The Eighty-eighth Key Ch. 34

Part IV

Chapter 34

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With three chocolate chip and banana pancakes on board, not to mention two glasses of whole milk, Callahan felt like a beached whale as he and Bullitt walked out of the diner. Satisfied with Frank's plan to wreck the Threlkis wedding reception, Harry now felt more upbeat about his return to the street -- certainly more than he had felt at four this morning...

"So," Frank said as they came to his Mustang, "you think you could come up to Sea Ranch this weekend. Cathy would appreciate it..."

"I don't know, Frank. This feels a little bit like a blind date, ya know? I'm not sure I'm ready for that yet..."

"Look, Harry, I understand...but Evelyn is seriously easy on the eyes and a real sweetheart..."

Callahan nodded and held up his hand, but he stepped back a little, too, distancing himself from both Frank and his own thoughts. "Frank, I don't know how good your math is, but let me remind you that basically I'm three for three. That's three serious relationships in my life, Frank, and three dead women. Maybe you ought to mention that to Cathy before she gets her hopes up..."

"I'm sorry, Harry. I'd never put two and two together before..."

"I do. Every night."

Bullitt shook his head. "Maybe all of us should head out for choir practice, like maybe tonight?"

Harry smiled. "Sounds good to me, Frank. Really good."

Leaving Bullitt, Callahan drove across town and made his way to a row of art galleries near Ghirardelli Square, and he wondered what he might find. Why might a gallery's business card make its way to the floor under the passenger's seat inside a victim's car? Lots of conjecture, Callahan thought initially -- until he stopped dead in his tracks in front of one gallery.

Looking through the glass he found himself mesmerized by a series of what looked like self-portraits, all of them painted in shades of black and blood, and with each of the works on display an unnerving rendering of howling sexual anger. They were, he realized, the work of a victim of sexual assault, a heavily traumatized victim that had, from what he could tell, internalized her anger until it spilled out on her canvas.

He looked at his notepad, confirmed these images were in fact at the gallery in question, so he went inside to find out more. When he opened the door a bell rang out in an unseen office, and sure enough, a husky-voiced middle-aged woman came out to greet him...and Callahan found the woman's penetrating eyes more than a little unnerving.

"So," the woman said as she walked up to him, "what do you think?"

"Excuse me?"

"I saw you looking at Jennifer's self-portraits. What do you think of them?"

"They're startling...and that one stopped me in my tracks. It's very unsettling."

"It's the eyes that get me," the woman said. "I try to look at them, but after just a moment I find I have to look away."

"Jennifer, you say? Can you tell me about her?"

"We're going to have an opening and showing here in two weeks if you'd like to meet her."

"No, no, I'm just curious where all this comes from. I've, frankly, never seen anything quite like these."

"May I ask what kind of space you might have to display works such as these?"

"Well, I'm building a new place up at Sea Ranch. It's right on the water, and I think the majority of the space will be stone and glass, with redwood accents..."

"So, the space will be relatively dark?"

Callahan seemed to think about that for a moment. "No sheetrock, so no painted walls, so yes, I guess you could say dark."

"Come take a look at this one over here."

Callahan followed the woman to a secluded alcove, and yes, this space was dark compared to the rest of the gallery...and on the wall was another painting by the same artist. This one was different, however.

First of all, this one was huge, easily six feet tall and, he guessed, about five feet wide -- but the image itself was savage, almost primordially so. The woman's face was contorted in rage, but her eyes were a hollow black...black and predatory, like a shark's. Even her mouth looked feral, the teeth almost worn to points, and when he leaned in close he could just make out little drops of what looked like coagulated red blood on her teeth and around her mouth. Not obvious, but readily apparent to anyone willing to be drawn into such a work of madness.

"What's her story?"

"What do you mean?" the woman said.

"Where did all this anger come from?"

The woman shrugged. "You'd have to ask her. Do you like this one?"

"No, not really. The one in front, that caught my attention."

"It does do that. It hasn't sold yet if you're seriously interested."

Callahan walked back to the front of the gallery and looked at that first painting again. "What's the price?"

"Fifteen."

"Thousand?"

The woman nodded, grinning while she sized him up. "I can hold it for you with a deposit of one thousand if that'll help," she sneered, her voice almost condescending now.

