by Dale Brown
Jon looked at his friend, stunned. He had never seen Patrick so angry, so determined, so… bloodthirsty. He had seen him after crises that had ended in tragedy, yet he had never come unglued. Now, he seemed possessed.
“What do you want me to do?” Masters asked. “What do you want from me?”
“Everything,” Patrick said. “Access to everything. All your reconnaissance and surveillance gear. All your computers, your networks, your communications systems, your aircraft, your satellites. All of your weapons, your sensors, your prototypes, your manufacturing facilities. Most of all, access to you. These bastards who attacked in the city were soldiers, not ordinary robbers. I’m going to need every bit of modern weapons technology I can get to 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 FT
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 high-powered 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 demanding 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 SED would be in charge of the investigation.”
Chandler looked worried-dearly 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 Vice-along 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 stepping-stone to the 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 turning 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 player-and shit, he was actually crying! Paul McLanahan had quickly gotten a reputation of being a tiger who could handle any situation with calm and control-he 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 ha
d 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 communications 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 mid-section 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 their 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… 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 McLanahan?”
“I… 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 please, Chandler thought-the last thing he 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 search-warrant operation-no one who worked here wanted civilians hanging around. Especially boozehounds 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 call 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.
Paul 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 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 clear,” 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 record
er 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 bookie-that 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 captain.” He shut off the tape recorder, rewound the tape, then set it to auto, which would automatically record any conversations picked up by the electronic 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?”
