by Dale Brown
bring them down."
Jon swallowed hard. "You can't have it," he told
Patrick, shaking his head.
Patrick nodded, hurt in his eyes but steely determination
on his face. "I understand, Jon-"
"Let me finish, Muck," Masters interjected. "You
can't have any of it unless I can help you."
"What?"'
"I want to help you," Masters repeated. "I always
feel left out when the fighting starts, by Washington
or the Pentagon or whoever's in charge. I don't want
to be left out this time. If we fight, we fight together
. You tell me what you need and I'll get it for
you-but I want to be there with you when the
shooting starts. A piece of the action. That's all I
want.//
Patrick hesitated. What he had in mind was outrageous
enough for him to question whether he
could take it on, much less involve Jon Masters in
it. Jon had no idea how dangerous it could be-hell,
Patrick had no idea how dangerous it could be.
But the call to battle was still sounding in his
ears; he could still hear the twin bagpipes at a triple
cop funeral. Patrick had no idea what was calling
Jon Masters or what danger awaited them both, but
nothing was going to stop him now.
"Agreed," Patrick said, holding out his hand.
"We work together. I'm not even going to tell. you
how dangerous this will be. But whatever happens,
we do it together."
Instead of shaking hands, Jon embraced his new
brother. "Very, very cool. When do we start?"
"We start immediately," Patrick said. "It's time
we collect some intel on the enemy."
SPECIAL INVESTIGATIONS DIVISION
HEADQUARTERS,
BERCUT DRIVE, SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
FRIDAY, 26 DECEMBER 1997, 1832 PT
The sign on the outside of the cluster of one-story
warehouselike buildings said City of Sacramento
Public Works, Department of Highways, but Patrick
knew that there were other offices located there. At
six-thirty that evening, there was only one other car
in the parking area outside the building, and it was
farther down on the north side. The occupied space
had a sign that read Reserved-No Parking.
Patrick got out of his car just as a man was leaving
the building. "Captain Chandler?" he called out
from several paces away. The man watched Patrick
approach him but must have decided he was no
threat-his right hand stayed casually tucked in his
pants pocket as he walked toward his car. But when
Patrick got closer, he could see under the glare of a
nearby streetlight that Chandler had pulled his suit
jacket back, allowing free access to the pistol on his
belt. He reached the passenger side of his car as Patrick
came up, with the car between them. But he
simply unlocked his passenger-side door and threw
his briefcase on the right front seat, casual but cautious
.
Things were clearly still very tense in Sacramento
. Every cop in town acted as if he had a big
red bull's-eye painted on his forehead.
Captain Tom Chandler was wearing a very nice
brown double-breasted suit and tasseled loafers-a
clean-cut, professional-looking guy, more highpowered
executive than street cop. "What can I do
you for, sir?" Then he recognized Patrick. "You're
McLanahan, aren't you? Paul's brother? I met you at
the Sarge's Place the night of the shooting, and at
the hospital when you got in the chief's face."
"That's right," Patrick said. "I want to talk to
you.
"Concerning?"
"The attack on my brother. Who was responsible
for it. I want some information on the investigation,
and I want it now."
"You're Amanding information?" Who the hell
did this guy think he was? Chandler tried to put a
brake on his rising anger. "I'm afraid there's nothing
I can give you, Mr. McLanahan."
"But you're the commander in charge of the Special
Investigations Division," Patrick said. "I heard
SID would be in charge of the investigation."
Chandler looked worried-clearly he didn't like
Patrick's knowing he was the man in charge of SID.
The Special Investigations Division of the Sacramento
, Police Department was the most prized, the
most high-profile, and the most secretive in the entire
department, second only to the Patrol Division
in importance. SID encompassed three permanent
offices-Intelligence, Narcotics, and Vicealong
with several task forces that were assigned it
as funding and necessity dictated, such as Asset
Forfeiture, Interdiction, Counterinsurgency, Antiterrorism
, and Gangs. Although Chandler officially
reported to the deputy chief in charge of the Investigations
Division, he frequently met directly with
the chief of police, the city manager, the city council
, and the mayor, giving him extraordinary power
and access. Being the commander of SID was generally
regarded as an essential ste ping-stone to the
p
chief's office.
Then Chandler figured it out: the Sarge's Place.
That's where McLanahan must have picked it up.