Callahan pulled out his checkbook and wrote a check for the full amount and handed it over to the woman, who suddenly seemed completely flustered. "I won't need to pick this up for a few months," Callahan said. "Is it a problem to keep it here?"

"No, not at all, uh," she said, looking down at the check, "Mr. Callahan. I was going to ask if we could keep it through the main showing, but this will work out magnificently!"

"So, what's the artist's name?"

"Spencer. Jennifer Spencer, and I do believe she currently lives here in the city."

Callahan nodded. "And when was the opening of her showing?"

"A week from this coming Friday."

"And pardon me for asking, but what was your name?"

"Leah. Leah Franklin," the woman said, holding out her right hand. "So nice to meet you, Mr. Callahan. Could I get you a receipt?"

"Yes, please, and just use the address on the check."

The woman looked at the check again and did a double-take. "Davos, Switzerland?"

"That's correct."

"You are a U.S. citizen, aren't you? If not, I'll have to fill out some additional paperwork."

"No, I was born right here in the city," he said, grinning boyishly.

"I see. Well, if you'll just let me know when you'd like to pick up the piece, please, just call me."

"I will, Leah," Harry said as he made his way to the door. "And, thanks."

He walked to his car and drove downtown, parked in the detectives' lot, and went upstairs to the computer center by the main dispatcher's room. "I want to see what you can find on a Jennifer Spencer, female, white, probably in her thirties, maybe late twenties. Last known address here in the city," he told one of the Public Safety Officers working in the center.

"You want to wait, or will you be upstairs?" the woman asked.

"How long will it take?"

"Maybe ten minutes. I'll need your badge number and the incident report number."

Callahan nodded as he handed over his note pad. "I'll wait, but I need to hit the head."

"Got it," the PSO said as she turned and got to work.

As he was walking up to the bank of urinals he heard the bathroom door swing open and looked over to see Captain Lionel Briggs walk in, and -- inwardly -- he groaned. Briggs was a carbon copy of Captain McKay; a paper-pushing bureaucrat-cop who had a well-deserved reputation for being a bigot as well as a total prude. What Callahan didn't know, however, is that after McKay's disappearance Briggs had been transferred to Internal Affairs.

"Callahan! Just the turd I wanted to see. Zip up and report to my office -- on the double!"

Callahan stood at the urinal, pissing away a quart of milk and two cups of coffee, as his stomach knotted. After he finished up he washed his hands and then splashed some water on his face, then he dried off and returned to the PSO's desk and picked up his hard copy of Spencer's driver's license information, as well as a brief CCH, or Complete Criminal History, which listed an assault on a peace officer and a white warrant application. This last application really didn't surprise Callahan; a white warrant was, generally speaking, what an officer filled out to have a suspected mental patient committed to a psychiatric facility for a 72-hour period of observation, and he looked at the dates of offenses and found the application and the assault happened on the same day.

The net takeaway after his morning's work? Spencer probably had extreme issues with authority figures, and little ability to control her emotions when confronted by an authority figure -- especially by a male. He walked down to records and gave the clerk what little information he had and asked if he could get a copy of Spencer's arrest report and if at all possible, a copy of the white warrant application and any evaluations made during confinement.

"Callahan!" he heard Briggs yelling, "I said now, and I meant now!"

"If it's okay with you," Harry said to the clerk, "I'll pick these up later this afternoon."

"Okay," the girl said, winking once and grinning as Harry rolled his eyes.

"Coming, Captain," Callahan said as he walked down the hall to Briggs.

"Follow me."

And Callahan followed Briggs downstairs to Internal Affairs, where his stomach instantly knotted into a burning mass of unwanted anxiety, and from there down to an office with Briggs' name on the door...which Callahan found utterly confusing...

"Are you working IAD now, sir?"

Briggs turned around and pointed to a chair. "Have a seat, inspector."

Callahan sat.

"I've been wanting to talk to you for a while, but -- apparently -- you've been on extended leave to some sort of U.S.--Israeli counter-terrorism task force."

Callahan didn't say a word.

"And, apparently, you've been involved in undercover operations around the Bay Area."

Again, Callahan made no effort to speak.

