3rd Degree Page 7

  We laughed. Jill always knew how to make us laugh.

  “It’s never the big things,” Jill said. “It’s always something trivial. The big things, I truly feel we really are partners in life. We’ve been through a lot together. But the small things …I accept a date for dinner with people he doesn’t like. I forget to tell the housekeeper to take in his shirts. He

  makes me feel like I’m a stupid child. Ordinary.”

  “You’re anything but ordinary,” Claire said.

  Jill dabbed at her eyes and smiled. “My cheerleaders …I could shoot the son of a bitch and you’d be praising my aim.”

  “We’ve already been discussing that option,” Cindy said.

  “You know I’ve actually thought about it.” Jill shook her head. “About who would try my case. Hey, I think I’ve let things get a little melodramatic.”

  I asked, “How would you counsel a woman who came to you with the same predicament? Jill the prosecutor now. Not Jill the wife. What would you say?”

  “I’d tell her I’d slap a suit on him so fast, it would be sticking to his ass the next time he took a shit,” she said, and laughed.

  One by one, we all laughed, too.

  “You say you need a little more time,” I said to Jill. “We’re not here to make you change your life today. But I know you. You’re staying around because you feel it’s your responsibility to make this work. I want your promise, Jill. He doesn’t even have to close his fist. If there’s one more incident, I’ll come and pack your things myself. My place, Claire’s place, Cindy’s … Well, forget Cindy’s … it’s a dump. But you’ve got choices, hon. I want you to promise, the next time he even threatens you, you’re gone.”

  There was a sheen on Jill’s face, a glimmer in those sharp blue eyes. Something made me think I had never seen her look prettier. Her bangs curled a little over her eyes.

  “I promise,” she finally said, blushing behind a smile.

  “This is for real,” Cindy pressed her.

  Jill raised her palm. “The Highland Park Brownies, swear on your sister and never betray; otherwise, your face will break out with huge zits, oath.”

  “That sounds sufficient,” Claire said.

  Jill took our hands in the middle of the table. “I love you guys,” she said.

  “We love you, Jill.”

  “Now, can we goddamn order,” she said. “I feel like I just took the law boards again. I’m starved.”

  Chapter 36

  Maybe it was because I didn’t sleep, tossing the whole night because this SOB—who was always the first to dash away when one of his buddies had the urge to go golfing, and pretended to be this fawning, adoring husband in public—was hurting one of the sharpest girls in the city, someone I loved.

  Whatever it was, the thought of Steve gnawed at me for most of the next morning, until I could no longer sit there, fielding calls, pretending to keep my mind on the case.

  I grabbed my purse. “If Tracchio’s looking for me, tell him I’ll be back in an hour.”

  Ten minutes later I pulled my car in front of 160 Beale, one of those glass skyscrapers off of lower Market filled with accountants and law partners, where Steve’s office was.

  All the way up to the thirty-second floor I was steaming, nearly hyperventilating. I pushed through the doors of Northstar Partnerships; a pretty receptionist behind a desk

  smiled at me.

  “Steve Bernhardt,” I said, dropping my shield in her face.

  I didn’t wait for her to call, but headed straight into the corner office I’d once visited with Jill. Steve was rocking back in his chair, in a lime green Lacoste shirt and khakis, on the phone. Without so much as breaking his tone, he winked and pointed me into a chair. I got your wink, pal.

  I waited through the remainder of some business conversation, my anger growing as he peppered his call with overused tech clich?s like “Sounds like you’re trying to boil the ocean on that one, buddy.”

  Finally he signed off and spun around in his chair. “Lindsay,” he said, eyeing me, as though he wasn’t sure what was going on.

  “Cut the crap, Steve, you know why I’m here.”

  “No, I don’t.” He shook his head, then sort of shifted his expression. “Is everything all right with Jill?”

  “You know, I’m doing my best not to lunge across this desk and cram that phone right down your throat. Jill told us, Steve. We know.”

  He shrugged, innocently, crossing a pair of Bass Weejuns in front of my face. “Know what?”

