Gideon

by Grant Rosenberg

  Ron and Pete shared a glance. Pete had come to the same conclusion. It didn’t make sense that members of either gang were responsible for the break-in. Which left the question… if not them, who?

  Pete looked over at Nano one last time. “Get back to us about Sad Boy.”

  “I told you, ese. I’ll ask around,” Nano said, his ire rising.

  “Today.” Pete said.

  “Or you’ll drop a taco truck on me. I heard you. By the way, take a lesson from your partner how to dress, man. Dockers are for pendejos.”

  Ron and Miguel intercepted Pete before he could lay a beat-down on Nano’s smirking face.

  Ron was still laughing as he and Pete walked back to their cramped office in the two-story brick building that housed the Mission Station.

  “Like a fucking taco truck dropped from the sky!” Ron broke into another fit of laughter.

  “It was the best I could come up with at the time. I’m still working on this ‘bad-cop’ thing.”

  “Based upon my many years of experience, I’ve got an idea that would help in the future.”

  “Yeah?”

  Ron stopped and faced his partner, dead serious. “Stop dressing like a pendejo, ese.” Ron threw back his head and howled.

  “First of all, these aren’t Dockers. Secondly, who takes fashion tips from a punk whose wardrobe comes from the Dallas Cowboys’ pro shop?”

  “Good point, but it was still funny as hell.”

  “And I’ll bet you can’t wait to spread the joy with the rest of the squad.”

  “Me?” Ron said innocently, a moment before he broke into another bout of laughter.

  They shared an office with six other Inspectors. On the infrequent occasions when everyone was on duty at the same time, oxygen became a rare commodity. The Inspectors were paired into four teams, and the desks of each team were pushed together face-to-face. It didn’t afford much privacy, but it was an efficient use of space and led to better communication between partners.

  The David Harper case was under the jurisdiction of the Hit and Run Detail, but due to the high profile nature of the victim, Homicide was looped in and asked to conduct a parallel investigation.

  The story was still on the front page and the Mayor was adamant that he didn’t want to be ambushed by the press due to his police department’s failure to investigate every potential angle of this case. As such, Pete and Ron had been directed by their commanding officer to explore the possibility that David’s death was intentional.

  At this point, the case was stagnant. The two witnesses who’d seen the Jeep Cherokee couldn’t provide a description of the driver because the windows had been blacked out. Forensics was still processing the vehicle, but was coming up empty. No prints. No hairs or fibers. No clues.

  A thorough background check on David didn’t turn up anything surprising or suspicious. He’d never been arrested, and there was no evidence of his involvement with drugs or gambling or sleeping with another man’s wife… the three evils that could get a good man killed. He was a model citizen, and the more the facts lined up, the more it seemed highly unlikely that anyone had a reason to purposely crush him under two tons of automotive fury.

  Pete and Ron also considered the incidents with Kelly. Were they somehow connected to David’s death? Pete had already discounted Kelly’s close call with the SUV. She even admitted that she was distracted when she stepped off the curb. That left the break-in, which was much more ominous.

  The preliminary report from Burglary confirmed that the perpetrators used something to create a power surge to knock out the electricity in the clinic, which led Ron to pose the question, “Do you really think that’s the work of some random beaners looking for a score?”

  Pete shook his head. “No. And I don’t buy the fact that whoever did it was smart enough to knock out the power, but then didn’t know about the steel door into the lockup. And, ‘beaners’? Really?”

  Ron leafed through the photos. “I think whoever broke in did exactly what they intended: to cause as much damage as possible. And, by the way, the term ‘beaner’ is not technically racist. The proud people of Mexico are known for their love of, and culinary dependence upon, the legume. Hence, referring to them as beaners is nothing more than a racially appropriate term.”

  “You, of all people…”

  “Hold it right there!” Ron interjected. “Are you going to hit me with the fact that because I am of Chinese heritage, I can’t use deprecatory adjectives when referring to people from other non-Caucasian races?”