"Look, Inspector," Briggs snarled, highlighting the obvious disparity in rank between them, "it's this department's policy that all, and I mean all undercover operations will be reported to this office, and a monthly summary of operations will be submitted to me directly. Now, why haven't I received any such notification from you?"

Callahan stood and took out his wallet, then he removed a business card and handed it over to Briggs. "Call this guy. He'll let you know what you need to know."

Briggs took the card and looked at it briefly, then did a double-take and read it closely: there was a name and phone number for the deputy director of the National Security Agency listed, and Briggs gasped as the implications became instantly clear. He handed the card back and took a seat.

"Jee-zus H Christ, Callahan, just what the devil have you gotten yourself mixed up in?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but I'm not allowed to..."

"Oh, yeah, I get that. Can you at least tell me if you're still attached to this operation?"

Callahan was instantly on-guard, and looked directly into Briggs' eyes, saw a flicker of evasive nervousness that was all the confirmation he needed to know that Briggs had been turned, but all Callahan did was shake his head and walk out of the office.

Predictably, Briggs did not follow, and he could just imagine that Briggs was on the phone now, calling someone in his network to let them know: "Callahan is back, working inside the department again."

Once clear of IAD he started to do the math...

If Stacy had flown to Mexico City and on to Colombia, and that had taken the better part of a day, he could expect her back in the city sometime tomorrow. If, on the other hand, the Escobar cartel wanted to farm out a hit to the Threlkis organization? Well, if that was the case he and Frank could expect action any time now.

He sighed and took the elevator upstairs and went directly to CID; Bullitt was in Bennett's old office sorting through stacks of long-neglected paperwork.

"Harry! What's up...I didn't expect you up here so soon..."

Callahan walked in and closed the door behind him, then sat across from Bullitt. "Briggs is in IAD now, and he just pumped me. He's in the network, Frank. I could see it in his eyes."

Bullitt handed over a note from one of Goodman's assets in the city; the gist of the memo was that, yes, Briggs had been identified in several calls to a known vigilante handler.

"So, what do you think?" Frank asked quietly.

"How sure are you that this office is secure?"

Bullitt shook his head and stood, and Harry followed him out of the building and to the parking garage; they drove over to Nob Hill and parked under Coit Tower, then walked down to The Shadows, Frank and Cathy's favorite restaurant, and they ducked inside.

"Dell and Carl will be coming at four, and I got word to Al to come ASAP," Bullitt said after they were seated in a dark corner with a good view of the main entrance. "Can you get word to Rooney, put him on standby?"

"No problem," Callahan said as he stood and went to a payphone outside the restrooms. When he got back to the table Bressler was sliding into a seat next to Frank, and he looked very agitated.

"What's wrong?" Harry asked.

"I was followed," Bressler said, "most of the way here. I lost my tail by the marina, but..."

"But, if they were pros they had you covered by multiple units..."

"I parked down by the docks and when it looked clear I took a cab up to the tower. Didn't see anyone..."

"But you never can tell," Frank whispered. "Man, I'm sure glad we made it through Goodman's little spy-school..."

"What about Dell and Carl?" Al asked. "Think they know how to spot a tail?"

Harry looked at Frank and they both shook their heads.

Frank dropped a twenty on the table and the three of them stood and went to the back door; Callahan stopped and called Rooney, confirmed the extraction point and left the phone dangling. They left and made their way up Nob Hill by circling their way between houses all the way to Coit Tower, occasionally doubling back on their route to check for a tail, and they reached the parking lot at the tower just as the Huey's rotors began beating the air as the flutterbug flew up from the Presidio.

Rooney didn't even bother setting the skids down, but dozens of gawking tourists stood by, fascinated, as three men in sports-coats hopped into a green US Army helicopter and disappeared into the late-afternoon fog just flooding through the Golden Gate...

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Once airborne, Frank put on his headset and switch to Radio, then he dialed in the CID tactical frequency and sent a prearranged signal to Delgetti and Stanton: "Inspectors 66 and 78, head to the stables," which sent them to the Presidio.

Rooney climbed out of the fog and turned to the south, made for Goodman's safe house above Palo Alto; Dell and Carl would wait at the fort until Rooney came for them, because Frank had already decided enough was enough. But, in a flash his mind turned to Sam Bennett, and then to his two surviving kids. Things were about to get ugly...and he wanted to keep collateral damage to a minimum.

