Gideon

by Grant Rosenberg

  One of the patrolmen suggested she wait until someone from Burglary arrived before she went inside. Kelly thanked him, but she didn’t need an escort.

  She stepped through the doorway and let out a horrified gasp. Beds were overturned, sheets and blankets shredded. Drawers of medical supplies were pulled out, their contents dumped with abandon, then stomped on. Bags of fluids were ripped open and watery glucose ran in tiny rivulets. The walls bore holes from chairs that were viciously hurled, and IV poles had been violently rammed into the plasterboard.

  Kelly wandered from room to room in a state of shock. The damage varied, but her father’s office was hit the worst; the desk had been ransacked and the file cabinets tipped on their sides. Her tears flowed unabated. So much time, effort and love had gone into building this clinic. It was the final testament to the memory of her father, and someone had savagely and maliciously vandalized that memory.

  As she surveyed the senseless destruction, Pete arrived. “Damn. They really did a number in here.”

  Kelly was openly sobbing. “Why would someone do this?”

  A moment later, a lanky middle-aged man with a prominent nose, pocked cheeks and sad eyes entered. He wore his badge on a lanyard around his neck.

  “Hey, Pete,” he said with a tired voice.

  Pete shook the hand of Inspector Larry Poe from Burglary and introduced him to Kelly. She wiped her face on her sleeve and did her best to pull herself together.

  The first question Larry asked was, “Have you checked the pharmaceuticals?”

  They moved across the hall to the secured room that held the clinic’s drugs. The door and the doorframe were made of steel, the locking mechanism had a double-action bolt that required the use of two keys. David Harper had foreseen the inherent danger in having a storeroom of opioids in a high crime area.

  The door had clearly been kicked several times, and when that didn’t work, it was struck with a chair. Fortunately, the door held fast.

  Larry flipped a light switch a few times with no results. “Where’s the electrical panel?”

  “In the storeroom,” Kelly responded.

  A moment later, Larry had the panel open and easily identified the problem. “The breaker’s off.” He used a tissue to flip the breaker and the lights came back on. “I’m guessing they created an external power surge, which automatically shut off the electricity.”

  “What’s the point of that?”

  “Your security system operates via broadband monitoring. When the power’s off, the internet goes down and the connection to the security company is cut. That’s why the alarm didn’t sound when they broke through the door. This wasn’t a random break-in by a desperate junkie.” Larry turned to Pete. “Probably gang-related.”

  Kelly slowly shook her head. “All we do here is help people. People in this community. Sureños, Norteños… none of that matters to me. And now this… I don’t know what to do.”

  Pete wanted to reach out and take her in his arms, tell her everything would be all right, but he resisted the urge.

  “Insurance should cover the damage,” Larry said. “It looks a lot worse than it is. You’ll be up and running again in a few days.”

  Kelly snapped her head around. “A few days?”

  “It’s a crime scene,” Larry said, as if it were obvious. “We need to take prints.”

  Kelly’s ire was rising. “If they were smart enough to cut the power, they were probably smart enough to wear gloves. I have to get this place cleaned up so we can be back in business.”

  Pete did his best to calm her down. “Kel, it’s protocol. Plus, you’re going to need a police report for your insurance claim, which means the crime-scene investigators have to come in and do their thing.”

  Kelly’s frustration was growing by the second and threatening to blow.

  Pete looked over to Larry, who got the message. “I’ll see if they can make this a priority.”

  “Please,” Kelly said a little too brusquely. “I have to go tell the people waiting outside they’ll need to go somewhere else for treatment.”

  As she strode away, Larry turned to Pete. “She’s the one whose father was killed in that hit and run?”

  “Yeah. And now this.”

  Larry glanced around at the damage and shook his head. “That’s some shitty week. Look, we’ll go through the motions, but you know we’re not gonna turn up anything, right?”

  Pete nodded.

  At the end of the day, they’d be left with more questions than answers.