  “No. My point was that you, being one of the most decorated police officers in the SFPD, should be more vocally tolerant of the cultural mix we have in our city.”

  “When you put it that way…”

  “Getting back to the clinic, why would someone run the risk of breaking in just to trash the place?”

  “It always comes back to one question: who’d have something to gain from it?”

  “Or, who had a massive grudge against the people who work there?”

  Ron added, “Let’s not completely dismiss the basic makeup of the criminal mind. The majority of the bad guys – white, black, brown, yellow or otherwise – are moronic dipshits. They think, ‘Aha! We found a cool fucking way to break into this clinic! Let’s do it!’ And then once they’re inside, they’re like, ‘Ah, shit! We can’t get through this metal door!’ And what do they do then? They take out their anger over the fact they were too fucking stupid to realize they had a stupid-ass plan to begin with.”

  “Sherlock Yee solves another one.”

  “When you’ve been at this as long as I have, and see the extraordinary depth of just how simpleminded the criminal element is, you, too, will be able to crack cases in a single bound.”

  As Pete looked through the crime-scene report, Ron got up and poured the remainder of a burnt pot of coffee into a chipped and stained coffee mug. “We’re never going to find out who did this,” Ron said, as he added an obscene amount of sugar to the coffee to cut the wretched flavor, “and the question is, does it really matter? Let’s look at the chain of events in the light of realistic probability: David Harper was run over by a drunk driver; Kelly was distracted and stepped out into traffic, where she was almost hit by a guy driving home after a long day at the office; a couple of drug dealers figured the clinic was an easy score, but didn’t figure on a steel door. Period. If you look at all of the events separately, they’re easy to explain. If you try to tie them all together, you only end up tying yourself in knots.”

  Pete held his partner in high esteem, and had to admit this made sense. A lot of sense. “So, where do we go from here?”

  “If you strongly believe these incidents have some connection to David Harper’s death, add them to the murder book and we’ll work them into the case. Otherwise, the clinic break-in becomes the sole purview of those dumb shits in Burglary and we move on. Your call.”

  Pete wanted to stay involved with anything that impacted Kelly, but he couldn’t connect the dots between David Harper’s death and someone breaking into the clinic. He knew they had to let this one go and stay focused on what mattered: determining if David Harper was the victim of involuntary manslaughter or premeditated murder.

  17

  St Francis Memorial Hospital was built atop Nob Hill more than a hundred years ago. Thirty years later, the spectacular Grace Cathedral was constructed a few blocks away. Both institutions were renowned for their excellence and both attracted either patients or parishioners from all over the Bay Area.

  Kelly stood on the periphery of the St Francis Emergency Services area and watched as the doctors and nurses performed an intricate dance in perfect harmony, handling patients expediently and with utmost care. The ER was stocked with cutting-edge medical equipment: CT scanners, digital radiography, a portable x-ray machine and numerous six-channel patient monitors that were linked to the nurses’ stations. It was worlds away from the clinic.

  An attractive middle-aged
woman with perfectly coifed hair and dressed in a subdued business suit informed Kelly that Dr Knudsen could see her now. As they made their way down a freshly scrubbed hallway, the woman asked if Kelly would like something to drink. Kelly’s tank was dangerously close to empty and she gratefully accepted the offer of coffee. The stronger the better. The woman smiled and said they had an espresso machine in the lounge.

  Minutes later, Kelly sat in the office of Dr Donald Knudsen, the Chief of Emergency Services. He was perched behind a large mahogany desk that was spotless, save for a few neatly stacked file folders and a framed photo of a multigenerational family posing outside a beautiful beach house on some exotic island.

  At age sixty-eight, Knudsen had a runner’s physique and still took part in the annual Bay-To-Breakers race that wove seven and a half miles through the hills of San Francisco and ended up at the shore. Tightly trimmed silver hair circled a bald crown, and designer glasses helped round out a thin face. Knudsen’s most distinguishing features were his rich baritone voice and disarming smile. Combined with a charming sense of humor, Donald Knudsen was a hospital fundraiser’s dream.