First things first, he thought. Briggs. Who had he called? What was the size and strength of the network Briggs had activated with a single phone call...?

"Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"I think we're going to have to take Briggs, get him to Goodman, see if we can find out what he knows."

Callahan nodded. "What about Sam?"

"I was just thinking about that."

"We need to get them out of harm's way."

"Agreed."

As the Huey passed Menlo Park the fog dissipated, and a few minutes later they were at the safe house. Two Israeli agents were there, and all their communications equipment was set up on the third floor of the massive house, so Frank told them what he thought the team needed.

"We picked up Captain Bennett," one of the agents said, "when we heard the stable message. He and his wife are on their way to the Presidio."

"He's got two kids..."

"Already picked up and on their way."

"Do you have direct comms to Goodman?"

The agent nodded: "Follow me."

Frank told the colonel about Briggs and what had happened following Callahan's encounter in IAD, then he asked the big question: "What if we bag him? Do you think he's worth interrogating?"

Frank heard Goodman chuckle over the encrypted circuit, then: "We have to cut off the head of the chicken, Frank. However we can."

"Do you think Briggs is the control nexus?"

"No," Goodman replied.

"Are you telling me to bag him, or take him out?"

"I think we're at the point where we have to go on the offensive, Frank. I think it's time to take out as many bad apples as you can."

"Why now?"

"Because every time we cut off a head it just grows right back. We need to send these clowns underground."

"How many?"

"We have more than twenty identified right now."

"Any idea how we might proceed?"

Frank heard Goodman sigh: "If you could get them to gather in one spot..."

Bullitt could just see the newspaper headlines: Twenty cops murdered... and wondered why Goodman would want to call that much attention to the team's efforts.

"Alright," Frank said, "we'll work on it."

Once he'd signed off he went to find Callahan...

"What if Goodman is using us?" Bullitt asked after he recounted the conversation with the colonel.

"Well, the question becomes 'who is using us,' doesn't it? And then, why?"

"We're too low on the totem pole to get anywhere near an answer to either one of those questions," Frank said as he looked down, "but all I really do know is we simply can't take out twenty law enforcement officers without bringing down the wrath of God. And I can't see how Israel might stand to benefit if we did."

"I say we take Briggs, tonight if we can, and that we find out what we can directly from him."

Frank seemed dismayed at the idea: "Are you really prepared to torture someone we know, even if Briggs is in it up to his neck with these vigilantes."

Callahan shrugged.

"Yeah, I thought so. Tell you what, Harry...I know I couldn't do it, and I'd be really concerned if you thought you could, too. It's one thing to talk about it, but something else entirely to actually get your hands dirty doing something like that."

"So, what do you want to do? We can't just hole up here..."

"First thing I want to do is get Briggs. Where we go from there is anybody's guess."

Bressler walked in: "Helicopter is about five out."

Bullitt nodded. "Al? You have anything on Briggs?"

Bressler shook his head. "Nothing concrete, just a few rumors."

"Such as?"

"His wife. The word is she's addicted to a prescription anti-anxiety drug, and Briggs has been writing scrips using a hot pad and a borrowed DEA number."

"No fucking shit?" Frank said, really shocked by that information.

"They're just people, Frank," Bressler said. "Cops fuck-up just like everyone else."

"Do we know what pharmacy he uses?" Callahan said, interrupting Al...

...who only shook his head...

"Is there a working file on him, Al, maybe in Vice?" Frank asked...

...and Bressler nodded slowly before he spoke: "Yeah."

"So, we go in and get it tonight, see what we can figure out from there, then I recommend we all go back in to work tomorrow and act just like nothing happened."

Callahan nodded. "I've got a couple of good leads off that homicide out at the cliffs this morning."

"Good. Just try to stay around the station as much as possible for the next few days. Let's let everyone know where we are for now, try to draw them out, identify who we can."

"Then what?" Bressler asked. "Take them out?"

"Not unless we have to..."

"Oh, we'll have to," Callahan sighed. "This is simply coming down to kill or be killed, Frank. I doubt those were census takers following Al this afternoon."

"Okay, Harry, but think about this, would you? If we kill even one of the vigilantes, what makes us any different than them?"