by Blake Banner
It dawned on me slowly as I walked that I was watching a deep blue Audi 8 moving through the traffic ahead of me. I told myself there must be a million dark blue Audis in San Francisco. I looked back. I scanned the road. I couldn’t see a single other Audi.
I swore violently. I had no idea what to do next.
Twenty-EIGHT
I hung around, reading papers and drinking coffee until lunchtime, waiting to see if the Audi came back. It didn’t. But all the while I was aware that what I had was not a plan. It wasn’t even a strategy. I was just being reactive to an unknown situation, and that can only lead to one place. Disaster.
I couldn’t spend the rest of my life sitting on the sidewalk outside her office or her house, waiting for Pro and Vito to show up so I could protect her from them. Neither would she let me talk to her. I needed to regroup and think about my options. So I went back to the hotel, had some lunch, and then went and lay on the bed to think things through.
I was pretty sure Pro was acting on his own with Vito. Vincenzo would not be a part of this for reasons that were obvious to me. It was also clear that he would not act in broad daylight on Market Street. The days when the Mob had the kind of power that would allow them to do that sort of thing were long gone. That meant that his appearance the previous evening in Berkeley and today on Market Street were part of his reconnaissance. And that led me irresistibly to one conclusion. He was preparing to strike, and he would strike without delay—and that meant tonight.
I thought of Maria—Mary Browne—sitting in her consulting room listening to me talk. I thought of her kind, humane face, of her courage. I thought of her greeting her children in the doorway, and the shadowy figure of her husband, and I began to structure in my mind the steps I had to take.
The only sound in the room was the soft sigh of the air-con. My back, my arms, and my legs ached. I was tired. I had slept badly. The sound of the air-con was soothing. I closed my eyes to help myself concentrate. Focus.
Center my mind.
Dehan was good at that. She had impressed me in Texas with her thinking. Texas, where the sky was like a dark prairie, and the stars were like ice reflected in the surface of her aviators as we moved irresistibly down the long, straight, interminable road toward Mick’s death.
I opened my eyes. The room was dark. I looked at the window. It was a dull gray square. It was dusk. I was about to swear and sit up, but a sound stopped me. I froze and listened. A gentle clunk. A keycard in the lock. A slit of light. A shadow, warped like a snake of blackness against the slit. The light died and I heard the soft click of the door closing. I could not reach my piece from where I was. In my mind I counted out the steps he would need to take to get a bead on me. Three. My form would be just visible in the dull light from the window.
I visualized, one, two, three. As he raised his weapon to take aim, I hurled myself on the floor. There was no shot. I looked up. His silhouette was moving. The communicating door between my room and the next had opened. A second figure stood in the doorway, holding a gun. I was outnumbered and unarmed. I did the only thing I could do. I roared and charged.
I collided with a body, knocking it off balance. Blindly I drove two powerful punches into it. I heard a grunt as it fell away from me. A foot on my chest hurled me against the far wall. I charged again, lashing out with my foot at where the darkness seemed blackest. I caught something, and a powerful blow glanced off my shoulder. Fingers clutched at me. I gripped back with my left hand, pile-driving punches with my right.
Then an intense light, like a laser, blinded me. I heard a phut! phut! and the body I was pounding sagged and slipped to the floor. I fervently thanked whatever gods provide ironic good fortune and leapt for the door. I wrenched it open and ran. My mind was running faster than I was.
I was unarmed. My piece was still on the bedside table. My car keys were in my pocket. Pro had just ordered a hit on me. That meant one thing and one thing only. He was ready to make his move on Maria. And if he wanted to eliminate me, it was for two reasons: I knew the truth, and he wanted me out of the way when he hit Maria Garcia. So my plan was get to Maria and stop Pro.
Simple.