  15

  The Vantage company was located on the thirty-fourth floor of 101 California Street in the heart of the financial district. This was the same floor where, in 1993, a man named Gian Ferri had walked into the law firm of Pettit and Martin and killed eight people and wounded six others before killing himself. Randall Curtis found that sordid piece of history a captivating factoid to share with prospective clients.

  Randall’s office was predictably ostentatious. Floor-to-ceiling windows were a visual gateway to the San Francisco Bay, the Bay Bridge and beyond. Bookcases were lined with leather-bound books that had never been cracked, and, of course, there was Randall’s Wall Of Fame. Dozens of 8 x 10 photos, all framed in identical gold-leaf rectangles. Whereas his home office featured pics of him with politicians, this display was a testament to Randall’s ego and was all about flash. Each photograph featured him with a famous athlete or Hollywood celebrity. All were signed with pithy tributes that read like they were coerced at gunpoint. The display was Randall’s hackneyed way of saying to clients, “If you do business with Vantage, one day you’ll be able to hang out with famous people, too!”

  Randall paced as he spoke on the phone with the CEO of a copper mine in Ely, Nevada. Randall rarely sat down, and according to his gold Apple watch, he walked the equivalent of five miles a day while making deals. “We can turn Quadra into a huge player in the industry. I guarantee that with the new equipment we’re talking about, you’ll double your output to a hundred and twenty thousand metric tons per year. Once you sign the line of credit, I can have that equipment delivered within three days.”

  As he gave his spiel, Randall walked over to his beloved wall and squared up the slightly askew photo of him and Jimmy Garappolo. If Jimmy G didn’t take the 49ers to another Superbowl next year, the picture would come down and join the collection of also-rans in the storeroom. “I’m telling you, Michael. Twenty-four months from now, Freeport-McMoRan will be making a play to acquire your company and you’ll become a very, very wealthy man.”

  The door to his office opened. Standing immediately outside was a granite block of a man named Burr. A former college lineman who spent four years protecting his quarterback’s blind side, Burr now spent his days protecting Randall’s blind side. There were too many crazies out there with easy access to firearms that might hold a grudge against a ruthless bastard like Randall Curtis, who had no qualms about stepping all over “the little people”.

  The scent of Coco Mademoiselle wafted in a moment before a stunning blonde walked through the door. Randall held up one finger and finished his call, “Talk to your Board and get back to me soon.” Randall smiled as he wound up to deliver his favorite lie, “The interest rates are fluctuating like crazy and I heard from my guy in DC that the Feds are planning another increase any day now, so don’t wait on this.”

  Randall disconnected with a triumphant grin, then turned to face his shapely secretary. He famously lost his shit if he was interrupted while on a call, but Krista had only worked for him for a few days and wasn’t aware of the correct protocol. Besides, Randall cut Krista a lot of slack because she was gorgeous, and because he planned to spend some serious long lunches with her at his suite at the Ritz. Instead of ranting, he smiled. “Yes?”

  “Your son is here to see you, Mr Curtis.”

  “My son?” Randall was puzzled. “Nathan?”

  Krista’s face was blank. “He didn’t say his name. Just that he was your son. I
assumed he was. Should I ask him his name?”

  “It’s Nathan,” a voice said a moment before he walked into the office. Nathan turned to Krista and motioned for her to leave. He watched her sashay out and then closed the door behind her.

  Randall shifted gears from lascivious to caution. Nathan rarely visited the office, but Randall had a reasonable idea of why the prodigal son was standing there with a confrontational look on his face.

  “I just came from the clinic.”

  Randall didn’t take the bait. “And?”

  Nathan approached his father, his round face reddening. “And it’s closed today, but I think you know that.”

  Randall shrugged. “Why would I know that?”

  “Because someone broke in and trashed the place.”

  “Really?” Randall was First Team All-Pro at feigning his emotions. “Your Doctor Harper is having a stretch of real bad luck.”

  Randall plucked a cigar from an ornately carved humidor and made an elaborate production out of clipping off the end with a sterling silver cutter engraved with his initials.