He decided to be affable. "Ah yes, the Sarge's
Place," he said. "I used to go there when I was a
sergeant. We used to bullshit about ongoing investigations
all the time over a few brews. I'll bet that
place is full of cops ready to give you all kinds of
information about the shootings." He had guessed
right. A couple of hours ago at the Shamrock, a
dozen cops had come in after first swing's shift
change, congratulated Patrick on chewing out the
chief on local TV, and volunteered information on
the Sacramento Live! shootings. "Unfortunately, I
can't offer you any information, and I caution YOU
on relying on rumors and guesses you might hear at
the bar."
"Yeah. Everyone's 'cautioning' me but no one's
telling me anything," Patrick said. "My brother is
in critical condition in the hospital after being shot
with a damned MP-5 along with three other cops,
and three guys are dead. But none of the families
have been told a thing. Is this the way the city is
going to handle this situation? How would it look
for me to go to the TV stations and tell them the
city isn't briefing the families on the status of the
investigation, that you're leaving us completely in
the dark?"
Chandler slammed the car door, walked around
to the other side, and, got right in Patrick's face. "I
respond well to threats, Mr. McLanahan, but I guarantee
you it won't be a response in your favor. In
fact, I get downright disagreeable. Tell me, sir, is
that what you want right now?"
Chandler saw McLanahan tighten his jaw and
square his body toward him. Was he going to get
into a fight with this guy? His mind was turn
ing
over scenarios in rapid-fire succession when, to
his surprise, McLanahan just . . . crumpled. His
shoulders sagged, his arms went -limp, his head
drooped, and his knees looked rubbery. Was this
some kind of sucker-punch ruse?, An astonished
Chandler, ready to defend himself, heard the guy
sobbing! Here was this guy, short-probably no
more than five eight-maybe two hundred pounds,
but solidly built, like a wrestler or rugby playerand
shit, he was actually crying! Paul McLanahan
had quickly gotten a reputation of being a tiger who
could handle any situation with calm and controlhe
certainly'proved himself at the Sacramento Live!
shootout-but obviously his guts didn't run in the
family.
"Jesus---c'mon, Mr. McLanahan, it's all right,"
Chandler said soothingly, but not moving any
closer. This might still be a sucker punch, although
the guy really looked like he was losing it big-time.
"I'm -sorry, I'm sorry!" McLanahan said hoarsely
through his muffled sobs. "Nothing like this has
ever happened before. After my father's death, I was
so afraid that Paul would be next. Our mother's had
to be sedated, she was so upset. Paul could lose his
arm. Oh God, I don't know what to do! I don't know
what I'm going to tell our mother He was
babbling, his conflict and fears pouring out all at
. once. Chandler thought the guy was going to collapse
right on the hood of his car. For crying out
loud, mister, get a grip!
Well, he couldn't very well leave him sobbing
like a baby in the parking lot. "Come with me, Mr.
McLanahan," Chandler said. He led him to the side
door, which had a sign on it that said No Admittance-Door
Blocked-Use Main Entrance and an
arrow pointing toward the Highway Department
door. Chandler unlocked the door, then stood in the
doorway and blocked it until he could shut off the
burglar alarm, using the keypad. Inside was a reception
area furnished with a couple of desks, several
file cabinets, and what looked like a communica-
tions center setup; there were two banks of radios,
computer terminals, and several recharger stations
for handheld radios.
McLanahan followed Chandler past the reception
area and down a hallway. They passed an empty
conference room with a sign on the open door reading
Classified Briefing In Progress-No Admittance,
continued past some more doors and a break room/
exercise room, and finally came to a door marked
Captain. Chandler punched a code into a CypherLock
keypad, unlocked the door, asked McLanahan
inside, and offered him a seat. Patrick rested his
elbows on his knees and hung his head while Chandler
crossed behind his desk and sat down.
"I'm sorry to be keeping you like this ...
"Forget it," Chandler said. "Can I get you something
? A soda? Iced tea?" From the odor he detected,
McLanahan had already had a few pops before he
came over here-he'd obviously needed something
to ratchet up his courage enough to mouth off at a
cop. What was it with these burnouts? Past glories
gone, living vicariously through their smarter, more
successful siblings. Good example of white trash.
"You cops don't keep anything stronger in the
desk?" McLanahan asked, trying to sound jokey but
coming across as hopeful.
"I'm afraid a bottle of rotgut in the desk drawer
went out with Philip Marlowe and Kojak," Chandler
replied, his disgust with Officer McLanahan's
brother growing by the minute.
"A soda would be fine then," McLanahan said.
Chandler went out to the break room. When he
came back a half minute later, McLanahan had an
elbow on the desk, one hand hiding his eyes and his
other hand wrapped around his midsection as if he
was going to be ill.