I burst into the stairwell and took the steps a landing at a time. I crossed the lobby in Olympic gold-medal time, crashed through the doors, and vaulted into the Mustang. The tires squealed as I pulled away from the curb and hurtled along Market Street toward the bay. All the way along the Dwight Eisenhower Highway, I demonstrated the Doppler effect as horns faded in a descending note behind me. The sky was darkening to deep blue, and the first stars were appearing over the Berkeley Hills as I screamed, skidding off the Highway and onto the I-80. The traffic was heavy because of the time of day. But I blared my horn, cut people off, wove through the lanes, and never dropped below eighty.
I came off at Ashby Avenue, screamed onto Sacramento Street praying the cops would not notice me, and then burned rubber turning onto Dwight Way. I slammed on the brakes at the corner with Grant. Jumped out and ran.
I was too late. As I skidded to a halt at the corner of Grant and Blake, I saw the dark blue Audi sitting outside her house. There was a guy leaning his ass against the hood, smoking. Past him I could see into their living room. It looked like Maria and a man were sitting on the sofa, staring up at a tall gangly guy I was sure was Pro, and another whom I did not know. As I watched, the other guy pulled the drapes closed. I wondered where the kids were. I glanced at the top floor. There were no lights visible.
Next door there was an apartment block, and between her house and the block there was an alley. Two got you twenty that there was an access to the alley beyond the apartments. I put my hands in my pockets and walked past the guy sitting on the Audi like I was going somewhere. He ignored me. His fingernails were more interesting than I was.
At the end of the apartment block, there was a recess where all the trash cans were kept. Behind the cans was a wall. I hopped up and over, and I was in the alley at the back of Maria’s house. I moved quietly and covered the fifty yards to her back garden without being noticed. There was a six-foot wooden fence with a door in it. I tried the door, but it was locked. I tried the fence. It was sturdy. I pulled myself up and over and grazed my chest and stomach. It hurt.
I landed softly on a well-kept lawn and crouched in the shadow of some rosebushes. I could see what I assumed was the kitchen window. There was a faint light, like a light from another room, but the kitchen was in darkness. Next to the window there was a door. The way it is with kitchen doors that lead out to gardens, is when you are out, they are locked. When you’re home, they are unlocked. How long had the Brownes been home before Pro arrived?
I sprinted across the grass to the door and gently tried the handle. They had been home long enough to unlock the door. I pushed it open and stepped inside. There were voices, three of them. First I heard Maria’s, quiet, reasonable, but with an edge of obstinacy.
“I am afraid you have made a mistake. I have no idea what you are talking about.”
The same litany she had offered me. Probably the litany she had been rehearsing for the last ten years. Then I heard a man. His voice was educated, intelligent.
“Look, it must be obvious to you that you have made a mistake somewhere along the line. Whoever these people are you are searching for…”
Then there was a loud slap and a stifled scream from Maria. Then Pro’s unmistakable voice.
“Do I look stupid? I may look many things. I am not beautiful. Hey, Antonio, am I beautiful? I don’t think so. But I am not stupid either. So, please, don’t insult my intelligence. A man like me gets very upset when you insult his intelligence…”
I was going to have to do something fast, and I had absolutely no idea what. I slipped into the hallway and inched toward the open door of the living room, where soft light was spilling out onto the parquet floor. I had no weapon, and I was up against two armed killers. I turned and slipped back into the kitchen. I had seen a block by the cooker with a collection
of Sabatier knives. That would have to do. In my mind was also the fact that there was a man outside, and the second killer in my room would be on his way. I was short of time.
I was short of everything.
I made to return to the living room, armed with a large knife, and saw Antonio in the doorway covering me with a Desert Eagle.
“Whatcha planning to do with the knife, cop? I hope you wasn’t planning to hurt anybody with it.”
“No,” I said. “I thought I’d peel some onions for the Bolognese sauce.”
He edged around and flicked his gun toward the living room. “Come on, wise guy. Drop the blade and move.”
Pro watched me come in with real disappointment on his face. He looked disgusted. “You know? I really trusted you, Stone. I thought we had understood each other.”
I glanced down at Maria and her husband. They were watching me impassively. His right cheek was inflamed, and his eyes were watering. Maria said, “What the hell are you doing here?” I ignored her and eyed Pro.
