Gideon Page 18

  Pete was ready to take a break when Ron entered, carrying two bags of Vietnamese food. The smell of ginger, mint and chilies filled the office, setting Pete’s salivary glands into overdrive… until he saw the name of the restaurant on the bags.

  “You went to Saigon Kitchen?”

  Ron was already clearing off his desk. “Best Vietnamese food in the city.”

  “I heard the health department closed them down because they found rat shit in the kitchen.”

  “Nope. Just issued a warning.”

  “Meaning the restaurant still has a rat problem?”

  “Every restaurant in the city has rats. It just so happens the rats that frequent Saigon Kitchen have more refined taste buds.”

  “Why don’t we go with Chinese food like everyone else in the department? We’re only a few miles away from a dozen excellent restaurants in Chinatown.”

  Ron knew Chinatown inside out. He’d spent five years in that precinct and was part of the team that helped bring down Raymond “Shrimp Boy” Chow, the powerful leader of the Hop Sing Boys.

  “Because it’s a pain in the ass to get there, there’s never any parking, and, by the way, that’s racial profiling.”

  “Me suggesting we eat Chinese food makes me racist? You grew up in Millbrae, for fuck’s sake. If you suggested we try Scandinavian food because my great grandparents came from Norway, I wouldn’t be offended.”

  Ron pulled the food out of the bags. “You won’t have to worry about it. The last thing I want to eat is pickled herring and boiled potatoes. Are you eating or not?”

  “I’ll just grab a burrito out of the vending machines.”

  “You’re fucking kidding me. You’d rather eat a microwaved burrito that’s loaded with preservatives and so-called meat – which, by the way, is probably ground rat – instead of a truly delicious, fresh meal from one of the most authentic restaurants in the city? And what about the sanitation level of the factory where those ass rockets were made?”

  “You’ve got a point.”

  “Of course I do. I’m the senior partner. Think how miserable you’d be if you scarfed down a green chili burrito and then we had to roll on a call. You’d be like, ‘Excuse me, Ma’am, I’m really sorry about your husband lying dead on the carpet, but could I use your bathroom?’”

  “Okay, okay,” Pete gave in. “Did you get me shredded pork banh mi?”

  “Don’t I always take care of my partner?”

  As they dug into their food, Ron informed Pete that he spoke to Urbina, who’d told him there were shots fired not far from the BART station at Mission and 24th. “Couple of kids on the corner saw the car. Fortunately, no one was hit.”

  “24th and Mission is Norteño territory, right?”

  Ron nodded. “This thing’s heating up. Miguel’s working his contacts to try to get a bead on Spider, but no one’s talking. I know Kelly’s been taking care of his little brother. Maybe you could ask her to have a chat with Mamacita.”

  “I could ask, but I’m doing my best to keep her out of the middle of this.”

  “Yeah. I get that. Besides, I doubt Spider’s mom would give up her kid.” He nodded toward the three-ring binder labeled with David Harper’s name. “Find any hidden gems in there?”

  “Not really. There’s a consensus that the driver was the only person in the vehicle, but that’s about it.”

  “Nothing new from Forensics?”

  Pete shook his head. “They’re still waiting for some test results to come back.”

  Ron spoke between mouthfuls of grilled lemongrass pork shoulder. “What about the names you got from Kelly?”

  Pete and Ron had agreed that Pete would take the lead on the David Harper investigation while Ron helmed the other cases that they caught. “Both non-starters. Nathan Curtis comes from Pacific Heights money. Never been in trouble before. And the transient they call The Hollow Man is in the wind. Some of the uniforms remember seeing him around the Mission encampments, and the folks there all said he was crazy.”

  “Pot kettle.”

  “Now that’s profiling. Anyway, no one knew his name or anything about him, except that he had bad burn scars on his face and hands. He’s either moved on or lying in a stupor in the basement of some tenement. Not worth our time.”

  “So we’re nowhere. It’s been over a week and we’ve got three other homicides on our plate that need to be cleared.”

  Pete was waiting for Ron to drop this on him. The murder of David Harper was big news, but it was last week’s big news. The Mayor and Chief would love to ride the wave of some positive headlines, but as every day passed, the case got less attention and the leads became increasingly stale.

  “I’m giving a hundred percent on our active cases, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop grinding on David’s death.”

  “Your star’s on the rise here, but don’t spread yourself so thin that your work suffers.” Ron had finished his pork and was picking at a carton of noodles. “I’ve seen it happen before. An Inspector thinks he can keep all the plates spinning, but at some point there are just too many fucking plates, and then they all come crashing down.”

  “I can handle the load, Ron,” Pete said with a little too much edge.

  Ron nodded, not in agreement but as a precursor to a story. “Did I ever tell you about the first partner I had when I worked out of Bayview?”

  “Jim Foley? He was the one who ate his gun, right?”

  “Right.”

  “You told me that story the first day we teamed up. You said it was a ‘cautionary tale’ about a cop getting so personally involved in a case that he didn’t realize he was sinking under the workload. One day he was so far underwater he only saw one way out.”