  “I was devastated to hear about your father. He was an incredible physician and a wonderful man.”

  “Thank you. I’m still trying to come to grips with the fact he’s gone.”

  “It’s a process. Everyone handles it differently. My mother and I were very close and she died when I was in college. For years I’d instinctively reach for the phone to call her.”

  “I smell my father’s aftershave every time I walk into his office. I can hear his voice calling out instructions in the clinic.” Kelly sighed. “He was such a huge part of my life. When does the pain of missing him go away?”

  Knudsen leaned back in his chair, a sad smile crossing his face. “There’s no timetable. I thought about my mother every day for a few months, and then one day I realized it had been a week since she’d crossed my mind. I felt an overwhelming guilt.” He shook his head. “I didn't miss her any less, I’d simply compartmentalized my memories and got on with living my life. It’s been almost fifty years and I still miss her, but now when I think of her there’s no sadness. I focus on the good times, and there were many.”

  He leaned forward in his chair. “You’ll get there, but don’t try to rush it. It’s important to mourn.” He leaned back in his chair. “I hope you’re here to tell me that you’ve decided to join us.”

  “Not quite yet.”

  Knudsen nodded. “I realize how difficult it can be to make important life choices in the midst of all that’s happened. Did you have more questions about the position?”

  Kelly wasn’t there with questions. She explained that she desperately wanted to keep the clinic open, but lacked the necessary cashflow (the insurance company was balking at covering the damage due to the fact that the security system wasn’t functioning). She’d come to ask Dr Knudsen if he’d give her a little more time to decide about the job. If the clinic failed, she’d put that phase of her life behind her and would gladly join the staff at St Francis.

  Knudsen tented his long fingers. “Since we’re losing Dr Remensperger at the end of the month, I need to fill the Director of Emergency Services position rather quickly.”

  Kelly nodded. “I understand if you can’t…”

  “However,” he interrupted, “given your excellent credentials, the extraordinary circumstances and my deep respect for your father, I’ll keep the offer on the table for two more weeks.”

  Kelly felt the first wave of relief she’d had in several days. “Dr Knudsen, I truly appreciate it.”

  Knudsen stood. “I wish you the very best of luck with the clinic, but on the other hand, I hope you’ll be part of the St Francis family. I know you’d thrive here and we’d be lucky to have another Dr Harper on staff.”

  As Kelly shook his hand, her sense of relief turned to self-doubt. Having this job as a fallback was a wonderful option, but in her heart she knew she’d never be happy here.

  18

  Kelly slid onto a stool at 44 Degrees and Philip approached with a bar rag and a smile, pulling a wine glass out of the overhead rack. He placed it in front of her and reached for a bottle of chilled Chardonnay.

  “Am I that predictable, Philip?”

  “I’m sure you’re mysterious in real life, Doc, but your drinking habits are kinda one-note… not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

  “I’m actually not that mysterious, but let’s change it up tonight. Bourbon. Something off the top shelf.”

  “See? I would’ve never taken you for a bourbon drinker. There’s definitely mystery lurking under the surface.”

  Philip grabbed a bottle and presented it to her. She nodded absent-mindedly. Not being a bourbon connoisseur, she didn’t know the difference between Wild Turkey and Michter’s Limited Edition, so when he showed her the bottle of Buffalo Trace Eagle Rare, she had no reaction.

  “You said top shelf, right?”

  “Is this the good stuff?”

  Philip opened the bottle, poured a small amount into a glass, added a drop of water and slid it over. “You tell me. The first one’s free.”

  “Ahh. Gently setting the hook.” She raised the glass and sipped the amber liquid. A smooth warmth worked its way down her body and slowly transported her to a happier place. “Where’s this been all my life?”