“I don’t know why, Pro. I told you from the start that I don’t work for you.”
He gestured to a chair. “Sit down and shut up. You are a real disappointment to me.”
I moved to the chair and sat. “You’re making a mistake with these people. Maria Garcia is dead. So are Mick and Sam. There is nobody left but you.”
I sensed Maria and her husband glance at each other. Pro stared at me, and there was real rage in his eyes. He made several “W” sounds, like his own incredulity would not allow him to finish the words. Then he blurted, “What is it with you people? You look at me and you see a fuckin’ moron? What? What am I? What do I look like?”
I knew he was going to launch into one of his Hollywood wise-guy acts, so I cut him short.
“Yes, Pro. I look at you and I see a fucking moron.” He and Antonio both looked astonished, but I didn’t give a damn and I plowed on. “We found the Mustang in Texas, in the Palo Duro Canyon. There were two skeletons in it. They have both been identified from dental records as belonging to Maria Garcia and Mick Harragan.”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Yes! And the money he stole from you went straight into his numbered account in Belize, where it will stay because everybody who knew the details of the account is dead.”
He stared at me hard, narrowing his eyes. “Then what the fuck are you doing here, Stone? Answer me that. Following this chick, trailing her home, getting your fuckin’ hotel room almost in the same fuckin’ street as her clinic. What is your fuckin’ interest in this woman?”
He was practically screaming. I looked at him, letting the contempt I felt for him show on my face. “Keep your hair on, Pro. You’re like a hysterical woman. Mick’s dental records were on the NYPD database. He was a cop, remember? Maria didn’t have medical insurance, so her records had to be tracked down. While they did that, I followed a personal hunch that she might have come to Berkeley. I knew she had an interest in psychology. As it turned out, she never came here. This is Mary Browne. She is from Michigan, not New York.
“This morning I put her to the test in her consulting room, and she passed with flying colors.” I turned to her. “You must have thought I was even crazier than I said I was.”
She met my eye and spoke with no trace of humor. “I knew you were perfectly sane, and I also knew you were lying.”
I looked back at Pro. “Plus, I got notification today from my partner that the dental records match Maria’s. I was being thorough—you were just being stupid.”
“No…”
“Yesˆ Now the way I see it, Pro, you have a simple choice. Go home and act like none of this ever happened, or keep pushing. And if you keep pushing, I am going to make damn sure you go down for Mick and Maria’s murder in Texas. If you recall, they don’t fuck around in Texas. And if you go down for killing a cop in that state, you go down for good.” I raised my hands. “I am going to get my cell to show you the notification. Okay?”
Antonio stepped forward, training his .45 on me. Pro pulled a Sig 9 mm from under his arm and thrust it in my face.
“Do me a favor,” he said, “and try something stupid.”
I spoke in a weary voice, like his stupidity was exhausting me. “You’re a piece of work, Pro. You know that?”
I carefully reached in my pocket and pulled out my cell. I flicked through to my WhatsApp and found Dehan. I didn’t open the conversation. I left that for him to do. I handed him my phone. “That’s my partner. You’ve met her. It’s the last message from her.”
He took the phone and stared at it. He frowned as he clumsily opened the message with a gun in his hand. Very calmly, I reached forward, took hold of the barrel, and levered down hard. I did it so naturally that it took them a full four seconds to realize what was happening. Pro screamed as his fingers were twisted against their joints. He was still holding it with a twisted hand as I directed the barrel at Antonio and pulled the trigger, twice.
Twenty-NINE
The Sig was not silenced, and the shots rang out loud and clear. One tore through his belly. The other exploded into his chest. I didn’t wait for Pro to react. I stood and smashed my elbow into his face, snarling, “Let go, Pro!”
He did and fell sprawling onto a coffee table, which collapsed under his weight. Blood was streaming from his nose, and he was making incoherent noises. I got the idea it hurt. “Get on your belly and put your hands behind your head.”
