Gideon

by Grant Rosenberg

  “But I don’t. There’s something I’m missing. I’ve seen you deal with horrific situations, and I was always amazed at how you could compartmentalize your emotions and tackle every challenge methodically and intelligently. And now there seems to be… something. I’m not being helpful because I can’t verbalize what it is that I don’t understand, but just know I’m here. Talk to me.”

  Kelly didn’t immediately respond. Alexa raised her glass and drank, keeping her eyes on Kelly the whole time, gauging her reaction. There was none.

  Alexa broke the awkward silence. “Is everything okay with Pete?”

  Kelly couldn’t reveal that dating a cop right now was extremely awkward. She reached over and laid her hand atop Alexa’s, giving it a loving squeeze.

  “I’m sad, I’m exhausted and I’m frightened about the future. It’s as simple as that. I don’t know how the blend of those thoroughly depressing states of mind manifest into what I’m projecting to the outside world, but there you have it.” She sipped her wine and smiled. “Don’t worry about me, Lex. Time heals all, right?”

  “Time, sex and expensive liquor. I can only provide one of the three, but if you want, we can make this a weekly treatment session.”

  “Deal. I’ll check my insurance plan and see if this type of procedure is covered.”

  “If not, you need to switch carriers.” She split the remainder of the bottle between their two glasses and they turned their conversation to Alexa’s love life, which was always a fanciful distraction that took them long into the night.

  Tonight, however, Kelly couldn’t focus on Alexa’s tales of the impossibly handsome wealthy men who wanted to take her away to exotic locales. Tonight, all Kelly could think about was Angelo Moretti; his intentions and his potentially limited life expectancy.

  62

  Pete was slipping on his sport coat when Miguel Urbina entered the homicide bullpen.

  “You heading out for the night?” Miguel asked.

  Pete nodded. “Shift’s over. Ron took off a little early to read a bedtime story to his grandson.”

  “Really. It’s almost eleven. What time’s this kid go to sleep?”

  Pete settled back into his chair. “I don’t ask. I got a feeling this ‘grandson’ is a thirty-eight-year-old named Monique who works the back bar at Slattery’s, but you didn’t hear that from me.”

  Miguel spun Ron’s chair around and straddled it. “Things are heating up in the Mission. Someone sprayed the Sureños’ clubhouse with an automatic. Aimed high and tattooed the roofline. Sending a not-so-subtle message.”

  “Why can’t these fuckers just text each other instead?”

  “’Cause then I’d be out of a job,” Miguel said without a smile.

  “Anyone seen Spider? I got a feeling he’s at the heart of this.”

  Miguel shook his head. “Spider hasn’t shown his face, but I’ve got a CI inside the Sureños. He called earlier to say he was onto something that could defuse the tensions, but he needed a little more time.”

  “And that was it? No indication of what he was talking about?”

  Miguel shook his head. “He’s playing it close until he’s sure. I got the idea it was a game changer.”

  “Let’s hope the game changes fast, before these assholes start aiming lower.”

  Oscar “Spider” Sanchez was holed up in the cramped back room of a small taqueria owned by the uncle of one of the Norteños. He was perched on a sagging sofa, playing ‘Gears Of War’ on Xbox. His thin arms and small hands moved with lightning speed as he slaughtered aliens using an AR15 with a built-in chainsaw. The violence on the television screen was a throwback to old-fashioned gore, and despite the dismemberment of bodies and the flowing lakes of blood, Spider’s face showed no signs of any voyeuristic enjoyment. He was all business. Staying sharp.

  The door opened and Gizmo entered, along with two of his boys, all carrying heavy duffels. Spider paused the game on a still-frame of a four-armed alien who had just been brutally decapitated. “You got the stuff?” he asked.

  The duffels were unzipped to reveal hardware. Lots of hardware, ranging from handguns to assault rifles. “My cousin came through, big time,” said Gizmo, a buzzed grin spreading over his face.

  Spider took a 9mm Luger out of the bag and ran his hand over it with admiration, knowing what it could do. “Toro know about this?”

  Luis “Toro” Echavarria was el jefe. As per his name, he was a bull of a man in his mid-thirties. Had done time, made his bones (or earned his tears, as they said) and came out of prison with a pipeline to suppliers around the state. You didn’t fuck with Toro, but sometimes the underbosses had to take care of business of their own. As long as you didn’t steal from la familia and didn’t do anything stupid to bring down heat, Toro was cool. He just wanted his taste.

  Spider had plans of his own. He’d loop in Toro when the time was right.

  Gizmo shook his head and swallowed hard. “Nobody knows shit about this. I swear.”

  Spider glanced over at the two younger bangers. They nervously shook their heads. He casually pointed the nine at them. They swore on the lives of their mothers’ that they didn’t say a word to anyone.

  He pulled the trigger. A dry click. The bangers exhaled.

  Spider smiled. He had work to do.

  63

  While Spider and his boys were inspecting their firepower, Nathan Curtis was sitting in his car in the parking lot behind the clinic. A thick cloud cover obscured the waning moon, blanketing the lot in a cloak of darkness. The area was empty, save for a kid dressed in a red sweatshirt who was passing by, smoking a cigarette. Nathan watched as the kid disappeared into the night.