  “I saw the bruises. Jill told us what’s been going on.”

  “Oh”—he rocked back and arched his eyebrows—“Jill did say she was going out with the gang last night.” He glanced at his watch. “Hey, I’d love to sit and take you through some of our personal shit, but I’ve got a twelve-thirty down the hall.…”

  I leaned my face across the desk. “Listen to me. Listen closely. I’m here to tell you it stops. Today. You lay another hand on her … she breaks a nail that she doesn’t want to discuss … she even comes into the office with a frown on her face, I’ll get your name on an assault charge. You understand me, Steve?”

  His expression never changed. He twirled the end of his short curly hair and chuckled, “Gee, Lindsay, everyone always said you were a ball buster, I just had no idea.… Jill has no right to bring you into this. I know this doesn’t hold much weight with you full-time career types, with a dog and all … but we’re in a marriage. Whatever goes on, it’s between us.”

  “No longer.” I glared at him. “Battery’s a felony, Steve. I bust people like you.”

  “Jill would never testify against me,” he said, then frowned. “Jeez, look at the time.… If you don’t mind, Lindsay, they’re expecting me down the hall.”

  I got up. I didn’t know how he could act this way. We were talking about Jill. “I want to put this in a way you’ll understand,” I said. “You put one more mark on her, and the last thing you’ll have to worry about will be Jill testifying. You go out for a run, you’re in the garage late after work, you hear a noise that makes you jump …You’d better jump, Steve.”

  I went to the door, barely taking my eyes off of him. Steve sat there, rocking, somewhere between speechless and inflamed. “Now, how’s that for boiling the ocean, Steve?”

  Chapter 37

  Cindy Thomas sat at her desk at the Chronicle, not quite feeling herself. She twisted the cap on her Fruitopia organic apricot juice and took a sip. Then Cindy opened the paper and scanned the front page. One of her bylines was in the right-hand column. Bold headlines: SECOND CEO MURDER HAS POLICE RE-EXAMINING THE FIRST.

  She flipped on her computer to check her e-mail. The hunk in the bulging tank top and construction belt who acted as her screen saver came to life. Cindy clicked Internet Explorer and her e-mail came up.

  Twelve new.

  She noticed one from Aaron, whom she had split with four months ago. Having Pumpkinseed Smith at a recital at the church, 8:00 P.M., May 22. Can you make it? Pumpkinseed Smith was one of the best horn players around! You bet I’ll

  make it, Cindy typed back. Even if it means I have to hear a sermon from you.

  She scrolled down the rest quickly. A response from a researcher who was doing background on Lightower and Bengosian. That bastard had been in court, fighting forty-six class actions from policyholders who were dumped in the past two years. What a sleaze!

  She was about to delete the last message from an address she didn’t know when the headline caught her eye. SLAM@ hotmail.com. It was titled, WHAT HAPPENS NEXT.

  Cindy clicked on the message and prepared to send it to the ether grave of all spam. She took a swig of juice.

  Don’t ask how we got your name or why we’re contacting you. If you want to do some good, you will do the right thing now.

  Cindy rolled her chair closer to the screen.

  The “tragic” incidents of the past week are only the tip of things to come.

  The finance minister
s of the world are meeting next week to carve up the last marginal remains of the “free” world economy left after Breton Woods—that which they have not already savagely consumed.

  Cindy’s heart was thumping as she read on.

  We are prepared to kill one prominent bloodsucking pig every three days unless they come to their senses and denounce the global virus that is the system of free enterprise, that has imprisoned helpless nations in the Great Lie that trade will make them free; that has enslaved our fellow sisters into the sweatshop bondage of the multinationals, that has stolen the savings of the American worker in a stock market that is no more than a corrupt, insider scheme.

  We are no longer isolated voices.

  We are an army, just as lethal and far-reaching as the vampire superpowers.

  Cindy blinked disbelievingly, almost unable to move. Was this some kind of Internet hoax? Somebody’s idea of a joke?

  She hit the PRINT key, clearing off her desk and cradling the phone in her neck as she read on.