Chandler returned to his seat behind the desk.
"I'm sorry, Mr. McLanahan, but there's very little I
can tell you about the investigation concerning the
shootout," he said. He prayed McLanahan wouldn't
get sick in his office or start crying again. "I wish
there were."
"Have you made any arrests yet?"
"No, not yet," Chandler replied. "But we have
some strong leads. The helicopter the gang used to
make theii getaway from the Yolo Causeway was
seen at Placerville Airport shortly after the incident
, so we're concentrating our search in the foothills
. This is highly confidential information, Mr.
McLanahan. Please don't share it with anyone, not
even your mother."
"All right," McLanahan said. His voice sounded
as if it was going to break again. "I'm afraid we
won't have the money to care for Paul. The doctors
say he could lose his left arm, that he might not
ever be able to talk again . . ."
"If it's any comfort to you and your family, Paul
will receive full medical benefits," Chandler said.
"If he can't return to work, he'll receive full disability
benefits. That's his entire base salary, tax-free,
for the rest of his life."
"Disability?" McLanahan gasped. Chandler saw
the guy's face grow pale, then green. "You mean,
they'll classify him as disabled?"
"I didn't say that, Mr. McLanahan
McLanahan abruptly got to his feet. "I . . .
think I'm going to be sick," he gasped.
Oh, for Christ's sake, Chandler cursed to himself.
This guy is a total wussie. "Out the door, to your
left, make a right, three doors on the left, men's
room." McLanahan nodded, clutched his midsection
as if he had a cramp, then rushed out of the
office. He was gone for several minutes. Chandler
finished a cigarette, then got up to find out if the
guy was all right. He ran headlong into him coming
back to the office. "Are you all right, Mr. McLanaban?"
I'm so sorry ... jeez, I'm so embarrassed
," McLanahan said. "This whole horrible
tragedy has got me all tied up in knots."
"Perhaps you'd be better off if you cut back on
the booze a little," Chandler told him sternly.
"Your family could use your support, and you're in
no condition to give it to them like this. Go home.
We'll keep you posted on the progress of the investigation
."
"Can I visit you again? Can I get some regular
updates? Anything?"
Oh ease, Chandler thought-the last thing he
Pi
needed was this guy hanging around the SID offices.
Although the location of SID headquarters was
hardly super-secret-classified information-the radio
station about a block away used to make joke
announcements when the Narcotics officers were
mounting up and getting ready to go on a searchwarrant
operation-no one who worked here
wanted civilians hanging around. Especially booziehounds
like this guy
.
"Look, Mr. McLanahan," Chandler said patiently
, "you're the brother of a member of this department
. I'd hate to turn you away, but I will if you
insist on stopping by here often and asking a lot of
questions that no one except the chief can answer."
"But why?" McLanahan whined.
"Because if any unofficial, inaccurate information
got out about those killers, it could create a
panic in this city," Chandler explained. "If you can
first, and promise not to take advantage of the privilege
, you can come down and I'll give you any information
I can, which I can tell you won't be much
due to the sensitive nature of this case. Do you understand?
"Yes," McLanahan said in a low voice.
"You might actually get all the information you
need from the press," Chandler said.
"But it would really help if I-"
"I think your time would be better spent with
Paul and your family," Chandler said sternly, hoping
McLanahan would wuss out again. But it looked
as though he was standing fast on his request, so
Chandler added, "But if it'll make you and your
mother feel better, give me a call before you come
down, and we'll meet and talk. Fair enough?"
"Yes," McLanahan said. He extended a shaky
hand; Chandler found it cold and clammy. "Thank
you. I'll get out of your hair now. And I promise I
won't bother you unless it's absolutely necessary."
"Fine. Good night." Chandler couldn't wait to
hustle this guy out the door. He watched him until
he climbed into his car and drove off. He probably
shouldn't have let the guy drive, and he prayed he
didn't get into an accident.
P
aul McLanahan lived in a roomy three-bedroom
apartment over the Shamrock Pub on the waterfront
in Old Sacramento, the one in which Patrick
and Wendy had lived earlier that year, before they
moved to San Diego. Patrick had decided to move
his family into the apartment until Paul was out of
the hospital. He had already converted the second
bedroom into young Bradley's nursery, complete
with crib, changing table, and a chest of drawers
filled with baby supplies and clothes, and he had
fixed up the master bedroom for Wendy and himself
. He wanted to duplicate their Coronado apartment
as best he could so she would feel as much at