  The dim light above the clinic’s rear door provided the only illumination, so when two hulking figures sidled up, Nathan wasn’t sure if they were who he was expecting. Once they started splashing the door with gasoline, his suspicions were confirmed.

  “What are you doing?” Nathan asked, as he got out of his car.

  One of the men stepped into the light. It was Burr, Randall’s head of security. He was holding a gas can, as was his little brother Junior, who tipped the scales at three hundred pounds, much of it former muscle that had long ago lost its tone and turned to fat.

  “I thought my father would try something like this,” Nathan said.

  “You don’t want to be here, Nathan.”

  Junior reacted. “Wait. Is this the guy you were telling me about? Your boss’s punkass son?”

  Nathan boldly approached them. “I’m not going to let you do this.”

  Burr smiled and dismissively shook his head. “Let us? Get the fuck out of here before you get hurt.”

  Junior emptied his twenty-gallon can around the base of the clinic door. As Burr joined in, Nathan leapt at him, trying to rip the can away. Burr swatted Nathan with a backhand that felt like a hammer blow. The sickening crunch that accompanied it was the sound of Nathan’s nose being relocated.

  “I told you to get the fuck away!” Burr bellowed.

  “Dude,” Junior loudly whispered, “keep it down.”

  Undaunted, Nathan scrambled to his feet and wildly attacked Burr, punching him in the kidney. Burr grunted, then whipped around and brought the heavy can down in a wide, overhead arc. When the can connected with Nathan’s forearm, the bone snapped like a dry tree branch.

  Nathan roared in pain, his arm jutting in an obscenely unnatural angle.

  “Bro!” Junior growled. “Your boss is gonna be pissed!”

  Burr shook his head. “Nah. He hates this little fucker.”

  Burr raised his size 14 Doc Martin, ready to deliver a rib-crushing stomp, when the voice of an eighteen-year-old cut through the night.

  “Pendejo!”

  Burr and Junior turned to see a skinny Hispanic banger decked out in a white T-shirt underneath a red hoodie. “Leave him alone.”

  Burr and Junior exchanged looks and broke into a laugh. “Seriously? After we fuck him up, you’re next, sp
ic,” Junior said. He held out a fist and Burr dapped him.

  Spider, the skinny banger, calmly pulled a black matte Glock out of his belt. “This clinic and the doctors are protected by the Mission Street Norteños, motherfuckers.”

  Nathan was completely taken by surprise at this sudden turn of events. Never was there a time when he was so happy to see a banger brandishing a weapon in his general direction.

  Burr snatched a Sig Sauer P229 from a rear holster and aimed it at Oscar. “Yeah, well, you might want to get back to your clubhouse, Jose, before I drill a hole in your sorry Norteño ass.”

  Junior had a shit-eating grin spread across his otherwise vacant face. He loved hanging with his older brother, especially when they got a chance to kick some immigrant tail. The grin slowly faded when Junior saw a red wave ripple through the parking lot.

  What the fuck?

  Burr’s gun hand began to tremble when he realized that Spider hadn’t come alone.

  “What’s wrong, ojete?” said Spider. “How many shots you got in that thing? Enough for all of us?”

  There were twenty Norteños behind him, all packing weapons, and all eager to find any excuse to use them.

  Burr laid his gun on the ground, and slowly raised his hands above his head. Junior followed suit.

  Spider looked over at Nathan. “You okay?”

  Nathan slowly got to his feet. Blood was cascading from his nose and he was cradling his arm in severe pain. Despite that, he nodded. “Okay.”

  Spider signaled to one of his guys. “Take him to the hospital. Ahora!”

  Nathan began to protest, but Spider shook his head. “We got this.”

  The red wave began to close in.

  Burr and Junior shared a look.

  They were so fucked.

  64

  The Spreckles Temple of Music (better known as “the bandstand”) at Golden Gate Park was built in 1900 and still featured concerts every Sunday. The rest of the week it was a mecca for tourists, the homeless, and seagulls.

  When Kelly arrived at 7am, Benedetto was already there, amiably chatting with a woman who had the face of a dried apple doll. As Kelly approached, he gave the woman a few dollars, which engendered a warm, toothless grin. The woman cheerfully tottered off and Kelly took a seat next to Benedetto on one of the long green benches. The rest of the benches were devoid of human life.

  “How are you feeling today?” he asked.

  It had only been one day since she’d murdered Tommy Moretti.

  “Still wondering if things will ever get back to normal.”

  “Your father wondered the same thing.”

  “If that’s supposed to make me feel better, it doesn’t. I’ve read a lot of his journal and his life was anything but normal.”

  Benedetto was well aware of David’s constant internal struggle, from the moment he killed Musselwhite. He didn’t expect Kelly’s life would be any easier, regardless of whether she crossed the line again.

  “Did he make mention of Angelo?” Benedetto asked.

  “It was his final entry. If the ‘rumors on the street’ are true, Angelo is even worse than his cousin. Are they true?”

  “Since the time your father would’ve written that, more details have come to light. There was an eyewitness who reportedly saw Angelo near the rec center with the young girl on the night she died.”