  “I’m glad you paid attention.”

  “An Inspector who shoots himself in the head is the kind of story that leaves an impression, but if you’re worried that’s the road I’m heading down, you can relax. Like I said, I can handle it.”

  “Those are the exact words Foley spoke the last time I saw him alive.”

  “Point made.” A moment later the desk phone rang. Pete answered, “Homicide. Ericson.” As he listened, a look of amazement came over his face. “Yeah, that’s great. Thanks for calling. I owe you Giants’ tickets. Let me know as soon as you get the results.” Pete looked at the receiver as if he’d never seen a telephone before, and slowly put it back into the cradle.

  “Well?”

  “I don’t believe in kismet, but that was Victoria in Forensics. They found some hair fibers embedded in the driver’s seat backrest. They’re going to run DNA on them and see if they match the owner of the car. If not, they could belong to our guy.”

  Pete pulled out his cell phone and was about to make a call when…

  “Don’t do it,” Ron said.

  “Do what?”

  “Call Kelly.”

  “She’s in a tailspin. She needs to hear some good news.”

  Ron shook his head. “A few hair fibers that probably won’t lead anywhere is not good news. It’s a crapshoot. The worst thing you can do is build up false expectations. Besides, you won’t get the results for at least a few days.”

  Pete looked at his partner, then at the phone. “You’re right,” he said, as he slipped the phone back into his pocket. “I’m worried about her.”

  “You’re underestimating her. She’s strong. She’ll pull through.”

  Pete wished he shared his partner’s conviction, but he wondered if Kelly had the strength to come out the other side.

  Across town, Kelly wondered the same thing as she sat at the window counter of a coffee shop, doing something she never dreamed she’d be doing.

  40

  Kelly had been at the coffee shop for just over an hour and was nursing a double cappuccino. It had grown cold long ago, but that didn’t matter. She neither tasted nor enjoyed it.

  The file on Moretti was open on her lap under the counter and she glanced down at his photo for what had to b
e the tenth time. His face was burned into her memory banks, and soon she’d see him in the flesh.

  At least, that was the plan.

  The building directly across the street was home to The Battery, a swanky private club that Moretti had joined a few months ago. He dined there every Sunday night. He either loved the cuisine or he was working hard to impress the law-abiding members. Kelly assumed it was the latter.

  The club took its name from its location on Battery Street in the financial district, and was the latest hangout for young wealthy dealmakers in the Bay Area. They came from the tech industry, the financial sector, and in the lone case of Moretti, organized crime (although he was invited into the club based upon his “legit” businesses, which were essentially shells for laundering cash).

  Moretti joined The Battery because, in his mind, it put him on the same level as the latest wave of moneyed entrepreneurs who currently dominated the business and social scenes in San Francisco. He longed to be part of that crowd and not some punk who got rich because he was born into a crime family.

  Hushed stories circulated around The Battery about Moretti, and the members thought it was cool to have one of their own potentially be part of the mob. Of course no one ever talked about it in Moretti’s company. They were much too chill for that. And much too afraid. While the techies designed killer apps and the hedge funders made killer deals, word was that Tommy took the term to a whole other level.

  Moretti was friendly, generous to a fault and a wonderful conversationalist. In a room full of computer nerds and business school grads, he was a breath of fresh air. He had connections that ran deep, and he happily doled out Warriors and 49ers tickers to his fellow Battery bros. They didn’t know how he came by the tickets, and they made a point to never ask.

  While Moretti ate his dinner, Kelly wondered what in the hell she was doing. Like her father before his “first time”, she was profoundly conflicted. She knew she was in way over her head to even consider taking lethal action against Tommy Moretti, but what could she do to protect herself and her sister? Her options were few, and they ranged from dreadful to horrendous.

  Up to this point, Moretti was nothing more to her than a photograph. A color image of a man she despised and wished terrible things upon. She wanted to see Moretti in person to get a visceral reaction.

  As the minutes slowly crawled by, her apprehension swelled. The acid from the coffee was eating a hole in her stomach lining and the non-fat milk foam that laced the drink seemed to be curdling. She tried a breathing trick she’d learned in her beginning yoga class, but that only resulted in her feeling lightheaded. When her phone buzzed, Kelly flinched and knocked her coffee cup over. Fortunately, it was empty.

  She pulled out her phone and saw the number. It was Pete. She couldn’t remember if they’d made plans for tonight. Was she supposed to be meeting him someplace for dinner? Or was he calling to check up on her? Either way, it didn’t matter. She wasn’t leaving her perch until…

  Just then, the door to the club swung open and Tommy Moretti stepped out with two other men. All were young, handsome and dressed in expensive hipster gear that was designed to look casual but exude wealth. All three had an aura of success.

  As Pete’s call went to voicemail, Kelly focused on Moretti, who was finishing up a story that the others found hilarious. They slapped him on the back in a display of camaraderie, and exchanged fist bumps in a show of appreciation for his amazing wit.