  “Right up there, waiting for you to discover it. Two things you need to know. It’s strictly for sipping and it’s not cheap.”

  “I’m buying,” said a warm voice from behind Kelly.

  She turned to see a distinguished-looking man in his late fifties. He was impeccably dressed in an expertly tailored Brioni suit, topped with a Canali overcoat. Kelly pegged him as a broker, a lawyer, or God forbid, a hedge fund manager. For one frightening moment it occurred to her that this might be Randall Curtis, having tracked her down to talk to her about the clinic.

  “Thank you,” she finally managed, “but I’m waiting for my boyfriend.”

  “I apologize. I didn’t mean to give the wrong impression, although I have to admit I’m flattered. My name is Matthew Benedetto,” he said, as he handed her a business card. “I’m an old friend of your father.”

  “My father passed away,” she said, the pain evident in her voice.

  “I was at his memorial. A very deserved and extremely moving tribute. I should’ve said I was a friend, but I still feel a deep kinship with him. I hope that doesn’t sound callous.”

  “Not at all.”

  Kelly looked at the card in her hand and a quizzical look crossed her face.

  “A lawyer. I’m sorry, but my father never mentioned you.”

  “I’d be surprised if he had.” Benedetto pulled an envelope out of his coat pocket and placed it on the bar. “He wanted you to have this, if and when.”

  For the first time in days, Kelly felt a sense of hope. Could this have something to do with the investments her father talked about?

  Benedetto dropped a large denomination bill into Philip’s tip jar. Philip glanced at it and nodded gratefully. It would easily cover Kelly’s drink, and the next one after that.

  Kelly weighed the sealed envelope in her hand as Benedetto bade her a good evening and left her with, “Call me if you have any questions.”

  He turned and headed out the door into another chilly San Francisco evening.

  Kelly carefully opened the envelope and poured the contents out onto the bar. There wasn’t much inside: a key to a safe deposit box and a power of attorney letter giving her access to the box. What the hell was this all about?

  Before she could ponder the question further, Pete came striding into the restaurant. He didn’t know what kind of mood Kelly was in, given everything that had gone down in the past few days, but he put on a smile and hoped for the best.

  Kelly stuffed the key and letter into her purse as he arrived at the bar.

  “You started without me,” he said, as he leaned over and kissed her on
the cheek.

  “It’s been one of those days.”

  “I can see.” He nodded at the bourbon in front of her. “Going with high octane tonight?”

  She nodded. “Anything new on Ruben Garcia?” Kelly had lost very few patients, and when she did, she not only felt an unwarranted guilt, but also a kinship and a desire for justice.

  Philip slid Pete a Cutty and rocks, and moved on down the bar. Pete took a drink and responded, “The Sureños claim the shooter was a Norteño. Rumor is, there’s an eyewitness but conveniently he’s nowhere to be found.”

  Kelly slowly shook her head from side to side. She knew what would happen next. What always happened from time immemorial. “And now the Sureños take out one of the Norteños and call it even?”

  “The Gang Task Force is clamping down on both sides, hoping to avoid a war.”

  “So many wasted lives,” she said, taking another sip of her bourbon. “Any update on my father’s case?”

  Pete had hoped to avoid that question, but he wasn’t surprised when it arose. “We still have people canvassing the area, talking to anyone who might’ve seen something.”

  “So the answer is ‘nothing new’.”

  Pete nodded. “For now.” Then he quickly changed gears. “What’s new with you?”

  “I met with Dr Knudsen at St Francis.”

  Pete’s face lit up. “You took the job?”

  “Not exactly. He agreed to keep the position open for two more weeks while I try to sort out things with the clinic.”

  “That’s good news, isn’t it?” he said cautiously.

  Kelly nodded. “It gives me a viable option if the clinic’s forced to shut down.”

  Pete smiled for the first time in a while. “Options are good. Feel like celebrating?”