  “Then why haven’t the police arrested him?”

  “The eyewitness was an elderly man and he died last week. The police could make an arrest, but until they have more concrete evidence, they have no case.”

  “So, based upon the account of one old man, you think Moretti’s guilty?”

  “I think he’s guilty based upon everything I’ve heard from my sources. He was out of his mind on drugs when he committed this heinous act, and because he suffers from an inferiority complex, he boasted about it. The fact that an eighty-three-year-old man with a bad heart picked him out of a six-pack of police photos was the icing on the cake for me.”

  Kelly still wasn’t convinced of Angelo’s guilt. The reality was, she didn’t know anything about Benedetto’s supposed “sources”, and, for that matter, didn’t know much about Benedetto himself, except what he’d told her and what she’d read. Over the years he’d represented a number of high-profile criminals, but that didn’t mean he had reliable contacts. And there was still the possibility that Benedetto was using her. To what end, she didn’t know, but the information he came up with felt rather convenient.

  “If Angelo killed that little girl, he deserves to suffer the consequences, but that’s not my responsibility.”

  “I completely agree,” Benedetto said. “You can walk away any time and let justice run its own course. That’s not your concern or mine. I only worry about how Angelo will react once he finds out his cousin is dead.”

  “You already laid out the worst-case scenario and it’s only conjecture. Angelo may not have any idea about Gideon’s identity.”

  “True, but forewarned is forearmed. I’m simply trying to do everything I can to protect you and your sister.”

  “Why? Why’s our wellbeing so important to you?”

  “Because,” he said, with a look of compassion, “I bear the guilt of setting everything in motion. If I hadn’t brought your father into this morass years ago, none of this would be happening. He’d still be alive and you wouldn’t be in any jeopardy. This is my doing and the least I can do is try to make it right.”

  “I’ll tell you what you can do to ‘make it right’. Kill Angelo yourself.”

  “I’m not a killer,” he responded calmly, like they were having a perfectly normal conversation about the weather.

  “Neither was I until yesterday. Why not join the club? In fact, you could take over my father’s legacy.”

  Benedetto shook his head with a mirthless smile. “I’m not cut out for it. I lack the expertise, the training and the drive. All of which you have, whether you believe that or not.”

  Kelly was about to refute his statement, when she realized he was right. Her medical expertise and training gave her a skillset. And there was no debating her drive to take out Tommy Moretti, and potentially his cousin.

  “If I were to kill Angelo Moretti, where does it end?”

  “Hopefully right there.”

  “Hopefully? No more Morettis are going to emerge from the shadows?”

  Benedetto shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “But? I know there’s a but.”

  “No one can predict what the future holds.”

  “Thanks for the fortune cookie wisdom.”

  Benedetto shrugged. “It’s the best I can do under the circumstances. If you opt to explore the situation with Angelo further, I brought you this.” He held out a thumb drive. She looked at it like it was radioactive. “It’s virus-free, not encoded and can’t be tracked. It’s just a four-gig memory stick from Office Depot with some basic information.”

  Kelly surprised herself by taking it and shoving it into her pocket.

  “Oh, and one…”

  “Don’t say one more thing. Please, I can’t take ‘one more thing’.”

  He smiled. “We all have verbal tics. I wanted you to know that some time today $9,500 will show up in the clinic’s bank account.”

  Kelly’s eyes flew wide open. “What are you talking about? Don’t tell me this is because Tommy…”

  “No. It’s the final payment for a job your father did last year.”

  “How do I explain that income to the accountants?”

  “When the dust settles, I’ll walk you through the mechanism we set up years ago. It’s never raised a flag at the government level, and since the money is used to support a clinic that’s running in the red, I highly doubt you’ll ever be audited.”

  Kelly was barely functioning on minimal sleep and could hardly pull her thoughts together. All she knew was the sun rose this morning and would probably set tonight.

  Past that, her future
was murky as hell.

  65

  It was highly unusual for a cop to introduce his confidential informant to anyone else on the force, especially if that CI was embedded in an Hispanic gang. Nuestra Familia and the Mexican Mafia were both steeped in family and honor. You weren’t recruited into these gangs, you were born into them. As such, it was rare to find a member who was willing to flip on his hermanos, and when you did have one in your pocket, the last thing you’d do is risk burning him by exposing his identity to anyone else.

  The story that Eddy Romero had to tell was explosive, and Miguel Urbina knew it would carry substantially more weight if Romero recounted it directly to the Inspectors who were handling the Garcia and Juarez murder cases. It was a risk, but police work was all about managing risks, so Miguel made the decision to trust Ron and Pete with Eddy Romero’s life.

  Miguel laid the groundwork with Pete and Ron beforehand, giving them Romero’s backstory and vouching for his veracity. Eddy was a Sureño who did time in the Arizona prison system (he spent four hard years in Winslow, a town two hundred miles northwest of Phoenix with two distinguishing features: a state prison and a street corner made famous by The Eagles). One day, a fight broke out in the yard between a few Sureño inmates. Chuy Lopez died when a nine-inch shiv was buried in his ear. The inmate who wielded the shiv was Eddy.