  When Moretti’s Maserati pulled up and the attendant hopped out, Tommy bade his friends a good evening, which was met with a round of smiles. They loved this guy. Tommy slipped the attendant a twenty, which brought a smile to his face as well. If Kelly hadn’t known any better, Tommy Moretti appeared to be quite a catch. Good looking, rich, well liked and generous.

  Before he slid into his car, Moretti looked across the street. His eyes seemed to focus directly on Kelly. His expression was ice cold and it sent chills through her body. Did he just happen to look in that direction, or was he actually staring at her? Kelly froze, not wanting to create any movement that would attract attention. She held her breath and forced herself not to look away, or even blink.

  The whole incident lasted maybe five seconds and the moment was finally broken when Tommy slipped into the driver’s seat and glided into the night.

  Kelly was unnerved, but she was glad she’d made the decision to see him in the flesh. Despite the persona that Moretti worked so hard to cultivate, there was something vile about him.

  Something that exuded evil.

  41

  (David’s Journal)

  Several months have gone by without an assignment. For this I’m thankful, and yet, I have to admit I miss it. Not because of the money, although finances are getting tight. I miss the incomparable adrenaline rush. As I write that, I feel guilty and unclean. To experience an emotional kick from taking another’s life is clearly a depravity. Does it make it any less deviant or perverse because the victims are cankers on society who prey on the innocent? Perhaps. At least that’s the mental salve I apply to justify my actions and the adrenal surge that stimulates my senses.

  I don’t equate my experience as a contract killer with the emotional and physical rush felt by a cliff diver, or a bullfighter or a Formula One driver. Dangerous occupations and thrill-seeking hobbies are like drugs to action junkies who thrive on the cascading endorphins.

  The difference is, my end game is murder. I’m not trying to compare apples to elephants here, but risking your life to terminate another’s raises the bar to astronomical heights.

  While I may miss that feeling, I’m not looking forward to another assignment. I’ll undoubtedly accept it (if the target meets my criteria), but I truly don’t enjoy ending another person’s life. I do it for what I believe are the right reasons, which is a far cry from taking pleasure in the act. If it sounds like I’m conflicted, that’s because I am. Extremely conflicted.

  I relish the simplicity and calm of just being a doctor and a father. I’m constantly worrying about the dangers of being exposed as Gideon, but I’ve learned to push that dread to the rear of my mind, where it’s become a persistent low-thumping angst.

  Taking on the role of Gideon has provided me with a clear and unique perspective on life. I’ve learned what’s important and necessary to be productive and truly happy. It doesn’t take a lot, just appreciation for those you love and caring for those who need. There will always be a huge hole in my life left by the death of Mary, but her death has set me on a path that might be making me a better person (if becoming a killer can possibly make you a better person).

  I’ve become a better father, a better doctor and a better friend. I’ve rid civilization of more than a dozen people who were an affliction on the world. Some were husbands, some were fathers and three were grandfathers. One was a wife and mother. They all left behind families that mourned; but, moreover, they left behind legacies of pain, misery and suffering. Legacies of debauchery, corruption and malevolence. I’ll go to my grave convinced the world is a better place for their absence.

  Dying is not a fate I dwell upon, but given my unusual and dangerous pastime, my odds of going prematurely have greatly increased. Because of that, I do everything I can to protect myself when I’m in Gideon mode, from my methodology to covering my tracks.

  The most important aspect of my modus operandi is that I don’t have one. There can be no patterns. I take great care (and pride) in devising murders to appear to be accidents or natural causes. To date, none of my hits have been investigated as homicides. The “perfect murder” is not one that goes unsolved. It’s one that’s never suspected.

  One of the things in my favor is that urban police departments are loath to take on murder investigations unless they strongly suspect a homicide has taken place. Their caseload is too heavy to bother with deaths that appear to be accidents or suicides (just last year, 35,000 people died from unintentional falls, 58,000 from unintentional poisoning and 47,000 from su
icide).

  I’ve learned that almost all forensic labs across the country are ill-equipped, understaffed and underfunded. They have huge backlogs of evidence to be tested, so they’re forced to prioritize their workload to support prosecution as opposed to investigation.

  I’m not an assassin by trade. Every job I take puts me into foreign and dangerous waters. The only way for me to survive those waters is to use the skills and knowledge I’ve acquired over the years.

  For example, having done extensive charity work in South America and Africa, I’m familiar with a long list of little-known and highly toxic substances that can bring on death and not leave an easily identifiable trace. Poisons are only one of the arrows in my quiver, and I haven’t used the same one twice. No repeatable patterns.

  Another critical element in remaining anonymous is to leave no trail. I never use credit cards and I avoid locations that have security cameras (which is getting increasingly difficult since they’ve popped up everywhere). If I have to travel by air, the reservations are made through one of Benedetto’s companies under fictitious names, and he provides me with the appropriate identification to go along with the tickets. I don’t ask where he gets these documents, or exactly how deeply he’s entrenched in the shadows. I don’t want to know. I’ve never taken an assignment overseas, nor do I intend to. There’s a bottomless swamp of deplorable people right here in the good old US of A.