  The reason we have chosen you is that the normal channels of the media are as corrupt and self-serving as the global multinationals that own them. Are you part of the corruption? We’ll soon see.

  We ask the important people who will meet in San Francisco next week, the G-8, to do something historic. Unlock the chains. Forgive the debt. Stand up for freedom, not profit. Set back the machines of colonization. Open the economies of the world.

  Until we hear that voice, you will hear ours. Every three days, another deserving pig will die.

  You know what to do with this, Ms. Thomas. Do not waste your time trying to trace it. Unless you don’t want to hear from us again.

  Cindy’s mouth was dry as dust. SLAM@hotmail.com. Was this real? Was someone messing with her?

  She scrolled a little farther to the bottom of the page. For the next few seconds, she was unable to move.

  The e-mail was signed, August Spies.

  Chapter 38

  Back at my desk, there was a message from Chief Tracchio waiting for me, and one from Jill.

  “And the Chronicle’s waiting for you,” my secretary Brenda called.

  “The Chronicle?”

  I looked up and saw Cindy, sitting knock-kneed on a stack of files outside my office. She pulled herself up as I approached, but I just didn’t have the time for her.

  “Cindy, I can’t meet right now. I’m sorry. There’s a briefing scheduled —”

  “No,” she cut in, stopping me, “I have something to show you, Lindsay. This takes precedence.”

  “Is everything all right?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  We shut the door to my office behind us, and Cindy removed a piece of paper from her knapsack. It looked like e-mail.

  “Sit down,” she said. She put the page in front of me and sat next to me. “Read.”

  One look at Cindy’s eyes and I knew this wasn’t good.

  “It came in my morning e-mail,” she explained. “I’m listed on the Chronicle website. I don’t know who it’s from. Or why they sent it to me. It’s just that I’m a little freaked right now.”

  I started to read. Don’t ask how we got your name or why we’re contacting you… The more I read, the worse it got. We are prepared to kill one prominent bloodsucking pig every three days… I looked up.

  “Keep reading,” Cindy said.

  I looked back down and read the rest of the page. I was trying to decide if it was real. I reached the bottom, and knew that it was.

  August Spies.

  My chest was building up pressure. Suddenly, it was clear where all this was headed. They were holding the city hostage. This was a statement of terror. The G-8. Their target. It was scheduled for the tenth—in nine days. The finance ministers of the top industrial states around the world would be in San Francisco.

  “Who knows about this?” I asked.

  “You and me,” Cindy said. “And them.”

  “They want you to publish their demands,” I said. “They want to use the Chronicle as a soapbox.” I was thinking of all the possible scenarios. “This is gonna make Tracchio shit.”

  The countdown had already started. Every three days. Today was Thursday. I knew this e-mail had to be turned over. And once I did, I knew it would no longer be my case. But there was something I needed to do first.

  “We can try and trace the address,” Cindy said. “I know a hacker —”

  “It won’t lead anywhere,” I said. “Think,” I pressed her. “Why did they contact you? There are plenty of other reporters at the Chronicle. There’s got to be a good reason.”

  “Maybe because my byline’s on the story. Maybe because I have roots in Berkeley. But that was ten years ago, Lindsay.”

  “Could it be someone from back then? Someone you knew? That asshole Lemouz?”

  We looked at each other. “What do you want me to do?” Cindy finally asked.

  “I don’t know…” They had made contact. I knew killers enough to know that when they want a dialogue with you, when there’s anything you can do to put off the next grisly act, you talk.

  “I think I want you to answer it,” I said.

  Chapter 39

  Everything seemed to be pointing to across the bay. The sources of the Internet messages. Where the Lightower baby was found. Lemouz. Wendy Raymore’s pilfered ID. The clock was ticking. A new victim every three days …

  I was tired of waiting for things to come to me. A swarm of FBI agents had descended on the Hall, tracing, dissecting, analyzing Cindy’s message. It was time to take it to them, whoever was responsible for these outrageous murders.

