Tin Man

by Dale Brown

  home as possible. When Paul was closer to being

  discharged from the hospital, they'd move into a

  short-term executive apartment, and once he was

  on his feet, they would go home to San Diego.

  The third bedroom, Paul's office, had been converted

  too-into a command center. That was

  where Patrick found Jon Masters when he arrived

  back from the meeting with Chandler. "How's it

  sound, Jon?" Patrick asked.

  "Loud and dear," Masters replied. "Good job.

  Where did you plant them?"

  "Captain's office, break room, bathroom, and

  conference room," Patrick replied.

  "Good. Listen."

  Jon hit a button on a tape recorder on the desk,

  and they heard Tom Chandler's voice, a little

  scratchy but clear enough, talking on the phone to

  his wife: "I'm on my way now, hon. I was going to

  be home twenty minutes ago, but the brother of

  that rookie cop that was hurt in the shootout? He

  showed up in the parking lot ... yeah, that's the

  guy, the one on TV. Big tough guy on TV, right? He

  demands information, and then when I tell him

  where to stick it, he starts blubbering all over me.

  What a baby. I think he was drinking too. So I sat

  him down and held his hand for a few minutes.

  Then he almost blows lunch in my office. I finally

  told him to go home and sleep it off. So I'm on my

  way home ... okay ... great ... sure, I'll pick

  it up on my way back. See you in a few, hon. Bye."

  And the line went dead.

  "I caught another few minutes of Chandler making

  basketball and Super Bowl bets with a bookiethat

  information might come in handy someday,"

  Jon added. "Kinda dumb, making bets on an office

  phone that's probably being monitored, but I guess

  you don't need to be a genius to be a police cap-

  tain." He shut off the tape recorder, rewound the

  tape, then set it to auto, which would automatically

  record any conversations picked up by the electr6nic

  eavesdroppers. "You should be an actor,

  Muck," Jon remarked with a smile.

  "I thought I was going to barf after swishing that

  whiskey in my mouth," Patrick said. "What's the

  range of this system?"

  "Only a couple of miles," Masters said. "We're at

  the extreme range limit now. I want to put up a

  relay on a nearby building-the one adjacent to his

  would be the best, but it can be anywhere within a

  half mile of the bugs. The relay will increase the

  range to about ten miles. Then we can pick up the

  transmissions from anywhere. Maybe we can

  launch a NIRTSat constellation and get the taps

  downloaded to us anywhere on the continent."

  "I don't think we'll need to do that," Patrick said

  with a wry smile. He knew Jon Masters's appetite

  for technological overkill; he'd do it with the least

  bit of encouragement. "Will they be able to detect

  the bugs?"

  "They might," Jon admitted. "They're voiceactuated

  , which means they don't activate unless

  there's sound in the room. Most times when security

  teams sweep a room for bugs, they try not to

  make any noise, so the bugs should be undetectable,

  but they do carry a very low power level all the time

  in standby mode so there's still a chance a bug

  sweeper might detect it. The bugs store information

  in packets, then microburst the packets out in irregular

  intervals to try to confuse a passive detection

  system. So it'll be harder to detect the bugs when

  they transmit too."

  Masters paused, then added, "But it's usually not

  bug detectors that find the bugs, Patrick. Most

  times it's just plain ol'. good counterintelligence

  work. Someone will eventually realize information

  is getting out. A local PD might not have sophisticated

  detection or backtracing gear, but all they

  need to do is plant false information to try to ferret

  out a snooper. Once you start using the information

  you get, your days of bugging offices will be numbered

  . They'll just swoop down on you one day and

  it'll all be over. Might be hours, might be days."

  But Patrick wasn't listening. "Thanks, Jon," he

  said. "I'll start monitoring the taps, and I'll talk to

  you after we get some worthwhile information.

  Once we find out who the enemy is, we'll plan our

  next move."

  Masters nodded. Patrick McLanahan always

  knew what he was doing. "Wendy called while you

  were out," he said. "They're going to keep her in

  the hospital for another few days to be safe. They'll

  discharge her on the thirtieth."

  "Good," Patrick responded.

  Jon was startled. 'Good'?"

  "That'll give us more time to come up with a

  plan," Patrick said. "I want to move before the police

  do. I want first shot at these dirtbags."

  "Are you trying to hide this from Wendy?" Jon

  asked incredulously. "You're not going to tell her

  what you're doing?"

  "Not now," Patrick said. "Not right away. I want

  to formulate a plan of action before I tell her. I'm

  hoping they'll catch the terrorists before too long,

  and if I tell Wendy about this, it'll upset her for no

  reason." Jon shook his head at this backward logic,

  but decided not to argue the point. "I'm off to

  Mercy San Juan. I'll be back later."