  “Did your thug out there have something to do with this?” Nathan asked.

  Randall took time to light his cigar, rolling it slowly to get a perfect ash started. The bootleg Cubans were fifty bucks a pop and were to be treated with respect. When he exhaled, he resisted the great temptation of blowing the smoke in the direction of the annoying scion standing before him. “That’s absurd. I’m a businessman, not a mob boss. Next thing, you’ll be accusing me of putting a hit on David Harper.”

  Despite his anger, Nathan’s voice quavered. “I’ve heard the stories all my life about how Randall Curtis is cold-blooded when it comes to business. How he won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. How he’ll go to any lengths to close a deal, regardless of who gets hurt.” Nathan took a step closer, and as he did, his tone grew bolder.

  “You know who I heard those libelous stories from? You. So do I think you’d resort to heavy-handed tactics to drive Kelly Harper’s clinic out of business? In a heartbeat.”

  “You can think whatever you want,” Randall said in a snarky tone, “but don’t go around spreading that rumor.”

  “Or what? You’ll send your thugs after me?”

  Randall shook his head and a smile creased his face. “I don’t need hired muscle to deal with you, son. You know why? Because you’re weak, and because you’ll do exactly what you’re told, which is to help me close this deal. Isn’t that right?”

  The air in the office suddenly felt thick and Nathan found it difficult to breathe. As a child, Nathan suffered from what the doctors called “psychological asthma”; his throat would close up when he became tense, nervous or afraid. In the Curtis household, those conditions occurred with regularity. Nathan reflexively reached for the inhaler he’d stopped carrying fifteen years ago.

  “Are you feeling alright, son?” Randall asked without a shred of compassion.

  Nathan stared at the man across from him and recalled a recurring childhood prayer… that someday Nathan would meet his real father.

  16

  Sergeant Miguel Urbina grew up in San Jose and joined the Sureños Por Vida at age twelve. A born overachiever, he rose from lookout to dealer in two years. By the time he was seventeen, he was point man for a half dozen pushers. Two years later, he was picked up during a routine drug sweep and landed at Ironwood Prison in Riverside County.

  The Emes on the inside embraced him, and he gladly accepted their protection. It was only a matter of weeks before they invited him to take an active role in their prison rackets. While only nineteen, Miguel was whip smart and ambitious. Within six months, he’d opened up new distribution channels (muling in more drugs from the outside) and broadened their clientele base (the shit that came in was righteous and the guards became repeat customers). By his twentieth birthday, Miguel was a rising star… until life took a hard left turn.

  Miguel’s sixteen-year-old sister Rosa had gone to a friend’s birthday party and had stepped outside for a smoke at the wrong time. It turned out that a classmate named Berto Mendez hadn’t gotten an invite to the party and was beyond pissed. After fueling his courage and anger with a pint of cheap vodka and two black beauties, he grabbed his cousin’s H&K MP5 and hopped into his brother’s Taurus. He never meant to kill anyone, and yet fifteen minutes later, the party house was sprayed with bullets and Rosa was cut in half.

  After realizing what he’d done, Berto turned the gun on himself. The final tally was two dead, four injured, and a neighborhood in mourning.

  The shooting had nothing to do with gang warfare, but was clearly a result of the gang culture in South San Jo at the time. If a teenager a few miles up the freeway in Sunnyvale or Mountain View were to be excluded from a class party, he’d call up some friends to whine about the stuck-up bitch that was throwing the party and then post some regrettably dumb shit on her Facebook page. He wouldn’t grab a semi-automatic rifle and go on a shooting spree.

  Rosa’s death hit Miguel hard. He pulled back from the Emes and kept to himself. They respected his decision and continued to watch his back, even when he decided to get an online diploma in Criminal Justice.

  Miguel was released nine months early with an AA degree and a new outlook on his future. He spent two years as a gang counselor in San Jose, and helped extricate the Mayor’s nephew from the Varrio Sur Town, which resulted in a blurb in the San Jose Mercury News. One thing led to another and Miguel was soon invited to take the test to join the SFPD academy.

