by D. F. Bailey
“Okay, first things first.” Wally adjusted his hat to deflect the light rain from his face. “Will, you need to duplicate whatever’s on the camera and store it in a safe place. Can you do that?”
“I think so.”
“Think so?” he said with a frown. “That’s not good enough.”
“After you dupe it, I’ll take the copy,” Biscombe offered. “I’ve got a secure system set up in my office.”
“All right.” Wally nodded and passed the camera to Finch who slid it into his courier bag. “Now let’s deal with the case itself. We need to be first to report this thing. Like I said to Albescu and Busby, I want the story on my desk by noon tomorrow. Can you deliver?”
Finch took a moment to assess his situation. He felt tired and hungry. He needed to bring Cecily on board. Her internet research skills would be critical. She could access over a dozen national databases through her account in the library. That would help. He imagined a series of steps leading the way forward. First, deal with the camera. Then ask Cecily to help him. Then grab some food. Then he’d write a first draft. Then sleep. Tomorrow morning when she went to work, he’d wrap up the story and email it to Wally.
“Yeah,” he said. “That won’t be a problem.”
“Good.” Wally smiled broadly. Apparently, he was warming to his new freelancer. “Now look, from what I can see, there’re two stories here. And Jojo is the link that joins them. If the story grows legs, you may have to interview her again. Where is she?”
“Lock up,” Biscombe said. He checked his watch. “Just about this time tomorrow they’ll have to charge her or let her go.”
Wally raised his eyebrows with a cynical frown. “If they let her go she’ll disappear. Can you keep an eye on her?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Biscombe said, resigned to the fact that Jojo had now risen to the top of his very short client list.
“Good.” Wally turned back to Finch. “Meanwhile I’m going to assign Olivia Simmons to research any other murders resembling the five knives. That’s the only reason the FBI is blocking us. Maybe the perp’s a serial killer. Who knows?”
A moment of doubt caught Finch by surprise. He’d already concluded that Henman’s killer was disturbed. But a serial killer? Worse, however, was the feeling that he’d lost control of the story. He didn’t want to surrender any part of it to another writer. Wally recognized his concern and held up a hand in a gesture of conciliation.
“Remember, this story started with Olivia. Unless it’s a clear stand-alone story, you’ll share the byline on anything you write together. And vice versa.”
Finch started to protest, but Wally interjected.
“Will, you’re part of a team. So play like it.” He pinched his thick lips together to signal the end of the discussion. “Email me your story by noon tomorrow. And I’ll want an update from you by six tomorrow evening.”
“All right.” He shifted his head from side to side as he contemplated the new assignment. “You got it.”
Without another word, Wally Gimbel swung about and marched down Larkin Street toward the Civic Center Garage. The drizzle shifted to a steady rain, and Finch pulled the hoodie over his head. He turned in the direction of the BART station on Market Street, and Biscombe followed along beside him.
“What do they say in journalism? The story has legs?”
“Yeah.” Finch chuckled. “That’s what they say.”
“Well, this sucker is turning out to be a foot-long centipede. Better watch, those things can bite.”
Finch steered them under the overhead awning of a jewelry store. The rain came down with a force that caused the canvas to pool above them. They paused to wait out the worst of it. After a few minutes, the fury seemed to subside.
“You ready to move on?” Finch asked.
“Sure. Let’s go.”
As they continued, Finch felt a measure of relief. It felt good to have Biscombe at his side and Cecily at home. He embraced the assurance of Wally’s guiding hand and the certainty he possessed. The old man had managed to negotiate a compromise with the FBI — something that Will knew he could never handle on his own. And while the problems in the story were growing more numerous and more complex, he now believed that he could solve them. Most of them, anyway.
※ — NINE — ※
AFTER WILL DUPLICATED the SD card from his camera and gave the copy to Biscombe for safekeeping, he made his way back to his apartment in Berkeley. When he opened the door, he saw Cecily standing next to the little table overlooking the rain-soaked street. He’d now broken two dinner dates in a row, and he didn’t know what to expect.