“Just what I was going to suggest you do, Stone.”
I raised my eyes. I might have guessed. Vito and the guy who’d been sitting with his ass on the Audi. I figured in that moment it must have been Vito who tried to shoot me in my room. But he looked down at Pro and said, “We were sitting in the car and heard the shots. You okay, boss?”
I frowned a second. Then I slapped a smile on the right side of my face and said, “Is this what you’d call an Italian standoff?”
Pro got up on one elbow. “You’re funny, Stone. Deep down funny, where it ain’t like funny anymore. But you’re not going to shoot me, because if you do, Vito is gonna shoot you and this sweet family you care so much about.” He staggered to his feet, pulling a handkerchief from his jacket to stem the flow of blood. “Drop the gun and sit down. Now, you and hubby here are going to watch while a certain little lady starts losing fingers, until somebody tells me where my fuckin’ money is!”
The last was a scream of rage. Maria’s husband put his arms around her. I shook my head. “I’ll tell you what’s going to happen, Pro. Vito and his pal are going to die now. And you are going to stand trial in Texas for the murders of Maria Garcia and Mick Harragan. I gave you your chance. You didn’t take it.”
Pro sneered, “Bullshit!”
There was a kind of “Hunh!” sound from the door. He turned to look. Vito’s pal was sinking to his knees, and his neck looked awful floppy. Vito had a look of vague astonishment, because he was looking into Dehan’s face, and as beautiful as she looked to me right then, to Vito she must have looked terrifying.
Her hands moved too fast for the eye to follow. Two blows went to his floating ribs, and as he doubled up, her elbow smashed his jaw. Then she had his head in an armlock, and she gave a little jerk, which was the last thing Vito ever experienced in this world.
Pro was looking down the barrel of his own Sig Sauer p226. I smiled at him. “Hello, Detective Dehan. If you have quite finished showing off, would you like to cuff Mr. Levy here?”
“Love to.”
The next hour was spent giving vague and evasive answers to Detective Armstrong of the SFPD, who arrived on the scene after I called in the incident, and explaining repeatedly that this was now, in fact, an FBI investigation, and that Detective Dehan and I had been assisting the FBI in their inquiries when Pro and his men had invaded Mary Browne’s home.
Eventually a couple of Feds, Special Agents Turner and Caruso, arrived on the scene. They confirmed what I had said and told Detective Armstrong, politely, that they would
take it from here. I explained again that Mary Browne was a case of mistaken identity and that this family had nothing to do with the investigation.
Turner said, “We are only here representing the New York field office, Detective Stone. They may have more questions for you when you get back.”
With that they left, taking Pro with them. The ME arrived with a couple of meat wagons and the bodies were removed, and the last sirens and flashing red and blue lights withdrew into the early fall San Francisco night. I turned to Mary Browne. “Where are your children?”
She looked me straight in the eye. “After your visit this morning, we imagined this would happen, so we sent them to stay with friends.”
Her husband spoke to me for the first time, and I could see a repressed rage in his eyes. “I don’t know whether to thank you or bust your head open, Detective Stone. Why couldn’t you have left us alone?”
Dehan had her ass on the windowsill, and I lowered myself into a chair. I leaned my elbows on my knees and looked him in the eye.
“Sam, you are an intelligent man, but you let your anger and your passion get the better of you. Men like Pro never give up. He didn’t even know that you existed, but in his mind your wife and Mick had taken what belonged to him. He’s been searching for you for ten years. Sooner or later he would have found you. So you can thank me.”
I turned to Mary—Maria. “I said it’s over. You don’t need to hide anymore. The official version is that Mick ordered Kirk to kill Nelson. It’s an explanation that the authorities can live with. You can let them think that you died in Palo Duro with Mick, or you can resume your real identity. Nobody is going to care. Because there, the official line will be that Pro killed Mick and his passenger.”
Sam reached out and took Maria’s hand. I knew he wanted to talk. Maybe she did too, or maybe she had come to terms with it all already.