  Miguel Urbina was now forty-three, and had been running the SFPD Gang Task Force for the past six years. He knew the streets, the players and the plays. He got grudging respect from the Sureños. Even through he was 5-0, he’d walked the walk. He was much less popular with the Norteños, but that didn’t stop him from getting the job done.

  Miguel was heavy-set with broad shoulders and he took up more than his share of space in the cramped interview room. His presence was intimidating. The gangbanger sitting at the small wooden table tried to pretend otherwise, but his nervous tics and sweaty brow betrayed him.

  Fernando “Nano” Rojas was second in command of the 19th Street Sureños. He could usually be found at the gang’s crib on 19th and Lexington, but currently Nano was fidgeting in the stiff straight-back chair, facing not only Miguel, but Pete and Ron Yee as well. It was a full house and the air was ripe with body odor and testosterone.

  “How many times I got to tell you, ese?” Nano asked, irritated as hell. Irritated to be sitting here instead of kicking with his homes, drinking Patron and relaxing with a blunt. “Joker was killed by those chapetes over on Mission.”

  Ron sat across from Nano while Pete paced, his features twisted into a bad-cop scowl. “Blaming the Norteños. That’s original,” Pete said. “You blame them when the fog rolls in. You blame them when the Niners have a shitty season.”

  “Hey, those putos wear the Niners’ colors, the Niners deserve a shitty season, you know?”

  “Get back to Joker. Did anyone actually see who shot him?” Ron asked.

  “Shit, man. I don’t know.”

  Miguel spoke up from the rear of the room, “I heard that Sad Boy saw it go down.”

  Nano shrugged. “Sad Boy ain’t been around.”

  “Sad Boy. That’s Ernesto Juarez, right?” Ron prodded, even though he knew the answer.

  “If you say so.”

  Ron kept things positive. “And you have no idea where we can find Ernesto?”

  Nano slumped down in his chair. “I told you, homes. He’s gone. I’m not a fucking babysitter.”

  Ron sat back, letting the weight of the silence prompt Nano to keep talking. After a full minute, it worked.

  “Maybe he’s hanging with his cousin down in Merced or Turlock. One of those fucking dusty-ass towns in the Valley.”

  Pete leaned in. “So this Sad Boy sees Joker get shot by a Norteño, then runs someplace to hide. Sounds like a pussy to me.”

  “Sad Bo
y’s no pussy,” Nano replied. “Dude’s only fourteen and already got made. He just someplace chillin’.”

  “Got a name for his cousin down in Turlock?” Miguel asked.

  “No lo se, Sargento,” he said, spitting out the last word.

  Miguel flexed his fingers and rolled his neck like he was about to get into the ring. He leaned in close, inches from Nano’s face.

  “Ask around, Nano. See what you can find out,” Miguel said calmly with a not-so-subtle undercurrent of threat.

  Nano tried to act tough, but his discomfort was showing. “I’ll check with my boys.”

  Ron smiled. “That’d be really helpful, Nano. The sooner we can get some details, the sooner we can make an arrest and get the shooter off the street.”

  Nano was stone-faced. The Sureños had their own plans for the shooter.

  As if reading his mind (which didn’t take much), Pete leaned in and tapped his finger on the side of Nano’s head. “Don’t even think about retaliation. Any more blood spilled over this, and we’ll come down on your ass like a fucking taco truck dropped from the sky.”

  Nano inherently knew when to shut the hell up and he responded with a dead-eyed stare.

  “One more thing before you go,” said Ron. “What do you know about the break-in at the Mission Street Clinic the other night?”

  Nano shook his head, genuinely surprised at the news. “Someone broke into the clinic?”

  Miguel nodded. “Word is, it might be your guys, acting all crazy after Joker died.”

  “Whose word? That’s fucking bullshit, man,” Nano said. “Some homies dropped him off, hoping the blanca there could work a miracle. No one really thought he was gonna make it. We ain’t got nothing against the clinic.”