  Jacobi and I called on Joe Santos and Phil Martelli, two Berkeley cops who headed up the Street Intel Unit. Santos had been around since the sixties—Robbery, Homicide, one of those old-line veterans who had seen it all. Martelli was younger, out of Narcotics.

  “Basically, you’ve got every shit bag outfit going operating in the Free Republic,” Santos said with a shrug. He popped a Mento. “You got your BLA, IRA, Arabs, free speech, free trade. Everybody with an axe to grind—and an axe—is over here.”

  “Word is,” Martelli added, “we got some nasty riffraff from Seattle drifting down here to make some mayhem for the G-8 meeting, all those big economic geniuses, those world-beaters.”

  I brought out the case file, grisly photos of the Lightower town house and Bengosian. “We’re not looking for a bunch of sign wavers, Phil.”

  Martelli smiled at Santos. He got it. “Other day,” he said, “we got this undercover outfit staking out some SOB who’s been creating a nuisance about PG and E.” Pacific Gas and Electric. Our utility robber barons. Since Enron, there wasn’t a person in California who didn’t feel he wasn’t being ripped off, and he was probably right.

  “Everybody’s got a grudge against those bastards,” Jacobi said, “including me.”

  “This individual’s doing a bit more than some casual bitching at the customer service rep. He’s been picketing headquarters, handing out leaflets urging people not to pay their bill. Free People’s Power Initiative, it was called. We got the sense,” Santos said, chuckling, “that this was a very angry individual.”

  Martelli picked up the story. “Crazy bastard is always lugging around this big duffel. We figured it was filled with these leaflets of his. One day this undercover guy stops him and gets him to open the bag. Guy’s got a goddamn M49 rocket launcher in there. Next we raid his house. There’re grenades, C-4, blasting caps. The Free People’s Power Initiative. They were planning to blow up the fucking power company over their bill.”

  “So, Joe,” I said, shifting the subject, “you mentioned radicals moving down here to disrupt this G-8 meeting? That’s a place to start.”

  “Do better than that …” Santos popped another Mento and shrugged. “One of our undercovers told us there’s some kind of rally planned today. A B of A branch, over on Shat-tuck. Said some of the biggies’ll be around. Why don’t you come see f
or yourself. Welcome to our nightmare.”

  Chapter 40

  Twenty minutes later, we pulled up about two blocks from the Bank of America location in Santos and Morelli’s unmarked car. About a hundred demonstrators were crowded around the entrance to the branch; most were holding crudely painted signs: A FREE MONEY SUPPLY IS THE SIGN OF A FREE PEOPLE, one read. Another, GIVE THE WTO AIDS.

  An organizer in a T-shirt and torn jeans was standing on the roof of a black SUV, shouting into a microphone, “Bank of America enslaves girls before puberty into oppression. Bank of America sucks the people’s blood!”

  “What the hell are these people protesting,” Jacobi asked,

  “mortgages?”

  “Who knows,” replied Santos. “Child labor in Guatemala, the WTO, big business, the fucking ozone layer. Half of them are probably losers they pick off the welfare line and buy with a pack of smokes. It’s the leaders I’m interested in.”

  He took out a camera and started snapping shots of people in the crowd. A ring of about ten police stood between the bank and the protesters, riot clubs dangling at their sides.

  Things Cindy had said began to resonate. How in the comfort of your own life, you could just turn the page when you read about the uninsured or the poor, or underdeveloped countries drowning in debt. But how some people couldn’t turn the page. A million miles away, right? Didn’t seem like that now.

  Suddenly a new speaker climbed on top of the SUV. My eyes bulged. It was Lemouz. Imagine that.

  The professor took the microphone and began shouting. “What comprises the World Bank? It is a group of sixteen member institutions from all parts of the world. One of them is the Bank of America. Who loaned the money to Morton Lightower? Who were the underwriters who handled his company’s IPO? The good old B of A, my friends!”

  Suddenly the mood of the crowd changed. “These bastards should be blown up!” a woman shouted. A student tried to start a chant: “B of A. B of A. How many girls have you killed today?”