He shook the rain from his jacket and hung it on the coat peg next to the door. Then he slipped to her side and kissed her. She kissed him back and wove her arms over his shoulders.
“It must have been a bad day,” she whispered. “Bisk told me about some of it. You all right?”
“Bad and good. I’ll tell you about it later.” He pulled back a little to examine her face. She had a Mediterranean complexion, olive skin, and dark hair that fell in thick curls past her neck. She rolled her soft, full lips together and kissed him once more.
“Look, I’m sorry I missed our dinner. Again,” he said.
“No worries. Besides I had to compile a last-minute inventory report for Shirley,” she said. “But I got roti take-out from JotMahal. It’s ready whenever you want to eat.”
JotMahal. His favorite. Over the past six months, he’d developed a fondness for Indian cuisine. A sense of gratitude swept through him. He’d stood her up two days in a row, yet she didn’t reveal a hint of irritation. She was a wonderful woman, and he knew he was lucky to have her.
“How’s the baby?” His right hand swept over her breasts and down to her stomach. She wasn’t showing yet. They were only ten weeks in.
“I saw the heart beating today!” Her voice rose with a sense of wonder.
“You did?”
“Yeah. At the clinic. You want to see the video?” She teased him by stroking his right earlobe with her fingers.
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
“Of course!” He knew she was toying with him. It was a good game, tender and intimate. “Can you tell if it’s a boy or girl?”
“No, silly. I told you. Not until eighteen weeks.”
“Eighteen?” He knew about the eighteen weeks, but he wanted to prolong the idle chatter that came with her pregnancy. It was so new to both of them. “Okay, so show me.”
Over the next half hour, they watched the fifteen-second clip of the baby’s heart beating on the computer monitor while they enjoyed their flatbread rolls. Will drank a bottle of IPA, but Cecily had gone off alcohol the same afternoon that she told him she was pregnant.
After they ate, Will related the events of his day, beginning with the triumph of landing a freelance contract at the Post. Their celebratory mood shifted when he mentioned the corpse he’d found in Seamus’s apartment. He kept the details to himself, but let her know that the murder was brutal enough to bring the FBI into the case — which led to his evening interview with them.
Because of his increasing anxieties about the two deaths, he avoided any description of the homicide. With the baby on the way, he knew Cecily didn’t want to hear any of it. Besides, she’d seen her share of misery over the past five years. She’d proven herself to be strong enough when she dealt with the death of her brother. Then came her parents’ divorce. No, he decided to save the nitty-gritty facts of the grisly murders for the story he planned to write later in the evening.
“Any other news?” he asked.
“Yeah. Alison agreed to come to the wedding. As my bridesmaid.”
He smiled. There’d been some question of her family members getting involved. Her mother would come. Now her sister. Perhaps her father would make his way down from Seattle to join them.
“That’s a step closer. Looks like you might have a family reunion after all. Perfect for Thanksgiving
weekend.”
“Maybe.” Her lips flattened into a pout. “I feel a little sad that you won’t have anyone.”
“Don’t be. You know I’ve been on my own for five years now.” He paused to recalculate. The year after his father died, the year he’d finished college, he’d enlisted in the army. Four years of service and two more here at Berkeley. “Make that six years.”
“Yeah. Well, pretty soon that’s all going to change.” Her eyes brightened. “Then you won’t be alone anymore. Think you can adapt?”
He laughed. “Oh, I can adapt all right. How about we roll into the bedroom. Then I’ll show you how adaptable I can be.”
“Uh-huh?” She laughed and let him draw her into his arms. “Maybe I should call you flexible Finch.”
“Maybe you should.” He started to kiss her neck. “Let me know what you think in half an hour.”
※
After they made love, Finch forced himself to climb out of the bed. He knew that if he fell asleep with Cecily in his arms, his writing plan would fail. He checked the digital clock on the kitchen stove. 12:17. He decided to write until two-thirty, then crawl back into bed. Cecily usually left for the campus library around eight-thirty. If he got up with her, he could start the second draft by nine and meet Wally’s noon deadline.
