dicks, Danko thought.

  “Good evening, sir,” she said and checked his name against a list. “We apologize for any inconvenience, Professor Stanzer, but can I ask you to place your case through security?”

  “Of course. It’s just my speech, though,” Danko said, handing her his briefcase like any nervous academic. He extended his arms while a security guard waved a metal-detector wand up and down his body.

  The security man felt around his jacket. “What’s this?” he asked. Danko removed a small plastic canister. There was a pharmaceutical label on it and a prescription made out to him. The canister was another of Stephen Hardaway’s masterpieces. Poor dead Stephen. Poor Julia, Robert, and Michelle. Soldiers. Just like him.

  “For my asthma,” Danko said. He coughed a little and pointed to his chest. “Proventil. Always need it before a speech. I even have a backup.”

  The guard regarded it for a moment. This was good fun, actually. He and Stephen had perfected the canister. Who needed guns and bombs when all the terror in the world was right in the palm of his hand.

  William would be proud!

  “You can go inside, sir.” The guard finally waved Charles Danko ahead. “Have a good night.”

  “Oh, I plan to.”

  Chapter 103

  I gunned my Explorer, careening through a red light on Ness heading toward Geary. The Palace of the Legion of Honor was all the way out at Lands End. Even without traffic, I was ten minutes away.

  I punched in Molinari’s number. His cell phone wasn’t accepting.

  I tried to get patched through to the Chief. One of his assistants answered and said he was out in the crowd. “The vice president is coming in the room at this very moment,” he said. “There he is.”

  “Listen to me!” I shouted as I swerved, siren blaring, through parting traffic. “I want you to find Tracchio or Molinari, whomever you see first. Put this phone in their ear. This is a matter of national emergency. I don’t care who the hell they’re talking with! Go! Now!”

  My eyes flashed to the clock on my dash. A bomb could go off at any time. All we had was a thirty-year-old likeness to identify Charles Danko. I wasn’t sure if I could pick him out myself.

  A minute passed very slowly. Then a voice crackled back over my cell phone. Molinari. Finally.

  “Joe,” I said into the phone, “just listen, please. Charles Danko’s there! Right now! He’s going by the name Jeffrey Stanzer. He’s a speaker at the conference. I’ll be there in about three minutes. Take him down, Joe!”

  Quickly, we argued the pros and cons of emptying the Palace or making some kind of warning announcement using Stanzer’s name. Molinari decided against. The first sign of alarm, he might decide to set off whatever he was planning.

  Finally I spun onto Thirty-fourth, into the park, then up the hill to the Legion of Honor. The park was banded by demonstrators. Barricades blocked the way.

  Patrolmen were checking IDs. I lowered the driver’s window and held out my shield—pounding the horn as hard as I could.

  I was finally able to maneuver through the narrow lane of stretch limos and police cars that led up to the main circle of the Palace. I ditched the Explorer in front of the arced, columned gate. Started to run. I kept bumping into Feds transmitting on radios—flashing my badge. “Let me through!”

  At last I pushed my way inside the main building. The halls were packed—statesmen, dignitaries.

  I spotted Molinari, giving orders into a handheld radio. I rushed up to him. “He’s here,” he said. “His name’s checked off on the guest list. He’s already inside.”

  Chapter 104

  There were ambassadors, cabinet members, business leaders everywhere, chatting in crowds, sipping champagne. Any second a bomb could go off. The vice president was being moved to safety. But Charles Danko could be anywhere. What he had in mind, God only knew. We didn’t even know what the bastard looked like now!

  Molinari handed me a walkie-talkie dialed to his frequency. “I’ve got the wanted sheet. I’ll go left. Keep in touch with me, Lindsay. No heroes tonight.” I started to weave through the crowd. In my mind I drew an image of Charles Danko thirty years ago and transposed it onto every face I saw. I wished I’d asked the dean at Reed for some kind of current description. Everything had happened too fast. It still was going too fast.

  Where are you,
Danko, you son of a bitch?

  “I’m searching the main room,” I spoke into the walkie-talkie. “I don’t see him.”

  “I’m here in the annex,” Molinari replied. “Nothing so far. But he’s here.”

  I was staring intently at every face. Our only advantage was that he didn’t know we knew. A few Feds were quietly escorting people toward the exits. We couldn’t cause a panic and give ourselves away.

  But I didn’t see him anywhere. Where was Danko? What was he planning tonight? It had to be big—he was here himself.

  “I’m heading in to the Rodins,” I told Molinari. There were large, recognizable bronzes on marble pedestals all around me, and people sipping champagne. I came upon a crowd gathered near one of the statues.

  “What’s going on here?” I asked a woman in a black gown.

  “The vice president,” she said. “He’s scheduled here any moment.” The vice president had been whisked away, but no one had been told. These people were milling around for an introduction. Would Danko be here, too?

  I scanned the line, face to face.

  I saw a tall, thin man, balding on top. He had a high brow. Close, narrow eyes. A hand in his jacket pocket. I felt a cold spot near the center of my chest.

  I could see the resemblance to the picture from thirty years ago. There were people milling about, blocking my view. But there was no mistaking it—Charles Danko was the image of his father.

  I turned my head away and spoke into my walkie-talkie. “I found him! Joe, he’s here.”

  Danko was in line to meet the vice president. My heart was beating furiously. His left hand was still in his jacket pocket. Was he holding some kind of detonator? How could he get it in here?

  “I’m in the room with the Rodins. Joe, I’m looking right at him.”

  Molinari said, “Stay there. I’m coming. Don’t take any chances.”

  Suddenly Danko’s gaze drifted to me. I didn’t know if he’d seen me on TV as part of the investigation, or if I had “cop” written on my face. Somehow he seemed to know. Our eyes locked.