  He knows what he's doing, Jon Masters told himself

  for the third or fourth time that evening. It's

  Patrick McLanahan. He always has a plan. He always

  knows what he's doing. Always

  SPECIAL INVESTIGATIONS DIVISION

  HEADQUARTERS,

  BERCUT DRIVE, SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

  MONDAY, 29 DECEMBER 1997, 0925 PT

  N

  ere's what we have so far, Chief," Captain Tom

  Chandler began. He was giving an update briefing

  to the chief of police, Arthur Barona, as well as

  to the deputy chief of investigations and the deputy

  chief of operations of the city of Sacramento. "It's

  not much:

  "The private security company for the Sacramento

  Live! complex has still not heard from one of

  the guards who was on duty the night of the

  shootout, Joshua Mullins. He's being sought as a

  material witness, but we're looking at him as an

  accomplice to the robbery. Mullins is ex-Oakland

  PD, resigned while under suspension. Lived in an

  apartment downtown, but the place was cleared

  out. He has some ties to local biker gangs, so we did

  some interviews in some of his hangouts. No one's

  seen him."

  "I want him," Barona said. "Send out his description

  on the wire to all state agencies. He's probably

  headed back to the Bay Area."

  "Already out," Chandler said. "We're setting up

  surveillance on local biker bars-the Bobby John

  Club, Sutter Walk, Posties, a few others, as much as

  manpower allows. Sacramento County is cooperating

  with us in setting up su
rveillance on biker bars

  in the county, and we're working with Yolo, Sutter,

  Alameda, San Francisco, and Placer County DA's to

  gather intelligence on biker bars in their jurisdictions

  .

  "Our informants are giving us information on a

  guy that Mullins may have been in contact with

  who goes by the name of the Major. No information

  yet on who he is, where he comes from, what he's

  up to, or why he might have wanted Mullins. The

  sergeant in charge at the Sacramento Live! shootout

  says he thinks he might have heard one of the

  gunmen shouting in German or some other language

  after being hit, so we might be looking at a

  foreign terrorist group. I've been in contact with the

  FBI and Interpol, but we don't have much to go on

  except their outfits, weapons, and MO. All of the

  gunmen hit during the shootout were carried off."

  Chandler stopped. Barona looked at him in surprise

  . "That's it, Chandler? That's all you have?"

  "'Fraid so, Chief."

  "Tom, that's completely unacceptable," Barona

  said angrily. "It's been over a week and we haven't

  got an arrest in sight. We need to get some action

  going on this case or the city's going to eat all of our

  lunches for us. Now get me some arrests." The

  chief stormed out of the conference room.

  Chandler ran his fingers through his hair in exasperation

  . "Anything else I can frustrate you gents

  with today?" he asked.

  "We know you're stretched to the limit, Tom,"

  said one of the deputy chiefs. "Put everybody you

  got on finding this Mullins guy. We'll see about

  tossing some uniforms your way to ease the workload

  . What do you have in mind?"

  "I've already wasted the next two months/ overtime

  budget," Chandler said. "Any more and I trash

  the entire next quarter's budget almost before it

  starts. I've got enough manpower for round-the-r

  Walk

  clocks at just two places. Posties and Sutte

  are private clubs; Bobby John's is public. Mullins's

  more likely to turn up at one of the private clubs."

  "Then put your surveillance units there," the

  deputy chief said. "Then as soon as you can, get

  someone on the Bobby John Club too. We'll send

  out a notice to watch sergeants to circulate Mullins's

  description to their patrols. But if he has any

  brains at all, he's long gone out of this town. We'll

  try to juggle some money around for overtime, but

  don't count on it. Do the best you can, Tom."

  o the best you can/ he says," Patrick McLanahan

  mused as the recording fell silent. "How can hez

  Every one of those cops in the entire division is 9

  ready working twelve-hour shifts."

  "Yeah. We've heard talk about that 'Major' guy

  before. He's starting to sound like the mastermind

  of that robbery."

  "Sure does," Patrick agreed. He paused for a moment

  , then added: "We need to bug the Bobby John

  Club. No telling how long it'll take for SID to start

  up surveillance there."

  "Sounds good to me," Masters said. "You know

  anything about the place?"

  "Just enough to stay away from it," Patrick replied

  . "Having a drink or shooting pool with the

  bikers at the Bobby John Club used to be the cool

  thing to do in high school, but I never went. They

  certainly were never any competition for the Sarge's

  Place's business."

  "Well, Chandler said it was a public bar," Jon

  pointed out. "I suppose you have as much right as

  anyone to go in there. if there's a million motorcycles

  parked out front, we'll just go in another time."

  BOBBY JOHN CLUB, DEL PASO BOULEVARD,

  NORTH SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

  TUESDAY, 30 DECEMBER 1997, 0127 PT

  Bobby John's had been around a long time in the

  Del Paso Heights neighborhood of Sacramento.