Before he began to write, he pulled the Canon Powershot from his courier bag and reviewed the series of photographs he’d taken over the past twenty-four hours. It was a chronicle of everything that led him to the horror in Seamus Henman’s apartment. But of all the pictures on the camera, the innocuous images he found in Gio Esposito’s office drew his attention. The shot of Esposito holding the catfish against the Ozark Lake pier measuring post showed that he stood at least six feet tall. And probably weighed close to two-fifty. How did Seamus Henman, a scrawny welterweight, manage to throw Esposito through the apartment window?
Then he noticed the picture of the telephone on Esposito’s desk. The ten phone numbers captured in the screen memory display. This was something that Cecily could track down. She had access to a reverse-call directory in the Berkeley library. Type in a number, out comes a name and address. One of the perks of her job. More than once she’d tracked down up-to-date information he needed for his journalism research. She’d been a big help to him. Now he needed her support more than ever.
As he wrote the telephone numbers on a sheet of paper, he realized that two of them were repeat calls, which meant Esposito had spoken with only eight individuals. When she woke up, he’d give her the list and see what she could dig up. Satisfied that he had enough material to work with, he turned his attention to drafting the news story.
He opened a new file on his laptop and began to type. As Wally suggested, the story hinged on Jojo’s connection to Esposito and Henman. He would start with her.
Police are investigating two deaths related to Joanne Joleena who was found handcuffed half-naked to a bed in an apartment in Chinatown on Monday night.
Gio Esposito, an investment advisor who fell to his death from the apartment on Washington Street, was an acquaintance of Seamus Henman. Henman himself was found dead in his Mission apartment yesterday afternoon.
Joleena, who worked for Henman, said that he arranged their meeting with Esposito. Joleena has been detained for questioning by police.
Apart from confirming both deaths, the SFPD has not revealed details of either investigation. However, in an exclusive interview with the Post, Joleena claims to have been duped into a blackmail scheme designed by Henman to pressure Esposito.
He reread the opening. The first two paragraphs were vital. He knew he’d written a decent lead and he could shape the story from that foundation. He decided to reserve the details surrounding Jojo’s bondage for the end of the story. A blatant tease to draw readers into reading the entire article. And he wouldn’t disappoint them. But the facts he had about the two murders were most important. They provided the nuts and bolts of the crimes, and he would lay them out first. From there the story would build to a disturbing conclusion: San Francisco had a killer on the loose.
Who was he and where would he strike next?
※ — TEN — ※
FINCH WOKE WITH a start. He felt something sweep through the room and out the door. Was it a ghost or a shadow? Then he realized he was at home. But that meant the phantom was — where? He heard Cecily brewing coffee in the kitchen. Fully awake now, he tried to shake the apparition from his head. During his tours in Afghanistan and Iraq, he’d encountered more than a few soldiers who confessed to believing in ghosts. While their beliefs may have been delusions, the soldiers’ fear was real.
Before Cecily left for work, Will gave her the list of eight phone numbers to track down. Then he showered, dressed, and ate the bacon, eggs and toast that she’d set aside for him. After breakfast, he drank two cups of coffee and re-drafted the story he’d written the night before. When the article reached the point where any new changes tended to sacrifice precision and clarity, he closed the file and attached it to an email that he sent to Wally Gimbel at the Post. It was eleven-fifteen. The story was in before the deadline. To the best of his knowledge, it was accurate — but obviously incomplete. If anything, it would leave his editor wanting more.
He smiled at that. Yesterday Wally had come to his defense against Busby and Albescu, the two FBI agents. Compared to the mixed reception he’d had from Wally before he’d signed the freelance contract, now the old man seemed to appreciate the risk Finch took when he entered Seamus Henman’s apartment. Good, he said to himself. Give me a chance, and there’ll be more of that coming your way.
As he washed the dishes from last night’s roti feast, he considered his next moves. First, he wanted to interview Jojo again. Wally suggested that she might reveal something new. Had she been arrested and kept in lock-up in Central Station, or had the SFPD released her without charges? John Biscombe could tell him.
Second, he wanted to talk to Olivia Simmons. Wally assigned her to research the background to Henman’s murder. The five knives. Had anyone else been killed with the same, exacting inhumanity? Hopefully, she’d discover some leads to move that part of the story forward.
He placed the clean forks and knives in the cutlery drawer, and a new thought came to him. Baghdad in 2004. He’d caught wind of a similar murder using multiple knives. He’d been ordered to investigate the story and called one of the officers in the 49th Military Police Brigade, Jeremiah Rickets. He’d talked about it with J.R., who at the time, denied the rumors. “Never happened,” J.R. had insisted. That afternoon Finch filed a NAR — No Action Required — report to his CO and put the story out of his mind. But now, here it was again. Could it be?
He pulled the balcony curtains to one side and gazed at the steady rain slapping against the asphalt. He planned to take a BART train down to Market Street and walk to the Post editorial office on Mission. He grabbed an umbrella from the hall closet, slipped his courier bag over his shoulder and pulled the hoodie over his head. Ready for another day on the front lines.
Twenty minutes later he boarded a car on the westbound line. As the train shunted from Ashby to West Oakland station, he studied two men in their mid-thirties standing next to the door. One tall, one short. One shaved bald, the other brimming with curls. They were engaged in an intense but private conversation. When the train rolled into West Oakland, the car door slid open, and the men disappeared into the crowd of exiting passengers.
Like ghosts, he thought. Then his dream returned. The phantoms fleeing before him. But now he could see them slipping through the open door. Finally, it all made sense. There was Gio Esposito, the six-footer holding a twenty-pound catfish from one hand. And Seamus Henman, the peewee lightweight, bound to a chair with duct tape and left to bleed out in his bedroom. A total mismatch. Seamus Henman didn’t throw Esposito from the eleventh floor window. He could never have managed it. A second man had helped him, someone with enough heft and grit to throw Esposito to his death. Someone capable o
f slicing and dicing Seamus Henman the next day.
※
Will tossed his courier bag beside the empty desk and settled into the swivel chair. The Post newsroom hummed with a quiet buzz as a dozen reporters typed at their computers or spoke on their telephones. He liked the mood and energy — a hive of intelligence, disciple, and common purpose. As he observed them, he felt at home. This was a place where he could begin a new life. More than that, it was a place where he could thrive.
As Olivia Simmons slipped down the aisle of desks, he broke from his reverie. She appeared to recognize him.
“Mr. Finch. Back for more punishment?”
Her voice carried a light-hearted lilt. Hopefully, she didn’t harbor any resentment against him for scooping her story. She sat down and set her purse, a black leather handbag, on her desk. She wore a gray blouse buttoned up to the throat, a tan vest and black dress pants that bore a sharp crease on each leg. She struck him as professional and experienced — an appearance that made Finch feel like a novice. Suddenly aware of his jeans and leather jacket and the hoodie that draped over his neck, he pulled off the jacket and fleece to reveal his clean shirt with a button-down collar. He smiled.
“Can’t keep myself away,” he said to try to engage her. Besides, it was true. He considered what Wally had told him yesterday. Be a team player. That meant making amends. “Look. I think I should apologize for being a little abrupt yesterday.”
She turned her chair toward him. “You think you should, or you’re actually going to apologize?” She raised an eyebrow with an expectant air.
He chuckled to himself. Obviously, she wanted to enjoy the moment of his repentance.
“Going to.” He put on a grin. “I mean … this is me, apologizing right now.”
She replied with a half-smile, more like a pout, he thought, but enough of a gesture to suggest he’d won a pardon.
“Okay, let’s get to work,” she said. “Wally asked me to follow up on this five knives thing.” She studied him a moment. Her irreverent tone had vanished. “I heard that you were in his apartment. That you saw what happened to Seamus Henman.”