  Several big Harleys were parked out front. The wind

  had kicked up, and it felt raw and blustery, heightening

  the sudden sense of dread Patrick felt as he

  opened the door and stepped inside, four surveillance

  bugs tucked away and ready to go.

  Although his family had run a bar for years, Patrick

  never liked going into them-especially strange

  bars, in lousy parts of town, at night, and alone.

  Even when it's dark outside, there's always a time

  after walking into a bar when your eyes aren't adjusted

  to the gloom within. Patrick felt vulnerable:

  Everyone inside could see him,'but he couldn't see

  thern--or danger coming. Tables and people were

  shadows. He felt on display, naked, a stranger invading

  unknown territory-it was like walking into a

  cave knowing there were bears lurking inside. He

  could run headlong into the guy he was looking for

  and never recognize him.

  Patrick decided to withstand the heads turning

  toward him, the stares, and the muffled comments,

  and just wait in the doorway until his eyes adapted.

  If his target tried to leave, at least he'd have a

  chance to intercept him. Standing there, he realized

  that to the hostile watchers he must look like some

  kind of Wild West gunfighter, but there was no

  other solution.

  As his eyes adjusted, the details of the place grew

  clearer. It was small and narrow. The bar stretched

  almost the entire length of the wall to the right.

  Two pool tables dominated the room to the left,

  with a few tables and chairs scattered around. At

  the far side of the bar, a dark hallway led to the back

  of the building. Patrick could hear loud voices from

  back there-more patrons, he guessed. A biker was

  leaning against the hallway wall; he appeared to be

  guarding a private room. Patrick saw a shaft of light

  briefly illuminate the hallway and guessed there

  was a back door at the end leading to the alleyway

  in the rear.

  The walls were covered with posters of naked

  biker women, motorcycles, and other typical barroom

  art, plus some not very typical stuff: a collection

  of Confederate States, Third Reich, neo-Nazi,

  White Power, and Ku Klux Klan flags and posters.

  Patrick even recognized several national flags, including

  Russia, the Afrikaner flag of South Africa,

  the flags of the old East Germany, the Ukraine, and

  Belarus. No doubt about the theme of this place.

  just plant the bugs and get'the hell out, Patrick

  told himself. One at the bar-it should be able to

  pick up male voices for ten to twenty feet in all

  directions--one at a pool table, one in the bathroom

  , and one in the meeting room in back if he

  could get there.

  There was no place open at the bar, so Patrick

  stood at the waitresses' pickup station. The bartender

  ignored him. He could make out the faces in

  the bar now. Some glared at him with undisguised

  hostility. To his surprise, a few others seemed to be

  loo
king at him with fear, as if he might be a cop

  coming to arrest them or a leg-breaker coming to

  collect a debt. Most paid no attention. It was dim

  enough for no one to notice as he attached the first

  listening device under the edge of the counter.

  But his luck didn't last for long. The huge,.fat,

  bearded biker on the stool nearest him looked up

  from his beer. "Hey, sweet cheeks, the faggot bar's

  down the street," he growled drunkenly. Patrick ignored

  him, enraging the biker. He reached out and

  gave Patrick a shove hard enough to push him back

  a few feet. "I said, the faggot bar's down the street,

  rump ranger. Hit the fucking road." Patrick decided

  he'd better move to a table back behind the pool

  tables, but the biker looked as if he wasn't going to

  let him go.

  "Hey, Rod, knock it off," the bartender ordered.

  He put another beer in front of the guy, who

  promptly forgot about McLanahan. The bartender

  scowled at Patrick. "This ain't no tourist stop,

  sport," he said. "What do you want?"

  "Use your at room?"

  "The john's only for paying customers."

  "I'll take a beer."

  "Five dollars."

  "Five?"

  "You just bought Rod there a beer too."

  Patrick put a five on the bar. "Where's your bathroom

  ?"

  "Coffee shop two blocks down," the bartender

  snapped. "Now get the fuck out."

  Patrick tried to keep his voice steady. He had

  dealt with a few badasses at the Shamrock Pub,

  mostly college kids after a few too many or lowlifes

  trying to pick a fight with a cop. He'd thought he

  could handle this one. Nevertheless, he was already

  starting to feel events spinning out of control, and

  he had been here only a few moments. "I'll take

  that beer and then hit the road," Patrick said.

  The bartender reached down to the cooler behind

  the bar, pulled out a bottle of beer, and put it on the

  bar. But before Patrick could take it, a gloved hand

  reached past him and picked it up. Patrick turned

  and saw a guy not much taller than he was, with

  long brown hair, a beard, a leather jacket, and dark,

  dead-looking eyes, standing right beside him. Another

  biker, this one with a shaved head and a

  goatee, had crossed behind the guy and was standing

  to Patrick's right.

  "Who are you, asshole?" the first guy asked, taking